a fallen angel

running from your past is like running from your shadow—it's only safe to come out at night

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

sabinedevereux:

closed starter for @agracefulmasquerade

How long had she been in the shadows, waiting in the wings for a miracle onto to have tragedy strike and bring an end to her dreams for a while. The time off had done her no good and all that had bred in her breast was a deep-seated need to return to the stage. It wasn’t so much stardom that the diva craved but the attention that came with it.

She mistakes the attention for affection, and that affection for love and desire and need, to be honest. It’s a thing that has been wrong with her since she first started working to bring food home and put it on the table for her family, and even now with them gone she feels that need to prove herself to anyone and everyone. She can bring home the bacon, so to speak.

Where Sabine ran towards her past and reveled in it, never fully moving on from the child she had been to an adult of her own making, Grace seemed to run from her past in a way that left her exposed and vulnerable. Ever since she’d stepped foot in the Moulin Rouge Sabine had been watching her, careful of her attentions so as to not draw too much interrogation as to why, but fully aware that she had never met nor heard of a woman of Grace’s description in any part of her family.

Sabine had an inkling that Grace knew – that she understood Sabine was aware of her false start, her hidden past, and her questionable future – but that since Sabine had said nothing to anyone about it she was willing to let it go. It’s true that Sabine might be a good person beneath it all, but it was also entirely possible she knew a bargaining chip when she saw one.

It’s with saccharine words and crimson lips that Sabine now leans over Grace’s shoulder as both of them practice parts of their routine for the night, and murmurs, “Bonjour, dear cousin, your form is looking lovely.”

She’d known that Sabine had seen through her the moment that she’d called her cousin. When she’d first chosen the name, she’d been thinking of a friend of her mother’s, assuming that it was a common name because of a few comments that she’d made over the years. It appeared that it was, in fact, far less common than she’d believed, but she wasn’t going to panic about it. Everyone here was using a stage name, it seemed. The only difference was that she was using one all the time. Of what consequence was that to anyone? 

At least, that was the air she tried to project when the redhead approached her. “Merci,” she said, with a gentle smile, deciding to take the compliment at face value. “I’ve been practicing so much; I’m glad it seems to finally be paying off.” She wasn’t sure what the older dancer was intending, but she’d always been well-served by acting innocent and playing along as if nothing was wrong. Oftentimes it made it impossible for some of the cattier girls back home to touch her—they’d come at her with fake words and she’d respond with sweet sincerity, and there’d been no avenue left to them other than acting as if they’d been genuine the entire time. 

Part of her knew that the stakes here were higher. Back home the worst that could happen was someone would cause a big enough issue that her father would hear of it—not out of the question, but he wasn’t the type of man to care one whit about the idle chatter of young girls. Here, the consequences could be steeper, but then, just because Sabine might know that she wasn’t who she said she was didn’t mean she had any idea what her true identity might be. She’d come to terms with the fact that some people would be able to tell that she was wearing a  mask. As long as they didn’t discover what lay underneath, there was no real danger. 

“How are you finding the new number?” she asked, deciding to be conversational. If she acted scared, that would only give Sabine more leverage. “I for one think it’s enchanting, but then, we all know I haven’t been here long enough for my opinion to hold much weight.” 

[silverlandings]

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

babyfaceocleary:

Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, to approach her in an obvious moment of private distress, but it was impossible not to. He could see himself in that moment, he knew what it was like, to have those small gestures mean so much in a way that few others would understand. It wasn’t something that went away, he still felt it at times, and he knew what it was like to want to run and hide. Maybe part of the reason he felt the need to approach her was because in those moments he felt utterly alone, but she didn’t have to. He could offer something to her that he had never received.

For whatever panic she was feeling, he had to hand it to her that she was skilled at hiding it; her smile was soft and beautiful and seemed to be real. Babyface smiled back, and nodded, offering his arm for her to take to lead her to his private booth. “What a lovely smile, I think I’d remember such radiance. We haven’t met, have we, love?” he asked.

The good thing about the panic was that it subsided to a manageable level decently fast. The  less-good thing was that it tended to persist, sitting at that just barely manageable level for hours—or sometimes even days. It was a constant presence in the back of her mind, making her hyperaware of other’s moods, of sudden noises, of her own behavior and whether it was acceptable. But as long as she could hide it, that was all she asked for. The ability to keep her composure was key. 

