cw: stalking, anxiety, paranoia, masturbation, use of lubricant and a remote-controlled vibro, voyeurism.
stalker tyler x streamer f!reader | part 1 (you're here) - part 2
Jericho is the kind of town that makes boredom feel permanent, like a layer of dust that no one bothers to wipe away. Nothing ever really happens here. Nothing worth holding onto, except maybe the Harvest Festival fair with its squeaky rides and stale popcorn. Even that feels less like excitement and more like a tradition people repeat out of habit.
The town doesn’t interest you, and neither do its people. The only moments that ever felt alive were when you crossed paths with Nevermore students drifting into the city. Outcasts, every one of them, people Jericho looks at with suspicion, almost disgust. You never understood that. If anything, you envied them.
You would give anything to trade your life for theirs, to become something extraordinary. A vampire, maybe. Or someone capable of becoming invisible.
Instead, you’re just human. Ordinary. Stuck in a town that feels like a cage.
At least you have what you love. Streaming. Gaming. The small glowing world you’ve built, pixel by pixel, where people show up to watch you play and for once you don’t feel like you’re wasting time. You’re good at it, not just playing, but also connecting with people, the way strangers say your name in the chat as if it actually matters. Streaming makes you feel alive in a way Jericho never will.
Here, you survive. There, online, you exist.
You’re grateful that streaming keeps you home. That it keeps you safe. Lately, Jericho has started to feel… wrong.
A dead body here. Another there. A car accident, nothing strange about it, but it only added to the unease.
You heard whispers that the sheriff and the mayor blamed it on a bear. A bear. As if that explained everything. As if claws and teeth could account for the way the air in town had shifted, heavy and restless. What unsettled you more was how little anyone else seemed to care. People went on with their small routines, barely glancing at the headlines, as though danger couldn’t touch them.
At least it gave you an excuse. A reason to stay inside, to lock your door, to lose yourself in the glow of a screen.
What you didn’t know, what you couldn’t know, was that those deaths, those mysteries that made the town shiver, would soon feel like nothing compared to what was coming for you.
You had sponsors from time to time. They sent you gear, codes for new games to test, energy drinks to keep you awake after long, draining days.
Nothing unusual about that. If anything, it was a sign you were doing well. A streamer being noticed. A streamer being seen.
So when a package appeared on your doorstep, you didn’t flinch. Even without a sponsor email, even without warning, you told yourself it was just a small gift. A surprise.
That’s what you believed.
At first, the packages were harmless. A small bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, a little keychain shaped like a game controller. Cute, thoughtful. You smiled, thinking nothing of it.
Then the notes started. Tiny slips of paper tucked inside the boxes, written in a careful, almost shy hand: Hope this brightens your day!, Saw this and thought of you. Flirtatious, yes, but still innocent enough that you laughed it off.
But then the gifts became… different. More personal. Something inexpensive, yet intimate. Something that made your stomach knot when you realized what it was.
The next package was heavier. You tore it open, expecting a new game or maybe some random accessory. And there it was, a vibrator, small and sleek. Your fingers froze. Your heart thumped. You dropped the box to the floor, letting it hit with a thud that sounded far too loud.
A note lay on top, handwritten: This might help you unwind after a long day… I thought you could use it.
You froze, your chest tightening, a cold knot forming in your stomach. Panic prickled at the edges of your mind. Someone had been watching. Someone knew things no sponsor could possibly know. Someone had crossed a line, and now you felt trapped, as if the walls of your apartment were closing in around you.
The safe little world you’d built around your streams, the glow of your monitor, the chat scrolling like fireflies, suddenly felt claustrophobic. Someone was inside, watching. And it wasn’t a fan anymore. It wasn’t just attention. It was something far more… personal.
Weeks passed, and you didn’t know what to do. There was no one to talk to, and you knew any complaint you might make would be dismissed, laughed off, or ignored. The anxiety settled into your days like a constant hum, and eventually, you stopped streaming. The world of your channels, your screens, your chats, all of it felt too exposed, too vulnerable.
Oddly, the packages stopped coming. Maybe he had realized he’d gone too far. Maybe he had noticed your retreat. It was a small relief, a fragile sense of safety.
One evening, restless, you tried to distract yourself. Nothing worked. Your thoughts kept looping, circling back to the same, forbidden memory: the vibrator. The thought made your stomach twist. Disgust and curiosity, irritation and a strange, undeniable pull. You couldn’t focus on anything else.
Minutes passed. Your heart thumped, your mind trapped in a strange, jittery fog. Finally, you rose and went to the corner of your room where the box was hidden. Your hands shook slightly as you opened it. The object was sleek, unfamiliar in a way that made your chest tighten. You noticed the shape and the button.
Inside the box, you also saw a small bottle of lubricant. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if you should feel relieved, or terrified, that he had thought to include it.
You carried the box to your bed, staring at the contents. Your thoughts swirled, conflicted. You let yourself feel, just a little, letting curiosity edge out fear.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your hands trembling slightly as you lifted the vibrator from the box. It felt strange in your palm, heavy with the weight of intention behind it. Your eyes flicked to the small bottle of lubricant. Hesitation knotted your stomach, was this curiosity, or fear?
You stripped off your clothes slowly, heart hammering, mind racing with shame and guilt and something else you couldn’t name. Your fingers traced over your skin, exploring, teasing, and a sudden wet warmth pooled low in your belly, unbidden. You hesitated, then reached for the bottle of lubricant. The cold liquid hit your heated skin with a sharp, electric shiver, sending goosebumps across your arms and thighs.
You spread it carefully, letting the cold mix with your own warmth, feeling it coat your most sensitive places. Your fingers moved over yourself, gentle, hesitant at first, then more certain, and the sensation made you gasp softly. Heat and tension built inside you, and the room seemed to shrink, your awareness narrowing to the slick, strange, and intoxicating feeling between your legs.
You positioned the vibrator, uncertain, and pressed the button. A low hum vibrated through your fingers, then into you, and a shiver of shock ran through your body. Your breaths came faster, shallow, and your hands gripped the sheets, trying to ground yourself. Your mind tried to tell you this was wrong, that you should stop, that this was the object of someone else’s obsession, but the sensations pressed past your hesitation, igniting nerve endings you didn’t realize were already on edge.
Minutes passed. The vibrations shifted, subtle changes at first, then more pronounced. A pattern, or maybe random pulses, you couldn’t tell. Your body responded automatically, muscles tightening and loosening in rhythm with the hum. Heat pooled in your chest, your belly, spreading downwards, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed. Every change made your heart skip, every pulse was electric.
Unbeknownst to you, the vibrations were shifting on their own, changing patterns and intensity, though you had no idea someone else might be controlling them...
The immediate sensations were all-consuming, tangled with shame, curiosity, and an odd, guilty thrill. Your chest heaved, your fingers fisted in the sheets, and for a few fleeting minutes, you were lost in the mix of fear and desire, unable to think of anything else.
