#song-inspired snippet

[stilettochat]

If one of Q's hidden hobbies is pole dancing,

I can see him doing some moves in one of Q-Branch's large R&D areas when no one's there. You see, he had installed poles in there and successfully justified them with Accounting. (Well, in return for a customized software which will make the department's work go faster.)

He'll change into a dance outfit, or maybe not in case.... But I see him in customized Louboutin and dancing to this....

I SEE RED

[jochiemgrace]

It has been three months since Solas left Inquisitor Emma'lah Lavellan after the final battle with Corypheus.

He is unpacking within his new hideout. Pulling item after item from the sole bag he carried during the inquisition, thanks to his love's magic.

His hand brushes something he doesn't recognize, something hidden in the deepest corner, and looks down.

He shouts and jumps back, falling on his ass, the pack wide open, her parent's marriage cord now on display from where they had tucked it neatly aside, waiting for him to find.

He can't stop the shaking. Can't stop the tears now running rivers down his face. Can't stop the sobs rolling from his chest as he mourns her, mourns them and their love. Mourns his past that pushes him towards an unloving future.

[girlnamedangel]

I don't want your body But I hate to think about you with somebody else Our love has gone cold You're intertwining your soul with somebody else Somebody else by The 1975

Sheldon Cooper had two tickets to the Thanksgiving event at the aquarium. Initially, he intended to offer them to Amy Farrah Fowler, assuming she wouldn't want to go with him since they were no longer together. However, to his surprise, she was the one who suggested that, if he was comfortable, they could attend together as friends.

To make the car ride less awkward, Sheldon prepared a list of friendly conversation topics, printing them out meticulously. Amy, amused but understanding, let him proceed. However, as the trip progressed, she found herself growing weary of his absurd questions—one of which was, "What temperature of air conditioning do you find most comfortable?"

Eventually, she sighed and said, "Sheldon, we don’t need a list. We can talk like normal friends do. Just... be yourself."

Encouraged by her words, Sheldon abandoned the script. But what followed was a question that neither of them was prepared for.

"Are you happy with your boyfriend now?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion but his eyes betraying his curiosity.

Amy felt her breath hitch. She hadn't expected that. Carefully choosing her words, she offered a safe response, "Dave is... very kind to me." She paused, then quickly reached into her bag. "Here, I packed some snacks for you. I know you like to munch on something during long drives."

Like a child easily distracted, Sheldon’s attention shifted. "Oh! Cereal! Excellent choice, Amy," he said, happily crunching away, allowing the tension in the air to dissipate.

By the time they arrived at the aquarium, they had fallen into an easy rhythm. It was as if they had never dated for five years—as if they had always just been two friends enjoying each other’s company. Both were silently grateful that, at the very least, they could still function as friends.

After a day filled with laughter, lighthearted banter, and reminiscing, Amy found herself hesitating over a question that had been lingering in her mind. Dave—her boyfriend—had expressed a deep desire to meet Sheldon, given that he was one of his biggest fans. She knew the window of opportunity was closing fast.

Taking a breath, she finally asked, "Sheldon, I know this might be a long shot, but... Dave would love to meet you. He’s a huge admirer of your work. If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

Sheldon glanced at her, contemplating. The day had been unexpectedly pleasant, and in some small way, he wanted to return the favor. "Alright," he said, surprising even himself. "If it brings you joy, then I shall comply."

Upon arriving at Amy’s apartment, Dave greeted them enthusiastically. "Dr. Cooper! This is an honor," he gushed, shaking Sheldon’s hand with a little too much enthusiasm. "I’ve read all your papers! Your work on string theory is just—brilliant!"

Sheldon nodded stiffly. "Yes, I am aware. Thank you."

Amy chuckled. "Sheldon, that’s his way of saying he’s a huge fan."

As the evening went on, everything remained cordial. But as Sheldon observed the way Amy laughed at Dave’s jokes, the way she looked at him with unfiltered affection, a strange sensation crept up his spine. He knew he should be happy for her. He should be proud that she had found someone who made her smile so freely. And yet…

He wasn’t happy.

He should be. But he wasn’t.

The realization hit him like an unsolvable equation, one that sent his mind spiraling. How could he call himself a genius when he had let Amy go? For years, he had fantasized about time travel, theorized about its feasibility—but never before had he wished for it more than in that moment. If he could, he would go back. Change things. Fix things.

Time passed in a blur, and before he knew it, an hour had gone by. He sat motionless, lost in thought, until Amy’s voice gently pulled him back.

"Sheldon?" she asked softly. "Would you like me to drive you home?"

Before he could respond, Dave interjected. "You must be exhausted, Amy. If it's alright with Sheldon, I can drive him home instead."

Amy turned to Sheldon, waiting for his answer. Dave watched him expectantly. The air felt charged, as if something was about to break.

Sheldon opened his mouth. And then, without thinking—without filtering, without logic, without his usual restraint—he spoke.

"I want you again, Amy." They all knew Sheldon had simply answered the question. But they also knew he meant something else.

[angeart]

Elegy - chapter 5/5

Chapter 5. be my place to land (when my feathers are burnt by the fire)

--

Mumbo’s holding up an unmoving bundle, cradling it, eyes firmly looking forward until they meet Scar’s.

He holds Scar’s gaze, locks on with finality of a finish line, an end destination in sight.

All that’s visible of the bundle he’s holding is a patch of wet-sand hair, Mumbo’s jacket draped across everything else besides a couple of limp, damp primaries and two pair of feet, swinging in tune with Mumbo’s body motions. 

It looks a little bit like he’s carrying a body.

Like he’s bringing in a funeral.

