SMUT! You've been anxious and overthinking lately, crushed by the expectations of others. You go to the Abbe, the one who gave you a new life, the only one able to make your mind quiet. But through unspeakable means.
The halls of Charenton were unnervingly quiet, the usual cacophony of mad shouts and distant weeping having subsided with the late hour. But your own mind was a storm. Another letter from your family lay crumpled in your pocket, its words about duty and expectation searing into your thoughts. You had been pacing in your small room, the walls closing in, the weight of your life pressing down on you until you could barely breathe. You needed something to anchor. You needed him.
Without a clear plan, your feet carried you through the dimly lit corridors. You found yourself outside his study, the light from within spilling into the darkness. The door was slightly ajar. You hesitated, your hand hovering, a tremor running through you. It was late, improper. But the thought of returning to the suffocating solitude of your room was unbearable. You pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The Abbe was at his desk, hunched over paper, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the room, he was concentrated. He looked up as the door clicked softly shut behind you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it was replaced by a warm, knowing concern.
"I'm sorry, Abbe." you began, your voice barely a whisper. "I shouldn't have troubled you⊠I can come back." You opened the door again, ready to leave.
"Nonsense." he said, his voice gentle as he slowly put down his quill, his gaze never leaving yours. It was not the gaze of a superior to a subordinate, but of a friend who saw the fracture in your composure. "Close the door."
You obeyed, the click of the latch echoing your own finality. You remained standing awkwardly near the door, unsure of your place.
"What troubles you?" he asked, though it felt as if he was seeing right through you. You couldn't form the words. You just shook your head, your throat tight with unshed tears.
"Another letter?" He stood, moving around the large desk. He didn't approach immediately, giving you space. You nodded, clenching your jaw briefly.
"They don't understand. They think I am wasting my life here. They want me to come home, to marry⊠to be someone I am not." you replied, your eyes fixed on the floor.
"And what do you want?" he pressed softly.
"I don't know anymore." you confessed, the admission making your eyes humid. "I only know that I am tired. Tired of being strong, tired of fighting, tired of carrying everyone's expectations and my own failures. I feel⊠I feel like I am disappearing under the weight of it all."
The Abbe was silent for a long moment, letting your words hang in the air between you. He stepped closer, his presence a solid, comforting force.
"You have been fighting battles on all fronts." he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "You try to be a dutiful daughter, a diligent worker, a moral woman in an immoral world. You hold yourself to impossible standards, and when you inevitably fail to meet them, you add the weight of that failure to the burden you already carry."
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. He saw everything; he saw the ugly, tangled mess of your anxieties and named them without judgment. And what always surprised you, was how he made it turn beautiful. He was an angel in this world of madness.
"What if you didn't have to fight anymore?" he continued, his gaze holding yours. "What if, for just a little while, you could lay down all your weapons? All your responsibilities, all your worries, all the expectations that crush you from all sides?"
He straightened up and walked to the study door. With a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, he turned the heavy iron key. The click of the lock echoing in the silent room was deafening, a sound of finality that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. You knew what was going to happen.
He returned to the center of the room, standing before you. His gaze held yours as his hands rose to his throat. His fingers, long and elegant, worked at the small, white tab of his clerical collar. He unfastened it with the same measured slowness he had locked the door. He pulled the starched linen from his neck and laid it carefully on a stack of books. The sight of his bare throat, vulnerable and exposed, was shockingly intimate. It was the shedding of his public persona, the removal of the symbol that separated him from other men. In its place was just the man, with his raw, unfiltered intensity.
"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders." he said, his voice thick with a dark, sacred purpose. "A weight not meant for you. What we do here tonight remains between us, and God. I will not have your soul tarnished by worldly stress. I will not have your spirit broken by pressures you were never meant to bear."
He closed the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, and you leaned into the touch with a desperation that shamed you.
"So I will take this burden from youâŠas I always did." he vowed, his eyes burning into yours. "I will take your anxieties, your fears, your very thoughts upon myself. I will commit this sin so that you may be cleansed. Your release will come through my corruption." His other hand found the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, not gently, but with a firm, possessive grip that sent a wave of heat through your body. He tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"You will surrender control to me." he commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal. "You will not think. You will not worry. You will only feel. And I will be the one who decides what you feel. Do you understand?" He asked with a tenderness that was impossible to oppose.
You could only manage a weak, breathless nod. The knot in your stomach was loosening, not from relief, but from being replaced by a different, more potent tension, anticipation, of dark and thrilling surrender.
"Good." he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Then let us begin your penance." His grip on your neck was firm, a possessive anchor in the sea of your uncertainty. With his other hand still cupping your cheek, he used his thumb to part your lips, a silent, demanding gesture. Your breath hitched, and you obeyed the unspoken command, your mouth falling open slightly.
"No more thinking." he murmured, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing it to memory. "Your mind has been your prison. Tonight, it will be quiet."
He leaned in, but he did not kiss you. Instead, he pressed his lips to your forehead, a gesture that was both benediction and brand. It was searingly intimate, a claim being laid upon your very soul. Then, his mouth moved to your temple, his breath hot against your skin.
"Kneel." he whispered, the command a soft puff of air against your ear.
Your body responded before your mind could protest. The grip on your neck guided you down, not forcefully, but with an unyielding pressure that allowed no resistance. Your knees met the thick rug, the plush fibers a soft cushion against the hard floor. You were looking up at him now, at the man who had shed his collar like a serpent shedding its skin. He loomed over you, a figure of shadow and fire, his expression unreadable yet utterly commanding.
"Good girl." he approved, his voice a low rumble. "You see how simple it is? How much lighter you already feel?" The frantic buzzing in your head had quieted, replaced by a singular, thrumming focus on him. The weight of your worries had not vanished, but they had been pushed to the periphery, muted and distant.
He circled you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. His hand trailed from your neck down your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your shoulder blades through the fabric of your dress. You shivered, your body arching involuntarily into his touch.
"You are so beautifully tense." he observed, his voice laced with a dark appreciation. "Every muscle coiled tight, ready for a fight that will not come. We must unwind you."
He stopped behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots of muscle there. You let out a soft gasp, a mixture of pain and relief. He began to knead, his touch firm and knowing, finding every point of stress, every hidden ache. You melted under his ministrations, your head bowing forward, your body going pliant.
