#gaily-gavotte

[warlenys]

thinking about aziraphale in the discreet gentleman’s club. do you think he knows? do you think he feels it? does he realise how far these men believe it is from heaven? does he realise that because of that they’ve made it their own? does he visit it for that same respite? or is he simply having fun? is he just gaily dancing the gavotte or is he gaily. dancing the gavotte. dancing a kissing dance. with men. in a discreet gentleman’s club. does he Know

[creeping-crowley]

♱ Satanic Panic ♱

Something in the air felt wrong.

The perpetual absence. The sudden drop in the atmosphere that comes in the breath between lightning and thunder. A plummeting sensation of wrongness had settled over London beneath the darkened clouds that chanted for rain. From outside, everyone was stirring and hurrying about the Mayfair streets, scurrying about as the first errant drops of the coming storm cascaded downward.

Crowley was busy. What he was busy with few acknowledged as a real task, but he went about the routine with just as much (if not more) dedication than to most of his other work-related endeavours. Every week he would patrol his flat, tending to the plants and stirring the petrifying knowledge into them of what happened if he noticed any failures to thrive. As he went about his business (with a good degree less discussion than he usually made), Crowley permitted his attention to dip in and out of the news report on the television in the living room.

The disembodied voice echoed softly throughout the flat.  A man’s voice presented numerous stories in a stern sort of severity- the way one might deliver the news that a family member had suffered an unfortunate accident.

‘With last year being London's bloodiest in almost a decade, as the number of homicides reached 135, the plague of knife crime is not nearing its end.’

Crowley closed a window as the first drops of rain devolved swiftly into a torrential downpour.

‘…Slews of schools across London have introduced them…But for some people, the implementation of knife arches comes too late.’

The TV flickered, jumped, then continued. A low rumble shook the sky.

‘Tory leadership contender Jeremy Hunt has refused to guarantee that the UK will leave the EU before Christmas, but said he "expects" it to happen by then.’

Crowley rolled his eyes. There was a rumour flying around that he’d had a hand in setting Brexit in motion. A rumour that Crowley had not directly addressed to anyone. Nor did he intend to.

‘Up to 160,000 Conser—’ The power blinked, crackling as another rumble of thunder passed overhead.

Ignoring it, Crowley moved onto the next plant. A quiet frown crossed his features. He had already started to tune out the topic as talk of politics babbled away across the empty rooms.

‘…voting for their next party leader - and UK prime mini—’ Static broke the report, lulling into a temporary hiss until the voice returned.

‘… replace Theresa May.’

A flash of lightning filled the room with a temporary brightness. And then it was gone.

As was all the brightness. And power. And sound.

Crowley ignored it. Moving on to the next plant that trembled at his mere proximity.

From the living room the distant hum and crackle of static flickered in and out, picking up on the hollow tone of the reporter’s voice but failing to provide enough clarity for his words to carry in anything more than an indistinct hum. The lights did not turn back on.

“…Well that’s not good.” The demon remarked at last with an absent sort of tone that implied the comment was not entirely tied to the thoughts he was having towards the power cut. Or the storm.

“IT’S SIMPLY DREADFUL, CROWLEY.”

The silky tone of his Master oozed from the sound system, echoing out of the hollow reporter’s mouth.

Static continued to pick apart at the voice, but the message came loud and clear. After a long moment of remaining rooted to the spot, Crowley abandoned his plant mister and skirted back into the living room. Perhaps this was what he had possessed such a vile feeling about. He’d felt some sort of ill-will in the air and now Satan himself was reaching out- it had been a while since they had spoken. He certainly sounded significantly less angry on this occasion.

“YOU’VE QUITE MARVELLOUSLY OUTDONE YOURSELF, CROWLEY.”

“Err.” A faint noise of acknowledgment sounded at the back of the demon’s throat as he eyed the static that danced across the television screen, playing with the features of the news reporter and occasionally causing his expression to twitch into a wicked smile.

Well hang on, Brexit hasn’t actually been completed yet. Wasn’t this a little early for a commendation?

“YOUR EFFORTS TO CORRUPT OUR ENEMY FROM THE INSIDE OUT HAVE BEEN RECOGNISED, CROWLEY.”

Crowley squinted. Perhaps this wasn’t to do with Brexit.

“WHILST MY DUKES AND BARONESSES HAVE SECURED ME SOULS OF THE MORAL KIND, YOU HAVE EXCEEDED EVEN THEIR WORK, CROWLEY.”

