I write stuff!

mostly angst. mostly about grief. etc.

[nightraiderwrites]

Howdy! My name's Night, and I like to write stuff. This is where I put them when I feel like sharing. My preferred pronouns are them/them. Check out my other blogs @nightraider19 and @nightraiderreblogs

I now have an ao3!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

THIS IS YOUR BLANKET PERMISSION TO CREATE THINGS BASED ON WHAT I HAVE WRITTEN

DO NOT REPOST MY WORKS ANYWHERE

DO NOT FEED MY WORKS TO AN AI

[nightraiderwrites]

ghost stories

Summary:

A collection of rumors surrounding the Ghost of Startorch Academy.

(Or: Aemeath's physical body may have dissipated, but there is still much she can do.)

Word count: 840

Read on ao3

~~~

With an institute as big as Startorch Academy, ghost stories crop up as frequently as new students rotate in. Rumors and ghost stories are bigger than one might think of a school of science, and as of late, a certain digital entity has been sneaking into the latest stories.

Each legend about her is passed down from seniors to their juniors, each department exchanging stories like trade secrets on the black market. Of the four academic faculties, Rabelle’s College has the most interactions and stories about the ghost haunting their facilities,

Students of the Synchronist College say not to use the simulator cockpit second furthest from the right. Sure, the controls are mostly the same, only smoother and more well calibrated, but students report feeling another presence during training, even if they’re completely alone. Sometimes, they’ll catch a glimpse of pink hair in the virtual environment, the echo of a giggle following their movements.

The senior synchronists find it easier using that pod than the others, the controls more intuitive and adjusting to their preferences easily. They try not to use it anyway, already knowing that when they leave, they’ll have to get used to regular controls. But still, they can’t help being drawn to its inviting warmth, the ease with which they sink into the chair.

However, as loose as both junior and senior synchronists’ lips are, the professors are far more cagey. Some of them were students when the ghost stories emerged, over twenty years ago, but refuse to say anything beyond a simple warning to take care. But students note that some, especially Professor Voss, seem to have a great sadness when they talk about it, as if grieving someone who might not be dead.

Some students find the meals they order in the cafeteria changing. One student reports her usual meal of energy jelly juice packs being replaced with a somewhat more substantial combo, while others find their energy drinks replaced with water. 

“Fleet Snowflake” plays all over campus, and though she must be a student or staff member, she is as elusive as the snowflakes she is named for. Whether in the library, or in the cafeteria, or chilling in the quad, her cheerful tune is always playing.

A black market for her merchandise has opened up. Even though she hasn’t released any official merch, t-shirts, plushies, notebooks, standees and all the general memorabilia that comes with pop idols circulate around the Academy, some students even set up secret trading locations where the professors can’t see.

It’s not that it’s been banned, per se, but students find that classroom windows where these gatherings are held mysteriously tint when a teacher walks by, and lights illuminate only enough to mark specific places, as if Fleet Snowflake herself is watching and helping these happen. Student spirit is strongest when things are done outside the spirit of the rules, and it seems the singer herself is trying to keep it up.

Within the labs of the Exostrider Engineering department, a young man from Huanglong chats to his friend from the Voidmatters department as he fiddles with his suit. The wires spark as they discuss Fleet Snowflake’s latest album, the conversation naturally shifting to the Voidmatter man’s homework.

“Gege,” the young engineer says, “hold the fire extinguisher.” The other man fearfully checks that the exits are indeed clear (they are) , the fire extinguisher works (it is) and the fire alarm is on (the lights are blinking.) He closes his notebook only to see his friend spark two wires and his suit jerks violently.

Both students scream as it stands up on its own, but sigh in relief as every LED briefly glows pink and settles down. “Maybe it was the ghost haunting the synchronists,” the engineer jokes to his friend, whose wings are outstretched in panic. The draconic man only shakes his head, returning back to the workbench he was sitting at to continue his work.

They say that staying up late enough will allow you to see I.R.I.S speaking to nobody, her voice gentler than usual. She talks about everything and nothing, from the latest gossip to the upcoming events, pausing as if to let the other person reply.

Some speculate it’s the digital ghost that haunts the Academy’s halls. She’s only visible to the digital and the dying, they say, rescuing Overclocked students and chatting with N.A.N.A and Mr. S.I.G.M.A and all the robots around campus, cheering them on in their daily lives.

The Ghost of Startorch Academy is a myth and a legend, the evidence of her existence few and far between despite all the instances listed here. Who can say if she truly exists?

However, it would do you some good to have faith. There is no Sentinel in Lahai-Roi, no larger entity to believe in so there is only one thing left to place your faith in:

Place your faith in the goodness of humanity, and believe in the Benevolent Ghost of Startorch Academy.

~~~

I hope you enjoyed this shorter work!!! It's been good for me to get into shorter works, as you'll see soon.

I promise AugIuno is coming soon!!! I have 5 wips for them I promise I'm cooking!!!

Anyway, both me and my friend's sonas are within here! Can you guess who they are????

Good luck on your Aemeath pulls if you're pulling for her! I hope this fic blesses you and she comes home early and you win your 50-50!! Let me know how it went in the comics <3

Thanks to my friend @kofitiamats-kopitiam for help with the ideas and permission to use his sona! Be sure to check out his page if you like Wuthering Waves, as he posts frequently about the game.

I'll post yuri soon <3

See y'all later

[nightraiderwrites]

So uh. That ending, right?

[nightraiderwrites]

ghost stories

Summary:

A collection of rumors surrounding the Ghost of Startorch Academy.

(Or: Aemeath's physical body may have dissipated, but there is still much she can do.)

Word count: 840

Read on ao3

~~~

With an institute as big as Startorch Academy, ghost stories crop up as frequently as new students rotate in. Rumors and ghost stories are bigger than one might think of a school of science, and as of late, a certain digital entity has been sneaking into the latest stories.

Each legend about her is passed down from seniors to their juniors, each department exchanging stories like trade secrets on the black market. Of the four academic faculties, Rabelle’s College has the most interactions and stories about the ghost haunting their facilities,

Students of the Synchronist College say not to use the simulator cockpit second furthest from the right. Sure, the controls are mostly the same, only smoother and more well calibrated, but students report feeling another presence during training, even if they’re completely alone. Sometimes, they’ll catch a glimpse of pink hair in the virtual environment, the echo of a giggle following their movements.

The senior synchronists find it easier using that pod than the others, the controls more intuitive and adjusting to their preferences easily. They try not to use it anyway, already knowing that when they leave, they’ll have to get used to regular controls. But still, they can’t help being drawn to its inviting warmth, the ease with which they sink into the chair.

However, as loose as both junior and senior synchronists’ lips are, the professors are far more cagey. Some of them were students when the ghost stories emerged, over twenty years ago, but refuse to say anything beyond a simple warning to take care. But students note that some, especially Professor Voss, seem to have a great sadness when they talk about it, as if grieving someone who might not be dead.

Some students find the meals they order in the cafeteria changing. One student reports her usual meal of energy jelly juice packs being replaced with a somewhat more substantial combo, while others find their energy drinks replaced with water. 

“Fleet Snowflake” plays all over campus, and though she must be a student or staff member, she is as elusive as the snowflakes she is named for. Whether in the library, or in the cafeteria, or chilling in the quad, her cheerful tune is always playing.

A black market for her merchandise has opened up. Even though she hasn’t released any official merch, t-shirts, plushies, notebooks, standees and all the general memorabilia that comes with pop idols circulate around the Academy, some students even set up secret trading locations where the professors can’t see.

It’s not that it’s been banned, per se, but students find that classroom windows where these gatherings are held mysteriously tint when a teacher walks by, and lights illuminate only enough to mark specific places, as if Fleet Snowflake herself is watching and helping these happen. Student spirit is strongest when things are done outside the spirit of the rules, and it seems the singer herself is trying to keep it up.

Within the labs of the Exostrider Engineering department, a young man from Huanglong chats to his friend from the Voidmatters department as he fiddles with his suit. The wires spark as they discuss Fleet Snowflake’s latest album, the conversation naturally shifting to the Voidmatter man’s homework.

“Gege,” the young engineer says, “hold the fire extinguisher.” The other man fearfully checks that the exits are indeed clear (they are) , the fire extinguisher works (it is) and the fire alarm is on (the lights are blinking.) He closes his notebook only to see his friend spark two wires and his suit jerks violently.

Both students scream as it stands up on its own, but sigh in relief as every LED briefly glows pink and settles down. “Maybe it was the ghost haunting the synchronists,” the engineer jokes to his friend, whose wings are outstretched in panic. The draconic man only shakes his head, returning back to the workbench he was sitting at to continue his work.

They say that staying up late enough will allow you to see I.R.I.S speaking to nobody, her voice gentler than usual. She talks about everything and nothing, from the latest gossip to the upcoming events, pausing as if to let the other person reply.

Some speculate it’s the digital ghost that haunts the Academy’s halls. She’s only visible to the digital and the dying, they say, rescuing Overclocked students and chatting with N.A.N.A and Mr. S.I.G.M.A and all the robots around campus, cheering them on in their daily lives.

The Ghost of Startorch Academy is a myth and a legend, the evidence of her existence few and far between despite all the instances listed here. Who can say if she truly exists?

However, it would do you some good to have faith. There is no Sentinel in Lahai-Roi, no larger entity to believe in so there is only one thing left to place your faith in:

Place your faith in the goodness of humanity, and believe in the Benevolent Ghost of Startorch Academy.

