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[deadmaevepetre]

Send 🃏 And I’ll Generate An AU From The List Below!

obscure-sentence-starters:

Send  🎰 for a combination of two or three of them!

Android AU

War/Military AU

Apocalypse AU

College AU

Fairytale AU

Afterlife AU

Genderbent AU

Doctor AU

Actor AU

Criminal AU

Reincarnation AU

Pirate AU

Royalty AU

Wild West AU

Mafia AU

Mythology AU

Supernatural AU (as in creatures, monster hunters, demon hunters; not the show)

Angels/Demons AU

Childhood AU

Single Parent AU

Arranged Marriage AU

Prison AU

Superhero AU

Supervillain AU

Vampire AU

Werewolf AU

Spy AU

Time Travel AU

Space Travel AU

Professor/Teacher AU

Treasure Hunter AU

Artist AU

Baker AU

Florist AU

Tattoo Artist AU

Stripper AU

Prostitute AU

Lawyer AU

Guardian Angel AU

Runaway AU

Secretly Dating AU

Soulmate AU

Roommates AU

Imaginary Friend AU

Shapeshifter AU

Musician AU

Greaser AU

[feel free to add other AUs to the list!]

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panic! at the disco // house of memories

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From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is eternity.

Edvard Munch (via thewinedarksea)

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Screeches hello!! Just wanted to wish you a nice day today and hope you have a great one!! Have some love and hugs!! ╰(*´︶`*)╯

*rises from the dead to say thank u*

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And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

Raymond Carver, “Late Fragment” (via oofpoetry)

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and when our bodies rise again, they will be wildflowers, then rabbits, then wolves singing a perfect love to the beautiful, meaningless moon.

Philip Appleman, from “Gathering by the River,” Poetry (October/November 1987)

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her ribcage is filled with flowers but they are dead, dead, dead.

(morning after) robbe

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When I was little, I picked up a flower and put it in a vase. After a few days, it died. I asked my mom why and she said “you can’t force a flower to thrive somewhere it doesn’t belong.” And now I have realized, that people are like that too.

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calina-s:

Usually words like these ring as disingenuous to her ears, the speaker passive aggressive in their pursuit of praise. It might have been easier if this were the case, but the speaker is either long used to such a ploy, or has no intention of making a demand to their favour. So it seems.  The gentle lilt of affirmation is written on her features long before the words are spoken, “Oh gosh, no.” This slip of a girl seems her personal Electra, beaming star casting light long after the death of something akin to virtue, tendriled smoke of a memory; a girl called Calina who had been believed to hang the moon. It was dishonourable that the memory could exist when the girl had disappeared in grief. The very reason Calina tended to turn her face from such beacons.  “You mustn’t think like that. For a beauty such as that deserves to be enhanced by your own, no?” 

“I’d say you should wear it at least once, even if you don’t decide to honour it with forever in your care.” She takes a step closer, angles herself better to appear invested in the bracelet on Maeve’s behalf. “Unfortunately I’ve been hesitant to ask if we can touch as well as look, else I could help you with the clasp.” 

There is hardly a face in Verona that Maeve has not gently imprinted upon her memory — and this face, in particular, is one unforgettable. She is beautiful, but more importantly, she is a stranger; a troublesome thing to find in the dark underbelly of her home.

But she does not frown; smiles instead, mild and only slightly unsure. “Oh, but the beauty of jewels isn’t something I want to aspire to. There’s something so… cold about them.” Another glance is cast towards the bracelet that, even as she insists that she doesn’t desire it, beckons her closer; a symbol, perhaps, of the woman she might become, a woman accustomed to wearing luxury around her wrist like a privilege and not a shackle.

“You’re too kind, signora.” And it surprises Maeve; to be met with a familiar generosity, a way of offering help before offering thorns and gambles and deceit. Perhaps Verona has turned me into a cynic, she thinks as her smile becomes sincere.

A friend — this woman already feels like a (tentative) friend.

“Looking is more than enough. And wearing it will only make the temptation worse, I fear,” she says with a soft laugh. Her wariness has given way to warmth, a taste of the girl she once was. “I don’t think we’ve met before. Please, call me Maeve.”

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alvagwon:

Alva seldom yearned for the material and physical - they’d never been kept from the tangible, the hard touch of silver, the weight of something laying heavy in their hands. And so, they admired the objects put up for auction as one would fine art, all beautiful things, but nothing to be owned, nothing they needed. 

But they recognized desire when they saw it, and it’s plainly written across Maeve’s face. They find their way to her side, glass of tea in hand and a smile lifting their lips. “Most people are grander than the objects they covet,” Alva said kindly. “Objects cannot live, after all. They can’t ever shine as brightly. It is they who should look upon you with envy, and not the other way around.”

Like calls to like — and so it does not surprise Maeve in the least to see the kindness of Alva’s eyes, the grace in their smile. Beautiful things ought to be surrounded by beautiful things, and there is no one lovelier than Alva; of that, Maeve is sure. She does not need to know them for a second longer to understand that the songbird shines brighter than anyone she’s ever met.

“You flatter me,” she insists, hair falling into her eyes with the gentle, refuting shake of her head. “If anyone is to be envied tonight, it’s you, mio amico.”

“Has anything caught your eye tonight?” Her eyes sweep across the room, searching for something that will suit someone as iridescent as Alva. “The gum wrapper, perhaps?"