"That's it." he encouraged, his voice a hypnotic murmur. "Surrender to it. Let me take this from you." His hands moved lower, down your back, his touch becoming more possessive, more exploratory. He found the laces of your dress, his fingers toying with them. He didn't pull, didn't undo them. He simply traced their path, a silent promise of what was to come. The anticipation was a delicious agony that made you forget all worries.
"Every worry, every fear, every expectation," he whispered, his lips close to your ear now. "You will give them all to me. I will be your keeper. Your confessor. Your angel."
His hands moved to your throat, not squeezing, just present and feeling your pulse. The vulnerability of the position sent a fresh wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.
"You will not move unless I command it." he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You will not speak unless I ask you a question. Your only purpose is to feel what I give you. Do you understand?"
"Yes." you breathed, the word barely audible.
He released your throat and moved to stand in front of you again. He looked down at you, kneeling before him, and a slow, satisfied smile finally graced his lips. It was a terrifying and beautiful sight. Then, he knelt in front of you, slowly, still taller than you. His proximity a shield against your worries.
âWe must break the cage you have built for yourself.â He reached out, his hand steady, the tip of his fingers cold like a blade against the neckline of your dress. You flinched, but his eyes held yours, a silent command to be still. He worked methodically, his expression one of intense concentration, as if performing a sacred rite.
Soon, you were naked before him, kneeling on the rug, the firelight warming your exposed skin. The air was cool on your flesh, raising goosebumps. You felt a moment of profound vulnerability, but it was quickly replaced by a heady sense of freedom. The physical shedding of your clothes felt like a shedding of your burdens.
"BeautifulâŠ" he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. "Free of worldly burdens.â
He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you to your feet. He led you not towards his bed, but to a plush chaise lounge positioned to face the roaring fire. He guided you to lie on your stomach, your head turned to the side, your hands resting palm-up near your head. The velvet was soft against your skin.
He disappeared for a moment, and you heard the soft clink of glass. When he returned, you felt the sudden, shocking chill of liquid being dribbled onto your back. The oil he usually used to celebrate the mass. It was scented with lavender and something else, something dark and musky. Then his hands were on you, slick with oil.
His touch was sure, strong, and utterly possessive. He began at your shoulders, his thumbs digging deep into the muscle, working out the knots of tension that had been your constant companions for months. You couldn't suppress a moan as a particularly tight bundle of nerves released under his expert touch. His hands glided down your spine, spreading the oil, warming your skin. He kneaded the flesh of your buttocks, his touch possessive and thorough, before moving down the backs of your thighs. Every ache, every point of stress, he found and soothed it into submission.
You were melting, turning into a puddle of sensation under his hands. The frantic thoughts in your head had ceased completely, replaced by the rhythmic slide of his palms, the pressure of his fingers, the scent of the oil and the fire. You were floating, adrift in a sea of pleasure he was creating for you. Surrender felt so good.
He turned you over with surprising ease, his hands still slick. The firelight danced across your bare breasts and stomach. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry. He poured more oil into his palms, the liquid catching the light. He started at your collarbones, his thumbs tracing the delicate bones before sweeping down to your breasts. He circled your nipples, avoiding the tight peaks, teasing the sensitive flesh around them until you were arching your back, a silent plea for more.
"Patience." he chided softly, a dark smile playing on his lips. "Take the time to feel.â
Finally, his thumbs brushed over your nipples, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through you. He rolled the sensitive nubs between his slick fingers, pinching just enough to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Your breath hitched, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. His hands continued their downward journey, over your stomach, your hips, your thighs. He bypassed the place between your legs that throbbed with a desperate need, instead massaging your calves, your feet, leaving no part of you untouched, unclaimed.
When he finally finished, your skin was glowing, every nerve ending alive and humming. You were relaxed, yet wound tighter than a violin string with anticipation. He knelt beside the chair, his face close to yours.
"All the negative tension has been washed from your bodyâŠ" he murmured, his voice a low caress. "Now, we must replace it with bliss. Would you like me to continue?"
"Yes." Your voice was a breathless, whispered but it was the arch of your body, the way you shifted your hips in a silent, desperate plea, that truly answered him. A look of profound, almost scientific fascination crossed his face. He was watching you, studying you, like the Marquis must have studied his own depraved manuscripts, searching for the truth within the sin.
"FascinatingâŠ" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the subtle movement of your thighs. "The body, once freed from the tyranny of the mind, speaks its own language. A language of pure, unadulterated need to be loved." He seemed to be testing the words, finding his footing in this new, uncharted territory. One where he was a novice who ruled by his learning capacities.
"The Marquis wrote that the greatest pleasure is not in the act itself, but in the surrender that precedes it. I see now⊠he was correct." He stood and moved to the foot of the chair. Instead of joining you, he simply looked down, his eyes sweeping over your oiled, waiting form. He was savoring the sight, the power. He was learning that anticipation was a tool as sharp as any blade. He seemed pleased by your obedience, his confidence visibly bolstered.
He finally moved, he placed his hands on your knees, his grip firm. He pushed your legs wider apart, opening you completely to his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the feeling was intoxicating.
"Look at me." he ordered. You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. They were dark, burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and thrilling. "Your emptiness will be replaced by me. Your aches will be soothed by me. You will think of nothing else. Is that what you want?"
"YesâŠ!" you cried out, the word torn from your throat. "Please, Abbe." You wanted to be a puppet, no thoughts, just control and the care of your owner.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had his answer. He leaned forward, his body hovering over yours, his cassock brushing against your slick skin. He braced himself on one arm beside your head. With his other hand, he reached down, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your sex. You bucked against him, a desperate gasp escaping your lips.
"So responsive." he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and desire. "Every touch, every reaction⊠it's a revelation." He slid one long finger inside you, and your internal muscles clenched around it instinctively. He groaned, a low, guttural sound. "And so welcoming. So eager to be filled."
He began to move, his finger stroking your inner walls, finding a rhythm that made your toes curl. He watched your face intently, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids, every parting of your lips. He was learning you, mapping your pleasure, and the knowledge was making him bold.
"MoreâŠ!" you begged, your hips rising to meet his hand.