~~~

I hope you enjoyed this shorter work!!! It's been good for me to get into shorter works, as you'll see soon.

I promise AugIuno is coming soon!!! I have 5 wips for them I promise I'm cooking!!!

Anyway, both me and my friend's sonas are within here! Can you guess who they are????

Good luck on your Aemeath pulls if you're pulling for her! I hope this fic blesses you and she comes home early and you win your 50-50!! Let me know how it went in the comics <3

Thanks to my friend @kofitiamats-kopitiam for help with the ideas and permission to use his sona! Be sure to check out his page if you like Wuthering Waves, as he posts frequently about the game.

I'll post yuri soon <3

See y'all later

[nightraiderwrites]

IF YOU FOLLOWED ME FOR WUTHERING WAVES BEWARE I AM TOO DEVASTATED OVER IUNO'S STORY SO YOU WILL BE GETTING A NEW FIC WITH THREE TIMES AS MUCH DEVASTATION

[nightraiderwrites]

against my body, your body lay warm like a soft star

Summary:

Priestess Iuno waits in Ephor Augusta's bedroom, in the days before the Hunt.

(Or: Iuno has seen the future and she does not want to see Augusta leave.)

(Or, or: The light of the moon only reflects the light of the sun.)

Tws: anticipatory grief, nothing too explicit really

Word count: 1121

Read on ao3

~~~

Iuno lays in the Ephor’s bed, alone.

Augusta is out there, fighting with the Senate for what feels like the hundredth time, butting heads over Arsinoa knows what. The shouts echo up the walls, bouncing off the Palace’s haughty halls and through her doors. She’s strong, Iuno knows, if the hundred swords that make up her broadblade have anything to say about it, but she’s so headstrong.

The Blazing Sun of Septimont runs headfirst into every confrontation, and she always comes out stronger for it. This is what Iuno thinks, this is what Iuno knows, has known, ever since she spied her in the arena as a mere teen, fighting men thrice her height and weight. Her sword, long and dark, had gleamed under the harsh sun of Septimont as she felled opponent after opponent and claimed her throne as the Ephor.

Augusta will keep running forward and she will keep fighting for the right things, and she will not stop until it kills her. And it will kill her, Iuno knows, and she will be helpless to stop it. She reads the future in the moonlight, the silver threads weaving Septimont’s future, and in turn, Augusta’s. Iuno is a selfish, selfish creature, she knows, always searching for Augusta everywhere.

The shouting stops, finally. A few minutes later, Augusta comes in, looking exhausted, and angry. There are bags under her eyes, and her movements are slow and sluggish. She looks a bit surprised to see Iuno, who sits up as she enters, and she takes her crown off before coming to stand before Iuno.

“Augusta,” Iuno says, soft and sad. “Augusta.” And her name in Iuno's mouth- that's what causes the invincible Ephor of Septimont to crumble. She sinks to her knees, arms going to curl immediately around Iuno's waist and head coming down to settle in her lap.

Iuno chuckles. “Long day?” The golden sun had long since sunk beyond the horizon, the remnants of her warmth barely a wisp in the cool evening air. Already, moonlight is seeping through the thin curtains of the Ephor’s bedroom, throwing soft silver lights around the room.

“When is it not?” comes the muffled reply. Iuno runs her hand through soft, sun kissed hair, massaging the scalp underneath. “Augusta,” she says again. The Sun’s name in her mouth is something akin to holy. “Augusta.”

The woman in question raises her head, eyes already searching for Iuno’s. Her fiery eyes that are normally so proud and fierce are quieter now, in a way that only happens when they are alone. These stolen moments are something that Iuno cherishes, because between Augusta’s duties as the Ephor and her own responsibilities as a Priestess, neither have much time alone.

“Augusta,” Iuno repeats, the name hot and sweet on her tongue. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

The Ephor nods, and rises from her position on her knees. Iuno rises too, helping Augusta remove her armor and robes and laying them on the side table, while the woman herself dresses in looser, more homely clothes. Iuno herself is already dressed in sleeping robes, kept at the Ephor’s palace for nights like this.

They lay in bed together, thin covers pulled up to their waists. “Augusta,” Iuno says again trying to memorise the taste of her name in her mouth. “What were you arguing with the Senate about today?”

The Blazing Sun huffs, puffing her cheeks out. “Do we have to talk about this? I would rather speak on other things.” Iuno rolls her eyes, holding Augusta’s hand. It’s calloused from years of fighting, cuts from blades and flying arena gravel littering her skin. She moves her thumb in what she hopes is a comforting gesture, up and down the length of her hand. “So, the usual?” Iuno guesses.

Augusta laughs, leaning forward to put her head in Iuno’s chest. The fiery strands of her hair tickle Iuno’s chin, and she can feel the soft vibrations of her laughter, resounding next to her heart. “Sort of,” Augusta replies. “The Rover is in town. They were complaining about the Ephor’s Palace footing the bill.”

Iuno rolls her eyes, holding Augusta closer, running her fingers through copper-gold hair. Augusta returns her embrace, holding wrapping muscled arms around Iuno’s slender wrist. “Weren’t they arguing about that the other day, when I got here? Silly Senate.”

“Mm,” Augusta agrees, “silly Senate. Did you see something? Is that why you asked?” Iuno’s hand stills. “No,” she lies. “Nothing.”

She speaks nothing of what the silver threads say to her. The Hunt is soon, and Augusta has enough on her plate without Iuno’s interference, constantly dealing with backlash from both noble houses and the Senate itself. Whatever is revealed to her - that is, whatever she chooses to see is her business and her business alone.

“How long until the Hunt? Are you prepared?” Iuno asks. Her hand resumes its combing through the blazing hair. “Almost,” Augusta replies, voice thick with sleep. Her arms hug Iuno a bit closer, pulling her in. “Just a few things to handle, then I will be done.”

Fear nags at Iuno’s heart. Augusta will go. Iuno will not join her. Augusta will leave, and Augusta will not come back. The sun will set and the moon will be left lightless and alone, and that is what Iuno fears seeing.

“Come back to me,” Iuno commands. Her hands move down to grip Augusta’s robes tight, knuckles white with effort. In her chest, her heart clenches at the thought of Augusta leaving and never returning, “Augusta. You must come back to me, like you always do. I do not care to read whatever Fate has in store for you, but keep your promise to me and sever any doom that will fall upon your head.”

She feels Augusta’s palms tighten around her clothes. “I will come back to you, dearest,” she swears, a little more alert, but still on the way to sleep. “I will.”

Iuno wants to believe her desperately, she does. Because the Blazing Sun of Septimont runs headfirst into every confrontation, fighting for what she believes in. Her ironclad will is the strongest in the land, and she will keep fighting until it kills her.

And it will kill her. That much, Iuno can say for certain, even without looking at the future.

She helplessly hopes it will not be anytime soon.

(After all, what is the moon without her sun? A floating chunk of rock, orbiting the earth but always missing the warmth and light. The sun certainly doesn’t need her, but the moon relies on the light and power and stability for the sun, so if she disappears there is nothing the moon can do but follow.)

[iratempestatis]

*pushes up glasses* it's yapping time

i am SO sorry for leaving such an obnoxious reblog but i'm like legally obliged to shake you back and forth and tell you everything i like about this

let me start with- genuinely everything and please believe me when i say this. i usually compliment a fic in reblogs or comments but this one actually sucked out my soul and breathed it back into me and i. it's so good?? it's so good

