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miseries-mistress · 2 years

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WE SHOULD BE LOVERS | CHRISTIAN

Synopsis: Christian didn't quite know how he ended up in the electrifying atmosphere of the Moulin Rouge when he should be at his typewriter, lost in his own story, but he had caved upon his friend's consistent begging for him to step away. Now he was subjected to a glass of mediocre alcohol, but something across the room, something that would forever alter the course of his life, caught his attention; you.

Warnings: female reader, the reader works at the moulin rouge, sex work, christian is love-struck, little bit of angst, fluff. W/C: 3579

Notes: i promise i'll write some of ewan's less popular characters. when i wrote this, i had just watched this movie and had a ton of writing inspiration. this could be better, tbh

em masterlist

Christian could safely say his entire life revolved around love. Without love, he had no purpose, simply existing between the world of the living and existing. Without love, he would have remained in London, taking a job as any man would, completing the endless cycle of disdain without the heart to change it. Without love, Christian would be no more than any other man.

All he needed was to love and be loved in return.

It wasn't until his eyes befell a beautiful woman dressed in what appeared to be silk for the appearance of men that he truly understood his words; you.

You stopped his heart from beating in his chest, you slowed down time, and you brought him on top of a cloud- free from the world and the misery it brought on your lives. In his eyes, you were the symbol of beauty and all things divine; in that instance, you became everything.

Your body swayed with the beat of the music, lips parted, tainted with layers of makeup, your voice lost in the sea of hundreds, or what felt like hundreds. Although you lacked a genuine smile, Christian could tell from your carefree expression that the Moulin Rouge was your home, and he was merely a spectator to bear witness to your love.

Toulouse, beside him, nudged his ribs, but Christian refused to rip his gaze away and meet his friend's, afraid that if he took his eyes off you for a second, you would vanish into the ocean of brightly colored dancers.

While he wanted to memorize every detail of your face with a brush of his hand, reality dunked him head-first into frigid water and back into real life. He needed a name; he needed yours.

"Have you found someone?" Toulouse asks while Christian's eyes remain hardened on your twisting figure as you turn over on a man's lap. An unprecedented flood of jealousy sweeps him off his feet, the force of it surprising even him. That should be him with his hands roaming over your delicate figure, drawing lines across the skin sheened with sweat. His lips should be caressing your skin, pulling ragged breaths from your lips that were parted so sweetly-

He threw his head back, chasing the lust-corrupted thoughts back into the box in the back of his mind, sealing it shut with a deep breath. A part of him didn't know where these feelings had sprung from. For heaven's sake, he didn't even know your name. Yet he found himself infatuated with your every move, yearning for your pretty lashes to flutter over to where he was seated.

"Yes," he whispered an answer to his friend's question, watching with dilated pupils as you and the tens of other dancers lowered themselves onto their knees before their partner. "Who is she?"

Toulouse followed his friend's eye line and sighed when he saw your face. Of course, Christian would be interested in you.

You, Harold's songbird, a woman with the voice of an angel but the heart of a sinner. Anyone who had ever been to the Moulin Rouge had heard of you, but very few got the privilege of actually meeting you, for you only held private meetings with the wealthiest due to your status. There was no way you would ever agree to meet with a writer, one as new as Christian, no less.

"That's Songbird," Toulouse shook his head knowingly while Christian reveled over your name. Somehow that seemed to fit you perfectly. It matched your flowy, graceful voice that peaked above the rest as you twirled around the man, your hips moving to the music pounding in his ears, drowning out the sinful thoughts he tried so desperately to tame.

Toulouse swirled the drink clutched in his hand before downing the liquor. He would find a way to arrange a meeting with Songbird and Christian, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

—

Christian isn't entirely sure how Toulouse arranged a meeting with you. He just told Christian to go to a specific building and what room it was. Christian shook his head, dispelling those thoughts. He should be focused on the opportunity he was presented with as he followed Toulouse's directions until he was led to a run-down building. The paint was peeling off the sides, revealing the stained brick underneath as the light that was supposed to illuminate the name of it flickered once, then twice before flickering off. Women roamed the streets in corsets and other scandalously-clad clothing next to the building, and feelings began to brew in his gut when Christian realized what kind of building this was; a brothel. Despite his trepidation, he entered, slightly astounded that the receptionist didn't even bother to look up from his book, allowing Christian through and up the stairs.

