A/N: This is based on the Disney-songed musical version. (Not the actual Disney movie, which IIRC made Frollo an overtly villainous judge, instead of a complicatedly-villainous archdeacon?) Imagine Frollo's initial order to capture Esmeralda had been carried out – no need for him to resort to arson or to stabbing the captain of his own guard. So he comes to her cell creepy, but not yet murderous.
WARNING: sex act with coercion issues.
Soldiers had been the ones who dragged her here and locked her in, but when the door opened again, this time it was the priest. "You have been accused of witchcraft, my child."
"Witchcraft." She tossed her head. "Psh. As I explained to your soldier already, if I had any powers don't you think I'd be off living in a castle somewhere? And my people would be prosperous and happy, instead of spat upon by the rest of you."
But unlike the soldier, the priest did not smile at her. Instead he tucked his hands in his sleeves, and cleared his throat. "The charges are very grave," he said. "A glib little denial like that will not help you."
Help her? "Then tell me what will. How exactly does one go about proving that one is innocent of witchcraft?"
The priest arched eyebrows. "Do you really not know?"
Witchcraft. Until now she had not even really thought about it – about the things they did to witches. She hadn't even… It couldn't be. "You can't be serious."
"I'm afraid it is dreadfully serious." He looked her up and down – and this time his look didn't smolder; it was cold and clinical. "You won't be able to endure the questioning," he told her. "You will confess before the first day is out, and you will burn."
"But-. But I'm not a witch!"
And now he smiled. "So says every witch we have ever brought to the stake."
"But that's madness – you know, you know I'm not!"
"I know that you have ensorcelled me," he told her, oddly calm. Almost mild. "Sent impure thoughts into what had been a most pristine mind. Brought sin into this holy place." He shrugged. "I could bear witness against you myself at your trial. With my evidence you would be convicted in five minutes."
"You won't do that. You won't," she hissed, fierce. "You said you liked me! You said you wanted me to come and live with you!"
"I did. And that offer was made in all sincerity, with the utmost purity of heart. At that time, I intended none of the evil you were suspecting."
Instantly everything stood still; she understood the priest perfectly. She drew herself up and repeated: "At that time?"
"Yes. Things have changed." He took a deep shaking breath. "Now you have infected me with your wantonness. Now I want what I would not have sought before."
That look that had unnerved her on their last meeting was back. And it was worse now, much worse, because the greed was now open and the madness no longer held in check. "And what's that, exactly? What do you want?"
"I want you to lie with me," he said bluntly. "I want you to show me… everything I don't even know how to ask for. Everything that your dance promises, I want you to perform."
"But I don't want to lie with you," she said reflexively. Shuddering. "You frighten and repulse me."
He huffed. "And the stake doesn't frighten you more? You're not more repulsed by the questioning which will bring you there?"
Questioning and the stake, again. Was it just an attempt to scare? "I-… You can't do that to me," she said, with as much authority as she could muster.
"I can and I will." His voice was low and harsh, and she began to believe him. "You have already destroyed me. You have made me as… as vile as you are yourself. There is nothing left to stop me. So now I will have what I've been damned for!"
He swooped down on her suddenly, caught her by the arms. As deft as she was at fending off the grabbing of drunken admirers, this was wholly different; the horror of him froze her solid and she could not fight back. "Stop," she gasped, and turned her face away.
Her revulsion did nothing to dissuade him. "I will have it. I will have you." He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deep.
When his face pressed against her she finally began to move. "Wait – stop." With a serpentine little wriggle too fast to prevent, she freed one of her hands and rammed it against his throat. It was hard enough to make him gag.
"Stop," she said again, in the instant it took him to recover. "Stop – don't you feel it?"
"Feel it?" He could breathe again, but tangled up with her and drowning in her scent, he could not think. "Feel what?"
"Wrong," she said desperately. "Don't you feel you're on the cusp of a grave sin?"
He blinked. Laughed in her face. "The cusp? The cusp?" He had felt the lip of the abyss weeks ago. Could she not tell that he had already fallen in, body and soul?
"Yes. Listen to me-... Father." Her hand shifted to close around the cross he wore. (Why, why had he not torn it off and flung it away, into a fire. He would surely be joining it soon.). "Please listen."
"No – it's too late for words. Too late for me." He lunged forward again but this time she resisted, turning his force away masterfully, giving ground, keeping him from pressing to her any more tightly.
"No – no," she insisted, while they struggled. "I see you're determined to sin. But listen. Surely all sins aren't equal in the eyes of God?"
He hesitated. She had spoken truth to him accidentally before. "What are you saying?"
She nodded, emboldened. Relaxed her grip as he relaxed his. "You are about to steal something by force which God has forbidden you," she said more firmly. Almost severely. "You would take what should be love, and turn it to hate and defilement. Isn't that foul in God's eyes?"
