#defloweir

They were probably being, all things considered, much too loud. It was a library, after all, and though Flynn was no longer studying, he still held a healthy fear respect for his university's librarian that has translated to all others in the profession.

Trying to reign in his chuckles, Flynn reaches out to set a hand over Tenille's mouth as well - his aim is poor, and he ends up covering her nose as well.

this is really just how danny's life goes, nowadays.

he tries catching a shower after getting his guts cut out, and doesn't notice there's no real towels in this place. he finds a washcloth in the cabinets under the sink, and it's dusty and scratchy and been used to clean up god-knows-what. he leaves the door cracked because no one's supposed to be here, and now someone's walked in on him.

and now the door's stuck.

he glances at his blood-stained clothes and clucks a disappointed sound against his teeth, hands (and washcloth) still retaining as much modesty as he can get in this situation.

"stop freaking out," he says first, because his head is starting to hurt, and he takes a calming breath for himself. "this house is old as fuck and the wood warps with the humidity. we'll be able to get out in about half an hour."

a pause.

She wasn’t even a groupie, she ran merch… Tiffany has been running merch for a good couple of months now but she rolled her eyes, “You have noooo holiday spirit, huh?”

An annoyed pout before she crossed her arms, her eyes were so, so red it was like someone kicked sand into them.

inbox prompt. accepting.

💐 = my favorite part about the fandom

okay so... i don't really have a set fandom because ocs, mostly, so i'm just gonna speak about the fandom i've got the most experience in! it's twilight. surprise surprise! i suppose i do have a fandom, technically—because i claim them as my own. they're mine, they're my babies. i treasure my twi mootsies and i will never not be a twi blog in disguise. i love the twilight fandom. easily the most accepting people i have ever had the pleasure of writing with! they are the kindest, sweetest souls, and my absolute favorite part is that the majority of us fucking hate the source material so we just kinda... make up our own. we cherry pick real hard and we weave in our own stylistic choices individually. we all go "ew" at anything smeyer. we take those characters and we give them life in a way she never could and it's such a beautiful bonding experience honestly!

🌿 = my least favorite part about the fandom

his scissor work at the ends of her hair is quick and neat as it is precise. most of the boys who circulate through the place keep their hair buzzed in fades, short on top. in fact, a girl hasn't sat in this chair since rosie's feet couldn't touch the floor, but that's neither here nor there.

"why aren't you married?"

santiago catches her glance in the mirror, unused to such forwardness. the silence is made more pregnant by the pause of his scissor work and the closed barbershop around them. his apprentice's spotify playlist had left the shop with him, leaving them with a soundtrack of the old vents and the sound of passersby on the street outside.

his gaze flicks from monica's to the worn picture of sarai holding rosie, fresh and new. most notably, the man behind the camera had not been santiago.

"well, i'd be bullshitting you if i said i didn't want it," santiago admits, because he appreciates monica's candor and wants to reciprocate it in some way. bartering needs to make a comeback somehow, after all. "but—things just didn't work out that way. i've made my peace with it."

he resumes trimming her hair, happy to divert.

"luckily for you, that shit ain't an expectation. not anymore."

(Call it the sickness it is: that doubt does not exist is a thought that gives shelter; that death, in its trial, shall not hold.)

Rust gets led beneath the yellow line by out-of-state, gaze dusting across everything in the hoarder's back room, faded but focussed. Remains of magazines high against the walls like pillars; always-been-there. Cindered-up and waterlogged now, sagging, into abstract responses, sea-weeded across the crime-scene - ads, columns - advents dropped off.

House was burning twelve hours ago. None in, or out, yet through the remains of a black doorway, the victim lays wing-down, untouched by the fire and impossibly whole. No burns but a red ring around the neck.

"I have seen it." he allows – Alright, second drink and he's acquiescence. Someone needs to fill the void. The negative space one must work to fill.

It's a short and necessary break of his own he's taking, all his sign-signify left in the bush at the bottom of the hospital gate, and car keys just come where one takes.

"The problem is that," Comme-ci comme ca. "other networks of power crisscross a man's terytoriyi, and obligations pull,"

Enough silence goes by for a topic change, but he likes this, likes looking at her body openly, likes that she knows he's looking. He lets the air thicken with it, like static.

"well, shit, i must be, right?"

palms sweaty, he's straight up desperate to make an eminem pun, but blanks on the lyrics. he gets fixated on how short she comes up. she'll be cleaning all of..... that all day on all fours. FUCK, don't think about it.