etherypt

[etherypt]

vampires on the mind (as always) wow who would expect from the daily real life Vampire Enthusiast

[etherypt]

– LOYAL TROUBLE

Chat Noir x Ladybug (LadyNoir)

⊹ notes ﹒˚ ₊ ︵ 

> vigilante au kinda?

> been missing chat's s1-3 personality and the golden age of ladynoir dynamic recently 

> written as chat noir (as opposed to cat noir) because i prefer writing it that way it just looks better ( ᐛ )و but some people who watch the english version are picky about that

> repost from old acc!! transfered here instead.. (if you've seen this before, that's why)

word count: 1,461

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The neon glow of the city’s underbelly pulsed like a trapped heartbeat, flickering over rain-slick alleys and the rusted fire escapes that coiled like skeletal fingers above them. Somewhere below, a dumpster lid clattered shut, the sound echoing off of brick walls as the two figures moved in tandem—shadows with purpose, footsteps silent against the gravel-strewn pavement. Both of them paused beneath a flickering streetlamp, its yellow light catching the edge of a smirk on Chat Noir’s face as he turned to Ladybug beside him, his voice a low, teasing hum. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get us caught tonight.”

She didn’t look over at him, choosing to instead adjust the strap of the black duffel bag slung over her shoulder, but her lips twitched—a barely visible smile, but still there; and more than enough for him to notice it. “Says the guy who tripped the motion sensor twice at the last job.”

“That was a tactical distraction,” he said, leaning against the damp wall with exaggerated nonchalance, arms crossed. “You’re welcome, by the way. Those guards never would’ve looked the other way if I hadn’t given them something to chase.”

“Tactical distraction,” she repeated flatly, finally turning to face him. Her eyes—sharp, faintly amused, though trying to mask it—narrowed. “Is that what we’re calling your inability to walk past a conspicuously placed potted plant without knocking it over?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “That fern was a menace. It lunged at me.”

She snorted, the sound dissolving into a stifled laugh as she shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” He replied, pushing off the wall to step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “voluntarily partnering up with the ‘impossible’ one again. Admit it—you’d miss the excitement if I ever quit.”

“Excitement?” She arched a brow, tilting her head toward the alley’s mouth, where the distant wail of a police siren had begun to crescendo. “You mean the kind of excitement that’s currently headed this way because someone—”

“—saved your life three blocks ago when that security guard nearly took your head off with a stapler?”

“—decided to taunt said security guard on the way out,” she finished, though her tone lacked any real bite. The siren grew louder, and she glanced over her shoulder, tension threading through her posture. “We need to move. Now.”

He didn’t argue, falling into step beside her as the both of them slipped deeper into the labyrinth of alleys, their path a practiced dance of turns and pivots. The duffel bag bounced against her hip, its contents—a jumble of encrypted hard drives and documents pilfered from the office of a particularly corrupt city official—clinking softly. Above them, the sky hung low and starless, the air thick with the promise of another downpour.

“You ever wonder,” he said, vaulting over a chain-link fence with effortless grace, “why trouble sticks to us like gum on a shoe?”

She followed, landing soundlessly beside him. “Because you invite it. Literally. You left a thank-you note on the mayor’s desk last week.”

“It was polite!”

“It was a haiku.”

“Still counts.” He grinned, dodging the half-hearted swipe she aimed at his shoulder. “C’mon, you’re telling me you don’t get a thrill out of this? The chase, the chaos… the part where we’re the only two people in this entire city dumb enough to think we can fix it?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her gaze scanning the next intersection before she gestured for him to follow her left. The sirens had faded, replaced by the distant thrum of traffic and the occasional shout from a late-night vendor hawking questionable kebabs. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost thoughtful. “It’s not about the thrill. It’s about the… balance. Someone’s got to tip the scales back when they’re rigged.”

He watched her for a moment—the set of her jaw, the way her fingers absently brushed against the strap of the bag, seeming as if she was reassuring herself that it was still there. “Always so noble,” he said, softer now. “You ever think about just… running away? Disappearing into some tropical nowhere, leaving all this behind?”