A thin sheen of sweat began to creep across Crowley’s forehead.

“HEAVEN HAVE INFORMED ME THAT THE NECESSARY PAPERWORK WILL BE COMPLETED SHORTLY, CROWLEY. THE ANGEL OF THE EASTERN GATE IS OURS AND IT’S ALL THANKS TO YOU, CROWLEY. HE WILL BE COLLECTED SHORTLY FOR THE PROCESS TO BEGIN. YOU HAVE ACHIEVED THE UNACHIEVABLE, CROWLEY. AND

YOU

WILL BE

R̸̨̛͙̱̙̭͐́̐͗͝ Ẹ̴͍̼͎͉̩̫̝͙̮͖̣̪̪͈͑́ Ẃ̸̗͍̼͐̀̄̀ Ḁ̶̞͇̒͐̒̽̊͌́̅̽̊̌͘͝͝͝ Ṟ̸̡̡̜͕͎͚̮̲͇̼̥̗̀̒̍̍ͅ D̸̛͎̗̅̅̎̆̈͆̽̌̕͜ È̸̛͙͉͙̣̯̦̤̤̭̯͋͐͂͗̎͑͘͘ D̶̡̖͕̦͙͚̮̻͎͖̼̰̤͋͆́̈͒̎̄ “  

“…Thank you, lord.” Crowley breathed. His voice almost as numb as the news reporter’s.

A horrified sinking sensation bored its way through him.

How?

What had taken place in recent history to justify such a vast overreaction from heaven?

Deep down, a part of Crowley felt he knew. Along with the mounting fear, there kindled a deep, unforgotten hatred. A hatred towards the ones who had likely come to this decision. The ones who were about to enact a ritual of such pain, hurt and humiliation it had stripped away the very essence of every angel that survived it.

A thought stuck in Crowley’s mind as the television flickered back to life and the reporter began drawling on about referendums and deals once more.

They were coming to collect Aziraphale.

Scenes of the bookshop engulfed in flame flashed back into the demon’s head. He scrambled out of the flat as though it had been doused in holy water. Like a bat out of hell. Or like one whom had the fear of God put into them. The latter would be the most accurate.

Half-throwing himself into the Bentley, Crowley set himself hurtling towards the first place he knew the angel would be. With the help of breakneck speeds, tactically willing traffic lights, officers and pedestrians out of the way, Crowley worked to slice his journey down to a mere fraction of what it should have been.

“Call Aziraphale.” A wracked voice that hardly sounded like his own demanded.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Until an automated voice ended the call after a redundant offer to leave a message. With a snarl Crowley smacked the steering wheel.

“CALL. AZIRAPHALE.” The phone shuddered.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Nothing.

Faster than should have realistically been possible, the Bentley pulled up by the bookshop. No fire. At least not visibly. Ignoring the ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’ sign and the locks, Crowley entered. The entire bookshop radiated the essence of Aziraphale- every corner was so thoroughly steeped in love and many cared-for volumes that it felt as though he was always there even on the occasions where he was absent.

“AZIRAPHALE!” He couldn’t not shout. By this stage it was horrifically urgent.

“AZIRAPHALE YOU BASTARD DON’T DO THIS TO ME AGAIN.” Crowley’s voice shattered mid-roar. Saving little time, he tore into the back room, growing frantic. Snake-like eyes bolted across the room for the sign of anything that appeared remotely out of place. The sign of a struggle. Anything.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?”

“IT CAN’T HAVE HAPPENED YET!” Desperation twisted his tone upward.

After pacing the shop a good number of times, Crowley fell to his knees atop the thread-bare carpet that covered a neatly-drawn chalk circle. He wasn’t supposed to be in such proximity to it. But it hardly mattered now. Golden eyes lifted, pleading skyward for someone, anyone, anything- some divine voice that had cast him aside only just after time began- to listen.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!

HE’S—

HE’S GOING TO LOSE EVERYTHING AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT!

I’M THE ONE YOU SHOULD BE HURTING! NOT HIM! HE’S GOOD, KIND, FORGIVING—NONE OF THE BAD STUFF WAS HIM! WHY DO YOU PREACH FORGIVENESS BUT NEVER PRACTICE IT? YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE REASON THERE ARE NO GOOD THINGS LEFT!”

A series of deep, ragged pants stole Crowley’s words away. No reply.

They never replied.