i adore the constant mentions of them as sun and moon- and i love that literally just the opening had me stilling and locking in, because of course iuno is in augusta's bed. brash, blazing iuno thinking to herself of how headstrong augusta is instead, surrounded by her things, in her bed.

"And it will kill her, Iuno knows, and she will be helpless to stop it. She reads the future in the moonlight, the silver threads weaving Septimont’s future, and in turn, Augusta’s. Iuno is a selfish, selfish creature, she knows, always searching for Augusta everywhere." OP much of this reblog will literally just be me copying and pasting your writing because it's so beautiful I don't need to say anything. That Iuno's selfishness is the quiet act of her looking for her sun everywhere- that iuno's selfishness is the selfless act of care that she pours unto augusta. that she loves augusta so much something so gentle becomes selfish instead

“Augusta,” Iuno says, soft and sad. “Augusta.” And her name in Iuno's mouth- that's what causes the invincible Ephor of Septimont to crumble. OP come ON don't do this to me. That the unwavering, unconquerable augusta hears her name be spoken by her moon and immediatly kneels instead. puts her head in iuno's lap. that's all it takes to quell the sun

also can i just say you describe movements and scenery so well? it's incredible. i can visualise everything perfectly

“Augusta,” she says again. The Sun’s name in her mouth is something akin to holy. “Augusta.” God OP, for the self assured, haughty iuno to indulge in worship- that the act of her giving is made selfish by her love. the moon circles her sun

The Ephor nods, and rises from her position on her knees. Iuno rises too, helping Augusta remove her armor and robes and laying them on the side table. The indomitable ephor rises only when her moon initiates, and even the sun can cool when iuno helps her. iuno literally and metaphorically taking her armour off. op just shoot me next time. And the soft little detail of iuno keeping her things at augusta's place. the fact that in the fic augusta is mentioned by many titles, but the only one that leave's iuno's is her name- augusta

“Augusta,” Iuno says again trying to memorise the taste of her name in her mouth. OP i have a knife? just use that?

and she can feel the soft vibrations of her laughter, resounding next to her heart. this is so impossibly soft

“How long until the Hunt? Are you prepared?” Iuno asks. oh, iuno. this hurts so bad after having finished the quest. my heart is shattering into a hundred pieces and it is all your fault

Fear nags at Iuno’s heart. Augusta will go. Iuno will not join her. Augusta will leave, and Augusta will not come back. The sun will set and the moon will be left lightless and alone, and that is what Iuno fears seeing. I DON'T NEED TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS

“Come back to me,” Iuno commands. Her hands move down to grip Augusta’s robes tight, knuckles white with effort. In her chest, her heart clenches at the thought of Augusta leaving and never returning, “Augusta. You must come back to me, like you always do. I do not care to read whatever Fate has in store for you, but keep your promise to me and sever any doom that will fall upon your head.”

OP I HAVE A KNIFE JUST USE A KNIFE OP. OP! I'M SCREAMING IN CURSIVE STOP HURTING ME

She feels Augusta’s palms tighten around her clothes. “I will come back to you, dearest,” she swears, a little more alert, but still on the way to sleep. “I will.” DON'T YOU DARE. Of course iuno is augusta's dearest. is it really just a pet name by this point?

iuno, a priestess, desperately trying to find faith, because the very fate she was meant to worship betrayed her. iuno stopping seeing forever because she saw her sun blaze one last time and decided her world could not go on without her sun

iuno believing she will be helpless against fate, broken without augusta, unneeded by her sun. not realising it is she that keeps it blazing in the end

op genuinely, thank you for this fic. i can tell i'm going to keep coming back to reread this for a very long time. i could kiss you on the mouth for this/platonic. thank you thank you <333333333333333333333333/genuine

[nightraiderwrites]

Thank you so much for your kind words!! I'm so glad you enjoyed my work!

[nightraiderwrites]

against my body, your body lay warm like a soft star

Summary:

Priestess Iuno waits in Ephor Augusta's bedroom, in the days before the Hunt.

(Or: Iuno has seen the future and she does not want to see Augusta leave.)

(Or, or: The light of the moon only reflects the light of the sun.)

Tws: anticipatory grief, nothing too explicit really

Word count: 1121

Read on ao3

~~~

Iuno lays in the Ephor’s bed, alone.

Augusta is out there, fighting with the Senate for what feels like the hundredth time, butting heads over Arsinoa knows what. The shouts echo up the walls, bouncing off the Palace’s haughty halls and through her doors. She’s strong, Iuno knows, if the hundred swords that make up her broadblade have anything to say about it, but she’s so headstrong.

The Blazing Sun of Septimont runs headfirst into every confrontation, and she always comes out stronger for it. This is what Iuno thinks, this is what Iuno knows, has known, ever since she spied her in the arena as a mere teen, fighting men thrice her height and weight. Her sword, long and dark, had gleamed under the harsh sun of Septimont as she felled opponent after opponent and claimed her throne as the Ephor.

Augusta will keep running forward and she will keep fighting for the right things, and she will not stop until it kills her. And it will kill her, Iuno knows, and she will be helpless to stop it. She reads the future in the moonlight, the silver threads weaving Septimont’s future, and in turn, Augusta’s. Iuno is a selfish, selfish creature, she knows, always searching for Augusta everywhere.

The shouting stops, finally. A few minutes later, Augusta comes in, looking exhausted, and angry. There are bags under her eyes, and her movements are slow and sluggish. She looks a bit surprised to see Iuno, who sits up as she enters, and she takes her crown off before coming to stand before Iuno.

“Augusta,” Iuno says, soft and sad. “Augusta.” And her name in Iuno's mouth- that's what causes the invincible Ephor of Septimont to crumble. She sinks to her knees, arms going to curl immediately around Iuno's waist and head coming down to settle in her lap.

Iuno chuckles. “Long day?” The golden sun had long since sunk beyond the horizon, the remnants of her warmth barely a wisp in the cool evening air. Already, moonlight is seeping through the thin curtains of the Ephor’s bedroom, throwing soft silver lights around the room.

“When is it not?” comes the muffled reply. Iuno runs her hand through soft, sun kissed hair, massaging the scalp underneath. “Augusta,” she says again. The Sun’s name in her mouth is something akin to holy. “Augusta.”

The woman in question raises her head, eyes already searching for Iuno’s. Her fiery eyes that are normally so proud and fierce are quieter now, in a way that only happens when they are alone. These stolen moments are something that Iuno cherishes, because between Augusta’s duties as the Ephor and her own responsibilities as a Priestess, neither have much time alone.

“Augusta,” Iuno repeats, the name hot and sweet on her tongue. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

The Ephor nods, and rises from her position on her knees. Iuno rises too, helping Augusta remove her armor and robes and laying them on the side table, while the woman herself dresses in looser, more homely clothes. Iuno herself is already dressed in sleeping robes, kept at the Ephor’s palace for nights like this.

They lay in bed together, thin covers pulled up to their waists. “Augusta,” Iuno says again trying to memorise the taste of her name in her mouth. “What were you arguing with the Senate about today?”