--

Read on AO3

[australet789]

"Weird Hills" by Janani K. Jha (Aphrodite's voice in Epic) is going to become one of my favorite songs, isnt it.

[idontplaytrack]

Here’s a teaser for tomorrow’s upload. G’night <3

[tryingtimi]

15 👁️👁️

Let Me Down Slowly

Thank you for the number, love! 🧡This one was a Liahn & Kil song originally, but then I started to pay more attention to the lyrics and it struck me that it would be a great one to a Break Up AU between Kil and his well wife in the story but girlfriend here. So, here is some pathetic Kil, I guess.

NON-CANON | CHARACTER EXPLORATION | WC: 1,338

The sun’s first peach-coloured kiss tried to wake the drowsy city, attempting to pour life into Kil’s fingers that gripped the stirring wheel. He kept rubbing at the soft scar on his brow, elbow sitting stiffly on the window frame. The touch conjured a memory in his mind; of a warm yellow summer with reckless plans and a passion oh so sweet on the tongue. The summer when he first met Pheni. 

Kil brought his fingers to his lips, pushing them deep into the tender skin. 

“Will he be there?” he rasped, voice strained like the very first words uttered into the world. It wasn’t from a lump, or a bouquet of welled-up tears — no, it wasn’t the freshly cut wound inside. All that, he buried in the graveyard in his heart, far down so nothing would be able to dig it up. No, it wasn’t — couldn’t be from that. It was the strain of lack of use, rather. The consequence of not saying a word long enough to forget your vocal cord’s existence. 

Pheni gently turned her head to him, adjusting her purse in her lap. 

“No, he’s on an ambassador duty outside the country.” She quieted, keeping her eyes on Kil’s profile. He didn’t turn to her. “I told him not to come.” 

A bittersweet half-smile tugged his lips upward, while he turned to the next street. The sun was rising, yet his skin remained cold under the warming breeze that sneaked inside the automobile. 

“I wouldn’t do anything to him.” 

The lie scorched his throat like the strongest mejo. He was plagued by the nauseating rage inside his gut that urged him to do unspeakable things to him. His mind was full of possibilities. He would have done everything to him — and yet. Kil rubbed at his brow to the point of irritation on his skin. He thought and desired all that, but both knew he wouldn’t have lifted a finger should the opportunity arise. Despite the circumstances, respect wasn’t one that Kil would have scattered away. Not even in times like this. 

Pheni averted her gaze, looking at the brightening road ahead. “I don’t fear for him,” she said, and Kil closed his eyes for a single second. They were close as always, the proximity nothing but painstakingly familiar in the automobile. Now, however, there were no more interlocking fingers, nor palms on her tights just to feel her presence. He used to feel if he didn’t touch her; if he didn’t make sure she was real and there, she would fly far away. They used to have an air around them when they were on the road, a silent bubble only they could fill in with unspoken words. 

A bubble that did not disappear, but morphed into a container of everything Kil wanted to shove at, tear at, drench in gasoline and set alight. The lingering implication of Pheni’s sentence made his knuckles whiten over the steering wheel. 

He kept his mouth tightly shut. The boutique Pheni owned crawled into his periphery as they passed it. The soft colours, the smell of fresh flowers and perfume, the shuffling of fabric used to make the place lively, a lovely invitation through the big windows. The once vibrant letters echoed faintly on the ageing wood above, the memory of a time that left nothing behind except the dark windows and a silent shell. 

Kil rolled back his shoulder under the wordless accusations that he couldn’t truly keep inside. He ached to look at her, to find that his sight tricked him and the woman who sat beside him was still that warm fire that charmed him, the blazing ambition that fed both of their growth, the bright love that pushed him in the dirt, defeated. He ached to look at her, to see all that, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew if he did, all he would see was a woman whose fire shied away from him, leaving him cold and alone. Whose face was imprinted in his mind, and now pleaded to be forgotten, worn by a stranger. Whose…

Kil’s lips burned under his fingers’s pressure on them. His own words rang in his ears, the frail, hoarse voice still foreign in his throat. 

“You knew,” he croaked to Pheni, clutching at her dress as his head sank into her lap. “You knew what it meant to be with me.”

“I know. I thought… I hoped I knew.” 

She kept her palm on his head but did not run her fingers through his hair anymore. There was no consolation, or soothing — there was only the ashes of their life together blown free in the wind. Kil clutched at her dress harder, his soft trembling shaking his fingers around the fabric. He knew he couldn’t keep her there if she wished to leave. If she wished to live a life without the confines of his clan. He promised he wouldn’t. 

Yet, there he was, bruising his knees on the hardwood, weeping. “Please.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and a crack like a splitting eggshell rippled through those two words. 

Kil parked on the deserted sidewalk that led to the airport. He swallowed back all his words, all his thoughts. He still didn’t look at Pheni, letting his head lower under the weight of their memories. He should have listened to Fang; she warned him since he was a boy: “No one should be brought into this kinda life from outside, but if they are, you can’t expect them to stick around. Be prepared to let them go, and hope they’ll let you down gently.” 

The sun was almost fully in its place, bringing its golden shine that still couldn’t mould what was broken. Kil kept his breathing even but did not look up. He closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped out of the automobile, legs stiff and heavy. Dragging his feet onward, he packed out of the back, gently placing the luggage down. Pheni’s lovely legs walked into his sight, as he put down the last of her things. Her steps never gave sound, sparing Kil from memorising the sound of her leaving. 

He buried his itching hands in his pocket, turning towards the airport. There were a million words on his tongue, a hundred pleas clawing at his throat, but he didn’t say any of it. He simply swallowed. “Do you need help to bring them in?” 