Frustration spurned him back into motion. Although a dawning part of Crowley knew that if Aziraphale was not in the bookshop and failing to answer his phone, he was too late. But abandoning the search was unimaginable. He had to find him.

In a series of stray attempts to locate the angel’s aura, Crowley simply found himself stumbling upon various places they had met over the previous two weeks: places that had been touched by the angel’s aura. Restaurants, cafes, The British Museum and Hyde Park. Two hours later, Crowley returned to his flat, soaked through from his attempt to battle the rain on his hunt. Outside, thunder and lightning continued their violent dance. He had not given up, but a grim realisation had presented itself to Crowley: now that he had exhausted his most likely options (and checked the bookshop once more for good measure), it would make sense to reconvene, dry off and attempt to focus somewhere more quiet in order to tap in to Aziraphale’s energy.

It was difficult to not feel defeated as he scaled the stairs to the flat. Once entering, Crowley kicked off his sodden shoes. With a wave of his hand, the rainwater vanished from his clothes, leaving the only evidence of his trip outside in the mop of sodden auburn hair atop of his head. After a couple of steps, Crowley stilled.

‘Thanks very much and hello! Welcome to The Chase, tonight four celebrities will be raising money for a charity of their choice. Hello, yes, welcome to the show Ian,’

That’s strange.

He hadn’t left the television on when he’d left.

Warily, Crowley began to slink towards the living room. A familiar shape sat on the sofa. No-less tense, Crowley edged over the threshold. He didn’t need to see Aziraphale’s face to know he was too late. At Crowley’s presence the television flickered, blinked, and switched itself off.

“Angel…” The word dripped painfully from his mouth, thoughtless in the very moment of things.  

Not anymore…

Resignation swept over the demon as he rounded the sofa to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face. It was too late. There was no undoing such an act. Hopeless guilt writhed across Crowley’s features as he inched closer, not quite knowing what one says to someone who falls and does not mean to. Crowley had been in the minority in that sense (and nobody had offered him any words of assurance when the day of his fall had taken place).

“What have they done to you?” A mournful whisper encapsulated Crowley’s words as he uttered them. Golden eyes drank in the extent of the damage. With great care to be gentle a finger extended to run reverently along a coal-black feather. Oh, the world was wicked.

It was unjust.

But never quite so much as those who had created it all.

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[wiitchbabe]

bold what applies, goddess edition

APHRODITE.

laughter-loving,      sweet  smiles,     dressed  in  silk  and  satin,    flower  in  their  hair,     sees  the  world  as  a  runway,     unapologetically  sexual,   the  sea  washing  their  ankles,     in  love  with  love,    stirrer  of  passion,  cunning  concealed  by  painted  lips,     secret  daggers,     doves,     revolution  in  their  kiss,    delighting  in  the  waves,     flirtatious  winks,     strolling  along  the  beach,     staring  wistfully  from  a  balcony,     this  is  how  to  be  a  heartbreaker,     wants  to  be  adored,     gets  turned  on  by  danger.

HERA.    

resting  bitch  face,     dressed  to  the  nines,    cows  grazing  on  a  pasture,    cool  rain,     loving  and  hating  fiercely,     hand  clutching  a  string  of  pearls,     large  chandelier  with  glittering  crystals,  plays  the  sims  for  the  sole  purpose  of  killing  off  their  sims,     romance  to  realism,    pictures  of  the  sky  while  flying  on  a  plane,  downs  glasses  of  wine  as  they  relax  with  a  scented  bubble  bath  and  netflix,  like  their  selfie  or  you’re  grounded,    knows  57  convenient  ways  to  murder  a  man,   dark  eyes  that  penetrate  your  soul,     marble  and  gold.

[collidingxworlds]

✩ Interview with a Mun ✩

➊ How many ships do you have on this blog?

(( For now I have three confirmed romantic ships on this blog: Crowley & Aziraphale ( @omniishambles​ ), Dean & Castiel ( @awaywardboy-andhisangel​ ​), Sara & Ava ( @xstabcastx​ ​). I’ve other partners who are open to ship with me, but it’s still a work in progress! ))

➋ Have you ever roleplayed with someone that just left an unforgettable impression on you?

(( On this blog (and counting also the two RP I put together to create the first version of this one), yeah, I had the luck of running into a few great RP partners. With three of them I’m still interacting, which is a blessing for how I see it (which would be @paradiseturnedhell {even if we mostly write on my sideblog for the moment}, @omniishambles​ and @awaywardboy-andhisangel​ ). There have been another couple of people, but I lost contact with them a long time ago. ))

➌ Which of your ships on this blog is the fluffiest?

