#fresme

Remember this SA scene? Total loss of control. I took inspiration from this Canon scene to write a non-romantic(!), psychological horror take on a "Fresme"-Scenario. I've tried to translate the characters and their dynamics from the Disney movie into a 90s setting. Call it a Catholic Highschool AU from "The Hunchback of Notre Dame". The story is set in 1996 Paris.

Tw: sexual tension (nothing explicit), power imbalance and abuse

My Ao3 fanfic:

https://share.google/l1z1T53xgyMcGz3gL

Chapter 7: La Libérte or Quid pro Quo

After fifteen agonizingly boring minutes, Esmeralda felt like her head was about to split open.

Durandeau droned on and on and on in front of the chalkboard. He simply wouldn't stop. Fleur was writing diligently; Sara was trying her best to do the same.

Esmeralda played with her hair, but a completely different urge took hold of her in this wasteland.

Without anyone noticing, she slipped her hand down her thigh and slid it up into the pocket of her denim skirt, feeling through the fabric.

Something tiny: a long, soft cylinder, and right next to it, something larger and made of hard plastic.

Just one. Please.

Esmeralda turned to Sara.

"Going to the bathroom."

Sara nodded mechanically, continuing to write. "Watch out."

"Heh. Always do."

Esmeralda stood up and slipped past the desks.

Fleur shot her a venomous glare, which Esmeralda ignored with a dismissive scoff before stepping out of the stifling classroom and into the empty hallway.

Maybe this is freedom: fresh air, she thought cynically.

As her heels clattered against the floor beneath her, she looked around for her buddy. There was no sign of Clopin anywhere. He was probably outside.

The halls were completely deserted anyway. School hours.

Esmeralda pulled the cigarette out just to feel the soft texture in her fingers. After that nightmare, she had truly earned this.

Arriving in front of the notorious girls' restroom, she paused.

It was as if the long-skirted, faceless girl on the grey metal plate, held her back.

Hmm, better not in here.

She kept walking, turning the next corner.

Looking right and left, then down at her open palm.

The best thing you could enjoy in this school:

a Gauloises Blondes cigarette.

In appearance and flavor, it was just like an American Marlboro, with one key difference: a tiny winged helmet was stamped onto it.

The Box was blue, not red. Students from normal or lower wage families were buying this from their pocket money: 18 Francs for 20 cigs.

A pretty expensive dream.

Successfully bummed this morning from a nice gentleman at a buraliste.

Authentically French: highly combustible, just like the men.

A sunny smirk spread across her face, chasing away all bad thoughts.

She had really, really earned this.

Esmeralda lifted the cigarette, about to pop it into her mouth.

But then, a cold draft brushed against the back of her neck...

She stiffened. Her glossy lips just barely grazed the soft paper of the cigarette filter.

In that exact fraction of a second, a deathly hand clamped down on her bare shoulder, pushing on her. Fingers dug into her flesh as she was violently yanked backward.

*No..!*

She froze, paralyzed by fear. Caught.

He was there.

Instinct took over. Her hand slipped upward, clenching into a tight fist. The cigarette vanished.

Call it a Magic-trick.

When she regained full conciousness back, she found herself staring into grey, burning eyes. Pupils slashing her open.

It was the furious face of the Principal.

"Open your hand."

His voice was quiet. Again that cold draft. His breath.

He was standing too close to her—far too close.

His icy gaze seemed to ram right through her body into her soul as he leaned down further, still holding her by her shoulder.

The poor teenager, scared out of her wits, gasped for air, her chest heaving up and down.

She thrashed against his grip like a trapped animal in a snare. It was useless; his hold was hard as iron.

His fingers dug deeper into her ebony-skin. So soft...so warm to him- A painful, disgusting throbbing to her. The girl couldn't utter a word. She was paralyzed.

"I said: Open. Your. Hand." Louder this time. She didn't know if it was intentional, but when she tried to struggle, her hair jumping into all directions, the grip on her became a force pulling her ever so slightly closer. She could feel the heat of his body now...smell him... His hip twitched slightly forward as if telling her: I dare you to yell, run, tell.

That old bastard.

Esmeralda hesitated. Only for a moment. The girl was trapped. Why not show him? Slowly she guided her hand closer to him. When Claude Frollo's gaze dropped, she opened her palm: nothing but empty air.

The principal saw how that brat's lips curled upward, letting her white teeth flash in a defiant, mocking grin that screamed: "Fooled you!"

Not a single muscle in his face moved. But for some reason, his fingers loosened. The way she grinned that stupidly made him loose his compusure quicker then he thought. He threatened to go mad.

But she wouldn't win this fight.

Suddenly, Esmeralda snapped out of her trance and seized the moment. With a sharp wrench, she tore herself free from his sinewy claw.

Claude Frollo remained exactly where he was. The girl backed away.

"Where do you think you are going, if I may ask, Mademoiselle?" He was controlling himself; she could hear it in his teacher-voice.

"To the restrooms. Or do I need to file a formal application with you for that, Monsieur?"

"The restrooms are in the opposite direction, Mademoiselle."