She glanced over at him, a flicker of surprise in her expression. “You’d last a week before you got bored and started staging heists against coconut smugglers.”

“Okay, first of all, coconut smuggling is a very real and dangerous trade—”

“Second,” she interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of her hand, “if you’re trying to ask if I’d bail on this city—on this—the answer’s no. Not while there’s work to do.”

He held her gaze for a beat, then shrugged, the levity sliding back into place like a mask. “Guess that means I’m stuck with you, then.”

“Lucky you,” She deadpanned, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

They rounded another corner, and the alley abruptly dead-ended at a brick wall streaked with decades of graffiti. She cursed under her breath, spinning to retrace their steps, but the boy caught her wrist, his other hand already reaching into his jacket. “Hold that thought,” he muttered, pulling out a compact grapple gun.

Her eyes widened. “You’ve been carrying that this whole time? You just casually have a whole grapple gun with you?”

“What, you don’t?” He muttered, trying to fight back a faint smirk from spreading on his face. He fired the grapple upward, the hook embedding itself in the roof’s edge with a metallic thunk. “Safety first.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but she was already wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he slid an arm around her waist, the duffel bag wedged awkwardly between their bodies.

“And yet,” he said, hitting the retract button, “here you are.”

The grapple yanked the two of them skyward, her breath catching in her throat as the ground fell away. They landed in a tangle of limbs on the rooftop, the city sprawled out below them in a grid of light and shadow. For a moment, neither of them moved, the adrenaline still humming in their veins as they caught their breaths. His hand lingered at the small of her back, hers still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

“See?” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet—soft. “No trouble here.”

She opened her mouth to reply, her eyes peacefully locked with his, but the sudden blare of a bullhorn cut her off, and broke the small moment of tranquility.

“FREEZE! POLICE!”

They both stiffened, turning in unison to see a spotlight sweeping toward them from a helicopter hovering in the distance. The boy groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “I just had to say it, didn’t I?”

She shoved him upright, already sprinting across the rooftop. “Less whining, more running!”

He scrambled after her, laughter bubbling up despite the chaos. “You love this!”

“I tolerate it!”

“Same difference!”

The chase blurred into a frenzy of leaping gaps, sliding down drainage pipes, and weaving through clotheslines strung between buildings. By the time they lost the helicopter in the maze of downtown skyscrapers, the first drops of rain had begun to fall—cool and insistent against their flushed skin. Both collapsing under the awning of a shuttered bodega, shoulders pressing together as the two gulped air, the duffel bag was discarded at their feet.

“Okay,” he admitted, tipping his head back against the wall. “That was a lot of trouble.”

She side-eyed him, rainwater dripping from the tips of her hair. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” He said immediately. “You’re the one who looks at a locked door and says, ‘I bet I can pick that.’”

“And you’re the one who looks at a security camera and says, ‘I bet I can wink at that.’”

He grinned, unrepentant. “It’s called charm. You should try it sometime.”

“Charm,” She repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. But when he turned to look at her, she was smiling—a look that was small, reluctant, and utterly alive.

The rain fell harder, drumming against the awning like a heartbeat. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept spinning, its cracks and secrets waiting for the pair to pry them open. But here, in this sliver of stillness, there were only the two of them—a pair of shadows who’d chosen to stand where the light refused to reach.

He nudged her shoulder with his. “Next time, tropical nowhere?”

She leaned into the contact, her smile widening, her expression practically beaming now, a playful edge to her tone. “Keep dreaming.”

And as the storm swallowed the city whole, they slipped back into the night—trouble trailing behind them both; like a loyal, maddening friend.