The vibrations rolled through you like waves, shifting without warning. Sometimes they were soft and teasing, brushing against you gently. Then suddenly, they surged, deep and insistent, forcing a sharp intake of breath. Over and over, the rhythm changed, rising and falling like some private rollercoaster, leaving your body trembling in anticipation and surprise.
Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading through your hips and thighs. Your legs quivered, weak and unsteady, as your fingers moved over yourself, exploring, coaxing, reacting to every sudden pulse. Your breath hitched, escaping in soft, gasping moans that made the room feel impossibly small and intimate.
You arched your hips, pressing your fingers firmly against your most sensitive spot, slick with the lubricant. A jolt of shock and heat shot through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading through your hips and thighs. The vibrations shifted beneath your touch, soft and teasing one moment, then deep and insistent the next, making every nerve ending hum with tension.
Your fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, coaxing, and the warmth between your legs grew, thick and wet. Your thighs shook, trembling against the sheets as a gasp escaped your lips, sharp and breathless. One hand stayed between your legs, moving with the rhythm of the vibrations, while the other gripped the sheets, anchoring you as waves of heat pulsed through your body.
Every change in the vibration sent shivers racing down your spine, your chest rising and falling, your muscles tensing and releasing with each sudden surge. Soft, ragged moans slipped past your lips, mingled with gasps of surprise and guilty pleasure. The touch of the lubricant against your slick, sensitive skin heightened every sensation, making your body ache and thrum with a delicious, overwhelming intensity.
The vibrations pulsed through you, relentless, building higher and higher until you could no longer hold back. A wave of warmth, heat, and shock crashed over you, leaving your chest heaving and your legs trembling. Your fingers moved on instinct, pressing and circling, riding the rhythm of every sudden surge. The sensations intensified, overwhelming every nerve ending, as if your body couldn’t contain the pleasure.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, soft moans escaping uncontrollably as your body tensed and shivered, legs quivering beneath you. The vibrations surged again at the peak, insistent and unrelenting, pushing you further into the storm, overstimulating every fiber of your being. It felt impossible to stop, like your body was teetering on the brink of a second release even before the first had fully ebbed.
Then, suddenly, it all calmed. The waves subsided, the intense pulsing faded back into the steady, gentle rhythm of the vibrator. You were left breathless, trembling, the device still inside you and still humming quietly. Your chest rose and fell, legs weak, heart pounding as you tried to catch your breath.
Slowly, you sat up, fingers fumbling for the button, and pressed it. The hum ceased instantly, leaving a sharp, empty ache in its absence. A flutter of longing, the urge to turn it back on, rose in your chest, but you forced yourself to resist. Carefully, you removed the vibrator, placed it back in the box with the lubricant, and returned it to its hiding spot in the corner.
You collapsed onto your bed, legs still trembling, letting the sheets cradle you as sleep finally claimed you.
You didn’t notice the faint glow of your webcam. You didn’t notice that someone had been watching, observing every gasp, every shiver, every vulnerable, intimate movement throughout the entire experience.
You wake up slowly, legs still tingling, the inside of your thighs remembering every sensation from last night. A flush of embarrassment creeps over you, pleasure stolen, in a way, from a gift sent by your first stalker.
You get dressed and follow your usual morning routine. The kitchen smells of coffee, the toaster pops, and you settle in front of your computer with a small breakfast, savoring each bite as you normally would.
But when your computer boots up, a new email catches your eye. Hesitation freezes you for a moment before you click it open. Your stomach tightens, a cold knot forming as you read the words.
I really enjoyed our time together last night. You’re beautiful when you cum… I can’t wait to make you scream with more than just a little toy.
warnings: 18+mdni, smut, swearing, public sex, cock warming, stalking, primal play, spitting, slapping (consensual), dark!Tyler, rough sex
Really, you weren't sure why you had agreed to attend the Halloween fright night with him. He wasn't exactly your type. He was the type who still wore his Letterman jacket and opened the car door for you.
Perhaps it was nothing more than a distraction, to clear your mind and purge it of the one person who always seemed to take space there.
Tyler Galpin.
It wasn't the typical small-town romance that most expected from the children of Jericho. You start dating in Freshmen year, keep photos of your prom proudly on the mantle and marry straight out of high school. Just like your parents had done.
No, Tyler was something else entirely.
It had started out simple enough. You both had gotten job at the Weathervane straight out of high school. You'd known him vaguely, in that sense that everyone knew each other in Jericho. You knew his father was Sheriff and he knew your parents owned the small fruit and vegetable shop.
The small talk was fine enough. Tyler could sometimes crack a joke. You created inside jokes to get through the gruelling shifts. Created disgusting drinks and see who could drink the most before gagging.
It all started one night, both of you on closing shift. It had involved whipped cream, Tyler accidentally spraying you with some and laughing. You had returned the favour, spraying someone on his cheek as he stared at you with wide eyes.
Before you could even stop yourself, you'd leaned forward, grinning as you licked the sweet substance.
What you hadn't expected was Tyler's hand snapping out and grabbing your wrist. An unfamiliar look in his eyes as he stared at you.
'You have no idea what you've just fucking done.'
The rest was history.
Your relationship, if you can even call it that was unconventional to say the least. It was as if Tyler unleashed something in you, something dark that had been itching beneath the surface, begging to be set free.
The sex was messy and animalistic. There were no sweet nothing's whispered in your ear or gentle touches.
No, Tyler would growl as he marred your body with red and blue marks, notes to a symphony that only the two of you would ever understand.
He would bend you over his desk and bring his belt down on your bare skin as you whimpered beneath him.
He would pull at your hair, slap your face and wrap a hand around your throat, position in your body in ways that would make you ache for days.
He would always smirk as he'd watch you limp into the shop. Knowing exactly why you flinched every time you sat down or why it ached every time you took a step.
'Don't worry, I'll make sure you can't walk tomorrow.' He'd whisper in your ear as he brushed past you before greeting a customer with a friendly smile.
And he'd make good on his promise. You had to call in sick to work the next day.
You knew it wasn't right. That there was something inherently wrong with you for desiring such a thing. That whatever Tyler bought to the surface needed to stay buried deep before it took you over completely.
Which is why you'd agreed to the date. He was a regular and he always gave you a pleasant smile and a nice tip. He was exactly the type of person everyone expected a good small town girl to be with.
An upstanding young man, as your mother would call him.
'Maybe we can take a hay ride together, later?' He suggested as you walked through the Halloween fare at Pilgrim World. Watching as people ran by you, screaming and giggling as the various scare actors chased after them.
'Sure, sounds great.' You say distractedly as you glance around
You had remember the look on Tyler's face when you told him you had a date.
'What time are we meeting later?' He'd asked as you pulled a brownie from the display cabinet.
You glance up at him and clear your throat awkwardly.
'I- um- I actually have a date tonight for the Halloween fare at Pilgrim World.'
Tyler stiffens at the coffee machine. You watch as his grip on the milk jug tightens. His jaw clenching as he nods his head.
'Are you going?' You ask, wondering if he had asked someone himself.