"Patience." he chided again, though there was a smile in his voice now. He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you more completely. His thumb found the sensitive nub of your desire, circling it with a maddening, deliberate pressure. "We must build the cathedral before we can pray in it." The pressure inside you was building, a coil of tension winding tighter and tighter. Your breaths came in ragged pants. He was watching you, his own breathing growing heavier, his control clearly wavering as he became lost in the power of your response.
"That's itâŠ" he urged, his voice a low growl. "Let go. Surrender to it. Give me your pleasure." With a final, flick of his thumb, the coil inside you snapped. A wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over you, so intense it was almost painful. You cried out his name, your body arching off the chair, your hands gripping the velvet. He slowly withdrew his fingers, and you felt a moment of loss at the emptiness. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted your essence. It was a scandalous sight, yet how good it made you feel.
"AmbrosiaâŠ" he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "The first taste of true creation." He leaned down, his face inches from yours.
Then, he rose slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate. With his eyes locked on yours, he began to undo the buttons of his cassock. His fingers, still slick with your essence, fumbled with the first few, a rare betray of his own escalating desire. He noticed your gaze on his hands, and a flicker of something, pride, perhaps, or a renewed sense of control, hardened his features. He finished the rest with a steady, practiced grace.
The heavy black garment pooled at his feet, leaving him in his simple linen trousers and a loose, untucked shirt. The sight of him, disrobed from his clerical vestments, was more potent than if he were fully naked. He was no longer the Abbe, the holy man. He was just a man. He was the man who had read the Marquis and understood, the man who was now making those words his own reality.
He stepped out of the puddle of black cloth and came on top of you once again. He placed his hands on your hips, his grip firm, grounding. He leaned over you, his hair brushing against your forehead.
"The Marquis wrote of the body as a vessel for sensation." he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. "A temple to be desecrated in the name of a higher truth. I understand now. He was not writing of debauchery. He was writing of worship."
He shifted his position, aligning his hips with yours. You could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of his trousers. The anticipation was a physical ache, a desperate need that eclipsed all thought. He reached down, undoing the tie of his trousers. He freed himself, and your eyes widened at the sight of him, thick and heavy in his hand. He gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent, arrogant display of his power.
"Look at me." he commanded again, his voice a raw whisper. "Watch as I claim youâŠas I fill you." He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive folds. He didn't enter immediately. He teased you, sliding himself through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal. He was watching your face, drinking in your reactions, the way your lips parted, the way your hips rose to meet him.
"PleaseâŠ" you whimpered, the word a desperate, broken sound. A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips. He had you, surrendered fully to his care. He positioned himself at your opening and, with one slow, inexorable thrust, buried himself inside you.
The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, intense stretch that bordered on pain, followed by a profound, bone-deep sense of rightness. He filled you completely, stretching you to your limits, erasing the emptiness that had plagued you for so long. You cried out, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling slightly with the effort of holding back. He closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched. When he opened them, they were burning with an intensity that stole your breath.
"All of youâŠ" he growled, his voice a low, possessive claim. "You are mine now." He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, a deliberate, punishing rhythm that was designed to claim, to conquer. He was learning your body, finding the angle that made you gasp, the depth that made you moan. He was a scholar, and you were his most fascinating text, and he was determined to read every line, to decipher every secret.
"Tell meâŠ" he panted, his pace increasing slightly. "Tell me what you feelâŠ"
"Full!" you gasped. "So fullâŠit's⊠it's almost too muchâŠahâŠIâŠyou are my salvationâŠ" He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock brushed against a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. A loud, unrestrained cry tore from your throat.
"ThereâŠ" he breathed, a look of triumph on his face. "There it isâŠso beautifulâŠ!" He began to target that spot with each thrust, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. His words were as potent as his actions, a dark, intoxicating poison that you willingly drank. The pressure inside you was building again, a storm gathering on the horizon. Your hands scratched his back, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. He leaned down, his mouth finding your ear. "Let go..!" he urged, his voice a rough, desperate command. "Surrender to me⊠Give me everything..!"
His words were your undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, the storm broke. A blinding, deafening wave of ecstasy washed over you, more intense than the first. Your body convulsed around him, your inner muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythmic, desperate dance. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated release.
He followed you over the edge with a high pitched moan, his body stiffening as he poured himself into you, his hot seed claiming you. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing and the crackling of the fire. You were limp, boneless, your mind a blissful, empty void. The weight of your worries, your burdens, your very identity, had been scoured away, replaced by the solid, undeniable reality of him.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching yours. The fire in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a softer, more contemplative light. He reached out, his hand gently stroking your hair, a gesture so tender.
"I see your blissâŠ" he whispered, his voice husky. "You are free." He remained inside you for a long moment, his weight a comforting anchor in the sea of your satiation. The frantic energy that had driven him had dissipated, replaced by a quiet stillness. He gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly tender as he murmured gentle prayers.
With a slow, careful withdrawal, he left you, and you couldn't suppress a soft whimper at the sudden emptiness. He heard it, and his expression softened with an emotion that looked remarkably like concern. He stood and, without a word, walked to a small chest of drawers against the far wall. He returned with a soft, clean cloth and a pitcher of water, which he poured into a basin.
Kneeling beside the chair, he dipped the cloth into the cool water and wrung it out gently. "Be still." he murmured, his voice now stripped of all command, leaving only a quiet, caring warmth.
He began to clean you with a reverence that took your breath away. His touch was impossibly gentle, his movements slow and deliberate as he wiped away the evidence of your joining. It was an act of such intimate care, so far removed from the dominant force of moments before, that it brought a fresh sting of tears to your eyes. He wasn't just cleaning your body; he was tending to your soul.
When he was finished, he covered you with a heavy, woolen blanket that had been draped over a nearby chair, tucking it around you with care. He then dressed himself quickly, pulling on his trousers and his shirt, but he left the cassock where it lay, a dark pool on the floor. He did not retrieve his clerical collar.
He moved to his desk and returned with a glass of water. "Sit up, slowly." he instructed softly. He helped you, his hand supporting your back as you rose, the blanket clutched to your chest. He pressed the glass into your hands. "Drink." You obeyed, the cool water soothing your dry throat. He watched you, his gaze no longer one of a predator or a scholar, but of a friend. A concerned, caring friend.
"Are you⊠are you alright?" he asked, the question hesitant, as if he were unsure of his own role now. You nodded, setting the glass aside.