205. Christian searched the worn-down plaques outside the rooms, his mind wandering as he did. What was he going to say to you? You had never seen him before, yet Christian was preparing to confess his infatuation with you. He felt nothing less than stupid, the regret already being to bleed into his skin and seep into his bones. On top of that, you would never reciprocate his feelings, you didn't know him, and your job prevented him from doing so.

Maybe if he just talked to you, things would work out okay. He's a poet. He could do this.

Unbeknownst to him, you had caught his gaze locked onto you from across the room the moment you entered. You were nothing less than intrigued when you found him staring so intently at you. Of course, he must not have seen your wandering gaze, but that didn't matter. What caught your attention the most was his young and youthful face, for most of the men that entered were well into their thirties, but what pulled your attention to him was his eyes. They weren't dull or ridden with lust but glistening with an emotion you don't think you've ever encountered before. You knew you couldn't go up to him, putting aside the man driving his grimy hands over your body, but how you simply longed to speak with him. No one would ever want to talk of you. This was a brothel in Montmartre, for fucks sake. No one came here just to chat.

Christian halted outside the room, double-checking the piece of paper with the room name scribbled on it. He twisted the doorknob, and to his immense surprise, it clicked and opened, creaking on its hinges. Christian took notice of the room with brightly colored walls, varying decorations spread sporadically, and the neatly cleaned bed with freshly fluffed pillows. It seemed to capture the spirit of the Moulin Rouge, your spirit, and he thought it fit you perfectly. The door clicked shut behind him, and he set his hat on the rack by the door, his ears perking at the sound of gentle footsteps.

"And I thought the writer was never planning to show." You emerged from the curtains, your hair cascading over your bare shoulders, and he had to force his eyes away from descending any lower down your stature dripping with lace.

"Oh, hi, I-I'm Christian." He steps into the room, watching you stalk towards him. You were glad you could hide your emotions so well because the shock would have been written all over your face. It's the same man from before, the one that had caught your eye. A part of you was saddened by the revelation that he would be gone before sunrise, disappearing into the night without a trace of him for you to cling to, but that's just how these things work, and it was even more silly for you to get your hopes up of pursuing something more than a short-lived exchange steeped in impiety. You just had to play your role, receive your money, and you would remain off the street for another day. You had to focus on that, not the dashing man with a name that rolled off his tongue so easily it sent goosebumps down your arms.

"Songbird," you replied, and Christian felt like he was going to evaporate then and there. Your voice was marred with seduction, but it trickled with honey and Gods; even your voice was pretty. Then, you place a hand on his chest, and Christian battles the urge to step back, completely baffled by the connection.

"What's your real name?" he inquires, breathless at the contact, his eyes roaming over your face touched with enticement, which he longs to pepper with kisses.

The question startles you in a way nothing has before. No one had ever bothered to ask your real name, content with your cleverly crafted persona, and somewhere hidden beneath the many layers of your skin, your heart involuntarily flutters. Most men by now would be discarding your clothes with haste, having their way with you, yet this man– Christian, was actually talking to you. It was like he knew you longed for meaningful interaction with him, and you welcomed the change.

You chuckle and pull your hand free. "You need not worry about that now, my dear," you purr, sliding your hand up Christian's chest to the collar of his shirt.

Much to your surprise, Christian stumbles back, his eyes those of a frightened animal while they seem to meet everything but yours. Now you're confused. Isn't that what he came here for? Or unless you did something wrong? You swallow the lump that seems to be growing in your throat. You can't mess this up. Everything depends on your customers and the money they bring.

"That's not what I meant. I wanted to know who you were because..." Christian trails off, his voice sheepish.

