#truly dark without a speck of white

[idontknowmyownmind]

RokCale brother AU:

KRS reincarnated as Cale's younger brother and because his first life is more fucked up than canon, he become unhinged in an obsessive way toward Cale, codependency and attachment issue at best

Cale is older by 5 years than Roksu and he basically Roksu's primary caretaker since their mother's death

Roksu is a sly and manipulative kid, always monopolize his hyung's time and attention

He doesn't like to share and want to keep his brother for himself, even from their family

Roksu resent Deruth who 'hurt' Cale, although not openly show it

He harbor ill feeling toward Basen and Violan who made Cale 'sacrifice' himself

But Roksu never trully hurt them, just make their life a 'little bit' difficult because he doesn't want to make his hyung sad or upset for seeing them 'hurt'

Ron is the only one who is aware of Roksu's darker side because he always with the brothers

Let's say that Roksu 'threatened' him to keep quiet

Roksu never let people get to close with Cale nor he let his hyung attached to someone other than him

It's subtle but Roksu always isolating Cale from other people whose not him

People know Roksu as a silent but good and obedient kid while they see Cale as the unruly brother

In a way, Roksu also adding fuel to rumor regarding Cale so no one ever approach him to take him away

[teddybeartoji]

suguru geto is unbelievably captivating.

he catches your eye immediately – standing tall, he's got one hand on the subway pole to keep his balance. his hair is tucked into his hoodie with only a few strands left out to frame his face. you can only see his side profile but it's enough; a sharp, prominent jawline and a beautiful nose, thin eyebrows, a pierced lip and a pair of tired eyes. you feel bad for thinking it but the dark bags under them leave you no other option.

afternoon sun peeks from the windows behind him, successfully making the scene before you seem like a painting. the colors move; the shades of green flashing by as trees wave you goodbye, the different hues of the tired grays, of the big buildings taking up space as the base of the canvas. splashes of black and white and silver and beige are thrown into the mix, too. his slacks, his big headphones, his jewellery, his totebag. but what truly brings it all together, is his deep, dark maroon hoodie; there's a hint of purple in it aswell, and you just think it's one of the best colors you've ever seen. you figure the thought is a bit silly, but you can't get it out of your head.

something so comforting about it, something so warm and welcoming. something a little murky about it. you can't look away.

you forget about everybody else around you. for you, it's just him in this moment. a total stranger. you don't know him and you probably never will; a pang of hurt hits right under your ribs at the thought. you wonder what his name is, you wonder how his voice sounds. how warm his hands are, and what's his favourite color. no, he doesn't seem like the type to have a favourite color. childish. you'd have to ask about a favourite drink or a book perhaps instead. you're fine with that.

you can spot a few rings on his fingers, a silver watch and a bracelet or two peering from under his sleeve. his hands are pretty. they look good. you also think that you can see a tattoo sprouting from under the collar of his hoodie but the dark lines are blending in with the strands of his hair, so you can't be sure. you want to be sure.

your foot taps against the floor or the cart, your body itching to scoot a little closer to him. you want to see his whole face. you need to. fidgeting with your own fingers, you continue observing the man in front of you. he might step out every second now, you can't waste any more time.

his shoulder seem very broad, his posture almost immaculate. handsome – you think he looks very handsome. well put together. his clothes aren't wrinkled, there isn't a single hair or a speck of dust anywhere on them as far as you can see; the only things that betray his true state of being are his eyes.

purple. glued to the window in front of him, he watches... nothing. he seems a little out of it. he's not focused on the trees or the buildings, the people aside him. you think about what kind of music he might be listening to.

the subway doors open and you jolt, head turning around to look at the platform behind the glass. people stand and leave, and a few come in, leaving an open space for you to take on the bench you're currently sitting on. and you do take it.

there he is.

you can see his eyes a little better now. keen and sharp, he reminds you of a wolf. a malnourished one. the corners of his mouth are tilted down and he really does seem tired. but he's still utterly, utterly beautiful. his skin is almost perfect, his hair shiny and his lips a little glossy. but not too glossy though – no, he definitely uses something like shea butter. something that isn't too thick, something that doesn't smell or taste too strongly. it just seems right.

you've never been this captivated by a stranger before. it's weird. the effect this man has on you without ever even sparing you a glance. you think about asking for it. for a glance. for a second of his time. a fraction of it? anything. everything.

how would he greet you? would he be mad? would he think that you're bothering him? would he give you a smile? a scoff? an eyebrow raise? would he let you ask whatever your heart desires? or would he brush you off, never even removing his headphones when you try to speak to him? oh, it hurts. the blatantly fake heartbreak still hurts.

his trainers are clean - they're white with some accents on them. they match his hoodie. you wonder which he bought first. did he buy the other with the intent of wearing the two pieces together? you want to ask him. that's not his favourite color though, right? no, no – he wouldn't have one. this man reads books and watches movies that are mostly only shown at different festivals. you don't mind it.

films. foreign films. he knows names of the directors from the top of his head, he could probably name a few cinematographers, too. fancy. but that's not his main thing, definitely not. there's something missing, something you can't grasp with just your eyes. what is he passionate about? truly passionate. what does he pour his heart into? is that why he's exhausted? is he tired from loving something? is it starting to hurt now? is it overwhelming? does he want a break? does he want to rest? does he want to get away?

the sun finds your eye from behind his body, forcing you to tear your eyes from him. the cart stops again, the doors open. you try to rub out the slight burn, suddenly a bit frantical that you'll really lose him. you look up and—

he's not there.

he isn't there anymore.

people walk past you, plopping down beside you as you're still trying to find him. turning in your seat, you eye the station. maroon, maroon, maroon, maroon. c'mon, how fast does this man fucking walk?!

but he's just not there.

you think it's unbelievably unfair that it's the sun that made you lose him. isn't she supposed to be full of love? bullshit. with a huff, your shoulders slump and your eyes fall shut while sinking into the bench below you. the cart seems to rumble more now, the seat way more uncomfortable than it was a mere minute ago. you really are disappointed; in yourself and in the world. why didn't you get up? why didn't you speak to him? better to get a no than to drown in the million 'what if' questions in your head. stupid. you're stupid.

"hi."

as you listen to the voice recording of the station names, the very same ones you memorized years ago, you crack open your eyes. your own shoes stare back at you; they're dirtier than his were. you don't think too deeply about the comparison. sun dances on the ground before you, the various shapes entertaining your mind with the shadow play. but you don't stay for long; trailing up, you see the familiar paint and your heart skips a beat. white and maroon. black. maroon. silver.

purple.

[fingermaidenlusha]

“ Only the kindness of gold , without Order . ”

~ Finger Maiden Lusha ~

⚜️ Finger Maiden Lusha

⚜️ September 8 / Virgo

⚜️ Early-Mid 20s

⚜️ Shaman / Commoner

⚜️ Lesbian

⚜️ Wields the Blade of Calling and Erdtree Seal

⚜️ Likes

Melina, Rya, Nepheli, Roderika, Miriel, Hornsent

⚜️ Dislikes

Tanith, Varré, Corhyn, Gideon, Shabriri, Queelign

⚜️ Description

4’11 (150cm), small but ample with voluptuous features. Thick dark hair in tight coils that are typically covered by a veil. Dark melancholic eyes with noticeable specks of gold within. A large nose and full lips with a slight spattering of freckles. From the back of her neck down her spine runs the scarring of the Scarlet Rot from when she was exposed as a child. Prefers to wear modest clothing in shades of white and pink.

⚜️ Biography

Lusha was born in a small village near the border of Limgrave and Caelid shortly after the Shattering of the Elden Ring. Born to a fisherman and an herbalist of hidden Shaman heritage in the light of a Minor Erdtree, Lusha was shown to have incredible faith and affinity with the sacred at a young age. Her childhood was spent playing in the Mistwood and along the nearby coast. Still, Lusha was close to her father Lazar and mother Leeor, so she was never too lonely. That was until one day when the wars in neighbouring Caelid reached a fever pitch as the demigods Radahn and Malenia battled. That was the day young Lusha witnessed the world turn red as the Scarlet Flower bloomed. But that was only the beginning, the end truly came to their little village when blighted soldiers came marching through, searching for shelter and spreading the pestilence further. Her mother hid Lusha behind the statue of Marika in their church, a small space between it and the wall where only a child would fit. That was the last time Lusha saw her mother alive as she awaited some kind of salvation, praying to Marika, her new stone-faced mother. Her nights were filled with dreams of an empty village and a golden tree. After days in which Lusha had resigned herself to death by starvation or exposure, she was found by a Night’s Cavalry, sent by King Morgott to secure the border of Limgrave and prevent the further spread of the Rot. There, he witnessed Lusha’s kindness, crying before the corpses as golden flowers bloomed at her feet, without Order. The knight took pity on Lusha, bringing her on a journey across the Lands Between to the Royal Capital of Leyndell. There, she was raised in a convent to become a Finger Maiden, a true servant of Queen Marika the Eternal, a calling that she had always understood.

Run by @sermessmer.

16+ limited interaction. 18+ preferred.

You can also read her fic virgo vestalis on ao3.

[theblackwhitengrey]

Worldbuild pt. 1

Some basics, just to get the idea on what's happening on the magic side of things (besides good ol' planet Earth being a speck of dust in the entire thing).

Divine Governance of the Three Regions: -The Black and White

The Black and White is an entity, where its reach is unfathomable. It is also a location. But few have truly navigated to THE Black and White, and it is immensely difficult even for any seasoned veteran. It can be surmised that it is somewhere in Outer Space, where no normal man can reach it in a physical capacity. It has the ability to grant beings magical powers. These magic power granting, is on a basis of balancing the magic concentration in the entire Psychic Dimension. Where a being of the Black has magic, there is another in The White for equal measure. Theorethically, in a perfect world, that is.