"I feel⊠light." you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "The noise is gone."
A small, genuine smile touched his lips, a smile you had seen many times before, in this very study, over discussions of books and life. "Good. That was⊠the intention." He sat on the edge of the chair.
"I must confessâŠ" he began, his gaze dropping to his hands, "the Marquis writes of many things. But this⊠this quiet after. He never speaks of this. I find it⊠more profound than the act itself." He looked back at you, his eyes open and vulnerable. "To see you at peace. To know I could give you that, even through such a⊠transgressive means. It changes something in me. I did not expect to feel⊠tenderness."
You reached out, your fingers finding his. He flinched slightly at the contact, then relaxed, his hand turning to lace his fingers with yours. "You have given me a great gift, Abbe." you said softly. "A relief I desperately needed."
"And you have given me a⊠revelation." he countered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "A new understanding of the texts, of the human heart. Of my own heartâŠ"
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, your hands linked. The power dynamic had shifted, softened, settling into a new, more equitable space. He was still the Abbe, and you were still his friend, but you were now something more, something forged in fire and sin and tenderness.
"You should rest." he said finally, his voice gentle. "The world will intrude soon enough. But for now, you are safe here. With me."
He stood and pulled a heavy armchair closer to the chair. He sat down, not returning to his desk, not resuming his work. He simply watched over you, a silent guardian in the flickering firelight, his collar still discarded on the floor, a symbol of the man he had chosen to become, if only for this one night.
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jacoocoo... pawenix from hit movie quills (2000)(that is his google name pronunciation)
ph my god this movie.......... THIS MOVIE i loved it it was so good i love a little gothic moment a bit of angst a bit of romance and this movie served hard. anyways i also love joaquin phoenix as an actor and everytime i see him in a movie im always a little gagged. hes like really good at his job. we like that. i like seeing people good at their jobs. hes insanely good. anyways thankful he is an actor in movies because big fan.
i am a bit upset w how this drawing turned out ngl. i wish i was a better artist bc i felt like. idk im doing jacoocoo a bit wrong like the drawing isnt that good and i wish it looked more like him. i really suffered through this and was like. i need to stop. neow. or else i wouldnt. hopefully one day ill make something ill say "oh! this is pretty good." so... guess im not stoppin drawin anytime soon.
anyways! love. and the line "we also fall in love, we build cities, we compose symphonies, and we endure." love.
Hello, do you take request? I would love to read something about the Abbe being like at the end of the film, crazy and in a cell, reader is the new director and eventually develops feelings for him? I'm fascinated by the insane side of the Abbe tbh ^^
Thanks !
Hey, Anon! Tysm for ur request, and sorry if I took long to write it, but it pretty much inspired me, more than I expected lmao so I hope u don't mind if I wrote two parts of it ^^ oh btw I found myself using a new writing style, I hope u like it
enjoy!
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The walls of the asylum of Charenton had welcomed you in a dark and unsettling embrace since you moved your first step inside, and the gazes of employees and patients detailing you while passing by the door of a neglected studio were sending shivers of discomfort down your spine.
âThank you again for having accepted this job, (Y/N), your presence here has saved us all from failing.â An old but rigid man spoke to you with a stern tone while distractedly reading some papers you signed, his voice barely showing any clue of thankfulness.
You hadnât liked this man at all since the first moment you met â you barely remembered his name â, but you couldnât show your contempt for him, so your lips stretched in a polite smile. Years in company of those dry and lame of your Monastery companions had taught you how to put the perfect mask of complaisance.
However, now you finally feel part of a society, the new piece fixed in that perfectly functioning gear; maybe... not perfectly functioning, after all, by seeing the poor souls closed in that gloomy asylum.
âItâs a... pleasure for me to be here, Monsieur. Itâs always a nice feeling to know youâre doing some good for whoâs less fortunate than us, isnât that true?â You asked, still smiling, your question a little tease to test what he would have answered you. Yet his glacial stare of response made you regret you had spoken that way.
âOf course. We live a life of privileges, especially since the Lord blessed us with a second chance after the slaughters the peasants have committed during the Revolution.â The man replied after some second of cold silence. Apparently, he was speaking about exclusively his wealthy social rank, even if I was meaning something completely different.
You slowly nod, pretending you were intending each other, and silently follow him outside the studio; the grin on his thin lips made you realize he knew he had made you uncomfortable.
You already were pretty tensed, but every shout or screech you could hear coming from the cells made you yelp.
âI hope youâre able to face every kind of struggle with professionalism, my dear, Charenton needs a leader with a tough shell from now on. And, for how good it may be, Charenton canât be connected to the name Antoine-Athanase Royer-Collard; my reputation would be stained forever.â The man, whose name popped back in your memory now at his mentioning, explained worried. Pretty selfishly by thinking about his reputation only. But you didnât lose your façade of courtesy.
You could clearly hear he was actually faking sorrow for what he was narrating, but repressed the urge of rolling your eyes, you were growing tired of his arrogant behavior.
âWhat⊠What happened to him, exactly? Newspapers tell he disappeared, and some recent rumors claim him to be escaped toâŠâ
âWe know nothing about him. What we know is that he betrayed us, and abandoned us in the most desperate moment.â The Doctor roughly interrupted you, vexed again. âThatâs why I want to make sure youâll be our perfect leader. We are craving a trustworthy person.â
You were sure he was praising you and making you feel that important just to make sure you wouldnât have abandoned them, so his reputation would be protected a little more. Until now, he wasnât giving you the impression of being a man so emotionally involved into the sake of Charenton.
But when you two arrived in front of a specific cell, your mind didnât care about Royer-Collard anymore. Your ears captured the noises of soft whimpering inside, with the starting of a thunderstorm, that made whoever was inside yelp and let out an agitated louder moan.
Your eyes noticed a little engraving on the door, on the side of the door, quoting: âlasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrateâ. You squinted your eyes a bit, trying to understand what language it was, not French for sure.
âUhm...monsieur?â You called the Doctor, as to encourage him to explain why you two were standing in front of that creepy door. But he raised a hand with the index finger up, as to interrupt your words and shush you. You got a bit offended by his sudden interruption, but soon your vex was replaced by a startle, as you heard the door in front of you loudly slam.
You put your arms in front of you instinctively to protect yourself, the side of your eye noticed the Doctor didnât even flinch at that.
