#flamenco dancer

Flamenco Dancer by J.C. Arter

(via DEVILISH INCARNA - Pulp International)

Pomifiore with a flamenco dancer s/o

Vil Schoenheit

The lights are low in the auditorium, but a single spotlight follows your every move as your heels strike the stage with rhythmic force. The shawl you wear flows like flame, every twist of your body controlled, powerful. You’re performing for the school’s little fundraiser showcase, and the coins clink into the box at your feet with each dramatic pause.

Vil watches from the first row, arms crossed, expression unreadable,until the performance ends.

When the crowd claps, he rises slowly, walking backstage with practiced elegance.

“You’ve improved your balance,” he says without preamble. His eyes meet yours with that usual intensity. “The precision in your wrist flicks,it was captivating. But your posture during the zapateado was off by exactly two degrees. Fix that.”

You’re used to his critiques, but then he does something rare: he reaches out and adjusts your posture with his hands, gently, guiding your spine with his fingertips. His voice softens.

“Still... I couldn’t look away. You’re stunning when you dance.”

You feel warmth bloom in your chest. Vil may strive for perfection, but you’ve found he treasures raw passion too,especially when it’s yours.

Rook Hunt

The courtyard is bathed in golden afternoon light, warm and honeyed, the perfect stage for your impromptu performance. You’ve laid down a piece of wood to protect your heels from the stone path, the castanets in your fingers clicking in perfect rhythm. Your body moves with grace and power, the sway of your hips hypnotic, your expression commanding.

Rook had promised he wouldn’t come today,he wanted to “preserve the mystery,” as he put it.

But you feel his presence before you even hear him.

When the final beat echoes and you dip into a dramatic pose, you spot the flash of his feathered hat behind the ivy-covered columns.

“Rook Hunt,” you call, turning with mock sternness, “You said you’d stay away.”

He strides toward you unabashedly, clapping slowly, his eyes gleaming with admiration. “Ma colombe ardente! You cannot expect me to resist such an irresistible performance. You are a storm of passion, a tempest in human form!”

You can’t help laughing. “You're lucky the students liked it,I made enough to afford actual lunch.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper. “Forget lunch. I would pay a hundred coins just to witness your dance again. No stage, no crowd. Just us.”

You tilt your head. “You like watching me that much?"

“Mais oui. It is the raw truth in your movement, the soul in your song. You wear your spirit like a crown, and I—” he pauses, placing a hand over his heart dramatically, “—am but your loyal admirer. Helpless.”

You roll your eyes fondly, knowing that behind the poetry and theatrics, Rook means every word.

“I’ll let you be my private audience,” you offer, smiling. “But you bring the lunch next time.”

“Deal,” he says, already bowing low like a knight before a queen. “C’est un honneur.”

Epel Felmier

It’s nearly dusk when you find an empty classroom with a smooth wooden floor,perfect for some practice. You set up your music, lace your flamenco shoes, and start slow. The rhythm builds, and soon you’re stomping, spinning, singing under your breath. Every step echoes your strength. Every beat carries your pride.

You don’t notice Epel until you finish.

He’s standing awkwardly by the doorway, holding a bottle of apple juice and a little wrapped snack. His mouth is slightly open like he’s unsure what to say.

“That was... dang,” he mumbles finally. “That was real good.”

You grin, catching your breath. “You spying on me again?”

“I wasn’t spying!” he says quickly, cheeks red. “I was passing by, and then I saw you start dancing, and... I couldn’t look away.”

He shuffles closer, fiddling with the juice. “You looked strong. Not just pretty, but like... fierce. Like you’d knock someone out with a heel if they talked trash.”

You burst out laughing. “I have stepped on someone once.”

“I knew it!” He grins proudly like that’s the coolest thing ever. “No wonder the guys in my dorm say you’re kinda scary.”

“Scary?” you repeat, raising a brow.

“In a hot way!” he adds, panicking. “Like, badass scary!”

You laugh again, heart light. He sets down the juice and suddenly steps forward, puffing his chest out.

“Teach me?” he asks. “Just one step. I wanna be able to dance with you next time. Even if it’s just the basic stuff.”

You take his hand and guide him, showing him the footwork slowly. He messes up, almost trips, but doesn’t stop trying.

As the sun sets behind the windows, you two move awkwardly together in rhythm,a tiny, clumsy duet but one that makes you smile more than any stage performance ever has.

English is not my first language !