“I don’t think we have, no,” she replied, taking his arm and letting him lead her to his booth. He was being kind, and either couldn’t tell that she was shaken or was electing to ignore it, which was a blessing either way. “Though I’ve not been here long, so it’s not surprising. I keep meeting new people every day.” There were always new faces in the crowd. Though many of them were only new to her, it seemed. “I’m Grace. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.” 

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

ellaesmeralda:

As the other girl spoke, Delilah’s curiosity just increased by the second. It was true, everyone here had their secrets, and no one wanted them exposed. It was more difficult for a dancer to hide their origins, though, and miss Grace seemed to have the word high born written all over her face. She valued stories, and it would be a lie to say this one wasn’t one she’d like to know. However, she wasn’t really going to press for it. “Shakespeare, that’s a classic. Always a good read. I particularly enjoy his tragedies. They’re very realistic.”, she smiled. “Have you ever heard about the theory that states that Shakespeare is actually a pseudonym? Apparently used by a noble man who wasn’t allowed to become an author.”, she sighed, giving her a pointed look. “Sometimes nobility can become a cage, I suppose.” 

She nodded at her next words. “I like Wuthering Heights as well, though I find it a little sexist for my tastes. Heathcliff and Catherine’s love is not great, it’s twisted and sick.”, she shrugged. “Though I suppose books need to reflect reality, and sick twisted love is definitely a part of that.” When Grace spoke again, Delilah smiled. That was a plausible explanation for her dancer position, but the courtesan part? That remained to be seen. “I understand. I always value girls who follow their passions. You’re very brave, miss Grace.”

She hadn’t heard that theory before, and it was rather fascinating. “He might have been a nobleman? That’s intriguing. I’d never considered the possibility. Who is it that they think he was?” She’d always had a particular fondness for the court of Queen Elizabeth, for predictable reasons— a daughter who was unloved and cast aside rising up to become more beloved than her father had ever been, and ushering in a Golden Age so iconic that the very era she presided over bore her name. It was inspiring, for a girl who’d always been told her job was to do nothing more than look pretty and have perfect manners and be an obedient wife one day. “What’s your favorite of his works?” she asked. “That does seem to be a bit of a common thread through some of them. Privilege and it’s pitfalls.” 

“And no, Heathcliff is anything but romantic. But perhaps that’s why I like it. The way the characters reflect the setting—bleak and cold, but with some beauty there. The way they’re allowed to be flawed. Irredeemably flawed, I’d venture, but real. It’s not a perfect picture of the ideal world that many like to pretend this reality is. It’s complex and difficult.” She didn’t have a problem with fairy tales or children’s stories, but the books considered suitable for young women were all filled with fake little heroines who never did a thing wrong, lest they forfeit all right to a happy ending. “And I...” she blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, but I’m not brave. I’m just doing what many other girls here have done.” If she was brave, she wouldn’t have run. She would have tried to do something, instead of just fleeing. 

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

Hello darlings! Just wanted to apologize again for being so quiet this week. I’ve been having a rough time with personal things so writing hasn’t been happening as much as I’d like it to. Hopefully that will clear up over the weekend though! (Also if anyone wants to message me and plot/distract me from existential dread, please feel free! It’d definitely be appreciated). 

In recompense for lack of threads, please enjoy this picture of a puppy and a cheetah cub who are friends:

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

agracefulmasquerade:

To Do (bc ya girl can’t get her life in order but i can at least get this in order): 

Starters: 

@lafemmejacqueline​

@adoubleentendre​

Replies: 

@rcdrighthxnd

@kingpinseo​

@babyfaceocleary​

@sereiamona​

@nettyfawn​

@sabinedevereux​

@ellaesmeralda​

@richelixus​

@looselipssinksecrets​

Memes:

are a thing that exist, potentially

If I missed you, please just poke me. (Also if you want a starter you can feel free to do the same) 

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

nettyfawn:

“London? Well, that explains the accent, then. But that must have been exciting. You always hear of such fascinating things happening there but it hardly seems like anyone knows how to have fun,” she muses, pulling the last of her pins from her hair. She bends her head forward,  flipping her hair over and ruffling her fingers through it.

Her face is flushed as she flips her head back again once more, giving Grace a quick smile before she turns back to count the pins on her vanity, speaking as she does so. “But a governess? How lucky of you. That’s a good line of work for a woman to be in. If my mother had been a governess, I hardly think my life would be what it is today…So she taught you herself?”

