Author's Note: Hi all. This is my first post of a Moulin Rouge story. I'm not really sure where I'm going with it yet, but I absolutely adore all the cancan dancers, especially Schoolgirl and Babydoll, and this story is something I started and hopefully will finish. I'm not sure if I'll include Christian in the story. I haven't really read any Moulin Rouge fanfic, so I don't know what's cliche and what's not. I'll just go with the flow. :) Enjoy!
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The glitz and glamour of the Moulin Rouge. So bright and harsh, assaulting the eyes no matter where they searched. Not one dull color, not one calming feature. If men wanted to find girls who were brash and snake-tongued, the Moulin Rouge is where they began their quest. The girls possed flash. Torrid colors. Excess in every form. And every once in a while a brief hint of a bare breast or more.
The two enfants of the Moulin rouge virtually represented none of these things. Sweet little girls caught in the web of decadence, seemingly hired on as a joke.
Yet the men couldn't get enough of them.
Not a sequin or a hint of womanly lust in sight when you looked at those two. Just the angelic baby doll in her pink, frilly dress, her blond curls capped off with a flowered bonnet and her feet shod in blue mary janes. And the little school girl, her sailor outfit and braids the picture of supposed innocence.
There was a union between them, as there had to be. You couldn't walk among the malicious, glimmering girls of the Moulin Rouge in an outfit only suitable for a five-year-old unless you had a partner in crime. The visual purity of these two is what bonded them together and kept them safe.
"How is my little girl tonight?" asked Mansour as Schoolgirl sidled up to him and brushed her thin fingers over his black jacket sleeve.
She didn't answer him. She never did. The only language she ever used in the Moulin Rouge was the intense look of her brown eyes, ringed thickly with the darkest makeup she could get her hands on. The effect made her look ghostly, ashen, a dead little girl arisen from the grave. Intense, harsh eyes. She leaned forward and placed her lips close to Mansour's ear, enough to make him shiver.
Babydoll grinned smugly from across the dance hall, as she absently teased several men by lifting her skirt just enough to give a hint of her knickers. She knew they were behind her. They were always behind her. Her personal, private entourage who followed her wherever she went, all night, every night. But it was still early. A hint of knicker was enough... for now.