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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-26-2011 at 07:06 PM
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Rehearsal Studio:



Quote:
Originally Posted by Mrs Nadir Khan View Post
OOC: I get to play with Toddy!! BIC:

Madeleine de Chandon

The white floor wasn’t quite as immaculate as Madeleine remembered it. New scuff marks and all that jazz. She’d have to get names or something from Myron about just who had defaced her domain since she went to the Populaire. Dumb ***** probably wore sneakers in here. Cardinal sin of dance room floors…

So, Madeleine wasn’t exactly focused right now. She was supposed to be choreographing. That was, after all, part of her job. But… Well…

Madeleine wasn’t sure. It had been years since she had been Madeleine de Chandon, Headliner of the Moulin Rouge. The last eighteen months or so as the Populaire’s Ballet Mistress left her pining for the red, hot lights of the cabaret, but… Well…

Did she still have ‘it’?

That spark. That drive. That magic ability to move sensually and freely across the stage.

Madeleine had spent far too long under critic’s scrutiny to create a family-friendly show that, well… This was tricky.

Maybe she should just… go with the flow.

Like she used to,

She bent down before her portable CD player and turned on the music. The sensual sound of violins issued from the speakers, a little static-y. Madeleine backed away. Now or never. Do or die. She grabbed one of the cheap-o practice chairs for a routine and sat on it legs outspread.

Five, six, seven, eight…

Her body rolled in time with the music, hands snaking against her tights-clad legs, which slowly drew together to form a straight, closed diagonal. Her left leg travelled in seated posse up her right, toes pointed like the ballerina she was bred to be. Her leg extended upwards, straight. She leaned away from the stretch, balancing herself with her right hand before her foot came back to earth, crossed over and helped her to push into a sassy body snap. She looked over her shoulder and winked at her reflection just as the tempo picked up. She sent herself into a series of turns that circled around the chair until she was again in front. As the tempo slowed again, Madeleine swiveled the chair to put it in front of her so its back was to her imaginary audience. She straddled the chair. Then her legs came up to dangle over the back of the chair, serving as an anchor as she leaned back, dipping to the floor. Her legs shot up in a V and her hands gripped where moments ago her knees had been. She unfurled herself from the position and rose. She pushed off of the chair, readying herself to stand on it, but suddenly, the CD player started making a jarring, skipping sound.

“Dammit…”

She stood up, jolted from her dancing mood and stalked over to the CD player to shut it off.

Welcome back to the Moulin Rouge, Madeleine de Chandon.


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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-26-2011 at 07:06 PM
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Toddy St. James

Where was his theme music?

Toddy St. James strutted down the hallway, his hips swaying from side to side in that perfect diva way, and his eyes squinting at the end of the hallway where the rehearsal studio was. To which, was not the rehearsal studio, but the cameras flashing in his eyes. If he were to go blind, he so wouldn't mind having it be because of that. Just, look at him! He was ready for his catwalk. All he needed was that thumping bass beautifulness to match his stomping feet! They had speakers on the ceilings, why not use those sweeties to their full potential?! His Liza Manelli of a boss would probably just blare some ridiculous show tune. Oh, Myron Bolitar and his show tunes. What were those things anyway? Toddy St. James did not do Broadway fluff, although for some reason, there is some unwritten code that the gays and Jews must like them? As if. This gay was not listening to belting plump princesses of New York City. Pa-lease. That was real talent. Talent he didn't have, which, depressed him. It was bust out Ben and Jerry worthy. Which, was why, Toddy filled his porcelain colored ears with the robotic voices of artists of Britney Spears.

So, keeping it truthies, Toddy had no point of walking down this hall. He never did. It was his personal runway, and he walked down it each day for some strutting practice. It wasn't him practicing for the modeling industry. Oh, honey, no way. He liked eating more five calories a day. He was practicing for that trot the designers make after their shows. The wave. The wink. The point. It was that walk that said, 'This is the brilliance of me, *****es. Clap for me.'

Something interrupted his strut.

Why in Beyonce's booty was he hearing violin strings?

Toddy St. James' eyes flickered over at the rehearsal studio. Oh, those trotting two inched around dancers were at it again! How annoying. Honestly? Toddy didn't need to hear that all day. Have some desency to close the door, no one wanted to see that. It was like, congrats, they're dancing. They're paid to do that. Keep it to themselves. He was so over it. That door was so getting shut, with a loudish bang.