There was another sudden burst of laughter, though it was far more subdued this time. She got it back under control in an instant, her smile serene, though the laughter was still dancing in her eyes. “You could say that, yes. Having fun isn’t something that’s a priority in London. Or... perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it’s only for certain people, and not supposed to be desired by anyone else.” Society could forgive a young man who made a mistake. Boys were boys, and if they wanted to go smoke cigars and bed ladies and drink until they forgot themselves, then it was all well and good as long as it happened behind closed doors. As long as they didn’t make any mistakes that were too public, all was forgiven. But God forbid that a lady so much as misspeak at a party. “It’s not like it is here. I’m sure that half the city would drop over from shock if they saw this place.” 

Talking about her mother filled her with a melancholy still, though it wasn’t as it was in the beginning. She’d not even been dead a year and already the pain had faded a bit. Perhaps it was because so often when she was alive, she was absent—there in person, but not engaging, not even seeming to see her daughter when she spoke, only giving responses that were ‘acceptable’. “She taught me, yes. Many things.” How to hide bruises with clever necklines, how to don an emotionless mask when it was called for, how to make a curtsy seem like a surrender and an appeasement. “She and her friends did.” 

[looselipssinksecrets-deactivate]

familiar faces // open

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

looselipssinksecrets:

Maybe it was a cliche, but Genie had already started reaching for her sugar syrups before Grace had replied, figuring the girl would enjoy a drink as sweet as she was. Genie had never seen the girl with a drink, or even with any food in her hands; her tastes were as much a mystery as the rest of her persona. But if there was one thing Genie was confident in, it was how to make a drink that a girl could enjoy.

“The first drink I ever had was this beautiful fruity thing,” she confessed, muddling some berries at the bottom of a glass with the syrup. It was a rare moment of honesty – it was a favourite treat of her mother’s, stolen on a summer day when she was too young to worry about the consequences. She still remembered the way it had tasted, sweet and childish, as though there was no alcohol in it at all. Of course, she didn’t remember anything else from that day, but she had fallen in love nonetheless. “I’ve been trying to recreate it ever since. This is as close as I can get.” Some sweet liquors, ice, lemon juice. She didn’t often get to make drinks like this at her bar. The bright cocktail stood out among the glasses of whiskey and absinthe, but she was quietly confident that Grace would enjoy it more than her usual offerings. “Tell me what you think,” she said, grinning, as she pushed the drink over.

She took the drink cautiously. She trusted Genie, mostly, but she was still a little unsure as she took a sip. The flavor was unexpected: just as sweet and fruity as she’d described it, none of the bite that she’d associated with alcohol before. “This is...” she grinned, a real smile. “This is excellent.” She took another long sip, savoring the taste, trying not to just down the entire drink right there—even if it was delicious, it still had alcohol in it, and she didn’t want to drink too much and lose her control. 

“Where did you first taste this?” she asked, curious. It wasn’t like anything she’d had before, and she found herself curious about the friendly face behind the bar. She fit right in here, among the crowds, doing her job with ease and confidence. It was something that Grace aspired to herself, hoping that some day she’d be the same way with her own job here. Hopefully hard work and determination and never, ever letting herself lose sight of her role would serve her just as well here as it had in her former life. She’d been beloved back in England because she never made a mistake and always knew what to do—and people had like that. They’d even loved her for it: a pretty girl who never spoke out of turn and was always gracious and perfectly polite. But she’d never had any illusions that if she stepped out of line, all that good will would immediately disappear. So she’d never done it, not until she’d gotten so frightened that she ran. She could do the same thing here, just as soon as she internalized all the rules and patterns. 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

… all she knew of tenderness was how much she wanted it.

Stephen Dunn, from Tenderness (via saintcesare)

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

richelixus:

“I always do, but especially when there’s new dancers around.” Kilian offered the girl a smile. As any meticulous lawyer would do, he considered his job to know every single person that worked for him. The Moulin Rouge was one of his personal investments, so it was safe to say he considered everyone there his employees. He had made sure to supervise - indirectly sometimes - the auditions before the re-opening. They had to offer the best in France, and that was not going to change under his command. So the brunette in front of him might have thought she was unnoticed, but he did know who she was.

“But do tell me, Miss Devereaux, what was your favorite bit? I hope Valentina isn’t being too hard on you. I’m aware you’re one of the new ones, and I would hate for you to feel too pressured during your first months here.” He was charming, tempting, like a snake, slowly surrounding his prey before eating it whole. In a way he was way more dangerous than most of the men there. They were straightforward with their intentions, as lascivious as they could be. Kilian wasn’t; he was a trap, one that it was way too easy to fall for. 