The Blazing Sun huffs, puffing her cheeks out. “Do we have to talk about this? I would rather speak on other things.” Iuno rolls her eyes, holding Augusta’s hand. It’s calloused from years of fighting, cuts from blades and flying arena gravel littering her skin. She moves her thumb in what she hopes is a comforting gesture, up and down the length of her hand. “So, the usual?” Iuno guesses.

Augusta laughs, leaning forward to put her head in Iuno’s chest. The fiery strands of her hair tickle Iuno’s chin, and she can feel the soft vibrations of her laughter, resounding next to her heart. “Sort of,” Augusta replies. “The Rover is in town. They were complaining about the Ephor’s Palace footing the bill.”

Iuno rolls her eyes, holding Augusta closer, running her fingers through copper-gold hair. Augusta returns her embrace, holding wrapping muscled arms around Iuno’s slender wrist. “Weren’t they arguing about that the other day, when I got here? Silly Senate.”

“Mm,” Augusta agrees, “silly Senate. Did you see something? Is that why you asked?” Iuno’s hand stills. “No,” she lies. “Nothing.”

She speaks nothing of what the silver threads say to her. The Hunt is soon, and Augusta has enough on her plate without Iuno’s interference, constantly dealing with backlash from both noble houses and the Senate itself. Whatever is revealed to her - that is, whatever she chooses to see is her business and her business alone.

“How long until the Hunt? Are you prepared?” Iuno asks. Her hand resumes its combing through the blazing hair. “Almost,” Augusta replies, voice thick with sleep. Her arms hug Iuno a bit closer, pulling her in. “Just a few things to handle, then I will be done.”

Fear nags at Iuno’s heart. Augusta will go. Iuno will not join her. Augusta will leave, and Augusta will not come back. The sun will set and the moon will be left lightless and alone, and that is what Iuno fears seeing.

“Come back to me,” Iuno commands. Her hands move down to grip Augusta’s robes tight, knuckles white with effort. In her chest, her heart clenches at the thought of Augusta leaving and never returning, “Augusta. You must come back to me, like you always do. I do not care to read whatever Fate has in store for you, but keep your promise to me and sever any doom that will fall upon your head.”

She feels Augusta’s palms tighten around her clothes. “I will come back to you, dearest,” she swears, a little more alert, but still on the way to sleep. “I will.”

Iuno wants to believe her desperately, she does. Because the Blazing Sun of Septimont runs headfirst into every confrontation, fighting for what she believes in. Her ironclad will is the strongest in the land, and she will keep fighting until it kills her.

And it will kill her. That much, Iuno can say for certain, even without looking at the future.

She helplessly hopes it will not be anytime soon.

(After all, what is the moon without her sun? A floating chunk of rock, orbiting the earth but always missing the warmth and light. The sun certainly doesn’t need her, but the moon relies on the light and power and stability for the sun, so if she disappears there is nothing the moon can do but follow.)

[theprophetlemonade]

[waveridden]

[ID: Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I’ve written, and stick that selection in my ask/fan mail. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, what was going on in the characters’ heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lord of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track. end ID]

[nightraiderwrites]

I love when "I love you" is paired with "I'm so sorry" two three word combinations that are brilliant

[moonrot-pearleo-zine]

The zine is finally here!! This has been a passion project I feel very proud and happy to share with you all, please show love to everyone involved by looking through the zine!!!

And to the participants, thanks again for your wonderful contributions!!!

Link to download the zine!

Link to see the zine as a flippable booklet!

(Plaintext links under the cut)

https://pixpickle.itch.io/moonrot-zine

https://heyzine.com/flip-book/328b519256.html

[nightraiderwrites]

my gun to your head, your knife to my throat (they call it love all the same)

The floor of their kitchen is cold and hard. Pearl remembers picking it out, some Italian brand that hadn’t mattered as much as the look on Cleo’s face when it was put in. Her hair is spread in a halo below her, and she grins at the woman pressing a knife to her throat.

“Hey, babe,” she says. The gun in her hand, pressed to her wife’s heart, trembles. “Mind letting me get up?”

Cleo scowls. She looks like an angel, her fiery hair backlit by their kitchen light. The blade in her hand presses deeper into Pearl’s throat, and she feels a trickle of hot blood drip down her neck.

-

A sneak peak for my piece for the @moonrot-pearleo-zine ! Make sure to check out the zine on the 8th of December!!

[nightraiderwrites]

Airplane Trick.

Did someone order a sick fic with extra sick?

Word count: 4046

Tws: violence, illness

●

I shook the jar of my sins, and heard nothing because it was full.

~

False is sick. Probably a result from staying out all night, but who knows, right?

Her entire body aches. Has she ever gotten sick before? She doesn't think so. It was never safe to be sick before.

She sneezes awake, off the couch, and straight onto Tango.

“Morning Falsie!” Gem says cheerfully. Maybe too cheerfully, the paranoid part of False thinks. “Good-” she coughs. “Good morning.” Pearl hums from the dining table.

Tango shifts under her. “You’re still cold,” he tells her. “More blankets?” False sneezes again. “I’m… a little sick, I think,” she says woozily. He laughs. “You think?”

Gem sighs from the dining table. “Yeah, you probably are, being out all night like that,” she says. The pot clatters as she grabs it from beside the sink. “I’ll make a fresh batch of soup for you today, stay in and take it easy, alright?”

“In fact,” Gem says, as she moves around the kitchen. The carrots are sliced before False can make a sickly sneeze. “We should all take it easy today. Rest up a bit, you know?” Flames rise from the stove, as water splashes into the pot and Gem expertly slices meat like she’s done it a thousand times before.

False can feel Tango nodding from where she’s sprawled out on his lap. “Yeah,” he says. “We can do chocolate and board games?” Her head hurts, a little. Has she ever played a game? Maybe. Probably not.

She coughs. “Yeah, that’ll be fun.” Gem stirs the soup idly. “That sounds great. I’m sure Pix knows a few games he can teach us too.” Ah, Pix. False’s head goes to the weird space people go when they’re sick, and she wonders how Pix is doing. He doesn’t really hang out with them much.

Pearl is fiddling with something. “That sounds like a fun way to spend time,” she says.

False’s head lolls back a little, onto Tango’s chest. She thinks he has a smile on his face. “Do you want soup?” he asks. He’s got a smirk in his voice, she can hear it. “Sure,” she slurs. She wants to wipe the smile off his face. She’s too tired to move.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as Pearl brings two bowls to Gem, who scoops soup into both bowls. She brings them both to the floor in front of the couch. 

“Eat up, you two,” she says with a smile. Tango reaches up and only takes one spoon and a bowl. “Here,” he says to False. He spoons some soup, and brings it to False’s lips. “Tango-” she says, but he shushes her. “Don’t make me use the airplane trick," he says. “Don’t think I won’t. I will.”

She laughs a little, woozily. False opens her mouth, and eats the soup he feeds her with the biggest smile on her face. It might have been the first time in a while.

“I’ll give you the recipe,” Gem says to Pearl, who's watching Tango feed False. The soup is really good, actually. False wonders where she learnt to make it. “So you can make it anytime it’s needed.” The two of them start cleaning up the kitchen together. Pots go in the sink, the counter is wiped down, utensils are washed. “I’d love that recipe, Gem!” Pearl says.

Now, False might be sick, and really, really woozy, but she’s really good at recognizing patterns. It’s a survival instinct. Normally, when information is given freely for future use, it means someone is leaving.

“Do you want to go back on the couch?” Tango asks quietly. He’s so gentle, and kind. “Sure,” she replies tiredly. He shifts, placing the empty bowl on the coffee table. False sits up as Tango lifts her up onto the couch. More blankets than probably necessary are piled on False.

Distantly, she hears Gem giving Pearl the recipe book. Patterns. Right. Patterns.

“Rest, False,” Tango says. He sits on the couch next to her. “We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

False yawns. “Gem you better- better not be ready to leave us.” She feels Tango stiffen from where she’s leaning against him. “You better- better stick around.”