When Toddy approached the door, his entire being froze, and his mouth just, dropped! That was not a dancer. That was fa-reaking sex on a chair doing her thang, and working it! It was pretty much that too, all homosexual slang aside. It was a brunettte (blondes were so over-rated, so cookies for her!) she was just, a bombshell. He was having a complete catharsis right now! She was working it on that chair. If that chair had a penis, it would so totally have an erection for her in honor of Toddy St. James, who could not produce one for the woman.

Toddy. St. James bit his finger, watching with astonishment.

Until, her stereo started making.. Well, it's what Britney Spears would sound like without her voice correcting machines.

"Dammit ..."

Speak it sister woman. Toddy agreed. Such a buzzkilll! Only, why was she using a CD player? So, she was obviously new here... and, new to the twentieth century. Whatever. She was so not a regular dancer around here. She was sexy and talented. Toddy St. James was interested.

"Oh babydoll, this is not the Rouge in the nineteen nineties."

Toddy St. James entered into the rehearsal room, swivelling his hips over, he marched right over to her and the CD player. He bent and snapped it downward as he retrieved the CD- which because of Apple, he hadn't seen in forever- and marched it over to one the cupboards in the corner. With ease, he opened it and presented to her, presenting the new stereo system. He bent, daintily pressing the button, and setting the CD inside, pressing play.

The violin strings filled the entire room.

Not his first choice in music, but it was ... cute.

Turning to the woman that was so his straight crush, Toddy flickered his eyes at her with a mischevious grin. "No diva should be interrupted by old technology."

Snaps to her- she was certainly what Toddy St. James would describe as divalicious!


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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-26-2011 at 07:07 PM
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 Post [23] »


Quote:
Originally Posted by Mrs Nadir Khan View Post
Madeleine de Chandon

Just when she was getting into it again. Just when Madeleine had found her dancing feet. If CD players were human beings, this one would be having its eyeballs clawed out by one angry artistic director.

Madeleine wasn’t ever going to tell Myron, but that was the one thing she really, really preferred about the Populaire to the Rouge. Maureen didn’t make obnoxious skipping sounds in the middle of rehearsals. And if she did… Well… It was probably Madeleine’s fault.

This was not. This was technology flub. And Madeleine wasn’t exactly the most tech-savvy gal around. So, she’d do what she knew how when a piece of machinery broke. Kick it until one of the tech people started screaming at her.

"Oh baby-doll, this is not the Rouge in the nineteen nineties."

Madeleine spun around at the voice. That didn’t sound like any techie she knew. Not from the Rouge, not from the Populaire… And it sure as hell wasn’t Myron.

Madeleine watched the man with an appreciative grin. Not a sexual, holy-hell-do-me-now grin like she so often cast. Because even though the guy had lovely skin and perfect hair, the clothes were a dead giveaway. No straight man Madeleine knew looked that pulled together in a pair of metallic shoes.

The stranger bent down and retrieved Madeleine’s CD and made a b-line for the cupboards. Madeleine watched, feeling both incredibly grateful and incredibly stupid as she watched him set up the stereo system.

The violins went from being white noise to surround-sound quality.

"No diva should be interrupted by old technology."

Madeleine grinned.

“Of course Myron would have a new system installed while I’m away,” she said, shaking her head.

God, Myron’s revamping of the Rouge was just full of surprises. From her new office to the new stereo system to the man standing before her. Who was he exactly? Madeleine studied him and found herself at a loss for a name.

“Thanks, by the way,” she said, leaning against the chair comfortably. “Do you have a name, my knight in shining dress shoes?”

Her eyes flicked to the man’s feet and her smile broadened.

Dress shoes that, by the way, look killer. I wonder if they sell pumps in that shade at Chanel?
..../


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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-26-2011 at 07:08 PM
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Rachel Day

Sexy: adj. sexier, sexiest
1. Arousing or tending to arouse sexual desire or interest

Sexy.

She had looked it up...

Something that Myron Bolitar thought she could not be.

Something that Rachel Day needed to be, to apparently make it in this business.

Something that she had been locking herself up in the rehearsal studio all night to get right.

