#asaara writes

[asaara-writes]

What woman carves a window to her lover’s bare, beating heart? And what man claims to still love her afterwards?

sooo stoked to share this cover I commissioned from @pauvre-lola / @lolavagabonde for my Verso/Julie fic, À cœurs démasqués (which I finally just updated again after an involuntary hiatus!).

Lola was a delight to work with -- I've been a huge fan of theirs for ages, and I'm so happy to see my doomed babes in their wonderful art style. thank you, thank you <3<3<3

[makkuromurasaki]

Commission piece of @asaara-writes ‘s OC Lizzie Oslow Hayes commissioned by @nelsynoo ❤

Commission info / Ko-fi

[theartofblossoming]

Congrats to @asaara-writes for winning First Prize in the 600 Followers Raffle!

[bardic-inspo]

18, 20 and/or 25, please and thank you!

Thanks for the ask! 18. Unpopular opinion? I know this is in large part because it is a video game and you need to progress the story and give the player character agency in the game and in the factions, but I think it’s sort of...wrong of the Minutemen and even Preston (sorry buddy!) to ask/make SoSu general right away. I don’t think they’re bad for doing it, and I can completely understand the rationale. They just fled the Quincey massacre, they’re all that’s left, and this stranger from 200 years ago came out of cryostasis and saved them. Not only that, but led them somewhere safe to recoup and rebuild. And with what we know of Preston’s heartbreaking backstory, it makes complete sense that he has more faith in that figure to guide them rather than himself. I’ll also mention, my canon SoSu doesn’t have a military background, so I’ll give the grain of salt that this mysterious savior being former military might make this make more sense. But...I think maybe in that moment, SoSu isn’t being seen as a person, but as a figure. So often through the game, SoSu is cast as this hero with so much potential. But they’re grieving! And reeling! And not at all used to the violent world around them! Foisting leadership and others’ welfare on that person off the bat? It doesn’t seem...like a fair thing to do. But again, I don’t really blame or think less of Preston/the MM for doing it. I think maybe a cooler story would be helping the Minutemen and along the way, helping Preston realize he’s the leader the MM needs after all. And maybe being his second in command or something. 20. Favorite faction? The Railroad! The codenames, the stealth, and the subterfuge just really appeal to me. On top of that, you have Deacon and Glory and Tinker Tom, and a full cast of really rich NPCs who are mysteries in and of themselves. And I do really sympathize for the synths and how they’re treated in the Commonwealth and inside the Institute. Saving them seems a worthy cause. I think the Railroad is sort of....self-aware of their own moral “grayness”. Like, they believe their cause is just, but as Deacon sort of tells you, everyone peddles their own bullshit. They are willing to use dubious methods for their cause, but...I don’t think they sugarcoat it. And, there is internal debate and discussion about which synths to save and how to go about doing things. It feels a little more democratic than the BoS hierarchy.  25. Which character are you most like? Answered here. :) [Fallout Ask Meme]

[asaara-writes]

Flames: flickering drops of heat, like Christmas lights and icy Paris streets glistening under lampposts. “Joyeux anniversaire, sœurette,” your brother says, squeezing your shoulders, palms hot. He will be dead before midnight, but you blew out your candles and now the only fire is crackling in the hearth, heating the dogs’ fur, lighting up the flames in your sister’s your mother’s your hair. Fire, laughter, burnished golden reds: oh, you strange Cinderella, what’s in a name? Alicia Dessendre, born to burn, burned to cinders, initials embossed on the beribboned leather-bound notebook tucked amidst your presents. You retire to your room, tongue still sweet with birthday cake, verses swirling in your brain, and there you put pen to paper, flint to steel, oil to fire.

Flames: you fling the notebook but the fire clings to the fire of your hair, clings to words and words are everywhere. The books on the shelves, the longhand drafts in the drawer, the typewriter and its untapped (untyped) potential, the vibrations of your vocal cords, and if you thought you were not being heard now, just wait until your voice is gone. You scream, but your pleas are an accelerant, a conduit; the fire leaps between vowels and syllables to your lips to your tongue to your throat, kissing you, licking you, and you think, wildly, why such words for flames? Why did your first have to be an inferno?

Flames: smothered by Verso’s suit jacket, smoky sandalwood scent on the lapels. “You’re okay,” your brother says, palms hot, palms blistered with burns; he’s there (of course he is) here’s there but then he’s not, but you’re okay (you’re not) you’re okay. You’re not.

[asaara-writes]

a Paris Clea & Verso ficlet, this time for performance / identity / mask:

“You seem a bit down,” Clea pointed out, looking away from her canvas to cast a glance over her shoulder. She’d moved her easel into Verso’s piano room to make the most of his brief time back at the manor, but her garrulous brother was uncharacteristically quiet now.

He was currently hunched over the keyboard of his piano without touching the keys. “Do I?” he mumbled, not even sparing a glance in her direction.

She dabbed the bristles of her brush in paint and deepened the shadows on her canvas. “Mm-hm. Nowhere near as annoying as usual.”

That got a snort out of him at least. “Why, thank you, sister dear. I shall endeavour to be more of a pain in the ass.” So saying, he hauled himself off his piano, then wandered over to swirl one fingertip in the paints on her palette and poke her cheek.

Clea clicked her tongue and swatted his hand, but it was half-hearted: she much preferred the obnoxious Verso to this strange, new, brooding Verso. “You can talk to me, you know,” she said softly, wiping the paint off her cheek with the cuff of her sleeve. An ultramarine streak joined the colourful stains on the ratty old shirt. “Do I need to punch some other pianist at the Conservatory?”

Verso chuckled again, which she took as a small victory, then rocked anxiously on the balls of his feet for a beat or two. “Promise you won’t tell Maman and Papa?”

