scoobwrites

[scoobwrites]

who: melpomene & thalia @honestlymurderforacokezero where: the grocery store when: june 07th.

hospital food kind of fucking sucks.

they’d all been careful about declaring it around clio, careful to not bring further attention to how horrifically inconvenient this all was for her. and inconvenient was putting it kind of lightly. an overnight stay at a hospital for something trivial was an inconvenience, a concussion and a broken nose was kind of anything but. especially for someone who was so used to stomping her foot into getting her way.

she hadn’t gotten a chance to have a genuine conversation with clio all night, not with her terrible mood clouding the room. (though, mel can forgive her the negative energy this time around). and then there was the matter of her creepy ass father hanging around, clio’s real father always incredibly unsettling to be around no matter how attractive she thought he was. and teri was being fucking weird. and flynn was fucking there for some reason. the entire thing was just…not it. so mel took the first opportunity to get out of there, letting callie claim the first shift of entertain clio duty.

the plan was to accompany thalia while she ran errands, and then eventually stop by clio’s place to pick up some clothes and necessities for her. but as most things with mel go, they’d gotten sort of sidetracked.

“where do you think blue raspberry came from?” mel asks, eyeing a bag of sour candy as she decides on what to add to her get well soon basket for clio. sour candy seems like a terrible treat to go in this, but it’s caught her eye as she scanned the candy shelves. “like what lunatic woke up and invented a flavor just for the funsies, yanno”

[scoobwrites]

❆ — [sender] and [receiver] get trapped indoors during a snow storm

killing yourself for perfection is a muse family trait, apparently.

finally finding her biological father brought on a sequence of events that changed melpomene’s life forever. some were for the good. others…well, she sometimes wishes she stayed oblivious of her father’s identity. meeting her sisters? for the good, certainly. having her creative needs and whims nurtured by someone who understood them? definitely good. coming face to face with the very real, very stifling expectations her father had for his children? well, that part could have been kept.

melpomene was a muse through and through in some ways. she loves the arts, always has. and she’s a natural born performer, all woody and buzz’s grainy family videos of her growing up featuring a tiny little girl with wild curly hair just hamming it up for the intended audience. but she’s not the muse zeno wants, not entirely at least. her voice, her stage presence, her attention to detail are what he wants; things he needs to make his fleeting idea of a girl group fit, just another cog in the machine. but she was flashy and strange, curious and willing to take a risk and fail in the pursuit of art. and well, he didn’t like that.

the muses had been recording demos since she was thirteen years old. an entire catalog of songs that hadn’t been good enough to make it to an exec before they were eventually signed. and being signed came with new struggles, commercial success more important than the pursuit of creation. and the next thing she knows they’re two forgettable albums into a career she’s resentful of. she’d once read a review that claimed they make old navy music — and in response someone had edited one of their music videos over an old navy commercial and she wanted to fucking scream. and when the sisters sit down to discuss their third album she informs them it may be their last because if it’s subpar in the end she just might kill herself.

but her father would hear nothing of it; he sent demos, and fledgling ideas, sound bites of lyrics and off shot productions. and she might be working a little too hard trying to make one of them work.

it shouldn’t be this hard. she writes for other artists all the time, her work as a songwriter and producer for others one of the main things keeping her bills paid because their bubbling under chart entries just wasn’t fully cutting it. but an hour at her laptop had turned into two and that turned into four, and before she knows it luis is closing her laptop and lifting her out of the chair and into his arms. she protests, feebly, before he says exactly what she needs to hear: it’s not getting any better, take a break, get your mind off it. and she can’t help but grin at his honesty because ok, she wasn’t going insane — it was still pretty rough despite her best efforts.

she hadn’t even realized it’d begun snowing, and the excuse to remain holed up in her room is the last thing either of them need. “God,” she smiles against his lips, content here in his lap with his arms around her waist. “you’re like unreal, you know that?” something about the way luis carries himself tells her he definitely knows. mel runs her hands up and down his bare chest as he throws his shirt across the room. ring clad fingers tracing the planes and contours of his muscles, like she does every time he’s shirtless because he’s got the body of a greek fucking god and it deserves to be worshipped every single time. “like God was up there taking his sweet ass fucking time.” and won’t He do it. with a laugh she leans in to press a soft kiss to his lips again, a million tiny little ones that turn into one long feverish kiss that has him tightening his grip around her.