“No!” Rachel Day groaned out, thrashing her hand into the air, and scuffing her shoe into the floor. She let out an irked growl, smacking herself on her sweating forehead, circling the chair, and looking at it for a moment. It was a chair. All she had to do was dance sexily around it. She had done so at the audition, and far better than all the other girls had done! At least, she had thought so. Rachel Day had rehearsed that audition routine for weeks now, arriving at the Rouge at five in the morning, and leaving until about midnight. Apparently, that was not good enough for the casting committee’s standards. Apparently, it was taking what was now, one forty two in the morning, for her to attempt at meeting those ‘standards’. She just didn’t understand. She did not understand what she could possibly be doing wrong as a performer. Rachel Day felt it. She felt what she had put onstage today, and to be completely not awarded for it? To not be cast? It was an aching, sickening feeling. It made her feel all the more determined, but all the more hopeless. There were things that Rachel Day just knew. And, she just knew, that she had rocked it as hard as she could today on that Rouge stage. She knew, that she had showed what she had, and what she had was something! Wasn’t it?

“Myron?” Rachel’s voice was small and faint; something that was rare from her. “What did I do wrong? What do I need to work on?”

Through her bangs, she could see Myron’s uncomfortable squirm in his office chair, looking at Rachel with a sympathetic look, and regretful gaze. But, why? She twiddled her thumbs sadly, trying not to look as disappointed as she truly was, but just curious on what she needed to work on.

“Ray Day-“He stopped. “Rachel, it’s just…”

Rachel looked up at him. Myron’s face dropped.

“You aren’t a woman onstage.”

She did not understand. Myron struggled again.

“You are a girl. You aren’t…” He swallowed, “Showing me… Sexy.”


Myron seemed completely uncomfortable with the conversation, and even saying Rachel and sexy in the same sentence. Rachel Day didn’t know what to think of it. Surely, he wouldn’t put their relationship before professionalism? Surely, when he saw her onstage, he saw her as a Rouge girl and not Ray Day? Whatever the case was, it was making Rachel’s mind throb. It was making her sweat, and her body ache with lack of sleep, but she needed to keep going. She needed to make love to this chair. She needed to be sexy.

Rachel Day replayed the music, swaying her hips to the beat, staring at herself hard into the mirror. Her hands rolled along the sides of her stomach, bringing them up over her breasts, and into her hair. She could only think about how not sexy she was, though. It wasn’t like she had been doing. The other night, she had been rocking it out, making love to herself, and hitting her marks on the chair. Rachel Day had been unstoppable, but today was getting to her. It was making her feel incredibly sick. Sexy. How could she not be sexy? Of course, she never considered herself sexy in reality, but onstage, she could be anything. At least, she thought she could be.

“Dammit!” Rachel Day croaked out, slamming herself onto the chair, and holding her head into her hands. She felt her eyes burn, and her bottom lip quiver. She needed to cry, but she could not allow herself too. No one was there, it was two in the morning, and no one cared. Well, that was dramatic, but she didn’t care what it was. It was how she felt. What was she even doing here? It wasn’t as if she could not take rejection- it was jus- she had worked so hard. She felt that it was unjust. She felt that, Myron was being unjust. Rachel Day felt like she would never get her big break. She would never get that moment to show people what she had.

A whimper escaped her, as she kicked the remote so the music turned off.

Rachel Day looked at herself in the mirror, never have been so disgusted at her non-sexy self.


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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-26-2011 at 07:08 PM
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 Post [25] »


Quote:
Originally Posted by Mrs Nadir Khan View Post
Madeleine de Chandon

Only Madeleine took her boyfriend’s declaration of another woman as “unsexy” to be a challenge. It wasn’t like Myron was questioning Madeleine’s bombshell physique or bedroom prowess. But here was the deal: Madeleine’s job was to make girl’s sexy, strong, talented dancers. If Myron thought any one of the Rouge girls was unsexy, Madeleine had failed. It was a bad reflection on her. And, yeah, okay. Rachel Day had some learning to do. There was something there. Nothing that merited porno-music as a theme song each time Day walked into a room, but she could turn heads with just the right moves. Moves that Madeleine had evidently failed to teach her.