“I’ll manage, thank you.” He could hear her small smile in her tone, a warm little curve he didn’t want to see. “I’m going, then.” 

Kil did not nod, nor look. He lowered his head, breathing. His limbs tensed as if he was falling, too fast and too slow at the same time. There was no saying how to do this right. And so he didn’t. 

Pheni stepped closer softly, a tender touch finding Kil’s face. He leaned into it, not having in him to pull away. Her skin hurt over his for the first time, but he didn’t mind — he didn’t care. She gently leaned into his view, the sight of her all too familiar face cracking his chest open. The eyes that would love like none stared at him with the same sorrow he couldn’t scrape out of his bones for a while now. She smiled that small smile, and leaned onto his lip for one last time. It was a peck at the very edge of them, but he leaned into that too. Like a lick of fresh air to the drowning, Kil absorbed the touch of her gentle lips, debating if he should forget or treasure it forever. His hands fell out of his pocket, and he reached for her waist, then stopped at once. Limp, he kept his arms beside his torso, fingers curling into his palm. 

Carefully, Pheni pulled away eventually. She looked at him as a mirror, all and everything written on her face at last. And she said what he didn’t have the strength to. 

“Goodbye, Kil.” 

[unethicallypleistocene]

If you're still willing to take snippets... I'd love to read more about Blake!! He owns my X-Men heart fr <3 <3

Oh my gosh thank you so much! Sorry this was the bit late, I was having A Week when you sent this. Writing this really cheered me up today, I genuinely squealed when I finally got the time to write it!

Blake sat in front of the growing fire, wiggling his numb toes. He was feeling the afternoon lull, and the mansion sat suspiciously quiet as its inhabitants settled in to finish homework or curl up with a hot drink in the October chill. The wind gently jostled desiccated leaves from their trees, both parties bidding farewell as the sky grew a contented, cloudy gray. He found himself inside more often as the weather turned, preferring the constant dullness of his senses to the sharp emptiness that accompanied every journey through a dormant landscape. He shifted himself with great effort to pluck his guitar from the side of his chair, and felt the familiar divots of the uneven wood. Blake had little effect on organic material that was technically dead, but he had caught himself slightly warping the soundboard in sporadic times of extreme distress. He experimentally plucked the catgut strings, a small touch that Charles had picked up from a secondhand shop. Metal or nylon simply felt too foreign. He heaved himself out of his chair and ran a finger across the spines of the numerous hardcovers that lined the shelves of the study, all cloth-bound and varying fascinatingly in height and color. His hand was skirting across the spine of a Robert Burns collection when Kurt appeared directly in front of him. Blake knew he should be well-used to it by now, but he couldn't help but start and let out a small yelp.

"Blake! I was wondering where- ach! I hope I didn't disturb you." "No, no, I wasn't doing much, anyway." "Looking for more poems?" Kurt asked, noticing the small pile of books that Blake had accumulated on the coffee table from the past week. "Not like I'm starved for choice, I just... I'm feeling uninspired." "You could always try something in German," said Kurt, waggling his eyebrows. "I can live without your constructive criticism, Kurt," he replied lightly, recalling a past attempt to read untranslated Goethe out loud, to Kurt's immense amusement. "I tried to be nice," he giggled, "but now you know how it feels. The uh... mouth-feel can be hard." "But German is so- sharp. I had to hack around the syllables." Kurt rolled his eyes. "Ah, because English is so gentle." Blake absentmindedly strummed a G chord. "You're not wrong." At that, Kurt determinedly sat and crossed his legs on the carpet. "I'm never wrong. So, I think you must pick a poem at random and sing it for me." Blake sputtered. "You know it takes me hours to come up with the melodies!" "Come on, you need this! A challenge! Sing for me, bitte." Blake huffed, marching back to the bookshelf and yanking out The Iliad without looking. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me." Kurt's tail curled in merriment. "We'll be here for a while." Blake strummed a few harsh chords in reply.

[quaddmgd]

PARTY LIKE IT'S 2072

Place me in my casket tonight Because I'm already dying inside Pale skin so cold to the touch Like a rose in bloom when we blush Dark eyes meet under the sky The stars are out, we're alive in the night My hollow heart finds it too hard to trust We're all alone until we turn back to dust

Sidewalks and Skeletons - GOTH

[spinstertheuncommon]

Pearls of Blood (a shitty narrative poem)

inspired by The Unwanted Animal by The Amazing Devil

We sit at the dinner table, mere morsels of dinner left on the plates.

You sip your whiskey, I gulp my wine. No one converses.

This is a dance we do nightly.

You never hear the tree bartering for entrance.

You call me crazy, pack up the drinks, and whisk off to bed.

I open the blinds, and stare out at the unwooded field. 

I'll follow you in a minute.

We crawl into the bed. Not our bed, by any means.

It hasn’t been ‘ours’ in a long time. 

I’m just a ghost of the stranger you loved before, 

And you’re the antithesis of the man you vowed to me.

We lie in stale love, your chest bare and broad.

You hope that I reach out to you like I had a million times before.

But the thing at our door begs to be let in.

And I'm nothing but an honest host.

In the morning, you will walk me around the property.

We walk in silence.

You told me the first time it was to breathe in the morning.

But it’s an unspoken plea to stop the dancing. 

To stop the obsession over a tree that was never there.

A beast that never clawed. 

But I am nothing without my distance.

Our marriage would never have lasted this long without it.

[ghostzzy]

halseyyyyy

[royalbelial]

It was a long night for Jack Perry in which he spent most of the time looking down at the man beside him. He had not even a clue how it happened. They kind of stumbled into it and that was what made Jack afraid. Whatever it was that blossomed between him and Darby, it did not happen on an even playing field. What Darby wanted was not what Jack hoped for. And he hoped for so much. Perhaps too much for Darby. This was not a love story, no matter how raw and powerful it felt. Love stories where not for him.

