Summary: On the cusp of the 20th century, the young poet Castielle moves to Paris in search of artistic inspiration - preferably in the form of true love. Plunged unexpectedly into the heady world of the Moulin Rouge, she begins a passionate love affair with the club's most notorious and beautiful star, 'The Sparkling Diamond' - or, as she becomes known by Castielle, Deanna Winchester.
At first enjoyable, the pair's attempts to keep their love secret become more and more ambitious; and as such more and more impossible. First desire, then passion, then love, then suspicion, jealousy, anger, betrayal; Castiel finds that when love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust, and without trust, there is no love. So how could there be love at the Moulin Rouge?
A story about a time, a story about a place. A story about the people, but most of all, a story about love. A love that will live forever.
A/N: I've wanted to write an f/f fic for so long, and have had this one in mind (or one of this sort in mind) for so long, and I finally decided to actually write and post it (about time). I really hope you all enjoy it!
For content warning, there will obviously be major character death, and all the other things included in the actual film of the Moulin Rouge. So that's prostitution/sex work, attempted rape, and so on. As I write it, I will obviously add more.
For updates on how writing the story is going/any questions (and anyone wanting to beta read it!) follow my tumblr ( .com )
Needless to say, I own neither The Moulin Rouge nor Supernatural. I will quote the film directly in this story, and all credit goes to Baz Luhrmann and all the writers of the movie, The Moulin Rouge, for the lines that I quote, as well as the premise for the story itself.
I also recognise that a lot of you aren't used to me writing femslash, and that as an author this is my first time publishing it. If you don't enjoy it, you're very much welcome to read my other stories, but this is going to be a purely wlw story.
Other than that, I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 1 - There Was a Girl
"So," The actress sighs, "you asked for a love story." A look of grim resolution has set across her face. Her petite hands are clasped together, rubbing at each other with something close to nervousness at irregular intervals. She glances at her lover stood in the corner of the room, taller than her by at least a head, and around ten years her junior. The younger woman—she could be no older than twenty five—shrugs and looks away. She leans against the wall, facing the group. The actress's gaze continues to press at the younger girl, and it becomes abundantly clear that she is asking a question. As seems natural on the tall, young woman, her expression is one of a most sombre nature. She stares hard, eyes melancholic, back at the actress, thin lips pressed together, and nods once.
Then a tear slips down her face.
The actress nods once in response—the gesture soft, understanding—and turns back to the group. "And a love story you shall get." She promises. Something in her voice is grim.
"What kind of love story?" One of the younger, prettier things asks—apparently the tone of the room has not quite caught up with her; she rests her chin on her balled fist, smiling as those who are blissfully unaware of something quite terrible do, and her eyes are alight with a spark that is not quite present in most of the other eyes in the room.
"A love story…" The actress frowns, something distant growing in her expression. She no longer looks at the group huddled before her, cross-legged on the floor, lying lazily across chaise longues, limbs all tangled together. Her eyes graze over to the open window, to where The Elephant used to stand, ornate and enormous and utterly obscene. She presses her lips together, apparently quite forgetting the young courtesan's question. "Samantha, do you have the papers?" She asks, eyes not moving from the point in the near distance they seem to rest upon. Some of the girls turn around, frowning, to see what it is the actress is looking at, and an air of confusion begins to glimmer through the group.
Sam nods and makes her way out the room, pushing back her long, deep brown hair. The actress turns back to the girl who asked the question, something beyond mere disenchantment growing in her weary features.
"You will learn." She says, staring straight at the courtesan. "The Moulin Rouge is not a place where love can grow and thrive the way it would on any other of the streets of Paris. You came here young and full of hope." Samantha returns with the papers the actress had spoken of. She slides them onto the older woman's lap, and returns to her place in the corner of the room. "You are young." The actress says, hardly noticing. "You will learn."
"Then what is this story about, Gabrielle?" One of the other girls asks, French accent making all her words sound beautiful and delicate and mystical. Gabrielle looks at the girl sadly. Such a pretty thing, with big dark eyes and ebony hair caught in loose waves. She would prove popular in here. Not a good thing.
Coming to the Moulin Rouge was not a good thing. Only a necessary thing when money was scarce.
"There was a girl," Gabrielle starts softly. She looks at the girl who asked the question, but her eyes do not focus; she seems to look at a point beyond or inside the little dancer. "A very strange, enchanted girl."