Maybe, just maybe, she’d overlooked a responsibility to her Rouge Girls. Especially the foreigners. Poor broads would probably not know sexy if it did a naked pole dance in front of them. Sexy was in the Mediterranean genetic structure of Frenchwomen, Italians, and even Spaniards. Something about the idyllic temperatures, laid back lifestyles, and healthy (but delicious) diets lent themselves to creating gorgeous, inherently seductive women. Art was valued in Paris and Rome and Madrid and Lisbon and Crete. It was everywhere. In industrial-grey places like London or New York… You had to go to the ethnic neighborhoods for even half a taste of natural sensuality. Everything else was sterilized in museums and hidden away in apartment art studios. Or, at least, that was pretty much the understanding Madeleine got. You had to like big, modern buildings to appreciate the beauty of cities that lay further to the north or west, and frankly… Madeleine felt like that was too forced a view. Beauty, sensuality, and sexuality was about playing up what was already there naturally. There was a natural groundwork. Highlight it. Ornament it. Make it work. Don’t over hide. Don’t over share. And she was pretty damn sure she was going to teach Rachel Day just how to do that starting… now. There were redeemable features that Day had. She had a nice mouth. Dental hygiene didn’t seem to be a problem for her. Her bone structure was fair. And she had curves… kinda. Honestly, whatever she had could be played up with the right bra. No need to go plastic if you had the right support. Besides. Sexy was also about attitude. Mostly, actually, about attitude. You had to know you looked good to make other people think you looked good. Look at Madeleine. She wasn’t wearing a skimpy little number tonight. It was too cold and too late at night. Madeleine didn’t mind exposing a little skin—hello, neckline!—but wandering in the area between the Rue de Rivioli and the red light district in a mini-skirt or something would mean Madeleine might actually have to use her pepper spray or kick a guy in the groin with her spiked heels. Haha… No. So she was wearing a nice, just-above-her-knees print dress and brown blouse. Her bronze heels weren’t stiletto height, but they made her legs look killer. And she still looked like a class act. A sexy class act. Now… Time to do the (slightly cliché, but much needed) Ugly-Duckling-to-Swan transformation on Rachel Day. Tonight was about teaching her to walk, talk, dress, and think “sexy” without being “oversexualized”. A fine, fine line that all Rouge Girls eventually could walk—backwards and in five inchers.

She knew Rachel had been pretty much living in the Rouge for the past couple weeks but had thus far said nothing of it. Why would she? It was unorthodox, and a little dangerous, but the girl was grown. She could make her own choices. Besides, it made her easier to find at this ungodly hour. Sweet Moses, Jesus Christ, and Muhammad Ali! Who on earth wanted to rehearse this late? At twenty-one, shouldn’t the girl be partying? Or maybe home making love to her boyfriend? Or, you know, sleeping? What ever happened to good ol’ fashioned beauty rest? Madeleine would rather be doing any of the above on her night off. She sighed and made her way to the rehearsal room. Oh, well. She was awake, she was not entwined with Myron, and she was not livin’ it up. She was here. Might as well stop her b*tching and do what she came here to do. Madeleine pushed open the door to the rehearsal studio and saw Rachel Day, right where she expected her to be.

Well, roughly.

The girl was borderline crying, standing smack-dab in front of the mirror. She looked like hell, too. She clearly hadn’t been sleeping and Madeleine found herself wondering how it was Rachel could still have energy enough to stand. Madeleine’s eyes travelled up and down Rachel’s body and she smirked.

“Well, it’s no wonder Myron got critical. Pity-parties don’t exactly scream ‘sexy’.”
.......


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Old 12-05-2011 at 02:07 PM
Raoul de Chagny
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Aurčlien, WHERE?

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Aurčlien Renard

What was he doing here? This is a big mistake, but he was feeling so angry right now that he had to take his anger out on something or someone. The old Aurčlien would've gone on a rampage, causing chaos wherever he went and would not care if it pissed off a lot of people. Unfortunately he had worked too hard over the last couple of years to not be that person anymore. Not only had he changed physically, filling out into a grown man he had to behave like one now too. No more being selfish and caring only about himself, he had to care about others. That was why he was here.

One would think it was a noble thing to do, confront the person who has been accused of causing physical harm to another. He had planned on confronting Rozaliya about the cuts and bruises Marina had claimed that she had laid upon her. His anger was directed at both women at the moment. Angry that if Rozaliya could do such a thing, why would she do it? Just to get his attention? A part of him couldn't believe the redhead would ever be violent towards another, that's why he was also feeling anger towards Marina. Her behavior had been sorrowful ever since the soiree, why she just seeking pity? He had never seen her behave this way before, and to accuse Rozaliya of hurting her because of him...all he wanted to know is why?