But your focus was stuck on a pair of eyes peeking from a large peephole on the door: big eyes, their color appeared to be a mix of green and blue, the lashes so long. You could have dared to say they were magnetic and almost sensual if they werenât wide and frantically looking around. You were so scared by that young man that was on the other side, revealing now a round face and a strong jawline, a mole on the left side of his jaw and a big nose, a messy stubble on his chin and long greasy dark hair. The detail that mostly captured your attention was a scar running up his left nostril from his thin upper lip.
The man appeared as scared as you were, not knowing what to do, he slowly turned towards you and deeply stared at you, not even blinking, his eyes piercing your soul. You hesitantly waved at him, frightened by his stare, before realizing that was another patient and your behavior wasnât being professional at all, so you cleared your throat and gave that man a kind smile. But apparently, according to Royer-Collard, you were too slow and anticipated you before you could speak.
The patient creepily giggled. âYouâre always...so kind, Doctor⊠Itâs thanks to you if all of us patients are glowingâŠ! You gave us... a new light...â He cooed with a very weak and raspy voice, nibbling his chipped and dirty fingernails.
You werenât so sure those patients were having an actual improvement from the Doctorâs cures, judging by the dead light you saw in the eyes of most of them. Some had been obviously lobotomized, and you could tell the rest of them had been sedated with a massive dose of opium, way more than medicine would recommend. The thought of it made you shudder, and even more the satisfied grin on Royer-Collardâs face, pleased by the praises of the former priest.
You approached the door of the cell, and tried to catch his elusive gaze, your heart swelling up with pain at seeing a man that saw so respected and esteemed to the other side.
âMonsieur Coulmier, itâs a deep pleasure for me to get to finally know you. Your work here inspired me a lot â your patients loved you! I hope youâre finding your peace behind there, after all that happened.â You softly spoke to him, hearing a clear scoff of nuisance from the Doctor at your cordiality. However you ignored that, focused on that patient deeply staring into your eyes, his pupils were shaking, which made you worry for his health and doubt for his wellness.
âMy dear⊠you found yourself in the lair of the wolf, I suppose. May the Almighty shield thy from the evil energy this place is soaked in till the most intimate bones of the damned souls wandering in here...hah-...!â He paused to catch his breath. He was so tensed he had forgotten how to balance his talking and his breathing.
He coughed a couple times and swallowed down; you could tell his throat was so dry â like his lips.
âYour eyes are virgin, they saw no evil in the world, and your heart is pure⊠rejoice of your innocence, and leave. Leave before you get absorbed by the dark forces.â
And by saying this, you could see his hand approach the peephole, clumsily trying to make it pass through it, and get its way to your face; you noticed his gaze of deep sorrow for you, almost communicating you he was foreseeing what would have happened to you already.
His hand was approaching your face more and more, which made your heart beat fast, defying your common sense and self-control.
But that moment of trance, that connection that was being formed between you and him â so intimate and almost comfortable â got roughly interrupted by the Doctor. He hit the poor Françoisâs hand with his elegant and expensive cane, making the young man yelp in pain and quickly pull his hand back inside.
âEnough with this nonsense, Coulmier. Pull yourself back together once and for all.â The old man harshly scolded him, making the patient roll his eyes.
On Françoisâs lips a smirk appeared, showing his teeth being everything but healthy, the sight gave you a deep sense of discomfort. You could tell the Doctor was feeling the same, the air was getting tensed. Nevertheless, the Doctor scoffed.
That gesture gave you the impression that time had stopped: François was staring at the Doctor with eyes full of hatred and tears. The Doctor was staring back, with superiority. Both completely silent, so much that was deafening you.
He wasnât showing but somehow you felt like Royer-Collard was loading himself for some burst of rage, or some unreasonable punishment towards the prisoner; you could literally see his face getting redder and redder for wrath. You couldnât let for anything bad to happen.
âDoctor Royer-Collard, Monsieur⊠May you allow me to talk to our patient? I mean, privately?â You let out in a shy breath, words spilled out by themselves almost. Indeed the old man gave you the fish eye, while François retained a little gasp, and glared at you surprised.
â...sure. I forgot youâre the boss here.â The Doctor scoffed, kind of throwing you a passive-aggressive dagger, and handed you a big chunk of keys, all for each cell. âGood luck, youâll need it.â
His behavior was hurting you more than you wanted to admit. You silently nodded, making a face to retain tears, and quickly opened the door of Françoisâs cell, making sure not to slam it out of anger. You accidentally let out a loud sigh of relief when you heard the old man walking away, your brain wanted to ignore the repugnant smell in that cell that immediately reached your nostrils.
âHeâs a jerk, I know.â The young man said with a gloomy mutter, making your eyes rush on him; he was sitting in a corner of the room, his legs curled up on his chest and his hair covering his face.
You scoffed and shook your head, wanting to hide your true feelings for now. âIâŠstill need to get used to him. Heâs not evil, though.â You smiled at him sweetly, and approached him. You coughed a bit at his strong body odor, but that only made your pain for those patients and their neglected condition grow more.
âNot evil? But⊠have you looked around the Asylum?! Itâs decaying like its patients inside! He..heâŠâ He was starting to get more agitated: his voice was shaky, and his eyes were flashing from one side to the other, as his nails were scratching his own arms.
âHe managed to destroy my little heaven in less than one yearâŠâ He concluded in a breath, his words slipping out slowly, while his beautiful eyes filled with big, crystal clean tears, the only innocent thing left in that perishing man devoured by the filth of the world.
You listened to him carefully, rubbing his back to sooth him. His past reputation was what inspired you to work in an asylum, and wanted to do a good job like he used to. In a way, you admired him, and wanted him to see his little heaven to shine again.
Your eyes sparkled with hope and determination as those thoughts ran through your mind: yes, you would have managed to give Charenton a new light. Hopefully, that poor manâs shattered heart would have been repaired a little bit.
That manâs sorrow slowly vanished, giving space to the cutest boyish expression you could have imagined on the face of a grown man: his eyes lighted up in yours, his tears dried instantly and his cheeks colored a deep red. Your words had hit him right in the heart apparently.
