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dearlylu replied to your post: âdearlylu replied to your post: â[[MO { /keeps eating to entertain...â:
[ oh man really?? it's 1am here and the party is going on strong like it's nobody's business. hugs tbh. food makes everything better though ;; ]
{ honestly, I'm not a party person at all ;; so I would have been in a realyl bad mood if it was 1 am and loud as hell ; u ;
{ yassss. food always makes things better! just got one more hour left cxÂ
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dearlylu replied to your post: â[[MOR] { /keeps eating to entertain myself until midnight bc...â:
[ whispers I am doing the exact same thing rn like so sleepy but much party going on over here ]
{ righttttt. i'm still two hours away from midnight too /sighs
{ my family is loud too ; u ; im getting a headache so I went to my room but it's still pretty loud--
âĽ
⼠:Name one thing about the way their emotions work that they despise.
Zitao despises when he feels guilty. Because of his previous status as the Prince of Demons, he feels he shouldnât have to feel guiltiness for anything he does nor justify any of his actions. Heâs a creature of pride, so naturally when he feels has done something in wrong and knows it, he blames it on the âhumanâ emotions he has developed over his time on Earth. If he were to be back in the Abyss, no such emotion would exist for him. In the Abyss, he would be a ruthless demon lord who has mercy for no one but on Earth as a human, his thinking has changed over centuries. As a result, he always avoids situations where a person would be genuinely hurt or seething because of his actions or words.Â
closer.
Má´ĘĘá´ Ęá´'s á´á´á´ÉŞÉ´É˘Â down with something, a horrible cold or whatever, given the night's waning youth and the fact, which remains obscure much to his annoyance, that he has been restless lately but the white walls of the parlor are blinding now, fucking with his eyes as he cleans the tattoo instruments [ tube, tip, grip ] with warm water. For a moment as fleeting as the neon lights outside, everything reminds him of the hospital â the glaring purity [ as if mocking the tar black souls around the establishment ], the tang of sterility [ a smell he's gotten used to by now, however ] and uneasiness slowly pools in the pit of his stomach. A sigh, soft and trembling, exits his rosy petals while he rinses the items before he allows the cool air to remove the moisture from them thoroughly. Stripping his pale hands of the gloves and waiting for the equipment to dry with little patience, he takes a seat by the tattoo chair, bouncing his leg â rolling his eyes about the bright, too bright room then fixing his gaze on the translucent partition that separates the body art studio from the nightclub, tracing the glowing lights like a child. He thinks about the malaise that's settled down within, a feeling that gnaws at his bones along with tiredness, then reflects on all the shit he's been dealing with for the past few days without even a proper respite. Finishing tattoos, grabbing the ink supplies, plus other strenuous assignments which mostly involve blood ; a lot of blood. It's not easy to find time for himself as of late, he realizes and feeling sick is hardly a wonder. A while later, once they are dry, lithe, skeletal digits slip into a new pair of gloves to place each part of the tattoo machine into a sterilization pouch meticulously before sealing them. He dances over to the autoclave then lays the small bags on the trays, making certain that all instruments remain apart before he fills the apparatus with distilled water then turns it on. Licking his slightly chapped lips, he informs his fellow worker [ who is fortunately not busy ] about the sterilization of the equipment just in case he forgets [ he never does, though ] as he skips across the parlor, away from the white walls that are hurting his eyes and out into the soothing blackness of the nightclub to quench his thirst. He sways into the arms of the dark, letting them guide him further, pulling him through the riotous sea of unknown faces. The loud music makes the walls quiver, he notices, throbbing erratically like a heart pricked by excitement while his own seems to calm down the second the Stygian gloom engulfs him [ taking the sting out of his eyes ]. He wends his way to the bar and orders a little drink then, seeing how crowded it is, he decides to bring the glass along with him to a lonely corner where he slumps onto a sofa â sipping on his icy liquor, deriving comfort from the fiery liquid ripping through his throat. His shift is ending soon and all tasks here have been completed so for now, he rests.
â
send a symbol - get the following from my muse ;
Send â for a long-winded confession text
( text â luhan ) Luhan, your face makes me angry. Have you ever looked at your face? Why are you so cute? It makes me angry, the fact that you are this cute, I could tackle you everytime I see you because I just want to squish your face and pinch your cheeks so much that they will become as red as tomatoes, and then break all your bones in a pretty tight hug because you are really the custest guy I have ever met. Are you understanding me because you are too cute for me to handle. Anyway, have a good day!
( text â luhan ) Yah, donât mind me.
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â
send a symbol - get the following from my muse ;
Send â for a morning text
( text â luhan ) Good morning! I hope you slept well, because I didnât.
( text â luhan ) Overthinking will kill me, I am sure!
( text â luhan ) Help me, Luhan! Iâm dying! Help meâââ
âž
âž - Your muse asks for help decorating a gingerbread house.
Chocolate was smeared across the porcelain white skin of her arm and her fingers lazily closed, her hands turning into fists. The female was by now sitting for hours in that seat of hers and working on a small gingerbread house but lord, it just didnât want to work - or more like, she just didnât know how to decorate it so it would look pretty. As calm and patient as she usually was, Hanna lacked experience for this kind of thing and yet at the end of the day she knew she would have to find a way to get this done because she promised her mother that by tomorrow morning, there would be a small gingerbread in the living room.
Eyes snapping up and searching the room, her dark hues seemed to brighten up a little bit as a familiar person came into sight and she hurriedly gestured for him to come closer before she pointed to the small artwork in front of her. Innocence laced her tone as she looked up to face the other with a pleading expression on her face.
â Help me, please please please? I need to get this done before I can read my book. â
"Why do you hate yourself?"
        âHe hates loud places, he dislikes hearing crude jokes that were immorally wrong to be even said. The obnoxious laughter they let out makes his head throb in pain, leg tapping in annoyance as he waits for the bus to come by. Having enough of hearing the ruckus he quickly just shoves his worn out ear buds in, hitting play in a random shuffled playlist. He hates how as soon as his music starts to play he starts to simply just think. Why are they being annoying, theyâre simply having a good time? Itâs not like theyâre bothering you directly, itâs not good to be angry. These thoughts seem to link together, one after the other until heâs not angry at the noisy ruckus serving him a headache. Heâs displeased with himself to even bother be mad with people heâll never see or hear again.
He hates quiet places, quiet places let him think. Especially at night when his clock is glaring at him with red blocked numbers of 3am, he thinks of everything heâs done. He thinks of the things he couldâve done but hadnât, he thinks of the words he has said to some people. He thinks of people he had lost because of those words, and somehow those thoughts just keep building and building until it collapses enough for him to blemish his pillow cases with tears. He hates how that badgering feeling whispers in his ears soothingly but no less gnawing that it was his fault, that he shouldâve done something different. He shouldâve chased after the person that was gone; it was your fault in the first place. The awful thought that keeps building and collapsing before repeating it once more.
He doesnât hate the way he over thinks, he tells himself over and over again. âItâs fine, youâll be okay.â but thereâs always that irking tug, it keeps tugging at his sleeve retelling him it might not be.
He doesnât hate it, he loathes it.
