#especially moulin rouge

[ilistentogirlinred]

seeing hadestown live would solve all my problems i think

[ashleyslorens]

SATINE as JOJO albums

[gingerpeachtea]

🦀🦀🦀

15 sentences!!!!

Satine was lying on Christian’s bed, seated up against tattered pillows thin with use; she might have minded, if the smell of his shampoo and her perfume weren’t lingering so sweetly. She could recall their early days, before Christian had gotten properly settled, when all that clung was dust. Or, the bitter stench of absinthe, when the same could be said of his breath—when the green-cheapened poetry of his mouth swallowed the copper twinge in her own. A small mercy she'd held tight in her bloodstained fist. Paris backstreets shone among the red L’amour sign beyond Christian’s apartment, a mere glimmer peeking through the reflections cast on the window: Christian’s backside, lit warm by the bedside lamp while he excitedly leafed through the pieces he’d workshopped with Toulouse. He was always working on something new, jumping from project to project, passion to passion; a constant balancing act of his overactive imagination atop the cusp of fresh creation. He came home from each session with Toulouse more than eager to share his day’s musings with Satine. After all, try as he might, Toulouse was never too successful in pacing Christian, keeping him stoking one creative flame at a time instead of just dousing every concept in gasoline and tossing in a reckless match. No, it seemed Santiago and Satine were the lucky few capable of reining him in from careening wildly between ideas at the drop of a hat. (Nini had successfully shot down an idea of his once, though, after being forced to overhear him describe it to Satine in their dressing room between acts. She’d been a bit harsh about it, but he appreciated her honesty.)

i think this is more than 15 whatevs tho ily

(make me write!!!)

[weregonnabecoolbeans]

Girlies!

I need movie recommendations.

Please let me know of any movies you love!

The more the better! I’m in need of new comfort movies!

[faded-florals]

Come What May ❤️

Moulin Rouge! The Musical Broadway, July 1st 2023, 2pm

[roselightfairy]

Now we're watching Moulin Rouge, because we're On This Journey and I'm just

The first scene with Satine and Christian dancing where she keeps alarming him until he makes these incredibly stupid faces

Can you imagine Clone Wars Satine coming at Obi-Wan with even ONE-TENTH this energy and poor repressed Jedi Obi-Wan is like WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME I CAN'T HANDLE IT and he eventually breaks away like "I HAVE TO GO MEDITATE"

(Qui-Gon finds him two hours later with his forehead pressed into the floor chanting mantras in the useless hope that it'll calm him down, and Qui-Gon reminds himself again and again that he passed his Trials, surely this can't be that bad, surely it can't)

(It's worse)

[tutuandscoot]

Oh nothing, just Scott getting Tessa out of their Moulin Rouge ending pose.

[qilingxiong]

heihua moulin rouge au with hei xiazi as christian and xiao hua as satine. is this anything

[handsomelyerin]

lestat would be so obsessed with christian moulinrouge like that's literally a boy of infinite beauty and sensitivity.... he'd still suck him dry at the end of the night tho

[starlene]

So Moulin Rouge! Stockholm twice in less than 24 hours.

Because I could could could.

Can recommend!

[theninjamouse]

The Ocean on Fire Moulin Rouge au is once again dancing a tango through my brain

[userslayer]

i watched moulin rouge for the first time ever today and im a changed woman now

[imbluedabadeedabadye]

Me talking to @robinthegloblin and @apollosleftelbow be like:

Anyone: Hey (asks about a special interest of mine)? Me: Becomes an unskippable cutscene

[ipseitydelrey]

cherry ☆ s. reid

ship spencer reid x afab!reader

content smut, period sex (kinda?), eating out (f!receiving), while on your period, it’s not that gross i swear, he’s a munch ur honour 🙇

word count 1.7k

summary usually during your period, you get really hot and bothered for no particular reason other than hormones. spencer offers to help out with your problem.

a/n im posting this directly after seeing a show at the moulin rouge, it’s currently 2am; this was inspired by my experience at the eras tour in stockholm

Periods are hell for you. Not just because of the cramps, or the blood, but because you just get so horny.