The best thing would be if Jack left. Darby seemed to sleep just fine. So, why should he stay, hoping for something that would never happen? Would it upset Darby?

Du bist nicht wie ich Doch das ändert nicht, dass du bei mir bist Und ich zuseh' wie du schläfst Du bist noch längst nicht wach Ich war's die ganze Nacht und hab' mich still gefragt Was du tust, wenn ich jetzt geh'

(You're not like me

but that does not change, that you're with me

and I watch you sleeping

you won't be awake for a long time

while I was awake the whole night, silently asking myself

what you would do if I leave now)

Regen und Meer – Juli

[h0bbs-a]

         b.ig theif, shoulders,        10 / ?

[mt07131]

Sweet Blasphemy- Maeve Divine

The song inspiring and featured in this fic

We are young and we are strong

The front door of the house creaked open, a small hand pulling out the house key as Maeve stepped back inside. For a few moments, she waited, listening. When nothing unusual reached her ears, she sighed to herself and stepped further into the house. She didn’t know why she even bothered. Her parents were always out, their jobs kept them busy most days. When she was younger, her parents used to have their neighbor’s older daughter come over and watch her after school. During the particularly long stretches where they had business trips, her grandparents would stay over and watch her. But now, she was ten, she was old enough to be home on her own.

The pride of being old enough for staying home alone didn’t quite surpass how lonely she felt coming home to an empty house nearly every day. She knew her parents loved her (of course they did, they were her parents) but she wished they were around more. When she left school, she would always see parents picking up their children, engaging in conversations with interested smiles. Her parents never did that. The few times they were home, they seemed only mildly interested in what Maeve would say to them.

She shook her head, leaving her sneakers by the front door. There wasn’t any point to wondering what she could have, because she doubted she would ever get it. Instead, she parked herself at the kitchen table, pulling out her math workbook. They were always happy when she got her homework done before they got home, right? Right.

She got into a groove, flying through those problems (fractions, she hated fractions), when she realized she needed a worksheet from earlier in the week. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out her folder and began searching for it. What she triumphantly thought was the worksheet was anything but. Instead, it was a permission slip, for the school���s annual Daddy Daughter Dance.

Maeve sighed, slumping back in her chair as she read the form over. It was due tomorrow, and it was still sitting in her folder, blank. She hadn’t bothered asking her dad about it, already knowing what the answer was going to be. He was too busy, he had important work things to get done, and other things she didn’t quite understand. She just wished… sometimes, it felt like they didn’t care about her. That she wasn’t important to them.

Shoving the form back in her folder, she found the worksheet and went back to her math homework. However, she couldn’t focus now. Her mind kept going back to that permission slip, and how she wouldn’t get to go. She hated missing out, but more than that, she felt sad that she couldn’t go.

A groan escaped her lips as she shoved the half-finished workbook back into her backpack. She was sad now, and she hated being sad and being sad made it hard to focus. Whatever, she’d finish the homework later, she would have time. Her parents wouldn’t be back until much later, and she didn’t have any dance lessons today.

So instead of sitting at the kitchen table in misery, she zipped up her backpack and bounded up the stairs to her bedroom. Her bedroom was her sanctuary, and her favorite part of it was her poster wall. It was small for now, only a few posters, but she spent hours meticulously cutting them out of magazines so they wouldn’t rip. On each poster was a musician, posed in some interesting way or another.

She dropped her backpack at the foot of her bed, climbing onto it as she turned on the CD player on her bedside table. She got it from her grandparents for her birthday this past summer, and she begged her parents to take her out to buy CDs for it.

Opening the drawer now, Maeve ran a finger over her small but treasured collection. Her finger landed on a white case covered in black and orange writing. The first CD she bought, her most treasured, and her most played. She still remembered when they went to the store.

“What do you have that’s cool?” She asked the girl at the counter, barely reaching the countertop’s surface with her chin.

The girl, who had brightly colored hair and a lot of metal sticking out of her face, gave Maeve an amused look. “‘Cool’?” She repeated.

Maeve shrugged. She thought the older girl looked cool, so she must know what music was cool, right? “Yeah, cool.” She doubled down, crossing her arms.

With a little laugh, the cashier thought for a moment, then reached over to a display on the other side of the counter. She handed Maeve a white case covered in black and orange writing. “Ever heard of Paramore, kid?” She asked. Maeve shook her head, taking the CD. “They’re pretty cool, the lead singer is one of my favorites. This is their new album, just came out last month.”

Smiling, Maeve wove her way back through the store to her mom, who was currently in the classical music section. “I want this one.” She said without further introduction.

Her mom raised a brow, taking the CD from her daughter’s hands. She gave it a look over, and it seemed… interesting. “This one? Are you sure you don’t want something a little calmer?” She asked.

Maeve crossed her arms. “You said I could get anything I wanted from here, this is what I want.” She insisted.

Her mom gave her a look, but she wasn’t going to back down. Even at just ten years old, her daughter was already headstrong. Some fights weren’t worth fighting, especially with Maeve. “Alright, fine.” She agreed.

Later, the girl with the bright hair rang them up. “If you like that one, kid,” She started, handing the bag to Maeve. “Come by again, I’ll give you more suggestions.” She offered with a wink.

Maeve closed the lid to the CD player, the opening notes of ‘For A Pessimist, I’m Pretty Optimistic’ echoing through the room.

And she closed her eyes, letting all of her worries drift away. She loved music, she loved it so much. It was everything to her.