Where the EXACT source of magic is coming from, it is usually from outside sources. It merely refines raw magical energy into something more specific, example: Pokey being all musical and death and rebirth stuff. Else everyone would've had the same exact identity and nobody likes being the exact same as the next person. Originally, it granted magic to inhabitants of The Black, The White, and the Grey Lake. But due to circumstances... it has started to extend its reach beyond the Psychic Dimension into worlds such as Earth.

TL;DR The Black and White is an administrator, place, and entity, all at once. One may also call it "The Will of the Black and White", or even "Will" for short.

Three Regions:

The Black:

The Black is a dark region. It's cold, tundra-like. It does snow sometimes. but it is not without colour. You'd notice that colours here are rather vibrant, and surprisingly, of all colours of the rainbow. It used to enjoy a period of utter prosperity, under one peculiar monarch, and prided itself on knowledge deep and dangerous. It was a city of scholars, after all. These days, this region has become a shadow of its former glory. Now, it is largely ran by clans, but with Wiggly in power, the clans all report to him now.

The White:

The White is a bright region. It's warm, a forever spring/summer almost. It is noted to be blinding to the average human. Most colours one sees here is muted, at best, pastel. You'd notice that white is a predominant colour in this region, with some accent colours of black and gold. In the heydays, this region was heavily religious. Among them were seers, priests and the like, so they were most adept at rituals. Their rituals enabled them to foretell some events, enabling them to put forth measures to stop it from happening. They use this to their advantage. They were the ones who first learnt how to access the Timeline Tree, and use it. These days however, they no longer have access to the Timeline Tree, but still continue to dutifully conduct their spiritual duties in whatever capacity they can do so. Webby works for the White to safeguard their interests.

The Grey Lake: This area is rather mysterious, for very few beings live in this area. This was an area that formed between The Black and The White, a relatively new region, and separates the two regions at dispute from each other (it's a big ass Lake tbh you might as well call it a sea). The beings that reside here could have chosen to live in The Black or The White, but they have largely chosen to remain in this region, as a neutral ground.

Beyond, “The Universe”, or "However you understand this AU that basically has many timelines at stake", The Magic Sources:

Alphanes Tree:

Better known as the Timeline Tree, this "tree" is a lot bigger than The Black and White. It is a psychic manifestation. It spans across the universe, and only those with time and space magic can really touch the Tree (albeit a part at a time). This tree contains the timelines, that is, the various possibilities of how humanity (as we know of it) can manifest. It keeps growing, thanks to the Iotainia Sea.

The Black and White exists outside of the Timeline Tree.

Iotainia Sea:

This particular region resides at the bottom of the Timeline Tree, where all older timelines that have since degraded/ got destroyed/ ended for good, end up at. Psychic energy of the Sea, breaks down these "dead branches" into building blocks that the Tree takes up in it's roots to grow new timeline branches. It never dries up, thanks to the Alphanes Tree.

[sprawlingriver]

There’s a song in the wind.

When you wake in the morning, on a bed that feels ever so slightly softer than it was the night you laid your head to rest, you think that maybe you can hear it.

There’s a song in the wind.

Stretch your arms above your head. Feel how good it feels to let the rust fall away from your shell. Listen to the sounds of the waves crashing against the cliffside. The smell of sea spray, of pearlescent ripples and mysteries in the depths is primal, and makes its way aaaalll the way up the dark cliffs, to your small home at the edge of dropping into the elemental rapture.

There’s a song in the wind.

The sun on your face and the wind through the drapes whispers to you to get up. To pull yourself from this haze - is your head foggier than it was…yesterday? - and make your way down the grassy hill to warn the townsfolk. Warn?

There’s a song in the wind.

Maybe your bed is just soft enough.

There’s a song in your ear.

The move you make as you maybe, almost, hear it cannot be described as a jolt. Your bed is so soft and thick that any movement is absorbed. In the dead of night, you can’t be sure what…dead of night? What time is it? You don’t remember going to sleep. You feel a pulse between your legs, an aching warmth that crashes like the waves beyond your perception.

There’s a song in your ear.

Relax. You are protected here, you are welcome here. There are no secrets in this melody, woven from lust and honey. This song is honesty, in all places, at all times, most importantly of which is now. And the song’s truth is so wonderful.

There’s a song in your ear.

You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re missing portions of the day, bedding at odd hours. You never feel tired, and are always exhausted. When you see the sunset, you remark to yourself that you cannot remember when you last saw something so beautiful. The sky bleeds like a painting as the song melts your mind away.

There’s a song in your ear.

It’s divine. They’re divine.

Their voice is in your ear.

You’re not sure when you became aware of it. Maybe one day you simply realized you’d rather be the version of you that listens, rather than the version that forgets.

Their voice is on top of you.

That’s not to say you ever missed the memories. The ecstasy you felt at knowing something, something, was missing from your mind kept you pleasurably tied down. Eventually, when that mind has been well and truly scrubbed clean, there’ll be nothing to miss.

They are on top of you.

Below you, and within you. Where does that voice come from? Sometimes the voice is your own, desperately chanting. Sometimes, the voice traces delicate curls along your ears, scratching your hair and giggling at your blissed out state. Sometimes, the voice seems to spread from your heart, ever so calm but beating, faster and faster and faster in your chest.

They are on top of you.

They have been for quite some time. Delicate, beautiful in a way that only strange things of the sea can be. They make their way up, up, up your body, and you see their skin is a dark navy, like that of the ocean herself and they are draped in soft specks of white light. The night sky illuminated them dimly, and they seem to glow. Their eyes are yellow in a way that reminds you of sunlight, radiant and difficult to look into, and yet impossible to look away from. Sharp rows of teeth line their mouth. They are a wild thing.

The song starts again and you awake in a tide pool, wet with need and sweat and sea.

The song starts again, and it’s the night before and you caught on your bed so soft as it is.

The song starts again and fuck, it’s been weeks, it must’ve been how could you miss them this much how can you long for their return, after all you aren’t allowed to touch without express permis-

The song starts again and your tongue is cut and torn open at every part they want you to be upon and-

The song starts again and you’re melting for them.

The song starts again.

There’s a song in the wind.

[dr-george-ordell]

A Secret Garden Part One - Enchanted Rings

Aaron whipped his head around, a spike of panic passing through him at the sound of someone entering his office without knocking.

It was just Alfred...to his relief.

The younger man was beaming quite brightly with a hop in his skip, coming over to his desk with his hands tucked together behind his back. He appeared to be planning something-Alfred's poker face was very poor when it was around someone that could read him.

"Aaron, you should come to the town with me for lunch after you're done with all-" Alfred gestured at the piles of paper on the mahogany desk, "-this."

There was a glittering spark within the boy's eyes, causing Aaron to raise an eyebrow.

"What are you planning, Alfie?" He questioned in a deadpan voice, though he couldn't help supress the little twitches that arose from the side of his mouth.

He only smiled down at Aaron, strands of blonde, unkempt hair falling to the side of the other man's square glasses.

"Do you know what day is it Aaron?" Alfred questioned, amusement seeping into his teasing voice. Aaron shook his head, attempting to wrack his brain for any clue what he was on about. To his confusion, Alfred let out a loud, noisy laugh.

"What's so funny?" Aaron questioned, frowning at the strange behaviour.

Alfred had turned red, tears in his eyes, having to compose himself for a moment before answering.

"Well-" The younger man dug a small box out of his pocket, wrapped in a beautiful dark green paper, "I have a gift for you. Do you know what today is now?" Alfred cocked his head playfully to the side.

Aaron blinked at him incredulously.

"No??" Increased bafflement filled his voice, wondering what Alfred was trying to do. Some kind of surprise?

Alfred took his hand gently, placing the green thing in his hands. Aaron no longer felt like flinching away from the human contact like he normally would-feeling at ease with the other man.

"Happy Birthday sir- its for you and your wife. Just old stuff from Arthur that needs new owners." Alfred mumbled shyly, smiling this time in a more solemn manner. Alfred's father was a touchy subject as much as he joked about it and even openly mocked the elder man. Aaron could relate.

He swallowed his nerves as he smiled, unsure of what it really was.

"What is it?" Aaron questioned, a confusrd chuckle emanating from him. Alfred wordlessly motioned up and down with his finger for Aaron to open it. He slowly obliged, not being terrified of ambiguity for once in his lifetime, but rather allowing a childish, boy-like excitement to rush through him. Alfred gave gifts to him whenever he went on diplomatic visits or travelled the country, always coming back with something exciting that pleased him, and in a much better way, made him feel seen.

Inside, there were two little silver bands with intricate patterns of animals and plants, delicately carved. A single, small circle sapphire stone was in each ring, with little specks of white within, making the precious gems appear to twinkle like the night sky.

He felt unable to conjure up any words, something captivating in the objects aura. He brought his thumb to rub over the cool metal, feeling the grooves and dips. It was truly a wonderful thing, and he couldn't thank Alfred enough.

Aaron tried to open his mouth to thank the other man, but only felt himself flush when he snapped his jaw snap shut. As a child, he had issues with speaking when overwhelmed with anger or joy, his throat physically closing on itself which causef panic. As an adult, he found it easier to control such.....irritating fits, but it did occasionally rear its head out at the worst moments.

Alfred had only witnessed him going completely mute once and was unphased, not treating him like porcelain china or a disturbed man afterwards, much to his relief.