Now, to others it’s completely normal to masturbate while their periods are happening, either with a fingers or with a toy. Period sex is also a thing you’ve heard of, even from your friends who have often recommended the activity.

But to you, doing anything remotely like that, either by yourself or with anyone else, is a no. Mostly because of the messiness and how troublesome it would be to clean it up. So instead of getting relief by just touching youself, you always decide to wait until your period is finished to start doing sexual activities again. Besides, you only just have to go a few days without stimulation.

But this week is hard. You have the urge to just rip your underwear off and play with your clit until your wrist starts to ache all the time. It’s pure agony for you, and sometimes you find youself clenching your thighs together, or pushing your heel against your clothed pussy to get some sort of relief.

In the middle of your monthly period, one day is especially hard. You’re laying on the couch with a heating pad on your abdomen, your hair hidden in your drawstring hood, and your legs on your boyfriend Spencer’s thighs while he reads a book at 20,000 words per minute. He sometimes glances up at you from his novel whenever you squirm a bit, though you’re not sure if he thinks you’re just in pain from your cramps or if he’s able to read through you.

Besides, you know for a fact that your boyfriend won’t help you get off while you’re on your period. Spencer’s known to have a thing with germs, so there’s no way that he’ll touch your pussy, especially if it’s bleeding.

The next time you shift slightly and whine softly, Spencer closes his book and sets it down on the coffee table. “Are you okay, honey?”

“‘M okay,” you respond, your voice muffled by your pillow being cuddled in your arms. You unintentionally clench your thighs together at his caring voice which unfortunately, Spencer notices.

“You sure?” He gently massages your calf, which only adds fuel to the fire. You hate that he’s a profiler now. “Just cramps?”

“Mmph…” You nods your head a bit as you hide your face in the pillow, trying to hide your soft blush.

“Maybe you’re aroused?” He asks suddenly. One of his hands moves up your leg to squeeze your thigh. Profilers.

Again, you nod your head, defeated since he can so clearly see how horny you are. “Mm-hmm.”

“I see,” he mutters under his breath, but you can hear him. Disproving your previous judgements about him, he shifts his position so that he’s directly facing you, leaving one of your legs to hang off the couch and allowing him to be between your legs.

You pull the pillow down to your chest, wanting to see what he’s trying to achieve. “What’re you doing?” you ask, your eyebrow cocked.

“Can I help you?” Spencer suggests, his hands planted on your upper thighs, close to your core.

“With what?”

“You’re aroused,” he points out again. “And you’re in pain. Studies have shown that orgasms can help subside period cramps.”

Oh, that’s probably why your friends keep recommending period sex. But you feel too tired for full-on penetration right now. Yet again, he could maybe help you in another way. “Are you sure? It’s gonna be messy, and I know you don’t like germs, and I just feel gross.” You argue self-deprecatingly.

“Well I can put a towel down.” He gets up from his position between your legs and goes off to the bathroom. From the couch, you can hear him opening cupboards before he comes back with a black towel in hand. He continues with what he was saying. “And I want to help you. It’s not gross, it’s natural. I want to make you feel good. Here, lift up your hips.”

He puts a hand on your hip to guide you as you lift your bottom half up just enough for him to place a towel down and make sure it’s flat before he guides you back down. The towel is only just there if you say yes though, which he eagerly awaits before he does anything else to you.

You sigh, and figure that this might be worth a shot. You drop the pillow to the ground in front of the couch, quickly followed by the heating pad that was on your stomach. “Okay, fine,” you say as enthusiastically as you can which, with your cramps and your tiredness, isn’t really that enthusiastic.

Still, Spencer mouths a silent “thank you” before he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. You lift your hips up once more to make it easier when he tugs them down and off, leaving you in your underwear. Following the same pattern, he once again pulls your period panties off, and you let your hips settle onto the towel-covered couch.

His hands find their way between your thighs and he spreads them just enough for him to have access to your core, wet from your arousal and your blood. The five seconds he spends just staring at your vulnerable pussy, dripping blood onto the towel, are the most nerve-wracking five seconds of your life. You halfway convince yourself that he’s going to back out and leave you like this, horny and bloody with your pants off.

