{ ✉ sms → marky } RAWR GOOD MORNING { ✉ sms → marky } MARKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!{ ✉ sms → marky } WAKE UP AND GET YOUR ASS OUT OF MY BED{ ✉ sms → marky } I have been calling your name for hours{ ✉ sms → marky } does texting work better?{ one minute later }{ ✉ sms → marky } MARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Send me ↕ for a scared/worried text
{ ✉ sms → marky } DUDE! I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU WHEN I SEE YOU{ ✉ sms → marky } why are you not answering your phone?{ ✉ sms → marky } I have been searching for you everywhere{ ✉ sms → marky } I heard you got attacked. why didn’t you call me?{ ✉ sms → marky } where are you? please, tell me{ ✉ sms → marky } if I find the demon that touched you, I swear I’m going to rip him into shards
Send me ☺ for a loving/affectionate text
{ ✉ sms → marky } never use this against me{ ✉ sms → marky } or I will say you blackmail me{ ✉ sms → marky } but thank you for being my best friend{ ✉ sms → marky } my life wouldn’t be the same, if I didn’t meet you{ ✉ sms → marky } thank you not minding my mood switches{ ✉ sms → marky } I will always do everything for you { ✉ sms → marky } and I will always take care of you <3
♗:Your muse falling asleep with their head in my muse’s lap.
His eyes were getting tired by this point. Barom had been sitting there for hours watching Mark sleep. The young man had been sleeping all day and Barom had grown worried. He was breathing though so it wasn’t a concussion. Even with that medical injury ruled out the older man was still worried. “You worry me kid…..” Barom mumbled as he brushed some hair from Mark’s face.
Once again he found himself dozing and before he knew it his head was on Mark’s lap. All his energy was gone, leaving him unable to fight to get himself back up. Marl’s lap was more comfortable than he anticipated. Even through the blankets Barom could feel the warmth from Mark’s body. Sleep took him a few seconds later and worries floated away from him like flower petals blowing away in the wind.
These warnings, Wang Jackson never bothered to listen. Not from his parentsand certainly not from his friends. The dancer didn’t see it as a problem,until the next morning, when he always wakes up with a massive hangover. Goingto work with a headache is never an option, mostly because the loud music ofthe stereo system only makes it worse. Still, this is never enough to stop thedemon from drinking whenever he wants.
After the fourth glass of alcohol, Jackson stopped counting how much he wasdrinking.
While the demon was usually surrounded by friends, it’s impossible for himto stay in only one place for too long. The man switches from spot quite often,from the bar to his friends table and then to the dancefloor, only to end his nightat the bar once again. That was exactly where Mark had found him tonight. A giddybut wide smile had crossed his lips as soon as he had seen one of his closestfriends approaching him.
“Mark!” Unable to hold himselfup any longer, the demon had wrapped his arms around his neck. The demon hadn’tbeen in any condition to go home alone and for that Jackson was grateful that hisbestfriend was with him, because if it hadn’t been for him, the dancer wouldhave slept on an alleyway until the next morning.
Getting inside of his apartment had been a completedisaster. One of Jackson arms had been around Mark’s neck the entire time, evenif he had tried to stand up straight with his other hand on the wall, dragginghis heavy feet against the floor toward his bedroom.
Falling on the bed had been a relieved, even if themattress had bounced slightly with his weight when Mark pushed him onto theking-sized bed. “B—Be more gentle withme, Marky.” The words dragged from his mouth with a lot of difficulty. WhenJackson was drunk, the demon had the terrible habit of speaking in English. Someof his friends rarely understood what he wanted to say when he was under theeffect of alcohol. This time, Mark was with him. The man was relieved withthis, because he didn’t have to repeat his foreign sentences for him tounderstand.
Jackson crawled slightly to the center of the bed,resting his hand against the pillow with a groan. The sneakers were off hisfeet and his black leather jacket was already on the floor. The demon was a lotmore comfortable now, even if he was still wearing the clothes he had worn theentire day.
Before Mark could turn around to leave, the demon reachedfor his elbow, pushing him onto the bed too.
“Don’t leave.”Jackson’s eyes were already closed as he was mumbled the words out for him. “Stay with me tonight.”
A faint sound, almost like an “okay”, could be heard in the distance, but the man didn’t pay toomuch attention to it, because of his alcoholic state. Jackson only realizedthat Mark had agreed with it when his friends lay down with him, resting hishead against the pillow besides him.
“Thank you.”The demon mumbled, already half-asleep, as his arms wrapped around his waist,pulling his best friend closer to him, letting his back rest against his front.With a pleased sigh, the amount of alcohol helped Jackson to fall in a deepsleep.
A series of very loud noises come out from the direction of the local mortician’s office. Its neighbours resolutely ignore the sounds, just like they regularly pretend that the entire building with its blindingly white paint-job and ‘mortician’ sign made from severed heads does not exist. The child who resides inside will tell you that the heads are, of course, fake and only there to provide entertainment and atmosphere.
This is, technically, true.
A lot of things about the child are technically true. It is technically true that he is a legal adult - all his documentation checks out. Technically, it is also true that he is human - his appearance checks out. Technically, those heads have had their cells frozen in time and therefore not alive - so they are fake. Technically.
Said child comes out of the building at 1040 hours, a whirlwind of jewel-toned hair and black clothes, his busy hands tugging on a coat most likely far too expensive for a mortician to own.
“I’ll be back soon, Mrs Bagman!” His sweet voice carries well as he stops to give the door a short bow. Mrs Bagman died last week - one (new) neighbour makes the mistake of looking up to meet L.Joe’s eyes. She immediately decides this is a bad idea and never seems to notice his existence again. Not that L.Joe gives a shit what his neighbours think of him - it’s unlikely he even has the capacity to care at all.
“Now then...” the mortician, a bright purple halo today, stops and pouts cutely, one finger tapping against his lips. “To the library!”
It’s a short walk from his residence to the local university’s library, L.Joe passing the time by singing nursery rhymes to unsuspecting children and waving happily at their horrified parents, a semi-permanent grin plastered on his face. There’s no particular reason why he decided on the library today. It might as well have been a McDonalds or the local cinema for him, but as he nears the building, something about the doors jog a memory and he stops in the middle of the road, frowning.
“Ah...” L.Joe pauses in his thoughts to shush the car honking at him. “Ah... that’s it!” The purple-haired teen claps happily in the direction of thin air and gives the driver a thumbs up as he wanders in through the doors.
Once inside, he makes a beeline for the librarian’s desk and grins down at the older male sitting behind it, a wide, wide expression more a showing of teeth than genuinely amusement.
“Tuan Yi-en!” He exclaims, overtly joyous. “Yi-yi-en!” Having expertly caught and lost the attention of most the occupants of the library - they, too, knew to ignore the crazed undertaker-child - L.Joe lowers his voice and rearranges his mouth into a smirk. “Tuan Yi-en,” he whispers, “how would you like to know about your father?”
Chaotic, it could be said, is an excellent way to describe L.Joe.
