#fully dressed makeup not taken off teeth not brushed retainers not in LIGHTS still on just completely zonked out

[illogicalvulcans]

hi i've been SO busy i missed u all filling up my queue today xoxo

[burstbombbitch]

What does your muse do on a daily basis? Routines, hobbies, etc. Where can you find them hanging around the longest? What's one constant in their day that they never skip? What's their bedroom look like? :)

            ☪️ —— Xiuying is a creature of habit and routine. It’s not until light has set well onto her windowsill that she… gets up to pull her blinds down and wait until it has dimmed. Unwilling to rise with the sun, most of her routines are off schedule with others. Burrowing into her stuffed animals accomplishes the job of blinding her from the sun quite well.

Brushing each individual fang in her mouth — and there are plenty, for her teeth are a bit more vicious than the Inkling norm — comes first and foremost. She’d loathe to find a photo with her teeth in them, but for them to be anything less than pristine? She’d die on the spot.

While she’s gazing into the mirror to view her maw, she greets the bacteria that lives in her brain and body with a gracious “hello.” Quite literally — for they’re what generate her constellations. While they obviously do not respond, her brain is awake enough to dim them so only the primary two bio-luminescent spots on her body   ( her eyes and the pair of three beneath them )   remain.

Still in her babydoll gown, she strolls out of the bathroom to lazily make it to her kitchen. Not to properly make breakfast, mind you — whatever she finds first is suitable enough, for her cooking skills combined with nigh unconsciousness would set her house ablaze. Generally a pastry or cookie will do — her body requires a lot of sugar.

After getting dressed in whatever suits the weather and her mood, she warms up her voice. Regardless of whether she intends on performing later that night or releasing an online single, she sings for practice’s sake. A lot of it is hyping herself up in the mirror — her singing voice is a drastic juxtaposition to her soft-spoken natural voice. Think of a kitten trying to roar.

Lastly, she tends to her meadow. It’s messy, muddy work, but a good precursor into forcing her lazy ass to take a shower. Though her green thumb makes short work of assuring her plants’ health, bringing herself to not fall asleep in her bath is a bigger challenge. It’s this time where she soaks in rose water and fresh cinnamon — a good way to make it cling to her ink and soften her tentacles   ( not that they need to be any more marshmallow-like than they already are from obsessive care ).  

Speaking of her tentacles, she takes medication every week — it darkens the pink in her ink. Born a pink nigh white, she continues to consume it simply out of routine. She no longer needs it, but she believes in better safe than sorry — she and her family have no idea what made her so ill as a squib, but they would much rather not find out.

      After the morning afternoon ritual, she’s more than likely to head into the city. On occasion, she dons a different color ink and applies contacts to hide her natural star-shaped pupils. Her constellations are also completely turned off. It’s an attempt at peace — being an idol who feels as if she should entertain everyone is difficult. 

She never misses leg day — so you’ll see her at the gym nearest to the Deca Tower. Her newfound infrequency in playing makes her long for exercise, but as an idol, she has not only better things to do, but less time to spend recovering should her romps in Ranked result poorly. It’s a bit of a sore spot, considering her previous life revolved around the domination of others in her matches, but one she knows she must give up on.

After an hour or two, depending on her stamina, she heads to the nearest bubble tea shop. A regular around there, she drops the disguise and retreats to the back, where the staff allows her to browse her phone and sip in peace. It’s a refreshing routine that wakes her up wholly, preparing her for a day of non-stop smiles and sugary sweetness. Her preference is mango, since she requires high sugar to ink ratio to feed the bacteria in her body.

Retreating out the back door, she goes about her day. If you’re trying to find her near the city, you’re better off looking around the stores. Despite her familial riches, she’s a big window shopper — letting new items into her life feels daunting, for she’s a girl of order   ( despite her chosen Splatfest team of Chaos ).   Instead, she takes pleasure in figuring just what new item she’d love to take home with her — generally devolving into her carrying a few new stuffed animals in the second seat attachment of her motorcycle.

Inevitable silly selfies abound, she’s hard-pressed to say no to anyone when she’s out and about in public — something she wishes she could do, but is afraid that if she doesn’t, her fans will turn on her — or show nastier, more expectant sides of themselves. Doubling down on being cutesy helps, but a clutched chest and heavy breaths does little to satiate the budding anxiety.

Despite solidifying her status as an idol, training never stops — whether its vocal or dance. A couple hours dedicated in the day are spent solely to hone her talents and retain them. While still relatively shy about her micless Killer Wail, she’s growing to a point where she hopes to utilize it in a show one day.