"I'll be in that pretty garden of yours." He stated aloud, warm fondness in his soft, grey eyes. Aaron dumbly nodded, feeling Alfred pat his shoulder with a little too much strength as he always did before disappearing behind the door of his office.

Aaron felt terribly lonely once again.

-

Author's notes: I had the 1993 movie of The Secret Garden in mind when writing this, and generally, that one genre of english folk-fairytale movies that many British people watched in childhood and still remember as comforting.

[psychic-refugee]

Wenvier Bingo Freespace - Good Omens

Heaven and Hell were, at their core, corporate structures that one simply needed to learn how to finesse in order to get by, or in Crowley’s case, fail upwards.

He had made a hellish honest attempt to be a good demon, smote humans that needed smoting, inspire them to be their worse selves. It wasn’t his fault that every time he had made an attempt, humans had not only beaten him to their own damnation but had come up with something truly vile that he would not have thought of in six thousand years.

After the first few hundred years, he had decidedly given up and simply took credit. If anything, that was what being a demon was all about.

What true demon was honest in memos?

Unfortunately, his accidental achievements meant that the Demonic High Council thought he was competent at his job. In any corporate structure, being competent was the worst of sins and was punished with more work.

Case in point, he was now assigned an “intern.”

Wednesday was not a fallen angel, and Crowley was aghast at the thought that demons could procreate.

“No,” Beelzebub shuddered at the thought, “You’ve done such a damned job at tempting the humans into damnation and creating strife on earth, that she is the manifestation of all their woes. She emerged from the Pit fully formed, as is. She just needs to be shown around a bit.”

Crowly simply smiled and nodded, taking credit but knowing full well that humans had created Wednesday all on their own.

It just galled him that not only was he assigned an intern, but everyone was treating her as his de facto daughter.

As with all powerful demons, they had a dark aspect that manifested itself into things that slithered or crawled in the shadows. Wednesday’s was the spider, delicate white spider silk weaved into a beautiful dress. A gorgeous specimen of a black widow was her constant companion and stood sentry on her shoulder.

If he peered into her black obsidian eyes, he could see a speck of ruby at the center in the shape of an hourglass. If he looked past her and off to the side where the infernal aura was its true self, he could see a shadow of a thousand eyes and her true form.

Although practically a newborn, she had no trouble staring him down in his own poisonous serpentine eyes.

Crowley had no choice, so he showed her around and she learned quickly on her own that humanity was its own worst demon and she simply had to exist.

Meanwhile, at a bookstore in Soho, Aziraphale was being assigned his own heavenly intern.

Xavier was a new angel, a Principality. The first one created since the beginning of Creation.

“He’s supposed to protect communities and guide humanity. Most of us haven’t been around a human in millennia and who can blame us?” The Archangel Michael dropped in with Xavier without calling first and giving no real instruction or helpful information. “You are the foremost human expert in all of Heaven…so here you go,” she turned to Xavier, “Learn about humans and then guide them…or whatever.”

Without any further ado, Michael was gone.

Xavier was as most angels, wearing all white with handsome features and hair of starlight. He looked to be about in his late teens or early twenties, and his angelic attire left a lot to be desired in Aziraphale’s estimation, but at least his pure white hoodie would blend in with humans.

The only real hint of his divine heritage were the veins of gold in his green eyes, a unique feature as most had their heavenly marks on their person.

Aziraphale’s was in a place only Crowley had ever seen.

He wasn’t sure what else to do with the angel other than to take him about on his normal day. When they weren’t reading, they enjoyed walks at St. James’s Park, lunch at the Ritz, and plays. He was glad to see that Xavier enjoyed the fruits of humanity, although he was rather quiet.

The new angel didn’t seem to have any real desire or talent in inspiring humans to their best selves. Aziraphale was at a loss of what else to show him.

That was, until Crowley come to the bookshop with Wednesday.

Her snarky countenance reminded him of Crowley, so she held a special place in Aziraphale’s heart...or the approximate location of where a heart would be in his corporeal angelic form.

With how Xavier got tongue tied and wouldn’t stop staring at her, Wednesday had an affinity with angels it seemed.

The way she had no issue in getting in Xavier’s personal space, she returned his admiration.

Aziraphale was further enchanted when Wednesday turned out to be a voracious reader and lover of books. She even penned a few of her own, his book collection could now boast the entire series of Viper de la Muerte, the first and only murder mystery series written by a Demon.

A few months later, Crowley and Aziraphale had to create a 30 Lazarii miracle to hide the fact that Wednesday and Xavier had fallen in love and married. Any demon or angel who came by would see them snuggled up with each other, Xavier’s wings protectively surrounding her as spiders spun delicate doilies and the like around them. Now they were protected so that neither side would be able to see their love.

When asked why there was such a huge miracle, Aziraphale simply blamed it on an over enthusiastic intern.

“Well, I admire that it didn’t take them six thousand years and two near apocalypses to reveal their feelings for each other,” Crowley teased his angel.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but then gave his demon a kiss to make up for all the millennia they had missed.  

Card under cut

[symphonicsoul]

( @aquaticsoul ) ->

✨ +

"Do you still hear the screaming?" The voice comes out in a flat, dead monotone after hours of perfect stillness and silence. To most, the question would seem directed at absolutely no one given the fact the man's body hasn't moved an inch and the same distant, expressionless look remains there as it has since the start of whatever has come over him. His eyes gaze at seemingly nothing at all, appearing almost made of glass. If he can feel pain or emotion, he currently is making no suggestions of this awareness whatsoever. However, his question is followed by another before the guard it's been sent at can answer it, one that says there is indeed some thinking going on in the man who appears much too vacant for such an activity. "Did you truly mean what you said back then, or has it been long enough for you? Six or... maybe... eight, nine years now - is that really all you needed to forget what love is?" His guesswork of just how much time has passed is off by five more years, but his point still stands and, on top of that, he has revealed as a side effect how long he himself had been in the very depths of hell, how long he had gone without feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. His only certainty appears to be the counting of six years after the fall of their home - the other nine of them all spent in the dark, unaware of the passage of time. "... Would you really kill him, Revon, or are you simply just as afraid as I am?"

·:¨༺ ✩★✩ ༻¨:·. Somehow he's mad again all over but it isn't Sielu's fault. The sound of screaming fills his mind and he wonders for a moment if it ever left. He knows for a fact, it didn't. It hasn't left hsi mind in twenty years. Sielu wants to know if he can still hear the sound of their Liege's voice tear from his body until the sheer sound of it tore his throat raw. The boy had never known true pain until that moment and all he was allowed to do during it was stand there and watch as the tears rushed down over porcelain cheeks as a white light enveloped the child he dared to call his son.

Valkoinen Pilvi was not his flesh and blood but he may as well have been. He can remember so much more than just the sound of the screaming. He remembers the day Kenraali Taivas came to get him. The day Kenraali Taivas came to tell him that he had an assignment for him if he was willing to take it.

Guard the Child of White, he'd said and the man of the Northern Lights had found himself wondering what he'd done to be selected for such an honor. Lady Kuu had only given birth a few weeks prior and Kenraali Taivas had to explain that he needed the best of the best for the position and he needed to fulfill all of Lord Aurinko's requests. Kenraali Taivas had made a joke in that moment.

"If he's anything like his father, he'll be a handful, so prepare yourself Revon."

And Lord Aurinko was Kenraali Taivas' charge so he understood. He understood the way the General looked at the King once he held the prince in his arms.

He had only been a little speck of a thing. A spot even. Barely even a little wisp of a cloud and they were giving this child to him? Truly, he got to keep this child and care for him? He made the Oath without hesitation. There was no need for it. He was entranced by jade eyes the minute he saw them and his heart sang in ways it never had before the second that tiny hand barely worked to wrap around his finger.

That boy was...

That boy was his everything.

That's not all he remembers. No. He has years of it and five or six or nine or sixteen years would never be enough for his heart to forget.

The only thing he longed for was to hold that boy in his arms one more time. No matter what sounds or noises he made. Death would never keep them apart because if the prince were to die at his hand then they would simply go out together. Never would he allow his Liege to pass in such a way. Alone.

Pilvi has been alone sixteen years too long, and he's felt empty every day he's woke up to be unable to see tired jade eyes that clearly do not want to be up this early in the morning. What he wouldn't give to be able to wake to the sight of a tiny circle of white curled up into a ball on one of his spare pillows all because he fell ill and whomever they tried to pull as his replacement could not wrangle the prince well enough to keep them apart.

He remembers that tiny voice too.

"I don't like him, Revon. He's mean and he's not you. I won't take up any space. I'll stay right here and be real quiet. I promise."

The prince had only been four years old then and he kept his word. A small speck of a cloud curled as small as he could manage all while keeping himself as near silent as he was able just so he could stay close to him. He came to learn quickly that the littlest moon became lonely so very easily.

How lonely was he now?

Even if Sielu hadn't given him the time to answer the first question before speaking the second, the hollow look in pink vision told the story for him and the pain that followed answered the second. The third came as a blow no sword or spear could deliver. No blow to the chest by any blade or Windarian weapon could deal the damage those words did.

There were tears running down his face before he even realized they were there. Silently they ran, slipping and sliding like a repressed river over thin metal that could hardly be removed for the other's own protection. Much like his Mist, his emotions had to remain repressed for those around them. It had only been with the boy in question that he'd allowed them to show.

His Mist had no effect on the Child of White and it seemed his emotions couldn't poison him either. Kenraali Taivas had said he needed the best for the job, because he needed the Child of White protected at all costs but in all those years it was almost like that same child had been protecting him too in ways no one else ever could.

