#writing game

[writeblrsummerfest]

Alright, we're all going to have to walk. No phones. No directions. Just endless roads. Your characters probably travel to a few different places, right?

Reblog this story and share a little bit about one of the locations in your current wip!

This can be somewhere the characters go, where they're trying to get, a forest, a mountain, a town or village, a favorite coffee shop or an altar! Any kind of location will do!

Share an excerpt, chat about it, or even drop a moodboard!

[walrusface]

for the writing game!

Verso and Gustave kiss for the first time after arguing? Maybe after a life-or-death situation? 👀

Thank you so much for the prompt! They're so snarky with each other, I love them. This is for the writing game over here [note: my ask box is now closed for new requests]

"It was reckless."

"It was necessary."

"You got hurt."

"And I survived," Gustave snaps back.

Verso is fighting hard not to roll his eyes in response. "We don't need you to throw yourself into danger every two seconds. Running head-first at every nevron you see isn't helping anyone."

"Right. I forgot. Because that's your job, isn't it?" Gustave asks, taking a step closer. His face is still scratched up and bruised from the beating he took; he's covered in mud, and Verso wishes he could say it looked awful. "You can't stand there and lecture me about recklessness, Verso. You take the trophy on that front."

"I'm immortal," Verso snaps, the indignation bursting from him before he can clamp down on it. "And in case I need to remind you: you're not."

He's trying not to think about Stone Wave Cliffs and the decision he nearly made up there; he's trying not to think about how close that particular brush with death had been. It's still something that Verso can't sleep without seeing behind his closed eyes - and he hates, he hates, that it doesn't seem to have slowed Gustave down at all.

"Oh, believe me, I know I'm not," Gustave laughs, devoid of any humour. He stalks closer to Verso, so close that Verso can see the scattering of freckles on his face, and the faint scar hidden by his beard.

He's so close that Verso can't help his eyes from falling down to Gustave's mouth and back, and that is not a distraction that he needs right now.

"We have a mission, Verso," Gustave insists. "Me and the others, we've got one year - one shot at this, just one. Not all of us get an endless cycle of redos. So, yeah, I'm not immortal. And that's why I have to do this."

Verso's eyes narrow: he thinks about shaking Gustave, or shoving him, or maybe throwing a punch and adding to Gustave's existing collection of cuts and bruises.

Why does Maelle's guardian have to be the most frustrating man in existence?

"Why is it so impossible for you to fall back for once?" Verso snaps.

"Oh, right," Gustave says, dripping with so much sarcasm that his words might as well be made from acid. "I forgot. We're supposed to fall in-line for our new leader, aren't we?"

"I'm not trying to be a 'leader'." Verso knows better than that: it's better to nudge from the back ranks than put a target on his back. "I'm trying to stop you all from getting yourselves killed."

"Great. And when I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"Fuck. Gustave, would you listen for once?" Verso snaps.

But he's not ready for it when Gustave actually stops. He's not ready for the expectant tilt of Gustave's head, like a challenge; he's not ready for the quirk of Gustave's eyebrows like a warning that Verso's next words better be something actually worth listening to.

Something like frustration bubbles up inside him.

Something like need.

And Verso might mean to shove at Gustave, or he might mean to throw a punch, or he might mean to storm away - but what he does instead is grab for him, frantically, desperately, needily.

He reaches for Gustave, hands planted on either side of Gustave's face as he closes the space between them aggressively, smashing them together in a kiss that might be as welcome as his fist.

Gustave braces himself at first, tense and ready for a fight; Verso can feel the way that Gustave stumbles against him as he flinches at the first brutal contact of Verso's lips - and then, worse than the flinch, he freezes up entirely. There's not a twitch of movement, only the heated feeling of Gustave's motionless lips against his own, and the bristle of Gustave's stubble beneath his hands.

Verso's heart is hammering in a way that it hasn't for decades. The adrenaline rush is stronger than anything a nevron fight has ever sent his way.

But then, stronger than that, sweeter than that, better than that - Gustave melts.

Gustave jolts out of his frozen shock with a quiet moan, the sound almost lost against Verso's mouth. One hand snaps up to the back of Verso's head, fingers tangling messily in his black hair, while the metal hand entangles itself in the front of Verso's shirt to hold him close.

Their lips part, the kiss deepens, and Verso forgets how it all started - but, in that blurry space between one kiss and the next, Gustave breaks away just enough to try and speak.