"Apparently, I got lost."

His eyes narrowed. "Evidently."

She turned to leave, but his monotone voice made her freeze to the spot:

"You stay right here."

She glared at him. "Or what?!"

"Or you will find your remaining time here becoming exceedingly unpleasant," he hissed. "You think you are quite clever, don't you?" Now it was a low, guttural purr from deep within his throat. He pressed the pads of his fingers together. "But I possess a great deal of patience."

Esmeralda noticed the flush in his cheek. It was incredibly faint, but it was there. His eyes were glassy, darting. Up and down. Up and down. As if he were fighting himself... trying not to look.

She swallowed hard. Her skin was covered in goosebumps.

"What do you want from me...?" Esmeralda forced the words out through clenched teeth.

Silence.

Not a single sound in the hallway after this question. Even the background noises from the classrooms—the tearing of paper, the muffled speeches of teachers, the clacking of pens and rulers—everything vanished.

For a moment, it seemed as though he couldn't answer. One could see the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Only one repetition. Then he didn’t move. Turning into a statue encased in a suit again. Everything in control.

"Oh, you know exactly what I want, Mademoiselle Chantefleurie." He whispered. "You think you can parade through this institution and do as you please. You spread your poison, your entire demeanor, your vulgar behavior, these... these rule-breaking, indecent clothes..." He practically spat the word at her feet, his eyes raking up and down her form. "...contaminating innocent, pure souls. But tobacco smoke does not linger long, as you surely know better than anyone. It fades, girl. It fades."

He made a sweeping motion through the air.

"Ha! And you’re going to be the one to make it fade, huh?" Esmeralda scoffed mockingly, though her voice trembled.

"As I said: a little clairvoyant." Slowly a thin smile crept its way onto his face. "Consider it a warning, child."

"Oh, how kind of you, Chancellor. Thank you so much!"

He ignored her sarcasm, his eyes locked onto her emerald-green gaze. Something he wanted to avoid initially. Maybe Fortuna would still be on his side.

"Let us speak plainly. I have noticed lately that you are... well, how shall I put it... constantly testing the boundaries of what is appropriate in this institution. Your skirts are too short, your blouses far too revealing. In short: everything about you is unworthy."

He leaned in slightly. His voice dropped lower, and with it, grew infinitely more dangerous.

"And I cannot help but wonder, Mademoiselle 'Clairvoyant', if you comprehend, if you... forsee the exact nature of what it is you are provoking with this unruly behaviour."

"No, Monsieur le Directeur, why don't you enlighten me?" Her voice was pure, manufactured sugar.

What a mouth...

His jaw muscles tightened. His eyes did it again: that slow, deliberate, top-to-bottom sweep. A classic: those in power always look down. Appearently, some of them prefered to look lower.

"Let me forsee your future, little girl." His tone was dead-serious. Standing there like a general. "Dress code. Section 3 of the etiquette protocol being amended."

Esmeralda’s eyes widened, the color draining from her face.

"You—you can't do that in France!"

"I can do a great many things, believe me." He tilted his chin up.

While Esmeralda was trying to process this, Frollo was noticing how her thoughts drifted away for a moment, probably thinking about the way she would look in a plain boring dress.

The principal couldn't help, but bathe in that desperation radiating off from her.

Let her feel, how he was feeling, all those nights thinking about his sins, about skin, about hell, about.... Sara's future, unprotected.

Suddenly, his long arm shot forward again, his fingers brushing through her hair, right past her ear. Esmeralda’s breath hitched. She nearly shrieked.

He plucked the cigarette from her thick curls and inspected it as if it were a specimen of an insect.

Now, Esmeralda was genuinely trembling.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Claude Frollo turned the little object over, checked the brand, and nodded, as if confirming a thesis in his own mind. Cheap cigarettes for cheap girls. What a way to decorate such a...worldly identity.

As if sensing his thoughts she clenched her teeth together.

A short, sharp sound escaped his lips: almost, but not quite resembling a chuckle.

With two fingers, he held the cigarette back out to her. Like a man tossing a scrap to a street dog. It was utterly humiliating.

Equally, it was shocking: Claude Frollo handing out a cigarette, something confiscated to her.

She initially thought it was a trap, but he kept his other arm tucked firmly behind his back. No tricks.

What a patron, right?

She hated it. She hated it more than anything, but she snatched the cigarette back out of his hand. He let it go. Because both of them knew that she would never bring it to her lips now.

And there was another thing...

Plain as that: she didn’t want that old creep to have something that belonged to HER.

"Smoke your cigarette. I only pray for your sake that it will be your last. We are here to learn, after all, Mademoiselle Chantefleurie, are we not? It is only for your own good... and the good of us all. I say; Quid pro quo."

Accompanied by those words, the tall man turned on his heel to walk away.

Something made him pause briefly.

Without looking back at her, he spoke in an unusually deep, grave tone:

"One more thing. Listen to me very carefully, because I won't repeat that. If you breathe so much as a single word of what transpired here to Mademoiselle Esfahani, the consequences will be monumental. You have my word on that."

