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.

MOULIN ROUGE AU

never seen the sky before | Stiva, Justin

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