"Just for the record," Gustave pants against Verso's mouth, "I'm still right."

Verso laughs against his lips, a warm puff of sound, before he closes the gap and kisses him again - determined that, by the end of the night, he'll make sure Gustave can no longer remember what they were arguing about.

[sonata-in-ink]

Sending you two- one is fairly normal and the other is absolutely ridiculous and inspired by our recent conversation about summer weather in the midwest. 🤭

-The Long Forgotten

-Tornado Soup

Go ahead and run with whichever one speaks to you. Or both. 😁

The Long Forgotten - Hmm, I'm getting post-apocalyptic or dystopian vibes from this one. Oh, I've got it! A society on some far off planet collapses after a long war (idk name of said planet yet lol) and out of it's ashes rises another society, erasing any trace of the old one. An archeologist uncovers remnants of their people's past - and opens up a whole can of worms.

Tornado Soup - A midwesterner's guide on surviving tornado season. 😂

Thank you very much these -- I had so much fun thinking about what ideas could go with those titles!!

[drakesfortune67]

WIP Wednesday!!! Thank you so much @zombiearmor for the tag!!! I've been working on a few more of the writing game prompts recently, as well as a couple of longer fics! This one is an Alan/Renoir snippet from a one shot that was SUPPOSED to be short, sweet, and fluffy, but evolved into a [wonderful] monster of its own and is now a bit of hurt/comfort that I'm hoping will have a really sweet ending!

Alan hummed to himself as he drew closer, hoping a familiar voice and the smell of warm tea, berries, and honey could be enough to pull Renoir from his work without startling him. He set the pot of tea and two cups on the tray table beside his partner, slowly filling each of them and nudging the bowl of fresh fruit into his line of sight. Renoir hesitated, his hand freezing over the canvas for a brief moment before blue and white paint returned to the edges of his eyes. "Mon amourrrrrr, it's time to stop painting." He purred, wrapping his arms around Renoir's shoulders and holding him close. Alan kissed the top of his head, leaning over the older man and trailing gentle fingers up and down his arms in an attempt to ground him back to reality. "If you can hear me in there, I made you something to drink. Black tea with peaches and cinnamon, just how you like it. Can you come share it with me?" This had to work. Alan needed it to more than he needed air in his lungs. This man was everything to him, and was terrified of losing him to a Canvas. He wasn't like Aline, he didn't understand how chroma worked, and his ink would never be a viable option. If Renoir got stuck, he wouldn't be able to pull him out, not without hurting him. Alan loved him with everything in his heart and so much more, and he could only hope that what he was doing was enough. "Ren?" Alan choked, the air burning his lungs with every breath he took. He watched his lover's arm twitch, the paint-stained brush falling to the floor as chromatic tears fell from his cheeks. "Come back to me, please."

Tagging @winter-of-tomorrow, @anivy-chan, @alucereus, @einradi, and @princessesaphi if you guys want to play! No pressure though!

[thesockguy]

fun writing game to do if your bored and you really just have nothing else to do

Write a bad video game creepypasta

Make sure when writing it the grammar is bad. Make sure it isn't actually scary.

You definitely want to make sure the main character is insane and their priority are absolutely in the wrong place.

You probably also want them overreacting to how bad what's going on in the game, or underreacting to what's happening

Bonus points if you say Hyper realistic, or if it about Sonic.

[amellderiva]

WIP Wednesday

(on an actual Wednesday, no less!)

Thank you so much for the tag, @fenrelmercar ! It's so lovely to see you being active again (said in the least pressuring way possible, I swear!) ❤️

I'm kinda feeling that awkward "I don't want to be perceived" sensation because it's been so long since I last did one of these -- life has very much been life-ing, and my writing (both in terms of quality and quantity) has definitely suffered because of it, but I'm trying to ease myself back into it.

