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REV 22:20	By : sashaphillips Category: +G through L > Hunchback of Notre-Dame, The (Disney) > Hunchback of Notre-Dame, The (Disney) Views: 8549 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the cartoons of Disney Studios, nor any of the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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REV 22:20

__________________________

(Cross myself three times to keep the demons away.

But I crossed myself four times today.)

Minister Claude Frollo excused himself to his quarters, the crimson ribbon on his gaudy hat fluttering nervously in the cathedral’s chill. He was breathing heavily, the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead were like little pools; he killed them with a sweep of his sleeve. He had won, as he often did. He had seized the gypsy witch, Esmeralda, and he should have been heaving a sigh of satisfaction. After that sigh, that feeling of completion, Minister Frollo usually forgot the captive. Gone like the common cold or a dead rat or a bad winter spell, until said captive’s execution day, upon which the minister would carry out the sentence and then forget once more.

A simple sigh should have been uttered after Esmeralda’s capture. Yet Minister Frollo was still mopping his forehead, and a deep, sunken feeling was forming in the pit of his stomach as though he had not eaten in weeks.

The Festival of Fools usually invoked the same reactions from Frollo: pity, disgust, boredom. But today had been different somehow-- today he had experienced another feeling, something far more serious, far more tangible.

‘It’s nothing, nothing,’ he assured himself plainly. He was a man of logic, not emotion. So, he could not be feeling--

‘No!’ he interrupted himself, not wanting to even say the word in his mind, but he knew it was there and knew it always had been. Even on the night when he pursued Quasimodo’s unfortunate mother, it had been there.

Lust.

Frollo drew a sharp intake of breath and looked down at his hands. The felsh of his palms felt warm, burning, alive, and he realised with a cringe that he had not moved his fingers since gripping Esmeralda in the chapel. His fingers were immobilized as though cursed. ‘I would go back right this moment if I knew her wherabouts-- I would--’ he stomped his foot miserably and as though they were covered in some thick, nasty substance, he rubbed his hands against his knees in a mad fashion. ‘Wipe it away, why won’t she come off, wipe it away, oh, wipe it away, please.’

It had been exciting today, and that was uncommon. Seeing dear Quasimodo learn his lesson, that had been a real treat. But the best part, even better than a successful capture, was when Esmeralda had nearly crawled into Frollo’s lap. He could have almost tasted her, she was so close. Her lips were poised to meet his. He was both repulsed and eager all at once. She was so ugly she was gorgeous and she was so beautiful that she was a total disgust. He could not shake the image of her wrapping herself around a pole, like the snake that tempted Eve. Or maybe she was Eve.

Frollo couldn’t tell.

But if she was Eve, she could use saving, couldn’t she? It was a definite truth that all women needed saving-- they were weak and unfortunate creatures-- and Esmeralda could be no different.

He stopped trying to purge himself of her, and considered telling the arch deacon that he, Frollo, could save Esmeralda, that she would be his charge! It was brilliant, but not flawless. The old idiot would question his intentions, that was certain. ‘Snooping old goat,’ sneered the minister unhappily.

If it wouldn’t have been for the archdeacon, Frollo could have put Quasimodo’s mother to good use. He could have saved her body, if not her soul. Through him, she could have met with virtue, with God. But the arch deacon had to spoil all of Frollo’s worthy plans.

But Esmeralda was not dead. This was an entirely different idea. If she was willing, Frollo could teach her what it meant to be pure and holy.

‘That is not why you want her as your charge--’ he cut in, gritting his teeth. The little pools were returning, his legs were quaking violently. ‘You want her here... in your quarters, to pleasure you.’ Frollo let out a small cry of protest to these terrible thoughts, and fell to his knees, hitting the ground hard. He was supposed to be saved and not think like this anymore. He had been taken from Hell long ago, and had been living under God so

‘Why isn’t God protecting me?’

He pulled out his cross and tried to pray, but previous utterances were devouring his attempts.

‘”What are you doing?”’

‘”I was imagining a noose tied around your beautiful neck.”’

‘”I know what you were imagining!”’

Oh God. Was she correct? Had she known? Had the Devil told her, whispered in her ear to utter that defiant phrase!?

Or had she felt his hardening groin pressed against her backside?

And what had he been imagining?

He did not even try to stop himself from remembering this.

(The smell of Esmeralda’s hair was like something unnaturally natural, like a flower kept in the dark, like foreign spices, like everything terrible and good all in one, and wouldn’t I like to touch it, why-- yes, I would, something tells me this bad little witch knows her way about the bed, and wouldn’t I be honored to salvage her spirit for just one fuck, one precious, dark, disgusting fuck to teach her who runs this city, not gypsies, heathens, or bystanders, not God, no,

Judge Claude Frollo

and he runs you, too, sweet, feel how he pushes, presses, molds hands, undresses, it’s been a fair bit of time but I’m sure just one fuck would do nicely.)

‘”I know what you were imagining.”’

Not nooses, excecutions, faith or justice.

‘“Mmm, what’a clever witch...”’

Biting his lip-- almost wishing to draw blood to delay his next actions-- the Minister pulled out of his cloak the scarf that Esmeralda had bestowed upon him at the Festival. It was plain purple and yellow with some sort of simple design, but it hardly mattered what was on it. It was hers, or had been, and it was full of her smell. His heart was pounding viciously as he seized the cloth in one sweaty hand and slowly let it enter underneath his robes.

“Nmmph, deliver us not into temptation-- God, God!” Frollo mumbled incoherently, the gypsy’s scarf traveling up his leg, tickling his thigh. He could see her grinning face, and her perfectly formed body before him. He could smell her earthy, thick locks. He could nearly feel her, her knees poised and her mouth nearly touching his. He imagined her riding him, straddling him, stunning him, carrying him into Hell-fire. ‘And would I go willingly? Would I go!?’ His member hardened, fully aroused, his hand moving in a furious motion.

‘”Justice!”’

‘”I know what you were imagining!”’

(if you know and I know, then why not?)

“Maria, Maria--”

Except, now finished with Esmeralda’s scarf, tears clinging onto his eyes like sad rivers, the only prayer Frollo could think to utter was one completely which was completely ironic. Spent, he lowered his head to the floor and crushed his trembling hands into a prayer.

“He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen.”

Instead of a satisfied sigh, Frollo gave a determined moan and then shoved his finger in his throat, heaving bile all over the floor.

-fin-
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REV 22:20