And yet, he buries his head between your legs and starts by gently kissing your heat, then licking a long stripe from the base of your slit all the way up to your sensitive clit, causing an equally long moan to erupt from the depths of your throat.

“You’re so beautiful, honey,” he says before he dives back in again, drawing circles around your bundle of nerves with his tongue before he traps it between his lips and suckles.

You kick your legs up a bit when he focuses on your clit, the stimulation to your sensitive bud ripping sudden moans from your lips. Your hands find their way to the top of his head and you grasp on to his hair tight.

He looks up at you through his lashes, still working his lips around your clit before he moves his tongue down to your slit, licking a bit before thrusting it into your wet cunt. His thumb replaces where his tongue was before, rubbing small tight circles around the bud.

You can’t believe how good he’s making you feel right now, and you can feel your pleasurable knot in your stomach tightening because of his undeserved-but-needed efforts. You don’t know if he’s doing this for you just to be helpful — considering his complicated personal relationship with germs and the like — or if he just really enjoys eating your pussy this much. With each second that passes by having Spencer lapping at your cunt like a man starved, you start to think that it’s the latter thought.

And he can tell you like it too, with the way you moan and arch your back and even when you start to grind your clit against your nose while his tongue is deep in your pussy. Even if you’re wearing a baggy hoodie and were wearing sweatpants, he still manages to make you feel incredibly sexy. Or “sexy” is maybe not the right word — loved; you feel loved in this moment.

He appears to feel the same as well, with the way he moans in content seeing you like this and feeling your fingers nestled in his hair and tugging lightly. With every small pull, a tiny sound emits from his throat and it feels oh so pleasurable on your pussy.

Sensing your impending orgasm, he takes his tongue, wet by your slick and blood, out of your weeping hole and quickly replaces the muscle with his index finger. He slowly pushes the digit in, feeling your walls pulsate around him as he pushes and pulls it in and out in a steady rhythm. A minute later, he adds a second and starts to curl his fingers against that gooey button inside your cunt once he’s knuckle-deep into your warmth.

It’s so much for you; almost too much. Your jaw hangs open in a silent moan and you almost can’t believe it when you start to grind your hips against his thrusting fingers, fucking yourself with his index and middle as it continuously and without fail hits the spongy button everytime.

Your orgasm hits you almost unexpectedly, a wave of pleasure overflows you as your eyes flutter shut and your back arches just a bit more. Your chest heaves while you gasp for air; this is just what you needed during your period. Seeing you’re damn near overwhelmed, Spencer works you through your orgasm, your arousal forming a creamy circle around his still-working fingers.

“There we go, that’s it, you’re doing so well” are among the small praises he breathes onto your pussy while you slowly but surely come down from the high. At the same speed, his fingers slow down until they become stationery, before he pulls them out with a wet squelch, causing you to whimper softly. When your eyes meet next, he can see how glossy your eyes are with satisfcation pulling at the corners of your lips.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You half-lie with a small laugh trailing behind your words. Though to be fair, you definitely needed it.

He pulls himself up to be eye level with you while you’re still laying there on your back catching your breath. You can already see a mixture of your arousal and your blood dribbling down his chin, though he doesn’t seem to mind all that much. “No, but I wanted to.” He says with a dopey smile, still pussy drunk.

Though the lower half of his face is still covered by your juices, he tries to lean in and kiss you, only to be stopped by your hands on his shoulders and you turn your head to the side with an amused smile. “Ew! I don’t wanna taste my blood!”

Spencer scoffed playfully at your reaction. “I just ate you out and I don’t even get a kiss?”

The way he pleads just makes you melt a little and you decide to give in just a bit by gently kissing his cheek. You can feel his cheeks heat up against your lips. Despite his previous openness, he gets flustered and smiles sheepishly, sighing a little. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” you joke, your mouth still planted on his cheek.

i’ve been plane-hopping around europe for over a month so i haven’t had a lot of access to wifi + i nearly failed one of my courses bc my professor was horrible at giving feedback, hopefully this explains my absence and i hope u enjoyed this !! (i posted this in a flurry btw, lmk if there are any errors whatsoever 🫶)

taglist @queermaxwooo @theoraekenslover join the taglist!

