i can't help what i am {oh Lord knows i've tried to}little_elfieSeptember 25 2013, 02:18:47 UTC
i can't help what i am {oh Lord knows i've tried to}
Ariel never struggles. She never resists.
Claude hates her for it. He has broken her spirit, snuffed it out, but what fun is a broken toy? He cannot fix her and so, like a petulant child, he seeks to destroy what is left.
To grind her into dust and have done with it.
Esmeralda is not broken. Not yet. She will fight him. Oh, how sweet that will be, to exchange kisses and blows.
Inflamed, Claude summons his wife. His fingers encircle Ariel's delicate wrists, leaving dark bruises upon the pale flesh there. As always, she submits to her husband without hesitation, sagging into his arms like a limp ragdoll. The slight weight of her pliant form against his chest only fills him with rage, a fierce red rage, strong enough to fill that hollow void beneath his ribcage, if only for a moment. Claude slaps her. Once. Nothing. Twice. Harder this time, drawing most of his sinewy strength into the blow. Ariel's bright eyes flash - blind fury, bitter reproach - and he advances upon her with a triumphant smirk. But no, that spark is extinguished, if it was ever there to begin with. There is naught in her dead stare, naught but his own reflection and the glitter of tears.
Claude thrusts his fingers into her mouth. Not to stifle her cries, not that. Ariel is mute. She will never scream his name, not for pain nor pleasure. Such a pity. The Minister is brutal, fucking his wife with sharp hips and sharper words, punishing her for not being Esmeralda. She is the dawn, rosy and bright, but he craves twilight. Sinking his teeth into her, he bites down until his jaw aches, repulsed by the sight of that docile face, of pale limbs where he knows there should be dusky skin and...
Blood-red lips pulled back into a snarl...
The thought is enough to drive Claude over the edge. He searches his memory for those impudent emerald eyes, cursing both women - all women - as he finally spills his seed. Ariel waits patiently, eyes closed, until he reaches down to brush his thumb across her sweet spot. It is merely a perfunctory gesture, without meaning, but she is so hungry for affection that it almost brings her to tears.
Ariel barely has a moment to recover before the Minister forces her head down. She opens her mouth without hesitation, trying not to gag as he thrusts hard - one, two, three - and fills her throat almost immediately.
"It's not my fault, Ariel." She can see the muscles working in his jaw, struggling with the taste of her name upon his tongue. "I wouldn't have to do these things to you if not for her. You are serving penance in her place. Do you understand?"
Ariel nods, wishing that she could speak.
I don't understand, she wants to tell him, And I never will.
"Come, it is almost time for evening mass," Claude murmurs, cocking his head to the distance toll of the bells. He eyes Ariel's tapestry of mottled bruises, "The black gown, I think. The one with the long sleeves and high collar."
The gypsy girl has claimed sanctuary in Notre Dame. She glowers at Claude from the cloisters. He grinds his teeth at the sight of her, his fingernails digging into Ariel's wrist. Later, whilst the Minister is preoccupied with the Archdeacon, the two women find themselves standing before the statue of the Virgin Mary.
"He hurts you, doesn't he?" Esmeralda murmurs suddenly, her voice low and husky.
Ariel flinches, pain contorting her face into a mask of silent agony. The gypsy girl's flinty eyes soften. She reaches out...
It would be so easy to take that hand, to run away into the night and never look back.
Ariel turns away, as stoic and stony-faced as the statue before them. For a moment, just a moment, she hates this woman. Esmeralda is to blame. It is the gypsy's fault that she is suffering, that Claude has hurt her...
Claude.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the rush of loathing is gone, only for shame and fear to take its place in her churning stomach.
You almost had me there, dear husband, Ariel thinks, and she hates herself for it. Almost as much as she hates him.
And so, before she can change her mind, she forces a timorous smile and holds out a hand.