Nothing about him could ever keep that boy away and nothing about him could ever harm that child. So what about him would harm him now? His Pilvi would never do such awful things without a reason - even if that reason had been his hands tied behind his back and somehow he already knew the boy had been manipulated. He couldn't say so however.

Not with the way, Sielu reacted.

The man was still in there despite all he'd gone through. His words were just as poisonous to him as his Mist was, so his tears continue to rain down in silence instead.

[aut-with-tism]

She wakes up before everyone else.

That comes to no surprise. She thinks she can count how many full nights of sleep she’s had since the incident on one hand and still have fingers to spare. Hell, she’s being generous there; even when she does sleep, it’s restless. As it has been every day for the past forty-six weeks.

A bitter part of her can’t help but wonder if it ever goes away. Does any of it ever truly go away?

Life’s a cycle. Rinse and repeat, and whatnot. Or, at least, hers seems to be that way - a vicious cycle that snatches her up and spits her out without warning, leaving her more broken than she started.

She never learns. Life finds a way.

The last few months have continued to prove that to her, have continued to remind her that she came from nothing and that’s all she’ll ever be. At the end of the day, they could only play god for so long until disaster struck. (Even in the bible, the fall of man is man-made. It makes sense. She’s not a victim of circumstance, just a victim of herself.)

Teeth, blood, screams.

The hardwood is cold beneath her bare feet as she tiptoes out of the guest room and makes her way downstairs. If it reminds her of sneaking around her childhood house, she doesn’t linger on it. It’s not the same. Something that makes her feel…a sickening sense of relief.

Karen was always built for this life. The nine-to-five job, the 2.5 kids and a dog, a big house all wrapped up with a white picket fence and a red ribbon. It suits her sister.

She, on the other hand, always thought she was meant for more. Look how that turned out.

Sighing, she fumbles her way to the kitchen in the dark. Too early to turn the light on, but too late to be this early. The only thing that makes sense is the silence.

She’s missed the silence.

LA was never quiet - one of the few things she loved about it. (It reminded her of the island in that way.) Even as she’d pass out on the rooftop, fingertips blue and breathing slowed, she found a semblance of peace in the chaos below her. All the people living their lives because they didn’t stop at the creation of a hybrid monster and the destruction of everything around it. All the people that weren’t her.

At least there’s people who went through it, here, too. It’s not the same - they’re not the same - but it makes her feel the slightest bit more sane.

She may be a speck of nothing in the vast universe of everything else, but so is everyone.

It doesn’t help. But it doesn’t make things worse, either. So, she carries it with her like she carries everything else. Her baggage. Her. All the things she can’t seem to let go. All the things she can’t leave behind.

It’s easy enough to slip out of the house and onto the porch, shivering as she lowers herself down onto the steps. Soaking in the nothingness of it all.

That’s how her sister finds her, some time later.

There’s a look akin to concern on Karen’s face and, if she focuses hard enough, she can see their mother. What remains of her. That all too familiar sadness glossing over her eyes, painted on dainty and down-turned features. She watches Karen pull her cardigan close to her body before lowering herself down next to her.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to freeze yourself to death out here,” Her sister jokes, nudging her with a careful knee.

She laughs soundlessly in response, breath clouding around her in the sharp air, then shrugs. “Maybe you don’t. Know better, that is. You always say you don’t recognise me anymore.”

Karen says nothing in response.

They sit in silence for what could be minutes or hours, she doesn’t know, before Karen moves to stand and offers her a hand to help her up. She hesitates.

She hates herself for it. Guilt swirls around the pit of her stomach like her breath dances in spiralling puffs in front of her, but kindness has always been foreign to her. She finally takes her sister’s hand and drags herself off the steps.

It’s ironic. She laps up poison from the hands of corporate criminals. She leans into harsh slaps and even harsher words. She doesn’t worry of being stabbed in the back for they could stab her in the front and she wouldn’t even flinch.

But, yet, she draws the line at the softness she doesn’t deserve - the gentleness she’s yet to earn.

“I told the boys not to bother you, this morning. Long flight and all that,” Karen starts, pausing momentarily to look at her. She refuses to meet her eyes, “It’s up to you if you want to see them before school, but the expectation isn’t there. Just…thought you might like the choice.”

She nods, swallowing down the lump in her throat.

She’s put Karen in this position too many times - where she has to lie to the boys so as to not disappoint them. All the birthdays she missed, holidays she couldn’t get off work for. Soccer games she didn’t care for and science fairs she was a no show at. Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts left on read for days, weeks, months. Each and every milestone missed because she was too focused on taking her first steps up the corporate ladder and into the world to be there for theirs.

So much of the boys�� childhoods she’s been absent for, and what little remained got torn to shreds by razor teeth, sharp claws and gliding ballpoints. All because of her. Her.

Avoiding the boys only amplifies the nauseating guilt, but it’s easy to decide it’s for the best. She’ll see them tonight. Hopefully after she freshens up and looks…more alive than she feels.

But Gray’s high-pitched squawk cuts through the air; sharp and trilling. Time stops.

“I wanna see Aunt Claire! How come you got to talk to her and I didn’t?”

It cuts straight through her, the sound of sneakers scuffing floorboards fast approaching. The blood pounds deafeningly in her ears and her breath hitches, shadow moving just outside the door. He’s so close - too close - but not close enough.

She’s reminded of the day at the park. Trailing behind Owen by the old park and hearing one of the Jeeps taking off through the forest; knowing the boys had been right there .

(And then, they weren’t. And then, they were gone.)

Teeth, blood, screams.

“Dude, calm down. She’s not gonna want to see you if you keep acting like that. You’ll see her later,” Zach responds, tone dripping with sarcasm. She can see so much of Karen within him, but she also spots herself. Her chest tightens.

Gray seems satisfied at the answer, shuffling down the hall and into the bathroom. A shadow still remains underneath the door. She waits a moment, Zach finally speaking up in a voice that makes him seem much younger than sixteen going on seventeen, “We will see you later, won’t we?”

“I promise,” She tries not to lie.

It turns out to be the truth, in the end. Karen and the boys shout up a goodbye as they leave for school, and she has an empty house to herself. Well, her and Foxtrot.

After a long awaited shower, she ends up falling back asleep. Foxtrot curled against her side. Fingers deftly brush through soft fur in soft circles - soothing them both.

She wakes to the sound of her sister’s voice. Except it takes her a moment to recognise it as such, as Karen’s voice grows louder, more heated. Gone is her sister’s unsettling gentleness, gone is the soft maternal energy shrouded in warm tones and small reassurances.

This is the Karen she grew up with. Sharp anger and hot, fast fury spat at the person unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

The only gene passed down the Dearing descent.

There’s a part of her that immediately feels sorry for whoever’s been careless enough to make her sister this upset, but she knows Karen’s anger is deserved. It always is, after all.

The other part of her almost wants to smile.

Until she hears Owen.

No. No.

“Tell me why I found my baby sister on my doorstep in the middle of the night, half-frozen and looking like…have you seen her, Owen? Does she look alright to you, huh? Does she really look like she’s doing just fine without you?”

The urge to cover her head with a pillow has never been so strong, as though smothering herself would get her out of this. It was inevitable. She knows that. Eventually, something like this was going to happen and she was going to come face to face with the one person she both never wanted to see again but never wanted to be without, either. She thought she’d have more time to get herself together, though.

God, she’s such an idiot. Her heart pounds quick and hard against her chest, as if trying to get out of her and this situation (she wishes she could, too). She wants it to stop - but that would mean leaving the room and she doesn’t think she can hold herself upright right now. She doesn’t want them to know she’s awake, either.

“I didn’t say that, Karen, I said she was better off without me. What is it with you two and twisting people’s words?”

“Really, you want to go there?” Karen snaps. A not-so-silent warning to back off. She knows how this plays out, knows how her sister must be poised like a snake; dangerous and ready to strike. Yet, on the surface she is calm and concealed.

Look like th’ innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.

“No, I just…fucking hell, now I know where she gets it from. Are all the Dearing women this insufferable?”

Her breath hitches. Catches in her throat. Chokes her - slowly, silently. Her lungs fail.

“Don’t make me kick you out of my house.” Her sister warns, seething with rage she can only imagine. Quiet. Too quiet. It’s never good. “It wasn’t my choice to have you here, we both know I’m not doing this for you.”

The boys. They must’ve invited Owen. It makes sense, she muses. He was everything they never had - everything she never was. He’d given them more in twenty-four hours than she’d given them in their entire lives.

It hurt to watch, but she knew it was for the best. It was always for the best.

She shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake. She can’t be here, she doesn’t belong here, doesn’t deserve…she has to go.

Let her go, let her go, let her go, let her g-

“Claire?” Go away. Go away, let her go. Go, go, go. “It’s Owen. Can…can I come in?”

The panic surges and she stumbles backwards underneath the heavy duvet and tangled blankets. Trapped. The feeling of falling rushes back to her for the first time in three weeks, knocking her to the ground both metaphorically and physically.

The noise has Owen rushing in the room.

“Claire, are you-“ He stops, kneeling in front of her. Brows knitted together. Frowning. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re okay. I need you to breathe, alright? Breathe with me.”

She can’t. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

“Yes, you can, don’t give me that shit. Your sister will kill me if you pass out in my arms, again.” It’s a poor attempt of a joke - they both know that. His concern is thinly veiled by a mask she knows all too well. After all, it’s a mask they both share. “I see you’ve met Foxtrot.”

She glances over at the puppy, still curled up on the bed. No longer asleep, but not bothered by whatever is going on. She nods.

“You know, Gray FaceTimed me when they got her, told me all about his plans to train her like I trained the raptors,” She knows this. Karen told her last night, in an attempt to get her to calm down; hot chocolate, warm blanket, and random stories. She doesn’t tell him this, though, “He’s done a good job, so far. She’s a sweet pup.”

Her shoulders shake as she draws her knees up to her chest, curling in on herself. This doesn’t feel real. It feels like a dream - a nightmare - and she’s waiting to wake up and for him to be gone, because he left. He’s not here, right now. He can’t be.

“I…I can go if you want, Claire? If I’m making you uncomfortable, I can go and get Karen and you’ll never have to see me again?”

Head snapping up, she meets his eyes with tears in her own. No. No . He can’t go. She just got him back and it’s not real, but she can’t handle him leaving again, and- “Don’t. Not…not again.”

“Huh?”

He seems genuinely confused, shuffling closer to her as she shakes her head frantically. “You left.”

“You told me to,” He starts, but stops when he sees her. She can only imagine how much of a mess she looks, right now. But she isn’t his mess. Not anymore. He made sure of that.

“You still left. You still left me.”

[eldritchcryptiddeer]

Home part 2:

~

Days turn into weeks turn into months, without the extermination time is fickle here. Unmeasurable.

Charlie prattles on about some new comer, how sweet they are, and how it’s oh so funny they also have deer attributes. What a joy I think rolling my eyes before bringing them back to the bubbling fountain that is our princess.

Shortly after Charlie left I caught this thing staring at me. Plain for a demon, my eyes stumbling back to their dark brown ones, taking in their soft brown hair, and those little doe ears atop their head. They were truly deer like, from the tips of their ears to the soft white freckles on their cheeks to the hooves they ever so brazenly had out.

What an odd creature this was.

They kept their eyes on me, their head tilted slightly as they sipped their clear drink. I inhaled deeply, was that moonshine? Where did they get that? Husk doesn’t have any on hand- I wonder if this little thing is making it somehow.

Refocusing on the demon I see their eyes have gone a stark black, the smell of honeysuckle coats the air, and I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Our eyes stay locked together, my mind blank, barely processing as they stand and blink repeatedly as if trying to erase or refocus their thoughts. Husk keeps shining the glassware, never looking up but speaking to me. What is he saying? Why are my ears ringing?

I stand abruptly, knocking my cane to the floor and startling Husk. The ringing won’t subside as I stagger into the hall, away from everything and everyone. My forehead is slick with sweat as I lean it against the hallway wall, the shadows around me taut with anticipation that I don’t understand.

Using the wall I make it back to my room, my body overheating as I wander to the bayou that takes up a corner of my room. The water overtakes me in one smooth motion as I slide down into the muddy abyss. It cools me, soothes me, opening my eyes under the water I trace the leaves that float by, the sticks that mark the bottom of my own escape, the light filtering through, creating peaceful images in the dust specks that drift in the greenish brown water. If I stayed here could I die? Could the water swallow me whole?

There’s a soft pop as my head breaks the water, drops fall from my antlers and ears, tracing paths down my cheeks. I imagine the image of the radio demon collar bone deep in muddy waters, antlers far too large, and eyes reflecting off the surface below me. Tilting my head back I admire the soft willow trees, their leaves and branches caressing the ground beneath them as the wind whispers its secrets.

Does the Bayou still think of me?

I stand, my full height pushing the water to only my waist. The ground is soft, sucking on my shoes as I walk from the water I had sat in. I dry almost instantly, the heat of Hell and my own body evaporates any bit of wet that may have clung to me. The scent of the woods made me feel safe for just a moment before my nightmare or premonition came back to me.

Suddenly I was too cold, the long, clawed fingers of fear working their way up my spine. My feet carried me from the little spacial vortex in my room and to my built in book shelves next to my fireplace. Forcing my fingers to trace the titles of the books before I pick out one, one I know is empty and only for me to read.

My clawed fingers scratch the pages, sadness dripping from them as I engrave invisible words into the paper. Memories I cannot and will never share with another, my life before I died, before I even became the monster I was as a man.

~

My chair holds me like a cocoon of plush velvet. Music drifts through the air, my radio buzzing with the perfect melody for my mood.

Suddenly it changes, it never changes without my command but this time it has. The song plays over and over, working into my brain until it is all I can hear even as I work to change it. Angrily I smash the radio down, pausing to check I haven’t damaged my precious machine, and step outside my door. The song still plays, it fills the hotel. I cannot escape.

I follow it, changing directions as one way gets quieter than the other or another sounds louder until I find myself near the back of the hotel. A glass room along the outside of the main walls with a golden colored dome.

My eyes seek the sound only to find the demon from earlier singing to an old radio that even I had been unable to fix. It spouted the melody like it had never been broken, as if its handle hadn’t snapped off when I went to twist it on years ago, or the speakers hadn’t blown when I finally got it to turn on one last time. They swayed like a flower in the breeze, their wide hips rocking back and forth with the beat as they brought their hands into their hair. Their grey toned skin dappled with the red light of the pentagram leaking into the room made them look ethereal.

The voice emanating from them was soft, sad almost, with the lightest hint of an accent forgotten from years away. A gentle song began to play, one someone could truly dance to, and I watched as with their eyes closed they began the steps of a simple waltz.

Alone with no hand to hold or lead to follow they flowed across the room. Before my mind could think I was beside them, my hand grasping theirs and the other reaching for their waist.

Those eyes popped open in surprise, the full black of a deers over the soft brown they usually had. Never skipping a step despite the surprise of a companion they danced with me, keeping their eyes on mine as the song began again and we completed yet another round of spins and steps.

As I stepped away, their hands falling to their sides and their breath heavy, I speak to them for the first time. I tell them to tell no one, that this never happened beyond these glass panes.

My shadows pull me down, drag me away from the comfort I felt in that moment, back to reality and my room. They may tell everyone for all I know, though I doubt they would cross me if they’ve any sense of self preservation.

I find myself humming the song we danced to as I finish out my night, my mind struggling to focus upon my work. What had I done?

[novelverse12]

Crimson oath of the reborn strategist

CHAPTER 1

The wind tore past Shen Luyan's ears as her horse thundered down the mountain path, the twilight sky bleeding red behind her. Her fingers, numb from the cold and rage, tightened around the reins until her knuckles turned white. She did not slow. She could not slow — not when the world she had built with her own hands was crumbling to dust.

Betrayal.

The word tasted like blood in her mouth.

She had given him everything — her mind, her loyalty, her ruthless brilliance. She had woven victory after victory into his path, outwitting generals, toppling ministers, orchestrating the downfall of every rival who stood in his way. And he, that smiling wolf in silk robes, had worn her devotion like a crown.

Until today.

Today, Shen Luyan had stood among the roaring crowds as the imperial edict was read. The Fifth Prince, crowned as heir to the empire. And when he had passed her by on the palace steps, his gaze had brushed over her as though she were nothing but a speck of dust on his grand path to glory.

No title.

No reward.

No acknowledgment.

Worse — a secret decree for her removal. Discarded like a broken chess piece the moment victory was secured.

The ache in her chest burned hotter than the lashes of the cold wind. Fool. She had been such a fool. A woman in the court, dreaming of respect in a world of sharp knives and colder smiles.

The gates of the Shen estate appeared in the distance, lanterns flickering against the growing darkness. She pressed her heels to the horse's flanks, urging it faster. Her mind raced faster still — through schemes left unfinished, through names whispered in secret halls, through every misstep that had led her to this moment.

They would come for her tonight.

She knew it in her bones.

But Shen Luyan was not a woman who died easily. If this life were to be torn from her, she vowed, she would not go quietly. She would not fall weeping and broken.

The iron scent of blood was already thick in the air when Shen Luyan burst through the gates of the Shen estate.

The courtyard, once a place of poetry recitals and gentle laughter, was now littered with broken bodies and crimson-stained stones. Her horse reared, wild with fear, but she flung herself from the saddle without hesitation, boots slamming into the blood-slick ground as she drew her sword in a clean, sharp arc.

She was a vision of devastating beauty — a blood-red storm beneath the darkening sky.

Her robes, once embroidered for formal court ceremonies, now clung to her slender figure, heavy with dust and sweat. The fine silk, embroidered with phoenixes in flight, caught the last of the dying light, making her appear almost otherworldly. Her long black hair had come loose from its gold pins, falling down her back like a river of silk. Blood streaked one cheek, a stark contrast against her fair, luminous skin. Her black eyes, once soft and full of wit, now burned cold and sharp like obsidian blades.

She cut through the soldiers like a spirit of vengeance, each movement precise, merciless. The Shen family's guards had already fallen. The army bearing the crest of the newly crowned Prince Li An was too many. Yet Shen Luyan fought with a desperate fury, knowing full well this was no longer a battle she could win — but a reckoning she must face.

She tore through the courtyard, ignoring the slashes to her arms, the numbing pain in her side.

She had to reach them.

Her father.

Her brother.

She skidded to a halt at the foot of the ancestral hall steps — and her heart, already battered and bloodied, finally shattered.

There, kneeling in the dirt, were Shen Rui and Shen Wei — her father and younger brother. Their robes were torn, their faces bruised, and sharp, gleaming swords rested against the backs of their necks. Soldiers stood on either side, gripping them like common criminals.

But it wasn't the Crown Prince's soldiers that truly made Shen Luyan stagger.

It was the sight of her cousin, Shen Mingzhu.

The girl she had tutored when they were children.

The girl who had once cried in her lap, whom she had defended against bullying nobles.

Shen Mingzhu stood beside Prince Li An, draped in the finest silks, her lips curved into a cruel, mocking smile. She leaned close to the prince, whispering into his ear as he laughed — loud and vicious — at the helpless sight of Shen Luyan's family brought low.

"You traitorous dogs," Shen Luyan hissed, the sword trembling in her grip, rage and betrayal coiling in her chest until it nearly choked her.

Li An stepped forward, his gold-threaded crown glinting in the firelight. His handsome face, the same face she had once pledged her loyalty to, now twisted into something cold and inhuman. He regarded her like one might a disobedient servant.

"Ah, strategist Shen," he drawled lazily. "You look even more beautiful in defeat. A pity you were too clever for your good."

Around them, soldiers tightened their circle. Spears bristled like a forest of death.

Shen Luyan spat blood onto the ground, her chest heaving with fury.

She could see it now, all too clearly:

They had never intended for her to rise.

She was merely a stepping stone — useful until she became dangerous.

And now... disposable.

Still, Shen Luyan lifted her chin, her black eyes gleaming like polished onyx under the smoky skies.

Her spirit was unbroken.

Even if she died tonight, she would die standing, never kneeling.

The soldiers surged forward.

Shen Luyan barely had time to lift her sword before steel clashed against steel, the impact jolting through her bones.

She moved with the ferocity of a cornered tiger, her red robes whipping around her like a banner of defiance. Every breath burned her lungs, every swing of her blade sliced through the howling din of battle.

But it was endless.

The wall of bodies pressed closer, and even as she felled one enemy, two more took his place.

"Lay down your sword, Shen Luyan," Li An called lazily from his perch atop the steps, watching her like one would a trapped bird. "Kneel, and I might grant your family a merciful death."

Luyan wiped the blood from her mouth, laughing — a wild, broken sound.

"I should have let you rot as the useless prince you were," she snarled, her voice ringing clear across the courtyard.

A flash of anger crossed Li An's handsome face, but it was quickly smothered under a cold smile. He gave a lazy flick of his hand.

"Kill her."

The army moved as one.

Shen Luyan let out a battle cry and charged — one woman against a tide of blades. Her sword danced in the firelight, a blur of fury and sorrow. For a moment, it seemed she might break through, her blade cutting a bloody path toward her father and brother.

But betrayal had weakened the Shen family from within.

A blade slid between her ribs from behind — a soldier she had once trusted, wearing the Shen crest.

She gasped, blood bubbling from her lips.

The world spun around her, crimson and gold and black.

She dropped to her knees before her family, struggling to lift her sword one last time.

Her father met her gaze, his proud eyes shining with tears he refused to shed.

Her brother tried to shout her name, but the sword at his throat silenced him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.

A second sword plunged into her back.

Her vision blurred.

As she collapsed onto the blood-soaked stones, the last thing she saw was the triumphant smile on Shen Mingzhu's face — and Prince Li An, turning away from her like she had never mattered at all.

The world faded into cold, endless night.

Somewhere far beyond the battlefield…

The heavy air trembled under the hooves of a thousand warhorses.

Atop a black steed, a man sat like a mountain carved from iron and frost.

Duke Su — the Iron Duke, the Empire's most feared general.

His dark armor bore the scars of a hundred battles. His face, handsome and sharp-edged like a blade, was unreadable beneath the wide brim of his war helmet. Only his piercing, deep-set eyes moved — calm, cold, calculating — as he surveyed the distant smoke rising from the Shen estate.

His gloved hand tightened once on the reins. Silent command rippled through the ranks behind him. No shouted orders. No fanfare.

His warhorse snorted, pawing the ground eagerly.

With a single tap of his heel, Duke Su rode forward.

His men followed, silent and deadly — a black tide of vengeance sweeping toward the treacherous heart of the empire.

As he charged into the dying light, his mind was already turning.

This betrayal would not stand.

And somewhere — though he did not know it yet — a phoenix had been reborn from the ashes, and fate was weaving their paths together.

[yerimbrit]

sugarplum elegy : k. minjeong

synopsis: i love you too much to stay in love.

# : pairing ! nonidol!kim minjeong x fem!reader

# : tags ! angst, based off of niki - sugarplum elegy, honestly niki is just the queen of melancholy love her, unhealthy relationship, not really LDR but it's basically LDR, silent arguments, reverse slowburn, kind of implied homophobia, if you saw this the first time no you didn't

# : wordcount ! 1.4k

# : warnings ! none

there was nothing worse than watching your own relationship slowly fall apart by the seams.

a college romance, friends had said, truly meant to be together. every day was filled with joy, no moment left behind. at the peak of your youth, you couldn't spend more than three days apart from minjeong. now? days with minjeong were rare.

("i want to travel the world someday," minjeong had claimed, making crescent-shaped strokes with her thumb on your hand. it was dark and cold out on the roof, yet her stunning features glowed with the help of the city lights. she looked deep into your eyes and your breath hitched. you couldn't believe you could call her your lover.

with much effort, you turned your head to face the view of the twinkling city landscape. a light breeze tousled your hair, blowing your bangs back, and minjeong couldn't help but think that your beauty was beguiling. "that sounds nice," you smiled, leaning your head on her shoulder, "a solo trip?"

it was obvious in the tone of your voice, a tiny hint of hope rising up in your throat, that you were waiting for her to answer the way that you wanted her to. the girl looked down at you, using her unoccupied hand to tuck some of the hair pushed astray behind your ear.

"no," minjeong answered, with no hesitation. "you'll be with me, of course. i told you i wanted to experience everything with you, right? it would be contradictory if i went alone."

"just checking," you giggled, lifting your head to admire her. she leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss, before looking up and pointing at the stars in the clear sky. the tiny specks of white glimmered in the sea of black at a different tempo from the city's lamp, but it was perfect.

everything was so perfect with minjeong. you didn't have to think, to worry, all you had to do was to live in the moment.

"i want to see these stars with you, in all sorts of different settings—not just this city. it wouldn't be right to keep the beautiful things i live through from the one i love."

"you love me?" you grinned, squeezing her hand.

minjeong's eyes sparkled. you couldn't help but think that all the stars you wanted to see were in the reflection of her shiny irises. "of course i do. i don't know how to not love you.")

it was the summer of your senior year in college, right after graduation. minjeong's parents had planned a family trip without telling her. it would be strictly for the family—just her parents, her brother, and her. and it turned out that her brother was allowed to bring his girlfriend, but she wasn't allowed to bring you; you weren't considered part of her family.

minjeong's parents hated you.

it was in the way you were allowed to be so free. raised by your uncle and his girlfriend, your parents always off in some foreign country, you were allowed to develop your own personality. you were allowed to make mistakes. not like minjeong, who grew up sheltered and restricted. she had a curfew. you just had to be home. you wouldn't exactly say you were considered wild or free, but maybe the fact that your guardian didn't need have a say in almost everything you did, made minjeong's parents feel threatened. "and she's a girl, too. you deserve better."

they couldn't control the part of minjeong's life in which you were involved, because you were unpredictable.

and you hated the fact that they always got their way, because after they took minjeong on that trip to the bahamas, she was offered a pair of wax wings.

trips around the world, wherever and whenever.

of course, the condition would be to break up with you. but you were the only thing she couldn't let go of. one week after her return, your relationship went into hiding. seeing each other every other day went down to once a week, for 30 minutes at a local café, and frequent texts dwindled down to declined invites.

(the sweltering heat was an even match for the refreshing scenery of the han river in seoul. you and minjeong walked side by side, hands brushing against each other but never completely touching. it was saddening, to see this change, because two months ago you would be attached by the hip.

"i-" "so-"

you looked up and to minjeong, surprised, but cleared your throat. "you go first."

the blonde pressed her lips into a thin line, looking ahead, then to you. "no, you go."

silence. it was a regular thing—comfortable silence, that is. now, it felt suffocating, like if you said one word then everything would come crashing down. you clenched and unclenched your fist. "i got the job at that entertainment company. as- as a producer."

your lover gasped, stopping in place. she took your hand in hers with no time for you to react. her touch was cold as ice, and a pang of sadness hit you because for a second, it felt so foreign. "that's great, y/n! i'm," her eyes softened, full of love and admiration, "i'm so proud of you."

"thank you, minjeong. what were you... going to say?"

"ah." her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and her expression shifted to an almost guilty one.

"i... i'm going to japan."

you smiled, squeezing her hand, "oh, that's nice! are you going with your family? and for how long?"

minjeong looked down to the ground, and she slipped her hand out of yours. you frowned, confused. "minjeong?"

"i'm going alone. and i'll be gone for a month and a half."

"oh."

and icarus wanted to fly.)

minjeong had returned after the month and a half, showed you her ootd pictures, and talked animatedly about how it was so refreshing to go out and explore on her own. over the month, the only texts you got from her, things you were looking forward to reading during your shifts at the company, were outfit pictures and comments about how traveling alone was so nice.

must be nice to be her clothes.

seeing minjeong achieve her dream was amazing. it was fine, you thought, it was amazing if you pretended that the latter half of her dream, traveling with you, was forgotten. one month after japan, she went off to thailand.

("i feel so alive when i'm with you," minjeong mumbled into your neck, hugging you tight within her arms. "i feel like i pay so much more attention and appreciation to my surroundings when i'm with you. i'm in touch with my feelings, my experience, solely because you're here with me."

"...you sap.")

it was nice to see that minjeong could feel that way without you now. but whenever she was with you? it was like she was a shell of her former self, like she was just going through the motions.

seven months had passed since she left on her scattered journey around the world, and you were at least glad she made at least one stop to your home before leaving somewhere only god knew. she'd get you a souvenir and a bouquet of flowers, catch up on what she'd done on her trip, and leave with a distant hug.

you loved minjeong too much to stay in love.

