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English
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Published:
2025-02-20
Completed:
2025-03-12
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2,593
Chapters:
6/6
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When You Kiss Me

Summary:

A collection of kisses.

Notes:

I saw this post weeks ago and got inspired to write wee drabbles for these two. This will be my dumping ground for those stories. 🤍

Chapter 1: …to distract

Chapter Text

“Found it!” Phoebus announces suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet of the forest. He crouches by a gnarled tree, plucking the arrow from the roots. Holding it up triumphantly, his grin is dazzling, brighter than the sunlight streaming through the canopy—in that moment, he seems to truly be living up to his name, she thinks. “Still in one piece. A miracle.”

Esmeralda steps closer, reaching for it. “Great. Now hand it over.”

He pulls it back, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” she says, exasperated but smiling. “You’re seriously holding my arrow hostage?”

“Only until you admit you need practice,” he says, twirling the arrow playfully between his fingers.

She crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. “You really want to play this game?”

His grin turns roguish, leaning in slightly. “I always win this game.”

Her eyes narrow, and then, without warning, she surges forward. He steps back instinctively, laughing as she grabs at the arrow. She’s quick, but he’s quicker, and he keeps it just out of her reach.

“Phoebus!” she protests, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Give it—”

Her words are cut off as she suddenly leaps up, her lips brushing against his cheek. The warmth of her lips lingers, a soft, tender touch that throws him off balance. His grip on the arrow slackens, and she snatches it away with a triumphant grin.

“Got it!” she declares, stepping back and twirling the arrow between her fingers in a perfect imitation of him.

Phoebus blinks, his hand still raised as if holding the arrow, and he lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You cheated.”

“Did not,” she counters, tucking the arrow behind her back. “It’s called strategy. You should know that, soldier.”

But her teasing falters when she notices the way he’s looking at her—his grin softening, gaze searching. And then, like always, she meets him halfway. His hands find her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks, and she exhales shakily, loving the way he silently asks permission before closing the space between them.

The arrow slips from her fingers, forgotten at their feet.

Chapter 2: …out of envy or jealousy

Chapter Text

The celebration is in full swing—tambourines jingle, pipes trill, and Esmeralda dances at the heart of it all. Her skirts flare with every spin, and Djali prances at her feet, twirling like a tiny, hoofed shadow. Every pair of eyes follows her—some enchanted, some enamored.

Phoebus has grown accustomed to it. Or so he tells himself.

He watches, arms crossed, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips, trying to ignore the ugly, gnawing feeling in his chest. But his amusement fades the moment a tall, thin man with flaxen hair steps forward, eyes fixed on Esmeralda with far too much interest. The man—Pierre—wandered into the Court one night, nearly got himself hanged, and is only alive because Esmeralda intervened. Ever since then, he’s hovered around her like a lost puppy with a quill.

Phoebus isn’t jealous.

Not really.

…Alright, maybe a little.

When the song ends and the musicians pause for a drink, laughter and applause erupt. Esmeralda, breathless and beaming, brushes her hair back from her damp forehead, and the poet takes his chance. He speaks, his hands fluttering dramatically. Ever gracious, Esmeralda tilts her head in polite conversation, smiling softly.

Phoebus does not like that smile. That is a smile that could encourage a man into very stupid decisions, like composing bad poetry or writing sonnets about her eyes. And he has a feeling Pierre is exactly that kind of stupid.

So Phoebus decides to be stupider.

Esmeralda barely has time to react before he is at her side, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “Excuse us,” he says, though it is hardly an apology. And before she can protest, before Pierre can say another word, he kisses her.

It is bold, deliberate. He feels her stiffen, hears her make a muffled sound of surprise against his lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she softens, melting just enough to make his heart pound, and kisses him back. When he finally releases her, she blinks up at him, dazed.

Very flatly, she asks, "You alright there, Captain?”

"Felt like it," he says with a shrug.

She snorts, pressing a hand over her mouth. "Uh-huh. And this wouldn’t have anything to do with Pierre, would it?"

"Who?"

It’s a terrible lie, and they both know it. But rather than call him out on it, Esmeralda’s attention has already shifted. She frowns, glancing past his shoulder. "Oh."

Phoebus turns.

Pierre isn’t staring after Esmeralda with longing or disappointment. He isn’t even paying attention to her anymore. Instead, he is crouched beside Djali, cooing at the little goat and scratching under her chin as she bleats happily. In his hand, he holds a small offering—what looks like a bit of apple. Djali takes it eagerly, munching away as Pierre beams, stroking her fur like she is the love of his life.

A moment of silence stretches between them before Esmeralda bursts into laughter, pressing her forehead against his chest. “He just wanted to pet Djali.”

Phoebus clears his throat, arms still wrapped around her. “Well,” he murmurs, “I regret nothing.”

