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If one were to say the night was beautiful, many would agree. But not many would come eye to eye on the improbable position one puts themselves in under a night void of stars. On nights like these, women and men alike quicken their pace to reach the safety of their abode, as the shadows glared at them from the darkness. The rotting hearts of scum festered in these alleys. Voracious and ever waiting. Paris is not exempt to such proclivities. Made worst by the fall in temperature and increase of sickness as the city once more approaches the death of winter. The roads soon are paved in the white of snow and blackened from the soles of the common. Storefronts began to close, leaving many stricken and starved and desperation in their frostbitten countenance. Stumbling around aimlessly through the streets and knocking on doors that never open. Every year these creatures haunt Paris at its most vulnerable. Preying on those who have the means and threatening their livelihoods. There is a reason why envy is a sin. Their screams are suffocated by the pounding of the storm. Bony nails claw at any surface as their wailing tears solidify against their faces.
If only these vermin held a more selfless awareness, they would realize that one door in the entire city would dare give sympathy to their plight. Notre-Dame de Paris stands erect and glorious even as they are pelleted by the Heavens themselves. It is a testament to its role as the House of God, remaining undamaged and proud under the judgment bestowed upon them. Unfortunately, a mountain of snow has piled up upon its entrance. Baring sinners from taking advantage of God’s hospitality and keeping their holy safe under its embrace.
One such archdeacon could be under its protection right now but has been foolish enough to underestimate the severity of the weather. Curses almost leave his breath as he tightens the shawl around himself. Running down the streets and hoping that the citizens of this town would spare some mercy. Least all to a man of God.
Exhausted, Claude musters up his shivering fist against wood once more and waits by pulling the hood harder around his redden face. To think he wouldn’t have been in this predicament if Jehan didn’t frolic to his quarters in an utterly shameless display for a mere bit of charity. Hunger he says. University textbooks that have been lost under unusual circumstances he says. This time, a seasonal pumpkin pie that his student pockets cannot afford in these trying times. Oh, how if Claude was a lesser man, he would have slapped him senseless and thrown him out to fend for himself. Blood be damned. Having lived life as a man far older than his face reveals takes a toll on who have the misfortune of being cursed with early aging. As evident by his bald head taking the brunt of the chill. And dealing with the obnoxious qualms of a younger brother. If he wasn’t out in the middle of the night surrounded by death, he would be clasping the rosary between skinny fingers. Praying, and hoping that the Lord will grant Jehan mercy and guide him away from a life of debauchery and indulgence that Claude, admits, is unable to pull him away from. He has done all he can to keep him on the right path, but his efforts are in vain and words unheard. Despite the treacherous lifestyle, Claude can feel the frown lines on his forehead go away whenever Jehan visits him. Even when he requests money, which is most of the time. It is better than seeing his body strew across others that have also succumbed to less than fortunate means. He can’t imagine Jehan’s round face wrought with sunken cheeks again; golden curls turning limp. Unrecognizable under the scrutiny of poverty. Claude sucked in a controlled breath, centering himself back to the present. That dwelling on grudges will distract from the near inevitable future of being frozen to death and mistaken for a beggar. Gritting his teeth, he shuffles from foot to foot. A noise behind the wooden barricade makes his heartbeat faster in anticipation.
The warmth escaped through the open door, flying against him, encasing his face in a heated embrace. His knees almost buckled at the sensation and nearly let out a cry of frustration. He restrains his arms from reaching towards it. Buckling up his sense of honor to not appear the desperate man.
“Mon Dieu!” A gasp cried from the entryway. Claude curled in on himself. Willing his voice to brave against the chatter of his teeth. In hopes to not scare off the first person to dare open a door.
“Monsieur, I am the Archdeacon of Josas, and if I may beg your pardon and insist that you bare some compassion to provide temporary shelter to recover my wills and pass the night. If you grant me this reprieve, I can provide much compensation, if need be, and the Lord will be most thankful. For my station in Notre Dame de Paris is compromised and I have nowhere else to go.” Claude startled as a large hand landed on his back to usher him in. Relief ran through his body as he stepped eagerly across the doorway into this stranger’s home.
“Say no more Monsieur Archdeacon. To find a man such as yourself still standing upright in this weather is quite a miracle.”
“It is but necessary. It would no good for my health if I decided to lose my will in a mere storm.”