When the day winds down, she escapes the heart of the Square, retreating into the living spaces for those lucky enough to live close by. A… close friend in particular has a relatively empty penthouse — sans the stragglers they’ve been steadily adopting. She crashes there from time to time, finding it easier to return to the city if she doesn’t make the lengthy trek an hour out to reach her secluded home. 

If she opts not to stay the night, she makes one last stop before she bikes out — and that’s to check in on her mother. Tensions have eased since her father’s imprisonment. Her Wuzeinese lessons are coming along nicely — and she makes sure to speak only in her mother tongue to hone the newfound transition. Frustration has her switching to either sign or Inkling, but considering she was immediately taken from her home, she’s made strides in learning.

The ride home is on a quiet road where she can speed — and she adores the rushing breeze.

     Outside of mandatory training, she never fails to find time to read. Time to catch up on the things she’s missed in the shows she adores. Time to herself. While she was once extroverted out of sheer desperation to make friends, she has come to realize that privacy is seldom in her career, and makes the most out of whatever time she can have for herself.

In terms of the media she consumes, it has changed little — she simply no longer reads these things and perceives the commentary to be the source of truth: no more being cruel in the hopes that people will adore her as the “villain.”

Soon after reading, she takes to video games, one of her favorite hobbies. As she no longer participates in the Deca Tower games as a result of her career, she has taken to digital gaming now more than ever. Opting to even go by her old alias in Ranked and Competitive matches, her previous nature shines — a violent, bloodthirsty sniper out to make people kick her out of their matches by virtue of thinking someone that good can only be cheating.

She never speaks in games, so no one knows just who they’re playing with — but as anonymity would have it, those who sling slander and cruel words prefer it that way. It never bothers her, either — if anything, she adores knowing that she’s as fierce in-game as she was in her actual Turf War matches. 

Uploaded screenshots are occasionally posted to a fake blog specifically for the alias she has created online, but always kept separate from her idol life. She still has an image to uphold, and while it’s all digital, she wants to secure it the best she can.

     After a long day, once she steps into her house, the clothes come off. All the fancy, elegant attire she dons to keep up her reputation is strewn across the floor before her foot can take the second step to bring her fully inside. Her foot kicks the door closed, and her tentas — freed from their odango style — locks it. Forcing herself to slide into the bathroom before she makes the inevitable death pact with her bed, she washes up before strolling into the bedroom with her gown on.

Given that she lives in a spacious, two bedroom home, she has taken the master bedroom for herself. Even though her aforementioned entry seems to refute this, the room is neat, yet obviously lived-in.

It’s also painfully obvious that it is hers, as the tinge of pink, white, lilac, and blue reigns supreme all around.

Beneath the Roman linen fold curtains, decorated by a silver wood pelmet and pleated valance, resides a dresser top organized by item height. The middle of her perfume bottle collection harbors the smallest of them all, expanding vertically as it moves horizontally from the center. Her books, too, are arranged by color and not name. A silver box with her most precious belongings harbors an entire shelf to itself, with the three bottom most drawers filled with documents and notes she’s taken over the years regarding effective communication with others. While dust once took the handles by storm, a resurgence of use leaves a curved fingerprint.

As moonlight pours into the window from beneath said curtains, illuminating the jars she has filled with sparkling dyes, it reflects a gentle light out of the dresser mirror perpendicular to the storage desk. Her most used possessions lie strewn along the doily covered top, articles of clothing organized by usage and necessity from the top drawer down. Companions — her stuffed animals — sit and watch as she cleans any makeup from her face at this particular desk, drowsily bobbing her head as her bed beckons.

Dragging her feet along expensive woolen flooring, the princess slinks around the small center table toting freshly cut roses and into her canopy bed, where sheer curtains decorate the poles holding up her bed-frame. She sinks easily into the thick, chilly comforter, burrowing beneath the blankets to be one with the giant stuffed animal said… “close friend” got for her. 

She gives glance to the walk-in closet off to the side, but with her attire cast aside in the living room, she’d opt not to rise. Though most of her important clothes is not folded — instead hung up where it could be handled properly — she believes that the dry-cleaners could save her clothes just as easily. Or her mommy. Either or.

Rolling onto her side, and clinging to a toy bigger than her whole four-feet, she nuzzles nose first into the soft fabric, forgetting to pull down her black-out blinds once more, and dozes off to begin the day anew.