"Ah, Angelterre, I am sure you will enjoy my exquisite French entertainment!" France said confidently, walking with the British gentleman down a shady street.
The Englishman scoffed but didn't rebuke. Honestly he was curious as to what the perverted frog would show him, as long as it wasn't his bedroom, of course. As the two walked down the street in Paris, Britain noticed how dark the sky was. His (magical) friends had warned him of the bad weather but he ignored it, too busy dealing with his annoying younger brother to notice. Now he regretted listening to them.
Before he could protest, however, he saw a peculiar sight; a red windmill perched up high in the middle of Paris! What bullocks is this? He angrily thought, but then recognized the place in astonishment. The Moulin Rouge was famous for it's indecency, after all.
"We're not seriously going in there, right?" Britain asked with a doubtful expression, eyebrows knitting up. The Frenchman laughed.
"Why, do you not want to, mon ami?"
"Yes, precisely. Right on the dot. Couldn't have said it better myself."
France chuckled again, this time sounding more like a 'ohoho' sort of sound. Britain, disgusted, turned around abruptly and started walking back when he heard the announcement of a familiar name.
"Come all, come now, because the magnificent Violet Blanc will perform for you!"
All of a sudden, the world stopped. No, the meaning wasn't literal, but to Britain it was. He knew that name, loved it, dreaded it, hated it and lusted after it all at the same time. France noticed his hesitation and smirked, drawing him back with an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close.
"So, you know the famous Violet, non?" He inquired teasingly, smiling wider when he saw his companion's face flush.
"O-only casually," He replied as normally as possible, which failed ultimately. France nodded and after another loud call from the outside announcer he trotted forward.
"Well I'm sure that tu would love to see her again." France whispered in his ear, already pushing both of them into the Moulin Rouge. Britain trembled as they passed through and forced himself to calm down, to just breathe. It's nothing, he thought to assure himself, probably someone else anyway.
They stopped with the huge crowd of businessmen, waiting for the time to be called in. Others were mumbling in hushed voices with each other with their tones excited rather than serious. In this world they forgot their troubles, if only for a moment, and 'enjoyed' young can-can dancers performances. France was always talking about it during conferences and while some, like Britain, would shy from the bright-eyed perv others gathered around him with curiosity. From what he had grudgingly heard this was a performance that went by in a flash but stayed in your mind a century. As the country of United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland, he had felt and lived through centuries, so his expectations were a bit low.
When the doors opened everyone poured inside, chattering away like excited school children. Britain laughed quietly at this and looked to see what France was doing. As always the Frenchman was checking out the other men, even though it was obvious they weren't gay. His arm still hadn't left Britain's shoulder. They made their way past the crowd and sat a table with other men dressed in professional attire. Britain felt no respect for them even though they wore the same clothes as he and probably put in hours of work; these were the dirty men of corruption, after all. Queen Victoria would have disapproved very strongly.
All of a sudden the talking quieted not to a whisper, but an eerie silence. Britain blinked in slight surprise but brought his eyes to the clearing a few feet from him. The director bowed, finishing his speech that Britain had ignored, and left the headlit stage which soon dimmed. Nothing moved except for the occasional laugh from a regular patron. Then, music came on.
"Where's all my soul sisters? Let me hear that flow sisters."
The stage dazzled with light after a gruff but no doubt female voice sang, and three dancers stood in the middle of the stage, clad in dancing uniforms. Skin was barely covered and Britain cursed as he found his cheeks heat up. Never in the Queen's court would there be women so sleazy, so underdressed. He leaned back in his chair and cast a judgemental glare on them.
"Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, flow sister. Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister."
One of the girls, with a red-black corset and milk chocolate skin with a red feather on top of her head, started singing in a melodic and vibrating voice. As she sang Britain's past came to haunt him, which meant that he remembered something that he wanted to forget ever since it happened.
"He met Marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge, strutting her stuff on the street."