“Indeed. Please, sit down.” The man’s voice sung like the rays of the sun and Claude Frollo couldn’t help but relax at its soothing tones. Claude made his way to the chair in front of the roaring fireplace. His fingers started to regain feeling and the redness of the frost-ridden world melted off his body. Claude sighed. Feeling quite content since a long time. The tension in his shoulders has lessened, and the chill wracking his body appears to have succumbed under the flames.
“Good sir, forgive me if you must, for it is most rude to have no name to attach my gratefulness to.”
“No worries, Monsieur. Just doing my duty as a proud Parisian. Welcome to the home of Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers.” Claude took a good look at the man, who bowed deeply. It is no doubt about it, this Phoebus was handsome. And was very much a physical manifestation of his name. The golden hair and sun kissed skin glowed under the light of the fireplace, illuminating the baby blue of his eyes. Claude was almost envious.
“I don’t think I recall seeing you around before.”
“Interrogating me already? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I jest,” Phoebus chuckled. “Many of my formative years were spent on the battlefield. I have recently returned and plan to make use of my new position back in Paris.”
Claude nodded. He has been paying much less attention to the political playing field lately, and even less of the turmoil in the country. Now since his mind has been distracted lately by the young Bohemian girl taking up many of his thoughts. His cheeks redden as his mind is invaded with her slim finger prancing about. Her ebony hair gliding through the air and the jingles of her bracelet stirred something in him.
The Archdeacon frowned. Wiping his hands over his eyes. Trying fruitfully to banish the sinful images from his mind. He glances up at the captain, catching the man’s amused gaze with his own. His heart flutters at the attention.
“Then, welcome home, Monsieur Phoebus. And thank you for your hospitality.”
“Always a pleasure to lend some sympathy to a holy man.”
Claude thanked him once more. And prepared to further warm himself before the fireplace, as Phoebus brought another chair and started to engage him in an animated recap of his day.
The priest didn’t know what to think of this. It has been very rare occurrence that anyone would ever initiate conversation with him. Unless it was Jehan or fellow priests. Parisians were often too intimidated by the perpetual frown on his face and his gloomy aura. And if they did, it was to take advantage of his position. They made it obvious with the way their smiles dropped as he walked by, and laughter ceased to exist. Even Quasimodo was reluctant to discuss with him at times. Usually quivering or mumbling as he signed at him. And here is this fellow that looks at him with anticipation. Leaning in as if he is truly interested in what Claude had to say. He stuttered a little, at the intense attention he was getting. But men like this always have ulterior motives. He has seen them charm and enrapture their way into a naïve girl’s bed. Building up a repertoire of broken hearts and bastard children. His mind is then invaded by Esmeralda, swooning, and collapsing into the arms of the Captain. Standing glorious and proud with his arm wrapped around the slight of her waist as she clings to him. Claude grits his teeth. A newfound sense of jealousy tinging at the tips of his fingers and his heart.
Phoebus doesn’t mention the sudden change in the Archdeacon’s mood. Carrying on with his retelling of a Christmas spent with his parents and how he plans to visit them soon. Laughing to himself, Phoebus’ hand wraps around the Archdeacon’s knee. Squeezing it slightly. Claude stills.
“For it was a winter much like this one. It was difficult to manage, but we braved the chill by sharing the sheets.” Claude’s eyes remain frozen to the fireplace. Not noticing the wink of an eye next to him. The touch freezing him more than the storm outside. He grimaced.
“I’m glad to hear that your family is good health. The onslaught of a storm is best stood against with others.” Claude made quick work of the Captain’s hand to remove it off himself. Ignoring the size of the appendages under his palm. Not to mention the heat radiating on the man’s skin. Phoebus chuckled as if Claude said anything else but an observation.
“You surprise me, Monsieur de Archdeacon. I didn’t know you were so well versed with others,” Claude lifts his brow at the unusual twinkle in Phoebus’ eye.
“I have too. A man in this position must take responsibility to guide those have lost their way and provide a righteous path for their hearts to gather. Many do not fare by themselves when left to dwell on their sins. Desperate in their act. I’m familiar with the low, Captain. I’ve seen the way man turn against each other in selfishness. I’ve seen inklings of mankind’s primordial ferociousness even in the most heartfelt of men. This storm does something to them. Debasing our hearts and opening them up to the manipulations of want. Alas, such ache!” Claude’s voice began to rise. The meekness of his countenance quite hidden under the passion in his eyes and the furrow of his lips. Turning to the amused look of a certain golden-curled Adonis.
Claude startles again, as Phoebus laughs heartily once more. Breaking him out of the pit of his thoughts. Claude huffs. A small blush crawling its way up his gaunt cheeks. He wraps his cloak closer to himself.
