he/him. Expect fandom stuff (The Witcher, Dragon Age, Mass Effect...), fashion, egyptology, linguistics, and the occasional fanfic about my sad-sack blorbos falling in love with each other. Sometimes NSFW. Here's my series on Japanese colors. I'm also on Ao3.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Verso/Julie
Chapter: 6/? (8,000 words; 34k total)
Rating: M
Tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror, Self-Harm, Betrayal, Doomed Relationship, Catharsis, Bittersweet Ending
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
Chapter 6: Cœurs disloqués
Julie struggles to find her purpose in Lumière while Verso is busy working on the shield dome, but talks of a search-and-recue mission change that.
Excerpt:
The streets of Lumière were a strange juxtaposition of hope and grief, the two stacked together like bricks everywhere I looked. Residences were gathered around the city centre, away from the water and any Nevrons that might crawl out of it, and a task force patrolled the perimeter until more permanent security measures were in place. The central square was the backdrop for countless reunions and memorials, messages plastered over every spare inch by people hoping to track down their loved ones. I looked in vain for names I recognized, even put up a note of my own in case someone I knew happened upon it.
Yet despite the collective grief permeating every corner of the city, people were still trying to build a life here. Tomorrow comes, I suppose.
I might have gotten used to it in time, but what I remember most vividly is the profound sense of dislocation I felt there. Not from the crooked Eiffel Tower, the crumbling buildings wrapped in spikes of chroma, the sea lapping at the torn-out heart of my home city. No, the worst was the familiar: I’d see a statue I knew, a street corner I’d walked before, and I’d be transported back through time and space—back to the continent, back to before, when the world was still whole and simple and perfect.
Then I’d be back a heartbeat later, always feeling like I’d left another piece of myself behind.
Nevertheless, our time there was … oddly pleasant, brief though it was. People looked up to you and Renoir for the role you two played in mounting the city’s initial defences and organizing the first expedition. That was likely the only reason we got to move into one of the few buildings still standing: a small apartment that would have been lovely but for its north-facing windows and its view of the Paintress, where your father spent much of his time, deep in thought. It was a bit cramped between the four of us, but after months in the opulent rooms of the Dessendre manor, I liked the coziness. It was a relief to simply hear footsteps above my head or outside voices floating through the windows—to know that wherever I was, I wasn’t alone.
We spent those first few days there tracking down the families of the fallen Expedition Zero members. No small feat, considering the chaos that still reigned over the city. I helped as best I could, but you insisted on meeting them on your own to extend your condolences and hand them the armbands of their loved ones.
I know you: how much, how deeply you care. I didn’t have to be there to know you’d willingly made yourself the target of their sorrow, their anger, their blame. Every time you came back home raw and exhausted from carrying the grief of strangers; you did your best to hide it, but it didn’t work. Not with me. I could see it in the line of your shoulders, the tension at the corners of your mouth, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Verso/Julie
Chapter: 5/? (5,400 words; 26,6k total)
Rating: M
Tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror, Self-Harm, Betrayal, Doomed Relationship, Catharsis, Bittersweet Ending
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
Interlude : Requiem pour la Vieille Lumière
What’s left of Expedition Zero returns; Verso and Julie reunite, then stop by the Gestral River on their way to the new Lumière.
Excerpt:
My second ride on Esquie’s back was nothing like the magical moment you and I shared months ago. From this vantage point, we could see it all: the fractured continent, the scattered pieces of the islands surrounding the Monolith, the floating shards of earth Esquie had to circumvent while flying. Every time I started wrapping my mind around the destruction, I was once again dazed by its sheer scale.
Alicia hadn’t left the safety of the manor until now, and as we rose in the air and took in the new shape of the world, her grip tightened around my hand. Even I was tempted to look away, but instead I kept my eyes fixed on the ground scrolling beneath us, searching for signs of Expedition Zero.
Even with Esquie’s help, it took us the better part of a day to track you down. The wavering smoke ribbon of your campfire was what led us to you: we were looking for an expedition, but what we found were two survivors, alive but no less transformed.
Esquie descended towards the jagged edge of the island, flapping his arms; I spotted you running towards us and screamed your name. I bounced off Esquie’s belly in my hurry to disembark, and crashed into your arms.
“You’re here. You’re here,” you whispered on a shaky breath—or in hindsight, perhaps you were saying you’re real.
I pulled away just enough to take in your appearance. “Verso, your hair.”
I cupped your face in my trembling hands: your features were handsome as ever, if a little drawn and sharper than I remembered, and the familiar warmth of your skin under the prickle of your beard was comforting. But your hair had turned white—white as flour, or sugar, or the snow capping the Grandis mountains. It had grown long enough you’d tied it at the back of your head in a half-bun, and your features stood out even more sharply against the snowy strands framing your face.