She looks up at him with a smile and an arched brow. “Hmm. Me neither.”

Chapter 3: ...goodbye

Chapter Text

The sun is awake, and so the Sun God must be, too. Duty calls earlier than usual today—new recruits, more wide-eyed boys than men, with swords too big for their hands, waiting for guidance. He should already be on his way. And yet…

Phoebus sits at the edge of the bed, fastening the last buckle on his armor. His gaze drifts to Esmeralda, curled beneath the thin sheet, dark curls spilling across the pillow. Her breathing is steady, peaceful, her face relaxed in sleep. He can’t leave without a goodbye—it’s as unthinkable as leaving without his sword.

Leaning in, he brushes his lips against her forehead, catching the faintest scent of oranges and cinnamon and Djali. His stubble rasps against her cheek as he presses another kiss to the corner of her lips, barely a whisper of a touch. She stirs slightly, shifting beneath the covers, but her eyes remain closed. He smiles.

Rising, he moves toward the door, careful not to make a sound. But just as he reaches for the handle, he hears it—soft, drowsy, barely above a breath.

"Kamav tut." I love you.

A grin spreads across his face. Phoebus steps back toward the bed, just close enough to whisper, "I love you too." And he steals another small kiss for good measure.

Esmeralda makes a small sound, a contented hum, before nestling deeper into the pillows.

With that, he straightens, kisses their sleeping son Zephyr goodbye in the next room, and steps into the morning light, a little lighter, a little warmer—like the sun itself has kissed him back.

Chapter 4: ...an accident

Notes:

Had 1999 Der Glöckner in mind with this one, but if you only know the Disney movie and/or 2015 musical you should still be able to understand just fine 🤍

Chapter Text

Esmeralda tightens her grip on Phoebus' arm, mindful of his poorly bandaged shoulder. He’s bleeding again.

He sways a little as they walk, but he keeps up, flashing her a lopsided grin every now and then like he isn't one wrong step away from collapsing. Then, as if on cue, Phoebus stumbles slightly, and she catches him with a huff.

“You’re heavier than you look.”

“And you’re stronger than you look,” he murmurs. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

She ignores him, focusing instead on their path ahead. Notre-Dame isn’t far now. If she can get him there, he’ll be safe. If she can just—

They turn a corner, and Esmeralda’s stomach drops. Soldiers. Too many.

She curses under her breath and pulls him back, shoving them both into a cramped alcove between two stone buildings. It’s barely a hiding spot. If the soldiers turn their heads even slightly, they’re done for.

Phoebus, to his credit, goes silent, but Esmeralda becomes painfully aware of just how close they are. His breath is warm against her temple, his chest pressing into her back. If she thought he was hovering before, he’s practically fused to her now. She doesn’t know whether she should be grateful for the warmth or mortified by it.

She shifts, only to have his chest press against hers. He shifts, only to nearly knock his forehead against hers.

Then, in a voice that is entirely too amused for their current situation, he whispers, “Well, this is cozy.”

Esmeralda exhales sharply. Of course. Even half-dead, he’s insufferable. "Shut up," she mutters, though her voice lacks any real bite. She glares up at him, her face beginning to feel hot. Silently, she prays—prays, for only the second time in her life—that it’s too dark for him to notice.

They stay silent as the soldiers march past, the sound of heavy boots fading into the distance. Only when the street is quiet does Esmeralda dare to move, pressing a hand against Phoebus’ chest to signal that it’s safe.

They start to squeeze out of the narrow space at the same time. It’s an awkward shuffle—twisting, shifting—until suddenly, their movements align just wrong.

Their lips brush.

It’s barely a second. Maybe even less. But Esmeralda feels it like a spark, a barely-there touch that still manages to steal her breath.

They both freeze.

Then, with that half-smile that she, regrettably, is beginning to find more charming than insufferable, Phoebus murmurs, “Well, if you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

She bites back a smile. “I should’ve left you in the river.”

He laughs, wincing, though more out of drama than pain. “Ow. Love hurts.”

Esmeralda shoves past him, cheeks still burning, determined not to look back. “You’ll be hurting a lot more if we don’t keep moving. Come on, soldier boy.” She reaches back for his uninjured arm and drags him forward.

He stumbles after her, and despite the chaos, despite the danger, Esmeralda finds herself smiling. Just a little.

Chapter 5: ...for luck

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Esmeralda adjusts the last stitch on her new dress, stepping back to admire her handiwork. The fabric shimmers in the candlelight—a rich, deep red with golden embroidery. Clopin had surprised her with the material, claiming it was a “gift for his favorite dancer,” though she suspects it was also a ploy to make her dance longer at tonight’s festival. Not that she minds.

Before she can admire it further, she hears a familiar voice outside her tent.

“Eyes closed!” Phoebus announces dramatically. “We’re coming in, and we’re not peeking!”