“Monsieur, your robes!”
Claude feels the fabric with his hand. Noticing for the first time since he walked in how drenched he was. And a puddle of melted snow has seeped onto the wood. His body being stabbed by the chill at the realization.
Phoebus rushes to him. Assisting him in taking off the damp pieces of clothing. Claude feeling immediate relief as his skin melts under the ever-glowing heat of the fire. His outer layers removed, Claude opened his mouth to utter an apology for ruining the floor, when hands started to pull at his surplice. His own hands rose to hold them still.
“What are you doing?”
“We must rid of more. Or else you might catch cold.”
“There is no need for that. I’m quite dry now.”
“But look, it has soaked through.” Of course, it did. But the priest was feeling quite uncomfortable under the weird look of the Captain. And didn’t want to take off any more than was necessary. Claude attempted to pry the grip off his clothes.
“I’m not a damsel, Monsieur. I do not need tending to.”
Phoebus’ grip loosened, allowing Claude to step back and wiping his hand down the front to smooth the crinkles. As his hands passed down his chest, he saw Phoebus’ eyes travel downward. Staring at his chest. Claude crossed his arms. And made his way closer to the fireplace. Taking solace in its embrace.
Phoebus meets his eyes, glowing with a bestial intensity. Claude blinks, but the gaze has softened. He wonders if it was a trick of the light.
“Ah, forgive me. I was hasty and have offended you. Why, you are the furthest thing from a maiden. I assure you.”
Claude sighs. Rubbing his temples. “It’s alright. I’m afraid that my mind is quite occupied at the moment.”
He looks at the large puddle of water seeping into the floor. A flicker of guilt rises in his chest.
Phoebus smiles at him. “You do not need to provide explanation, Monsieur. Let me fetch a cloth for you to dry yourself with.” Claude watches the man’s back go into an adjourning room. The muscles shifting under the high-quality doublet. The fabric decorated with golden embroidery that curl around and down his sides. Claude shakes his head. Horror at the thoughts running through his mind. And envy weaving through the crevices of it. It shocks him, at the amount of anger he holds for man that has shown nothing but hospitality. The only one who let him clamber up the stairs into the welcoming arms of life.
Phoebus exits the room shortly and hands him the cloth. Claude gives a quiet thanks and begins to wipe himself down. Squeezing out excess water when it gets too heavy. His eyes travel to the window. Snow raining down against the glass in quick succession. The only light amongst the darkness of the outside.
“It appears the storm has yet to calm,” Claude mumbles to himself. Notre Dame de Paris isn’t far away from here. But with the severity of the weather, Claude doubts that the front doors have been clear out. He imagines the candles lighting up the columns and his fellow priests scattering to and fro to aid the lucky Parisians that found sanctuary within her holy walls. Then, a ring brushes against his ear.
And another.
And another.
A lullaby of the bells. Loud, and soothing even through the storm.
The shape of a deformed boy comes to the front of his mind.
He hasn’t visited the poor thing in a while. A heaviness settles in his heart. He always spent the Winter with Quasimodo. Delivering warm bread and slices of pie to him when the days were far colder than others. And here he is away from the cathedral, away for the first time in years. He wonders if the boy is handling himself okay. He prays, clasping his rosary, hopeful that someone will take pity on him and at least provide a meal. And for the storm to cease.
The bell rings one more time.
Marking the last hour of the night.
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Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers didn’t know what to expect when he heard a knock against the door at this late an hour. Especially with a storm taking Paris into its claws. Jousting him from collapsing into the velvet of his armchair with a moan of near release. His face took on an irritated stance. Creating wrinkles that would’ve aged someone lesser. Instead, it added more roguish charm to his radiant face. He underestimated the severity at which days were his own. From morning to night, he was pulled left and right to the willing of Paris. At the beck and call of the country. A prestigious position that comes with egregiously boring work. It was a fine job for a man of his caliber. Conscripted at 16 and experiencing the world in a way a young man will never forget. He survived for a reason. A testament clear to those that have witnessed him in battle and the way he rode gallant and handsome around the heart of France. And he will enjoy this new life of his with vigor in his step and daily jaunts with the most esteemed beauties of France.
In the wee of the morning under the sun, Phoebus took his stallion around the winding paths of Paris. Snow covered the ground from the night before, but unbeknownst to the public the absolute monstrosity, the taker of souls, appearing as pale as the dead will rain upon them.