Clea twisted around to look at him properly this time, one eyebrow raised, but he was facing away from her now, cleaning his hand with a rag. It had only been a few short years since she’d been his age; she remembered all too well having problems she most definitely did not want to share with their parents. “Of course not. Can’t promise I won’t hold it over your head once in a while, though.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he was intently focused scratching paint from under his fingernail. There was a thin crease between his eyebrows that hadn’t been there the last time he was home. “I, uh. I slept with someone,” he finally said. “A couple of someones, actually.”

“Oh.” Clea blinked. Well, you asked, didn’t you? she reminded herself. “Never mind a punch, they deserve a medal,” she said, trying not to dwell on the idea of her baby brother having sex.

“Ha ha,” Verso said dryly, tossing the rag at her. “Very funny.”

She blocked the rag with the underside of her palette. “You’re being careful, though, right?” she said, jabbing her paintbrush in his direction. “And … discreet?”

“Of course,” he scoffed. “Unlike what you seem to think, I’m not completely stupid.” He picked the rag off the floor and tucked it into the easel drawer. “I just … I feel like that’s all they want, and all they think I want, you know?”

“And … you want more, is that it?”

Verso had a very eloquent shrug. “I guess. It’s like it never even occurs to them I could want more than a fling. Like they just expect me to be some kind of … some kind of rake,” he finished with a wince, like that was the worst thing he could think of being.

He had those pale, sad eyes as he spoke, and Clea willed herself to put a hold on the teasing. Instead she forced herself to look at him anew: he was her annoying little brother and always would be, but even she had to admit he’d grown into his looks over the past year or two. His ears no longer looked ridiculously outsized on his head, and that peach fuzz on his chin had turned into a trim beard worthy of the name. She was suddenly struck by how much he looked like Papa did on his older photographs and portraits.

Verso would be quite the catch at the Conservatory.

And there’s a thought.

Of course, only her brother would bemoan his new-found good looks and sexual desirability. Clea added some carmine to her mix of paints as she wet her lips, trying to put words to her own experiences. “I tried the whole ‘love’ thing,” she started after a moment, “but … they usually ended up wanting more than I’m willing—or able—to give. At first I thought it was on them to check their feelings, but eventually I realized it wasn’t fair of me.”

Verso chuckled bitterly. “If only we could trade places, huh?”

She put down her palette and spun on her stool to look at him. “Verso, what I’m trying to say is that it’s okay to be selfish when it comes to these things. I know you. You don’t have to settle for less than what you want to please others.” She chuckled and shook her head, feeling her face warm. She never thought she’d see the day when she’d be dispensing love advice to her brother, of all things. “I mean, unless you do end up sleeping with them. Then for the love of God, do make an effort to please them. I’d better not hear anything about my brother being a selfish lover.”

He let out an embarrassed chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, then tilted his head to the side and considered her, and she knew he too was seeing her in a new light. “And about that last part … do you have any advice?”

Clea laughed and turned back to her painting again. “I’m not giving my brother sex tips. At least not sober.”

Verso’s laughter joined hers, and he closed his arms around her from behind in a warm, tight hug. “Thanks, Clea. You’re the best.”

Clea rolled her eyes. “Of course I am,” she said, giving his elbow a squeeze.

[asaara-writes]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aline Dessendre & every member of the Paris and painted Dessendre families Additional Tags: Angst, Family, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Son Relationship, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Character Study, Relationship Study Summary:

tétraptyque \te.tʁap.tik\

a. A work consisting of four painted panels that are hinged together.

b. A set of four related works, as in photography, painting, or literature.

Aline paints portraits of her family.

[asaara-writes]

Asaara’s COE33 fanfic masterpost!!

life got in the way so I had to put my chaptered versulie fic on hold for a while; I did write a few exchange gift fics and one-shots in the meantime, so I thought I’d gather all my E33 fic into a single post!

general

catimini: a little ficlet inspired by the DLC, in which a young Verso visits his Canvas in secret. Verso, Esquie, Aline; fluff, family, friendship; G, 1,700 words, 1/1.

reflet repeint | tnieper telfer: Verso is dead, which means he’s at least spared knowing the fate of his Canvas, but that doesn’t mean Clea has to watch it happen. Clea, pClea, Verso; grief, angst, anger; T, 1,500 words, 1/1.

sous le gui: Monoco helps Verso decorate his so-called house for the holiday season … which proves more of a challenge than anticipated. Verso, Monoco, Noco; fluff, humour, bromance; G, 2,000 words, 1/1.

tétraptyque: Aline paints portraits of her family. Aline, Verso, and the painted Dessendres; grief, angst, family; T, 3,750 words, 1/1.

verso/julie

à coeurs démasqués: What remains of Julie’s chroma tries to reach out to Verso before the canvas is destroyed. romance, angst, doomed relationship; M, 35,000 words, 6/?, ongoing.

motifs a cappella: Five times Julie sang for Verso, and one time she didn’t. romance, fluff, angst; T, 1,700 words, 1/1.

petit bourgeon: A pregnant Julie must contend with the expectations of carrying the newest addition to the Dessendre family. fluff, family, pregnancy; G, 2,250 words, 1/1.

piano à quatre mains: Verso and Julie spend the night together for the first time. romance, fluff, smut; E, 5,200 words, 1/1.

première danse: Verso asks Julie for a dance at the Lumière harbour festival, inspired by @lialivingart’s lovely artwork. fluff, romance, first dance; G, 600 words, 1/1.

un train vers de nouveaux souvenirs: Julie and Verso enjoy a train ride to the Frozen Hearts, and make the most of it when their ski day takes an unexpected turn. romance, fluff, winter; T, 3,200 words, 1/1.