“I-” Gem starts, and cuts herself off. “Yeah, all the ingredients are here, Gem,” Pearl says, flicking through the recipe book. False will have to get back to reading the little handwritten book on the table. Tango turns, a little. “You’re not leaving… right?”

She says nothing False can hear from where her eyes are half closed on the couch. “God knows these idiots need you,” she slurs. Her hand moves in an approximation of the others.

Don’t go, she thinks, but does not say. Don’t go where I can’t follow. This is not a thought False can share. It is selfish and greedy, and cannot be shared with anyone else.

“...right, Gem?” Tango says. “You can’t leave us,” Pearl says. “I should teach you some fighting techniques, Tango,” Gem says, deflecting. False thinks Gem thinks she’s going to die. She must have some awesome gifts of prophecy if she’s so sure.

…Wow, she didn’t know being sick affected her line of thinking so much. 

“Wh-why would you leave?” Tango asks. He sounds a little desperate, a little scared. “We have everything we need right here. Don’t go.” Sluggishly, False snuggles into Tango. “I can teach him,” she mumbles. “You gotta- gotta make sure he stays safe.”

“...I know,” Gem says, after a pause. False listens to her breathing, short and staccato, Tango’s, shallow, and Pearl’s, steady. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m making sure you’re all as safe as you can be.” Tango says nothing.

“Gotta make sure he’s safe,” False replies, tiredly. She pokes his chest. He startles a bit. “In there.” She feels his heartbeat. “He’s a mess inside. Haha. Mess. Pearl doesn’t like messes.” Gem chuckles. “Well, she likes us, so she can’t dislike all messes.”

“I can protect you tonight, Gem,” Tango says desperately. “You don’t have to go.” His breathing speeds up. “False is more important,” Gem argues. “For the greater good.”

“I can protect myself,” False retorts from where she’s buried under a mountain of blankets. Neither seem to hear her.

“I- I have a confession to make,” Tango says. She’s getting a little drowsy. Their words are getting softer. “I didn’t protect Pix last night.” Oh, False thinks. He lied. He said he would. Gem inhales sharply. “I was protecting False-” he continues. “I-”

“Aww,” False says, flopping into his arms. “You love me!” She falls asleep before Tango can say anything else.

~

Gem dies. She dies and there isn't anything False can do to stop it.

It's terrible, watching the light fade from their sun. (It feels too selfish to call it hers.) She cannot do a single thing to stop it.

Gem dies, and False takes her favorite sword to the Temple of Light and forges a new sun. 

~

False is sick. She can feel the skulk slowly creeping inside, choking out any sense of morality in her. 

Kill, it instructs her, guiding her hands to Tango’s throat. Her hands, built for killing, crafted for hurt, wrap around his throat. Kill! it laughs, gleeful at the violence.

She presses down in a familiar action. And yet, his face is still so kind. His face, one False has sworn to protect, holds no ill towards her.

Her hands are the steadiest in the world, when it comes to hurting. Tango’s fading breath trembles under her grasp.

The skulk continues worming into her brain. She cannot fight the voices. False has never been good at telling people no. Kill!

He reaches up a shaking hand. Around her wrist, Tango squeezes weakly. Once. Twice. And again. [I. Love. You.]

Tango’s face, so soft, so kind, so guilty, is turning blue like the wisping remains of dye in his hair.

He squeezes again. [I. Love. You.] And again.

She's so cold. Terrible, how her hands are never warm with all the blood on them. She's so cold, but Tango is the warmest ray of sun.

[I. Love. You.]

A long time ago (Or was it yesterday? She doesn’t know) he thought he hurt her. He thought he had burnt her badly, and she had left.

“Do you hate me?” he asked. “No,” she replied. “I could never hate you.”

Her hands, made to hurt, release his throat. Tango coughs, turning on his side. He almost died, she realizes. It was her fault. Your fault! the skulk sings. It crawls up her chest, around the stubs of her wings. Your fault!

He hates you! say the voices in her head. You almost killed him, so he hates you!

False does what she does best. She runs.

~

She finds herself in the desert. The cold wind whips through her thin shirt, because she had left Tango’s jacket at hom- the house. 

False falls face first into the sand. It really gets everywhere, but she doesn’t care. 

The sand is soft. Softer than dirt. Maybe False should dig herself a grave here. She hurt Tango. Maybe the desert will dig her into the grave.

A voice rings out. She doesn’t know if it’s in her head or not.

“...Falsie.”

It must be, right? False has lost respect for the dead a long time ago.

“Gem?” She sits up. There is Gem, golden and healthy. Her orange dress flows down, and disappears into eternity. “...I missed you.”

“I missed you too. Goodness, False, you’re gonna get sand everywhere.”

“...I did a bad thing, Gem. I hurt Tango.”

“...I know. I saw. Jimmy’s with him now.”

“He- he probably hates me.”

“He’s currently sobbing because he thinks you hate him. That you ran away because of him.”

“No! I just- I don’t want to hurt him. I can’t go back.”

Gem tries to brush some sand off False. She can only feel a warm summer ray.

“Of course you can - in fact, the only thing guaranteed to help the both of you is going back.”

False doesn’t want to go back. She’s made for hurt. It’s the only thing she can do.

“...He’s getting all frosty again, Falsie.”

Her hands are shaking.

“What if I hurt him again?” she asks. “I can’t kill him.”

“You won’t. You’ve pulled yourself out of the depths once, you can do it again.”

“I will! There’s too many voices, Gem, I can’t-”

Gem smiles softly.

“Then just focus on mine.”

False reaches a hand up, out of the sand. Grains fall away in the bitterly cold desert wind. Gem cups her face, warmth cutting through the chill. The skulk recedes back a little.

“See?” she says. “I’ve got you.” False swallows. “You’ve got me. But the skulk-”

“The only thing that kept the skulk at bay for me was our friends. It was the reason I was even partly myself. Go back to him. Please. Scar wants you to know it’ll feel worse the longer you stay away - and he’s right.”

False laughs wetly. “Does he?” Gem’s touch is like hope for a warm spring day in the middle of a desolate, freezing winter. 

“He’s right here, Falsie,” she says. “I’m right here. And I always will be.” There were days, before, when Gem would sit around the living room instead of being in her room. Soup would be cooking on the stove, or she’d be writing a new recipe in a book. It felt like she would always be present.

Gem places a hand on her shoulder, like a queen knighting a soldier.

“Now please,” she says. “False the protector, the strong, the level headed. Go accept the love you so deserve, and heal both Tango and yourself in the process.” 

She leans down, and presses a small kiss to False’s temple. The final rays of sun set, as False stands and Gem fades away.

~

So she takes Tango back to the house. (No longer home - she is no longer welcome.) And he’s- he’s barely conscious. The purple bruises on his neck glare up at her.

He’s so small. And so light, in her arms. Has he been eating? Has he been sleeping?

The walls of their house loom over her. Each stone, laid out and carefully selected by hand. Positioned precisely by their hands.

False lays Tango down on their front lawn, and turns to leave. A hand grasps her sleeve, tugging her back insistently. Oh. She didn’t realize he was conscious.

S-T-A-Y he traces out on her arm. She mouths the letters. They’re still so shaky in her head. It’s difficult to make sense of his shaky hand movements. “I can’t,” she whispers. Her throat hurts. Her head hurts. “But I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

He shakes his head. S-T-A-Y he traces again. Y-O-U P-R-O-M-I-S-E-D. Tango’s grip would be painful if False paid any attention to pain. “I- I almost killed you,” she whispers. “You’re not safe.”

S-A-F-E he traces. “I need to find a cure,” she replies. “I’m infected.” T-R-U-S-T M-E-? he asks. False hesitates. Does she trust him? Does she know what trust is? “...You know I do.”

Slowly, gently, he reaches up and lights the visible skulk on fire. It burns up, crumbling to ash. But it still thrums in her head. She is afraid to stay, but at the same time, she is afraid to let go.