Patrolling down the streets and sharing tales with his soldiers, they rode through the town center, where the Bohemian girl danced about. The tambourine ringing with each slap to her supple hips. He watched the bounce of her breasts as she jumped around. Smiling and twirling with a youthful elegance. It was a splendid sight. She truly is most wondrous to gaze upon. As evident by the heat rising in his lower half. He was not alone in this predicament. For women know the weakness of men, and they know that the seductress at her best have wormed her way into their hearts. Least of all their groins. Men were jerked pass the display by displeased wives. And haggard women whispering to each other about how the twirls of the dress ride up her legs with every spin. Exposing the smooth flesh of a girl in her prime. In the midst of a turn, her eyes immediately capture his presence. Lighting up her face in a most splendid way. The dance starts to change. Her arms wind through the air in greater gestures and the hops of her bare feet hit the ground in quicker movements. All the while never taking her eyes off him. A dance just for him. Her attraction to him was quite endearing. One of these days he will bed her, but he is in no rush. For a man such as himself has options a plenty and takes his time savoring each one. But he shan't wait too long, for a woman’s beauty is not long lived. And by the time he desires her greatly, she may have grown old and decrepit. Her breast, once firm and round, will start to sag. As will the rest of her. He shivers at the image his brain brought up. He rides away from the spectacle, feeling the piercing gaze of the gypsy behind him.
The rest of the day goes by in the most boring a fashion. After accomplishing his duties for the day, he received notice of an evening request to dine with his lovely cousin. Fleur-de-Lys was truly a beautiful woman. But she is indeed a noblewoman and is quite attached to the prestige of the order. He loves her, truly. But love isn’t quite the right word. She is frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm to their eventual union. But Phoebus cannot allow himself to find place in his heart for her in the way she desires. Phoebus mourns, for his dear cousin is tied to the shackles that is marriage.
He dreads the thought of going over to their estate. Her mother, an equally beautiful, but obnoxious noblewoman, will be a test of his patience.
In a splatter of luck, Phoebus almost cried from relief when the storm has fallen. An unfortunate turn of events that has him trapped in the comfort of his own home. For the first few hours, he took a nap then wrapped his hand around himself for a much-needed release. It has been a week since he has last touched himself. He grunts, sensitive at the touch. He moves his hand up and down as he lounges back in the chair. Drinking wine and reclining into the softness of the furniture felt like Heaven. As the pleasure builds, he feels the incoming sensation. His thighs began to tense, and he grits his teeth. Pushing forward and lifting his hips up, thrusting into his hand. Just before the last stroke, a sound reverberated through the room. His hand slips past and his release stalled. Phoebus curses under his breath. When his mind clears a bit, he registers the sound as a knock.
Strange. Who could be knocking on his door? There was a fleeting thought that it was judgmental spirit, coming to haunt him in reverence of Notre Dame de Paris. He ignores the thought and thinks it useless. If it’s a beggar, he’ll just shoo it away and go back to business. When he opens the door, the first thing he sees is a nose. A pointy one at that, peeking out from under the hood. The figure looks up, just as shocked as he is. Bright, grey eyes meet his gaze. He introduces himself as the Archdeacon.
This is a test.
An assessment of his fate. For there is no reason for a priest to happen upon his doorstep. Phoebus glances around for any conspirators, then ushers the figure in. Closing the door far too loud than he needed. He motions him to the couch in front of the fireplace and beckons him to sit. The priest visibly relaxes in the presence of the heat. Putting his arms in front to pull in as much fire as possible. The hood has fallen down his head, revealing a shiny dome plastered with tiny snowflakes.
Phoebus walks towards him, putting on his best, smothering smile. The man looks up at him. And Phoebus almost takes a step back at what he sees. It is nothing amazing like his beautiful Fleur nor La Esmeralda, but the features of this man all see to mesh into a coherent, unique combination. Phoebus might dare to say pretty, especially with how his skin reflects the flames of the fireplace. Warming up his cheeks.
The priest’s eyes meet his own and offers thanks for letting him into his home. Then those grey eyes fall downward along his body. The priest frowns, his bald head turned away from him and back to staring at the fireplace. Phoebus had to hold himself back from grinning harder.
___________________________________
Claude sighed. The song of the bells have long since faded. And the fall of the snow can no longer keep his attention. Especially when there is nothing but the dark sky. Almost a muffled, blanket of darkness. No matter how hard he squints, his human eyes cannot breach the outside. Notre Dame has evaded his vision and taken shelter behind the pelting of the storm. He mutters prayers under his breath. Praying for the storm to cease, for his safe return to the cathedral, for good fortune to befall the captain, and for boy. And of course, Jehan. He hopes that the Lord will have mercy on them. Especially him.
