Note: This story was created to fill a prompt on Disney Kink at Live Journal

Warning: Violence & Non-Consensual

Until the Flames Consume Us & We Turn to Ash

The bell ringer was an apprehensive creature and was terribly bothered by a lingering thought: Where is she? Sitting upon the balustrade of the Cathedral de Notre-Dame and gazing down at the rising flames below, which consumed his beloved city, Paris, he remained motionless. A few unfortunate Parisians spotted the troublesome bell ringer and spat obscenities at him from below, lifting trembling fingers to him as dark shadows from the flames below danced across his misshapen face and illuminated his crooked and unusual form, that breathing gargoyle, that hunchback, that man.

Cowering away from the taunting crowd, hiding his miserable form within the shadows of his concealing bell tower, he pondered the whereabouts of his only friend, Esmeralda, the beautiful gypsy dancer, who had enticed his heart at the Festival of Fools. She was a lively thing, spirited eyes, luscious lips, and a shapely form that he could only dream of holding in his gargantuan arms. But he hadn't seen her since he had helped her escape the cathedral on that faithful night when his dark master surrounded the holy place with his crude men.

Nonetheless, the hunchback was plagued with troubling thoughts: Is she safe? Is she well? Is she. . .dead? Sniveling like a babe, he sought consolation from his stonework friends who lingered in the far shadows of the bell tower, three gargoyles. They spoke to him, those inanimate objects with faces like that of demons and wings like that of bats. They were his foundation. They were his escape in the lonely hours.

"Find her," they said, "Save her."

He obeyed, wiped his snout, and stiffly nodded. He'd save the benevolent gypsy from her sorrows, disobey his master and commit the crime, for she was his friend. She was an angel who had smiled upon his hideous face and kissed his cheek without a trace of fright, and he would prove his gratitude.

Stepping into the light of the flames, he hopped atop the balustrade, balled his large hands into fists, and declared that he'd save her.

Then he jumped.

Two bodies trudged through the hysteria down upon the city ground and escaped within the safety of the cathedral, that beacon of hope.

"I know of a safe place," said Esmeralda, lifting her eyes to the spiraling staircase that led to a darkened bell tower. Phoebus, Ex-Captain of the Guard, grunted in agitation at the sight of the miserable climb and slumped into the gypsy's arms. But, desperate to rescue the brave man who had risked his life for the innocent, she wrapped her arms around him and ascended into the darkness that had once led her into the surprising life of a misshapen ward, Quasimodo.

The bell tower was murky, desolate, and quiet, strangely quiet. No misguided or stumbling footsteps rang in her ears, and no sporadic, heavy breathing of a tortured soul, afraid of his monstrous face, caught her attention.

"We'll be safe here," she said, lowering Phoebus to the ground, propping him up against a lone, wooden beam.

"There is no safety anymore," he groaned, grabbing at his upper arm where a stray arrow had pierced him moments ago in his gallant escape from Minister Frollo and his guards. Though Phoebus had fallen into the river below, only to be saved by the gypsy dancer, the stench of smoke still lingered upon him after his brave deed at the burning home of the Miller, a family Minister Frollo had deemed traitorous for catering to weary travelers such as gypsies. With a sneer, the dark man had set the home a blaze and took an oath to burn the entire city to the ground until the gypsy witch, Esmeralda, was found.

"It's too quiet," Esmeralda said, drawing up a dark eyebrow in concern as she poked about the darkness.

"Where is he?" asked Phoebus, panting and tightening his grip upon his throbbing arm where blood oozed out and stained the floorboards.

"I'm not sure. He should be here," she said.

But he wasn't.

"I wouldn't want to be up here at night either," Phoebus jested with a wan smile, his color draining from his face. Esmeralda rolled her eyes and shook her head, dark curls thrashing about.

"Phoebus, this is not the time to-"

Her words were cut short and she gasped; he was unconscious.

"No," she whispered, nearing him and kneeling at his side. His blood stained her violet skirt and she began to feel helpless.

"Phoebus," she called, gently brushing a few wisps of his blonde hair from his face. But he was unresponsive, and someone was lurking in the bell tower. Footsteps echoed from the lower floor, and Esmeralda furrowed her dark brows. The steps were calculated and graceful, not that of the hunchback's, whose were brash and misguided.

"Quasi?" she called, her green eyes scanning the darkness. No one answered and she cursed the darkness under her breath before directing her attention back to Phoebus, whose head had slightly fallen to the left. She admired him for a moment, for he appeared to be asleep, save the trickling blood that soaked into his tunic and pooled upon the floor.

She sighed and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, when a long, towering shadow covered her being. A familiar scent tickled her nose, one that stirred unwanted memories of a cruel, wicked man defiling her body in the sanctuary of the cathedral. She recalled the feeling of his gnarled fingers brushing over the delicate, tender flesh of her neck, his hot breath warming her as he nuzzled his face into her hair, and his deep baritone voice shaking her core: I was just imagining a rope around that beautiful neck.

Anxious, she turned around and choked on her own sputtering gasp as her eyes trailed up at the black pillar that stood before her, Minister Frollo. Oblivious to the woven basket of grapes he held, which he had prepared for his meeting with his misshapen ward, she was, however, well aware of his enraged, withered face.

For a moment no words were spoken. The two merely glared at one another, rage and fear engulfing her heart, whereas foul lust and deep passion consumed his blackened heart like the fires that consumed all that of Paris.

"What have you done with him?" she questioned through gritted teeth, "Where's Quasi?"