“Uh, yeah. Hope you like it,” you said, looking embarrassed.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Verso/Julie
Chapter: 4/6 (5,700 words; 21,2k total)
Rating: M
Tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror, Self-Harm, Betrayal, Doomed Relationship, Catharsis, Bittersweet Ending
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
Lumière never did anything halfway. The members of Expedition Zero had uniforms, pieced together from the innards of disemboweled boutiques the Fracture had spat out all over the ruined city: tailored coats and riding gear, hand-sewn with belts, pockets, and loops for added functionality. The uniforms earned their status as such thanks to accents of purple and gold—and the armbands, of course, those eye-catching strips of metallic silk proudly announcing “0” as if to distract from their grim purpose.
I tied yours around your arm on the morning of your departure, and glimpsed the identifying information stitched on the inside: your name, your age, the address of the manor, where news of your death would be sent if you were to fall during the expedition. I have no idea who called it Expedition Zero or why the name stuck, but I hated it. To me it implied the expedition was nothing more than a trial run of sorts, an experiment expected to fail, and I hated that you were part of this sacrificial slaughter.
You looked good in your uniform, though, which is the best I can say about this whole thing. It was all sharp, neat lines that emphasized your slender build, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. I fussed with the buckles and braided cords, like I could find some key, some secret code that would ensure your safe return.
Now that your departure was imminent, it felt like I’d acquiesced to having some vital organ sliced out of me without so much as ether to numb the pain. Until the last moment I tried to convince myself that I’d recovered enough to join you, but I knew all I’d accomplish would be slowing you down or endangering you.
“I wish I could go with you,” I said, trailing my fingertips along the aiguillettes of your uniform.
You had a sad smile. “I know it’s selfish, but … I’m glad you’re not. You’ll be safer here with Esquie. The most powerful being alive, right?”
“He should be going with you, then.”
I was being unreasonably obstinate, I know. You knew it, too: you took my hand and kissed my knuckles for sole answer. We didn’t say much more than that that morning. Neither of us had gotten any sleep the previous night: we’d kept each other awake, trying to say it all before we ran out of time, committing each other’s taste and body to memory. You said you loved me until the words dissolved to nonsense, and I must have made you promise not to die a hundred times over.
I will give you that: you kept that promise, at least.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Verso/Julie
Chapter: 3/6 (5,300 words; 15,5k total)
Rating: M
Tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror, Betrayal, Doomed Relationship, Catharsis, Bittersweet Ending
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
I woke up to hazy daylight. I’d been asleep for a long time: I rubbed my crusty eyes with one hand, and the twin images of the guestroom floating before my vision slowly merged back together. The pillow was soft under my cheek; dust motes swirled lazily above the bed, and for a fleeting moment the Fracture was nothing but a nightmare.
The armchair had been moved next to the bed. You were asleep, seated with one bare heel propped on the edge of the seat, your forehead resting on your folded knee. Shadows purpled your eyelids, but at least your features looked relaxed. Peaceful. I watched the slow rise and fall of your shoulder, the play of light on the planes of your handsome face. I hesitated to disturb you, but an armchair was hardly the most conducive to restorative sleep, so I attempted to make space for you on the bed.
All my wounds roused with the movement. A lightning fork crackled across my back and shoved me back down against the mattress.
You were at my side in an instant. “Julie. You’re awake.”
I tried to apologize, but my throat was so parched I could barely make a sound. You helped me sit up, then kept your hands on my shoulders to steady me. My neck was stiff after lying prone for so long; my head spun, and I focused on my breathing until the room settled around me again. I reached for the pitcher of water on the bedside table, but my hand felt miles away from my brain, and my arm swept through the air haphazardly. You grabbed the pitcher before I could knock it down, poured me a glass, then brought it to my cracked lips.
I drank in greedy gulps, ignoring the cool drops rolling down my chin. My stomach clenched in protest; I gagged but managed to keep it down.
“Easy,” you said. “Small sips.”
I paced myself despite the burning thirst, sipping the water until the glass was drained. “How … long …”
“You were out for almost two days. I was worried.” You pressed the back of your hand to my forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Been better,” I said.
Your mouth quirked in what might have been a smile if your eyes didn’t look so sad. “There’s more laudanum, if you’d like.”
I agreed to a spoonful. I didn’t like the way it turned my thoughts to shredded cotton, but the pain was still bad enough to endure the side effects and bitter taste. You twisted the cap back on, then put the bottle down and stared at it for a long time, apparently reluctant to face me.
“Julie, I have to tell you something,” you finally said, and just from your tone, I knew. My throat closed up; I shook my head like I could will the words away, silently pleading you not to speak them into reality, but you did anyway. “We, uh … we found Angélique, but … she didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
The lacerated mess of my back was suddenly inconsequential. A sob rose to my lips, and I pressed one hand to my mouth to swallow it back down. “How did she die?” I asked, once I’d found my voice again.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Verso/Julie
Chapter: 2/4 (4,500 words; 10k total)
Rating: M
Fic tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror
Summary:
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
Excerpt:
Fitting, I suppose, that the world should end the day I met your family.