'Those things are lame as shit. I'd rather stay at home. Going alone would suck anyway.'
You weren't dating.
Hell, you barely did anything besides fucking and working together.
'He asked me. I thought it might be time to do something other than- what we do.'
'Lets hope you don't get too scared.'
Except coming from him, it sounded like a warning.
So far the date had been uneventful, they had gone all out this year. Decorations and scare actors running around, you watch with a bored expression as people around you scream in delight and run from the actors chasing after them. Your date is laughing along with everyone else, you should be enjoying yourself, but really you are bored and uninterested in anything your date is talking to you about.
Every time your date reaches for your hand, you would pretend to be distracted by something or point something out as you smile at him. This time you were genuinely distracted by the site of delicious candy apples when you collide with someone.
Gasping as you stare up at the shirtless, masked figure staring down at you. Letting out a nervous laugh as your date does too.
'Good job, buddy, you got me.' You say, giving him a small clap as you go to step around him.
Instead the scare actor simply steps back with you and continues to stare at you through the mask.
You clear your throat awkwardly. This person clearly took their job very seriously.
'Okay, well enjoy scaring the pants off kids.' You muttered, stepping around him with your date.
Glancing over your shoulder and nervous to see the scare actor still staring intensely at you.
'I think he liked you.' Your date teases.
You glance over your shoulder again, sighing in relief when you see the masked actor has disappeared into the growing crowd.
You try to enjoy your date, smiling thankfully at him when he wins you a small stuffed toy that looked like a pumpkin or the awkward hayride by the woods. Resisting the urge to pull out your phone and text Tyler, see if he wanted to meet up later.
Every so often you swore you caught a glimpse of the masked actor from before, watching you from the distance. His gaze following you through the crowd, but every time you looked back, there was no sign of him.
It's when you are walking through the crowd again, picking at the cotton candy your date had bought you. Barely listening to a word he was saying, something about his senior year football game.
'I've just gotta go to the bathroom, do you mind waiting here?' He asks.
You finally glance up at him, shaking your head. 'Sorry?'
'I said I've just gotta go to the bathroom, do you mind waiting for me?'
You force a bright smile and nod.
Leaning on a pole away from the crowd as you take a small bite of your cotton candy. Wondering how much longer you have to keep this date going. He was nice, but he was boring, there was nothing exciting or enticing about him.
You push yourself off the pole, heading towards the main route when someone jumps in front of you. You let out a small scream as the cotton candy falls to the ground. The same scare actor as before, rolling your eyes.
'Thanks a lot, that cotton candy was the best part about tonight.' You snap. Not in the mood for pleasantries anymore. He still isn't speaking, his head tilting as he stares at you.
Even though you can't see his eyes, you can feel them burning into you. You run your tongue across your bottom lip in frustration as you try to move around him. He takes an easy step to the side to block your exit.
Your shoulder slumping in annoyance. There were plenty of other people he could bother tonight, people who would actually enjoy it. You grit your teeth and nod your head at him, trying to side step him again but he does the same motion again.
'Seriously!' You snap, the actor still standing before you, still not uttering a word. 'Go and scare someone else, it isn't funny anymore.'
You try to step around the actor but he steps in your way as you huff in annoyance. There were plenty of other people who would love to be chased by a masked, shirtless man and you weren't one of them. You had someone else on your mind.
'I said move, jackass!' You snap, pushing on his chest and storming past him.
Your eyes darting around the fare, looking to see if your date had returned from the bathroom yet.
You feel a hand wrap around your throat. A strong body pushed against you as your dragged into the darkened woods.
'One sound, and I'll rip your throat out.' Tyler's voice growls in your ear as you stiffen.
His hand releasing from your throat as you turn to face him. Tyler ripping the mask off and throwing it carelessly to the ground.
'Tyler- what are you-'
His finger comes up to his lips, telling you to be quiet and you snap your mouth shut.
'You think it's okay to go on a date with some pathetic loser?' He asks in a low voice, taking a step towards you as you walk backwards until your back collides with a tree. The bark digging into your back as Tyler looms over you.
'We were never dating, you said so yourself-'
'Have you let him fuck you?'
You shake your head. It was barely a date, you simply agreed to go with him so you would have company for the evening. Someone to maybe hold your hand in the haunted house or to bob for apples. Almost stupidly innocent, really. Perhaps you had agreed to the date because he was the opposite of how you felt towards Tyler. There was no carnal attraction, no burning need to surrender yourself completely or willingness to do so.
You were in control for once.
'He wants to fuck you, you know. I can smell it on him. He's practically drowning in it. He thinks if he acts like a gentleman, you might just let him.'
Tyler leans forward, eagerly lapping up the sweat that had formed above your collarbone, dragging his teeth along with the sensitive bone as you involuntarily shudder.
'He doesn't know you like I do, that you don't want a gentleman.'
His hand coming up, running a finger down your cheek before raising his hand and bringing it down across your cheek.
'He doesn't know that you crave the pain, the sounds you make when I wrap my hand around your throat and squeeze. How you beg me to go harder every time, almost snapping you in half. The way your nails drag down my back.'
You shiver at the memories of what Tyler had done to you, things that no one else had ever done. Tyler chuckling as he shakes his head at you.
'I watched you all night. How bored and miserable you looked. No doubt waiting to leave and get to me so I can fuck away the boredom.'
And damn it, if he wasn't correct about that.
'Does he know you're wetter for me already than you have been all night?'
He takes a fistful of your hair, pulling you towards him before pressing his lips against yours. The kiss is nothing like the one you had shared with your date earlier.
It was teeth and tongue. Tyler forcing his tongue inside your mouth, biting down on your lip as he groans against your mouth. Pulling away, but still holding your hair tightly.
'Keep that pretty little mouth open.'
You do as he says, watching as Tyler licks his lips before spitting in your mouth, a sardonic grin appearing as he watches you swallow it without question. Your heart thumping in your chest, but no longer from fear, but from divine desire, a carnal need that only Tyler was able to bring out in you.
His thumb coming down and roughly swiping across your lips. Grinning down at you. His hand raising as he brings it down across your cheek. The sharp sting only making you want him more.
'Thats just to remind you about who you belong to.'
He spins you around, slamming you into the tree as he grunts behind you, pulling and tugging on your clothes until your bottoms are pulled down and your underwear pushed to the side, Tyler pressing himself against you.
'Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to, hmm?'
'How do you want it?' He asks in a low voice.
'Tyler-'
'I said how do you want it?'
'Hard.'
He grunts in acknowledgement. The sound of his zipper undoing and soon you feel him pressing against your pussy. He isn't gentle, he never is. He slams into you in one, fluid movement, his groan of pleasure filling your senses.
He doesn't move, instead stilling inside you as you squirm at the fullness of him.
'Maybe you don't deserve me fucking you,' he mutters in your ear. 'Maybe I should make you stay here, feeling my cock inside you until your begging me to fuck you.'
'Tyler.' You whimper out, gyrating your hips. Trying to create some friction.