Britain pictured the scene perfectly, although he was dead drunk when the event had occurred. He had gotten drunk off of remembering the American Revolution again, and France had decided it wouldn't be that good of an idea if he slept with him that night, being teary-eyed and all. So he gently let the British drunk out and saw him stumble down the alley, letting him go by himself for a bit as he dashed back into the bar to get his things. Through drunken eyes of forest green Britain saw her, the strangest yet most mesmerizing woman he had ever seen. Her hair was bleached to a dazzling white, and her eyes gleamed a sea blue. She wore a blue corset with long, fish net stockings complete with black briefs. She smiled at him, coming close to his face and murmuring in his ear,
"She said, 'Hello, hey Jo, want to give it a go?' Oh! Uh-huh."
The joint filling in of a chorus joined into the girl singing, other dancers piling in from the sidelines and can-canning with the rest of the group. They sang in loud and hyper voices, making the men about them freak and jump up from their seats.
"Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada (hey hey hey)! Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya here (here)! Mocha Chocalata ya ya (oh yea).
Creole lady Marmalade..."
He remembered the feeling of his lips against hers, and the instant disappearance of his depression. The moans and feel of her skin turned him on, even though he was supposed to be a gentleman. You forgot things like that when you were drunk off of Magnolia wine. He quickly led her into his guest apartment and slammed the door so hard the hinges shook. Caught in the mood, Britain didn't notice this and kept his lips pressed to the woman as he led her into his bedroom. There was a moment when Britain realized the wrong he was doing, but that wisped away as soon as the girl slammed him onto the bed and covered his body with kisses, tearing off his shirt to reveal his chest.
The woman with flaming, long red hair and gold-tinted lingerie broke out from the chorus as she sang,
"What what, what what?"
The following morning Britain woke up with a pounding headache and the feel of a naked woman in his arms. He eventually remembered what he had done and detached himself immediately, peeling back from the bed and staring at her. No doubt her skin was pale, and her hair was a snow white. She was beautiful in all aspects, and if the circumstances had been different he may have tried courting her. But no, he had to get dead drunk and screw a whore. In a dash he put on his clothes and flew out of the apartment, even though it was technically his. France pressured him about telling him where he'd been last night but he just told the Frenchman to screw off. The frog would never let it down that he had slept with one of his women, ever. Britain still had to stay in France for a few days, though, so he tried his best to stay away from her.
Days passed and he happily walked around the sidewalk, admiring the finer views of Paris. It wasn't as great as London, of course, but it was close. He stopped to gaze at the Eiffel Tower and sighed contently. Suddenly he felt ominously familiar hands shield his eyes.
The previous woman in lingerie joined her and belted out,
"Ooh oh!"
"Wh-what are you doing?" He yelped, freaking out and flinging the hands over his eyes off. He turned around and glared at the woman, who looked as beautiful as always. She wasn't dressed in her lingerie, choosing to wear a flighty yet casual white dress instead. He was about to scold her when she brought her face close to his, pecking him on the lips. He blushed and stepped back with eyes widening. The woman giggled and stepped closer to him, backing him against the wall. Moonlight glowed on her frosty hair and she whispered,
"Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir, voulez vous coucher avec moi?"
The chorus sang in unison, twirling around at the right time to flip their skirts up. The crowd, including France but not Britain, cheered.
Britain shivered at the touch of her fingers on his red cheek. Even though she wore white gloves he could still feel her natural heat flowing out. With a weak state he nodded. The girl smiled and kissed him again, pulling him in for a more passionate kiss. Their tongues fought in each other's mouths and Britain won. He smirked at his victory and so did the girl, and they stood there like that until Britain locked his lips with hers again. The darkness of the light was ignored as the two lustful youths walked together, hand in hand, somehow able to talk normally to each other. Britain was stunned by her fluency in English and she said that it was because she had to remember it as a 'performer'. Britain knew what that meant and frowned slightly, but that was replaced as a smile as he stared into her lake-blue orbs.
"Yeah yeah yeah yeah…"
With innocent politeness Britain let the girl step in first, and she thanked him with a blush. He asked why she was blushing and she replied that no man had ever let her in before so nicely, causing Britain himself to blush. He sputtered out a quick thank you and she smiled, grabbing his hands and leading him into a separate room of the studio they were in. Britain followed along, heart pounding. She left to go to another room and yelled over her shoulder that there was wine for him to drink if he wanted to. Parched from walking around all day, Britain picked up the bottle and saw the label for Magnolia wine, his new favorite.