Maman had given me an advance so I could rent a proper gown for the night, and I’d been initially happy with my find: a delicate thing of light green chiffon that matched my eyes and gave life to my dirty blond hair. She stitched silk flowers through my crown braids, applied a little rouge to my lips and cheeks, then gave me a long hug and said she loved me.
I left the house feeling pretty, but the feeling shattered once the Dessendre manor came into view. The stately façade, with its mansard roof and cloister vaults, had the effect of a barrier. The windows looked at me askance from behind their Juliet balconies, and the manicured hedges and topiaries stood tall as guardsmen, ready to escort me away.
I sat in the carriage and watched the guests of your mother’s salon stream into the manor in their jacquard and beaded embroidery, feeling like an utter embarrassment at your side.
You took a few steps towards the manor, then turned when you noticed I wasn’t following you. “Julie?” you asked above the boxes of confectionaries I’d brought.
“What am I doing here?” I asked myself out loud. I considered telling the carriage driver to drop me off at the Gestral Village instead, since I clearly had more in common with them than the people gathered here. “I … I don’t even know anything about painting.”
You laughed. “It’s all bullshit anyway.” You carefully balanced the boxes on your arm, freeing up one hand to take mine. “Come on. I just want to spend tonight with you.”
I took a deep breath and gave your hand a squeeze, then crossed into the beautiful and terrible world of the Dessendres.
While other people are out here dropping Kinktober prompt lists with 9000 stipulations, I bring you this.
It's not a real October event, but it could be if you believe. The prompts are here for anyone to enjoy anyway.
Why "schlock"?
It means trash/junk, and that's the quality of content I'm striving for with these prompts. It's also fun to say.
But, y'know, if you want to take a prompt and turn it into a masterpiece of a whumpy longfic, go for it.
What fandom is this for?
Whatever fandom you want.
What ships can I write/draw?
Any of them.
Even [my fandom's most despised ship]?
Especially [your fandom's most despised ship].
What if I want to combine prompts? What if I want to write or draw things out of order? What if...
Go for it.
Are crossovers okay?
Do. Whatever. You. Want.
What if I want to create something problematic?
Send me the fucking link.
What does [prompt] mean?
You tell me. It's all open to interpretation.
Are there any rules at all?
Sure.
No AI use. If you need an LLM to write your schlock for you, consider a long walk off a short pier. If you need it to do your editing for you, use a beta reader instead. A stick figure drawn on the back of a napkin is better than soulless AI art.
Tag appropriately. 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' means anything goes. 'No Archive Warnings Apply' means your work is guaranteed not to contain any of the major archive warnings (non-con, major character death, graphic violence, or underage sex).
No irl bigotry. Your characters can be problematic as all get out, but if you try to post a weird pro-JK Rowling essay or something you're not going in the collection, bud. Don't kill the vibes.
What are the vibes?
Just have fun.
But other people are having fun wrong!
Shut the fuck up.
Are you going to be doing this?
Probably not.
How do I participate?
There's an ao3 collection right here:
Schlocktober on ao3
Otherwise, just hashtag #schlocktober or something, idk. I don't expect anyone to actually do this.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter: 1/3 (5,700 words)
Rating: M
Fic tags: Romance, Angst, Sexual Content, Canonical Character Death, Injury, Torture, Grief/Mourning, Depression, Body Horror
Summary:
What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart?
And what man claims to still love her afterwards?
What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso, but there is so little time.
Excerpt:
Here’s the thing about chroma: it never truly is gone.
It always remains part of this canvas, to be mixed again with new pigments into new colours: the carmine of your blood, the indigo of your moods, the foul bone char of your heart. Which means so do I.
Your Paintress mother doesn’t even have to bring me back. I will always be with you, Verso.
But you know that already, don’t you? I know you feel me there, in the negative space of unpainted memories. When you cry in your sleep and pull me back to you at night. When you talk to me and wait for the silence to answer. When you fuck her and see my face layered over hers: bloody, unseeing, the way I looked when you laid me to rest under the same tree where she buried her friend.
How I wish you’d been some typical Lumièran asshole. Who’d break my heart in some trite, boring way. Who’d cheat on me, or knock me up and run for the hills, or break up with me for some eligible demoiselle to keep Papa dearest happy. But no, you had to be Verso Dessendre, with every fucked up thing that comes with the name.
To be fair, no one knew what that meant back then. Not even you. I know that now. And the question I keep coming back to is this: if we painted things aren’t real, then it follows that our love never was. But if we are, then ...
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