PART 3 - Phoebus has a crush
anonymous
January 23 2011, 09:05:26 UTC
Esmeralda dances, and it is the most beautiful thing Phoebus has ever seen.
She dances with such grace, such vitality, not simply following steps but living the dance, and loving every second of it. Her eyes are sparkling, her hair falling in an ink-black cloud around her face, her every movement an exercise in loveliness. Even the skirt of her dress is lovely, flaring and draping almost as fast as she moves, so that it may as well be a part of her body itself.
Phoebus appreciates a beautiful woman, and she certainly is a fine example of one - but there is something in her he has never seen before, a certain spark, a brand of spirit and liveliness. The curve of her hips draws him in, but the look on her face is what leaves him there, not wanting to look away. He has seen many lovely women, French or gypsies or otherwise, but never one quite like her.
Every move she makes is an invitation, an open offer; not for carnal pleasure, but simply to join her, to get up and join his movements with hers in the dance. And he wants to, he wants to leap onto the stage and throw himself into it, to feel the joy that she does, to share that feeling with her as it burns in them both. It doesn't matter that he's here in an official position, that he would be ruining the show, that Frollo would have his head on a plate for it. All that matters is her.
Phoebus's fingers dig into his fists as he watches Esmeralda, and in his mind, he dances with her.
She dances with such grace, such vitality, not simply following steps but living the dance, and loving every second of it. Her eyes are sparkling, her hair falling in an ink-black cloud around her face, her every movement an exercise in loveliness. Even the skirt of her dress is lovely, flaring and draping almost as fast as she moves, so that it may as well be a part of her body itself.
Phoebus appreciates a beautiful woman, and she certainly is a fine example of one - but there is something in her he has never seen before, a certain spark, a brand of spirit and liveliness. The curve of her hips draws him in, but the look on her face is what leaves him there, not wanting to look away. He has seen many lovely women, French or gypsies or otherwise, but never one quite like her.
Every move she makes is an invitation, an open offer; not for carnal pleasure, but simply to join her, to get up and join his movements with hers in the dance. And he wants to, he wants to leap onto the stage and throw himself into it, to feel the joy that she does, to share that feeling with her as it burns in them both. It doesn't matter that he's here in an official position, that he would be ruining the show, that Frollo would have his head on a plate for it. All that matters is her.
Phoebus's fingers dig into his fists as he watches Esmeralda, and in his mind, he dances with her.
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