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goldenharbinger:

The last month had been nothing short of agonizing for Matthias, a mixture of harsh pains and abrupt, unexpected torture. He had survived it in the only way he knew how: by enduring it by his lonesome. And of course, having spent so much time alone in the shadows only reminded him of a before-time, of funeral planning and mourning, and bitter vengeance, and the realization that all of life is spent suffering in cycles. 

Still, the sight of the girl is one he welcomed. He had treated the auction at the Dark Lady the way one might treat a scorpion or a viper (or perhaps even Lucrecia Falco): with extreme caution. Not only because of uncertainty and his own injuries (and it was so unfortunate that a cast and suit clashed horribly), but because of temptation. Because he had betrayed his ideals, but the sight of the girl reminded him of a moment at the museum, of art, of better things.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He lifted his right arm as best he could, the plaster gaunt in the light. “I’d give it a spin but I’m afraid my hand-modeling days are in the past.” A mild attempt at a joke, but it’s better than any of the garish thoughts that course through his mind. 

“Anything worn with pride suits the wearer,” he said. “You should bid– especially if your heart desires a little sparkle.”

Oh — it is the naked man. Her eyes betray her, the way they flit nervously down his frame. Grazie Dio, he is clothed. But he is injured. She’s heard whispers and rumors of a Montague tied to a hospital bed; the taunts and jeers and i’ll-wishes of Capulets fall upon even the closed ears of a shunned soldier. But the man she’s stumbled into on the most arbitrary of circumstances speaks of art and Paris, the dreams hidden in the lines of a sculpture and the stroke of a brush; the man she recognizes standing before her now is best suited for living amongst the clouds, and not the near-dead.

What a pity it is, to see anyone with a limb unusable. She can certainly relate; does her heart not feel disarmed and disabled?

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about hand-modeling, but there must be some opportunity for cast-modeling?” Maeve smiles faintly, a ghost of the warmth she once radiated.

“Oh, I don’t know if it’s my heart that desires sparkle.” No, the heart is reserved for kindness and affection and the purest of loves; it is her flesh that craves luxury, some small token of worth that might make Maeve feel like she belongs in the pit of greed and betrayal and smoke. She is a girl of flowers; but to survive, perhaps she ought to become a sapphire, a cold and hard jewel that can withstand the storm.

But she can never wear it with pride; his words only remind her that she does not belong — not right now. “Perhaps in a few years, I can wear it like I deserve it. For now, I think I ought to stick to my humbler tastes.” She turns a pleasant smile back at him, realizing — that she still doesn’t know his name. “Signore, I believe we’ve met before, but I never got to hear your name. I’m Maeve."

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odessavernon:

Odessa could remember being nine years old, clutching Maeve’s hands. Still naive then, still a child, the influence of her parents hadn’t yet dampened her spirit or shattered her soul. I wish you were my sister. She had whispered, as if it was a stolen secret, words for her ears alone. Me too. Less than four years later, when Maeve had repeated her wish, Odessa had remained silent. By then she knew the truth. By then, she knew she never wanted to condemn the life she lived upon anyone else. Maeve could remain full of life, floating among the clouds. There was no need for her to be bound, chained to the floor. When on earth had her wish to protect her friend turned to hatred? When had she become that girl? 

“Huh. I figured you might say it was for the greater good. People can die, as long as it’s for that. Or so every war general has ever said.” She wasn’t sure if she knew how to live in peace anymore. Its very concept felt foreign in her bones, she far too restless a being to settle down once again. Nothing would ever be the same. So how was she supposed to press herself out and pretend that it was? How was she supposed to laugh and smile and speak as if her heart wasn’t burdened? How was she supposed to do any of it? She almost thought of turning to Maeve, to confessing her burdens and seeking comfort where it had always been found. But at the last moment, she stopped. “You don’t have to apologise. It isn’t your fault.” She could hate a Capulet. But she couldn’t hate her. “I’m just��I had so much energy, so much purpose. And now it’s all gone.” 

The wound of abandonment — did it ever heal? The ache of being left behind, forgotten… waiting for the first girl to ever hold your small, chubby fingers and your small, beating heart. Maeve wanted it to. Move on, already, she had kicked herself many times before, Take Odessa’s words to heart and give up on the friendship you used to have. The two of them had shed their skins, all but murdered the children they used to be. And still, she couldn’t help curling around the small green monster that demanded more.

The thought of ever attributing needless death to a greater good turned Maeve’s stomach over, brought a rotten and coppery taste to her lips. No, they didn’t know each other anymore; they were all but strangers, clasping on to smoke and ancient history. “I don’t care about what war generals say. Every death is personal, every death matters… I don’t believe in a greater good. I just believe in good.” War generals have let her down before: Rafaella, Alexander, Vivianne, her father. Those who play the game of war have never felt more distant; have never felt more other. She wanted to believe that Odessa was not yet a player, also — but what did she know? Who was she to want? “It’s not my fault, but I’m still sorry that this happened. To you, to any of us. To Verona.” One hand cupped her cheek, the other came to rest, palm facing the ceiling, on the surface before her: an offer, of sorts, one last gesture of friendship. Then she would let her broken heart mend; then she would stop breaking it herself. “You will find a new purpose, Odessa. You, more than anyone else I know, have always known how to turn dirt into gold."

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how remarkably beautiful it is to love and be loved.  how brutally cruel it is to have that taken from you.

a moment of perfection followed by a crushing blow (r.o.)

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HUMAN THEY CALL INFERNO, MARCELO ROSSO. 

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

— Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

for the devil on my shoulder, @marcelorosso.