Esmeralda laughs, turning to see her husband and their six-year-old son, Zephyr, both standing just inside the tent with their hands clamped over their eyes. Zephyr can barely contain his giggles.

“It’s safe, I promise,” Esmeralda teases. “You can look now.”

Zephyr’s eyes fly open first, wide with awe. “Mama, you look amazing!” He rushes forward, arms wrapping around her legs as he buries his face against her. Esmeralda kisses the top of his head.

Phoebus, meanwhile, gives a low whistle and an approving nod. “Stunning,” he says, before leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Though to be fair, I think you could make a potato sack look good.”

“Flatterer.”

Djali, who had been watching from her pile of blankets, lets out an enthusiastic bleat.

“Even Djali agrees!” Zephyr says, reaching down to scratch behind the goat’s ears. “That means you really look nice.”

“Thank you, my loves,” she laughs.

Esmeralda moves to the small mirror to put on her earrings. As she fastens one in place, Zephyr tugs at her skirt.

“Mama, do you ever get nervous before a performance?”

“Mhm.”

“But why? You’re the best.”

She pauses. “Because when you love something, you want to do it well,” she decides, clipping on the second earring.

Zephyr considers this for a moment before nodding solemnly. “Okay,” he says, satisfied. Then, suddenly remembering, he gasps, “I should go save us a good spot!”

He nearly trips over Djali in his hurry, and it takes everything in her not to laugh as she reaches out to help him regain his balance. “Go on then, and take Djali with you.”

Zephyr practically drags the reluctant goat toward the exit. “Come on, Djali! Hurry! Before all the good spots are gone!”

Phoebus watches their son disappear, then turns back to Esmeralda with a smile. He leans in as if to kiss her cheek—but at the last second, he tilts his head and presses a firm kiss to her lips instead.

She barely has time to react before he pulls away and whispers, “For luck.”

Esmeralda lets out a surprised laugh, then, still grinning, she catches his collar and kisses him back, this time slower, savoring it—

"Yuck.”

Phoebus pulls back with a grin, while Esmeralda covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. They find Zephyr standing at the tent flap, arms crossed, nose scrunched in pure disgust.

"Do you have to do that?"

“I think he’s developing very strong feelings about love,” Esmeralda sighs.

“He gets that from you, you know,” Phoebus says. Then, looking back at their son, he says, “You’ll understand someday.”

Zephyr rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to understand. The crowd is waiting!”

Esmeralda shakes her head and squeezes her husband’s hand one last time before they follow their son out into the night.

Notes:

Take a shot every time they laugh 😔🍻 Let them be happyyyy 💔💔

Chapter 6: ...in secret

Notes:

AU where Esmeralda took Frollo's offer and she's sneaking around with Phoebus cuz I'm obsessed with that concept 💀 More 1996-verse because Frollo is a judge :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The candlelight flickers against the stone walls, throwing uneven shadows over Esmeralda’s face. Phoebus takes her in—the missing hoops, the bare lips, the absence of kohl. It’s strange, seeing her like this. She isn’t any less beautiful, but she looks… muted. Like someone turned down her fire.

It shouldn’t be like this. He should be able to see her in the open, to take her hand without fear of who might be watching. But instead, they meet in stolen moments, hidden corners of the cathedral, under the pretense of faith. The archdeacon is already risking much to help them.

He leans against the stone archway, arms crossed. “You’re quiet,” he says. “That’s new.”

She exhales a breath of something that might’ve been a laugh if things were different. “And you’re early.”

“I had to beat Frollo somehow,” he jokes, though the words taste bitter the second they leave his mouth.

Her expression doesn’t change, but he can tell she caught it. She always does.

He steps forward and kneels before her, fingers twitching before he lets himself touch her hand. Just a small thing—his thumb brushing over her knuckles. She’s warm. She’s here. She’s alive.

“Has he hurt you?” His voice is quieter now.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at him, searching for something, maybe debating what to say. That’s answer enough.

He tamps down the urge to punch a wall—or Frollo. Dragging her out of here isn’t an option, not yet. But God, he wants to.

“I hate this,” he mutters. "I hate—"

She kisses him. Because talking won’t change anything, and neither of them have the right words anyway.

Her hands grip his shirt, holding him like she’s afraid he’ll slip through her fingers, and maybe she should be—every meeting feels like it could be their last. He kisses her as if he can steal her back with it.

When they part, she leans her forehead against his, eyes closed. “I should go,” she whispers, though she makes no move to leave.

Phoebus exhales sharply. “Just once, I’d like you to say, ‘Let’s run away together, Phoebus. Right now.’”

She snorts. “And where exactly would we go?”

“I don’t know. Away. Maybe somewhere with fewer bells.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling again, and it’s enough for now.

Notes:

Thanks for being here 🤍