love is an ability, not a feeling

- run by kill it kid
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@simply-scarlett
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my pairing is as follows...
- setting: queens, new york, 2013
- my characters:
agatha moriarty, twenty four, elusive journalist...fc:imogen poots
felix moriarty, five, autistic civilian...fc:young david dorfman
- your characters:
christoffer morgan, thirty five, detective...fc:hugh dancy
 
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your pairing is as follows...
- setting: new york/london 2013
- your character(s): emily merchant, twenty five, psychiatrist, a few minor characters as needed
- my character(s): george egmond, thirty three, detective/profiler, benedict cumberbatch
 

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Agatha was currently clinging onto a street lampost for support as a car nearly knocked her straight from the tarmacadam underneath her. It was as if people these days had absolutely no manners whatsoever. That was the third car that had nearly gotten her that day, and she had only been out of the apartment for less than a few hours. Then that Polish man had eyed her up through her loose denim shirt and simple camisole top...maybe she should have decided to wear trousers instead of tights that day. But she had more important things to worry about than her appearance, as was clearly shown by her wild flaxen curls and contrasting slender physique, Felix had an appointment with the counsellor that evening and she had an article to hand in. Not to mention the 'other' issue... She stopped at the crossing as typically it had just turned red and waited patiently with a small group of people, well somewhat patiently as she tapped her slender fingers against the leather of her bag in a Tchaikovsky ballad out of pure habit.

we won't destroy you, no we will not destroy you.
- pa pa power by dead man's bones
 
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This is my first proper set in a long time, cut me some slack.
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name: felix pearse
age: seventeen
personality: while some people find his sarcastic side to be quite witty and entertaining, to most his dry sense of humour tends to be quite hard to follow and not humorous to them at all, just rude. But of course he doesn’t care about that. He gets annoyed very easily if there are less intelligent than average people in a room with him due to his obsession with knowledge. but despite these flaws and many, many more; he makes a mean pasta carbonara with bruschetta on the side.
biography or character study: (must be 4 paragraphs or at least 15 pictures with captions.)
likes:
ⅰ reading books about birds
ⅱ collecting casette tapes
ⅲ shouting at the ocean
ⅳ virgins
ⅴ his ex-girlfriend
ⅵ running
ⅶ flannel shirts
ⅷ the power of a gun
ⅸ crystal meth
ⅹkurt cobain
dislikes:
ⅰsl-ts
ⅱ not being noticed
ⅲ people who break promises
ⅳ people who put their s-x lives before others needs
ⅴ people that try too hard
ⅵ most people
ⅶ his mother
ⅷ the smell of make-up eg, foundation
ⅸ alcohol
ⅹ psychiatrists
human or ?: possessed by demon
tag: @violeteyes
model: evan peters
 
//-//-//
 
name: adrian peabody
age: eighteen
personality: she tends to stare and find herself getting stuck between her hallucinations and the ‘reality’ in which she must live, often giggles like a little girl in some of the most inappropriate situations (just to diffuse the tension) and has a peculiar (and rather inconvenient) liking for making daisy-chain headbands in the middle of winter. she has a fondness for lemon and blueberry bonbons.
biography or character study: (must be 4 paragraphs or at least 15 pictures with captions.)
likes:
ⅰ eighties alternative music
ⅱ when it rains
ⅲ pastels
ⅳ sitting in high places
ⅴ eccentric people
ⅵ the smell of new books
ⅶ dancing, particularly waltzing and ballet
ⅷ reading old novels
ⅸ romantic tragedies
ⅹ ingesting human blood
dislikes:
ⅰ loud noises
ⅱ people who don't cross their legs when sitting
ⅲ the colour orange
ⅳ having to go to sleep
ⅴ lightning storms
ⅵ the dark
ⅶ revealing clothing
ⅷ medication
ⅸ modern music
ⅹ american sitcoms
human or ?: human but is in touch with the 'otherworld'
tag: @x-here-today-gone-tomorrow-x
model: imogen poots
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@didy-is-at-last-free -- i'll finish it over the course of the night.

“we won’t destroy you, no we will not destroy you.”
- pa pa power by dead man’s bones
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http://www.polyvore.com/what_hides_behind_closed_doors/group.show?id=161477
http://www.polyvore.com/what_hides_behind_closed_doors/group.show?id=161477
http://www.polyvore.com/what_hides_behind_closed_doors/group.show?id=161477
 
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St John’s Boarding School, a place for the elite to be educated whilst avoiding the common eye. But who was to doubt that their reason’s for such an allocation would be so dubious?
There were already so many schools for them to mix with the best of the best, Eton and Harrow for the boys, Wycombe Abbey for the girls. So why did they need another?
 