Frollo remained silent and grew impatient, refusing to explain what he deemed unnecessary, for he yearned for her affections and her affections he would have. He glanced between her, the unconscious ex-captain he had thought drowned in the river, and the empty table where his misshapen ward should have been waiting, and he smirked at the realization of their privacy.

"I've eliminated him, my dear," he said with a curt smile. "And now. . ."

Reaching into his dark robe and retrieving a dagger, her eyes widened and she leapt from the floor and attempted to evade him. A great crash filled her ears, for the woven basket had fallen to the ground, ripe grapes breaking free of the vine and rolling about the floorboards. Her feet slipped upon the pooling blood of the ex-captain, and on her hands and knees, she sought to regain her balance.

It was in vain.

Furiously, she kicked back with her feet, but her heels continued to slip and slide upon the blood soaked floor, and he lunged at her. Raising his dagger and admiring the sheer panic in her eyes, he plunged the blade into the fabric of her dark skirt until the hilt slammed against the floorboards.

She fiercely tugged at the fabric in a means of ripping it free, but found that she was trapped, completely at his mercy, though he seldom had any. Despair gripped her, for no valiant Captain Phoebus would save her, no snooping, misshapen ward would intrude, and absolutely no one would interfere with the maddening fascinations in Frollo's dark mind—fascinations in which he sought to make a vivid reality.

Writhing beneath him, she attempted to make his success as difficult as possible, however it merely heightened his arousal. And in the small fleeting moment in which she glanced at the dagger that held her beneath him, he snatched her wrists, pinned back her arms, and fiercely pressed his dry lips onto hers.

She trembled in repulsion, kicked and struggled to liberate herself, summoning a dark growl from him. Tearing his lips from hers and snarling, he tightened his hold upon her, sharp fingers sinking into her flesh. She yelped and arched her back, her chest rising and allowing her succulent breasts to be pressed up into his withered frame.

"Be still, witch," he growled, struggling to contain her wild body.

"I'm not your whore," she spat, freeing a hand and clawing at his face. A trickle of blood ran down his hollow cheeks and dripped from his sneering lips. He darkly chuckled, wiping the blood from his face, and gripped her hips, dragging her towards him. She clawed the floorboards, nails hopelessly digging into the wood, nails he only dreamed that would drag across his flesh. As he reeled her into his narrow frame, wrapping her luscious legs around him, she snarled and wrestled beneath him; but he, desperate for more, ripped her shawl from her body, a white blouse lying underneath.

He groaned at the sight of her, this beautiful, curvaceous woman before him. Aroused and blinded by passion, he madly began kissing any and all exposed skin: her arms, her shoulders, her cleavage, her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, everything.

She screamed in protest, anger brewing in her gut at his prideful smirk as repulsion threatened to hurdle up her throat at his mere touch.

"For too long I have withheld myself," he said into the crook of her neck between feverish kisses, each one branding her as his own. He left her no room for response as he claimed her lips again, spindly fingers fumbling to remove her blouse in the process, that flimsy material which barred him from satisfaction. She wrestled in protest yet again, attempting to keep him from slipping the sleeves of her blouse past her shoulders.

And then it was off.

She was heavenly, this heathen witch struggling to mask her femininity with her arms, hands covering her breasts, cheeks blushing with anger as he glared at her, drowning in her every curve. She screamed, not for someone to rescue her, not for Phoebus to gain his senses, but out of sheer fury that she was helpless before him. However, her shouts of rage were a mere whisper to his ears, and he casually pursued his desires, grasping her arms yet again and pinning them to the floorboards, allowing her back to arch forward, plump, succulent breasts thrown into his view, begging for his attention.

He obliged, ran his tongue along them and roughly bit at her nipples, summoning a dark scream from her core. He silenced her with a rough kiss, his tongue fighting to enter what he deemed his. As a free hand reached down into his dark robe, desperate to grip his hard cock, she muffled a scream, parting her lips which unintentionally granted him entrance, and he wildly consumed her hot mouth.

She was his.

With his tongue shoved down her throat and one hand holding her arms back, the other violently fisting his cock, she managed to lift up her leg and jam her knee into his ribs. Withdrawing from her lips and grunting, he narrowed his dark eyes upon her, receiving a spat from her in return. Disgusted, he wiped her saliva from his cheek and raised a slender hand to swat her, and as she prepared for the hit, she found that it never came, for he had other intentions.

Eyeing her legs, he licked his lips and she sneered at the very sight of his maddened imaginations playing behind his dark features. Releasing her arms, he lifted her skirt and spread her beautiful legs which had evaded him one too many times.

"Don't you dare," she hissed.

He growled in disapproval, his deep voice pounding upon her skull, and without mercy, he shoved his cock into her cunt and claimed her lips, drinking her every scream. Fast, reckless, and hard, he thrust into her. Loud grunts emitted from his core, one hand tangled in her hair, the other exploring her curves.

"Look at what you've turned me into," he said breathlessly into her neck, cock vigorously rocking in and out of her. "Look at what you make me do."

"Fuck you," she spat between gritted teeth. He sneered, buried his teeth into her neck, punishing her for her brash words; and with one last and much needed thrust, he released his inner longings, hot liquid sticking to her inner thighs as it dribbled out from her cunt.

Struggling to suppress his erratic, heavy breathing, he ran a hand through his disheveled, grey hair and snatched the dagger, releasing her from its hold. Drawing her weak body to her feet, he twisted his hand within her raven locks yet again and dragged her towards the balustrade where black, thick smoke clouded her senses and left her coughing.

Tightening his hold upon her hair, he shoved her forward and directed her gaze to the city below, bright fire illuminating her ravished, naked body.

"Lo and behold, the city is burning and I've done it all for you."