"He sat in her boudair while she freshened up, boy drank all Magnolia wine. On her black satin sheets is where he started to freak, yeah."
Sang the blue-eyeshadow wearing girl, showing off her pink mixed with white hair as the chorus spun around in their traditional form, enticing the men to join them. The only person sitting at a table was Britain, plus another man from across the way who adjusted his tie carefully. The British man's eyes grew distant as he recalled more of the memory.
Her room was a shimmering diamond, for a dressing room, that is. It was easy to tell the main head of her 'performing gang' valued her highly. To suppress nervousness Britain drank some of the wine, almost chugging it down. He had never done this with anyone before, especially with a stranger. He started wondering whether he should get out now before drama started happening. The escape thoughts subsided, though, when he saw the girl some out with nothing but a bra and underwear. He gulped and she smiled at his blushing cheeks. She slowly came over to him and set him down on the bed he currently sat on, quietly taking off his clothes. Britain tried to help her but touched her instead, to which she responded with a more violent way of taking them off. Britain stared into her eyes and she stared into his before they were connected with a fervent kiss.
"Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada (da-da-da), Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya here (here ohooh yea yeah)! Mocha Choca lata ya ya (yea).
Creole lady Marmalade…"
The strong-toned girl sang, singing louder and louder as the dancers danced faster and faster. The men were barely kept on their toes and many rushed over to the girl, but she simply winked and disappeared into the crowd. The chorus began again, and some of the men (including a joyful France) joined in.
"Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir, voulez vous coucher avec moi?"
Britain woke up to the girl again. This time, on the other hand, he felt happiness rather than shame. He snuggled up to her and she turned around, smiling against his lips. There was crashing heard from outside and the girl drew back with fear in her eyes. He asked what was wrong and she mumbled something frantically in French before shoving him into a movable closet. He watched through a peephole as she stuffed his clothes under the bed and latched on some lengerie, much like the one she wore the night they met but with purple instead of green. A man walked in, dressed in the fashionable Victorian attire, and smiled at her. Britain didn't see her expression but knew what she felt about him after he tugged her close for a kiss. The man let a loose hand down her back and around a butt cheek, making Britain growl furiously. He stopped and stared at the closet, asking in a serious voice if anyone was with them. The girl answered that she had hid a dog in her closet since she liked dogs, confusing both the men. She told the man with a flirtatious touch that she'd come to him later that night, and he begrudgingly left with a scornful look. The girl opened up the closet door, apologizing right away to the baffled gentleman. Instead of getting angry, though, Britain laughed.
"He actually thought you put a dog in the closet!" He chuckled, close to tears. The girl's frightened stature changed and she laughed with him, grabbing one of the closet doors for support.
After they had had a good laugh, the girl asked if he had forgiven her for being so secretive and not telling him she was already with someone. Seeing the girl close to tears Britain said it was alright and comforted her, telling her that the guy was a major pervert anyway. She sniffed that he was right and they both laughed again, but with held anxiety instead of giddiness mixed with relief. Britain promised not to tell anyone about their relationship as long as she did too, and they agreed jointly on it. Britain smiled as he left the Moulin Rouge studio, kissing the girl on her cheek before leaving. Out of nowhere she whispered to him,
"By the way, my name is Violet Blanc…now you have something to yell when you reach, yes?"
Britain's face heated to a dark red and he spun around to yell at her, but she had already closed the door. Embarrassment, bliss, and apprehension plagued his mind as he spent the rest of the day in historic Paris.
"Yeah, yeah, uh—He come through with the money in the garter belts, I let him know we bout that cake straight up the gate uh. We independent women, some mistake us for whores, I'm saying, why spend mine when I can spend yours? Disagree? Well that's you and I'm sorry. Imma keep playing these cats out like Atari; wearing high heel shoes, getting love from the dudes; four bad ass chicks from the Moulin Rouge! Hey sisters, soul sisters, better get that dough sisters…We drink wine with diamonds in the glass, by the case the meaning of expensive taste. If you wanna Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya Mocha Chocalate-a what?