Tyler clicks his tongue, gripping your hips tightly. Digging his fingers painfully, you know they will leave bruises. You attempt to move but Tyler is stronger, keeping you in place.
'Disobedience doesn't get you what you want.'
His fingers are digging in even harder now. You clench your eyes shuts. It was becoming almost painful now, having him inside you but feeling no relief.
'I want to hear you say it and then I might give you what you want.'
'ibelongtoyou.' You mutter out.
Tyler chuckling darkly behind you, moving his hips a fraction, causing your head to fall against the tree at the small amount of relief the snap of his hips provided.
'Louder.'
'I belong to you!' You wail out.
Tyler breathes in deeply behind you, reaching out and brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.
'That's my good girl.'
He begins thrusting into you relentlessly. The bark of the tree scratching against your body and the feel of his hips snapping against yours was the perfect mixture of ecstasy and pain. Tyler gripping your hips roughly as he growls behind you. His breath hot against your back.
'Always such a desperate girl for me.' He hisses through his teeth. Angling his hips upwards so his cock hits that delicious sweet spot inside you, a spot only he seemed able to find.
Pulling you by your hips so your back is flushed with his chest, his lips and teeth on your neck, a hand roughly kneading your breasts through your shirt as you whimper against him. Eyes shut in sheer pleasure as he grinds his hips, laughing as he bottoms out.
A groan escaping him as you flutter around him, the first indication you were close.
'Come on baby, cum with me.'
The growl in his voice sends a shiver of carnal pleasure up your spine as you clench around him, almost collapsing if he hadn't been there to hold you up.
'Fucking perfect.' He grunts out as he stills inside you before groaning loudly into your neck.
He stays inside you, lazily thrusting into you before pulling his dripping cock out slowly.
He steps back, tucking himself back into his jeans roughly as you try to gather yourself. Still panting and coming down from your high.
Your legs are shaking as you feel Tyler's cum drip down your leg as you catch your breath, Tyler smirking at you. He walks towards you, his hand wrapping around your throat tightly and pulling you into him.
'You're going to return back to your date, my cum dripping down your leg and have a good rest of the night with him,' he breathes out, lips dancing against yours. 'And then you're going to come to my house and I'm going fuck you until you forget his name. Understood?'
He releases your throat roughly as you stare darkly at him, a small smirk gracing your lips.
tyler galpin anon - AH ! that was amazing. I would love it sm if you write more!
Maybe a scene like him sneaking into nevermore to be with reader??
I love u sm for this I swear 😭
Couldn’t Stay Away
TW: none!
———
It’s nearly midnight when you hear the soft knock on your window. You sit up, startled at first—until you see him. Tyler, balancing carefully on the narrow ledge, his breath fogging the glass in the chilly night.
Your heart leaps. You scramble out of bed and push the window open, whispering harshly, “Tyler! What are you doing here?”
He grins like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Missed you.” His voice is low, warm. He ducks inside with surprising ease, brushing the leaves and night air off himself.
“You’re insane,” you murmur, but you’re already smiling. Already reaching for him.
He pulls you in before you can say more, arms wrapping around your waist, face burying into your shoulder. He smells like soap and coffee, like home. “Couldn’t stand another night without you.”
Your protests die on your tongue. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The world outside feels dangerous, heavy—but here, in this quiet room, it’s just him and you.
“Tyler…” you whisper, “if anyone finds you—”
“They won’t.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek. His smile softens, all boyish affection and quiet defiance. “I’ll be gone before sunrise. I just… needed this. Needed you.”
You sigh, a mix of worry and relief, but when he leans down to kiss you, all the tension drains away. The kiss is slow, unhurried, the kind that says more than words ever could.
Later, curled up together under your blanket, the window cracked just enough to let in the cool night air, you whisper, “You’re going to get us both in trouble.”
Tyler just squeezes your hand, pressing his forehead against yours. “Worth it.”
stalker tyler x streamer f!reader | part 1 - part 2 (you're here)
One month.
It had been almost a month since the stalking began, and things had only grown worse.
At first, it was harmless enough, but now, the line between sweet and sinister had blurred in ways you couldn’t ignore.
Your stalker took the liberty of entering your home.
You’d wake to post-its stuck to your mirror, your desk, even the refrigerator, handwritten compliments in neat scrawl, each one a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone, not even in the sanctuary of your own home. Sometimes it was photographs, snapshots of you sleeping, or moving through your apartment, caught mid-motion without ever realizing eyes were on you. Proof, left for you like trophies.
And then there were the gestures that weren’t so easy to categorize. You’d fall asleep at your desk or on the couch, only to wake tucked neatly into bed, your blanket pulled over your shoulders. Once, you found a tray waiting in the kitchen, a breakfast more elaborate than you could ever bother making for yourself. Another time, a steaming mug of hot chocolate sat on your nightstand, rich with cinnamon, like someone had thought too much about what you liked.
And you didn’t know what frightened you more: the fact that someone could invade your space so easily… or the fact that you were starting to grow used to it.
Worse still, a tiny, shameful part of you was beginning to enjoy it.
Maybe the situation was driving you insane. Maybe that was the simplest explanation. Fear could twist the mind into strange shapes, after all, and maybe you’d simply bent too far to ever straighten out again.
Or maybe, darker still, you’d always carried something inside you. A secret hunger for attention so consuming, so desperate, that even this, this invasion, this violation, felt like something you craved.
Whatever the truth, you didn’t fight it.
You had proof now. Real, undeniable proof. Enough to take to the sheriff, enough to start an investigation, to name the person behind all this.
But you didn’t.
You let him in. Silently. Willingly. You let the notes appear, let the photographs pile up, let the breakfasts and the blankets and the quiet, unseen touches wrap around your life until they became part of your routine.
You waited. You waited to see what he would do next, what surprise he’d prepare, what line he would cross. And in the waiting, you began to wonder if the anticipation itself was what you had been starving for all along.
You waited. But the waiting grew longer, heavier, unbearable. Curiosity burned hotter than fear ever had.
You wanted more.
You wanted to know who hid behind it all. Why you had been chosen, why you were the one turned into prey.
And more than that, you wanted something real. Not just notes slipped into your routine, not just quiet gestures left in the dark.
You wanted a voice. You wanted a presence. The brush of skin, the confirmation that this wasn’t all a dream. That there was a body attached to the shadow haunting yours.
So you started leaving your own notes. On your computer screen. On your nightstand. On the fridge. Anywhere he had ever left his marks before, you started leaving your own.
You asked simple things, at first. Who are you?, Are you a man or a woman?, What's your name?, How old are you?
Little questions, written in your neat, nervous handwriting, desperate to make this silent game into something more. Something deeper. More intimate than the one-sided obsession it had been so far.
And he saw them. You knew he did. The sticky notes disappeared, one by one, proof that he had been there, that he had touched them, read them. Proof that he had touched your life again.
But there were no answers. No words scribbled back in the same sharp ink.
Just silence.
Maybe he didn’t want to respond. Maybe he didn’t want you playing his game. Maybe he wanted to stay nothing more than a faceless shadow, always close but never close enough.