[margowritesthings]

The French Are Glad To Die For Love

A Bridgerton x Moulin Rouge crossover

pairing: Colin Bridgerton x ? word count: 2.1k words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, un-beta'd, mentions of sex, spitting, lots of debauchery authors note: surpriiise! i have been sitting on this since part 1, so to celebrate part 2 tomorrow here's my new mini-series! i have never written for Colin before, so i'm nervous, but i loved writing this.

i also need your help! i cannot decide if this mini series should be Colin x reader or a Polin fic, where Penelope is Satine. I have created a poll here for you to vote, so please let me know!

and as always, enjoy! it's been a hot minute since I last published, so thank you if you're still here.

Bridgerton Masterlist

The stars sparkle especially brightly tonight, the crimson lanterns guiding Parisians and tourists alike through the winding streets, and Colin Bridgerton stands in awe of it all. 

He’d read stories, heard tales of this place during long nights at Whites, but nothing could have quite prepared him for what lay ahead of him, a long string of lights hanging in the sky leading the way to his destination. 

The Moulin Rouge. 

A house of debauchery and sin, of freedom and truth, filled to the brim with bohemians and artists and beautiful women unlike anything or anyone he’s ever seen before. Even now, 30 feet away from the illuminated windmill, he can hear the music and the joy spilling out from the building. His senses are filled with the perfume of hundreds of women passing him by the minute, all with real, toothy grins he rarely has the pleasure of seeing back home. It is far too impolite to be so happy in London society. 

Colin steps forwards, his boots crunching against the gravel and his coattails flying in the breeze. His shoulders brush more wonderfully merry, positively inebriated partygoers on his way in, catching odd fragments of conversations that would have scandalised him and his whole family were he elsewhere. 

But he wasn’t elsewhere. He was here, in the city of love, away from anybody who had ever known the name Bridgerton. His clean slate clutched close to his chest, waiting to find out what will be written on it next, Colin feels the fresh air on his face for the last time before his life is changed forever.

The heat hits him first, a symptom he knew all too well of too many people packed into a small space. But unlike every ball he’s been to, this doesn’t feel claustrophobic or fusty. It feels alive. 

There is a feast for the eye wherever one looks. Burlesque dancers showing off stockings and garters by kicking their legs up, toes pointing towards the aerial hoops holding acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Gentlemen, if you can call them that in this state, wearing top hats, arm in arm with their glasses raised high, spilling their contents all over the wooden floor. 

The music blasts loud from each instrument the band masterfully pluck or blow or bang, but laughter and conversation buzzes amongst the melodies. It is a near overwhelming amount of joy, one Colin certainly could use a drink to wash it down with. 

If he could just find the bar…

Bodies fill his view, so entangled in each other it is difficult to tell where one starts and another ends. Frilly skirts flow over the knees of suits as ladies dangle from the necks of patrons, sharing cigars and passing around bottles of an unknown green liquid. Rosy cheeks as far as the eye can see, wether from too much of that green stuff or the exertion of all that dancing, Colin can’t be sure. Between them all, in tiny empty spaces, he can just about make out rows of bottles and glasses. 

Weaving through the crowd is like treading through water, but their energy and joy seems to rub off on him. There isn’t a dance card in sight, women choosing their partners themselves whenever they like with a freedom Colin isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. Is this truly what people are designed to be when they are free?

Eventually, his hands find the sticky wood of the bar, quickly lifting themselves back off it on instinct at the sensation. When Colin looks to his left, he sees a woman pouring a shot of liquor between her breasts, a man knelt below her waiting to lick it back up, and he quickly realises why the bar feels so tacky- every surface here seems to be host to someone’s revelry. 

“Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, monsieur. Can I get you a drink?”

Colin’s attention is quickly pulled by the welcome, his gaze snapping to a tall French woman dripping with red jewels that compliment her rich brown skin perfectly. She is captivating to be sure, deep hazel eyes commanding Colin’s attention, competing with the most incredible curls of hair he has ever seen. Ladies of the ton are welcome no matter their race back home, but Colin has never seen a lady allowed to wear her hair so beautifully natural before. The Afro framing her face has more tiny rubies that sparkle under the cabaret lights, and Colin is speechless. 