Creole Lady Marmalade…"
The dark-skinned girl sang, bringing up all the girls with her hands on a higher platform. The men gathered around to watch as the three original girls gathered on-stage, the two walking up the steps as she sang,
"One more time come on now."
"Marmalade…Lady Marmalade…Marmalade…"
They all sang in perfect harmony, dancing slowly around and slinking past one another as they moved with their own movements. It was apart yet together, a mess yet a masterpiece, and the men loved every bit of it. And yes, France was among them, although he was glancing back once or twice to check on Britain.
Now and then Britain would catch Violet in the act of 'getting money', and while he didn't mind at first over time he did, feelings beginning to blossom. He began to look forward to seeing her smiling face instead of her bare body, and desired a sweet kiss more than a heavy night alone. Whenever they were together everything felt right, and needless to say Britain stayed in France longer than he intended to. Unlike all her other female companions, he noted too, Violet never asked him for gifts. She only asked for him to stay with her longer, which he did, as much as possible. Soon they were inseparable and not even jealous glares or astonished looks could faze them. But then one night Britain made a mistake.
The reminiscenct Briton was shaken out of his memories as another woman descended down onto the stage, flaked with shining lights and blinding jewelery. He gaped at the woman he had loved, Violet, as she stepped lightly down to the platform and blew kisses at the auidence. Every man cheered and she winked at them, her pouty outfit of blue feathers and silver shades glimmering with sparkles doting them. She brought her large blue eyes up, and they stopped dead on the Briton. Eye contact between them was abruptly broken by the red-haired girl as she jabbed at her to keep singing.
In a shaky yet powerful voice Violet sang,
"Hey hey hey! Touch of her skin feeling silky smooth, color of cafe au lait alright."
He remembered how soft she felt in his arms, and she remembered how safe she had felt when he hugged her.
"Made the savage beast inside roar until he cried, more-more-more!"
She sung this part out loud, trying to overtake the cracking of her heart. It had all fallen apart right there, at that moment.
Britain gripped the ring in his hand tightly, sweating with nervousness. He approached her room and knocked lightly, waiting for her to answer. This was supposed to be one of the nights where they would spend it alone, together. However he heard another voice in the other room, one completely manly. With mixed emotions Britain flung open the door to see Violet, his Violet, letting another man have his way with her. It only took a second for the stranger to see what was going on and he ran out, grabbing his clothes and fleeing past the British gentleman and into the streets. Violet felt her eyes water and turned away, refusing to look at Britain. She glanced back and noticed the ring on the floor near the door and cried, sobbing that she was sorry and that she needed the money to buy a passport so she could travel back with him to Britain. But seeing what he had just seen, along with the judgement of women like her being unfaithful, he couldn't believe her. Logic took over him more than emotion and he simply bent down and picked up the ring, dropping it into his pocket. He tipped his hat off to her, told her to have a good life, and walked outside the studio, the Moulin Rouge. He made sure to keep his hat down below his eyes to make sure no one would see the tears in his eyes, and he pulled his jacket closer so no one would see the breaking of his heart.
The singers traded off places, each one smiling and rotating in a stomping fashion when they came up or went back.
"Now he's back home doing 9 to 5," The strong pink-haired one said.
"Sleeping the gray flannel life," The one with a red feather sprouting from her head added.
Violet tried her hardest not to choke on the next words, and narrowed her eyes to stop the tears, "But when he turns off to sleep memories creep…more-more-more!"
Britain remembered lying awake on his cot on the ship back to Britain, eyes open. He briefly wondered where Violet was. He answered himself bitterly that she was probably already with another man and closed his eyes shut so he'd stop thinking about her. The screaming from the man in the other room still echoed around him and the real tears in Violet's eyes displayed clearly in his dreaming vision though, and he pressed a hard pillow up to cover his ears. Laughing was heard from the top deck and Britain tried his best to close it out.