Silence has settled across the gathering. It almost seems to bubble with anticipation. Everyone grows very still. Gabrielle's voice, normally echoing and vibrant and comic, has turned soft, now sounds quite like music.
"They say she travelled very far…" Gabrielle swallows. She looks away from the dancing girl, no older than fifteen summers. "Very far." She glances at Samantha again, who stares at the ground, lips painted dark with rouge, trembling. "…A little shy…" She looks back out the window to where The Elephant used to be. The sound of a preacher shouting in the street below them echoes through the courtyard and into the room.
"Turn away from this village of sin," Come the Priest's familiar cries, "for it's a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah!"
His voice is stern, but Gabrielle knows how Crowley sends three of their lithest male courtesans to the Sainte-Chapelle every Tuesday after sundown.
"…And sad of eye," Gabrielle continues, just as the group begins to grow distracted by the Not-So-Holy-Man's preaching. "But very wise was she…"
The group watches Gabrielle with bated breath. She has always had a knack for storytelling—at least to a large group of people. It used to be something she would boast of. She looks down at the first page of the manuscript, 1900 printed across it in large, spidery letters.
Ten years. It has been ten years, and yet all who had known her felt the beating loss of a broken heart for The Sparkling Diamond every day.
Eyes burning, Gabrielle turns the page.
"And then one day," She looks down, swallowing back her tears. The courtesans and dancers here ought to hear this story before it is forgotten; before they fill their heads with ridiculous ideas of love and beauty and hope. Samantha and Gabrielle have lasted as long as they have because they long ago accepted the truth; because the pain of what they both lost had bound them so tightly together that no amount of jealousy for the men who bedded Samantha every night could drive Gabrielle away. "A magic day, she passed my way." Gabrielle decides her words, almost laughing. When she closes her eyes, she can see Cassie's fingers working away at her typewriter, can hear its clicking, can smell the ink and paper. She smoothes her hands over the manuscript. She breathes deeply. She remembers how strange and alien Castielle's name had sounded in her ears the first time she had heard it; how she had soon come to realise that nothing else in the world would suit her quite as well. "And while we spoke of many things—of fools and kings—"
Gabrielle thinks of how rare Cassie's smiles were. Of her bright blue eyes framed by a serious set of dark eyelashes and eyebrows. She thinks of Cassie's ridiculous coat that she always used to wear; the one which stretched down to her ankles, the one which she always turned the collar up on to shield her against the harsh Parisian winter winds. She thinks of the light that once lit up Cassie's eyes despite all of this, despite her serious, bewildered demeanor, despite the intensity of her gaze. She thinks of how this light left, and is now long gone. She wonders if Cassie ever found it in her to love again.
Ten years. It hardly seemed enough.
"This she said to me," Gabrielle coughs once into her closed fist. Her voice trembles on the edge of delicacy and tears. She looks down at the open manuscript. She almost laughs, love and warmth flushing through her. She almost cries. She reads the first sentence of the page aloud, thinking of how when she had first heard these words, they seemed like the wisest thing the world had to offer. "The greatest thing," She starts, staring at the rounded, awkward letters of the sentence, tapped out by Castielle's typewriter, "you'll ever learn," She thinks of how oddly providential it is that this should be the first sentence Cassie thought to write; and the sentiment with which Gabrielle had chosen to introduce the love story, "is just to love." She beams through her tears, looking up from the page. "And be loved, in return."
The group sits back, their pretty lips parted. For the first time in several minutes, they seem to inhale again.
Gabrielle looks back down at the manuscript. At Cassie's writing, at her first story. It is stained with tears. She wonders if the strange girl with messy dark hair and a head for words and beauty ever had this published—all she knows is that she left Samantha with a copy, and that she left Paris to return to London with a broken heart. If the novel ever had been published, it would be news to Gabrielle—but spending her life in, as the Priest below them continues to shout, a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, certainly means that she is unable to keep up with the affairs of young, modern writers and the publishing of great works of literature. She tries to recall the title of the last book she read. Nothing comes to her. She looks down at the manuscript on her lap. At least she knows what the name of the next book she will read is; the title written neatly below Cassie's beautiful old life mantra. She reads it aloud.
"The Moulin Rouge," She introduces. And then, she begins to read.
...
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed, next update should be in a few days. The Devil's Epitaph will be updated on Wednesday, The College Years the following week. Please review!