I've mostly avoided writing Solrook, partly because my hyperfixation had started to ebb, and partly because I was worried I'd end up tainting it with my bad mood. But then one of my random writing exercises decided to grow wings and become a (gosh, hopefully) short fic, and I'm actually pretty satisfied with what I have of it so far, so, here's a little excerpt from my (poor attempt at a) gothic, vampire!Solas/hunter!Rook thingy:

“I have heard,” she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the treacherous trembling of her breath, “that fear lends blood a bitter flavor; one your kind need to learn to appreciate. If there’s truth in such tales, I’d advise haste, for my courage is deserting me at a truly alarming rate.” She attempted to tilt her head in reluctant offering, exposing the line of her throat already marred by the fading remnants of old bites. Such wounds, left behind by undead mouths, never healed quite properly; they lingered upon the skin like old nightmares taken form. But the iron grip upon her refused even that small gesture of control. Behind her, Solas remained unnervingly silent. His chest nether rose nor fell; his body stood so motionless, it might as have been carved from marble. He had no need of breath, and whatever rested within his chest in place of a beating heart might just as easily have been stone. Swallowing, feeling the delicate bones of her throat shift beneath the hand that held her life so casually captive, Rook forced herself onward. “I have also been informed, that my blood is considered exceptionally fine.” The claim was, admittedly, a fabrication. No vampire who had tasted it had survived long enough to offer commentary upon the matter. Still, none had had the time to complain about it either. “I confess I find your claim entirely believable, Miss de Riva,” Solas answered at last, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. His lips moved somewhere near her hair – so close she fancied she could feel the faint disturbance of his words brush against it – and the sensation was so deeply repulsive that it nearly made her gag. “But,” he continued softly, “I believe this is rather an indecorous hour for dinner, would you not agree?” Indignation, hotter than the flames she had failed to conjure moments before, licked up her spine. For one blessed moment, it devoured fear entirely. “I should think,” she bit out, wriggling against his hold to no effect, “that dining would be the least indecorous act a man might contemplate after entering a lady’s bedchamber uninvited, in the dead of night.” It seemed anger rendered her remarkably less inclined toward a graceful death. Her gaze swept the room quickly in search of a weapon, an opportunity, or – if fortune proved unusually generous – both. The low chuckle that escaped him sent the fine hairs upon her arms rising. “I understand your implication quite well, Miss de Riva,” Solas said. “And once more, I apologize for the unconventional nature of my visit. Nevertheless, I assure you that the only thing I seek is conversation. You are perfectly safe in my company – in every sense of the word.”

Very gently probing-tags for @myheartdreams @idunnaldwir @the-wolfs-ravensong @virevas @missriggie & anyone who'd like to participate :3

[walrusface]

For the writing game - Domso/substave aftercare after a particularly rough (but fun!) session? :3

Thank you so much for the prompt, Nyoom - I can never resist an excuse to write some more domestic dom!Verso. This is for the writing game over here [note: my ask box is now closed for new requests]

This is all very cuddly & PG-13, but I'll pop it under a cut just in case.

Gustave aches.

It's the kind of satisfying full-body soreness that tells him that tomorrow is going to be hell: tomorrow, he'll have welts that sting, and bruises that throb, and if the tenderness around his throat is any indication he'll have a handprint on his neck that he'll need to hide behind his shirt collar.

For tonight, the pain is fresh - and it barely registers in the face of Gustave's bone-deep satisfaction. He sinks deep into the pillow, lying on his front with his face half-buried. His eyes are shut, but he isn't sleeping: he's listening to the hushed sounds of Verso moving around behind him, pulling the sheets up over their bare waists.

Verso's hands carefully glide up Gustave's back. From the way that Verso stops and lingers at different spots, Gustave can tell that he's cataloguing the damage left behind: careful, thorough, precise. His fingers are as gentle now as they were rough before. As skilled as Verso is at taking him to pieces, he's equally skilled at putting him back together.

"This one's going to hurt," Verso murmurs as his fingers trace a raised line on Gustave's back, a mark that Gustave knows was left behind by Verso's belt. Without opening his eyes, he braces himself for what might come next; it feels like checking for the signs of an on-coming storm, for any hints that Verso might be doubting himself or diving into a sea of blame and disgust. "Stay like that. Don't move."

Gustave opens his eyes and shifts his head anyway, glancing over his shoulder to get a better look at his boyfriend. Pressed against him, Verso is still naked and gorgeous, his dark hair loosely tied back out of his face while a couple of white strands have crept out to drape around his face. He's still a sweat-soaked mess - but there's a spark of amusement in his eyes as he catches Gustave looking.

It still makes Gustave's heart flip, even after all this time: the sight of Verso peaceful and relaxed; the rare genuine smile on Verso's face; the soft affection that lives in the depths of those blue eyes.