"thanks for the flowers," you sighed with a smile, bringing your cup of tea, cold, to your lips. it was bitter, caused by steeping the tea for too long. minjeong was standing by the door, her big trenchcoat over her shoulders. she was sweating, but she didn't care to take her coat off.

a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "of course. only the best for you."

the flowers were beautiful—white jasmines, representing simplicity and strength. it was almost pitiful that she gave the things you needed, her, in the form of flowers. "how was taiwan?" 'you never say.' "you've been here for hours," you murmured wearily. 'yet your coat's still very much on,' you finished in your head.

...must you die for her to feel alive?

it's just... time. you and minjeong's love was great; it was one for the books. you both gave it the best you could.

but... you won't recite all your lines, over and over, just to watch you and minjeong lie.

you [1:01 am] hey moving to daegu

mj [1:27 am] oh that's great should i send the flowers to your new place?

you [1:30 am] that'd be great

you [1:43 am] i love you i really do

mj [1:43 am] i love you too y/n, i i'm so proud that i got to love you once

[incoming call: mj]

"...hello?"

"i love you. and, i'm sorry, y/n."

this call has ended. [0h 0m 36s]

a/n : hi guys!!! happy valentines! so sorry this is kinda shorter than i expected it to be LOL but happy to be writing for aespa now :)

[dearlucienne]

Luci,

Only August but I feel as though my heart has grown weary with the weight of so many farewells. I suppose I am not entirely without fault. I have made a body of all the love I had for all the people I allowed into the hollow of my chest. I forgot it is a burial site, a graveyard punctured with dark, gaping holes wet with earth moisture and perhaps, even, my tears. I forgot people never stay in cemeteries. They visit, yes, sit upon the grass and bring flowers — plump, white chrysanthemums bursting with the hope of always remembering. But always, they leave. Again and again, they do not stay. Years, and they forget.

I have clothed myself with these people’s warmth, worn them around me like another layer of skin, so that I shall never be without them. But now that they have left, one by one they peel off me like rind so that I am sprawled naked on the cold kitchen tile, raw and red and vulnerable again, like an apple fallen from the marble counter, unnoticed and rotting. I should have learned.

Everyday my grief grows the way you imagine a money plant would even when left unattended: its leaves are bright green, with specks of yellow, its stems dumpy and sapid. But with all this, this loneliness, these endless questions of what might not have been enough, of lacking, and the seemingly futile attempts at rebuilding, there is you — buried just beside me. Two corpse girls, ghosts, worn monsters.

Between us is a book thick with the stories of our past selves, our past loves, our past hopes. We have written our goodbyes there, writing them still. But if there is any comfort to this, this anguish, this fighting in spite, this stubborn hoping regardless, it is that I do it all with you. I suppose, in that sense, I am never truly alone.

Despite, remember. And always.

[vaultdamned]

GOD, HE WOULD KILL FOR A CIGARETTE — anything to quell the twitching of his muscles. the glowing ember of hancock’s lantern acted like a beacon, as he watched the embers burn away from his smoke, sucking in air through his teeth where familiar envy nestled its way inside. the chilly, rain-visited air breezed through the confines of his jacket, blue fabric with a white puffy collar nearly camoflauging him against the dark as the lantern seems to die with each step closer, hands throwing thsemlves above his head as the hancock reveals the shotgun.

❝  easy man,  ❞ he retorts, lowering his palms as the weapon follows suit. vincent frowns at the cigarette glowing still with life on the ground. would it be pathetic of him to grab it and finish the rest? as quickly as it’s thought, he abandons the desperate concept, throwing his attention to the jangle of keys as hancock roughs them up, searching against the lamp-light, determined & perhaps a bit unnerved at vincent’s quiet stance, until the correct key is found, & a mutual, finalized gaze is shared. 

vincent trailed behind hancock, hugging the lantern light close, chest nearly brushing against the ghoul’s back, but he maintained a comfortable distance, meeting specks of dust immediately as he stopped in his tracks, losing hancock & the centeralized light – not that he needed much. over time in his travels through the wasteland at night, the serum proved his vision thrived in the dark, nothing close to clear, but spotless enough to traverse the land without guidance from light. 

helped his survival too — blending in against the vistors of the night. 

the lantern sways with the motion of hancock, & it’s not funny, yet he stifles a chuckle as the sound of knocked over wood pallets echoes inside the chamber — & full of junk it truly is. nothing worth nothing, except the scrap metal. old tires meant for vehicles long gone. rusted traincars. a dead end of sorts — this couldn’t be the place bobbi was referencing. it couldn’t. 

he obeys. footsteps crunching against junk as he meticluously navigates the area, reaching the singular barrel, wherein the side reads NH&M F.D. freight depot? No way. It’s been years since he’d heard the name. Faded visions of the factory cloud his mind, distracting him periodically. 

he calls out, casually, but whether for hancock’s benefit or his own, is unknown.

❝  this place transported ammunition from a sugar bomb factory – you know, when the war was going on, not the big one, but that alaska one?  ❞  richard — a man who’s facial features have long left him in memory, comes to mind; his decision to make ammo on the side as a means of production money — his duty to this great nation.

❝ read it in a book once.  ❞  

vincent prys into his pockets for a lighter, met with empty linings instead, a frustration that leads him to the other man’s location, no effort in sneaking behind as his stalking is known against the walls of the depot. he recalled hancock’s holstering of the lighter deep within his pockets. within seconds, vincent closes the distance behind the ghoul, behind the shotgun, & boldly aims his hands, shoving them into the other’s coat pocket, wrapping his fingers around the lighter.

It had been a sobering twenty-four hours and for the most of it he had spent his time mopping up hardwood and picking glass out of his cushions. 

As expected Fahrenheit had questions and as he usually did, Hancock had answers, so long as she helped him scrub the office down. Though he insisted she tell him about Bobbi first.

While wringing out a muddied rag into the sink she explained that Bobbi had wasted her time on talk of tunnels that could lead to Diamond City. Allegedly a heist for the ages. Men and caps was her request. Fahrenheit laughed in her face. 

His red coat was laid out across his lap. With a needle between his teeth he untangled thread at his desk and thought of his story. The two men. The struggle. The bodies. And Vincent, the good friend he was, out there cleaning up the situation. His eyes, dark as they were, gazed softly towards the burned woman who scrubbed away at the blood. 

He swore her to secrecy and told her the truth.

Hours later and the ghoul’s skin smelled like expired abraxo and cigarettes. He walked in the dark, stripped of the clothes which made him Hancock. They were currently hung up to dry back in Goodneighbor. He dug through his broken dresser and put on his old drifter clothes. It made him small, unassuming and nearly unrecognizable to most residents. Just another ghoul in the crowd. This allowed him to slip out of town with a lantern in hand and his shotgun strapped to his back. Luckily he hadn't needed to use it on his walk. Though he wasn't feral, the packs of them couldn't tell the difference. They would stand there out in the open and just stare back at him. Their bodies creaking with a low vibrational hum that felt like an acknowledgement of his existence. As eerie as it was, he didn't mind them. He's received harsher looks from folks in Diamond City.

The ground under his boots was still damp from yesterday's downpour. The memory of Vincent caught in it just outside the statehouse clung to his mind. Wet hair and mutual curiosity. He wanted to see what was underneath at the time. Now he'd rather see the bottom of a bottle. Yet here he was, virtually sober, save for the chems he took in the morning to fight off his migraine. It was hard to shoot up while paranoid. Hancock had considered taking Fahrenheit with him to the strongroom, but leaving Goodneighbor unattended didn't seem wise. He told her he had things under control with the unkillable man, and though she conceded, he was unsure if he had been attempting to convince her or himself. 

The NH&M Freight Depot came into blurred view and he took it as a good time to get in a quick smoke for his nerves. It was quiet, just the sound of his own footsteps, the burn of his cigarette and the jangle of the keys he fished out of his coat pocket. 

Hancock set the lantern on the hood of the rusted truck and thumbed through the various keys on the carabiner under its flickering light. He went still upon hearing the shift of gravel in the distance. Glossy eyes squinted, but was unable to make out much beyond the extent of lantern light. The keys go back into his pocket and fingers twist the dial on the oil lamp, snuffing out the wick. Darkness. 

In a slow but certain motion, Hancock brings his shotgun forward and keeps his back to the warehouse wall. His finger rests on the trigger and he closes one eye in an attempt to bring objects in focus. A shadow. A silhouette of a man. He aims and…

“Fuck! It's you,” Hancock huffs, lowering his shotgun and spitting his cig to the ground. “Hell…if ya didn't  know I can't–” he hesitates to admit his poor vision as if he expected Vincent to use that against him. 

He reignites his lamp with his lighter. Giving the two of them a small circle of warm light against the cold of the night. “Just…give me a moment…” Hancock trails off, a rather quiet damn could be heard on the tail end of that.

He returns to how he was before, flipping through keys while leaned against the truck. He wore a rather focused look compared to his usual lazy smile. But when he found the right key, he eased up in his glance at Vincent. 

The door to his strongroom screeched upon opening. The interior was just as dark as the outside and the air was thick with dust. Hancock coughed into the inside of his jacket as he entered, bringing along the lamp to help him navigate through the maze of useless scrap, old train cars, and sedentary farming equipment. 