God took a little bit more time though. No, too many words.

his lips travel down to her jaw, making his way down to her neck slowly. And she arches her back slightly, leaning away from him to give him more access.

God took a little extra time though. that’s…eh, at best.

he sucks a particularly bruising mark into her neck. and while she often has a no hickies rule with everyone she sleeps with, she’s always made an exception for him. she doesn’t necessarily mind being marked by him. and he likes to make sure people know she’s spoken for, he’s territorial in some ways. And she doesn’t hate that for once.

God was working, took some extra time. almost. almost.

and then it comes to her. “oh!” her eyes snap open, alight with a new idea. luis looks up at her through his lashes, not bothering to fully stop as his hands reach under her shirt — his shirt that she stole. “God was working, probably took some extra time though.” she recites the words quickly, and that makes him stop what he’s doing now. “God was working, probably took some extra time though.” she repeats again, slower, trying to get a feel for how the string of words feel with the cadence. “That’s not…it’s a good start for a quick little 8.” she mumbles to herself, getting up and running back over to her laptop. “I gotta record the sound bite before I forget it.” she plops down in his computer chair, opening her laptop and quickly typing in her password and opening the appropriate apps. “What if it’s like ‘baby, you’re one of a kind uh, God was working probably took some extra time though?”

@slowpokewrites

[scoobwrites]

💖+ for my muse to ask yours out.

you can do this. he’s just a guy. just some fucking guy.

but marko lawson was a little bit more than that, wasn’t he? more than just another guy in savouge. he was different from all the other boys they’d went to school with; a bit of a troublemaker even back then. carefree and wild in a way that she’d always yearned for, the kind of jump without looking down that her parents wouldn’t ever allow. break the thing first and then blow off the consequences later. trouble, that’s what they all say about him. that boy is trouble.

but he was more than that, so much more.

he handed her complimentary anti-fracking t-shirts as aria steinfeld shoved petitions at her and her friends. petitions serena always signed happily.

when some kid got shoved down the steps by eddie valuzzo, she saw marko teach him how to throw a punch so the next time he at least stood some sort of a fighting chance. no matter how minuscule.

and when his best friend went to jail for manslaughter, he visited her when he could — she knows because she bumped into him when her father was leading a scared straight themed redemption house tour she had to chaperone.

marko lawson was trouble, yes, of course. but he wasn’t a bad guy. he was kind of amazing, actually. and serena ross was out of her mind for thinking she stands a chance. she’s not his type — bubbly, blonde and pink. no way in fucking hell she’s his type.

but she has to try.

“hey,” serena greets, bright excited smile on her face as he comes into view. he said he’d stop by her charity bake sale, and she needs to get a fucking grip because being a man of his word doesn’t mean anything. but chace osbourne could barely remember what charities she was focusing on now, so sue her for thinking this — showing up and supporting — was a sweet gesture. “i’m so glad you’re here. i actually have something for you.” she gets up from the table, reaching into her purse before she pulls him away from the youth group she’s mentoring. she keeps the card she made him concealed behind her back, hoping it’s enough to win his favor. it’s different than her normal approach, vastly different than the miniskirt she and reed had picked out and the strut up and kiss him tactic serena had suggested. the circumstances of the next time she would see him not really allowing for her friends usual tips and tricks — but this, this might work. she thinks.

she hopes.

“so my friends are throwing this yacht party next saturday and they told me to invite whoever i wanted, right.” she begins, mind moving a mile a minute as she tries to focus on keeping calm and not letting nerves get the best of her. “but that sounds like the worst thing that i could bring you too so i was thinking instead,” and with a flourish she presents him with a homemade card. she’d glued a picture of squirtle wearing sunglasses on the front and covered it in blue glitter, the words you make me so wet written out on the front in stencil. “there’s this water park just about an hour out of town, maybe we could go? like just you and me?” she opens the card to show him her (poor) drawings of squirtles in assorted floaties and swim suits. and two entry tickets to the water park. “or if you hate water parks or something we could not do that. it just seems like a waste of a good squirtle joke.”

@honestlymurderforacokezero