Perhaps they had something to hide, something that could not be bragged about amongst the races and shows, something that even the reverend could not condone. It might have been something to do with genetics, with the water, or with the painkiller that seemed to crop up out of nowhere at the end of the Roaring Twenties, coinciding with the opening of this prestigious school. There was something different about the children of this era, of course given the state of the economic climate no one paid much attention…but they had to do something about it.
There is always the black sheep in a family, why would you expect any different when in fact, you should expect much, much worse?
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Warnings:
 
- Expect highly rated themes, there is no such thing as innocence on the internet after all.
- This is a supernatural roleplay, if you do not show the proper knowledge for the beings you choose to portray, you will be called out on it.
- Please fill in the audition as much as you could.
- No one appreciates one liners. Not even whatever deity you believe in.
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The year is 1904, the honourable King Edward IV is sitting comfortably on his throne. But not for long.
Militancy has begun, the people are fighting back at a greater number than ever. The city of London will become more reckless and the people more passionate than ever before.

- california dreamin' by the mama's & the papa's
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@roses-for-juliet -- Sorry this took forever, I hate this set so much...
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my character; lila jane evers, seventeen years, mortal/whitelighter, bella heathcote
your character; macon ravenwood, twenty three years, caster/incubus, mathias lauridsen
setting; a small town in south carolina, summer of '76
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Lila wasn't quite sure how long she had been out here now, it was still early night anyway she knew that for sure because Mr Wilkinson's television could still be seen on in the distance but other than that her mind failed her. Yet another night of staring at the ceiling, almost afraid to close her eyes in case the nightmare began again. It was always the same one. Night after night she was plagued by that blur, but she could never remember what it was, all she knew at the time of it was that it was the most heart stopping terror she had ever felt in her seventeen years of life. Most nights she had to drown it out by sneaking a bottle from her father's cabinet, but that always had dastardly results so after the third strike she figured she should stop before people began to notice. So here she was, here long pale legs swinging over the dirty tyre as the nightly breeze swayed her back and forth, perhaps this soothing movement could bring her the sleep she desired. Not that she needed much sleep anyway as she had graduated only two days beforehand and had another three months to go before college...well, three months left for her to convince her father to let her go to college. Like that would ever happen.
With a slight sigh she rested her head against one of the three chains holding her and the tyre up in the air, her shoulder length chestnut brown hair slightly tousled from the two minutes of sleep that she had managed to achieve and her floral print nightdress that fell just above her knee truly showed that this girl wasn't one of the ones that was obsessing over film stars and crying over their deaths. Mrs Macintosh was still crying over James Dean, whoever that was. It was a rare occasion when she got to see a film, partly because their theatre was two years behind every other one in the country when it came to their 'new releases' in their single screen twenty seated room, but mainly because she was too busy with her head buried in a book to pay attention to the hustle and bustle of the outside world. And this moment wasn't any different, Lila's little brunette head was buried in 'Post Office' by Charles Bukowski, one of the novels she had managed to sneak in with the help of her dear friend Amma, the librarian, as it was one of the many banned books here. The people of this town would ban breathing if they could.

- dark paradise by lana del rey
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@lunalikesgiraffes
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me; isobel strallen, seventeen, abbey lee kershaw
you; samuel baudouin, forty , jeremy irons {i can see him being kind of cold at the start, seeing as he's the older partner of the business}
setting; , oxfordshire, 1950
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Isobel Strallen twirled the ends of her long light brown hair as she looked after her two younger cousins who were visiting for the holidays from her suntanning spot in the front garden, normally she would enjoy this with no denying but lately she had been wanting more in life, more excitement and thrill. Admittedly this was strange for a girl as young as seventeen to be thinking of but she was very mature beyond her years. She picked out her own clothes now, a short crimson and floral print skater dress to show off her slim figure and tiny waist. She was young, it was all innocent, plus it was a very hot summer. She was looking forward to her brothers return as she hadn't seen him in so long, but she was even more excited to hear about his business partner Samuel, she heard he was tall and harsh looking but she always looked for the best in people. And she loved a challenge, but what she wasn't looking forward to was the argument her brother would have with her mother over his new purchase of the 'Lagonda 2.6-Litre' or as her mother and father had called it, the deathtrap. But she thought differently, she loved the light of the future.
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vehicle: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b5/Lagonda_2-6litre_1951_front.jpg
house; http://stokesaycourt.com/site/index.php/portfolio/

