Wals is an amazing enabler, so I'm back for another round of this because I was reminded of just how much fun it can be. 👀👀
Send me a pairing (or ask for gen!) and a prompt, and I'll write a little ficlet for it. :3 Prompts can be a word, line, image, or whatever else you can fit into my ask box.
I will write:
E33. The brain rot remains strong.
Gen or Gustave/anyone!
Can be a fresh prompt or something related to one of my fics.
Crossovers are okay if you think I know the other media!
Not looking to write anything dead dove at the moment! Still cooking like... three/four projects in the background right now, but I shall poke at these as fun treats in between writing. ❤️
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For the writing game!! Verso whisking away an injured Gustave? WHUMP!!?? 👀
Thank you, Nyoom! This is for the writing game over here. You know, technically this counts as "a few paragraphs" if we all agree to have a really, really flexible definition of "a few".
Lying on his back by the fireside, Gustave's chest shudders with every weak, shaking breath.
Verso knows this, because he's watching.
Because he can't stop watching.
He's done the best he can: they're out here in the wilderness with no supplies, no way to communicate with the others, and all their healing tints already used up. Verso is left sheltering by their makeshift fire and watching the unsteady rise-and-fall of Gustave's ineptly bandaged chest as he waits to see if Gustave will even make it until morning.
Don't be morbid, Verso tells himself firmly. That voice in his head, the one that tells him that there's still hope out there, it sounds almost like Alicia once did, long before the fire. He'll pull through. You'll see.
He wants to believe that voice - he desperately wants to follow that bright strand of hope all the way to sunrise, but the memory of the fight is a brutal shadow on that limited light.
Verso can't get it out of his head: the split-second mistake, the cocky smile on Gustave's face, the pretty little swirl of Gustave's gun before it all went wrong -too late, too slow. The nevron's lance had thrust straight through Gustave's chest, from one side to the other, skewering him before either of them had a chance to react.
(Verso had seen the blood-stained echo of Stone Wave Cliffs in the pattern of Gustave's wounds when he frantically patched and healed what he could; he can still see the shape of his own guilt in the drying bloodstains on their blanket.)
Gustave's face is pale: a sickly pallor a breath away from death.
"Don't do this," Verso murmurs beneath his breath, vowing to himself it's not a prayer to the Paintress. "Don't kill him. Don't take him just to prove a point."
He shuffles closer to Gustave until they're huddled by the fire together - he makes an excuse, tells himself he's checking on the wound as if he knows what he's looking for. All he can do is desperately study that unconscious, handsome face; Gustave's cheekbones are still splattered with drops of blood. There's dirt too, and Verso wonders if he's imagining the pale tear-tracks through the mess; he wonders if there's a pain so deep it can hook a man even through unconsciousness.
He brushes some of Gustave's hair away from his face, though he knows he doesn't have the right. When Gustave is awake (when Gustave is alive) Verso doesn't even know if he's allowed to call him a friend. They travel together; they fight together; they bicker together. They throw themselves into danger for their team, together - and now, Verso knows, something in him will wither and rot if Gustave dies in these mountains.
Is that friendship?
Or is that something far worse?
He can't stop himself from stroking his fingers against the clammy coldness of Gustave's forehead next - and there's a part of him that wants to shake Gustave in frustration for looking like an angel even when he's on death's door: there's some part of him that can only roll his eyes at Alicia's replacement-brother being so damn perfect, even at this.
"Come on, Gustave," he whispers. "Pull through. You're better than this, aren't you?"
He doesn't know what he means; he doesn't care. It can mean anything Gustave wants it to mean, as long as it's enough to make him dig deep and fight to stay right here.
It would ache to lose him, Verso knows.
It would claw at him like a missing piece, like the kind of pain it takes far more than a generation to recover from. Verso knows that kind of pain well. He doesn't want to live through it again.
He leans down. He can't stop himself. His eyes shut and he leans over Gustave until he can press a dry, desperate kiss against the cold skin of Gustave's forehead, pretending as he does that there isn't a deep, frantic panic beginning to claw its way up from his chest to his throat.
"Survive," he whispers against the sweat-stained skin of Gustave's brow. "For me. For Alicia. Survive."
He straightens up again and swallows around a lump in his throat that he can't acknowledge. His eyes flick back to Gustave's bandaged torso and its shaky, weak rise-and-fall. Verso knows how to brace himself for loss - but that knowledge, now, feels too empty to be of use.
Just as his mind starts to run through the horror-show what-ifs of what to do if those dark eyes never open again, Gustave's head stirs, and his eyelids flutter.
It's impossible.
And it's happening.
With a groan like he's being punched in the chest, Gustave starts to struggle to sit up, until Verso's hand lands firmly on his shoulder, holding him in place as gently as he can.