✦•·················•✦•·················•✦

[etherypt]

– A MOTH'S ANATOMY

Scaramouche x Reader

⊹ notes ﹒˚ ₊ ︵ 

> scaramouche!! not wanderer!! so before the character development and healing journey he started…

> angst. because i've been feeling angsty for a few days and got hit with a major depressive beam

> modern au because why not; i've always been fond of envisioning those ( · ❛ ֊ ❛)

> repost from old acc!! transfered here instead.. (if you've seen this before, that's why)

word count: 1,005

--------・୨ ✦ ୧・--------

The city pulsed like a fever dream, neon arteries bleeding into asphalt veins, and you had walked through all of it with Scaramouche’s ghost humming in your bones. It wasn’t love, not the kind that came with violins or valentines—it was something sharper, a shard of glass lodged in the meat of your chest, glinting every time you turned toward the memory of his laugh. You had met under a sky smeared with the kind of stars only visible from rooftops, where the air tasted like ozone and recklessness. He had handed you a match with a grin that said burn everything, and you had struck it against your ribs; now the world was ash.

He was everywhere. In the way the subway’s screech echoed the pitch of his voice when he was unraveling. In the sticky residue of old graffiti tags you’d find on alley walls, half-scrubbed but nonetheless still stubbornly clinging to the one thing they knew. Even the rain here carried his scent—burnt coffee and a faint hint of vanilla, a contradiction that made your teeth ache, like a love letter scribbled on a diner receipt. Performative, as if softening those scorching edges, though failing to.

You’d tried to leave once — you’d bought a bus ticket to a town with a name like a sigh, but had turned back at the terminal when a street musician played a melody; a symphony that had felt like your sternum being cracked open, your ribs being squeezed. Scaramouche had hummed that tune while threading a butterfly bandage over your skinned knee after you’d chased him through a construction site at midnight, your shared laughter bouncing off of the stagnant cranes. Now, the song was a hook in your diaphragm, reeling you toward the places he might be: dive bars with flickering signs, all-night diners where the coffee tasted like punishment, (you’d never understood why he liked it so bitter, though maybe that was simply a testament to his character) the bridge where he’d once spat a cherry pit into the river and swore it would grow into a tree.

Both of you collided in cycles, your orbits tilting too close every few months. You’d find him leaning against a pool table, eyes like lit fuses, and he’d croon “missed you, sunshine” in a voice that sandblasted your resolve. You’d trade dares instead of truths—scale fire escapes, pocket trinkets from thrift stores, race stolen shopping carts down hills—until the high wore off, and you’d remember why you swore to quit him. He’d vanish for weeks, leaving you with a hangover of silence, until a postcard would arrive, unsigned, bearing a single word: burn. You’d tear it up, sweep the pieces into the trash, then dig them out at 3 a.m., fitting jagged edges together like a penitent parsing scripture.

The worst part was the way he mirrored your hunger. Scaramouche didn’t love you; he loved the way you fractured for him, the cracks he could press his fingers into. He’d spin stories of the road, of strangers who’d tasted his chaos and spat him out, and you’d pretend not to notice the way his hands shook when he lit a joint. You were both fugitives, he said, from the mundane, the mortal, the middling. But you knew the truth: he was just afraid of stillness. Stillness meant facing the hollow in his chest, the one he stuffed with noise and narcotics and you. You’d seen it once, when he’d passed out on your couch, his face slack as a dropped mask. In sleep, he looked twelve years old.

One October night, you found him in a basement club, half-hidden behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. The band onstage was murdering a Bowie cover, and he was arguing with a girl in a sequined jacket, their words slicing the air. When he spotted you, his scowl flipped into a smirk. “Rescue me,” he mouthed, and like always, you stepped into the blade. Both of you spilled into the alley, where he pressed a flask to your lips—cheap whiskey and regret—and said, “Let’s get tattoos.” You laughed, but he was already pulling you toward a parlor whose sign buzzed like a dying wasp.

The needle’s bite felt like absolution. Scaramouche chose a moth on his collarbone, wings spread toward his throat. “So I’ll remember,” he said, though he didn’t finish. You had picked an anchor, tiny and crude, on your wrist. A joke. A plea. He kissed the ink raw afterward, his mouth a brand, and you let him, because pain was a language you both spoke fluently.