Lost as he was, he would still not be judged by a creature such as this. "You have a clever, forked tongue. I can only guess where you learned to twist-"
"Shh." She put a hand to his lips - his lips - touching him with her hot sinful fingers. "Please – let me show you something. You don't have to hurt me. You don't have to sin as grievously as you imagined."
"Oh," he said against her fingers. A sigh, really - he could not speak. He stood mute and stupid, frozen, all by her sweet gentle fingers.
"Shh." She pushed him gently, and he fell back a step, two, more until there was a wall at his back.
She let go of his cross and dragged her hand down his body, down to his waist, his hip, leaving a trail of fire in her wake.
"Oh," he breathed again, and surged towards her-
"No." She moved her hands to his shoulders, holding him still. Then she skimmed down to his wrists. She pressed his arms to the wall behind him and he did not resist her. In fact he found himself spreading wider, obeying the soft pressure, until he was fully extended, like Christ on the cross.
"What are you doing?" he managed to say.
Her only answer was to lay both hands on his chest. Then they moved down – this time to his buttons. Opening them.
"Ohhh." He closed his eyes.
"Just relax." He could hear that she was moving, lowering, sinking to the floor.
"God."
She was tugging at his clothes, and he looked down to see her on her knees before him, working at his layers, near his most intimate-
God.
Her fingers brushed against him, skin on skin, and the violence of his response had him crashing his head against the wall behind him, scrabbling for grip, holding on as-
God.
She was underneath all his clothing now, her hands on his body in ways that no one had ever - not ever-
"Oh God oh God." But this was not godly, he knew, it was not, it was wrong and shameful and-
"Ah!" He shouted, shocked by a sudden hot suction. Hot and wet. He didn't understand it. He looked and saw her hair shift and good God that must be her mouth. She had put her mouth on him, he was-
He was falling apart. He tried to look away, hiding his face in his shoulder, gripping so hard at the wall that it hurt, everything hurt, he could not cope with the sensation.
"Please," he gasped. He must be dying.
Then, terrifying in its suddenness and intensity, he was cresting – dissolving. As he only ever had in dreams.
He bashed his head against the wall again, trying to hold on as the world came apart and the ground fell away. When he regained lucidity he was on the floor on his knees. Trying to breathe.
He heard soft, fast footsteps across the stone – far away already. He did not get up to follow them.
Frederic was pacing. He had seen the archdeacon go to the prisoner, muttering to himself, and send the other guards away. He could not believe what was happening in this most holy of places, but Frollo's intentions had been unmistakable.
If only Phoebus were here – surely he would have put a stop to it. Wouldn't he? Or had he disappeared to get drunk because he knew damn well how this would end and had decided not to interfere?
At last the door creaked. Before Frederic could fully steel himself to look the man in the face, knowing what he knew...
The door opened, and it was not the archdeacon at all. It was her.
She was running, whimpering, a hand pressed to her face.
And she was alone. When she saw him she froze, her eyes wide with terror and despair.
The look tore at him but he roused himself to do his duty. "Where's Frollo – what did you do to him?" He tried to accuse.
She whimpered again. Took a few steps closer, grabbed his outstretched hand, and spat a mouthful of warm slime into it.
"Jesus-!" By the time he was done wiping the vileness off on his clothes, she was gone. He didn't chase her.
His penance almost killed him. Might have, if he had not lost consciousness before he could finish. But eventually he healed, and rose from his bed to perform a mass because he didn't know how to do otherwise.
His body moved of its own volition, he mouthed the words as in a dream. It proceeded normally enough, until the time came for him to give the sacrament.
One of the first to come to him was a young woman with thick dark hair.
"Body of Christ," he said.
"Amen," she responded, but just as he reached for her, her face changed, and it was her, transubstantiated just as he placed the host on her tongue.
He froze. His fingers still in her mouth, resting on her tongue, feeling with his whole body the soft hot pressure of it.
His eyes met hers, wide and startled and it was not her, it was not, but he almost didn't believe it and almost couldn't let go.
It was black magic. Or perhaps just the blackness of his sin. But he knew that he couldn't go on.
More penance. More fasting. He fasted until he needed help from Quasimodo, who had more than enough strength to help him up, up up up and out onto a balcony. Up onto the wide stone handrailing so that he could see the city and feel the wind unobstructed.
"Master?" The poor creature finally thought to ask. "What are you doing?"
"Praying," he said truthfully. "You should go back in – I will be here a while."
"Oh. How long?"
He laughed a little. "As long as I need to."
He stood deep in prayer all night.
What finally disturbed him was the deafening clang of the bells the next morning.
And with them, the sensation – once again – of the world falling away beneath him.
The End.
Please let me know what you thought! First time writing anything for this fandom.