He tells himself he's imagining the relief in Gustave's eyes when they focus on him. He knows for certain he's imagining the trust.
"Verso?"
He survived. No matter what else happens from here, that's the one truth that will circle and circle within Verso's mind, as Gustave recovers and Verso has to learn how not to hover at his side: he survived he survived he survived.
I just want my OTP to derrive meaning from each other in a way that would be incredibly unhealthy and codependent if two people did that in real life but is profoundly poetic and romantic within the context of a fictional piece of media in consuming.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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For the writing requests game - Verstave whump? Any way you’d like >:3c
Ayyye!! Thanks for sending this in for the writing game!! Verstave whump!!! This AU might sound a little familiar to you. :3 Enjoy hehe.
His body burned like molten fire with every unsteady step he took. Gunshot wounds were fucking painful, but he'd always managed in the past. But this? A bullet infused with chroma? The Painter's magic spread like poison in his veins, slow but sure, and with every breath, he could feel his body slowly but surely shutting down. Gustave clutched his hand against the wound at his side, felt the warmth of his lifeblood soaking his clothes and oozing between his fingertips.
Gustave told himself that this torment was worth the price.
He'd just killed the local leader of the Painters here in Lyon, striking him from the history books. Gustave knew that Maelle would not be happy that he'd stained his hands with more blood, but he could not allow the man who had irrevocably changed her life—and his—to live.
No, not after the fire. Not after Gustave thought that he was going to lose her in the aftermath.
Maelle had begged and pleaded in that soft, raspy voice of hers that she did not want this for him, but a part of him had died when their home had been burned to the ground. Gone was the Writer who wrote children's books filled with whimsy and hope; gone was the naivety that existed in his heart.
Gustave would rise out of the ashes a soldier of this accursed war.
In the three years since he joined the fight against the Painters, Gustave had suffered his fair share of injuries as he wrote his victories in the blood of Painters. His name was whispered like a curse to those he preyed upon, while his fellow Writers rejoiced in his assassinations—celebrated the red that dripped ever more heavily from his ledgers.
Vengeance drove him to strike each and every Painter out of the narrative, to remove them from the annals of history.
Save the one.
A year and a half ago, he'd met a Painter with striking silver eyes who seemed to hate his kind just as much as Gustave did. With a pistol shoved in his gut and his own pressed under the man's chin, they'd… chatted and aired out their grievances—at least just enough to decide that the enemy of their enemy was their friend.
Verso Dessendre, a man who was all but a prince among the rank and file of the Painters, had somehow become his ally.
Gustave did not ask for the details as to why he detested his fellows, just as Verso did not inquire as to what drove his need for revenge. A tenuous alliance was formed where Verso fed him information about the Painters, and Gustave killed for the both of them. It worked, and it worked well.
Perhaps too well.
An exchange of services became an exchange in conversation. Conversation turned to banter, and in between plans on how to best assassinate Painters, discussions between colleagues became chatter between friends.
They were drunk when they first kissed and high off of a successful kill when Verso pressed him into the mattress for the first time.
The man had patched him up more than once in the past, and right now, Verso was the key to Gustave's salvation. Could he remove the chroma that was killing Gustave from the inside out? He didn't know, but the man was still his best chance to survive this.
Would he even be able to contact him though? Verso had told him not to come here. The man had warned him, repeatedly, of the stronghold located in Lyon.
Every nerve in his body screamed in agony as he stumbled down the alleyway, and every limb felt heavy as lead. Pain lanced through him with each labored breath, even as he felt his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, as if it wanted to escape this dying body, this walking corpse.
He needed to get away from here. He needed to hide. He needed Ver—
***
A wet cloth rested against his forehead as Gustave came to. His body ached and throbbed, and he couldn't move; everything felt so heavy, like his body was weighted down with stone. Cotton filled his thoughts.
Gustave hurt too much to be dead. Had he been captured? Had the Painters found him?
"You're awake." A soft voice—familiar.
It took Gustave three tries to open his eyes, and when they finally fluttered open, he glanced to the side to see one Verso Dessendre standing there. The man sank into the chair beside him, as Gustave took in his appearance: hair pulled into a messy tail, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dried blood staining the front of his shirt.
Gustave's blood.
Verso had found him.
Warm fingers caressed his too-warm cheek, and Gustave grunted, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth and too unwieldy to form words.
"I warned you about coming here," Verso said, "but you didn't listen." He huffed a laugh, quiet. "Not that I expected you to.
"You fool."
Gustave could hear the affection there, could hear the worry that colored Verso's voice. Long fingers teased Gustave's hair away from his face before curving against his cheek. It was too difficult to say thank you, and it hurt too much to move in any way to express any sort of gratitude. The way that those pale eyes seemed to soften, however, was sign enough that the look on Gustave's face was enough to convey his appreciation.
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