Since learning that Rozaliya came back to Paris to perform at the Moulin Rouge, Aurčlien vowed he would never have a reason to come here. But here he was, standing outside her dressing room. Staring at the gold star on the door with the name 'Rozaliya Donkova' engraved upon it. This is a mistake. He kept telling himself, but he had to sort out these problems that run amok inside his head. If he allowed it to carry on like this and did nothing, he'd be hitting the bottle and soon after probably a straight jacket.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. As soon as he did it he regretted it. He should have sent a friend here instead on his behalf, like Jean. Jean was friends with Rozaliya, and if he spoke to her all would be fixed in less than a minute. Aurčlien wouldn't have to be standing outside her dressing room door wondering if he was going to yell at the person who opened the door or jump their bones.



Christian Lisle :: Aurélien Renard :: Emile Ashleigh :: Elesa Robinson (coming soon)
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Old 12-05-2011 at 06:35 PM
The Khanum
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Rozaliya Donkova

Tuscan Red, Victorian Rose, Candy Apple, Ashes of Roses, Berry Juicy, Midnight Passion, Love That Red, Volcanic Red, Red Velvet, Cherry Desirable, Opulent Garnet. Rozaliya tapped the side of her face with a long (and equally crimson) nail, trying to decide between the dozen or so shades of lipstick piled into the center of her dresser. She lifted Opulent Garnet, twisted the bottom, and studied the dark blood-colored pallet that rose from the depths of the silver tube. After a moment of careful thought, she discarded the shade into the open drawer on her left. Twenty or thirty already eliminated lipsticks rolled about inside the drawer in various hues of peach and mauve and mocha and nude. Tuscan Red, Victorian Rose, Candy Apple, Ashes of Roses, Berry Juicy, Love That Red, Volcanic Red, and Red Velvet soon followed suit until Rozaliya was left with just two choices. Her narrowed eyes drifted slowly between the final contenders, Midnight Passion and Cherry Desirable.

In the back of her mind she knew that all this fuss was really for nothing. She had finished her final act for the evening nearly a half-hour ago; the bouquets of flowers (mostly red roses, which were dreadfully unimaginative) littered throughout her dressing room were evidence enough of that. But tonight was a night for dancing. She wanted to go to a club and make new friends and drink and dine and forget about her worries just for a few hours before crawling into bed and being plagued by dreams. Rozaliya knew that by the end of the night the man or woman having an intimate encounter with her lips wouldn't give a sh-t if they were painted with Cherry Desirable or Midnight Passion. But right now, sitting in front of her mirror and gazing at her two options, it seemed like a very big deal.

And in true Rozaliya fashion, she elected to leave this Very Big Deal up to chance. She extended a single long index finger, pointed at the tube on the left, then let it dance between the two choices rhythmically while she muttered a Russian poem under her breath much like "eeny, meeny, miny, moe" in English. When the poem was done she found herself pointing at the tube on the right. Midnight Passion. Figuring this was probably the more appropriate one anyway, she brought it to her lips and began to apply the color. Absentmindedly she started humming the song she'd just performed onstage as she watched herself in the mirror from beneath heavy eyelids. Mascara was next, and she held the wand against her lashes and fanned them out in a long black curtain. "Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree for me, I've been an awful good girl. Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight," she sang lightly in her kitten purr, adding adjustments to her makeup here and there. And she did not let herself think about what her subconscious had been pushing into the forefront of her brain. She didn't let herself acknowledge the fact that she was sexing up her appearance and going out on the town with the expectation of getting laid all so that the deep dark corners of her mind could pretend it was Aurčlien holding her, touching her, making love to her.

"Come and trim my Christmas tree with some decorations bought at Tiffany's. I really do believe in you, let's see if you believe in me..."

Then there was a knock on the door.

Dammit. She'd forgotten she had asked one of the stagehands to fetch her a scotch on the rocks. And she'd just applied that beautiful shade of Midnight Passion. She got to her feet and headed for the door. Just as her hand closed around the doorknob she realized she was still partly in-costume from her performance. Rozaliya glanced down at herself, stocking feet and garters and corset sans skirt or feathers, and quickly grabbed her silk-and-lace robes from the back of her chair. This wasn't an act of unprecedented modesty; she wasn't going to give some minimum-wage gawker a peek at her very expensive costume. Robe cinched loosely at the waist, she finally opened the door.

