fuguestates | MOULIN ROUGE AU

A vision waits behind a closed door.

Soft, quiet, serene - the absolute picture of desire, as still and calm as a statue, a moment frozen still in clear amber. There is not a hint of impatience or anxiety, every fold and ruffle of diaphanous cloth arranged exactly so.

Satine kneels, awaiting his lover's arrival, stocking-clad legs bent and splayed slightly on the bed, long hair twisted together in an elaborate chignon, pinned with dangling sapphires and pearls, revealing a slender neck wrapped in delicate silver chains arranged in a careful web, a few strands disappearing beneath a low, ruffled neckline (a careful arrangement to both emphasize and disguise a lack) edged in lace. He is not so much wearing clothes as artfully covered, a few near-translucent layers draped over a brocaded corset of white and blue, a flared skirt with a hem stopping just short of the tops of his stockings, revealing the ribbons of his garters peeking out, a pair along his inner thighs, and another set stretched over the curve of his backside, all held taut by the white lace belt at his waist, hidden under the skirt.

There is a box on the bed, placed like a gift, awaiting a knowing eye and an expert hand, akin to the additional accessories of a child's doll.

Time ticks away, well past the appointed hour, but Satine doesn't move at all, doesn't even glance at the clock, simply settles, head bowed very slightly, awaiting his intended visitor.

Stiva does not make empty threats. He does everything he says he’s going to do to her, every time: every agony and every pleasure. Because this is the kind of man he is, the kind of man who takes the things he loves and rips them apart to their very core, the kind of man who pins things down with his body and makes them his over and over. Stiva is the kind of man who takes what he wants, who thinks of life and of the people in it as nothing more than things to dominate.

Usually, he doesn't care if he even likes the things he comes to possess. He doesn't really care. It's not the point. But, he does like Satine. Quite a lot, in fact. He likes how very special she is, and how she seems drawn to him despite everything. He likes it when she dances, twirling about in her sequins and silk. And he likes how pretty she looks when he makes her cry, how she's desperate to please him every time.

But what he doesn't like is how slippery she can be, how she thinks she can sneak things by him. He owns all of her. And that includes her secrets. The fact that she thinks there could possibly be any part of her that she can keep for herself or for anyone else is...annoying.

Stiva walks in to the familiar dressing room, tossing off his tailored jacket carelessly, letting it fall over the back of a tufted chair. He sees Satine, (his beautiful diamond, his most prized possession) there but barely acknowledges her, only glances over her before looking back down as he undoes his cufflinks and the top most buttons of his shirt. After a few moments, he says, "So, it looks like you do in fact know how to keep your appointments. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten what your priorities are."

He finally looks at her and he does so as if he wants to get inside her skin, deep in her bones, like he’s about to drive her into the ground just to see if anything walks away alive.

He'd known, when the owner of the house had told him who was waiting, who had reserved him for the night, that this would happen. That the fact that he sometimes had other customers, other commitments, moments in his life that didn't revolve around this particular man, would become a source of contention, an unnecessary trigger to the darker appetites that were so often exercised on his own body and person.

He was prepared for that. Even anticipated that, to some degree, the bright, burning pain of lust, that unspoken, snarling hunger, stemming from possession and dominance.

"I've missed you, monsieur," he murmurs in response, blue eyes open and clear as he tilts his head, meeting that dark gaze head-on, tone guileless and genuine, not soft or cringing, seemingly without any ulterior motive whatsoever.

His laugh is sour and dark. "I'm sure that works on all your other victims," he says, his voice a sharp snap of judgement. His own eyes crawl over Satine's body, drinking in the sight of her sitting so demure, so alluring. A little serpent underneath the blooming flowers.

"But if you really did miss me, I doubt you would have been so careless as to forget to see me last night."

Stiva bends a knee upon the bed, slides his fingers through the intricate lines of Satine's necklaces, letting the silver strands lace around his hand before he tenses his knuckles, curling them into a fist and jerks the courtesan forward. "Or were you trying to test me, mon chérie?"

He gasps softly, just barely catching himself with his core strength alone, turning the half-expected pull and subsequent fall into an almost graceful motion, halting in mid-air in a seemingly effortless balance while still gazing into the Duke's eyes. "You know, monsieur, that my time is almost never my own here," he replies, without missing a beat. Not while he was still employed by this house, by the demands and strictures of a parade of customers, by a strict and grasping owner.

"No matter how much I may prefer specific company."

He hums, pleased, and his hand loosens to explore, sliding up Satine's neck to her lovely jaw, his thumb sliding over the plush of her lips, watching how they part for him.

"How sweet you can be when you want to," he murmurs, contemplative as he slowly forces his thumb into her mouth, forcing her to accommodate him.

"It doesn't matter what your other demands might be here," he continues, pressing down on her tongue as if to keep it in check. "I own you, Satine. Every part of you. Your time included. This whole gaudy establishment is mine, don't you remember? You live to please me. Are we clear?"