“Oh, no, everyone’s been lovely,” she said, quickly denying that she’d felt pressure. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. She had felt pressure, but it had all been internal. No one was pushing her nearly as hard as she was pushing herself, expecting perfection in this new role the same way she’d been expected in a role she’d been training for her entire life. “And is it cliché to say that that last group number was my favorite? The energy is almost palpable, like I’m swept along in it.” It was nice to forget herself for a number. 

“I apologize, Monsieur. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to or not, but if life had taught her one thing, it was that it was better to air on the side of overly deferent. “I do hope you’ll forgive me.” He had an air about him, of power and privilege, and she knew men like that didn’t often take kindly to having to explain who they were and why they were so important. They expected everyone to already know. And maybe he had been mentioned to her before, but without the face to link to the name she found herself at a loss. 

[doona-baes]

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

babyfaceocleary:

@agracefulmasquerade

No matter how much everything has changed, he still sees things that other people don’t. After growing up how he had, seeing so much while he was so young, and for so long, there are some things that just don’t get by him. Like the little looks in the eyes of the girls who don’t want to be talking to the men their with, the slight flinches that come from a movement a little too sharp, just like the flinches he still has trouble hiding, even knowing his father is long gone. And he’s seen her before, he’s seen how she reacts, those little moments she probably thinks no one sees. But he sees. And on that night when he sees, he makes his own move, as she turns away from the man who caused the unknown offense, approaches her with a softness that’s rare from Babyface.

“Could I buy you a drink, perhaps, mademoiselle?” he offers, voice soft, the slight frown on his face suggesting something deeper behind the question.

It hadn’t been the patron’s fault. They couldn’t have known that what they’d likely meant to be an enthusiastic gesture had read as threatening to her. She’d controlled her reaction, but it had shaken her enough that she’d recused herself from the conversation once Charlotte had flitted by and caught the gentleman’s attention, slipping back towards the wall, hoping for a moment to collect herself. It was foolish, really. She was fine, she reminded herself firmly, her inner reassurances starting to sound more and more berating. She wouldn’t be able to do this if she let that sort of reaction hold her back. She’d give herself this one time, and then next time, she’d make herself not react. It wasn’t like she was in any real danger, so the entire reaction was foolish.

It was in the middle of this that another man approached her. For a moment she wanted to say no, make some excuse so that she could have more time to force herself back to normal, but his gentle tone made her pause. “Of course,” she said, a soft smile on her lips. “Thank you, monsieur.”

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

To Do (bc ya girl can’t get her life in order but i can at least get this in order): 

Starters: 

@lafemmejacqueline​

@adoubleentendre​

Replies: 

@rcdrighthxnd

@kingpinseo​

@babyfaceocleary​

@sereiamona​

@nettyfawn​

@sabinedevereux​

@ellaesmeralda​

@richelixus​

@looselipssinksecrets​

Memes:

are a thing that exist, potentially

If I missed you, please just poke me. (Also if you want a starter you can feel free to do the same) 

[apndrgn-blog1]

i don’t even watch reign, i just love adelaide kane: 01/?

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

avrelies:

@agracefulmasquerade

There is something off about Grace’s demure demeanor and polished accent so different than what she normally hears backstage, something skittish, something secret, something suspicious about the girl. Everyone has their secrets at the Moulin Rouge, and Aurelie has a feeling Grace’s aren’t as big as maybe the businessman at the back table with his pockets in dark places, yet she’s wary nonetheless. What’s such a sweet girl doing so far from home, appearing out of nowhere in a haze of stardust?

Questions beg to be answered, and Aurelie’s no Genie, but she’s picked up a few things here and there over the years about unraveling secrets. She approaches Grace at the end of the night with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, brilliant smile on her face. “Think of this as a belated welcome, chérie. I don’t know what you like, but champagne is always a good idea, no?”

“Oh!” Grace grinned, a bit surprised by the sudden offer. “Thank you, that would be lovely. Champagne is wonderful.” It was one of the few drinks she’d had experience with before she got here, and she’d found she always liked it—the way it fizzed, the light way it made her feel. And the prospect of Aurelie wanting to drink with her made her feel a bit lighter too, like she was finally starting to fit in here. She knew she couldn’t feel like an outsider forever. Some days it seemed she’d never find her stride, but that was just melancholy talking.

