Anonymously ask my muse a question about any of their relationships you’ve seen them in on this blog.
Headcanon Meme
- ❤- What does your muse look forwards on their soulmate?
- ❥- Can often/easily can your muse get heartbroken?
- ❣- What calms your muse down?
- ღ- Sexuality?
- ⌚- Does your muse worry about time?
- ❅- Favorite time of the year?
- ✿- Does your muse like the nature in general?
- ✞- Does your muse have any kinds of religion?
- ✍- Can your muse write? How well/How bad?
- ✎- Can your muse draw? How well/How Bad?
- ☁- What kind of weather does your muse consider the best one
- ツ- Can your muse speak any other language other than their main one?
- ∞- Does your muse believes in afterlife?
- ✺- Something your muse finds pretty
- ✆- What your muse’s phone gallery is filled with?
- ❦- What is your muse’s favorite fruit?
- ❧- What is your muse’s favorite kind of food?
- ‽- Something your muse has problem in understanding
- ☺- Something that makes your muse happy
- ☹- Something that makes your muse sad/upset
- ✉- How often does your muse text?
- ⌨- How often does your muse use the computer?
- ♫- What is your muse’s taste in music?
- ♯- Something that gets your muse angry
- ⋆- Your muse’s future dream and why
- ☮- How much your muse worries about appearance?
“An’ wha’ if I did?”
For a long while, Eric didn’t speak. The silence was deafening. All that could be heard was his uneven breathing and the soft dribbling of blood, rolling down the jagged blade of his scythe. He was absolutely covered in splatters of crimson. His suit, ruined. It something from a nightmare. Destruction. Betrayal. But mostly, death. With pools of blood rippling beneath his boots and piles of corpses littered in his wake, he really did the title of ‘death god’ justice.
“Should ‘ave stayed home, ol’ man,” he grunted, his grip tightening on the hilt of his scythe.
Anonymous whispered:
"“When’s the last time you slept?” Alan asked quietly, unable to tear his gaze from the dark circles beneath the other man's eyes. (shi-no-toge)"
For Eric, a night’s slumber was nearing impossible since his dear friend’s heart had been ensnared by the dreaded thorns. Whenever he tucked himself beneath his quilts and closed his eyes, he was tormented with nightmares: visions of Alan’s feeble heart – sheared into ribbons and slick with fresh blood – were fixed quite permanently in the back of his mind. It influenced his every action lately.
Especially in light of his “research”.
Eric merely smiled at him, and replied without missing a beat, “Work has been kickin’ m’ erse.” But his eyes told a much darker truth.
Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment.
“Yer nae dumb blonde. Ye jus’ look like one.”
Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment.
“Wi’ all tha’ hair, yer age hardly shows.”
Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment.
“After a few drinks, ye migh’ manage tae be decent company.”
Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment.
“Yer such a pretty lass when yer mouth stays shut!”
Send ☆ for my muse to give yours a compliment.
“Yer only kind o’ irritating, ye fud.”