Before his thoughts could get anymore lost, a sudden pressure on his waist alerts his senses. He twitches at the sensation and jerks his head. A declaration of personal space and refrain from the physical on the tip of tongue. That just as quickly is captured by another.
Claude grabs at the arm wrapped around him. For his mouth has been trapped under the searing pressure of the Captain. He pulls away as much as he can, but his mouth is once again chased and reclaimed. The arm tenses around him, and he is forced to reciprocate. He gasps at the sudden sensation. Which was a mistake that Claude realized when the man’s tongue is shoved against his own. Pushing and pulsating as if to devour him. They separate to regain some much-needed breath. Claude’s uneven breath weary to the pulse of the man who has just assaulted his mouth. When the Captain attempts to pry open his lips once more, Claude forces a palm between them, blocking the onslaught of affection that he was far too anxious to breakdown within the depths of his mind. And the desire that has nearly broken free from the chains of self-control.
“Monsieur, are you out of your mind? Cease this foolishness,” Claude pushes at the Captain’s mouth once more in a feeble attempt to put some space between them. Yet he has to look away, for the man’s gaze could almost be mistaken for a wolf in the woods. Hungry, menacing, and oh so determined now that it has got the catch of the year. Claude could feel the Captain smile against his palm. And a streak of wetness painted his skin. He yanks his hand back, face contorting at the saliva that has now coated.
“How can I resist when you taste so good?”
Before Claude could get ahold of his bearings, he is pulled into an embrace, and protests are silenced as lips meet his own once more. He groans as warmth enters his mouth. Heat began to rise in his cheeks and pull at his loins. His mind starts to panic. Shifting erratically while his body succumbs to the touch of a man experienced in his hands. He shifts as one of those hands starts to grab handfuls his buttocks.
“How you tease me so you little minx. I’ve thought you to be judgment, a test in this trying winter. Yet you hide this body from me. You tempt me, and I can’t help but indulge in the rapture of your flesh.” Claude yelps as his legs are lifted into the air. He clings to the broad shoulders. Blushing as the presence of large hands still caressing the shape of his arse.
He is then tossed onto a mattress. Bouncing slightly at the impact. Phoebus climbs above him, wasting no time in removing the remaining layer. Claude grips the man’s wrist. Preventing him from continuing with his action. Worry etched onto his blushing face.
“Stop this. I am a man of God. Not some tavern whore,” Claude gasps. Phoebus’ hand shimmies between his legs. Phoebus grins. His fingers tracing the skin of his inner thigh. Fluttering touches causing shivers to run through his legs and up his spine.
“You are untouched. That is more desirable than any of the goods in those brothels.”
“You can’t,” before Claude could say more, a finger is pressed against his lips. He stares, eyes almost glossy from emerging tears. He attempts to press his legs together, but a muscled thigh is pushed between. Spreading them apart. He groans, the pressure against his crotch is intense. Distress racks his body and through his mind. He pushes against the man in desperation, yearning for escape from this temptation incarnate. Yet, he gasps around the finger, for his struggles have locked him further into the man’s embrace, earning a chuckle from above.
Before Claude could retort, the finger is shoved into his mouth. He gags at the intrusion. Turning his head to the side in order to dislodge it.
“Suck on it,” A husky voice commands. Claude shakes his head. The roughness of the skin scratches at the sides of his throat. This is too much. What did he do to deserve this? To be touched in such a vile manner. Claude did not assume such inappropriateness to befall him today. Nor for the rest of his life if he could help it. A man like him has walked into the lion’s den, and he was far too naïve to see it for what it was. To think that the Captain, the man he has seen so gallant upon his horse, held such lecherous hunger that even a common women couldn’t satisfy it. Where even Claude, as virtuous as he is, has been desired upon. And the status of said untaintedness appears to spurn the man on. That he is but a mere conquest. It scares him. That this man’s lust is so powerful that he succumbs to sodomy in order to defile someone like him. But guilt claws at him. He pushes and protests, but a touch unknown can break a man. And he can feel himself break.
Unbeknownst to him, the hand caressing his thigh has made its way up his crotch, enclosing a strong hand around his manhood. And tightening his grip. Claude gasps around the finger, his tongue pressing around the digit. The hand starts to shift up and down. Dry and scratchy, but he has never felt anything like so. For even his own hand has yet to touch himself down there. Claude moans. His legs dig into the sheets below. Phoebus grins above him. Spurned on by the sounds of the priest below him.