Through strength in self we become

“We need to talk.” Maeve’s mom started, placing her fork down.

Maeve raised a brow as she reached over to serve herself more dinner. It was a rare night in the Treadwell household, for there were three people sitting at the dinner table. “About?” Maeve responded. She didn’t like that tone of voice that her mom was using.

Her mom sighed. “Well, come the fall, you’re going to be a junior. Have you started thinking about college, doing research?” She asked.

Maeve sat back in her chair, thoughts of a second helping of food abandoned. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” She started. Her mom smiled slightly, a rare pleased look on her face. What was it about tonight that was making everything feel so strange? “And I’m not going.”

Her parents looked to each other at that bombshell, Maeve seemingly unbothered by their reaction. “You’re… what?” Her mom asked in disbelief. “Maeve, you can’t be serious. You’ve been on the honor roll every marking period since sixth grade, you could get into great schools-”

“And spend thousands of dollars on an education that I don’t want for a piece of paper that isn’t going to help me, only to eventually fall into despair because I’m stuck in a career and life I don’t care about?” Maeve tilted her head back and forth, thinking. “Yeah, hard pass on that one, actually.” She decided.

Her mom opened her mouth, but stopped when her husband set a placating hand on her arm. “So if you’re not going to college, what are you going to do?” He asked his daughter cautiously.

She shrugged. “The band.” She answered simply.

This answer elicited a groan from her mom. “The band, really? I get that you’re having fun with your friends, but you’re going to be an adult soon, and you have to start thinking about your future.” She cautioned.

Maeve gave her a cold look. “I am thinking about my future. My future is with Reject Saints. Mom, this band is everything to me-”

“Is it really though, Maeve?” She asked, wincing. The concern in her voice was obvious, but it did nothing other than send a chill throughout Maeve like she just got a bucket of ice water dumped on her. “We’ve supported you with the band, but I think it’s time you start being realistic.”

Her daughter scoffed, loudly. “You know it’s so interesting that you want to be involved in my life now.” She pointed an accusing finger at her mom. “Would’ve been really nice to see this happen more when I was a kid, but I guess we can’t all be perfect.” She spat.

Her dad gave Maeve a look now. “Don’t speak to your mom that way, Maeve.”

Maeve laughed. “Then maybe don’t act like I don’t know what I’m talking about!” She retorted. “I’ve thought it out, okay? I’ve got the band, and I’ll stay at the record shop just to have something consistent. Once I do the band full-time, I’ll really be able to focus and actually make something out of it, why- why don’t you trust me?” She asked, and her anger now shifted to desperation.

Maeve’s mom crossed her arms. “Because you just turned sixteen, and you are making a decision that is going to affect your entire life!”

“That’s rich, considering in like a year, you want me to make a different decision that is going to impact the trajectory of my entire life. What’s the difference between choosing to do this and choosing what college to go to? Or is it just because you don’t want me to do it?” Maeve challenged. Her mom didn’t respond, so she pushed back her chair and stood up. “That’s what I thought. I’m not hungry anymore.”

Her mom scoffed, turning in her seat to her exiting daughter. “Maeve Frances, don’t you dare storm away like a child.” She admonished. The only response from said exiting daughter was the sound of her feet stomping up the stairs and the door to her bedroom slamming closed.

Maeve leaned against her bedroom door, breathing heavily. She would not cry, she wouldn’t. She knew she needed to have that conversation with them eventually, and she really shouldn’t be surprised about how it went. She could deal with the fallout later, but for now, she just needed to get out of here.

She finally pulled away from the door, going to find her phone (a new one, she bought it herself with her money from the record store and everything) that she left on the bedside table. She found the conversation she needed (right at the top, to no one’s surprise) and sent a simple text: “U around?”

Barely a minute had gone by before the screen lit up with a response. “At diner w/ mom why?”

“Can I come by?”

“Don’t even have to ask”

“Be there in 15”

With a resolute breath, Maeve grabbed a hoodie from her closet.  She didn’t know how long she was going to be out, and despite it being August, sometimes the chilly summer nights snuck up on you. Hopefully, she’d be out a while, she couldn’t stand to be in this house a minute longer.

Back down the stairs and towards the back door. “Maeve, where are you going?” Her mom called out icily as she passed by.

“Out.” She responded just as coldly, not making eye contact.

It was a short bike ride into downtown, and she already felt better when she saw the familiar warm lights leaking out of the diner windows, and the equally as familiar figure nearly pacing outside the building.

Maeve rang the bell on her bike, and Seven looked up at the sound. “Hey, everything alright?” He asked, a furrow making itself known between his brows. Four years of being friends and he could proudly say he knew her inside and out by now. Hence why the tone of her text instantly made him worried.

She hesitated, then sighed, getting off the bike. “Oh, you know, just enjoying a lovely dinner with my lovely parents.” Leaning the bike against the building, she huffed again. “Told them I don’t want to go to college and want to do the band full time, and mom went ballistic on me. Basically told me that I was too young to be making a decision like that and I just… I needed to get out of there, Sev.” She finished.

There was silence between the pair, but only briefly. “Maeve… ugh, fuck them.” He scoffed. If anyone knew about her strained relationship with her parents, it would be him. “Look at me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “We’re gonna figure it out, okay? You and me. Well, and Rowan, and Devyn, and Iris, and Jazzy too, of course. But you and me definitely.” 

Maeve smiled at that. “Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t know, what if they’re right? What if I’m making a mistake?” She wondered. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Seven asked wryly. “Since when do you care about what anyone thinks, especially them and especially about the band? You’re meant to be doing this, I know it.” He reassured. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, nodding to the diner entrance. “C’mon, I was just telling mom about how Mrs. Matthews failed her entire chem class for the bunsen burner incident, but I think she likes it better when you tell stories.” He smiled.