“I…uh, pardon me, Miss, I-“ he sighs, giving up entirely at his failed attempt at decorum, “Is it so obvious I have never been here before?” 

She laughs, gems twinkling as her head shakes with mirth. 

“Not at all, but most gentlemen who have been here before know to wear a top hat. And there’s that look in your eye…” 

As she speaks, she pours out one finger of the green liquor Colin has spotted a few times already, sliding it along the wood towards him. 

“Wonder. Drink this. It will help with the nerves.” 

Colin looks down, finding himself fascinated with a drink that seems to glow of its own volition. He has smoked blends and meditated with world weary travellers from across the globe, drank tea containing unknown substances that left him staring at blades of grass as if they held the worlds secrets, and yet this… whatever it is, seems to terrify him.

The barmaid laughs again, that melodic sound with the real joy Colin very much enjoys. 

“It’s only absinthe, monsieur. Loosens the inhibitions, relaxes the body…” she explains, pouring a second out for herself and lifting it to him as if to prove her credibility. 

“Santé.” He toasts to health.

“Amour.” She toasts to something far greater.

It leaves no room for argument, and all Colin can do is lift his own glass and tap it against hers. 

It burns his tongue, leaving a fiery trail down his throat as he swallows and tries not to cough and splutter. A bitter yet herby anise flavour fights with his taste buds and seems to seep straight into his mind, teasing at those tense knots that held him back from fully immersing himself here. 

When his eyes eventually reopen, he finds the barmaid beaming at him, unphased by her own potion. Rather used to it, if she shares a glass with every newcomer, he should think.

“Be careful, though, monsieur. Many a man has spent a night with the stuff and swears he fell in love with a fairy dressed all in green. Ruined him for any other woman for the rest of his life…” She speaks words that belong in fairytale, with a tone containing such severity Colin is inclined to take every single one of them as gospel. 

“I dare say I should be careful, then. I do not think this green fairy would want to join the rest of my travels when she can instead entice all of Paris’ men to sin…” 

The residue of the liquor smells just as strong as the full measure, which Colin tries to blink out of his senses when he puts the glass back on the bar.

Almost as if society itself had cleared its throat at him, Colin remembers himself, remembers just where he is. Undoubtedly the most unique establishment he had ever set foot in, but an establishment all the same. 

“I beg your pardon, miss, I seem to forget myself. How much do I owe you for the drink?”

She considers him.

“Hm,  the absinthe I think… for you, a kiss.” 

Colin, already pulling coins from his breast pocket, pauses, a little grin tugging at the corner of his lip. The francs clink together when they fall back to the bottom of his pocket, a long forgotten currency of the past. It’s a perfect reminder of just how different things are here, how easily walls crumble between strangers and connection is offered so freely. He has never kissed a woman he has not paid for back home, so afraid of getting too close to another in case they ruin each other. Here, a beautiful woman leans over the bar, offering her flushed cheek for him to softly press his lips against. 

And he does. 

And it is lovely. 

“If any more handsome men capture the eye of Mademoiselle Belle, I will surely be out of business!” A loud, hearty voice pulls Colin from one blissful moment back into the party.

He regards a rather large man, clad in a red tailcoat and stunning golden waistcoat. His top hat, near the same to all the other gentlemen in the room but somehow grander, tops wild orange curls that match a fantastic handlebar moustache. A true ring leader to this wonderful circus of debauchery Colin has found himself in. 

“Harold Zidler, at your service. Welcome to the Moulin Rouge.” 

“Colin Bridgerton.” He replies, offering a hand that Harold seems bemused at. Unsurprising, considering what passes for currency around here. Nonetheless, Harold shakes the offered hand. 

”I must say, your establishment is rather…” he hesitates, unable to find a word in any language he has picked up along his travels that quite captures the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps he could blame the absinthe, or the intoxicating hedonism he feels rooting its way through his mind, hidden in the brass notes from the band and thrown with each cancan kick of one of the dancers that surrounds him. 