Tango squeezes her hand three times. [I. Love. You.] He does not let go.

False breathes out, and lets go of his hand.

~

The mountains are cold. Cub’s remains are scattered across the ground, skulk writhing around. [The Sun] lays a few meters from where his head was. She crouches down to pick it up.

There is frost on her hand. She doesn’t know why she didn’t notice it before. [The Sun], golden amongst the starry skulk, sits buried halfway in the dirt.

“False?” Pearl calls, wandering her way up the hill. False’s hand freezes over the hilt. No. Not now. She can’t talk to Pearl now. “False?” Pearl says, walking up to her. “Pearl,” she replies.

“Why did you do it?” she asks. Tango’s face, dying and hurt and kind flashes through False’s head. She swallows nervously. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Then why?” Pearl asks. Her hand is on her shovel, False notes. The same one that went through Cleo’s chest. “There are voices, Pearl,” she replies. KILL KILL KILL scream the skulk. “They want blood.” The skulk laugh as they crawl up her sternum, into her bloodstream.

“Are you one of them?” Pearl says tiredly. “No,” False says, horrified. “How could you say that?” She won’t look her in the eye. Her red cloak flutters in the breeze. False’s hand creep towards [The Sun]. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Can I help you? Can anyone?” She really wants to help. She really does. But False knows she won’t hesitate to stick that shovel through her heart. “Just- just stay away,” False says. Her hand wraps around [The Sun]. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I don’t want to hurt you.” Pearl steps closer, slowly, approaching a wild animal. In her hand, [The Sun] feels like a reassuring weight, “Why can’t I help you?”

False could swing at Pearl. She knows the red cloak and black veil won’t help her in a fight. “You couldn’t,” she says. “You can’t.”

They feel it before she comes. A warm through the cold, cutting through the dark with her light. A presence so strong, so familiar, so loving, appearing before them. 

“Well,” the summer sun says. “Isn't this a sight for sore eyes?”

False sighs. “Hey, Gem.” The woman smiles at her. “Hey, Falsie.” 

Tears form in Pearl’s eyes. “Why are you here?” she cries. “You’re dead. You’re dead… aren’t you?” Gem clasps her hands together in front of her. “Kind of,” she replies, phasing into full visibility. “I’m just dead enough to count as dead, but alive enough to make sure you don’t all turn on each other.”

[The Sun] feels heavy in False’s hand. She debates swinging it at Pearl, but she can’t. Not with Gem standing there. Gem gives her a pointed look.

“Sorry Gem,” False says. The hand wrapped around [The Sun] is covered in frost. “Hurting people is all I’m good for.” Gem leans down, gently unwrapping it from the hilt. Her heat is enough to melt the frost off. “Who lied and told you that?” she asks.

“No one,” False replies. A tear forms in her eye. “I can’t stop hurting people.”

“And you can’t stop hurting yourself either.”

“I’m made for hurt. I was made to kill.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s the only thing you’re good for.”

She wipes the tears from her face. “Don’t let them win, False. You’re an angel for us, fallen or not, a protector.” Her hand trembles. Earthquakes pound through her veins. “You chose your path. Choose it again and talk to him. Please.”

“He needs you,” Pearl adds. Her hand is on the shovel. He deserved better, it’s called. It went through an innocent woman’s chest once. Because False was too weak, too kind, to stop it.

“I can’t,” she says. “I don’t- He can’t get hurt again. Not by my hand.” Gem makes a face False cannot read. It might be sorrow, it might be anguish, but it’s not something good. “False, the longer you stay away the longer he stews in that hurt.” She steps closer, and reaches a hand out. “You’re the cure,” says the lying summer sun. “You’re the solution to his pain.”

False screams in agony, as the skulk grips into her skin. Pearl steps forward, shovel at her hip. It swings as she walks. “I think we should help you first, False,” she says. “I have a bottle of disinfectant, but this is more than germs.”

Her hand reaches out. False stares at it, kneeling on the cold ground. She cannot bring herself to reach back. “You can do it,” Pearl says, and oh, she’s just so good. She’s just too nice. “You need to help yourself.”

[The Sun] falls out of her grasp. She reaches out for Pearl. The skulk reaches her heart. False falls sideways.

The world flutters between dark and light. When did she land on the ground? Her breaths come slow and shallow.

Grass tickles her face. Pearl is at the corner of her eye, reaching out. She picks her up, gently. “Are you okay with this?” she murmurs quietly. “...Sword,” False replies. She’s so tired. “I have the sword,” says a warm spring breeze.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m bringing it with us.” It’s getting colder. The skulk wraps around her heart. “...Nice,” False murmurs, and her eyes roll back as she passes out.

~

She, once again, floats in the black abyss. But this time, the woman wearing her face floats beside her.

“You’re forgetting,” says the woman. “I’m not sure I want to remember,” False replies. “You have to,” the lady with her face says. “That’s the only way you’ll know where to go.”

False swallows. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “I know,” the woman replies. “But I’ll be here.” She reaches a hand out, familiar and unknown, terrifying and home, all at the same time. Her falconry glove is gone, revealing sickly, pale skin underneath. Soft, brown wings unfurl from her back, where her red striped shirt and teal jacket have been replaced with a military uniform.

It sends chills down False’s spine. When she reaches back, to grasp the hand that fits perfectly in hers, she realizes she’s also wearing a military style shirt. From behind, she feels wings flutter gently.

“Let’s go remember,” the woman says.

~

False starts convulsing in Pearl’s arms. “False?” she asks, almost panicked. Gem swears, her form flickering like a dying candle. [The Sun] slips from her grasp. “False?!” Pearl half yells again, almost dropping her. She lays False on the ground.

“Gem, what do I do?” she asks. Gem swears again, walking backwards and disappearing for a moment. False continues convulsing, her chest rising up and down rapidly. Skulk wraps itself around False’s chest, giving her a deathly sick look. 

Gem comes back, arms full of wool and building materials. “Hold on, hold on,” she mutters. “Put the wool underneath her,” she orders, throwing the materials to Pearl. “If we can’t take her to the Temple, I’m building the damn Temple here.”

~

“I was good, but you were always better,” she says. They're in a lab, and two little girls are laying in two little beds. They look identical. 

One of the girls looks sickly pale, matching the deathly white of the walls. “She- she’s sick,” False says. The woman snorts. “Yeah,” she replies. “I was. I am. I reckon I would’ve been better than you if I wasn’t always sick.”

They watch as the healthy little girl turns, revealing a pair of eagle wings. False’s own wings flutter in symphony. 

“Did we ever fly?” she asks. The other woman tuts. “Wait.”

A door that wasn’t there a moment ago opens, and the little girls sit up. Footsteps thud, shaking the dreamscape, and suddenly False is a little girl, heart thundering in her ears, and hands quivering like an earthquake.

The scene melts into another, washing the world in white and black.

Blue floods in, filling False’s vision with cerulean. Wind whips through her hair as she soars through the clouds. “Amazing,” she murmurs, spreading her wings. Below, white spreads as far as the eye can see, snow blanketing the towns below.

Her body moves without her permission, wings tucking in and arms wrapping close as she goes into a steep dive.

What’s the difference between falling and flying again? Right. Flying means you have wings to catch you. Falling means you have to rely on someone else.

Combat boots hit snow as False lands, already drawing a heavy bow. Over the crest of a small plain, children play in the snow. They make snowmen and angels. In her heart, False knows it’s wrong to do what she’s about to, but in her head, she knows it doesn’t matter. It’s her job.

Quietly, False draws the bow back. Blood solidifies in the cool snow.

~

False is bathed in moonlight, as Gem draws a circle around them. Her light is fading, flickering in the dark. “Keep her heart beating,” she tells Pearl. Pearl’s hand is on False’s pulse, which is fading, getting fainter and fainter. The 

Within moments, a structure of glass and crystal forms, filtering moonlight straight down. It’s a crude, makeshift imitation of the real temple of Light, back at the plains, but it’ll work.