And Maeve followed him in, with a free (translation: in exchange for helping Lucy wipe down the tables at closing) milkshake in hand to make her feel just the tiniest bit better.

Something more than they can be

Maeve entered the band’s rented out recording space, pushing herself against the other side of the door. There was silence for a minute as the band looked at their lead singer, dramatically smushing herself against the door. “Well?” Was all she said, finally turning to them.

“You’re ridiculous!” Rowan laughed at her dramatics as she sat on the couch next to him. “I think you’re worried about nothing.”

Maeve elbowed him in the side. “Can you blame me? This is our first original release since…” She trailed off, looking at her feet. The first original release since Seven left. “...our first big original release in a few years.” She corrected herself, looking up again. “I didn’t look at my phone all day yesterday, I couldn’t, I was too nervous.”

Iris chuckled from where she sat. “Yeah, we could tell by the way you weren’t answering your texts yesterday. Rowan almost filed a missing persons report.” She deadpanned.

Rowan threw a pillow at their keyboardist. “Did not!” 

“Alright before we get into a pillow fight, is one of you assholes gonna tell me if people like the album or not?” Maeve interrupted, snatching a second pillow from Rowan’s hands. She usually wasn’t this nervous about a release, but this was different. The Resurrection was, she thought, their best work so far. She poured her heart and soul into those songs, and she was genuinely truly proud of them. Part of her knew that even if people hated it, she would still love it, but she still wanted it to be liked. This was a new era for Reject Saints, she could feel it in her bones.

The rest of the band looked to each other, and then to Orion, who had been silent in the corner of the room answering emails or doing whatever managers did. He raised a brow at the band, who was waiting in anticipation. “So, wanna tell her, boss man?” Rowan asked.

Orion gave Rowan a dry look. “Do not call me that.” He said simply, in that curt tone that the band had gotten used to. Then, he looked to Maeve. “Rowan is right, however, you have nothing to worry about. The reception to the album has been positive.” He confirmed.

Maeve smiled hesitantly. “Really? Like actually? If any of you are pulling my leg, I swear-”

“Just take a look yourself.” Devyn piped up.

The lead singer finally gave in, opening up Twitter for the first time since they officially dropped the album. She manuevered to the band’s profile, and started reading through the various posts they were tagged in.

“@NJMusicMonthly: Rock band @rejectsaints just dropped their latest album The Resurrection, and we give it a 9.5/10!”

“@Divine_Reject07: oh my goddddd!!!! @rejectsaints you did the damn thing!!!! will be listening on repeat thank u very much”

“@BASSmag: @rejectsaints may be small, but The Resurrection is a mighty showing of what they can do”

“@MHolland9: if I see people NOT streaming the new @rejectsaints album im gonna start biting ankles”

She let out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the couch and holding the phone to her chest. People liked it, they actually liked it. She wasn’t just kidding herself.

“Uh, guys? I think we might have lost Maeve.” Rowan joked.

Maeve didn’t open her eyes. “Rowan, just let me have this moment.” She retorted. She heard Rowan snigger, but he didn’t respond.

When she finally opened her eyes again, Orion was giving her a look. It was his ‘stop fooling around’ look (he had many looks, they were starting to learn how to decipher them). “The work doesn’t stop just because people like what you’re putting out.” He reminded them.

Maeve waved one hand, manuerving to open up another tab on her phone. “Ye of little faith, Ori, I know how this works. In fact, I have our next goal.” She placed the phone on the middle table, and everyone leaned over to look at what she had pulled up.

Jazzy was the first to look up. “Battle of the Bands? You want to try again?”

Maeve scoffed. “It’s Misfit Alley this year, Jazz, of course I want to try again. We would be stupid not to. And with how people like The Resurrection, I think we have a good shot of actually making it past the video auditions this year. Think about it,” She wrapped an arm around Rowan’s shoulder, holding up her other hand. “Just picture it. Us, touring the country with Misfit Alley, may I remind you. The stages we’d get to play, the people we’d get to meet, it would be exposure on an unprecedented scale!” She pitched.

Iris shrugged. “Well when you put it like that, how can we say no?” She asked.

Looking up at Orion, Maeve raised a brow. He thought about it for a minute, and it was like she could see the calculations running through his head. Then, he nodded, one succinct movement that made Maeve explode in cheers.

And Reject Saints huddled together, thoughts of their new album almost forgotten for planning their path to this year’s Battle of the Bands.

This is our sweet blasphemy

The lights pointed towards the small stage were bright, too bright even. Yet, nothing was brighter than Maeve’s smile as she locked eyes briefly with Rowan. This was where she belonged, here on the stage. Here, nothing else mattered but the music. She was sweating, having ditched her jacket halfway through the set, but she couldn’t be happier. Battle of the Bands started in just a week, but Reject Saints couldn’t stop. Soon, she wouldn’t be singing on makeshift bar stages, but in real venues all across the country. The thought of it was exhilarating, but she needed to get through this set first.

She grabbed the microphone, giving a hand signal to the band to hold off on starting the next song. “Before we kick off this next song, I want to tell you a story about it. So, put up with me talking and not singing for just a moment here.” She joked, a responding chuckle echoing through the audience packed into the tight bar. “I wrote this next song for me, but not for the me standing in front of you right now.” She removed the microphone from the stand, coming to rest at the edge of the stage. “I wrote this song for the little girl who came home to an empty house most days. For the kid who had music as one of her only lifelines. For the teen girl who decided to forge her own path. For… well, you get my point.”