He nods slightly, his long eyelashes sweeping briefly closed as his mouth falls open, slack and obedient for the demanding press of his hand, tongue still and quiet, save for a soft moan of pleasure in the back of his throat. There's a helpless, satisfied part of him that can't help but enjoy this treatment, this clear evidence of desire and possession, brilliant jewels matched by equally bright bruises pressed into pale skin, limned in all the varying shades of red: cloth, rubies, and blood all mingled together.

"For as long as you want me," he whispers, voice clear despite the restriction, still meeting his gaze head on.

He removes his hand slowly and replaces it with his mouth, kissing the courtesan he has come to obsess over lately so deeply, so harshly. He keeps a grip on her fine jaw, squeezing against the hinge of it to force her to keep it open.

"And what of your want for me?" He says, softly, not gently, as he pulls back and observes her. Expectant.

He shudders against the grip on his jaw, so close to his long, slender neck, but it is not quite fear and completely devoid of revulsion. There is a bright, unmistakable anticipation in his gaze as he meets those dark eyes directly, his mouth forced open by a strong, demanding hand.

"Please," he murmurs, but there is a snap of fire, even of challenge, "allow me to show you, monsieur."

He sighs as if he were bored, his touch gentling for just a moment. He swipes a slow fingertip across the courtesan's kiss-swollen bottom lip, admiring the way whatever gloss was once there is now smeared to reveal the real pink of skin beneath.

"Go on, then."

He purses his lips, presses the lightest kiss against that roving fingertip. Then he pulls back - just enough to ease the hidden burning of muscles tensed against his own weight and the inexorable pull of gravity - and then adjusts himself, kneeling with legs spread wide before he bends even lower, lips parted with anticipation, still elegant despite the messy smears of color painted over smooth skin. At the last moment, he shifts, pressing his cheek against the front of his finely tailored slacks, and inhaling deeply. The gesture feels almost reverential, the gravity of worship in every graceful movement.

"Please, monsieur," he whispers, begs, breath hot and already almost panting with desire. "May I please have your cock?"

Stiva's never really been in love but this might be the closest he's ever gotten.

"Just look at you," he growls, clearly pleased, sliding on hand through Satine's hair and down her pale back as she positions herself so. "Such a good girl for me when you want to be."

He plucks at the string of her panties playfully, listening to it snap against her skin. "Well? What are you waiting for?" Put on a show for me.

He nods immediately, a bright flush of color suffusing his cheeks, outshining the already ruined makeup, and turns his head, open mouth pressed against the expensive material, a low groan of desperation in the back of his throat. He brings his hands forward - for balance and support - but also a strategic position for undoing the buttons that held his trousers together. He gazes up, tilting his head back to gauge his expression, his receptiveness to further contact.

"May I?" He repeats, eyes bright with anticipation and hunger, kiss-smeared lips lending an air of lewd desperation to his appearance. Without waiting for an answer, he reaches for the lowest buttons, long fingers deft and skilled, careful but hurried as he searches out his granted prize.

The Moulin Rouge was a sumptuous feast for every sense, but Joshua was, unfortunately, in no state of mind to enjoy it properly. At the very least, he was dressed the part of a patron, in a carefully tailored and painstakingly pressed three-piece suit, a restored hand-me-down from a wealthier acquaintance back home, and surrounded by his friends, all dressed in their very best, to better suit this playground, plying him with glass after glass of alcohol in an attempt to cheer him up. After a few drinks, he had loosened up enough to laugh and joke a bit, but beneath the levity and cheer was a deep abiding anxiety: that he would never manage to amount to anything, that all his lofty (and not so lofty) dreams of becoming a proper writer, a playwright, a poet, would come to naught.

It hadn't all been bad news; the publishers he'd met with had been kind and complimentary enough, even if they'd declined to hire him, had even suggested that he meet with a producer, that some of his work might be better adapted into a play or show, rather than a serialized work.

All very well and good, but Joshua had no contacts, no connections to that world either, and in the end it seemed his dream would be slipping away from him again.

He sighs for a moment over his nearly empty glass, and it takes him some time to register the wide, excited grins on the faces of his companions and friends, who had been so sympathetic and indulgent of his pouring out his woes, and he swallows, trying to shake off the feeling of hopelessness and smile, playing along with the oddly jovial mood that had settled over them.

"You're in luck, my friend," one of them declares dramatically, raising up a glass and knocking it against Joshua's - fortunately there wasn't much liquid left inside, so nothing spilled. "We caught word that one of the finest beauties this establishment has to offer has somehow gone unclaimed for the night after the performance! So we all pooled our funds and came up with enough for you to enjoy yourself for an hour or two! Get your mind off of things, find a new muse! You won't find your new work in an empty glass, you know!"

"We'll all stay for the show," another friend declares, draping an arm around Joshua and grinning at him, "and then we'll leave you be. Don't waste our generosity! You know we all expect great things out of you!"

He can't help but be touched by their care for him, and does his best to play along, buying the next round of drinks after a brief calculation, and jokes along with them as he takes his seat before the show begins, obedient to their well-meaning suggestions to take his mind off his minor troubles.

