God Sent Gypsy

Intoxication (Male Esmeralda X Reader) Part 2 (Fin)

~Author's Note: Hi, again!! So glad to see you lovely people ;)~

~Reminder: Lyuba=love/Pakvora=beautiful~

~Enjoy!~

There was a point in time when you were wary about leaving the countryside for the city, mostly because of the warnings that it was filled with demons, monsters and succubi in human form. Yet as a wing-adorned devil places a wreath upon your head before going to dance with a lobster boiling a chef, you can't help but laugh. Everything-everyone-around you is backwards-brass is treated as gold, kings are clowns, the pretty are mocked while the priests are charmed. It's complete blasphemy, but you adore it.

Acrobats tumble and leap alongside men towering in stilts as they toss handfuls of confetti down in a rainbow of flurried colors upon your grinning face. You feel the crowd begin to surge forward to the stage. There, a Romani man dressed in an ochre and purple joker's outfit melodically summons the audience's attention, a gesture that works on even Judge Claude Frollo.

Though you know he'd be here, you still stare in shock at the scowling, sharp-faced man as he sits upon his throne inside his personal tent. He's actually terrifying in person, you think, but then the man on stage is joined by the sounds of drums, fanfare, and accordions paired with lutes.

"Come one, come all!" he cries out with grandiose waves of his arms. Suddenly the crowd pushes hard in uncontainable excitement that has you stumbling blindly forward. "Hurry, hurry! Here's your chance! See the mystery and romance."

You fall into a man, yelping, but he jostles you away with a swear, sending you toppling backwards against the stage's edge. Panicked, you spin around to see the Romani grinning down at you mischievously. "Come one, come all!" he repeats, then kneeling before you in a quick, swooping motion. "See the finest boy in France make an entrance to entrance!"

He retrieves a handful of powder from his satchel and stands, his fist shaking at the skies as he commands, "Dance, Le Esmeraldo! Dance!" He throws the powder at his feet, a crimson explosion consuming the stage.

The smoke quickly dissipates, and there, rippled body seductively posed below a hand dangling a sashed tambourine, is Esmeraldo. The crowd erupts in deafening cheers, whistles, and overzealous cries that elicit a smug, narcissistic smirk from the dancer. You look around at the impassioned crowd in disbelief that so many people could be this obsessed with one man. Women shout vows of adoration alongside ecstatic clapping. The majority of men holler and whoop while some fidget uncomfortably, visibly battling with the temptation to give in to the dancer's allure. And to think you were seduced by the person causing such an uproar.

The rapid chinking of a tambourine draws your attention back to the stage where you realize Esmeraldo's staring directly at you like his mesmerized captive from behind his outstretched arm. He makes an appeased noise and his dance begins.

You watch in awe as he flicks his hip upward in time with the tambourine, the purple, coin-lined scarf around his narrow waist jingling in sharp precision. Esmeraldo dances sensually in a circle, shoulders shimmying to the exotic music, and tosses the tambourine into the crowd's groping hands before pulling out the purple and gold-starred sash from within the brim of his pants. It flutters with the sinuous wave of his arm like a coquette beckoning to a lustful suitor, except there expands hundreds of them in front of Esmeraldo, all filled with fervent delight when he begins spinning in his tight circles with his arms encircling the sash about his waist, one in front and one in back. The speed with which he spins is almost inhuman, and then the cycle is broken as he suddenly leaps five feet into the air in a flawless calypso. Even if for the rapidest of seconds, you gasp at the perfect, horizontal line created by his legs.