He hesitantly grabbed your hand, accepting your help, yet the exact moment your hands clenched to each other, a bond forming between you and him could be felt by both. It felt like a little electric shock starting from your fingers, quickly speeding through your body and turning into a nice warmth in your hearts.
Omg this blog has reached 2000 followers! Thank you so much loves ! I don't know what to do to thank you for it !
I started this blog terrified of posting fic, a low self esteem. I started with a Joker fic and you all welcomed it so well, and the fandom grew, the stories grew, more characters. I became a pro of Commodus fics, startes to write a bit of Agamemnon too. I'm so proud of what we have built over these 5 years â€ïž
I want to make it special â€ïž any suggestions are welcome â€ïž
The snow hadn't let up for days. Thick, heavy drifts had sealed the asylum in like a tomb. There were no carts coming in, no letters going out. No news from the outside world. Not even the post rider dared the roads now. The silence had become absolute.Â
You'd taken ill two days prior. A fever gripped you with a suddenness that knocked you flat, your body burning in protest even as you shivered beneath the weight of 4 blankets. It was nothing serious, likely a cold, a touch of flu but in a place, this isolated, anything could turn grave if left unattended.Â
Even now, in your feverish haze, it was him you dreamed of. His hands, his mouth, his voice whispering your name not in prayer, but in need. The fever twisted your senses. You were burning from the inside out, and no amount of damp cloth or cold tea would cool it. And worse, it ached, pulsed. Low in your belly, between your legs. A need that went beyond the illness. Something human, hungrier.Â
You murmured his name again, softer this time. âPlease FrancoisâŠâ Your fingers moved with slow, shaky rhythm. It wasnât enough, but it was him you saw behind your closed eyes. His mouth, his fingers, his body above you. What you didnât know is that he wasnât that far...Â
The Abbe had come to check your fever again, he had told himself it was only that but the sound of your voice had stopped him just outside. Whispering his name, moaning it.Â
He froze. He should have turned back. But something...weakness, curiosity, longing, drew him in. He stepped quietly into the room, candle in hand, and then...his breath caught in his throat.Â
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Hello everyone, as you may know, I have lost my dog 5 days ago, he was my soulmate, we were always glued to each other, we understood each other with just a glance, I miss him terribly. So I thought of writing about it, helps me grieve, brings me some comfort to have characters that would understand my pain. I hope you will enjoy it, or maybe it will help you too, take care <3
Loosing your pet dog - Joaquin characters
Arthur Fleck / Joker
Arthur is the first to notice somethingâs wrong. Youâre quiet, and he hears you crying in the other room. He cautiously enters, seeing the leash still hanging by the door. When you tell him the dog is gone, he just pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently.
He doesnât know what to say, but he doesnât need to. He holds you for as long as it takes, his hands trembling with the weight of his own emotions too.
Later that night, he sets up a little photo of your dog with candles around it, like a shrine. âSo heâs always with us,â he says softly.
Joker, on the other hand, is furious at the world. He sees the dogâs death as another injustice. Heâll listen to you talk, then go silent, gripping your hand and whispering, âThey didnât deserve him, but he had you. That was enough.â
Commodus
Commodus is enraged that the gods could take something from you. He calls it an injustice, a theft, something that must be paid back. But then his tone softens, seeing how broken you look.
That night, he sits beside you on the floor, brushing your hair gently, letting you cry into his robe.
He orders a marble statue to be carved of your dog, to be placed in the gardens. âSo that love never dies. You gave him a place in the palace, now heâll have one in the stars.â
He cries silently with you. But when he is alone Commodus sobs, having lost a companion that loved him unconditionnally, who reassured him during dark nights.
Joe
Joe says nothing at first. Just sits beside you, his hand on your knee. When your voice cracks while talking about the last walk you took together, he looks down, his eyes wet, and murmurs, âHe loved you. You gave him everything.â
That night, he takes you for a quiet walk, one of the same routes you used to take with the dog. He doesnât say much, but heâs beside you every step of the way, offering his presence as comfort.
He later carves a wooden tag with your dogâs name and hangs it beside your front door. âHeâs always walking in with us.â he says.
Charlie Sisters
Charlie doesnât know how to deal with grief that isnât angry or loud. When youâre crying quietly over your lost dog, he fidgets, then blurts âLetâs go hunt whoever did it.â You smile through tears. âHe wasnât murdered, Charlie.â
That night, you find Charlie curled up beside the fireplace with your dogâs old blanket wrapped around him. âSmells like him.â he mutters. âLike when he used to curl against your belly at night. I didnât mind that, you know.â
Days later, he returns from town with a carved wooden medallion. âPut it under the pillow. For dreams.â
Bruno Weiss
Bruno doesnât show his emotions easily, but when he sees you crushed, he brings in your favorite dessert and sits you down like a princess. âHe wouldnât want you to cry forever.â he mutters, brushing your cheek roughly, like heâs mad at your tears.
He offers to take you dancing, anything to distract you. But when you refuse, he just stays. He tells you stories of other animals he knew growing up, ones that survived, ones that didnât.
A few days later, you find heâs added a photo of your dog into his wallet, tucked behind your own. âFamily.â he just says.
He prays with you. Not because you ask him to, but because itâs the only thing he knows how to do when faced with such loss.
âHe was innocent. And he loved without condition. I believe thereâs a place for such souls.â he says, voice shaking as he watches your hands tremble. "You did your best. More than people would. God saw it and your pup knew it."
He lets you cry in his bed, arms around you, speaking softly in Latin prayers and lullabies. âLet me carry this grief with you. Let me share it. Please.â
Max is speechless when he sees you crying. At first, he thinks someone hurt you. When you explain what happened, heâs quiet for a long moment, then says: âShit, baby⊠He was your other half.â
He lights candles and puts on your favorite vinyl. He sits you in his lap and plays with your hair, murmuring about how that pup always climbed into his shirt, remember? âHe was a badass little thing.â
A few days later, he gives you a mixtape. Every song has a story, one from a walk, a nap, a cuddle and a polaroid photo album âI want you to remember the good stuff. Heâd want you to laugh again.â
When you finally do, Max presses his lips to your temple. âThereâs that smile. I missed you.â
Freddie Quell
Freddie doesnât get grief. Not the quiet kind. When he sees you crying, he thinks someone hit you. He gets angry, twitchy. âTell me who. Tell me who, baby.â
When you finally whisper, âIt was the dog...gone.â he just stands there, arms slack, not knowing what to do with the rage. âShitâŠâ he says, softer than youâve ever heard him.