By winter, the anchor had faded to a bruise-blue smudge. You’d stopped answering his calls, changed your route to avoid his haunts, but he seeped in through the cracks—a lyric scribbled on a bathroom stall, a stranger’s scarf fluttering his cologne. Then, on a Tuesday sharp with frost, he appeared at your door, pupils blown wide, clutching a stolen motorcycle helmet. “Let’s go somewhere that doesn’t exist,” he slurred, and for a heartbeat, you almost said yes. His fingers brushed yours, cold as a guillotine, and you recoiled. “You’re a fucking ghost,” you hissed. “And you haunt wrong.”

He had left without a word. The next morning, news crackled about a crash on the interstate—a bike wrapped around a guardrail, no helmet. You ran until your lungs screamed, past the bridge, the diner, the tattoo parlor, finally collapsing in a park where you’d once fed ducks stolen bread. The birds were gone. The pond had iced over.

Months later, you’ll board a bus at dawn, a duffel bag heavy with unspoken apologies. As the engine roars, a familiar melody will drift through the station—a busker’s harmonica, wavering but alive. You’ll hesitate, one foot on the step, and for a breath, the world will split. Then you’ll climb aboard, anchor-first, and let the road unspool. Somewhere behind you, a moth beats its wings. Somewhere ahead, the sky bleeds into something softer.

✦•·················•✦•·················•✦

[etherypt]

– MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER

Aventurine x Reader

⊹ notes ﹒˚ ₊ ︵ 

> kind of a prestigious academia au(?) characters are envisioned to be high school age-ish; think harry potter without the magic

> just a soft encounter between aven & reader, and a much needed break from them being a workaholic <3

> wrote this on a whim at like 12am, i won't lie. it was fun though so i hope there aren't any major issues 〒▽〒

> repost from old acc!! transfered here instead.. (if you've seen this before, that's why)

word count: 1,418

--------・୨ ✦ ୧・--------

‘Damn it.’ 

You cursed under your breath, as you stepped on a particularly creaky floorboard of the descending staircase. 

It was a particularly ungodly hour, the corridors of the prestigious school only faintly illuminated by the moonlight. The marble floors were cool to the touch, freshly polished; there was only one old, small staircase, leading to the smaller library, in the otherwise new academy halls.

As you walked through the halls, lined with paintings of past students, you could practically feel the judgmental stares drilling into the back of your head. 

After a few more minutes of careful walking, you had finally reached your destination – the ancient library. It was decorated with a multitude of small ornamental references to various culturally significant time periods, among those being the Renaissance, most notably your favorite. It was a rather peaceful place, one you often went to for a break from the large flow of students everywhere – a place where you could truly unwind, the façade you always had simply fading away. People rarely ever went there, so it was like your own personal respite, and you practically knew the place like the back of your hand; frequently even helping with the books.

Ironically, though the place was your favorite, most of the time you spent there was doing your least favorite activity – studying. However, even in the face of the grandiose amount of work you put in for all of those tests, there was something calming about having those study sessions at midnight. The library was as silent as it could be, and it was like being isolated from the rest of the world – accompanied only by the dull sound of your quill scratching the paper.

You had an exam tomorrow on topics from astronomy – the many meanings of the stars and constellations, that sort of thing. You had no doubts the subject would be one you would enjoy immensely, if not for the absurd amount of homework and exams. 

Sighing as you settled into one of the chairs, you took a moment to light a small candle near the wooden desk, and breathe in that old book smell you never got tired of. Frowning slightly, you took out the materials you needed in order to refresh your knowledge – priding yourself on your superior grades, failure was never an option.

You had never truly fit in at the high-end school, full of preppy rich girls and snobbish boys. There was one major difference between them and you, you believed – they were just getting through studying so that they could inherit their parents’ power, while you had that power so that you could study. 