The chorus joined in soon after that, and once Violet was shielded by the back up singers she jumped off the platform and ran around the circle encasing the stage, hurrying to where Britain sat. Then, a wild hand appeared and covered her mouth, sinking her into a table. The man sneered at her struggling position and began undoing the ties for her outfit. Violet felt terror creep over her and she tried to cry out, but no voice could hear because the man cupped a hand over her mouth and the chorus was singing deafeningly.
"Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada (da daeaea yea)! Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya here (ooh)! Mocha Choca lata ya ya (yea).
Creole lady Marmalade…"
Britain sighed as the last part of the memory finished and looked out into the stage, straightening his back suddenly when he saw that Violet was no longer on. Then he noticed a long leg jutting out from one of the table sections, coupled with a manly hand. Britain felt a growl in his throat but restrained himself, since she was probably doing that on purpose. But he had seen her, and she had seen him…no, this just wasn't making sense. He paused for a moment, summoning courage, and then got up and sprinted to the table. He saw Violet being groped by a much older man, the only one at his table, who was also kissing her neck. Her face was wet with tears and she kept trembling, shutting her luminous eyes closed in fear. Britain felt an anger that he had never felt before build inside of him, even worse when he found her sleeping with a random stranger. No, even worse than that. He felt enraged.
"Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir (ce soir), voulez vous coucher avec moi (all my sistas yea), voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir (ce soir), voulez vous coucher avec moi (C'Mon! uh) !"
The can-can dancers sang, the other three too involved with the upbeat and repetitive music to notice the action going on off-stage. The men tripped over themselves to get on the platform, and finally the three girls descended like angels upon them. France grabbed the nearest girl of the three, the pink-haired one, and began his plan of flirting. The girl acted aloof and France pressed on, not noticing the scene going on behind him.
Britain raised another fist to strike at the man again, but Violet stopped him with her own hand. He looked at her, eyes still glazed with rage, but quieted down when he saw the deeply serious look in his eyes.
"He's had enough, Britain," She said, glancing down at the cowering man below her. She pulled up one of her stockings and huffed, "He'll know better next time then to just assume he can touch any of us."
Britain didn't say anything, just nodded as the rage ebbed away. Violet smiled at him and gripped his hand, feeling the warmth of his transfer to hers. He looked at her in surprise as she led him backstage, and they stood behind the scenes for a while, face to face. Before Britain could even question the time she pulled out a sheet of paper, holding it up so he could see it but couldn't see her.
Britain read it to himself and frowned, not understanding. He then read aloud, "Permission for an International Passport granted to a Miss Georgia Blanc?"
He looked at the girl below him, still confused. But then his eyes lit up in understanding. "You actually got a passport—"
"It took me a while, but yes," She interrupted, not wanting to keep it in any longer, "When I heard that you were coming again I knew this was my last chance to show you I was faithful to you, and only you. I wanted to go with you to England and someone offered me a hundred euros, so I took the opportunity."
She looked up into the gentleman's startled eyes, choking back regret. "I'm so sorry, Arthur…"
Britain shook his head, saying, "No love, I'm sorry. I should have trusted you more."
He held out a hand to her, the upbeat music of Moulin Rouge still playing behind them.
"A new start?"
She gladly grabbed his hand with hers and grinned, a gleam of hope and love in her eyes.
"Yeah, a new start." She responded, coming in for his embrace. They stood together and France smiled to himself along with his new lady friend; they had been standing there ever since the badly beaten stranger had gone to complain. The pink haired girl had 'persuaded' him to leave and keep the whole matter to himself, and France reinforced her with his own brute strength. The man gulped and hastily said that he didn't see or hear anything.
Suddenly Violet, or Georgia, smiled. "Since this is a new start, can you call me Lady Marmalade?"
Britain smiled back and replied, "Maybe, but probably not."
The two grinned at each other, even as they kissed.
"Christina...(oh leaeaa Oh) "Creole Lady Marmalade Yes-ah..."
Pink... (Lady Marmalade)
Lil' Kim...(hey hey! uh uh uh uh...)
Mya...(Oh Oh oooo)
Rockwilder baby...(baby)
Moulin Rouge... (oh)
Misdemeanor here..."