The skulk crawls up. It won’t- stop-

Gem raises her hand to False’s heart. Light flashes, eating the skulk away. Her light is warm, a faint amber. When enough skulk is gone, she directs Pearl to continue pumping False’s heart, begging False to come back.

~

Pearl pumps down on False’s chest-

The child screams-

[The Sun] rests in her grasp-

Tender throat gives way to sharpened steel-

Skulk recedes-

Blood bursts out. It lands everywhere. Her hands, the snow, the angel carved onto the ground. Everything goes white.

~

Her eyes feel too heavy to open. She feels Tango close by. His chill washes over her like a sheet of ice.

He’s on the edge of her consciousness. False reaches for him weakly. Faintly, she hears Pearl murmur to Tango. 

Tango steps closer, gripping her hand and squeezing thrice. False hates being this helpless, this weak, too exhausted to even sit up. She traces on his hand. S-O-R-R-Y. I-L-E-F-T-A-G-A-I-N.

Shifting closer, Tango shakes his head. She continues. M-Y-F-A-U-L-T. Pauses. D-O-Y-O-U-H-A-T-E-M-E-? He shakes his head again. Y-O-U-S-H-O-U-L-D. I-H-U-R-T. I-H-U-R-T.

His finger traces on her arm. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U. N-E-V-E-R-H-AT-E. False tries to smile. Shaking badly, she traces a message back. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-T-O-O. S-O-R-R-Y.

There is something to be said, perhaps, that False has a half empty head and a body full of hurt. The only things she remembers is pain, but maybe she’s learning love right now.

It’s alright. False is exhausted. She wants to go home.

~

Tell me every terrible thing you did, and let me love you anyway.

●

This is dedicated to my wonderful partner @audriandae ! ;)

[nightraiderwrites]

Titty

This is your pspspspsp

Yes... tittty....

[nightraiderwrites]

The Implications of an Unlocked Door

The nature of dreams.

Tws: unreality, explicit descriptions of violence -.-.-

The dream starts on a train. 

It’s one of the trains that are used for local transportation; rides across a city or a town. The people who ride it are ordinary. Students, yawning off a night of study. Office workers, struggling to stay awake, balancing a coffee in hand. Old men, on their way to the gambling hole. Women on their way to the market.

To you, there is a crowd in a train, and this is a perfectly normal dream. Slowly, you take it in. The train moves over a bridge, and the sun rises out the window. Someone has spilled coffee on the floor. You can smell it. The seats are old.

The train rolls into a dark tunnel. Overhead, lights flicker on weakly, washing the compartment in dim white light.

This is, you think, a nice dream. A different world, a different time, where things are normal.

It’s in a split second of darkness when you see him. As the lights flicker, throwing the train car in pitch black, you see his eyes. Deep, ominous red.

You shudder involuntarily. This is a dream, you remind yourself. He cannot hurt you here. You are safe.

The tips of his hair are blue. There are deep bags under his eyes. His hands are hidden.

This is a dream, you remind yourself. You do not know how you know it is a dream, but it must be.

The train rumbles on. Above, the automated voice announces the next stop.

“I love you,” he says, voice thick and raspy, and then you know it is a dream because he had never told you that and you know he would never say it.

“I love you,” he says again, and you hang on every word like it’s the last thing you’ll ever hear.

You had forgotten, the cadence of his voice. He did not speak for so long, and the first thing you forget about a person is the sound of their voice.

You take a step closer. He takes a step back.

The train slides out of the tunnel, the morning light flooding into the carriage. You blink at the sudden light, and he’s gone.

~

The dream starts in the plains.

Morning dew soaks the knees of your pants as your hands grip his throat. He isn’t doing anything to stop you. Why isn’t he doing anything? Why isn’t he crying out?

Blood is splattered over your arms. It stains the white of your shirt, and you press deeper, your wait digging into his chest. He reaches weakly for your wrist. Darkness creeps over your vision.

It’s taking so long for him to die, you note impatiently. You should just snap his neck. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

You exhale.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His face is turning blue. Ice starts forming around you, solidifying the dew on the grass. It spreads around you, driving away everyone else, but not you. No, the ice never touches you.

He loves you. You love him too much to let the tender bones give way beneath your hands.

There is no world in which you kill him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His mouth moves. “Fal-”

Morning dew soaks into the back of your white shirt as his hands grip your throat.

You understand now, why he didn’t struggle. His weight presses into your chest, and you feel your ribs crack, a little.

The thing about being choked is that you can feel everything. There is air that does not enter your lungs and there are knees pinning your wrists to the floor. Wet dew seeps into your clothes. There is no more blood on your hands.

He’ll snap your neck. Any moment now, and he’ll do it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your hands move on instinct. Your wrists are pinned with his knees, yes, but your fingers can still touch his legs.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You love him. He still kills you.

~

The dream starts in front of a glowing purple portal.

Lizzie stands in front of you. “Alright,” she says. It’s obvious to you that she’s a cat wearing a mask, but maybe you shouldn’t point that out. “We’ve got a weird magic portal, so obviously the most logical thing to do is go through.” 

Everyone nods, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do. You think it’s insane, but no one else disagrees.

Katherine and Shelby lock hands. They share a kiss before stepping through the swirling magic portal. You watch as Joel hugs Lizzie and kisses Sausage carefully before jumping in as well. 

You’re the last to enter. You watch as Pix and Jimmy and all the others go through and your heart aches. 

Something tugs at you as you are about to step through; a hand, maybe, someone with hands the same size as yours, and familiar enough to grasp your own like nothing else matters.

Don’t go, the person begs, because you are sure it is someone now. If you go, you’ll be changed forever. 

There is nothing more terrifying than change. You had woken up in this world with bleeding wings and half empty memories, and the world has done nothing but change.

The portal hums, almost menacingly. Change is scary. You don’t want to change. You want to stay exactly the same, because if you change, you’ll never know who you are. You’ll never know who you were. You’ll never know who you could be.

So you don’t go through. No one will notice if you don’t, so you stay. You shake your head and turn away from the glowing portal, boots heavy on the unsteady wooden platform.

You step. Left foot, right foot, feeling like you have been unmoored.

The platform isn’t built well. There is no one to catch you when your foot goes through the splintered plank and submerges you into the river.

~

The dream starts with your hand resting over a familiar door knob.

You hesitate. It’s night time. When you walk in, you know that Tango will be waiting on the couch, and Pearl will be upstairs, Pix will be in his room or out in his swamp base, and Gem will be…

Gem will be gone.

You turn the handle. “Hey, Tango,” you say. No one replies.

The lights are on, but the house is empty. There is no one home. 

Fire crackles, casting a soft glow over the wooden flooring. Four pairs of shoes are lined up where you left yours. There are no dishes in the sink.

You climb the rafters. The paper eagle- the one from god -is gone. Your shelf is bare, the satchel you had brought to this world, your spare knives and the threadbare blanket that you had folded this morning are all gone.

Gracefully, you tip backwards and fall silently to the floor. The house is quiet, deathly still, almost as if it's holding in a breath. You don’t like that. Dead houses don’t breathe.

You climb the stairs, struggling to find your way in the dark. There’s never really a reason for you to come here, other than calling Pearl to dinner or dragging Pix to bed, so the beautifully carved handrail feels unfamiliar in your grasp.

It’s cold. Despite the fire you know was running in the living room, chill clings to your fingers and your breath fogs your vision.

There is no way it should be this cold. The stairs are slippery with ice and frost covers your sleeves. Your movements are stiff as you step, joints creaking and squeaking. But you’re so close.

The landing is two or three steps away. Surely you can make that. How long have you been walking up for? It’s impossibly close.

Squeeze your eyes tight. Squeeze them so hard you feel a hot tear streak down your cheek and turn to ice. This house is not your prison. This house is not your home. This house is not your love.

When you open your eyes, you are on the landing. The cold is gone. It is no longer dark.

Sunlight fills the hallway. Golden light falls through the window, lighting your path to the room at the very end of the hall.