Maeve sat back in her hip, looking out at the crowd. It was small, but that didn’t matter to her right now. Right now, in this crowd, she could see people singing along to their songs, songs that she wrote, that she poured her heart and soul into. She didn’t need a massive stadium filled to the brim with adoring fans (not that she’d complain about it, but that was a goal for another day). These people were seeing her, and appreciating her. That was all she needed. 

With a smile, she continued. “Music saved me, and in becoming a musician, I wanted our music to be that for someone else. I wanted our lyrics to resonate with someone in the same way that I felt. And all of you here tonight have proven to me that it’s happened. Even if our songs touched just one person, that’s all I could ask for.” She moved back towards the mic stand, signaling again to the band to get ready. “So I wrote this song for me, yes, but I also wrote it for all of you. And I know you know the lyrics, so raise your voices and sing with me, this is ‘Sweet Blasphemy’!”

And she lost herself in the familiar strum of the guitar, and into the prayer she turned into a song.

[fragrantpines]

While I'm suffering from exams and clearing up backlog, send me a character from the tale of food and I'll assign them a song from my playlist + write a snippet for them

[wordsgood]

message in a skull - original fiction ficlet

the working title for whatever this story is going to end up being is currently "not five broken blades," which is a book that I did not finish but it's the last book I had where various characters who didn't know each other were gathered together to achieve Something, so it's first in my mind. I genuinely have no idea what's going on except for what's in the snippet, and that there's angels and demons and magic. that said, I really liked freewriting this as a way to get some of the ideas out in the open. it's minimally edited atm.

Aobin watches the dirt flying out of the hole being carved into the otherwise pristine gravegrass. A clump of it lands on his shoe and burns away on contact. The dingy smell drifts on a cool midnight breeze, dispersing into the autumn air. Down in the hole, the shovel which had once flashed in their narrowly focused lamplight is too dirt-crusted to so much as twinkle as it arcs up and drops back down. Each whumpf of the shovel into wet packed earth is perfectly synchronized to an accompanying grunt of effort.

“Are we close?” Aobin asks, because he knows it will piss her off.

“‘We,’” Cate grunts, and the next flying clump of dirt comes dangerously near his knees. “You mean am I close.”

“It’s a joint effort.”

“Not from down here it’s not. If you’re so fired up why don’t you—“

Thump.

“Ah!” Cate yelps in triumph. “Got her!”

Aobin crouches at the edge of the hole, red-gloved hands hovering just over the edge. “Get her open, I want to see.”

“She’s not uncovered yet. Give me a minute. Or better yet, take the reins.” Cate wipes her sweaty forehead on her equally dirty sleeve. She always wears a leather apron to midnight jobs, but it only protects her blouse front. It doesn’t even protect most of her trousers. But she insists on it, so Aobin doesn’t fight it. It’s her laundry.

Aobin waves a benevolent hand. “Far be it from me to steal your moment of victory.”

Sneering up at him, Cate adjusts her grip on the shovel and gets back to work.

The graveyard is still — supremely still — and the cloud cover ensures that the moon is a dim glow, nothing more, and the stars are darkened completely. Their lamp is the only thing that guides Cate’s digging, but Aobin doubts she needs even that much. She’s very skilled at this part of her job. She doesn’t require Aobin’s help yet. His part comes in later, once the coffin is open. Technically, she doesn’t need him at all. But she says he greases the squeaky wheels quicker than she can. It’s about as close to a compliment as she ever gets.

Like most memorial grounds on this side of town, the graveyard is barren of trees, shrubbery, or even upright grave markers. All the plaques are sunk into the ground, tidied by diligent groundskeepers who ensure no moss or grass gets any funny ideas. It’s a flat span of land, and Cate and Aobin would stick out like a couple of spare limbs if it weren’t for Aobin’s work. Invisibility’s not so hard, though, when you’ve got the right philosophy about it. The sleeping draughts in the graveyard watch’s tankards don’t hurt, either.

There’s a thunk next to his shoes, and Aobin dances a step to the side to avoid the shovel’s sharp edge. He paid some of Cate’s good money for these boots, when he discovered that his usual pair wouldn’t do topside. “Cate,” he sighs, but, presumably, she doesn’t hear him over the sound of wood splintering and peeling apart. Soon, chunks of thin panels shoot up to join the shovel. “Terrible taste,” Aobin says to himself. “Least you could do is—“

Cate shrieks. It’s her angry shriek, so it doesn’t worry Aobin until she shouts, “She’s empty!”

“Empty?” Aobin repeats, and reaches over to angle the lamp into the hole. Six feet down, Cate is squatting on a shelf of packed earth, over the split-open coffin. Her hands are almost equally broken open, clusters of cuts and abrasions leaking fluid onto what little is left of the top half of the coffin lid, and down onto the skeleton within. At least the skeleton is in one piece — though that, judging by Cate’s furious expression, may only be a temporary mercy.

When Aobin aims the light down at the skeleton, he can see that Cate is right. The skeleton is bare, aside from some worn, faded scraps of fabric beneath it, clinging to some of the joints between its bones. There are no jewels glinting at the coffin base, where its ears used to be, no chain left dangling around the spinal column, no gold frogs sitting tarnished atop the fabric scraps. This is not the grave of a widow who died wealthy and greedy. This is the grave of a nobody. A beloved maid, perhaps, or a loyal steward.

“Now, Cate,” Aobin starts, but Cate has already reached into the grave, gotten her smeary hands on the skeleton’s skull, and, just before he can suggest otherwise, she rips it free from its body. Bones clatter, dust rises, the jaw drops open, and Aobin curses. “This is extremely bad form.”