Luckily, Harold seems well used to this phenomenon. 

“Isn’t it? And you have seen nothing yet! I assume you are not from around here?”

”It is rather obvious, I have been told.” Colin adds a glance to Miss Belle, who’s skirt frills bounce in the lights while she shakes up a cocktail. He adds, “London.” 

”Well, Monsieur Bridgerton, I promise you that what we have here in the Moulin Rouge is unlike anything you have back home in London.” 

Colin’s eye is caught again across the room, as a beautiful woman with blonde tumbling waves spits a drink into a man’s mouth. 

“I am inclined to agree with you there.” 

It truly is unlike anything back home. Colin has travelled across Europe and back again, seen incredible sights and met wonderful people. He has felt that ease that distance from London society and its unwritten laws and social rules that bind him back home can bring. He’s seen beauty and felt freedom and thought he might have found truth somewhere along the way, but it pales to whatever is contained within these four walls. 

In truth, it couldn’t be farther from London society.

”Just wait until you see my Diamond, Monsieur.”

… Perhaps not. 

Intrigue hits Colin as Harold pulls out a pocket watch on a brilliant gold chain. 

“Your diamond?”

”My Sparkling Diamond. The main attraction of the Moulin Rouge, my most sought after little chickee.” He speaks proudly, with a mist in his eye Colin normally finds on ambitious Mamas at grand balls, secretly trying to auction their daughters off to the highest rank. 

“I do not believe she is booked yet for tonight…” Harold adds, that mist darkening, disappearing, leaving a shiver stuck between Colin’s shoulder blades.

Not because this Diamond is a courtesan. Colin is hardly a stranger to the profession, and he bears no judgement. In truth, he admires the women he has been known to spend the night with, finding the courage of living outside society so freely quite brave indeed. No, that shiver came from Harold entirely, Colin just cannot figure out why. 

Harold excuses himself, though makes sure Colin knows to stay for the show, and Colin orders a whiskey on the rocks, insisting on paying in cash this time. Though singular in person, he has never felt less alone in his life. Looking around, there isn’t an empty chair in the house. If there were, there wouldn’t be room to put it down for all the dancers and patrons enjoying every ounce of the world they can. Music played straight from the soul ringing in his ears, Colin could make out every instrument. The lights dazzled in his eyes and the spot caught him every so often, lighting his drink up in his hand like golden ambrosia. 

And then, darkness. Silence. 

A single spot, though the mirrors scattered around catch the light and illuminate the faces of the people around him. Everybody is looking upwards, as if they all know she is coming. 

Even if he did know, Colin could never have prepared himself for what he saw when he looked up.

Who he saw.

The Sparkling Diamond, shimmering high on a swing hanging from the ceiling. 

The most beautiful, breathtaking, person he has ever seen. In any city, on any continent in the world. 

Crimson lips part as each and every person hangs on the breath she takes.

”The French are glad to die for love…”

don't forget to vote in the poll for your fmc!

[lostmykeysie]

this snippet changed my life they are all so ridiculous i LOVE them

james potter being james potter in every universe is just so. so. you know? and they/them baddie dorcas actually gets me going every time it's all PERFECT. marlene really is just hanging out

i have never seen moulin rouge (pretty sure it's a film i do know the song however) but even i can acknowledge there is clearly a moulin rouge x wolfstar hole in everyone's lives and i EAGERLY await @hihimissamericanbi sticking her dick in it xxxxxxxxxxx

Moulin Rouge x Wolfstar AU

Alright I couldn't find a complete Moulin Rouge x Wolfstar AU on AO3 SO I'M CALLNG DIBS. I'm gonna do it. Here's a snippet/preview/thingie. God I really am shouting into the void here.

It’s the turn of the 20th century, and artists of every disciple and creed have flocked to the very vanguard of all things nouveau: Montmarte, that city upon a hill indeed.  Musicians, writers, actors, painters—they gather in brothels, dance in cabarets, smoke outside cafes and argue over balconies beneath the beaming Parisian sun, ignoring with the stubbornness of the French the biting spring winds whipping March into April. Remus joins in the fray, giddily anticipating a penniless existence spent waxing lyrical the bohemian ideals of freedom, beauty, truth and love.

