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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What they don't tell you about writing is that as you write, you discover scenes and entire plots that you hadn't accounted for that need to be written. So you can spend two hours writing and editing only to realise you're further away from the finish line than you thought you were when you started
"I just wanna get out of here,
Escape into the atmosphere,
To a place where no one even knows my name,
I'll take a rocket ship and leave this place.
Gonna find me to a brighter day,
I tried my best but I just can't escape,
Won't you take me high?"
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For the writing request game! :3 Verstave! How about some hurt/comfort? Something to do with nightmares. 👀
Mhmh love me some hurt and comfort! Here it is
---
It was worse when the nightmares stopped.
Verso truly believed that when he told Lune, all these months ago - back at camp during their expedition.
It was his family back then. Alicia’s cries. His own cries. Dying in the manor fire.
Then search and rescue. Julie's hurt and hateful stare as he rammed his sword in her chest.
Then - the oppressive void. As life lost all meaning, so did his dreams.
And now… the paintress is gone.
And his nightmares returned.
He dreams of the boy, forever painting. And Maelle at his side. He is trying to run towards them, to get him to stop painting. To free Verso and himself.
But the paint beneath his legs doesn’t get him any closer. And then shadows appear, surrounding him, staring him down.
‘The expeditions… my parent’s sacrifice…thousands of people dying in agony… it would have been for naught.’
‘My husband, you’ll take him from me. You’ll kill us all out of selfishness - you bastard!’
He runs on the spot till his legs give, falling to his knees, their angry screams ringing in his ears. He wants to apologize - to beg for forgiveness. But his throat produces no sound, no matter how hard he tries to cry out for them.
And then Maelle turns to him, her face cracking with dried paint.
‘You will never be him. You’ll never be enough.’
No. Please. Leave this Canvas, don’t die — Verso digs his nails into the ground, mouth wide open but unable to speak.
Her hair turns brittle, her face aging rapidly. Her stare is like Julie’s.
‘I’m dying for a worthless copy.’
“VERSO!”
His eyes fly open, and finally his agony tears out of him with a scream.
He is disoriented. It’s dark. The shadows are gone, Maelle is gone and the child —
With his voice back, Verso keeps crying out in desperation, don’t die - I’m sorry - not for me - I don’t deserve it - leave me behind - I beg you -
“Verso! Take deep breaths, mon cher.”
A hand presses against his naked chest. Warm. Grounding.
Finally Verso’s tear filled eyes focus on brown ones. The moon shining through the window of their bedroom bathes him in a gentle glow.
Gustave.
He presses close, the hand on his chest replaced with his stump so that his hand can brush agaibst his cheek. Impossibly soft and calm. Verso feels his breath fan across his face. Warm.
“There we go - in and out”, Gustave’s deep baritone voice whispers to him.
Verso only now notices that he is shaking as if suffering from high fever. But Gustave’s hold slowly calms the tremors down. Deep breaths.
“You’re here. Safe. In our bed. It was just a bad dream.”
“M-Maelle…”
“Has left the Canvas months ago. Remember?”
Verso inhales sharply. His memories rush back to him.
Maelle did. She left and let them be. She convinced her family.
Verso cries. But they’re not fearful tears anymore. Gustave leans even closer, his lips brushing against his cheeks as he kisses the tears off Verso.
“Mon amour…” Verso whispers as his body melts under the love he has for the man holding him steady.
“I’m sor-”
A finger rushes to Verso’s lips, shushing him.
“Don’t. And no buts. We’ve been through this. You deserve being held through your nightmares. No, I won’t leave this bed.”
As if Gustave’s stern but loving stare left any room for arguments. His eyes soften just a second later though.
“You think you can go back to sleep, or…”
Verso shakes his head in answer. Gustave simply hums in acknowledgement, having expected it.
“Come then.”
Gustave pulls Verso by his hand out of the bed - so used to being woken up by Verso’s or his own nightmares that it has become a habit for them to step outside. On the rooftop, beneath the stars, no dome between them.
If those nightmares are the price for having this - their half-naked bodies entangled on a blanket they spread on the rooftop, gazing at the beauty of this world side by side till they’ve fallen into a dreamless sleep - then they both would call it worth it. Each and every night.
this post will find you when it needs to find you.
just some facts: you are loved. you are not alone. you are valuable. you are worthy of good things. you are deserving of self love and forgiveness. i’m glad you’re still here.
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For the writing game!! Throwing this one back in your direction as it's so delicious, but I'd love some dom!Verso/sub!Gustave aftercare if you wanted to write it.
Ahhhh, thank you so much for this prompt and sending this along for the writing requests game!! It actually helped me scratch a very particular itch I've had for a minute now hehe. 🥹❤️
The room was quiet save for the sound of their ragged breathing—quite a change from earlier on.