"I saw you dancing earlier, and I was infatuated with you." You raised an eyebrow, pacing around the man, practically trembling with anxious energy. Did he really feel the same, or was this careful deception that you were too blind to see?

"Really now?" Christian was at a loss for words, for all his poetic speech was lost upon him. Why couldn't he think straight? He surely didn't expect, out of all things you could have said, that you would question his confession. The nagging insecurity he so fruitlessly tried to oppress wondered if he was doing this right. All he wanted to do was know more about you and fall deeper into the spiral of... love? Is that what he was feeling? He craved love, the experience, the feelings, the affections, all of it, and now in the face of it, he found it hard to piece together a couple of coherent words. Quite typical of him to mess up such a chance.

"Yes. I saw you dancing, and I was amazed by it."

"I seem to have that effect on people."

"You were breathtaking– I mean, you are breathtaking. I just wanted to find a way to talk to you." You were growing more fascinated by the second. Did all he really want to do was talk? Did he not care about sleeping with you? No, you shook your head. Of course, he wanted to sleep with you. That's what he was paying for. You internally slapped yourself. Why would you ever foolishly think he could want anything else but sex?

"You sure all you want to do is talk?" you suggest seductively, purring as your hands run down his side. It was undeniable now that Christian was much more charming than all the rest. Ebony strands that hung neatly and delicately fall over his pale complexion, and you fight the impulse to run your hands through them.

Wait…

You shook that preposterous thought from your mind. Christian is nothing more than a customer who will leave before sunrise only to never return. Though you had to admit, his demeanor was far from what you usually encounter. While he held an embarrassed half-quirked smile, there was a hint of cheekiness behind it, almost boyish. His eyes were a strange, impossibly soft blue with flecks of silver amidst the penetrating rays of the moon, glittering like a thousand of the brightest stars. His cheeks flush a hazy shade of pink at the question you had forgotten you asked.

"I'm sure," he nodded stiffly. Christian debated whether to touch you, but his nervousness seemed to temporarily disappear with your hands roving over his chest. His hand moved to push back the hair that strayed into your enrapturing eyes, and your breath caught in your throat. The touch was so gentle. You've been touched before many times in your life, but you can't recall an instance where the touch felt innocent, pure. Even with the slightest bit of conversation exchanged, you felt yourself falling deeper into the velvet of his voice, entranced by the validity of his words.

"I truly do admire you, and if it's okay, I would like to get to know you better because…because I think I'm in love with you." You chuckled, lifting his chin with the point of your finger. You've heard this confession from more men than you could count. It was refreshing from the stern and cold attitudes you seemed to encounter more and more often, but it was different, exciting even for men to believe so much into your persona of a temptress. While it gives you hope for a better feature, it leaves your male counterparts embarrassed, either stabbing away in a furry or apologizing bumblingly.

"Thank you, Christian, but I can't love." Christian stepped back, and you barely contained your disappointment, the crease between your eyebrows deepening as he looked stricken, if not appalled, by your confession.

"You can't love? A life without love is existing between the lines of the living and dead. A life without love–"

"-keeps me off the streets, Christian," you mused, smoothing out his dress shirt. It was endearing how passionate he was about love, a feeling you couldn't quite wrap your head around, for you've never seen what love looks like. You've heard stories from the other girls about the weightlessness of love or the singular greatest feeling of genuine joy it brings them, but you've never seen it or felt it, for that matter. Your parents were no example of what love is, as told by the other girls, and living in a brothel surely is no accurate representation of it. So what was love, really? A feeling? A sensation? A reaction? Was it like hope or lust? Or was it fear that seemed to twist inside your gut at the thought of him leaving?

"Love is what lifts us up into where we belong!"

"Love doesn't pay or bring food to the table, Christian."

You didn't understand why you were arguing with him about love. Sure he had caught your attention, but you couldn't comprehend why you were indulging in a fantasy you didn't belong in. It was ridiculous, and if you two weren't intending to sleep together, then he was just wasting your time. You needed the money, your rent bill was due, and you were fifteen dollars short, which also happened to be the amount your customers paid for your service. You needed the money, and that was the cold, sobering truth.