However, upon setting his typewriter amongst a ramshackle bedsit located off la Rue Garreau, with mice sharing his day-old bread and water of suspicious origin dripping through the plastered ceiling, Remus encounters an unforeseen obstacle in his quest:

“I’ve never been in love.”

Before he has a moment longer to ponder this predicament, a tremendous crash sounds as an entire human comes tumbling through the ceiling, caught and suspended upside down by a complicated system of ropes.

Remus looks upon the dangling person, all messy blonde hair and tangled limbs, with mild curiosity.

“Hello, how may I help you?” he asks politely. Remus may be on French soil, but he is determined not to leave his English manners on the other side of the channel.

“Ah! Pardon, Monsieur! Please accept our sincerest apologies!” echoes a booming if frantic voice from the vicinity of the floor above.

Remus stands and goes to help the dangling human, looking up into said human-shaped hole in his ceiling, to find several curious faces peering back down upon him; the one with scruffy black hair and spectacles flashes a criminally white smile, bright against his caramel complexion.

“Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur!” Specs booms. “I see you have met our Marlene!”

As if on cue, Marlene, still hanging upside down, spins slowly around to meet Remus’s eyes. Her face—as fair as her hair—has grown tomato red with the blood rush, but she too maintains her composure as she struggles to extend an ensnared hand to her new host.

“Pleasure, I’m sure,” she purrs.

Without preamble, Specs jumps through the hole in the ceiling and slides down one of the ropes suspending Marlene, launching himself to his feet in front of Remus. Marlene yelps and swings ever more violently with the sudden momentum.

“I am James Fleamont Potter,” Specs announces proudly as he straightens, gesturing grandly and ignoring Marlene’s protestations behind him.

Mouth agape, Remus looks up just in time to see a beautiful person with ebony skin, a shaved head and ears full of shining metal shrug in nonchalance before gracefully leaping straight from the floor above, landing crouched and catlike next to James. They stand, tall and lithe, to level Remus with cool regard. An elegant hand, also heavily beringed, shoots out to steady Marlene, who is now a distinctive shade of maroon.

“Steady on there, love,” they murmur. Despite her already highly flushed cheeks, Marlene somehow still manages to blush even deeper.

“Dorcas,” the tall person says to Remus by way of an introduction.

“Um, perhaps we should—” Remus gestures to the swaying blonde upside down in the middle of his room whose face is rapidly nearing eggplant purple.

“Right you are, Monsieur!” James, still grinning with delight, removes a six-inch bowie knife from his belt and twirls it handily before slashing Marlene free with a single backhanded swipe. Chaos, Remus thinks. This man is chaos.

Dorcas neatly catches Marlene before she hits the ground, cradling her bridal style; they clear their throat as they hastily tip Marlene onto her own two feet. All three newcomers straighten to face their very bemused and rather horrified host.

“That’s IT!” a fourth person screeches from the room above. Remus looks up one final time to see a man in full makeup toss his hands in indignation. “I simply cannot work under these conditions anymore, Potter!”

“Caradoc, wait—” James has his head tilted comically upward, the other bloke’s own head now shoved downward over the lip of the hole. Remus’s mouth twitches.

“No Potter! This is the last straw! How am I supposed to write with that absolute oaf—” Marlene bristles and Dorcas’s eyes narrow threateningly. They place a protective arm around Marlene. “—mucking up every single rehearsal we attempt?! I am simply finished!”

With that, Caradoc stands, disappearing from view, and stomps to what Remus assumes is the door to the apartment. He is proven correct when he hears it swing open and then slam violently shut.

Caradoc’s footsteps echo ominously as he descends the stairs, crescendoing when they reach Remus’s floor and then fading away till the only sound that remains is the stilted breathing of four people all crowded around the foot of Remus’s musty bed.

“So, Monsieur,” James, though panting a bit, still has that goofy smile fixed firmly on his face. “You wouldn’t happen to know any writers, hm?”

(yes this Dorcas is deffo inspired by Keysie's smoking hot Dorcas in TML go read it) @lostmykeysie