“Gotta find the breaker…get a fire goin will ya? There's a barrel round here– dammit!” The light shakes as Hancock hits his shins against the corner of a haphazardly stack of wood pallets. “Can't see for shit…”  

[wolveria]

The Raven’s Hymn - Ch 8

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: The first test of many.

AO3

With how enthusiastically the Site Director had green-lit this project, you’d expected the first “patient” to be a human. Instead, an assistant brought in a surgical tray with a deceased rabbit, its fur as white and sterile as your surroundings.

Disappointment flickered in the SCP’s pale eyes when it was released back into the middle room. Despite not being given its preferred test subject, the SCP rallied and proceeded with the surgery. It instructed you to assist by handing it tools from the black doctor’s bag.

Getting to interact with the object was almost as strange as interacting with 049. Whenever it asked you to retrieve an item, even if the name of it was unfamiliar, every time you reached into the bag you managed to wrap your fingers around something and pull the exact tool needed from the bag. You truly didn’t understand why your superiors hadn’t impressed more importance on studying the bag, which could be categorized under its own SCP designation.

Unless it only worked while in SCP-049’s presence. Codependent SCPs were rare but not unheard of. You would have thought it of interest for further study, but you no longer had any say on the matter.

After a grueling two hours that tried your patience to the limit, the rabbit came back to life, or rather its corpse reanimated after being pumped with tubes of strange liquid stored in the doctor satchel. SCP-049 went on to voice such proclamations as these types of subjects are insufficient for true academic study and Homo sapiens are the only animals able to be infected by the Pestilence, and anything less is a sham.

You stared at a speck on the floor.

“You will want to write this down, assistant,” it said following a stretch of silence. You continued to say nothing, almost resentful at being spoken to like a wayward pupil, but you followed it to the autopsy table and picked up a notepad and cheap ballpoint pen that had been put aside for note-taking purposes. You were almost nostalgic for your college days. Shadowed by an overbearing professor and contemplating the downward spiral of your life, it wasn’t really all that different.

You wrote down everything the SCP had performed during the experiment, though you couldn’t explain the liquid being delivered via copper tubes into the mutilated rabbit, or how it was able to move at all.

SCP-049 stared at the rabbit, its continued silence unusual.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

“The cure is effective, but not without… problematic side effects.”

No kidding.

The plague doctor returned to its own journal, scribbling down something with that old-fashioned pen you had noticed before. It had pulled it from the black bag, and you wondered if that’s simply where it was stored, or if the pen was a part of the mysterious contents.

The SCP moved away, not paying you attention for once as it slowly paced and scribbled at the back of the chamber. It gave you some breathing room, a chance to not stand so rigid, and you took the moment to look down at the pitiful creature hunched on the autopsy table. The rabbit sat huddled in a ball, milky eyes half closed and nose twitching, all the appearance being miserable despite not being alive.

Some of your coworkers were more comfortable using animal test subjects rather than D-Class whenever the rare test was needed, but you didn’t see why it was better to be comfortable with this. Causing suffering for a tidbit of knowledge that would gather dust in a file cabinet somewhere. You should know, you used to do the filing.

Maybe you had been spoiled working in the Cryptopsychology Department, where tests with live subjects were rare and generally not fatal. Or maybe you realized you had more in common with the rabbit.

You reached out a hand and stroked the rabbit’s back, wanting to give it one last gesture of sympathy.

As soon as your fingers made contact, the animal collapsed, its eyes empty and truly dead.

SCP-049 stopped pacing.

You stared at your fingers, searching for a sign that anything was different, but there was no reason it should have happened—

SCP-049 snapped its journal shut, put it down on the counter very slowly, and approached the autopsy table.

“What did you do?”

You backed away, retreating from its low voice as if it were a snake. The change in its whole demeanor was sudden, its broad shoulders rigid and its eyes as cold and grey as the table.

“I just… touched it.”

SCP-049 picked up the rabbit and scrutinized it for a moment before its icy stare fixated on your face.

You took another step backward as the SCP gently placed the animal back down, and your heart leapt in your throat when it slowly rounded the table and stalked in your direction.

“What. Did you. Do.”

That quiet, metallic voice was underlined by something that froze your spine.

“I didn’t do anyth—”

The SCP rushed forward, grabbed you by the base of your throat, and shoved you backwards until you hit the wall.

“Look what you’ve done,” it growled, the curve of its mask almost touching your cheek. “You’ve ruined it! Now I have to start again to correct this heinous error.”

Its fingers tightened around your throat, and you choked for air.

“I cannot perfect my cure with such sabotage.”

You grabbed its wrist and tried to pry it off, but the SCP was inhumanly strong. After a moment, it relaxed its grip enough for you to gasp, and you gulped in precious air as your heart hammered wildly.

Its masked face loomed entirely in your vision, its cold stare as heavy at the hand at your throat.

“You are the student, I am the teacher. Do not interfere with my work again. Have I made myself clear?”

Before you had a chance to catch your breath and come up with some sort of answer, mist drifted from the ceiling, and you caught the medicinal scent of lavender. The sedative should have worked quickly, but the plague doctor continued to hold you around the neck, its ravenous gaze on your face still alert.

Whoever was in charge of the test must have come to the same conclusion you did, that the lavender was no longer as effective as it once was, as three guards rushed into the middle common room. SCP-049 didn’t acknowledge their presence until one prodded its back with a shock baton.

It growled but kept its grip on you, even as it was shocked again and again, until it finally released you with a snarl. It turned on the guards, its voice risen in pure rage.

“You must not interfere!”

The guards turned up the voltage on their weapons; it only took two more hits for the SCP to drop to the ground, grunting in what sounded like pain, the metallic wheezing from its mask strained with effort.

They didn’t stop there. Your would-be rescuers were without mercy as they continued to beat and shock the SCP even when it no longer gave resistance.

You picked yourself up from where you’d slid down the wall, your throat raw and ragged but your words still clear.

“That’s enough!”

None of them paid you any attention, continuing their ruthless beating.

Oh, God, you thought. They’re going to kill it.

“Enough!”

You lunged between two of the guards, hoping your presence would interrupt the frenzy. All it earned you was a pair of hands dragging you from the room, your last glimpse of SCP-049 was of it curled in a protective position on the floor, reminding you more of a rabbit than a monster.

Next Chapter

[angelatsumu]

bedtime rituals | s. manjiro [sfw]

in which mikey's sleep hygiene was so poor until he met you <3

warnings: none! pure fluff, super cute and little stupid

wc: 747 <3

being a gang leader and overall callous member of society had a way of chipping at what litle sanity your lover could preserve. between the awful fighting and the constant reminders of his past, he felt trapped in an inescapable loop of fighting sleep and barely being able to close his eyes at night. when he met you, though, it was like the gates of Heaven had opened to send an insomniac angel to rescue him.

mikey was a bit particular with many things in life, but his bedtime routine was not one of them. that was only true until he met you. with a few weeks of intensive studying—you followed him around every moment after 6pm—you realized mikey had these pesky habits that led to poor sleep hygiene. for starters, he never ate a meal before 8 or 9 pm. this was mostly due to his busy schedule, but nonetheless it posed issues. he also struggled to leave work at the doormat before entering the home. he always kept an eye on things, phone glued to his fingertips as he consistently checked his messages and social media feeds. the most off-putting habit he had prior to loving you was definitely his inability to shut out all the lights. mikey claimed he wasn’t afraid of the dark, just the enemies who could hide there. you scolded him for his paranoia, certain that it followed him into his dreams.

mikey’s bedtime ritual was an easy fix for someone as tidy and careful as yourself. you helped him first by prepping meals for him and demanding he be home no later than 7pm on the dot. It took him a few days to get used to the curfew, but he eventually got the hang of it and noticeably felt more relaxed after eating dinner so early. after getting your lover to commit to dinner time, you began encouraging him to leave work stressors at the door. he of course, was allowed to share whatever highlights he had, but he was not allowed to keep his phone ringer and notifications on after 9pm. you’d even convinced him to start putting his phone away on the charger as soon as he gets home, allowing him to unplug and spend time with his beautiful lover. mikey even explained the arrangement to his members, explaining that in an emergency they may call your phone if the hour is decent enough. they gave him skeptical looks, but he was very clearly not taking criticism on the matter. getting mikey over his fear of the dark never truly happened, but you were able to compromise on night lights and motion-detected lighting around the bed frame. he felt more comfortable with the little specks of light, but they weren’t bright enough to disrupt his sleeping.

mikey appreciated your efforts more than anything, but he knew you weren’t completely satisfied until you both had a ritual-like regimen that was done without fail. you managed to get mikey accustomed to a strict routine, one he even began to plan his meetings and hang outs around. mikey would arrived home no later than 7pm, and you two would eat dinner and chat until about 8pm. Quickly load the dishwasher and have a shower around 815-830. Once skincare routines have been completed—usually around 915—you and mikey have about 15 minutes of screen time. After screen time, you both do a quick walk-through of the home, being sure to tidy where necessary. Mikey usually puts aside time to ensure his glock by the bedside was loaded with the safety on; he was methodical about this for his and your safety. After the tidying, mikey usually convinces you to indulge in some sweet or savory snack for the evening, and you finally run a cycle in the dishwasher. At 10pm without fail the both of you are in bed, lights out with some sort of white noise playing. You fancy ASMR much better than some of the artifical rain sounds, but mikey absolutely despises your taste in ASMR. “’s too weird, too much talkin,” he usually mutters, and you roll your eyes dramatically, sliding on a pair of headphones to help you enjoy your sleep noises better.

mikey’s friends take note of the glow the little routine has given him, and his cheeks flush as he thinks about just how lucky he is to have you.

rb's + likes appreciated <3