(( Crowley and Aziraphale without doubt. It’s just in their nature to be, even if, of course, there are other shades to their relationship xD ))

➍ Would you say you’re a decent roleplayer or do you have any self doubts?

(( Technically speaking, both. I know that I’m a decent writer generally speaking, which however doesn’t automatically mean that I’m a good RPer. ))

(( I doubt my writing quite often, but never as much as I doubt my ability of being a decent RP partner. It��s harder at times to write RPs, because you need to get in sync with the person you’re writing against and, if said person has a specific style / way to RP that’s different from mine and wants to stick to that, it can become a real struggle for me to conform to it. At times I really have the feeling that I’m failing at it, so...that definite fuels my doubts a lot. )) 

➎ Have you made lots of friends on this blog?

(( Not a lot, also because I’m not much of a people person and I tend to have few friends in general, but I made a few. Not counting the ones I interact with on my sideblog, I’d say 4. ))

➏ What’s the one thing you especially love about roleplaying your muse(s)?

(( I guess I have to list one per each muse xD ))

Crowley: I love writing his inner contrasts. The need to put on a certain facade and pretend to fit into a certain crowd, while he is nothing like them. And the need to know and understand and care on one side versus the fear of the consequences.

Dean: He has this dual struggled inside himself too, but unlike Crowley, Dean wants to fit in the mental image he has been forced to build for himself. And that comes clashing with his more sensible sides, not to mention all the trauma he has to bottle up because that’s how it should be done.

Five: I live that he’s a very complex character, but what I enjoy the most is writing his sharp edges. Sarcasm, cynicism, violence. I never forget where they are sprouted from, because I don’t want to reduce him to that, but it doesn’t make them less fun to write.

Gabriel: He’s a bit like Five, tbh. I love to write his malicious trickster persona, but I must say that what really wins me over is his extremely complex relationship with his family and with whom he used to be. It’s hard to try and put the pieces together after such a long time. Some have been lost, some have changed their shape. Plenty of possible scenarios.

Michael: My fave thing about writing Michael is that I get to write three characters in one (even if, of course, they still have their fundamental traits in common, because they are the same character): pre-Fall Michael (who is more malleable, more prone to emotion, even if he’s still a strict teacher and commander); post-Fall Michael (who has reduced himself to what he thinks being his mission, isolating himself from everyone else for millennia till the End comes); post-Cage Michael (I follow my own HCs for that, who is someone who has lost everything, including a purpose, and has to struggle to find his place in a world that’s suddenly foreign to him);

Sara: What I love about her is that she isn’t just someone who has survived the hardships life has put her through, but she has always become a better and stronger person because of her trauma. And now she is there for others and still willing to go through hell and back for the sake of what she thinks it’s right. She is an inspiration to me in that sense too.

➐ Are there any people you’ve been to afraid of approaching?

(( No one specifically, ‘cause I’m just pathologically bad at approaching new people in general. I find it very hard to make the first move, so I usually wait for the other person to come to me, which most of the times doesn’t happen. I’m trying to work on strategies to overcome the issue, but...I’m still bad at it. ))

➑ Give us a rough estimate: How much time have you spent on your graphics? (icons, theme, banners, promos, etc)

(( Too much considering the poor results. I try not to waste too much time on graphics. I mess around a bit, but once I find something that works and looks half-decent, I tend to stick to it. I’m the kind of RPer that prefers practicability over fanciness. I’m here to write, not to make graphics. If I had to give a rough estimation...I’d say 3-4 hours? ))

➒ Got any memorable threads on here? Care to mention a few?

(( This blog is relatively new and considering that it’s also slow activity, I haven’t gone super far with my threads yet. I can mention a couple of threads I had when I still had my muses on separate sideblogs, tho! In no particular order: ))

A small and sweet thread for New Year’s Eve (2019) I had with @awaywardboy-andhisangel​

A still ongoing thread I started on my Crowley’s sideblog with @omniishambles​ and that’s basically an extension of the Bus Scene in the show (with the two dorks being dorks)

An AU I had built with @paradiseturnedhell​ back when she wrote Crowley too (yep, two Crowleys)

The concept of an AU I had come up with and started with @gaily-gavotte​

(( Aisde from these, I currently have quite a few threads I’m really excited about and that looks absolutely great. I have no doubt that they’ll end up in the list of the memorable ones! ))

➓ What were some of the most frustrating moments you had with your muse(s)’ interaction with another muse?