She didn't even have the chance to pretend like she wasn't affected by the sight of the man on the other side.

"Aurčlien." Her voice was breathy, and her lips couldn't help but caress the familiar syllables as they dropped from her tongue. She knew it was inevitable that she'd see him again; she'd be lying if she said she hadn't considered dropping by his magnificent apartment a few blocks away. But who was to say he hadn't moved? She'd thought about coming back to the Opera House for a visit, tour the old building, find her familiar haunts...maybe swing by the managers' offices. And yet all of these still-unformed plans had had one thing in common: she would instigate them. But Aurčlien had taken the initiative. He had come to see her at her place of employment. Rozaliya (perhaps foolishly) hadn't expected it. And here he was. Standing before her. Looking as beautiful as ever. Without her stilettos she was consciously aware of how much shorter she was than him, which was impressive considering she wasn't exactly a shrimp. She stared up at him, lips slightly parted, and inwardly reeled.

Pause. Then she took a step back, a universal sign of invitation. "Do you want to come in?" she asked softly, gazing at him from under that curtain of mascaraed lashes. Her tone feigned innocence, but Aurčlien would surely recognize That Look in her eyes. That Look she'd worn so often in the old days, insolent and unyielding and fierce and just a little lusting. It was anything but innocent. Even the question was laced in implication: Do you want to come...in? As if she was giving him a choice. After all, why else would he be here? But Rozaliya wasn't going to let him take what he wanted. No, not yet. She had to wait, she had to hold off, if only to prove to herself that she could.


♦ so why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song? ♦

some liar laughed as he composed, some liar i loved to control
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Name: Hollie | Gender: Female | Posts: 2,814 | Roses: 215
Old 12-06-2011 at 02:36 PM
Raoul de Chagny
Opera Manager
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Aurčlien, WHERE?

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 Post [28] »


Aurčlien Renard

He knocked on the door of Rozaliya's dressing room. His eyes transfixed on the gold star that displayed her name, wishing it was someone else's name. He felt angry and nervous at the same time. What was he going to do next when she opened the door, if she opened the door. He considered beating the door down, but that would be the extremely aggressive and crazy approach. When Rozaliya opens the door, he imagined immediately pulling her into his arms and pressing his lips against those dark red lips. No, he can't be thinking like that. These insane thoughts always came to mind whenever he was close to her. The redhead was just on the other side of this dressing room door. Maybe a far less crazy thing to do right now is seek out Frederick Worthington for some sword play.

Remember that you're on a mission... He tried to regain his focus on why he had come here in the first place. A mission to get laid... dammit! He couldn't do this, he was showing weakness already. Rozaliya would eat him alive. He kept telling himself he was confronting this woman for Marina. The girl had been attacked and the last person she said she saw was Rozaliya. He needed to find out the truth of what was going on. He took several deep breaths, looked at his reflection in the large shiny gold star on the door double checking that he was looking his best. It would be another point to the redhead if he had turned up looking shabby, she would love to see him hit rock bottom again.

It was an agonizing couple of minutes, but the dressing room door finally opened, revealing a lightly robed Rozaliya and a lot of skin. His head lost the battle again. What was he doing here again?

"Aurčlien." She breathed. Don't say my name... She was already making it worse. The world around him suddenly felt several degrees warmer, his deep breaths grew shorter. His silently cursed this woman for making him feel this way in only a matter of seconds. She needed to put some more clothes on, but he couldn't demand that. Secretly he wanted to see more naked flesh. The redhead took a step back, the signal to invite him into the dressing room.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked softly. Her tone sounded innocent, but the look in her grey eyes said otherwise. He had seen that look before, she used to look at him like that all the time. The desire to grab a hold of her and tear that robe off was growing. He definitely wanted to come in, but knew it was the wrong thing to do. They could have this conversation out here in the hallway, who cares who would see. He was only planning on yelling at her and then storm away. His plans never seemed to go as planned when Roza was around.

His gaze went over her head and beyond into the large luxurious dressing room. He kept looking straight ahead as he entered the dressing room. Several quick steps inside and then his eyes pointed to the floor, avoiding eye contact as he turned around to face the door. Making sure the exit is in sight when a quick getaway is needed.