Group; http://www.polyvore.com/stardust_sanctuary/group.show?id=155053
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@gothicity --> I made her basically as the good Daddy's girl (as shown in the set) that turned into the good Sugar Daddy's girl...
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Model/ character: Skye Stracke/ Anette Welch
Bio: Born on the leap day of February 1904, Anette had a habit of being unusual. She adored the taste of absinthe the drink of the great artists ever since she had raided her au pair’s liquor cabinet when she was seven, but she couldn’t draw a circle to save her life. She refused to learn how to drive a car for herself, even though her father was the leading automobile producer East of Hudson. She liked dandelions but despised roses. She objected to the norm.
She was the girl of the Upper East Side, the pouty lips, the pin straight hair and the haute couture dresses. But her smile deceived her and shows the mischievousness that she longed to explore, but her hesitance at asking questions dampened such opportunities.
Her friends, her beautiful dollies, she loved them more than her first hand edition of Wuthering Heights. She saw them as her rock. Whereas they saw her as a fragile porcelain doll, too pure to ruin. This normal protectiveness though only increased as they attended a party at a new bachelor’s house to cheer her up over a recent ‘grievance’...
On the 30th May 1920, in the middle of 46th Street, her father’s business went bankrupt. The cars had failed, the money was gone, and so was her penthouse apartment.
On the 31st May 1920, in a dimly lit house to the North of the Hudson River, she met her match. William "Wild Bill" Lovett. The leader of the White Hand Gang, now he was the leader of her. They shared a drink over a hydrangea bush and a conversation involving the ‘bloody Boers’ and before she knew it, she’d fallen head over heels. Almost literally, but he caught her with no struggle.
She lived with him from that day onward, he had proposed in a passionate exchange of words towards the end of the night. Even he, the resident of the West Egg, knew of her father’s recent troubles. Of course she agreed, it was either that or live in the Bronx with her family, now that she couldn’t stand that at all.
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Take a good look in the society pages of your local newspaper and look at the picture of the group of socialites near the top of the page, focus on the girl second to the left. Tell me what you think of her. Those sparkling baby blue orbs that shine whenever she is near a light, her quizzical brow and her twitching lip corners at the slightest silly comment that makes her seem like a delicate little rosebud. Now think of the complete opposite.

Anette Welch was a theatrical production. She was not involved in one, she was one. Even her name alone held a sense of tragedy and development to it. A-nette Ma-de-line Welch. From her tyrant years as a toddler to the simply boy crazy years of her early to late teens, this girl was a show.

She had always wanted to be an actress; she told me so as a young child when we saw a poster for a repeat of an Oscar Wilde play in the local theatre. Such an old sort that man was, shame about the whole ‘lover-boy’ scandals. This was of course before her father began to make the ‘big bucks’ as people liked to whisper. Then she seemed to lose her faith in it all, her mind preoccupied with trying to act like a lady and behave the way her parents wanted her to. There was no time for dreaming anymore. It was time to grow up.

I first noticed her change in behaviour when she turned fifteen, it was only a small change in her as she was still young and relatively inexperienced but I still saw it. Her grandfather had passed away, he man who had set up their great business and left them living in a Utopia. She didn’t cry, she sighed. And it wasn’t in the sense of relief as you may be thinking, but more a release of excess carbon dioxide from her lungs. As if it had just been a passing comment rather than a serious occurrence. Her family merely shunned her for it, calling her heartless and cruel. They didn’t understand why she reacted in such a way, but like so many unfortunate happenings in life, just because you do not understand something does not mean it isn’t so. They didn’t understand, but I did. I just did nothing about it. I have always held the thought that if someone is crying it is the noble thing to do to comfort them, but if they are hiding their tears then it is best if you too act like they were not there at all.

She cried like a banshee during a famine the following four in the morning. Such a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that or time in this world is limited and yet we still hold this sense of surprise when we hear that someone has passed on, it makes no sense. It’s such a common thing. Why did it do this to them?
That was three years ago, when she still lived in that uptown apartment and I was sitting in my flat-share in Brooklyn thinking about her rather than taking it down like I am now.

Three years ago, Roosevelt died, anarchy took off like wildfire and Wilson won the prize for peace for creating a table where a bunch of foreigners sat and stared at each other until their time was up.

Three years ago, I thought she would be forever.

Two years ago, she left me for another. A gangster, a tyrant, a thief. Some might say that she was never mine to begin with but once you have seen the weaker side to a person they are forever yours. I tried to convince her, beg her not to go along with the hellish plan of theirs, no matter how darn romantic it was. But, sometimes words just aren’t enough. She chose her sugar-d-ddy, her fool. She chose the side of the darkness, with the champagne and the ‘art nouveau’, while I stuck to my typewriter and suspenders. They tempted her, my little angel, and showed her what it was like to not be like yourself. To subsist. She did give me her excuse though, in her typical Catholic girl fashion, let me show it to you;

“They say that the devil's water it ain't so sweet, and that you don’t have to drink it. But you can dip your feet, every once in a little while.”

...or overeducated.'
- Oscar Wilde

- mountain sound by of monsters and men
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@andimarie1987
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me; florence tallis, eighteen, heiress busy body socialite & wild child {cara develingne}
you; paul dontella, thirty two, co-store owner {benedict cumberbatch}
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Florence took the liberty of opening the door for them as she took his keys from his hand, letting it swing open as she kicked her heels in a random direction and headed straight to the sitting room where she fell backwards against the divan dramatically, the skirt of her dress rising so her bare legs from her upper thigh down were on show, but she didn't care. They had already seen each other naked even if they hadn't done anything, and they were engaged...if they still were that is. The meeting with the police hadn't gone very well. ''Inconsiderate ars.eholes,'' She mumbled angrily as she thought back to how the police had treated them, giving them funny looks as the age gap was rather obvious thanks to her still childish glow in her eyes and the age lines surrounding his. They even made her leave the room for most of it, saying that it was 'men's talk', can you imagine? Men's talk in 19-bloody-41? It made her sick, and she didn't even know what they had said to him yet as she had been so annoyed at their prejudice that she left immediately. Not to mention it was past lunch time and her little stomach was beginning to grumble. Could this day get any worse?