“You make such beautiful sounds, Monsieur.” Phoebus removes his hand from his mouth, and instead caresses his nipple.
Claude releases. His throat bobs as he pants. His mind reaching a high that felt almost ethereal. As if his body has ascended unto greater heights where sensation is at the forefront of the bliss, he is in. Splotches of liquid shoot onto his face, the seed drips down his skin. Warm and sticky against his cheek.
His eyes widen in horror.
Phoebus smiles down at him, “That was fast. But we have all night, priest.” Claude rushes upward and attempts to throw himself off the bed. Hands clambering at the edge. This isn’t right at all. He can’t allow himself to remain at the whims of this demon any longer. He must escape and head to the cathedral with any means necessary. The touches upon his skin are stains that must be rid of. A dirt that cannot be removed with conventional means. For he knows that despite the sin of his body, his mind is not so easily cleansed. For memory of this venture will plague him for the rest of his life. And his body will ache for something that he never wished to have.
Claude yelps. His hands clenching at the sheets below when hands grasp his hips. Pulling him flush against another’s crotch. A growing hardness pressing into the meat of his thigh.
“Captain! O-oh god,” Claude groans into the mattress below. A pair of hands grab at his chest. The massage of his nipples sending shivers down to his crotch. The fingers, expert in their touch, pinch and twist the buds between them. Rolling them and pulling, causing his back to arch into it. Pushing his ass further against Phoebus’ manhood. As he does, he feels it stiffen against him, twitching ever so slightly.
“Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain. You don’t want him to hear a servant of his enjoying his nipples being played with that he willingly presses himself against another man.” Phoebus shoves the golden curls that obscured his eyes, revealing the insatiable gaze of those baby blues. A quirk of his mouth giving him an almost devious aura. Claude’s blush deepens under the scrutiny of his gaze.
“Come on. Lift your hips higher.” Claude obliges. He shifts his legs and sticks his ass up. Panting louder with each twist of his nipples and each squeeze on his pecks. A flicker of confusion passes through Claude’s mind when a hand leaves his chest. Letting out a squeal just as quickly when a moist digit enters him. He is pushed forward and deeper into the mattress. The finger digging into the cavern of his inner walls. Thrusting in and out. Phoebus continues to do so for awhile. Alternating between shoving it in and pressing into his insides. Claude’s body shakes. It’s an unusual feeling. But he can’t help but tense around the intrusion. His walls pressing and squeezing around the digit, earning a hearty laugh from behind him. Claude frowns at the sound.
“So tight. I haven’t had a virgin for awhile,” Phoebus licks a strip down his back. Leaning forward to nibble on his neck. Claude whimpers as canines press into his skin, threatening to break.
Please, Lord. Have mercy on him.
Pleasure is taking its toll on his psyche. Devolving him to savagery of the lesser man. He is not like them. He is dedicated. His body, his mind, he is pure. He-
“A-Ah!” Two more fingers are shoved into him. Stretching him out. The size increase now pressing into the spot. Teasing at the bundle of nerves inside him. Claude puts a hand on Phoebus’ wrist. Useless in its endeavor, “No. No, Phoebus wait.”
“I do love how you say my name.” Claude screams. The fingers are shoved into him in earnest. Pressing every time into the spot that makes his mind go blank and his eyes rolling back. His chest rubs against the fabric of the mattress below him. Rubbing his nipples back and forth. His body twitches in ecstasy as his hips push back onto the fingers on its own accord.
“Oh, look. You’re moving by yourself.”
“What? N-No, I’m not,” Claude widens his eyes in shock. Despite the realization, his hips do not cease their movements.
“You must be hungry, priest. Let me feed me you,” Phoebus puts a chafe kiss onto his shoulder, and removes his fingers. Claude shudders at the sudden emptiness. His hole clenching around nothing. The muscles pulsating with want.
Tears began to cascade down his cheek. He truly has fallen.
He lets himself be propped back up on all fours. Allowing his back to cave in with a small press into his spine. A warm chest suddenly covers his. He turns in shock, but his lips are captured in a kiss. He whimpers into it as his lower lip is caught between teeth. Teeth biting into the flesh. Phoebus’s moans into his mouth. Deep and guttural. Claude shivers at the sound, opening his mouth wider to let his tongue touch against his.