(( I have a couple of examples in mind, even if there’s surely been more. ))

(( One was when I was writing with this one person and they focused completely on their character in their replies, to the point that I had the impression that they didn’t even read my answers, or barely skimmed through them. I had to be the one to make the thread flow and I found myself having to write a particular point in three different replies in a role before it was acknowledged. I’m not writing with that person anymore, because I have little free time and I really don’t want to waste it on people who don’t care about my side of the thread, but it still irks me thinking back about it. ))

(( The other thing is starting a thread, even after having plotted a bit, and having the other person continuously dropping it without a warning. I put muse and effort in all my replies and seeing them disappearing into the void every single time eventually got on my nerves. Especially since the other person kept coming to ask me for more interactions and I think we both knew that they would have ended up dropping them after a few replies. Again, that’s not the sort of thing I like to use my little free time for. ))

[meme template]

[occasionally-gives-a-damn]

She was certainly earning her money’s worth for the pay she’d received. The fact that it had been cash was shady enough. The fact that it grossly overpaid her hourly rate was another thing entirely. Jessica wasn’t about to complain. She hadn’t trusted it, but the job (regardless of how simple) had come at a convenient time. Forty-five minutes later and the bizarre British man was out of her hair and on his way. It had only taken a one-minute Google search and a forty-four minute long lesson on what Google and the internet was.

The strangeness of his demeanour and the peculiar manuscript he had been trying to track down stuck in Jessica’s mind. It wasn’t the usual sort of enquiry.

Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the Worlde that is To Com: Ye Saga Continued.

The only copy had been due for auction, conveniently in New York. And now the bumbling, oddly polite British gentleman was off to ensure his attendance at such auction. Job done.

Or was it?

Her clients were usually a little more…local, in nature. How had he come across her? Why had he paid such a large sum for something so simple? How the hell did he not know how to conduct a Google search? Why was there a book on prophecies that a rich British man with far too much money was so sought on getting?

Jessica had dedicated some time after he left to seeing what more digging the internet could do on the manuscript. Very little. An internet search presented some blurred images of a title page and that was about it. It was valuable, that much was evident.

It did not take long before Jessica caved to the niggling voice in her head- that nagging feeling that something was not quite right. A phone call to a friend led to a trip to an auction house. One unexpected fire and swift exit later left Jessica with the manuscript in her possession. It was either that or it went up in flames with the auction house. Another phone call, a begrudging therapy session and night of reading later left Jessica observing the text with a hint more unease. Some things made sense. Some prophecies had certainly come to fruition. Others made no sense whatsoever. Some just seemed to start merging in with her own thoughts as blunt criticisms and suggestions. She’d probably gotten too drunk whilst reading it at that point.

The manuscript itself was left mostly untouched after that. Circumstances shifted to the more pressing and Jessica found herself caught up in the sagas surrounding her own life rather than those concerning others. Survival kicked in, and as always there was the sick game of cat and mouse that Kilgrave seemed so set on playing. He was getting closer now. Uncomfortably close. He’d been to her home. Left a gift. She’d not found said gift…supposedly. How did he know that? How did he know she hadn’t found whatever it was and burned it? How had she not been able to tell he’d come into her apartment in the first place? Had she been there and simply been told to forget afterwards? Had he been watching her to ensure she’d been out at the time? The thought made her sick.

Rummaging brought her back to the manuscript amidst a couple of empty whiskey bottles. Jessica paused. It had sold at auction for a high price. Pity the oddly large blaze had prevented the buyer from collecting it. Getting a flight would absorb all the money she’d been trying to live off that month. Selling the book off would make escape much easier. Fuck Kilgrave’s gift. Fuck the apartment. It didn’t feel like home after such an intrusion.

One short Google search led to a vintage bookstore. It hadn’t taken long to get there.

Get in. Pawn the book. Get out.

Get a flight as far away from this goddamned city as possible.

“Hey.”

The greeting was called out as she stalked into the shop and set the book down heavily. One gloved hand lingered over the title page possessively. This was her get-out ticket. The guy sure as hell wasn’t just going to take it from her.

Footsteps came to greet the presence and before she could continue, a familiar face was upon her.

Ah shit.

It was the fucking British guy.

Jessica scrutinized his expression for a moment.

“So, how badly do you want this thing?