Cate growls. To Aobin’s alarm, she sits back on her ankles and cocks her arm back, preparing to hurl the skull out of its grave and somewhere into the darkness beyond.

“Cate Labyrinthine!” Aobin barks before she can do something that will make his boss very, very unhappy. Unhappier. “Put that down and use your brain.”

It clearly takes some effort, but Cate lowers her arm, though she doesn’t let the skull go. Her thumbs probe into the left eye socket. “Someone lied to us.”

“Or they were mistaken.” Aobin hates having to be the voice of reason, and he hates even more that, after all this time, he’s become very good at it. “Or we were mistaken and our lady is one hole over. Or perhaps we were lied to, and all that’s left to do is laugh and go back to Sidedown and, perhaps, break a few kneecaps.”

Cate glances up at him through her greasy bangs. She’s still running her thumb around the socket edge.

“What we don’t do,” Aobin continues, “is desecrate the bodies of human beings who, no matter where they end up, have guardians.”

Cate’s jaw works side to side. “I want those gemstones,” she says, her voice low.

“I know. And you’ll get those gemstones. But not here, and taking our your pique on Mistress Maidservant won’t help.” He sighs and lightens his tone. “What would she say if she saw her poor bones being dissected by a grubby delinquent hellcat?”

“I don’t—“ Cate tries to say.

The skull begins to scream.

“Waaagh!” Cate yelps, dropping the skull back into the coffin and leaping to her feet. From the skull’s empty sockets, a sudden burning violet light beams out and upward, all but obliterating the light from the lamp. The screaming intensifies as Cate scrambles up the side of the grave, dirt cascading down from her flailing feet.

Aobin barely notices. The scent and fog of magic, pure human magic, has drowned out every one of his senses. Those two beams of light have become his whole world. He should move to help Cate out, he knows, but he’s transfixed, pinned in place like a fly in a web.

He knows this taste. He knows this scream. He knows this magic.

“Cate,” he tries to say, but isn’t sure if he’s managed it before the light fades to a more manageable glow, though it still pours like lava from the skull’s eyes, and the screaming finally stops. And then—

“Cate Labyrinthine,” the skull says, sounding quite confident that it will be heard and by Cate herself, though she’s already at least five yards away from the grave, leaving him in his trance. How touching, Aobin thinks. He sees her stop in her tracks, though, and slowly turn back to the grave, full and glowing with purple light. The skull continues matter-of-factly, “This is a dead-woman’s-switch.”

“The shit,” Cate says, but Aobin can hear dreadful curiosity gnawing at the edge of her voice. She creeps back towards the grave edge, her chest rising and falling with quick, panicked breaths, but her stained hands are perfectly steady.

“Oh,” Aobin says, the skull’s message finally making it through. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Cate asks, but the skull, rolling around the bottom of the coffin, rights itself and aims its beams directly into Cate’s face.

“Heidi Fake has died under unformalized circumstances,” the skull says, and Aobin lets out a bark of laughter. “She has left instructions for certain of her acquaintances to assemble and ascertain the cause of her death, and to disperse whatever vengeance may be appropriate.”

Cate crouches, staring down into the coffin. She barely winces in the light; her pupils have contracted like a cat’s, elongating down the center. “How did she find me?” she murmurs.

The skull doesn’t answer. “To this end, you will meet Heidi Fake’s chosen accomplices in one fortnight at Robin Redbreast Town—“

“Where the fu—“

“— at the tavern Iason’s Sail. If you are not able to make the trip within one fortnight, please send a courier to alert Heidi Fake’s chosen accomplices so that they may wait for your arrival.”

The skull goes quiet. The light doesn’t fade. Aobin waits for the light to turn on him. It does not.

“Cate,” the skull says, but the voice is different this time. It's Heidi’s voice. She sounds old, yet still very much herself. He always said she’d been crafted from Baltana’s iron instead of Ressenth’s carbon. He hadn’t been with her her when she knew Cate, but he recognizes the care with which Heidi pronounces Cate’s name. If he didn’t know Heidi Fake better, he would call it tenderness. “I hate to ask this of you. Not because I think you can’t handle it, but because I think you might enjoy it. You’ll be the knife’s tip of this little expedition, and I know how much the others will need you. You may be the only one who can do what’s necessary to solve my problem. But please, Cate: think of me when you bare your teeth. You may not care what happens to you Sidedown, but I do. Avenge my life but keepsake your soul. I know you of all people can walk that edge; I hope that you will remember to try.”

A pause. Then: “I loved you, Cate, and, gods willing, I still do.”

The light in the skull’s sockets fades. It rolls to one side, no longer lock-focused on Cate’s twisted face. The skull and the skeleton and the grave are quite normal now.

Aobin can’t look at Cate. He isn’t sure if he’s kept his composure, at least to a sufficient degree not to raise her suspicions.

“So she’s finally dead, huh,” Cate says, but her shoulders are hunched, and now her hands are unsteady, shaking as she clenches them into fists. “Wonder what did her in.”

Aobin stands. He feels the magic’s afterimage in his knees, in all the other pesky little human joints this body is swaddled in. “I suppose we can find out.”

“‘Can’?” Cate says. “Oh, we will.” She looks up at him again. “I mean, if you want to come. I’ve told you about Heidi, it’s crazy that she could be dead — I don’t know what could kill someone like that — so if you want to go back Sidedown instead, that’s fine.” She shrugs. “But I could use the help. Or at least an ally, if there are some other shitheads involved, too.”

There is nothing that Aobin would rather not do than play unnamed lackey for Heidi Fake’s posthumous murder mystery investigation. He smiles at Cate, brilliantly. “Oh, I couldn’t miss an opportunity to learn more about your dear old mentor. Where else would I rather be?”