His mouth freezes. His body going tense as a sudden hardness is pressed against his entrance. Phoebus peppers kisses along the corners of his mouth. Whispering to him soothing words that don’t reach his ears. He flinches away as it presses further into him, but Phoebus locks his hands around his hips. Stopping him from his escape. His entrance stings at the spread. The muscles giving way to the cock breaching him. Every inch felt like agony. Like the fires of Hell is tearing up inside him. Punishing him even amongst the throws of passion. But Claude tries to relax. His mind too far away to fully consider the consequences of his actions through the haze of pleasure.
Claude pants. Letting out a sigh of relieve when Phoebus is fully seated inside him. The searing pain eases, diluting into a simple pinch compared to the burn from before. They stay connected for a minute. The only sounds in the air are the deep breaths from each of them, and the constant splatter of snowfall against the snow. The heat of their bodies covering the onslaught of cold that has enveloped the room.
It has been long enough. Phoebus pulls out a little. He grits his teeth. Claude’s hole gripping onto his manhood as if begging him to stay inside. Once only the tip is still inside, he slams back in.
Claude screams. The sound rings through the room. The cock enters him once again, hitting that spot just like the fingers did. Each thrust pulls a sound from him. He whimpers at the sensation. The ridges of the man’s cock dragging inside him. Each vein creates an indent on the inside, making a mark. As if claiming him. Claude throws his head back and moans. Tears threaten to fall and his mouth drops open, panting at the absolute debauchery that Phoebus’ cock is doing to his insides. He’s never felt anything like it.
He’s read about the process in literature. About how two men engage in such relations, yet he could never comprehend the descriptions nor bring adequate images to the forefront of his mind. In fact, the most he felt was disgust. For God was against it. A man sleeping with man is against nature itself. Against the order of his creation. Yet, there are those who disobey him. Who avoid the smoothness of a woman and prefer the hardness of a man. Claude never understood men like that. For woman are beautiful. And serene, and the keepers of men who are unable to control themselves for the Lord. And such a woman she is. For La Esmeralda stands above all.
Will La Esmeralda moan for him? Will she quiver under his touches and gaze at him with adoration, as if he is her moon in an ocean full of stars? He conjures up her body within his mind. His hand grasping at her full breasts. Locks of ebony hair flowing around her shoulders with each push into her. The ruby red of her lips smile and say his name.
Claude jerks forward, gasping at an intense thrust. The mix of pleasure and pain is delicious. Pulling more screams of ecstasy from his already sore throat. The pounding creating a pressure within him that he’s unable to describe.
“You’ve relaxed.”
“Huh?”
Phoebus pushes further in. Giving Claude a toothy grin as he grips him harder. Most likely leaving bruises after this little skirmish.
“Were you thinking of someone else while I was fucking you? How naughty, priest.”
“N-no!” Claude shrieks. His prostate being pounded into with near perfect accuracy. He cries out as Phoebus wraps his hand around him. Jerking him off the same times as his thrusts.
Suddenly, Claude finds himself on is back. Before he could get his bearings, Phoebus shoves himself back into the inviting hole.
Claude screams. His legs quiver around Phoebus’. Spread wide and encasing the blonde man between them. Phoebus yanks him close. Pushing his thighs against his chest so he is folded in half. Claude’s eyes are glazed over. His panting bringing a smirk to Phoebus’ face.
“You’ve lasted longer than I expected. I’ve have thought you were experienced with those sounds you make.”
“Stop talking.”
“Why not? You are enjoying yourself.”
“Preposterous. All that emerges from that mouth of yours are lies.” Claude’s face reddens. His eyes wonder downward. Witnessing the thickness of Phoebus’ entering him at an alarming pace. He puts his hands over his eyes. Shifting away from the vulgar scene. He hasn’t seen it until now.
From the small glimpse he saw, it was unusually large. Claude hasn’t seen much male genitalia in his life. The most were passing looks at fellow students during his educational days. Even then, he has never seen anything like this. And for it to be able to fit within him, as if he is capable of it like a woman was born to do; Claude cannot dwell on it lest he gets a headache.
“I-I’ve thought you a humble man. But you are nothing but a fraud. You dare use me to warm your bed in such a trying time. Taking advantage of people in your hospitality. You sicken me.” Claude shifts his head to the side. Avoiding the prying eyes that never left his. Trying his hardest to ignore the pleasure singing in his nether regions. The growing pressure in his own manhood alerting him of what’s to come. “The Lord has a place for people like you.”
Phoebus laughs. A cackle that tickled the inside of his ears. Claude peaked through his fingers. Looking at the handsome face contorted in what one could say was amusement.
