I always imagine Quasimodo like the one from the Disney movie. So this is going to be movie verse. Slash, naturally. As it is in my nature to write such things. Be warned, I think it's sort of dark.

Crave/ by Nasty Quasimodo

Each night as the sun sunk below the horizon of Paris, a man stared from the tower in which he lived, his arms folded on the cold stone ledge as the setting of the sun was reflected in his eyes. The enchanting hues of ochers and pinks, the palest of yellows embellishing the fortuitous eyes glancing up to the sky in Paris. And when the nocturne flourished into inky splendor, the loneliness washed over a poor disfigured spirit, both emotionally and physically crippled.

A shock of ginger hair fell softly and limply over an surfeit eye socket with the deepest of greens painted inside it, and a tetrahedron nose stood stark besides a disfiguring wart over the left eye. All in all, the face was as hideous as one could imagine, in the shape of a upturned triangle, the chin scarcely jutting from a nonexistent neckline. The large hairy arms folded over the ledge held the abhorrent face in a cradled gesture, and an eerie gloom fell over the piteous creature as his hump rose and fell with each breath, the misshapen chest following suit.

Long he stared out into the abysmal abyss, searching for answers that were not there. No love, no support. Even the caress of a woman was foreign to him. Only the cool, feminine fingers of his master had ever dared to touch him so bolding. To cup his chin in his hand, to stroke what need not be spoken. Prone to the amorous wave of sweeping devotion, he would take it steadily, savoring what was not to be.

Almost like a flame licking his hump, he could feel his master's presence as strong and mysterious as a wolf howling at the full, yellow moon. Each step of the robed figure's pointed shoes could be heard with a resounding clack, the steps drawing nearer and nearer until there was a halt and the cool feel of a hand snaking on the severely sloped shoulder that was Quasimodo's.

"I know what you desire, my boy," said the voice smoothly, emotionless in its delivery. Indeed, the master always knew what his slave wanted. "But it is beyond your grasp," he whispered into the boy's ear.

Quasimodo did not deign to turn from his place, he only straightened himself and stiffened, all too knowing of what was beyond his grasp. "I know, Master," he whispered in reply.

A dark chuckle was followed by a reminding afterthought. "You belong to me," he said, running his fingers through Quasimodo's hair. "No one else can see you. Hear you."

"Feel you," he hissed as he raked a taloned finger up the wayward spine. "A slave in a place of sanctuary. Ironic, isn't it?"

A response was unknown to the boy, and yet it was on the tip of his tongue to say.