You have a feeling about who is waiting. You missed her so much.

At first, your steps are slow as you feel your feet on the hardwood below. In your lungs, it’s like breathing sunlight. The air is like honey.

But you can’t take it anymore. You break into a sprint, cheeks hurting from how wide you’re grinning. You shouldn’t let yourself hope it’s her, but you can’t help it.

The corridor shortens, and you stop, breathless. A sun is carved into the door, and the soft morning light makes the rays glow. This has to be a sign, right? It’s her. It’s her. It’s her.

God, why are you hoping? It never goes your way. Everything you hope for never happens. People betray you, they leave you or you leave them. Nothing you hope for ever happens.

Still. You really hope it's her.

Your hand hovers over the familiar door knob.

Take a breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s only opening a door.

It’s only a small change.

You grasp the knob and turn. It opens, easily, as if it was made to be opened. As if it was made to be changed.

The first thing you notice when you walk into the room is the light. Every nook and cranny is filled, and you can see everything. From the shrine of candles on a table to a small bed tucked in the corner of the room, everything is… gold.

She’s leaning against the windowsill, eyes closed with a smile curling on the edge of her lips. Her hands are folded in front of her, and her crown shines gold. Soft breaths rise and fall in her chest.

You don't… remember her ever looking so content. There was always sadness or stress or a glance at the future creasing her brow or pulling her mouth into a frown. She had always been burdened with destiny, and you had never been strong enough to lift it.

As you stop in the doorway, she opens her eyes and turns to you. They’re green, with little hints of purple. It makes you pause, unnerved.

“False,” she says. She opens her arms, wide. It’s been so long. 

You can’t take it anymore. No more waiting. No more looking over your shoulder a missing presence. No more cold.

You crash into her, buying your head on her shoulder. “I missed you,” you mumble. You sniffle. It really has been so long.

Gem strokes your hair. “I know,” she says. “But you’ve been so brave. I’ve been gone, but you’ve been so brave.”

Tears start welling up in your eyes. “I don’t want to be brave anymore,” you sob. They streak down, hot and fast. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Her hand stills. You cling to her like you’ll drown if you let go. “I’m sorry you have to go through this,” Gem murmurs. It’s strange. It’s almost like she’s apologizing for leaving you alone. You start to panic.

You pull away, breathing hard. “Gem,” you say, shaky. The world feels unsteady under your feet. Nothing is golden anymore. “Are you leaving again?”

The sunlight drips away. From the bed to the candles to the door, flashing the sun at you the color bleaches, fading away. Even the color on that gets sucked in towards the center. Gem’s room pales in comparison to her, and she herself grows in color, vibrancy bursting from her figure.

Your hands are still on her shoulders. It burns.

“Gem,” you repeat, desperate. She keeps leaving. Nothing good ever lasts. You should know this by now. “Gem.”

The room is faded, like a toy left in the sun too long. All the color has been sucked dry, and Gem is the radiant sun.

She’s still smiling softly at you. You hate it. No, that can’t be right. You could never hate Gem. But how can she be standing there, smiling…?

“False,” she says. “My knight. My loyal soldier. But most importantly, my friend.” Your chest is heaving, and you cannot let her go. “You are a good sword,” Gem tells you. Her eyes flash - purple, gold, green, gold - but she smiles, carefree. “You are a good sword,” she repeats, “but you are an even greater friend. Don’t forget that, okay?”

It hurts to look at Gem. You want to shield your eyes, look away, protect yourself, but you’ve never been good at caring for yourself. She is your blazing sun, and you are a helpless little dog.

“Don’t go,” you beg. She takes your hands off her shoulders and holds them tight. It burns. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Oh False,” Gem says. The color in her eyes finally settle into a deep purple hue. Wings like the rays of the sun emerge from her back, and her robes flow like the ocean. Her crown glitters gold. A wry grin plays on her lips. “Don’t worry.” You can hear her heartbeat, like thunder.

It’s terrible.

“I’ll always be Watching.”

~

The dream starts on a train.

The sun sets over the horizon, throwing the city in front of it into a midnight silhouette. You sit in one of the seats. There is no one else in the carriage.

Someone had spilled coffee on the floor. Brown stains the grimy carriage floor, glistening wetly in the dying light. The seats are old.

You sit in one, observing the sun set. A soft orange glow makes everything feel warm. Unsteady. Unreal.

Your teeth rattle as the train rumbles on. In your chest, you feel your heart; ka-thud, ka-thud, ka-thud, assuring yourself that you are still alive.

Where is this train heading? You don’t know. All you know is the tracks seem to stretch forever, into eternity.

There are things to ponder. Your purpose, for example. If there is no one around, if there is no one to dedicate your life to, what are you even here for? Did you ever matter? 

Maybe. Maybe you mattered. More likely you didn’t.

Who cares, anyway? You?

Sometimes, thoughts are not there to be listened to.

The train heads into a tunnel. The lights remain off, throwing the carriage into total darkness.

When you come out the other side, he appears on the other side of the seats, facing you. His face is clean. His hair is yellow. There are no bags under his eyes.

“Hello,” you say. Swallow. “How have you been?”

He stares. “Oh,” he replies. “Good.”

The silence stretches between you. What are you supposed to say? What is he supposed to say? There is nothing that can be said.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” you say. Curl your fingers into a fist. Your nails dig into your palm. A lie. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

Across the carriage, his lips curl into a smile. Do you remember the last time he smiled?

“I know,” he tells you, but you know he knows it’s a lie. Everyone always says you suck at lying. “You’ve been very brave.”

Now he’s echoing Gem’s words. Gem left, so is he leaving too? You force the tears and the panic down, and shove them into a little locked chest inside your heart.

You close your eyes, leaning sideways. Your head lands on his shoulder. His breaths, steady and deep, are a soothing rhythm. He grasps your hand.

“Can you stay, this time?” you ask quietly. 

His breath hitches. “Okay,” he says. 

The train rumbles on.

~

So the implications of an unlocked door is this: it is just a door until you try and open it. Then, it gains either the adjective “locked” or “unlocked”. This means if you describe the door as “unlocked” you have changed it in a fundamental way so as the door is not just a door, but a door that you have interacted with and changed.

Therefore, the implication of an unlocked door is that a person existed to unlock it. A person has existed to change the door in a way that allows for further expansion and development. The door would have remained a door even if no one had bothered to try and open it.

Nevertheless, the sheer fact that someone opened the door showed they care about it. The door cares about the person too. It stands strong and guards the house. It unlocks for the person, allowing them to enter the home and rest.

A door is just a door until you try and open it. At the same time, a life is just a life until someone else enters it.

-.-.-.-

Hi :)

[floydsin]

ao3 wrapped [writers edition]

How many words have you written this year?

How many works did you publish this year?

What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

What work of yours has the most hits?

What work of yours got more feedback than you expected?

Favorite title you used

If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most?

Pairing you wrote the most for this year?

Favorite pairing you wrote for this year?

What work was the quickest to write?

What work took you the longest to write?

How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year?

What’s your longest work of the year?

What’s your shortest work of the year?

What WIP are you taking into next year with you?

What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

Your favorite character to write this year?

The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

What’s one pairing you want to explore next year?

Which work of yours have you reread the most?

How many kudos in total did you get this year?

Which work has the most comments?

Did you do any collaborative works this year?

Did you write any gifts this year?

Did you receive any gifts this year?

What’s your most common category?

What do you listen to while writing?

Favorite work you wrote this year?

Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

Biggest surprise while writing this year?

[nightraiderwrites]

🌹

You are False Symmetry. You used to serve a Watcher that loved the sun.

[nightraiderwrites]

🌹🌹🌹

Does this mean I have to give three-

Joel is glad his wife and best friend are already dead, actually. If they weren't, he'd hate to imagine how they would be suffering with him.

-

The woman smiles at him adoringly, like he can do no wrong.

-

This is where the story starts. This is not where it ends.

[discocritic]

for every "🌹" received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing