MOULIN ROUGE AU

[tensions]

COME WHAT MAY ( ensemble ) It's 1899. And the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

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[blessed_is_he]

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."

[harsher]

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."

[blessed_is_he]

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?"

[harsher]

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.

[blessed_is_he]

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.