You took a step away from him, but he swung around you.

"All you need is love, Songbird."

"You're a writer! If you can't pay, then–"

"Give me one night," his voice dropped an octave. The silkiness of it sent you dissolving into a puddle of stricken desire on the floor. His lopsided smile never dropped; if possible, it brightened at your breathless expression.

"I can't, Christian. My life demands–"

"Then run away with me."

"We just met!"

"I don't see why that has to stop us."

"You don't even know my real name."

"Only because you won't tell me."

"There's no way because you can't pay." His smile dropped, and you could see the gears turning in his head, straining to think of anything to get you to stay. He knew you felt the same as him; he saw it in your eyes and demeanor, but your job prohibited it. If he could put the material idea of money aside, he knew you could be happy with him. He just needed one chance to get you to stay. Call him a love-sick fool, but he wouldn't give up on you. This connection, like electricity coursing through his very being when he was around you, set his soul alight, and now he was burning with that same passion.

"Just one night, in the name of love, just one night."

You found yourself giggling as he twirled around, finding his way back into your eyes. His irises were so expressive with a mixture of childish wonder and fantasy with swirls of adoration doting within his playful demeanor. This was not how it was supposed to go. You weren't supposed to fall in love with a customer. You needed to eat and afford your rent. You couldn't do that and the Moulin Rouge if you indulged in your fascination.

"It's impossible." That was the right thing to do. You dismissed the thought entirely before you ran away with it because you knew that if you stayed any longer within Christian's intoxicating presence, you would never leave and bind yourself to the endless devotion of love.

"All you need is love," he sang sweetly, his breath inches from the shell of your ear, sending an array of goosebumps down your arm. You froze. The erratic beating of your heart pounding in your ears was all you could hear before his lips parted, releasing a breath that traveled straight down your spine, fogging your head with an unfamiliar haze of an even more unfamiliar emotion. "Don't you see, darling?"

You had to stop, push the man away, and find someone willing to pay for your services. Before you knew it, the back of Christian's hand faintly touched your face, running down it briefly. His touch was as light as a feather, like he feared you would break. You could get used to this feeling of being loved by a man who only wanted you to return his affections. His hand lingered for a moment longer before returning to his side, the phantom of his touch the only reminder that it was real. You felt yourself being drawn in, dizzy under his intoxicating presence, engrossed in his sparkling eyes that seemed to dazzle even brighter under the moonlight seeping through the curtains.

"Don't leave me this way. Your tantalizing touches breathe life into my soulless body."

"You would think I would possess enough sense to turn away."

His lips quirked into a crooked grin, bringing butterflies erupting from the depths of your stomach. "You would think so."

You can't...

The bitter reality brought you crashing down from your euphoric high. You wouldn't be able to make any money, and Christian certainly couldn't support two people, no matter how talented he is. You take a step back, away from the center of the room. You can't.

"We can't. It's unrealistic, a reality we cannot afford to indulge in." You dropped your gaze. Not so deep down, you knew your words were empty, but you had already fallen too deep into the rabbit hole to climb back now.

Christian's face dropped, his heart sinking into his stomach. As selfish as it may sound, he needed you, your love, your touch, your body, everything. He needed it deep within his soul. He longed with every fiber of his being for that feeling of being loved in return so much, so he was afraid it was blinding him. But how could the love he harbored for you be so wrong when all he wanted to do was envelop you within his embrace and whisper words of reassurance into your ear?

"Just one night," he whispered in a desperate plea, his eyes squeezing together while you felt your back hit the wall, sliding over your exposed skin. "One night to show you where love will lift us up to."

Every thought concerning the future was haphazardly thrown from your mind leaving you breathless in the present. There was no need to worry about money, security, housing, or any of it while Christian looked at you so dearly.

"What if I fall?" your voice comes out as a whisper as your eyes find his freshly shinned shoes. Christian's calloused forefinger slips underneath your chin, raising your head, so your eyes meet his, and you discover a sense of solace among them.