Whatever the reason, it left you burning.
Every note unanswered tightened something inside you, wound it tighter and tighter until it felt like your chest might split from the frustration.
You didn’t want silence anymore. You didn’t want mystery.
You wanted him.
So you left more notes.
You stopped asking questions and started writing compliments instead. About his handwriting, the little hearts he sometimes left on the post-its. About his cooking, the breakfasts that tasted like they’d come from a five-star restaurant. The coffee, always just the way you liked it. The strength it must’ve taken to carry you from your desk or your couch to your bed when you’d fallen asleep.
But even then, he didn’t answer.
The frustration grew sharper, buzzing under your skin. The anxiety was still there, but it had shifted, twisted into something else entirely. Not fear. Never fear anymore. No, now it was the gnawing terror of being abandoned.
Had he lost interest in you?
Had your curiosity ruined his game?
You told yourself you should be happy. Relieved. That maybe, finally, it was over. And yet… the thought of saying goodbye felt unbearable.
So you started begging. Pleading in shaky handwriting for him to answer, to talk to you, to give you something back.
And that’s when it happened. He started leaving notes again. Not just vague traces this time. More. Exactly what you wanted.
You’re this obsessed? Meet me this afternoon at Weathervane. A rendezvous. Clear. Direct.
Maybe he had pulled away only to make you crave him more. To make you desperate enough to follow. If that had been his plan all along, then it had worked to perfection.
You were happy. Ridiculously, impossibly happy. The kind of giddy warmth you hadn’t felt since you were a teenager, living through your first crush.
Except this wasn’t some harmless first love. This was an obsession. A stranger who had been stalking you for over a month. And still, your chest fluttered, your stomach twisted, your pulse quickened like it was something sweet, something innocent.
You didn’t even have to wait days or weeks for him. Just a few hours.
A few hours until you finally saw the face behind the shadow.
The hours crawled, every minute stretched too thin, too sharp. You couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t focus on anything else. For the first time in weeks, the weight of fear was gone, replaced by a restless thrill that made your chest feel too tight.
By the time you left the house, you were far too early. But you couldn’t care. The walk to Weathervane felt endless, and when you finally stepped inside, the little bell over the door seemed loud enough to echo through your bones.
Behind the counter stood a boy you didn’t know. His light brown hair fell loosely across his forehead, like it never quite stayed in place no matter how often he pushed it back. When he looked up, his eyes caught yours for a beat, warm, steady, unreadable. He offered a small, polite smile, the kind that felt both shy and practiced at once. And when he greeted you, his voice was low, even, carrying just enough warmth to put you off balance.
You ordered a drink, more to anchor yourself than anything else, and then retreated to a table. Alone. Waiting.
Minutes slipped by. The time came and went. No one joined you.
You told yourself to wait longer. Just in case. But the café stayed the same, quiet, ordinary, and your chest grew heavier with every tick of the clock.
Eventually, footsteps approached. It was the boy from the counter, a cloth still in his hand. He stopped by your table, leaning just slightly, polite but casual.
Hey, you waiting on someone? Or just here by yourself?
You nodded quickly, forcing a small smile. Yeah. I’m… waiting for someone.
He didn’t pry, just tilted his head like he understood. Well, if they keep you waiting too long… He set a fresh cup down in front of you, steam curling up between you, …this one’s on the house. His smile deepened just slightly before he straightened, slipping back toward the counter to work.
You stared at the drink, warmth spreading through your hands as you curled your fingers around it. A simple gesture, ordinary on the surface, but it steadied you. Made the silence less heavy.
Still, time dragged. No shadow slipped into the chair across from you. No one leaned in to whisper the truth. Maybe something had come up. Maybe whoever it was had to cancel, had to disappear without warning. Maybe.
At least you weren’t alone.
From behind the counter, the boy glanced your way from time to time. When he caught your eyes, he gave you the smallest nod, a half-smile that made your stomach twist strangely. Once or twice, he even wandered over, checking in with some casual comment, never long, never pressing, just enough to break the monotony of waiting.
Those fleeting moments, those little looks and easy words, felt like the only thing keeping you from unraveling.
By late afternoon, you finally gathered your things, your body heavy with a mixture of warmth and disappointment. You caught his eye on your way out, the boy behind the counter, Tyler, he’d said his name was when you paid, and offered him a soft goodbye. He returned it with that same gentle smile, the kind that lingered even after the door shut behind you.
It had been nice, meeting someone so kind, so easy to talk to. But it wasn’t what you’d come for. The one you were waiting for, the one who had been leaving notes and orchestrating these rendezvous, had never shown… or at least, that’s what you thought.
When you got home, the air inside felt heavier, expectant. And there, waiting for you, was a note.
Sorry, I couldn’t make it. Next time. I promise.
Another rendezvous. Another thread tugging you forward.
The weeks blurred, marked by more meetings you’d show up for, at various places he had arranged, only to find yourself unsure if he was really there. Maybe he was watching from a distance. Maybe he lingered nearby, just out of sight. Maybe he enjoyed the game, the way it hollowed you out, the way it left you raw and restless.
But one thing was constant. Tyler.
Always present. At every rendezvous, at every location, somewhere in the background. His quiet presence was there, calm and gentle, seemingly normal, unassuming. Too normal. Too kind. Too steady for you to imagine that he could be the one behind the notes, the unseen manipulations, the stalking, the game that consumed your thoughts.
It couldn’t be him.
And yet… even as the frustration with your absent stalker gnawed at you, you couldn’t deny that you noticed Tyler. His glances, his small gestures, the steady rhythm of him being there at every meeting, it was impossible to ignore, even if your mind was entirely focused on the one you truly wanted to see.
One night, you had decided to pretend to be asleep. The house was quiet, the TV casting its soft glow across the living room.
Then you heard it, the door opening. You didn't even bother locking it anymore. Footsteps on the floor, deliberate and slow, moving closer to the living room. Your body stiffened instinctively. He knew you were lying there on the couch, the light from the screen revealing your figure, and yet he didn’t hesitate.
The steps drew nearer, and the shadow of his body stretched across the screen. You could feel him there, impossibly close. His presence pressed against the space around you, a heat that wasn’t just from the body but from something darker, more intimate.
He leaned over you, his breath brushing just above your ear, warm and steady.
I know you’re not asleep...
A shiver ran down your spine, cold and electrifying at once. That voice, soft, deliberate, familiar, made your stomach drop. Recognition struck you fully, and your heart lurched. It had been him all along. Tyler. Your stalker.
Before your mind could catch up, before your lips could form a word, his pressed against yours. Hard. Forceful. Your body jerked in surprise, a mix of shock and something dangerously thrilling coursing through you. The initial impact left your breath stolen, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
For a moment, you froze, stunned by the audacity, by the closeness, by the undeniable heat of him. Then instinct took over. Your lips moved against his, responding with equal force, an urgent, desperate need that matched the pounding of your heart.
Your hands shot up, cupping his face, tracing the line of his jaw, sliding to the back of his neck. Fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, pressing him into the rhythm of the kiss. One hand traced down his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the taut muscles flexing beneath your touch.
The kiss deepened, slow and consuming. His tongue brushed yours, gentle at first, then insistent, exploring, demanding. Each movement, each press of lips and teeth sent sparks racing through your body. Your chest pressed against his, every nerve alive, trembling with tension and desire.
Your knees weakened slightly as the sensation radiated through you. The warmth pooling low in your belly twisted into a dizzying mix of fear and longing. Every subtle shift, every graze of his hands against your body, every press of his lips drove you further into the moment. Your breath hitched, mingling with his, ragged and urgent, a symphony of shock, heat, and the intoxicating thrill of what you were both doing.
Finally, Tyler broke the kiss. You both gasped for air, chests heaving, hearts racing like drums in the silence of the room. Your eyes found his, and in them, something dark glimmered, dangerous, thrilling, impossibly enticing.
I’ve dreamed of doing this for so long, he murmured, his voice low, edged with that same heat that had been building between you.
Without another word, he stood and leaned over you again. His hands moved with deliberate intent, slowly, carefully, stripping away each piece of clothing one by one. He was methodical, patient, as if savoring every second.
You didn’t help. You didn’t resist. But you didn’t stop him either. Instead, you let yourself be guided, your body pliant beneath his touch, curious, trembling with anticipation, and strangely willing. Each garment removed left you more exposed, more alive to the tension between you, and the room seemed to shrink around the heat that was building, your senses sharpening with every deliberate motion of his hands.
You were on the couch, in just your underwear, and you could feel his gaze on you, hungry, animalistic, yet restrained. You knew he was holding back, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
He pressed his face into the hollow of your neck, lips trailing soft kisses, leaving small marks along your skin. His breath was warm, deliberate, and teasing, and you could feel every inch of him pressing closer.
Slowly, his lips traveled from your neck down to the curve of your waist, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Every kiss brushed against your skin, light but purposeful, sending shivers through your body.
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them just slightly. He paused for a long moment, studying you, taking in the sight of your underwear before leaning closer.
You shivered as his nose pressed against the fabric, close enough to feel his breath, the faint warmth of him. Then, a single, deliberate stroke of his tongue brushed the material.
His gaze devoured you, dark and unyielding, stripping away any pretense of control before his hands even moved. Then they gripped your thighs firmly, spreading them apart with deliberate strength. The cold night air bit at your exposed skin, but the fire building inside you was sharper, hotter, impossible to ignore.
Tyler leaned in, his breath ghosting over the most sensitive parts of you, close enough to make your pulse spike. Your fingers dug into his hair, as anticipation and need coiled tight in your stomach. When his lips brushed against you for the first time,soft, teasing, intimate, you jolted, a gasp tearing from your lips. Your hips lifted, instinctively pressing toward him, seeking every inch of contact.
He lingered, slow and deliberate, dragging out each stroke, each brush of his mouth against your sensitive skin. The teasing sent shivers racing through your thighs, your back arching, muscles straining as desire coiled tighter with every movement. Small, broken whimpers slipped past your lips, shame and heat mingling in the night air.
Then his hunger became clear. His mouth pressed harder, faster, movements consuming, relentless. Your thighs quivered where his hands held them, your hips responding instinctively, every nerve alive, every shiver sending sparks through your core. Your chest heaved, breaths shallow and ragged, your back arching, body trembling with the intensity of every stroke.
The tension built, unbearably high, every touch sending jolts through you. Your fingers clutched the coat as heat pooled deep, spreading outwards, flooding your body, making it impossible to think or breathe clearly.
And then it broke.
A cry ripped from your throat as your body convulsed, waves of heat and pressure shattering through your hips and core. Your thighs clenched, trembling uncontrollably, but his hands held you firmly, steadying you as every tremor washed through you. Even as the first tremors subsided, the lingering stimulation made you shiver, desperate for reprieve, your moans ragged and breathless.
Finally, he eased back, letting you collapse against the ground. Your body trembled, overwhelmed, raw with sensation, heart pounding, breath ragged. Every nerve was alive, every inch of you spent, but the memory of his touch lingered, burning under your skin like wildfire.
You lay there, chest rising and falling in frantic waves, your body still twitching with aftershocks. The forest around you was silent, but inside you everything was chaos, heat, trembling, the echo of pleasure that still pulsed between your legs.
Tyler lifted his head slowly, deliberately, and you met his eyes. They were darker now, almost unrecognizable, wild, hungry, but steady, as if he was savoring the sight of you undone beneath him. His lips glistened faintly in the pale light, and the realization of what he’d just done sent another shiver through you.
He didn’t speak right away. He just stared, pinning you in place with that gaze, his hands still wrapped firmly around your thighs as if he dared you to move. Then, finally, his mouth curved into something between a smile and a snarl.
I’ve dreamed of you like this, he murmured, voice low, roughened, almost reverent. Spread out. Shaking. Mine.
Your breath caught, your heart lurching hard against your ribs. There was no space for denial, no part of you that could pretend this was anything but dangerous, and yet your body betrayed you, warmth flooding again where moments ago you had been left raw and trembling.
Tyler released your thighs only to crawl up over you, his weight settling, pressing you deeper into the cold ground. The coat was your only shield from the forest floor, but with him hovering above, caging you in, you felt stripped bare all over again. His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your lips.
You taste better than I imagined, he whispered, his thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. And I’m not finished with you.
The words struck you harder than the cold ever could, leaving you breathless, suspended in the terrible, intoxicating certainty that whatever game this was, it had only just begun.
He kissed you with force, hot and torrid, his lips and tongue devouring yours, dragging you into a fevered rhythm. God, you feel so good, he murmured against your lips, his voice low and rough. His hands moved quickly, undoing his zipper and lowering his pant and underwear just enough to free himself. The sudden closeness made your thighs tremble, heat pooling low in your belly and spreading through your hips.
I… I can’t, you gasped, your words lost in a ragged breath as he pressed closer.
He shifted between your legs, spreading them deliberately. Shh… it's okay, it'll be okay, he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You felt the tip of him press against you, teasing, drawing a low gasp from your lips. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed into you, the friction tight and consuming.
Your body arched instinctively, pressing up into him, every nerve alive, every breath coming fast and uneven. Tyler… you moaned, clutching his shoulders, voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and heat.
Once fully inside, he leaned over you, hands planted on either side of your head, holding you close. You’re mine, he said, eyes dark, intense. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him nearer, your hips pressing into his with a shiver of anticipation and heat.
The sensation of him filling you, the press of his body, the warmth and weight of every motion, sent jolts through your thighs and chest, making you tremble and gasp uncontrollably. I… I want more… you breathed, your voice barely audible.
He smiled against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. What a greedy little thing, he murmured, a promise and a command at once, before he shifted, pressing even deeper, letting the rhythm of your bodies carry you both into a heated, consuming closeness.
He paused for a moment, letting you adjust, letting your body mold around him. A low groan escaped his lips as he felt your walls tighten and slide smoothly around him, warm and wet, accepting him. Fuck… you feel incredible, he murmured, teeth grazing your shoulder.
Slowly, he began to move, inch by inch, deep and deliberate. Your body trembled with each press, hips lifting instinctively, breath catching in ragged bursts. Soft, shuddering moans slipped past your lips as heat pooled low, spreading through your thighs and chest. Every thrust sent sparks of warmth and tension racing through you, leaving you dizzy and consumed.
He kept the rhythm slow at first, savoring it, and you felt every inch, every press, every subtle movement. Your fingers clawed at his back, nails biting into the skin as your chest heaved, your lips parting in gasps that mingled with his groans.
Gradually, Tyler’s movements shifted. The slow, steady pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder, drawing new, sharper moans from you. That’s perfect… just like that, he whispered, voice rough with hunger. You gasped, hips rising to meet him, craving the friction, the intensity, the way he filled you completely.
Your body burned under him, muscles trembling, thighs squeezing instinctively. His breathing grew ragged, uneven, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his movements became more forceful, rough, consuming. Each hard, relentless thrust made your back arch, your hands clutch the ground, your mouth opening in a string of desperate, broken sounds.
You’re so tight… I can’t get enough, he groaned, voice low and urgent. You trembled beneath him, breathless, lost in the overwhelming sensation, every nerve alive with fire as he drove into you with a force that left you gasping, shivering, completely undone.
A sudden, almost violent shift hit him. Tyler’s body stretched, muscles knotting and bulging, his chest broadening as if containing some untamed power. His hands grew larger, fingers tipped with faintly sharpened nails. The subtle shadows on his skin deepened, accentuating the sinews that rolled beneath it. His jaw hardened, teeth sharper, and his eyes glowed with a predator’s intensity.
When he leaned down, your body instinctively tensed, and then your mind registered the impossible. You could feel him change, growing firmer, thicker, pressing against you in a way that made your breath catch. The warmth, the weight, the undeniable presence inside you shifted, and your muscles tightened around him as if trying to keep pace with the sudden surge of power.
His voice was low, guttural, vibrating through you without a word, while every movement of his transformed body sent jolts of pressure and heat through your hips. You shivered at the combination of fear and desire, the danger in his form, the strength beneath your hands, and the fullness of him that you felt filling you, stretching you, almost impossibly.
Even in the thrill, your body betrayed you: each pulse, each shift of his weight, made you cling to him instinctively, trembling as he pressed closer, harder, the transformation amplifying every sensation until it was impossible to separate the fear from the heat coursing through you.
Tyler planted one hand firmly on the ground, anchoring himself, while the other gripped your hip, lifting you slightly. Your back arched instinctively, back pressed to the earth while your hips and legs rose, exposed and trembling beneath him. Every movement sent jolts through your body, sharp and demanding, your muscles quivering as his weight pressed you down and into him.
The motion was rough, primal, far from gentle, each thrust carried a raw, animalistic force that made your breath hitch and your heart hammer. You could feel every inch of him, his body moving with a power that was almost overwhelming, and your walls clenching around him in instinctive response.
Your hands clawed at the ground, nails scraping the soil, while your thighs shook with the intensity of each movement. A mixture of fear and electric excitement coursed through you: the danger in his strength, the unrelenting rhythm, the way he moved like a predator claiming his prey. Gasping and moaning, your chest heaved, your body arching involuntarily, lost in the raw, unfiltered force of him.
Every motion, every hard press against your hip, sent a new wave of heat spiraling through your belly, pooling in your thighs, leaving you breathless and trembling under his unyielding dominance. Your mind spun between the thrill and the terror, the wild intensity driving your body to respond, to cling, to surrender.
The rhythm reached a fevered pitch, every motion from him sharp, powerful, and unrelenting. Your body shivered, trembling, as waves of heat and tension spiraled through you. Your thighs quaked, every movement driving you closer to the edge.
A guttural groan escaped him as he moved inside you, and in that moment, everything snapped, the tension, the ache, the relentless pressure. A fierce, shuddering climax tore through your body, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your chest heaving, muscles trembling, while he followed moments later, deep inside you, letting out a low, guttural sound as his body finally released.
For a long moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath with you. Your body quivered, soaked in the aftermath, every nerve alive from the intensity, and then exhaustion washed over you like a tide. Your legs collapsed beneath you, every muscle slack, and you fell into a deep, trembling collapse, completely spent.
Hours passed, the night silent, until you stirred in the darkness, waking to a weight behind you. Your heart skipped as you felt the presence, and turning slowly, you found him, Tyler, curled against you, asleep. His chest rose and fell, steady and warm, the lingering heat of his body pressed close.
Memories of the night came flooding back, the intensity, the raw force of him, the way he had moved with that wild, almost monstrous strength. You traced the lingering ache along your hips and thighs, the marks of his grip, the soreness of muscles you hadn’t realized had tensed so completely. You could still feel the phantom weight of him, the echoes of every touch, every thrust.
With a quiet, trembling sigh, you pressed your body closer against his, wrapping your arms around him and resting your head against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothed the remnants of your racing pulse, and you let yourself drift back into sleep, finally at peace, held in his arms.
cw: stalking, anxiety, paranoia, masturbation, use of lubricant and a remote-controlled vibro, voyeurism.
stalker tyler x streamer f!reader
Jericho is the kind of town that makes boredom feel permanent, like a layer of dust that no one bothers to wipe away. Nothing ever really happens here. Nothing worth holding onto, except maybe the Harvest Festival fair with its squeaky rides and stale popcorn. Even that feels less like excitement and more like a tradition people repeat out of habit.
The town doesn’t interest you, and neither do its people. The only moments that ever felt alive were when you crossed paths with Nevermore students drifting into the city. Outcasts, every one of them, people Jericho looks at with suspicion, almost disgust. You never understood that. If anything, you envied them.
You would give anything to trade your life for theirs, to become something extraordinary. A vampire, maybe. Or someone capable of becoming invisible.
Instead, you’re just human. Ordinary. Stuck in a town that feels like a cage.
At least you have what you love. Streaming. Gaming. The small glowing world you’ve built, pixel by pixel, where people show up to watch you play and for once you don’t feel like you’re wasting time. You’re good at it, not just playing, but also connecting with people, the way strangers say your name in the chat as if it actually matters. Streaming makes you feel alive in a way Jericho never will.
Here, you survive. There, online, you exist.
You’re grateful that streaming keeps you home. That it keeps you safe. Lately, Jericho has started to feel… wrong.
A dead body here. Another there. A car accident, nothing strange about it, but it only added to the unease.
You heard whispers that the sheriff and the mayor blamed it on a bear. A bear. As if that explained everything. As if claws and teeth could account for the way the air in town had shifted, heavy and restless. What unsettled you more was how little anyone else seemed to care. People went on with their small routines, barely glancing at the headlines, as though danger couldn’t touch them.
At least it gave you an excuse. A reason to stay inside, to lock your door, to lose yourself in the glow of a screen.