Then the curtain opens, and he forgets everything else.

Edited 2022-11-17 04:35 (UTC)

The French are glad to die for love.
They delight in fighting duels.
But I prefer a man who lives
and gives expensive jewels.

The song starts and he descends from above the audience on a silver swing alongside an overabundance of glittering confetti. He's dressed extravagantly in a tight, bejeweled corset around his already tiny waist (but it cups right underneath his chest, leaving it bare except for the two small rings piercing through his dusky nipples), thigh high tights and garters, and little heels. Large ostrich feathers extend out from his hips, giving the impression of a dress. They flutter and swing and bounce as he spins slowly down while singing the opening number with ease, having done it already so many nights in a row.

"Our sparkling diamond," he hears the announcer say, introducing him properly. The entire room goes utterly silent, entranced as he steps onto the stage. Alecto nearly purrs: this part is always his favorite, the unwavering attention, thousands of eyes and hearts hungering just for him, for this fantasy he delivers.

So he saunters and dances and teases, leads the whole company to move together as one, singing the familiar lines to chorus: Diamonds are a girl's best, best friend. They laugh together, tease the gloved hands of their richest patrons reaching to tuck gifts - paper bills, jewelry, flowers - into their hands or the straps of their underwear. Alecto allows them to drool, to lust, to dare to dream they could have him. But he knows the truth: his love is for sale. It goes only to the highest bidder.

And indeed there is one here tonight.

Alecto's steps are purposefully dainty as he glides over to a young man with hair as blonde as the morning sun. "I believe I'm yours tonight, Mr. Archer," he says, his voice light and gravely, offering his manicured hand forward in greeting, fluttering his fingers. "Charmed, I'm sure."

He blinks in something akin to awe, standing politely from his chair before closing both his hands around the proffered one as if taking hold of something precious and fragile, and bends in a bow to kiss the back, warm without being obsequious or unbecoming. He was expert enough in formal manners and graces, enough to blend in far above his station; when he happened to be dressed the part, it was nearly impossible to discern his true circumstances, dwelling in a drafty garret on the meager allowance brought in by selling sensationalist bits of writing on commission. There were good and bad weeks - writing as an income was never stable - but he was careful, and frugal, and self-possessed, seldom giving in to whim or indulgence, even when he could manage it, unused to softness or kindness from himself, when what he was used to was ruthless and unyielding discipline.

But discipline was something that seemed utterly antithetical to this current moment.

"I'm afraid the rest of your adoring public is far less so," he replies, keeping his fingers curled around the hand resting in his palm. "But I hope not to disappoint." He tilts his head with a confidence he has never felt, but has learned to pretend to, "Is there somewhere private where I can become better acquainted with you?"

His smile is perfect and unmoving on his face as he laces their fingers together. The crowd around them coos with jealousy and Alecto laughs. "Oh, I'm sure you'll surprise me, Mr. Archer. Your friends have told me quite a lot about you."

He leads the way, sauntering towards a suite at the very top, where they can barely hear the music below. "They say you made your fortune with your craft. You're a talented writer, no?"

The door opens to an elaborate room filled with candles and sumptuous rugs and draped silk. It was a cacophony of color and pattern and scent, one that Alecto - the true chameleon that he was here at the Moulin Rouge - could easily manipulate and transform against. Here, in this room, he could take the shape of any number of dreams and desires, for any range of tastes and expectations.

"Wait here just a moment, handsome," he says, tongue curling around the syllables, his hand pressing delicately but insistently against Josh's chest. "Let me slip into something a little more chic." He presses down, eyeing the armchair behind the man. "Sit."

Alecto disappears behind a trifold screen near the large bed with its elaborate heart-shaped headboard, his shadow a deliberate tease as it's cast long and slender across the ground. When he reappears, he's wearing a black, lacey number and a short translucent robe. "Much better, wouldn't you say?"

A brief shadow flickers across his face at his words - was that what they had said? - but it clears up back into a more acceptable genteel calm. As he follows the beautiful courtesan up the stairs, he can feel anticipation and desire crowding out the darker, more pedestrian emotions he'd come in with, of inadequacy and failure and workaday anxiety.

Why shouldn't he indulge, just briefly? He wasn't truly Joshua Archer here within these walls, for the next two hours, wasn't a not-quite-starving, recognized but far from successful writer, who had a knack for making friends, but not customers or patrons.

He sits down obediently, takes a deep breath, inhaling the seemingly otherworldly scents of his surroundings, that feeling of truly being transported somewhere different. It was their stock in trade here at the Moulin Rouge, as so many things in this world were, everything carefully gilded and sparkling, a feast for the eyes and all other senses, so long as you didn't get too close, for too long.

He watches the shadows move on the ground, and feels a word drop into place in his mind like a wound, something to build around, layers of nacre spilled over and over.

"It seems a bit like gilding the lily," he replies, his gaze trailing up from stockinged legs and a trim waist, a plunging neckline and those dark, knowing eyes. He pushes himself up to his feet, takes a slow, deliberate step forward.

MOULIN ROUGE AU

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