He starts fixing things. The sink. The door. The broken lamp. Not because they matter, but because he canât fix this and it eats him alive.
That night, he brings an old blanket to the bed, your dogâs. Wraps you both in it, presses his forehead to yours, and whispers, âYouâre not alone. Iâm here.â
Willie Gutierrez
Willie walks in, sees you curled up on the couch holding your dog's favorite plush, and just sits beside you silently, arm around your shoulders.
He doesnât talk about the dog at first. Instead, he talks about life. Loss. Regret. His past. Then finally, he says, âI saw how he looked at you. That dog knew he was safe. Thatâs all we can ask for, ainât it?â
He skips work the next day. No calls, no excuses. He cooks you soup, brushes your hair, lays you on his chest so you can cry in peace.
Before he leaves that night to pick up a few groceries, he stops at the door. âYou ever need to cry, I got two arms. And theyâre yours.â
Bobby Green
Bobby panics. The moment he finds out, he bolts out of the room and comes back with your dogâs favorite toy. âHe left it by the couch. Should I...should we keep it? Or hide it? Fuck, I donât know what to do-â
He finally stops and just sits down, pulling you between his legs. He holds you tightly, kissing the crown of your head. âWeâll get through this. Together.â
You wake up the next day to him building a small memorial in the backyard. Photos. The leash. The toy. Flowers. Candles. Music playing low.
âI didnât know how to say goodby.â he admits. âSo I figured weâd do it right. As a family.â
When you mumble âHeâs gone,â Doc just pulls you into a hug, burying his face into your neck. âNoâ he whispers. âNot your little buddyâŠâ
He lies with you on the couch, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie in the background. You barely watch. He keeps his arm wrapped around you and lets you cry into his tie-dye t-shirt. âI liked that muttâ he says. âHe was smarter than me. Probably.â
That night, he rolls a joint, but doesnât smoke it. He hands it to you instead. âYou take it.â he murmurs, kissing your forehead. âYou earned a break from all this shit.â Then he plays you a song on his scratched-up vinyl, something mellow, something sad. He doesnât say much, just lets the music do it for him.
Before bed, you catch him at the table, scribbling a weird little poem on the back of a takeout menu. It's not particularly good, but the last line reads:
âHe was a prince with a tail, and he loved you right. Thatâs more than I ever did for anyone.â
You cry again. Doc just wraps you up in his arms, and says, âLetâs dream of him tonight, huh?â
Merrill Hess
Merrill doesnât understand right away. He walks into the kitchen with that crooked smile of his, talking about the game last night, until he sees your face. âHey, hey⊠whatâs wrong, sweetheart?â
When you tell him, he falls completely silent. âIâm sorry.â he says softly, but his expression is stunned, like heâs lost a teammate. âThat little guy⊠he was one of the good ones.â
He helps you bury him in the backyard. Even makes a little cross out of wood. Itâs crooked and rough, but Merrill sets it with a reverence you didnât expect. Then he wraps his arm around you, silent and steady.
That evening, he brings you a bowl of hot soup and forces you to sit down and eat. âHe wouldn't want you skipping meals, yâknow,â he says gently, spooning out some for himself so you donât feel alone.
He sits with you that night, flipping through a photo album youâd made together of your dogâs goofy moments. You didnât even think heâd noticed you made one. âI loved when he slept on your chest like that. You looked so damn happy.â
Merrill doesn't cry in front of you, but you catch him wiping his eyes when he thinks youâre asleep. Later, he tucks you in and lies beside you, whispering, âWeâll get through this. Heâs still with us. Just in a different way now.â
Thank you for your request anon and for your patience! It's been a while since I wrote the Abbe and damn I had forgotten how good it feels ! He has quite some things in common with Commodus, the pull of madness, the yearning to do well and succeed, the hunger to be loved đ€€ Anyway I hope this is what you were hoping for, I thought it would be nicer as a OS instead of HC^^
It had been years since they brought in anyone who unnerved him.
He was used to the screaming, the moaning, the mad prayers whispered in broken Latin through the walls at night. His soul had hardened to those long ago. But this one⊠this one looked at him as if he were a saint or a sin.
You were a young man arrived in the rain, slick hair clinging to your temples, wrists bruised from the carriage restraints. You wore a threadbare frock coat, once elegant, now torn, clinging to your slight frame like a memory of dignity. Your lips moved as the guards pulled you from the cart, half-prayer, half-riddle.
And then, you saw him. You froze, your eyes widening, not believing you were seeing him again.
Coulmier stood in the corridor, a bible pressed to his chest. He had not spoken during the arrival, merely watched as the new patient was dragged past. But the moment your eyes met his, you stopped struggling.
Your lips curved into something too soft to be a smile.
ââŠyou still wear black.â
Coulmier blinked. His fingers tensed around the leather binding of the book.
The attendants looked between you two frowning. âYou know him?â one asked.
âDonât you remember, mon cĆur?â your voice was lilting now, almost sing-song. âThe Book of Job, under the blankets. The night it rained. You said I had the voice of a martyrâŠâ
Coulmier took a sharp breath.
The attendants rolled their eyes and resumed dragging you away. But not before you twisted in their grasp, eyes still locked on Coulmierâs.
âI dreamt youâd be waiting for me,â you said, softer now. âBut I didnât think youâd still look so sad.â You commente, detailing him, pained. As the moment felt like forever, you were suddenly pulled away, the doors slamming shut behind you with a hollow echo, sealing you inside like a confession no one wanted to hear.
Coulmier didnât move.
He stood there in the corridor long after the rain had stopped dripping from the archways. Only the candlelight flickered now, casting long shadows across the stone. His grip on the Bible had turned his knuckles white.
He hadnât heard that voice in over a decade.
Not since seminary. Not since he had torn himself away from a trembling mouth and breathless laughter, disgusted with himself, with God, with him.
"Ange..." He whispered your name as though it might bite.
Later that evening, the corridors of Charenton were quieter than usual, perhaps because the newest patient had fallen silent. That was always worse than the screaming. Silence meant retreat, calculation, or worse: clarity.