Meanwhile, in the country…

Far in the countryside, a group of Romani people had taken refuge in an abandoned home by the shore. Long blades of yellowish grass and hills sloped over the expanse. Beyond that, the Pacific glistened under the setting sun. The rays glanced off the water, showering red and gold in every direction.

When the Burning of Paris and the attempted executions had concluded, Clopin did not dawdle and immediately evacuated his people. The Court of Miracles had certainly been their sanctuary but like all things sacred, it could be corrupted. To think that his family had been building that safe haven for the last hundred years in Paris and for it to be burned in a day.

Quietly while he sat on a dune watching the sea, he cursed himself. How blind could he be? How stupid it had been to be in one place all at once? It had cost him the lives of dozens of his people. Some were confirmed dead in the chaos and many simply missing. They hadn’t had time to collect their dead before fleeing the city.

They were not given that luxury.

Clopin had changed strategies this time. Instead he had split his people into many groups and directed them to flee to all corners of the country. He would send word, once…if ever they could return to Paris, their home. Although he knew a couple of families and groups had decided to leave France in hopes of better hospitality in the other countries. While Clopin had not been out of the country, he expected that they would be met with revulsion wherever they went.

Cut out of trade. Spat at in the streets. Denied work. Beaten without mercy.

Clopin pushed those thoughts out of his mind. Complaining would do him no good. Reluctantly, he craned his neck in the direction of Paris. Even while a day away from Paris, he could still see the stacks of smoke hanging over the city.

Why didn’t she tell me…?

Why hadn’t Esmeralda trusted him to help her?

She had told no one of her entanglement with Frollo. Or his entanglement with her.

While little was known, whispers were going about. Terrible whispers. The night of the pyre had been unforgettable. What was known was that she had been taken to the Palace of Justice. To be tortured…or worse.

Clopin felt his hands tighten into fists at his sides.

Esmeralda had always been secretive all her life—not quick to unload her problems onto others.

And when she had needed his protection most…he had failed her.

A worthless excuse of a brother. A traitor. A bastard.

Clopin had been so stuck in his own business, his own emotions that he neglected those who needed it the most.

It was his fault. It had to be.

Who could have prevented the Judge from taking her?

Me.

The bellringer and the captain of the guard.

As he looked out to the waves he scoffed, why did he listen to Esmeralda and cut them down? He loved her with all his heart but it was a mistake. A huge one. He should’ve let them hang. While she was clever, she lacked the skills of picking out who and who not to trust. Quasimodo and Phoebus were such persons to not be trusted.

And they had both walked free while his people were beaten, burned and slaughtered. His sister locked away in a tower, subjected to God knows what.

Restless, he stood up from the dunes and walked towards the shore. To take his mind off the horrible thoughts, he opted to skip stones along the glassy waters instead. Yet as he swung his arm, as each stone hit the water, he could still see it…burning through his barriers. The bodies, the fires, his people…and the one stray left in Paris in the clutches of that monster. While the fates of all the others had been cemented, hers had remained uncertain.

Clopin tried to wrack his brain as if reaching across the countryside and to his sister, to know what she was thinking, feeling, seeing. All he could feel was darkness, flooding his senses, a strange foreboding feeling. A scent of death and decay…the same that lingered in Paris still.

Was she imprisoned? Tortured? Did she escape?

What is he doing with her?

That thought made his blood run cold, colder than the ocean lapping at his feet. He reached for his hat and wiped the sweat off his brow with it. He couldn’t bear it…to look behind and see the stacks of smoke again: the evidence of Frollo’s fury. It had all been for one girl: His sister.

The question, the uncertainty made his stomach turn, fold in on itself and drop into his knees. If his stomach weren’t empty, he’d surely vomit.

He remembered the moment he had been told of her whereabouts. It had been chaos. The city was burning, bits of houses were falling into the streets, set aflame, people were screaming, children crying. And amongst it all as he gathered two fellow Romani children and rushed off towards the gates…he saw her body loaded into Frollo’s carriage. At first, he thought she had died but when her eyes fluttered open briefly, he knew she was alive.

He had considered turning back, tearing through the crowd and screaming but the children in his arms kept him running forward.

Another mistake, of course.

That moment he vowed to return to the Palace of Justice: to storm it. But he had to wait and nothing was more agonizing than letting the heat die down. For there was always winter before a bright spring.

He would save her. He promised to always protect her. Marie, his wife, had assured her that she was alright, that she was a survivor—which she was.

Part of himself believed her and the other was sitting at this shore, both rageful and remorseful, tossing rocks into a bottomless ocean.

Any fresme shippers are welcomed to join! I would love to meet some fellow fresme shippers! It's mostly dedicated to the ship, fanart and fanfics but of course, is still open to general discussion about THOND.

I fear they may team up just for the sake of killing me and getting out of that room💀💀

Even as a grown ass adult I love to think of characters as alive

They just be staring at each other like this:

was I also looking for a reason for frollo to have his tongue out?

Either this idiot is gaslighting me or ragebaiting me and i don’t know which is worse: