#devotion.starter

HAVING abandoned their dutiful position at front desk - they'll forgive her, surely, for the misdeed - the trailing fragrance of a funeral home ( powdery and a little sweet - too much so, the kind that lays flat and parallel with indigestible grief ) betrays tamsin's whereabouts, three aisles away. her eyes swept upwards, frown firm upon her lips as chin points farther and farther up - books encased behind glass, iron key clasped between gloved fingers; can still feel the heat amassing, slow but sure - like a hand hovering over stove, waiting for the burn. the slightest sigh, still heavy in her chest, the only indication she isn't living statue - turns to the only other in the aisle, movement almost jarring, frown louder than before, "give me your shoulders." more demand, than request - key turned between fingers and pointing near - accusatory towards them.

HOPELESSLY bored - tragically so; cheek planted firm against countertop, two petrified eyeballs spinning 'round each other in a disconcerting beyblade battle - wound up by own fingers, fairuz is dying. absolutely, positively dying, dead not once, but twice - a tragic tale they'll be sure to retell once their spectral form takes hold beneath the moonlight. they hope it'll be beneath moonlight; shimmering like the pale pecs of a tragic, perpetually horny 109 years old vam - ding. body flies up, pushing self off of counter as the door opens; practically hauls self over, clambering to feet only to grasp at the patron's arm. "thank fuck - you want to buy my wares soo fucking badly -" not their wares - really doesn't know who even owns the joint, just plucked flier off of town bulletin board and made way. "- we just got in this cursed blade of llewy - fuck whoever - very chic, great talking piece -"