“You are too cute. Fine then,” Phoebus said. Claude shakes when the man pulls out. The feeling of emptiness returning to him. He had to stop himself from reaching down and pulling Phoebus back inside.
“What?”
Phoebus shifts off him and lies next to him. He pulls the blankets over himself and rolls over.
“You said such vile things, Monsieur. I do not want to continue if you don’t want to.”
Claude looked aghast. The rising tension inside simmered down. But it felt as if his body has just been neglected. The warmth that enveloped him disappeared. Now making him fully aware of the cold crawling along the edges of his skin. His cock feels full. Painfully so. And Claude winces when he attempts to shift upward, but his legs are heavy. Impending his movement.
He glares down at Phoebus. At the audacity this man has to do such things to him then toy with him. This is the work of the devil.
Claude understands now. He understands the want, the sorrow, the plight those young woman have under the lustful claws of an incubus. The ones that play with their hearts and rip it out to give to another. Yes, he understands it fully now.
But that doesn’t stop the trickle of tears. Nor does it stop the shake of his limbs as he closes in on himself. Hiding his heart that has been exposed to the world and the feeling of shame coursing through him. To think he has almost forsaken his Lord for mere attention from a physically appealing man. He really is a disgrace.
Arms wrap around him.
Claude turns away. Pulling from his embrace and tired in his attempt and sluggish in his mind.
“Don’t cry. It was merrily in good fun. If you are truly hurt by it, I will take it upon myself to punish myself so that you may never feel a sense of wrongness in your life ever again.” The soothing baritone puts his body at ease, but he tenses nonetheless. He shoves at the man’s chest.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You don’t mean that.” A hand wonders down to wrap around his cock. Claude hisses and attempts to jerk away from him.
“Look. It’s getting hard for me again.” Phoebus leans into ear. His lips grazing the outside. Claude’s face heats up. The other hand grabs him around the waist and places him in the man’s lap. The tip of Phoebus’ cock sliding against his entrance. He can feel his hole clench in anticipation.
Phoebus touches the rim of his hole, causing him to shiver. Placing feathery touches along the outside.
Then, without warning, Claude moans. As he is slammed back down onto the dick underneath him. A sense of ecstasy returns, as does the sense of fullness. His mind races. Panicking at the intense pleasure. Guilt once more running its course through his brain. But like a man starved, he hungers like he never has before. He craves the feeling. He chases it with his hips as they move up and down the shaft. Pressing his ass deeper down till he can feel the skin of Phoebus’ balls slap against him. He yanks Phoebus’ hand and places it on his hips. A curse is moaned into his ear. The steamy breath brushing along his neck causing him to moan in tandem. The rising pressure returns but stronger than ever before. A heavy feeling settles in his manhood, almost as if it were to burst any second. Claude cover’s his mouth with his hand but is forced back.
“Let me hear you.” Phoebus pushes up into his ass, pounding even harder where even the rhythm starts to give. Becoming nothing but a frantic motion as if he is desperate. Claude gasps. The thrusts pushing further in and reaching the crevices that no one has reached before. It is as if his soul was torn open, and the golden-haired adonis was the only one welcome.
With one loud moan, the pressure simmers down as his shaft comes across the mattress just in time with the warm liquid seeping inside. Coating his walls. Claude throws his head back. Reveling in the feeling before the realization dawned on him.
“You-!” Claude furrows his brows. His lips downturned into a snarl. Phoebus had a sheepish look, but his skin glowed. Almost as if intercourse returned some color to his already handsome face. Claude sputters at the fact and tries to sit up. Wincing at the feeling of cum dribbling down his hole. But his foot gave way and he falls back down onto him. Gasping loudly as the dick enters his swollen hole once more. Phoebus seemed to share the same sentiment with his own moan.
Claude is pulled against a broad chest. He lets out a sound as they collide down onto the mattress.
“Let us go to sleep. I’m tired.” Claude whips his head around. A furious look plastered on his disheveled face. He tries to pull away, but whimpers as every tug causes the dick inside to push at the spot.
“Captain. Remove yourself.” Before Claude tries to escape once more, a loud boom moves him. He flinches and turns his head. Eyes widening at the peaceful face that has found it the perfect moment to fall into a deep slumber. Claude snarls at him, but rests back down. For he too feels the drag of sleep. A haze appears over his eyes. Eyelids dropping from heaviness and the liquid feeling in his limbs are crashing down on him. Leading him to a night of rest that he hasn’t gotten for a very long time.