Being just one of your wealthy parents’ children had its advantages. They only focused on your eldest sibling all the time – they were expected to be successful, inherit everything, and uphold the family name. Of course, that was a double-edged sword; you were often left alone to figure everything out independently, so that was the mindset you grew into. However, having the attention directed away from you did leave you to do as you wished, while using your parents’…so called ‘advantages’, when it came to wealth. Of course, you were only interested in satisfying your thirst for knowledge, and becoming the best you could be.

Taking out all of your books and quills, setting them neatly on the table, you allowed yourself to truly decompress. You stood up, and slowly glided through the innumerable passageways and rows of bookshelves, something akin to a habit, or custom of yours, at this point. You’d pick up a worn book off from the shelf, continuing your strolling as you recited the short poem that had been on the first page.

Reading out loud to yourself, murmuring while getting lost in the academy’s huge library, was when you were happiest – when you were yourself.

As you returned to the rosewood table in the middle of the library, you heard a noise. Stopping mid-sentence, lips still parted slightly, you glanced around.

“Odd.” You mumbled to yourself.

Another voice spoke up just then, “Odd? That's new – I thought I was charming.”

You whipped around to find a boy resting his back against the edge of a bookshelf, who had an open book in his left hand, while his right was in his pant pocket. You recognized him immediately — Aventurine. Your best friend, and one of the only individuals in this whole institute that were even remotely on the same wavelength as you, in your eyes. Though, despite your close bond, you never mentioned your nightly endeavors, so what was he doing here…?

 You looked at him with a mix of embarrassment and hesitance, “How long have you been here?”

Aventurine simply snapped the book shut with his left hand, his right moving from his pocket, to ruffle your hair with a tilt of his head and a faint smirk. “Long enough,” he murmured, giving you his signature teasing look. 

You shot him a look, peeling his hand from your hair as you tried to fix it, muttering, “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? It’s past curfew.”

He took his hand back with a soft chuckle. “What, you’re going to pretend it’s perfectly normal to walk around reciting poems under your breath?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but found yourself tongue-tied. After all, what were you supposed to say? Trying to seem unfazed to keep what small amount of dignity you had left, you ignored his question. “You didn’t answer me — aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

Aventurine studied your expression for a moment, before giving you a playful smile — one you always vaguely thought resembled a cat’s. He was rather quick to shoot back an accusatory question, “I could be asking you the same, you know.”

You scoffed quietly, glancing away as you shot back, “Well, I asked first, so…”

“Well then...I was out for a midnight stroll, you could say. Things on the mind.” The boy simply stated, shrugging.

He watched as you sat down at the table, no doubt trying to ignore him. Aventurine glanced around for a moment, before shifting to peer over your shoulder. He quietly hummed at the contents of the page you were on, and a slightly softer tone could be heard in his words now. “The meaning behind the stars? Truly an interesting concept, wouldn’t you say? It’s a nice set up for having an existential crisis.”

You sighed, reluctantly coming to terms with your private moment of bliss and usual routine being ruined this evening. You looked up at him skeptically and, in spite of yourself, opened your mouth to ask for more details, “…how so?”

Aventurine walked around the table to sit across from you as he spoke. “What I mean, is that if we are made from the makings of a star—stardust, that is—is that question not just like….well, searching for the answer to the question of what our meaning is? Of our point of existing, of being. I’d consider that to be the start of an existential crisis; wouldn’t you?”

Across from him, you leaned a hand on your palm as you listened, a faint upturn of your lips appearing. He always had a different, albeit sometimes less practical, perspective of things, one that was—for lack of a better word—refreshing. Though, you doubted you’d ever come to truly admit that to yourself, wholly. Or the fact that you felt more comfortable with yourself around him, as if he exuded a feel of safety by just being near you, being able to talk to him freely without a care of keeping up appearances.

The two of you sat there, comfortable in the presence of each other — a moment of stillness, bliss almost. As you conversed about various tidbits, neither of you even bothered to notice how time was slipping away.

After a particularly long moment of calmness, Aventurine broke the silence quietly. 