If there's a storm brewing - blame or disgust or recrimination - it's a well-hidden one. This feels like shelter.

"I thought I said not to move," Verso protests, as he leans down to press a gentle kiss against Gustave's back. His lips make contact just above the sharpest mark he left behind: it's like a whisper of an unspoken apology, one that Gustave doesn't want or need.

Gustave shuffles on the bed to see him better, his thighs protesting with the movement and his stomach-muscles getting in on the action to object as well. Some time soon he'll need to rouse himself properly: if he asks nicely, Verso might draw a bath for him. If he asks really nicely, Verso might even get in there with him. And if he asks really, really nicely, he might be able to persuade Verso to wash his hair for him, those clever fingers massaging his scalp while Gustave gets to soak in the warm heat and wait to feel human again.

But, for now, moving at all feels like a challenge for the future. For now, all he wants to do is rest on his stomach and let Verso dote on him a little longer.

Verso's attention drifts to the other red stripes on his back, pressing kiss after kiss onto Gustave's skin until he reaches his nape. Verso's bare chest presses against Gustave's back, followed by the heated brush of his breath against Gustave's neck. Gustave's cheeks begin to heat up, even now, even after everything, at the full-body memory of how Verso feels against him.

"We went hard tonight," Verso says - and while Gustave finds himself instinctively searching for guilt or regret in Verso's voice, he finds nothing but satisfaction. A heavy sigh floats from between Gustave's lips when Verso presses a kiss against his shoulder, breathing against an earlier bite-mark. "I could help? If you want….?"

Verso doesn't put it into words, but his clever fingers brush against one of the welts left behind by his belt. The thought lingers in the open between them, the promise of the abilities that Gustave has only seen Verso pull out in battle: he's watched Verso twist the chroma of the canvas to transfer afflictions and pain to himself, and he's personally witnessed Verso make a mockery of his immortality to protect the people he cares about.

But now? Here?

Gustave grunts unhappily, and wriggles a little beneath Verso's weight. Verso is lithe enough that Gustave could probably throw him off with little difficulty if he really wanted to - so this is all for show, just a squirm to register his discontent. "Don't you dare," he grumbles, while he feels Verso burying a smirk against the skin of his shoulder. "They're mine. I earned every one."

It would only take a flicker of chroma for Verso to transfer the bruises or marks to himself - and his immortality would take care of it from there, wiping him clean the way it erases all other damage on the surface. All these hard-won marks would vanish into the canvas as if they never existed.

Gustave wriggles enough to finally flip himself over onto his back underneath Verso, recognising the way that Verso lifts himself up enough to make it easier for Gustave to move. He lies on his back, his marks pressed roughly against the sheets, as he looks up into Verso's blue eyes and doesn't flinch.

"Mine," he says stubbornly - and he doesn't know if he's talking about those marks, or if he's talking about Verso, but he thinks he might mean both.

"Yours," Verso agrees, his ice-blue eyes turning warm in a way that makes Gustave want to start grinning all over again.

He reaches up and brushes some of the fallen strands of white hair out of Verso's face, tucking them behind Verso's ear instead. Verso nuzzles against the palm of his metal hand as he moves, so soft and gentle that it's difficult to pair him up with the man who had so effortlessly destroyed Gustave only moments ago. Gustave can't help but yearn for both sides of him, the rough and the soft. He could spend years at Verso's side and still have so much more to learn, he knows.

"You're really alright?" Verso checks.

Gustave's eye-roll is painfully affectionate. "All I need is a cuddle, a warm bath, and maybe a glass of wine," he promises. He pushes himself up from the pillow to snatch a kiss from Verso's lips, too-light and too-quick. Casual. He leans back against his pillow and looks up at Verso, searching his face. "What about you?"

Verso tips his head to the side. "A cuddle, a warm bath, and a glass of wine," he agrees. He rolls off of Gustave, a deliberately clumsy swirl of limbs as they wrap themselves up in each other as planned. Verso's words end up whispered between them, quiet and peaceful. "Yeah. That sounds perfect."

They lie there together. They lie there for long enough that the damp patch on the mattress truly does become annoying, and the ache in Gustave's muscles truly does start to set in, and he truly does begin to long for that bath - but the soft carding of Verso's fingers through his hair, and the gentle murmur of Verso's voice, all make it harder and harder to ever want to leave.