fabby-dabby-dick.

i  wanted  to  be  an  individual  but  my  ma  wouldn't  let  me.

[sanacloud-deactivated20211127]

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[tiffanyachings]

When we were wee, we always went to parties dressed the same.

[childliner]

my  name  is  erin  quinn.  i’m  sixteen  years  old,  and  i  come  from  a  place  called  derry,  or  londonderry,  depending  on  your  persuasion;  a  troubled  little  corner  in  the  northwest  of  ireland.  it’s  fair  to  say  i  have  a  somewhat  complicated  relationship  with  my  home  town.  you  see,  the  thing  about  living  in  derry  is  that  there’s  nowhere  to  hide.  everybody  knows  everybody,  knows  everything  about  everybody,  and  sometimes  all  i  really  want  is  to  be  simply  left  alone.    ©

[childliner]

thenmakerain.

                                       ‘ i don’t know, erin. ’   orla takes a loud crunch on the toast, now buttered.   ‘ i’ve been down there and… ’   she trails off somewhere, gently waves her toast around like a wand then plops it back down on the plate. she swallows because it’s impolite to talk with your mouth full, you know.   ‘ if you had the same cleaning routine that i have then i wouldn’t be offering them my bed … i could help you clean if you’d like. ’

“    catch  yourself  on!    ”                a  mouthful  of  toast  works  to  muffle  her  retort;  erin  didn’t  get  the  same  memo  on  politeness.  she  scoffs,  clearly  put  out  by  the  suggestion  that  the  space  beneath  her  bed  is  dusty.  it’s  a  bold  faced  lie,  to  begin  with,  but  even  if  it  is  true  ...  well,  it’s  hardly  her  fault  now,  is  it?  she’s  not  about  to  drag  the  hoover  all  the  way  up  the  stairs.                “    you  have  a  cleaning  routine?  really,  orla?    ”

[childliner]

i would like to know where toto is for the first two eps since he was presumably only hit by the army truck right before the 3rd ep so like ... where is he

[knivesouts]

[childliner]

thenmakerain·.

                                        ‘ you don’t mean that, erin. ’   orla tuts and gives her head a good shake for its money.   ‘ i know you don’t. ’   the shake fades and she pokes her knife into the butter, scratches some off, then floats right onto the next thing as she butters her toast. to hell with rejection.   ‘ you don’t so much use them, erin. i’d give ‘em a good home under my bed, no dust down there for them. be some nice company, too. ’

“    you’re  not  getting  my  sylvanian  families,  orla:  they’re  fine  where  they  are.    ”                features  contort  some  as  she  insists  on  keeping  what’s  rightfully  hers.  nose  lifts  up  high  in  the  air,  deciding  there  and  then  that  she’s  going  to  have  drawn  a  line  under  the  conversation,  that  she’s  finished  discussing  the  issue,  that  she’s––                “    hang  on,  there’s  no  dust  under  my  bed,  what’re  you  on  about?    ”

[childliner]

thenmakerain.

                                ‘ does that mean i can have your sylvanian family collection? ’

*     @childliner· 

“    shut  up  orla.    ”                erin  doesn’t  even  bother  making  a  face,  choosing  instead  to  reach  for  her  slice  of  toast  and  stuff  it,  unceremoniously,  into  her  mouth.