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[beelzzzebub-blog]

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by.  repost & tag away !

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS: -  anger. -  jealousy. -  loneliness. -  pride. -  anxiety.

GREETINGS: -  glancing up with one raised brow, just waiting. -  tucked into a bush at a park talking to the bees and other flying insects. -  yawning. -  just staring at you until you ask what she wants. -  wandering London because Hell has become stifling suddenly.

COLORS: -  red. -  black. -  brown. -  sea blue. -  white.

SCENTS: -  peppermint. -  burning wood. -  sandalwood. -  earl grey tea.

CLOTHING: -  fishnet socks. -  torn up jeans. -  red-tinted sunglasses. -  a bumblebee pin. -  too large t-shirts.

OBJECTS: -  golden bumblebee necklace. -  small, hidden knives. -  a very technologically advanced phone. -  a fly hat, tucked away for later use.

VICES / BAD HABITS: -  starved for affection, will seek it anywhere. -  prone to hissy fits and temper tantrums. -  lightweight; drinks too much. -  killing demons instead of simply punishing them when they fail her. -  lies, cheats, steals - anything to put off another boring day in Hell.

BODY LANGUAGE: -  hands in pockets. -  tiny grin / straight face. -  constantly messing with her hair. -  squared shoulders and narrowed eyes when commanding. -  tends to spin on her tiptoes to turn around.

AESTHETICS: -  blood. -  flies around a corpse. -  nails dragging down marred skin. -  teenagers dressed in beat-up clothing, chain smoking. -  a quiet, strangely calming and somehow unsettling song playing in an empty room. -  nails painted black, paint chipping off.

SONGS: -  creature - BONES UK. -  í tokuni  -  eivør. -  bury a friend - billie eilish. -  kingdom fall - claire wyndham. -  lies  -  CHVRCHES.

tagged by:  me tagging:  @talesofgoreandmystery , @gaily-gavotte , @hellsrhapsody , @beautyxcfxgcd , @protectxthem , @mcssenger , and anyone else who wants to have some fun!

[worldtravell]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an acceptable costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is essentially the most normal, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The unfastened white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A fancy dress interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual outdated Pierrot, along with his full white trousers and black pompons, unfastened coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a typical object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide gown. There are fancy dances in a lot which name for no distinctive fashion of gown, however the trend matches the footstep as a rule, and little doubt influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and brief vivid petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its appeal with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth by way of the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t reside to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would leap to a conclusion underneath the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the gown of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, no matter the century by which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means enables you to overlook it.

[pinkemilya]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an acceptable costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is essentially the most normal, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The unfastened white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A fancy dress interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual outdated Pierrot, along with his full white trousers and black pompons, unfastened coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a typical object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide gown. There are fancy dances in a lot which name for no distinctive fashion of gown, however the trend matches the footstep as a rule, and little doubt influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and brief vivid petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its appeal with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth by way of the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t reside to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would leap to a conclusion underneath the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the gown of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, no matter the century by which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means enables you to overlook it.

[mahsed]

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Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an appropriate costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is probably the most ordinary, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The unfastened white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A fancy dress interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual previous Pierrot, together with his full white trousers and black pompons, unfastened coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a standard object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide gown. There are fancy dances in loads which name for no distinctive fashion of gown, however the style suits the footstep as a rule, and little question influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and quick brilliant petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its allure with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth by means of the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t reside to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would leap to a conclusion underneath the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the gown of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, regardless of the century by which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means permits you to overlook it.

[mirelapink]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an appropriate costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is probably the most ordinary, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The unfastened white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A fancy dress interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual previous Pierrot, together with his full white trousers and black pompons, unfastened coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a standard object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide gown. There are fancy dances in loads which name for no distinctive fashion of gown, however the style suits the footstep as a rule, and little question influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and quick brilliant petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its allure with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth by means of the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t reside to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would leap to a conclusion underneath the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the gown of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, regardless of the century by which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means permits you to overlook it.

[dreambulgaria]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an appropriate costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is probably the most ordinary, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The unfastened white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A fancy dress interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual previous Pierrot, together with his full white trousers and black pompons, unfastened coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a standard object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide gown. There are fancy dances in loads which name for no distinctive fashion of gown, however the style suits the footstep as a rule, and little question influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and quick brilliant petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its allure with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth by means of the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t reside to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would leap to a conclusion underneath the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the gown of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, regardless of the century by which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means permits you to overlook it.