“I told the stars about you, you know.”

In those hours, you felt as if you had voluntarily, gently, slipped out of the walls and barriers you had created over the years to block people out for the sake of progress. Though, you supposed that often happened around him—not to mention you didn’t seem to have any strong apprehensions about it, in these circumstances.

As if captured in the trance of the moment, you whispered, “…and what did they say?”

Aventurine gave you a soft smile, before murmuring back.

“That you were my meaning.”

✦•·················•✦•·················•✦

[etherypt]

decided to merge over here with my other writing account (@etherisks) so this will just be a hub for all types of my writing; the other acc will be for character analysis and the like :)) gonna be reposting oneshots from there here first, and then go forward like this from now on; will have tags for the various types as always~

[etherypt]

second version of the previous poem i posted, that i wrote in a similar timeframe ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

--------・୨ ✦ ୧・--------

elegy for the unseen

Midnight licks the walls like a slow fever—

I am a clockface with no numbers.

My hands, orphans, cling to the air

where your shadow dissolved. The bed is a raft adrift;

each spring, a tooth that won’t take bite.

I press my ear to the pillow—

it hums your absence in static. They say grief is a room—

but yours has no door.

Only a window where the world

blurs into a hive of light,

and I am the moth no one swats,

no one names. I’ve carved my best self into monuments

that crumble by dawn.

What’s the weight of a life

if your gaze isn’t there to hold it?

Even the mirror turns away,

ashamed of its own reflection. 3 a.m. gnaws at the edges—

I am a sentence erased,

a breath on cold glass.

Somewhere, the moon drags its pale tongue

across the earth,

and I am the shadow it won’t claim. Where are you?

I am still here,

a fossil in the wrong century,

waiting to be looked at

like a wound

that finally matters.

✦•·················•✦•·················•✦

[etherypt]

inspired by me listening to "Francis Forever" by Mitski for the millionth time after a cruddy day ˊᴖˋ but everything will be fine in the end

--------・୨ ✦ ୧・--------

3 a.m. and the hollow

The clock gnaws its own teeth—

I am still this absence, a room

where your name hums in the sockets of lamps.

My hands, orphaned, fumble

at the air’s cold waist. I’ve tried to fold myself into sleep

like a letter you’ll never open.

But the night unspools, a filmstrip

of all the scenes where I’m just

background noise, static you’ve learned to tune out.

I don’t need monuments.

Just the flicker of your gaze

to pin me to the earth—

a moth mid-flight,

still alive in the glass jar.

But here, the silence grows teeth.

My shadow clings to the walls,

begging your silhouette

to bleed into mine.

What’s a body but a question

you stopped asking?

I write myself into the dark.

A footnote. A fossil.

A firework dissolved mid-please.

✦•·················•✦•·················•✦

[etherypt]

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

h e l l o  ✧˖°.

⋆ pinned post is a work in progress… ₊ ⊹ 

✧  a b o u t   m e 

my name's lumi or moon ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა // she/her pronouns :3

‪‪✧  a b o u t   t h e   s i d e b l o g

mostly character x reader! little bits of writing here and there from various fandoms - drabbles, head cannons, thoughts; very self-indulgent and spontaneous honestly

★ originally written with fem reader in mind (most comfortable writing) however, unless it's explicitly in notes that it's not, should be fine as gender neutral reader

↪ let me know if there's any issues! I probably just overlooked something by accident due to being tired lol

also non-fandom! little bits of writing here and there, whenever the mood strikes - poetry, short stories…

✧  o t h e r   a c c o u n t s 

˚ .✶ ao3 cross posting | character yapping side blog @etherisks | honkai star rail side blog @resonastrum | main blog @melanjury if interested ✶.˚

✧  c r e d i t s  /  p r o f i l e  i n f o

profile picture - edited from @/vvanilla_art 's original on instagram //

banner - slightly edited from Kanwar Sandhu's original on flickr // 

⋆˙⟡ Let the universe fold us into the same page again... ♡

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