"Do you take some sick and twisted pleasure in physically abusing others?" He accused immediately. His tone already sounding angry, immediately he was making sure he would take control of this encounter after his failure at the door. His aquamarine eyes lifted from the floor to the woman across the room. His eyebrows narrowed, it took every single muscle in his face to appear serious. He was not going to show desire and weakness. Every time he did let his guard down she always took pleasure in messing with his head. He was going to be in control now.

"Marina was attacked at the Masquerade. She said you were the last person with her that night that she can remember." His temper was building up quickly, how could she do such a thing. The temperature in the room continued to feel like it was increasing. He could feel tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"I never thought you would stoop this low just to get back at me." He growled. "What did I ever do to you?"



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Name: KT Mae | Gender: Hungry Chipmunk | Age: 28 | Posts: 4,322 | Roses: 25
Old 12-07-2011 at 02:35 AM
The Khanum
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» DAZLIOUS «

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 Post [29] »


OOC: lol...sword play. BIC:

Rozaliya Donkova


How did he even get in here?

That was inexplicably the first thought that sprang into her head once the initial shock and raging hormones subsided. How did he get into the dressing room area? Shouldn't the Moulin Rouge have some sort of security system—be it locked doors or big burly men—to protect its girls? She blinked at him, as if his presence could be erased with a simple flutter of her eyelids. And yet there he was, still standing beyond the entryway to her door, imposing and gorgeous and filled with a divine sort of anger. She could feel it radiating as if he was running a particularly high fever. He looked utterly Adonis-like. And he, in turn, had looked over her with the same familiar craving in his eyes. She had seen the way his attention had flickered longingly over her legs and the swell of her breasts. Instinctively her hands fiddled with the cinch at her waist; she tightened it and pulled the silk fabric of the robe closer to her skin as if subconsciously trying to cover up.

The connection of their eyes broke as Aurčlien strode through the door. She could almost see the moment he decided he wasn't going to play her game; his posture straightened and his lips twitched into a thin line. He brushed past her, but there was no contact between their bodies. Rozaliya wasn't sure if she was grateful for it or disappointed. She pivoted slowly, letting the door hover between open and shut. Which did she want? Her brain wanted the comfort of publicness; she needed to be able to hear hustle and bustle in the corridor beyond her dressing room. But that place between her legs hungered for privacy. She compromised: she left it ajar and leaned against the door frame.

"Do you take some sick and twisted pleasure in physically abusing others?"

Rozaliya's mind drew an immediate blank as to what he was talking about. She had to assume he was talking about sex; after all, the words 'sick,' 'twisted,' 'pleasure,' and 'physical' were all in that sentence. So...sex? But neither his tone nor his expression even remotely hinted at foreplay. Their eyes met again, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was no joke. The hell? "Marina was attacked at the Masquerade. She said you were the last person with her that night that she can remember."

The face of a skinny mouse of a tart appeared briefly in her thoughts. Marina, Aurčlien's newest shiny toy. Attacked? She certainly didn't feel pity for the girl, especially since it sounded like she was implying Rozaliya was the culprit. "I never thought you would stoop this low just to get back at me," Aurčlien snarled, blue-green eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did I ever do to you?" Rozaliya stared at him, sensing that he was dangling by the last splintering strings of self-control.

She paused, then click. The door shut all the way.

"Once again you underestimate me, Aurčlien," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, chin held high as she stared him dead-on. "If I wanted to hurt the little b-tch, I would have just snapped her in half like a pencil." The corners of Rozaliya's deep red lips curled upwards in the faintest hint of a cold smile. "I didn't lay a goddamn hand on her. You're welcome to believe me, or you can go ahead and assume I'm lying. I won't lose any sleep over it." Technically speaking she had laid a goddamn hand on her, but it certainly wasn't in a way that could be remotely described as an 'attack.' If memory served, Rozaliya had played with her hair. Maybe held onto her wrist or something. But an attack? Hardly. Clearly this Marina character was a liar. An anorexic sixteen-year-old compulsive liar. Congratulations, Aurčlien. Your less-than-attractive brown-haired whore has officially won the Worst Rebound Girlfriend Ever award, she sneered inwardly. Part of her wanted to say it aloud, but she was mindful of the fact that the signs of an Aurčlien Rage Spree were currently beading on his forehead.