[creeping-crowley]

"Don't you trust me?" (@gaily-gavotte)

He had managed to pinpoint the very moment the situation spiralled out of control.

Crowley hit the ground and amidst the space about him beginning to spin and blur, came the distinctly acrid scent of what could only be described as imminent death. Muscles ached in protest as the demon fought to move. Writhing in an attempt to shift battered and broken wings into a more cooperative shape. The pain was enough to pull a strangled cry of effort from him as he moved. Thankfully, he’d been thrown into a wall (if there was mercy to be found in such a thing). Ragged breaths marked the success of the angel’s efforts as Crowley remained grounded. Footsteps approached to close in on what now was the image of a perfect target. The pungent stench of holy water accompanied the presences, pushing the demon to cringe away like a kicked dog against the anchor of the wall. Shakily, Crowley lifted a bloodstained hand to rest over a plug socket, steadying himself. And then, the demon vanished into it.

The veritable web of electricity branched off into a highway of differing escape routes- all of which Crowley hoped would prove incredibly confusing to his attackers should they attempt to give chase.

Blinded pain and panic drove the demon to race towards what was familiar. Without pausing to consider the destination, the demon hurtled through the winding webs of electricity through the grid system. Once reaching his intended sanctuary, Crowley burst forth and subsequently shattered a lightbulb as his form took shape again, crashing to the floor in a sea of blood and glass.

The feeling of dread did not leave.

With the seconds that came after his unceremonious crash landing onto the marble floor, a very real realisation presented itself to Crowley despite his throbbing head.

This was the first place anyone would come looking for him.

The location was too predictable. He wasn’t prepared. He wouldn’t be able to face the unwanted pursuit, either, not in the state he found himself. Going down to hell was too risky a route to run- heaven had their eyes and ears Downstairs and plenty of those loitering below wouldn’t think twice about removing a weakened peer in order to secure a promotion. No. Hell was out of the question. Turning to his fellows was out of the question. He had to go it alone- he had to look like he had it handled.

Dark wings quivered as inky blood created slick pools where the demon lay, battling the urge to close his eyes in surrender to the haziness rearing its head at his consciousness. After a few slow, rattled breaths, the demon’s form melted away into the air, chasing the wind to a different sanctuary entirely.

The cottage was mostly untouched. Crowley had bought it some time ago, however it remained somewhat of an ongoing project. He had not yet found the time needed to begin turning it into the vision he had possessed. This place had a purpose. But for now, that was cast aside. The purpose of it now was to provide shelter. A safe place to hide. To breathe. To hope that no soul would follow.

Once he had re-materialized himself, Crowley staggered through the dusty rooms before reaching the smallest and crumpling in the far corner. A dim, lifelessness enveloped the whole property. The demon was not certain of how much time had passed between his hurried attempts to escape. What he was certain of, however, was the sound of somebody entering the house. Tension soared at the sound of footsteps and instinct caused the demon to shrink back into the darkness as though hoping he might disappear. Grim understanding dictated that it was only a matter of time. The trail of blood was unmistakable.

As the door to the room was opened, orange eyes wearily searched for his attacker. The approach was unwelcome, causing black, broken wings to attempt to strike forwards in an excruciating effort to keep Aziraphale at bay. Flecks of blood scattered about the room at the, clumsy, sweeping motion along with a smattering of shed feathers.

"Don't you trust me?"

The hunted glint in the demon’s eye was all the response needed.

Stay back.

“…Aziraphale,” The broken sound faltered from the dark, imploring the angel to listen.

From amidst the mess of blood and feathers at Aziraphale’s feet the demon began to tremble.

“—Aziraphale…no.”

[everythingist]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the ability and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an acceptable costume. A brief skirt of purple and white awning is probably the most typical, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The free white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the big straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a purple scarf tied on the left facet with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A dressing up interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual previous Pierrot, together with his full white trousers and black pompons, free coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a standard object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide costume. There are fancy dances in a lot which name for no distinctive fashion of costume, however the trend suits the footstep as a rule, and little question influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and brief brilliant petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the looking dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its appeal with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth via the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t stay to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would bounce to a conclusion below the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the costume of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, regardless of the century through which its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means enables you to neglect it.