Honestly, she hadn’t been sure that Aurelie liked her that much. But then, perhaps that had been unfair. With the reopening everyone had been a bit distracted, trying to get everything back to where it was or to raise it to new heights, so it was understandable that she hadn’t gone out of her way to greet every new dancer that turned up. “Having a few glasses of champagne sounds like the perfect way to wind down the evening. “

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

charlesdarling:

Charlie laughed, coaxing the sound up from his own chest to play along with the lopsided smile on his face. His limbs felt as though they had been wired up to the stage lights, brimming with electricity as someone pushed that switch higher and higher. How he loved to play this game, to linger at the boundaries of what was acceptable, to see how far he could go until someone inevitably pointed out that what he was saying and what he was doing was unaligned and unharmonious. That very little lived inside his mouth but charm and lies. “Rats can be very good at hidin’ in plain sight,” he pointed out, blue eyes dragging heavily over her slender frame. “They’re quiet when they want to be, scurrying around when people are lookin’ elsewhere.” He let the words hang between them for a heartbeat or two, curious to see if she was the sort of person to crack easily. “The funny thing is, even though a rat just looks like a rat, there are differences between the ones you see here and the ones that live in fancy homes where they nibble on cake and sleep in feather beds.”

Grace’s query made for an interesting move, checkerboard games to be played in posh little parlours, the word check all but ringing through his ears. “They’re well hidden,” he responded, efficiently blasé about it, giving the room a vague wave. “Although there’s a chance that you’ve already stepped straight into one.” It wasn’t quite a threat, but the sharpness to his syllables held an undeniable bite. Charlie took a few steps forwards, slow yet filled with purpose, until he could reach out and carefully stroke a loose chocolate brown curl back behind the dancer’s ear. “Maybe I ain’t got it right, but it seems t’me like you’re not exactly who you want everyone to think you are – which is a shame, ‘cos you’d be a lot more interestin’ t’me if that were the case.” 

All at once the color left her face. It was clear, now, that he thought he knew something—the only question was what. If all he’d put together was that she came from a privileged background... well, she was sure there were dozens of girls like that, who for some reason or another had fallen from grace or left of their own accord. It might be something she’d prefer to hide, but there wasn’t any real harm in him knowing it. No, the harm would come if he knew who she really was. Knowing that Grace Devereaux didn’t really exist was all well and good—she’d be willing to bet what little money she had at this point that she wasn’t the only one at the Moulin Rouge using a fake name. Just because he knew that wasn’t who she was didn’t mean he’d put together her true identity, she reasoned with herself, willing her hands to stop shaking. She had to act confident here, not let him see that he’d stumbled upon something real, something that could have serious consequences for her if it was taken too far. 

So she stood her ground, not backing up as he strode closer to her, not flinching back from his touch, staring up at him with eyes that only betrayed the barest hint of the fear she was feeling. “I’m sorry, monsieur, I’ve quite lost track. Which one of us is the rat in this metaphor?” Her voice was even, a cool tone, practiced on many a social climber back in London social halls. “Is anyone here truly what they seem?” She couldn’t back off, didn’t want to show weakness. “Enlighten me, then. If you don’t think I’m who I say I am, then who is it that you think I really am?” It was a gamble—if he said her real name, she was done for, but she was betting that part of his act right now was a bluff, meant to see what she’d give away. She was determined to give him nothing substantial.

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

She’d woken up early—her curtains hadn’t been as completely closed last night as she’d meant them to be, and the sun had been directly over her face. After a few moments of attempting to chase the spectre of sleep back down she’d accepted that it would continue evading her, and decided that as long as she was up she might as well go out into the town. She’d been telling herself for days now that she was going to go see if she could find a new book, but she’d kept putting it off in favor of more rehearsals, more practice, attempting to mold herself into the confident dancer she wished she was. But it was far too early for that now—even if by the rest of the world’s clock it was almost mid-morning, in the Moulin Rouge it was still their equivalent of the wee hours of the morning, from what she could tell. 

Which was how she’d found herself walking the streets of Montmartre, hoping to find a little bookshop that she’d seen before. She’d failed to remember exactly where it was, but she had the sense that she was getting closer. She recognized the pawn shop on the corner, which was likely a good sign. Wandering around on her own was equal parts freeing and unsettling—she’d never been permitted to do this back in England, and while there was a sense of danger, now, in the hours just before noon, with the sun soaking the streets in a golden glow, it felt less hazardous and more like an adventure. 

Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice the gentleman watching her at first. Or why once she did notice him, her response was a shy smile rather than a retreat. “Can I help you, monsieur?” she asked, not sure if she recognized him. There were so many men in and out of the Moulin Rouge; it was possible he was a patron, or equally possible she’d never seen him before. She knew she should be wary, but it was hard to think that he would pose a danger to her in the middle of a public street with people passing every so often. 

@kingpinseo