Rozaliya smirked, eyes brightening through her studious gaze. "But I understand why you took her word for gospel so readily," she continued, pushing herself up off the door frame and approaching him with the unhurried prowl of a panther. "I bet picturing it was kind of a turn-on for you, wasn't it? A little girl-on-girl action. A cat fight." She grinned outright now, teasing him, taunting him. "Did your fantasy include bikinis and an arena for mud-wrestling too?"


♦ so why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song? ♦

some liar laughed as he composed, some liar i loved to control
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Name: Hollie | Gender: Female | Posts: 2,814 | Roses: 215
Old 12-07-2011 at 03:24 PM
Raoul de Chagny
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Aurčlien, WHERE?

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 Post [30] »


OOC: "the words 'sick,' 'twisted,' 'pleasure,' and 'physical' were all in that sentence. So...sex?" LOL!


Aurčlien Renard

He didn't hold back his rage, he couldn't help it really. Being around Rozaliya seemed to bring back his old bad habits, like being unable to control his temper. Thinking back to five years ago most of his memories of being with her were either fighting with the redhead or having sex with her. Their relationship back then had been mostly just those two things. They never had a cute couple moment, he could only remember the only time they said anything nice to each other was when they were tearing each others clothes off. They didn't separate on good terms, so obviously the reunion wasn't a happy affair either. This was his second encounter with Rozaliya since she returned to Paris, and he had initiated it.

Were they going to continue on fighting? Because there definitely wasn't a nice word to be planned to be said to Rozaliya. If they weren't going to fight then the only other option they had was to give in to their desires and ravage one another. He was watching her as she lingered at the door. She had not closed it but left the door ajar, stuck between open to the public and closed for privacy. As he angrily shouted his accusations at her, he was aware that this could probably be heard by anyone out in the hallway. But he didn't give a damn. He came here with a purpose and he was going to try his best to stick to it.

He continued to rage about Marina's attack, and how he believed Rozaliya was responsible. It might not be true but he only had Marina's word to go on. He didn't believe it at first that Roza would actually lay a hand on another female, she seemed to be too fond of attacking people with words. But as the only reason he hated Roza coming back to Paris was because it made him hunger for her again, he needed something he could actually yell and scream about.

At the end of his tirade he demanded to know what did he do to her to deserve his pain and suffering. The question didn't just include 'Why did you attack the girl?' but 'Why do you torture me when you want me as badly as I want you?' He was now gazing over her body again, wondering what was underneath that silk robe she wore. That was when Rozaliya closed the dressing room door. They now had their privacy.

"Once again you underestimate me, Aurčlien," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone as she stared at him. "If I wanted to hurt the little b-tch, I would have just snapped her in half like a pencil." Deep inside him in a dark and twisted corner of his mind he briefly wished she had, only to show him she still wanted him all to herself. It was such a cruel thought that he quickly brushed it aside, he wouldn't wish others to suffer just to get what he wanted. He did care for Marina somewhat like a friend, even if that's all he felt about her. He still didn't like seeing her hurt.

"I didn't lay a goddamn hand on her. You're welcome to believe me, or you can go ahead and assume I'm lying. I won't lose any sleep over it." There was her confession, Rozaliya hadn't touched Marina. It was what he had hoped for, what he truly believed. If Rozaliya had hurt Marina in any way she probably just called her insulting names. This gave some relief, but that alone wasn't going to make him back down. He needed to stay his ground, show that he was controlling this moment.

"But I understand why you took her word for gospel so readily," Rozaliya stepped away from the door and began approaching him, like an animal closing in on its prey. "I bet picturing it was kind of a turn-on for you, wasn't it? A little girl-on-girl action. A cat fight." She teased him with a taunting grin. "Did your fantasy include bikinis and an arena for mud-wrestling too?" You wish. He didn't say it, but he assumed Rozaliya would've enjoy it more. Many of her countless lovers she had last time she was in Paris were women. This accusation thrown back at him thought caused the corners of his lips to turn up into a cunning smirk.

"I told you before, Marina means nothing to me," He said slowly, remember he had confessed this to Rozaliya in the boxcar at the Masquerade. He folded his arms across his broad chest, to protect himself from the redhead's advances and another display of holding his ground. "But I'm not going to congratulate whoever did beat her, I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. All I know is what she told me. Now that I know it wasn't you, I have no other reason to be here."



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