Re: i can't help what i am {oh Lord knows i've tried to}little_elfieSeptember 27 2013, 14:54:16 UTC
Not the OP but I'm in pain in the best possible way and I have no idea how to express my love for this WITHOUT CAPITAL LETTERS. UNF. I may or may not be a slave to Frollo/Ariel. You are a Goddess.
Ariel never struggles. She never resists.
Claude hates her for it. He has broken her spirit, snuffed it out, but what fun is a broken toy? He cannot fix her and so, like a petulant child, he seeks to destroy what is left.
To grind her into dust and have done with it.
Esmeralda is not broken. Not yet. She will fight him. Oh, how sweet that will be, to exchange kisses and blows.
Inflamed, Claude summons his wife. His fingers encircle Ariel's delicate wrists, leaving dark bruises upon the pale flesh there. As always, she submits to her husband without hesitation, sagging into his arms like a limp ragdoll. The slight weight of her pliant form against his chest only fills him with rage, a fierce red rage, strong enough to fill that hollow void beneath his ribcage, if only for a moment. Claude slaps her. Once. Nothing. Twice. Harder this time, drawing most of his sinewy strength into the blow. Ariel's bright eyes flash - blind fury, bitter reproach - and he advances upon her with a triumphant smirk. But no, that spark is extinguished, if it was ever there to begin with. There is naught in her dead stare, naught but his own reflection and the glitter of tears.
Claude thrusts his fingers into her mouth. Not to stifle her cries, not that. Ariel is mute. She will never scream his name, not for pain nor pleasure. Such a pity. The Minister is brutal, fucking his wife with sharp hips and sharper words, punishing her for not being Esmeralda. She is the dawn, rosy and bright, but he craves twilight. Sinking his teeth into her, he bites down until his jaw aches, repulsed by the sight of that docile face, of pale limbs where he knows there should be dusky skin and...
Blood-red lips pulled back into a snarl...
The thought is enough to drive Claude over the edge. He searches his memory for those impudent emerald eyes, cursing both women - all women - as he finally spills his seed. Ariel waits patiently, eyes closed, until he reaches down to brush his thumb across her sweet spot. It is merely a perfunctory gesture, without meaning, but she is so hungry for affection that it almost brings her to tears.
Ariel barely has a moment to recover before the Minister forces her head down. She opens her mouth without hesitation, trying not to gag as he thrusts hard - one, two, three - and fills her throat almost immediately.
"It's not my fault, Ariel." She can see the muscles working in his jaw, struggling with the taste of her name upon his tongue. "I wouldn't have to do these things to you if not for her. You are serving penance in her place. Do you understand?"
Ariel nods, wishing that she could speak.
I don't understand, she wants to tell him, And I never will.
"Come, it is almost time for evening mass," Claude murmurs, cocking his head to the distance toll of the bells. He eyes Ariel's tapestry of mottled bruises, "The black gown, I think. The one with the long sleeves and high collar."
The gypsy girl has claimed sanctuary in Notre Dame. She glowers at Claude from the cloisters. He grinds his teeth at the sight of her, his fingernails digging into Ariel's wrist. Later, whilst the Minister is preoccupied with the Archdeacon, the two women find themselves standing before the statue of the Virgin Mary.
"He hurts you, doesn't he?" Esmeralda murmurs suddenly, her voice low and husky.
Ariel flinches, pain contorting her face into a mask of silent agony. The gypsy girl's flinty eyes soften. She reaches out...
It would be so easy to take that hand, to run away into the night and never look back.
Ariel turns away, as stoic and stony-faced as the statue before them. For a moment, just a moment, she hates this woman. Esmeralda is to blame. It is the gypsy's fault that she is suffering, that Claude has hurt her...
Claude.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the rush of loathing is gone, only for shame and fear to take its place in her churning stomach.
You almost had me there, dear husband, Ariel thinks, and she hates herself for it. Almost as much as she hates him.
And so, before she can change her mind, she forces a timorous smile and holds out a hand.
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