"Then I'll catch you when we land."

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miseries-mistress · 2 years

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OUR LOVE | CHRISTIAN

Synopsis: Life was quiet. There was no blaring music from the Moulin Rouge or the streets alive with creativity and people bustling with excitement, but a part of Christain didn't mind the quiet anymore if it meant he got to indulge in a peaceful morning just with you.

Warnings: gender-neutral reader, all fluff. W/C: 872

Notes: ahh, i just watched this movie, and i needed to write a blurb about him. i'm going to try and write more blurbs like this was ewan mcgregor's, less popular, of course, characters, because i am in love with him

em masterlist

The subtle trace of a fingertip against your bare arm was enough to arouse you from the sleep that had claimed you many hours ago. You peeked an eye open, carefully watching Christian as his finger drew circles across your flesh, enraptured by the softness and beauty of it. He appeared intently focused on each dip and curve of your skin, admiring every inch of it as he did last night. Finally, your eyes opened fully, but you remained quiet, content with watching Christian perform his ministrations.

Your skin was still bare from the night before, the cotton sheets being the only thing to provide you any modesty. The warm blankets threatened to pull you under sleep's spell, the drowsiness finally catching up to you. You resisted the pull, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Your leg brushed against his, and Christian's eyes tore from your arm and raised to meet yours. You melted under the sheer admiration and love brimming in his irises as they moved across every intricate detail of your face. You were indeed the incarnation of beauty as the sunlight poured through the open window, encasing you in a heavenly warmth that made you seem more ethereal.

He would say that he's sure to have memorized every detail of your face by how long he's admired it, but that's just not true. He would never fail to find a new scar or maybe a fresh freckle was strewn across your cheek. He would make sure to place his lips on any newly discovered markings he found, amazed by your ability to surprise him with something new, no matter how small. He liked the unknown you had brought to his previously drab life.

His hand moved with a will of its own to your face, his hand cupping your supple skin laced with sleep.

"Good morning, my love," the slight rasp in his voice from not using it brought a smile to your face. He must have woken up not long before you. Good, he deserved every second of sleep he could obtain after Satine's death.

It haunted him, and for a while, he was stuck in a place of regret and guilt, wrapped up in his mind's delusions, until he met you.

Christian was convinced that he could not love after his first, that no one could compare to the beauty and chaos she had placed over his life until you stepped through his apartment. Granite, it was purely accidental. You had mistaken your friend's flat for his, but when his eyes fell upon yours, the world seemed to fix itself. Instantly, there was a shift in his heart from mourning to hope, and boy, what a refreshing feeling it was. It brought a new light to his life that had previously shrouded over in darkness, like the rain clouds parting for the sun. At that point, he also realized the true meaning of Satine's dying words. She wanted him to love, to live a life outside of her and the fantasy they had created. It took a while to make that shift, to let someone else into his fragmented heart, but you were patient, slowly putting the pieces back together, placing a kiss on each one you patched up to remind him that he wasn't alone and above all that he was loved.

The process of healing from such a traumatic event was long. However, even from that day when you had embarrassedly asked him for the right room, promising him to see him again, he had begun to heal.

Now Christian stared at you, his heart in your hands. And although it was scarred, you cradled it so gently that he couldn't help but not be at ease.

"Good morning Christian." His chest hummed with the airy laughter that left his thin kiss-bitten lips, his starry blue eyes never parting from yours. "Sleep well?"

"How could I not with you at my side?" Now it was your turn to laugh while he adjusted himself on his elbow, his fingers tracing the outline of your face.

"Such a charmer," you cooed, pushing a silky onyx strand of hair from his eyes.

"I would be anything for you, my darling. You need only to ask."

"Oh yeah?" You raised an eyebrow, and he chuckled, his head slightly shaking.

"Yeah," he murmured almost breathlessly.

"I want you to love me."

"But my sweet, I already do." The crease between Christian's eyebrows deepens, his eyes filling with confusion as your hand moves to cup his face, and within seconds he relaxes within your touch, soothed by your actions.

"That's the point."

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