Coulmier made his rounds, slowly. He hadnât been Father Coulmier in years, not in the Churchâs eyes. No mass, no collar. Merely the pale, quiet man who fed the forgotten and wiped the fevered brows of the broken. The pale reflection of what he used to do. The asylum hadnât exiled him. That would have been a mercy.
He reached the newest cell. The small window of the door was unlatched. He shouldn't look, he told himself. But his eyes betrayed him.
You were sitting on the floor, legs folded, thin fingers curled around a scrap of parchment. A rosary was wrapped tight around your hand, biting into your skin. Your gaze was vacant, but when Coulmier leaned closerâŠ
âI told the guards.â you murmured, without looking up âthat the shadows in this place speak. But I know itâs just you, standing there.â
Coulmier's breath caught, not used to be the center of anyone's attention anymore.
âI remember the way you walked.â You continued, still not lifting your gaze. âAlways like you were afraid the ground might open and swallow you. Even then, you thought yourself damned.â
You smiled to yourself. âRest is for the sane, mon tendre ami. You and I are well beyond that.â you paused, detailing his beautiful face âIâve dreamt of you every night since that day.â you added all to softly. You could have been a succubus.
The candle in Coulmierâs hand flickered, as though the words had unsettled the flame itself.
âYou need to stop." he said. âThis is not appropriate.â
You quickly stood. Not lunging, not wild. Just⊠rising, barefoot on cold stone, like an fallen angel pulled from Hell. You stepped close to the door, the iron bars casting crosses over your face.
âYou left me.â You whispered, voice trembling. âDo you know what that does to a boy who loved you?â
Coulmier turned sharply, retreating down the corridor as if it might burn.
But you didn't not let go, anger, pain surged once again, one you thought would appease. Your voice rang out behind the Abbe, soft but sharp, like the last line of a prayer turned curse:
âBut you came back! And now, you wonât leave again.â
âYou could sit.â you offered, looking unbothered and innocent while you painted a homoerotic scene. âIf your spine can tolerate proximity.â
âIâm fine standing.â Coulmierâs voice was flat. But you knew that tone. You remembered it well, from whispered chapel debates, from the way Coulmier used to whisper your name with trembling restraint under dormitory blankets.
You hummed thoughtfully as you dipped your brush in dark ochre. You had always painted best when you were hungry for something.
"Iâve been thinking..." you said, eyes never leaving the canvas, "About that summer in seminary. You remember the one? The year you broke your fasting vow because I smuggled in wine?" You paused âYou were very drunk.â You chuckled, teasing him just a little.
"I remember no such thing." Coulmier lied with all the conviction of a man whoâd dreamt of it just last week.
You chuckled softly, but there was no real humor in it. "I do. You were reading the Song of Songs to me. And then you stopped reading."
You glanced up, brush frozen in air. "You said I looked like one of those angels painted on church ceilings. And then you touched my lip with your thumb." You traced the gesture in the air, slowly, like casting a spell. "You said: âGod would forgive me if I only did it once.'"
"Enough."
But you weren finished. Your tone turned gentle, almost pitying. "And then you kissed me. Softly, like you were afraid Iâd die from it."
The brush met the canvas again. Quiet strokes. "But you didnât stop, did you? Not when I touched you back. Not when you pushed me into the bed. Not when you whispered His name as youâ"
"I said enough." Coulmierâs voice cracked, his jaw clenched.
A silence, almost religious followed.
You finally looked at him. "You kissed like a man drowning. You held me like you believed it would save you. And when it was overâŠ" You leaned forward, your voice sharpening. âYou cried. And then you called it sin.â
"I forgave you. But you didnât forgive me, did you? You vanished. Denied it. Denied me. And now you walk these halls with your silence and your guilt like they're holy relics."
You stood, slow and deliberate, paint staining your fingertips like blood. "You can call it madness if it helps you sleep, François,â you whispered, stepping close enough that your breath mingled. âBut I remember how your hands trembled when you touched me. I remember your voice when you begged me not to stop. And I remember..." your lips curled into a faint, broken smile, "How you tasted. Like wine. Like blood. Like someone who prayed too hard and still ended up damned."
You reached out, slowly, deliberately, and brushed a thumb along Coulmierâs collar, hoping he would give in, hoping he would finally renounced to the walls he built for himself.
"Tell me to stop" You murmured. "And I will."
But Coulmier said nothing. He couldnât. His hands remained clenched at his sides, white-knuckled. His breath shallow. And his silence spoke louder than a confession.
"You think Iâm still that frightened boy from seminary." the Abbe said through clenched teeth, suddenly grabbing you by the wrist and leading you into the shadows of the stairwell. "But Iâve spent years burying that part of me. I buried it so deepâ"
Coulmier spun, slamming you against the stone wall, the echo of impact swallowed by silence. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, but he didnât squeeze. He was shaking.
"You donât understand what youâre doing to me."
You tilted your head, lips parted in mock confusion. "Then tell me. Reprimand me, if it will help."
"Youâre not the boy I knew." Coulmier whispered, voice raw. "Youâre cruel now. You say things only to hurt me."
"I say them," you said, softer now, "because theyâre true. Because no one else will speak to the man you are. Not the priest. Not the caretaker. You."
You stepped forward until your foreheads nearly touched.
"You want to punish me?" you whispered. "Then do it, hit me, curse me, shove me away. But stop pretending you donât want to kiss me again."
Coulmierâs hand trembled against your chest. "You are madness."
Your lips brushed against his cheek, just below the eye. A ghost of a kiss. "Then drown with me."
And just like that, the dam broke.
Your mouths met with the fury of a thousand denied prayers. It wasnât gentle. It wasnât sweet. It was painful. It was teeth and breath and trembling desperation. Your back hit the wall again, but this time you welcomed it, pulling Coulmier closer by the waist, moaning into the kiss like a man starved.
"No." Coulmier breathed, shaking his head. "Not if it means losing you again...and wander alone in these empty corridors..."
For a moment, everything stilled, just breath, just closeness, just truth.
You breathed, your heart racing in excitementâThen let me ruin you." You whispered.
Coulmier's lips parted in a desperate prayer but instead of words, he kissed you again, sinking to the steps with you, hands threading through your hair, tugging, trembling. Your torn cassocks tangled together like shadows in the dust.
And the Church, the world, the law, none of it mattered. Because in this this moment. Only this shared madness and madening love mattered