[myworldbg]

Danceso dearto the South American

The“Coon’’danceso dearto the South American makes no nice calls for upon the talent and in-genuity of these entrusted with the planning of an acceptable costume. A brief skirt of pink and white awning is essentially the most typical, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The free white shirt vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped materialmatchingthe skirt. Black footwear and stockings are worn, and the massive straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a pink scarf tied on the left aspect with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A dressing up interesting to the male dancer who appreciates consolation is that of homosexual previous Pierrot, along with his full white trousers and black pompons, free coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His female companion is a typical object within the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Virtually each nation has its attribute dances, to that are naturally devoted some adap-tation of the nationwide costume. There are fancy dances in a lot which name for no distinctive model of costume, however the trend matches the footstep as a rule, and little question influenced its delivery.

The stately actions of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade ; the nation dance appears the merrier for the gaily colored fluttering ribbons and brief vibrant petticoats ; the hornpipe would lose some significance with out the cooperation of navy blue and a person o’-war or a Jack-tar hat ; the searching dance shouts “ away ” for pink ; the Irish jig is shorn of a lot of its attraction with out the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance calls for its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so forth via the entire dictionary of dances.

The mode fits the measure, and the general dance destined to be carried out in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldn’t dwell to inform its story in sabots ; the jig would soar to a conclusion below the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire within the bondage of Western raiment.

The time has lengthy passed by when the costume of his personal interval would serve the flip of the actor in any character in any play, regardless of the century wherein its story handed. That situation of affairs has no place even within the psychological treasure- trove of the oldest playgoer, who noticed Edmund Kean, and by no means allows you to neglect it.

[occasionally-gives-a-damn]

Bold what Applies

Killed Someone Under Orders | Had Someone Killed On Their Orders | Spared Someone’s Life | Invented Something  | Been Hungover | Kissed Someone | Slow-Danced | Been In A Long-Term Relationship | Had Sex | Had Sex And Regretted It | Had A One-Night Stand | Had A Threesome| Had A Kid | Wanted To Have A Family With Someone | Done Something On Drunken Impulse They Regretted | Gone Traveling | Had A Bounty Put On Them | Eaten An Insect | Been Groped By A Stranger | Been Dumped | Dumped Someone | Smoked | Gotten High | Flirted With Someone To Get Free Drinks | Put Someone In A Headlock | Won A Bet | Lost A Bet | Forgiven Someone Who Wronged Them | Indulged In Petty Revenge | Hallucinated | Has A Noticeable Physical Defect | Gotten A Noticeable Scar | Been Permanently Disfigured Through Injury | Kneed Someone In The Groin | Had An Unattainable Crush | Laughed Themself To The Point Of Tears | Been Kidnapped | Been Sexually Assaulted | Been Brainwashed/Hypnotised | Had A Recurring Nightmare | Been Bullied  | Bullied Someone | Experienced Survivor’s Guilt | Been Tied/Chained Up | Given Someone A Massage | Received A Massage | Been Backed Up Against A Wall | Shot Someone | Stabbed Someone | Saved Someone’s Life | Cheated On Someone | Been Cheated On | Been In An Open Relationship | Had A Friendship With Benefits | Been In A Queerplatonic Relationship | Had A Stalker | Been Betrayed | Been A Traitor | Been Possessed | Been In A Bar Fight | Been Thrown Out Of A Bar | Been Arrested | Broken Out Of Jail | Been To A Funeral | Been To A Brothel | Had Surgery | Broken Someone’s Trust | Broken Someone’s Heart | Had Their Heart Broken | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Anger | Broken/Damaged Something Out Of Spite | Gotten A Piercing | Gotten A Tattoo | Used A Fake Name | Been Tortured/Tortured Others | Been Abused | Been Blackmailed | Gotten Away With A Crime | Shared A Bed Platonically | Been In Love |  Suffered From Sleep Paralysis | Been Forced To Flee Their Home | Learned A New Language | Joined A Rebellion | Fought On The Losing Side Of A War | Fought On The Winning Side Of A War | Become A Godparent | Become An Aunt/Uncle |

 Tagging: @purpletoxicity , @gaily-gavotte @exanxmo & anyone else who wants to do it!

[beelzzzebub-blog]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

( 𝐁𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 ; 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 ) 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 - 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 & 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

JOHN KEATS.

the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,   names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.

crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment, your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,   the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.

the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,   raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.

the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.

the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY —

Stolen from @hclyrumors

TAGGING —

@talesofgoreandmystery @excidistisgratia @hellsrhapsody @gaily-gavotte @sushiandbooklover