Verso had been treated to the sound of his lover's cries the entire night—breathy moans, broken pleading, and desperate whines—and now Gustave was mumbling, "Thank you, Sir," beneath his breath, voice gone from how vocal he'd been earlier.
Indeed, Gustave had sung for him beautifully tonight.
"You've done so well," Verso murmured, and despite all that had happened tonight, he could still feel the full body shudder that ran through his partner at the praise. "You're so good for me, Gustave. So good."
Better than he deserved.
Verso often wondered why Gustave hadn't cut ties with him entirely that snowy day in December. How had that led to this? How had that led to the peace that he felt now in his heart? How had that single night led to a happiness that Verso had never thought he'd ever find again?
Each scene where they came together was one more than Verso thought himself worthy of, but he would ever strive to be deserving of Gustave—Gustave who currently had his arm folded behind his back, hand clenched in a fist. Verso's fingers tangled in those messy curls, pressing Gustave's head into the sheets, and he carefully eased off of him. As his fingers drew away from his scalp, they skated back toward his nape and teased against the leather collar secured there, beautiful against the pale column of Gustave's throat.
His. Gustave was his.
The thought still sent a shiver of delight down his spine all these years later.
"Careful now." Verso caught the wince that flashed across Gustave's flushed face as he shifted his arm to relax against the sheets after having been stuck in the same position for so long. Their play had been particularly intense tonight, given that Verso had just returned to Paris today after being away in Marseille for two weeks to perform, and while he knew that they both wanted this—needed this—Verso could not hide his concern.
Gustave's legs trembled slightly as they struggled to keep his hips lifted, and when Verso shifted his other hand from where it had settled against his hip, he could see the start of some bruising from where he'd grasped too hard. With care, Verso withdrew, drawing a soft whimper from Gustave, and he made a soft shushing sound as his hand smoothed over his reddened backside.
Carefully, he straightened, fingertips brushing along sweat-slick skin to soothe rather than to inflame this time. "Alright, mon amour?" he asked, his voice a low rasp. Verso kept his gaze upon his partner's face, and there was the slightest nod. "Hold on now…"
Verso crawled up the bed to settle at Gustave's side, and after looping an arm around his middle, he tugged him down, nestling up behind him. They were both still overheated, hot and sweaty, but neither of them minded; neither of them wanted to even entertain the idea of separating, if the way his partner pressed back against him was any sign. Verso pressed a soft kiss to Gustave's shoulder, and he smiled when he felt the low hum of approval from his lover.
"I'll clean us up in a moment. Get us some water." The words were all but whispered into Gustave's skin, his voice soft enough to be barely audible. Verso let his eyes fall shut, and he breathed in deep the scent of them; he'd missed this, missed them. Being here in their bed centered something that had felt off the entire time he had been away; it was as if this scene had finally allowed him to feel at home.
Though the masks he wore these days were more delicate and showed the world more of his true self, Gustave was still the only person in his life who really got to see him as he was. His lover had earned that right a thousand times over after seeing him at his lowest and trusting him over and over again.
Merde, he loved Gustave.
His hand skated down his partner's arm, testing the tired muscle, and when he got down to his hand, Verso caught it and twined their fingers together. The motion was as natural as breathing—something so simple but so hard-earned.
"Was I—"
"You were perfect."
Verso chuckled softly at the gentle slur of Gustave's words. His lover shifted slightly—just enough to look at Verso—and an unguarded smile pulled at his lips; that glassy look was still in his eyes, and he appeared ethereal with his hair a mess and his cheeks pink with arousal and exertion.
"Thank you." A hint of mischief colored his voice. "Sir."
Verso fondly rolled his eyes and brushed the hair out of his lover's eyes.
There was more gray now compared to when they first slept together, but that was just proof that they had made it, that they had persisted despite all that life had thrown at them: they had lived. Besides, Verso only thought it made Gustave all the more handsome.
Keeping the one hand linked, Verso snaked his free one toward Gustave's throat, fingers gentle against the skin, before brushing against the collar again—this time with purpose.
"Wait—"
Verso stilled.
"Not yet." He could feel the bob of Gustave's Adam's apple. "Leave it for a little longer."
"Alright."
Gustave moved again, twisting enough to rest his shoulders against the mattress, and Verso shifted to accommodate. Warm fingers brushed against his chest, his neck, and then his cheek; dark eyes darted down to his lips. Before his lover could even ask, Verso was already leaning in, kissing him—slow and deep, filled with an affection he had once thought himself incapable of anymore.
In a few minutes, he would get up. Verso would clean the two of them up and get them some water like he had promised; he would give Gustave a massage and see if there was anything that needed to be treated—with ice or ointment or a kiss. There was a list of things that he would take care of in a moment, but right now, all they wanted was to be held and to hold.
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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.