What you didn’t know, what you couldn’t know, was that those deaths, those mysteries that made the town shiver, would soon feel like nothing compared to what was coming for you.
You had sponsors from time to time. They sent you gear, codes for new games to test, energy drinks to keep you awake after long, draining days.
Nothing unusual about that. If anything, it was a sign you were doing well. A streamer being noticed. A streamer being seen.
So when a package appeared on your doorstep, you didn’t flinch. Even without a sponsor email, even without warning, you told yourself it was just a small gift. A surprise.
That’s what you believed.
At first, the packages were harmless. A small bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, a little keychain shaped like a game controller. Cute, thoughtful. You smiled, thinking nothing of it.
Then the notes started. Tiny slips of paper tucked inside the boxes, written in a careful, almost shy hand: Hope this brightens your day!, Saw this and thought of you. Flirtatious, yes, but still innocent enough that you laughed it off.
But then the gifts became… different. More personal. Something inexpensive, yet intimate. Something that made your stomach knot when you realized what it was.
The next package was heavier. You tore it open, expecting a new game or maybe some random accessory. And there it was, a vibrator, small and sleek. Your fingers froze. Your heart thumped. You dropped the box to the floor, letting it hit with a thud that sounded far too loud.
A note lay on top, handwritten: This might help you unwind after a long day… I thought you could use it.
You froze, your chest tightening, a cold knot forming in your stomach. Panic prickled at the edges of your mind. Someone had been watching. Someone knew things no sponsor could possibly know. Someone had crossed a line, and now you felt trapped, as if the walls of your apartment were closing in around you.
The safe little world you’d built around your streams, the glow of your monitor, the chat scrolling like fireflies, suddenly felt claustrophobic. Someone was inside, watching. And it wasn’t a fan anymore. It wasn’t just attention. It was something far more… personal.
Weeks passed, and you didn’t know what to do. There was no one to talk to, and you knew any complaint you might make would be dismissed, laughed off, or ignored. The anxiety settled into your days like a constant hum, and eventually, you stopped streaming. The world of your channels, your screens, your chats, all of it felt too exposed, too vulnerable.
Oddly, the packages stopped coming. Maybe he had realized he’d gone too far. Maybe he had noticed your retreat. It was a small relief, a fragile sense of safety.
One evening, restless, you tried to distract yourself. Nothing worked. Your thoughts kept looping, circling back to the same, forbidden memory: the vibrator. The thought made your stomach twist. Disgust and curiosity, irritation and a strange, undeniable pull. You couldn’t focus on anything else.
Minutes passed. Your heart thumped, your mind trapped in a strange, jittery fog. Finally, you rose and went to the corner of your room where the box was hidden. Your hands shook slightly as you opened it. The object was sleek, unfamiliar in a way that made your chest tighten. You noticed the shape and the button.
Inside the box, you also saw a small bottle of lubricant. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if you should feel relieved, or terrified, that he had thought to include it.
You carried the box to your bed, staring at the contents. Your thoughts swirled, conflicted. You let yourself feel, just a little, letting curiosity edge out fear.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your hands trembling slightly as you lifted the vibrator from the box. It felt strange in your palm, heavy with the weight of intention behind it. Your eyes flicked to the small bottle of lubricant. Hesitation knotted your stomach, was this curiosity, or fear?
You stripped off your clothes slowly, heart hammering, mind racing with shame and guilt and something else you couldn’t name. Your fingers traced over your skin, exploring, teasing, and a sudden wet warmth pooled low in your belly, unbidden. You hesitated, then reached for the bottle of lubricant. The cold liquid hit your heated skin with a sharp, electric shiver, sending goosebumps across your arms and thighs.
You spread it carefully, letting the cold mix with your own warmth, feeling it coat your most sensitive places. Your fingers moved over yourself, gentle, hesitant at first, then more certain, and the sensation made you gasp softly. Heat and tension built inside you, and the room seemed to shrink, your awareness narrowing to the slick, strange, and intoxicating feeling between your legs.
You positioned the vibrator, uncertain, and pressed the button. A low hum vibrated through your fingers, then into you, and a shiver of shock ran through your body. Your breaths came faster, shallow, and your hands gripped the sheets, trying to ground yourself. Your mind tried to tell you this was wrong, that you should stop, that this was the object of someone else’s obsession, but the sensations pressed past your hesitation, igniting nerve endings you didn’t realize were already on edge.
Minutes passed. The vibrations shifted, subtle changes at first, then more pronounced. A pattern, or maybe random pulses, you couldn’t tell. Your body responded automatically, muscles tightening and loosening in rhythm with the hum. Heat pooled in your chest, your belly, spreading downwards, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed. Every change made your heart skip, every pulse was electric.
Unbeknownst to you, the vibrations were shifting on their own, changing patterns and intensity, though you had no idea someone else might be controlling them...
The immediate sensations were all-consuming, tangled with shame, curiosity, and an odd, guilty thrill. Your chest heaved, your fingers fisted in the sheets, and for a few fleeting minutes, you were lost in the mix of fear and desire, unable to think of anything else.
The vibrations rolled through you like waves, shifting without warning. Sometimes they were soft and teasing, brushing against you gently. Then suddenly, they surged, deep and insistent, forcing a sharp intake of breath. Over and over, the rhythm changed, rising and falling like some private rollercoaster, leaving your body trembling in anticipation and surprise.
Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading through your hips and thighs. Your legs quivered, weak and unsteady, as your fingers moved over yourself, exploring, coaxing, reacting to every sudden pulse. Your breath hitched, escaping in soft, gasping moans that made the room feel impossibly small and intimate.
You arched your hips, pressing your fingers firmly against your most sensitive spot, slick with the lubricant. A jolt of shock and heat shot through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading through your hips and thighs. The vibrations shifted beneath your touch, soft and teasing one moment, then deep and insistent the next, making every nerve ending hum with tension.
Your fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, coaxing, and the warmth between your legs grew, thick and wet. Your thighs shook, trembling against the sheets as a gasp escaped your lips, sharp and breathless. One hand stayed between your legs, moving with the rhythm of the vibrations, while the other gripped the sheets, anchoring you as waves of heat pulsed through your body.
Every change in the vibration sent shivers racing down your spine, your chest rising and falling, your muscles tensing and releasing with each sudden surge. Soft, ragged moans slipped past your lips, mingled with gasps of surprise and guilty pleasure. The touch of the lubricant against your slick, sensitive skin heightened every sensation, making your body ache and thrum with a delicious, overwhelming intensity.
The vibrations pulsed through you, relentless, building higher and higher until you could no longer hold back. A wave of warmth, heat, and shock crashed over you, leaving your chest heaving and your legs trembling. Your fingers moved on instinct, pressing and circling, riding the rhythm of every sudden surge. The sensations intensified, overwhelming every nerve ending, as if your body couldn’t contain the pleasure.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, soft moans escaping uncontrollably as your body tensed and shivered, legs quivering beneath you. The vibrations surged again at the peak, insistent and unrelenting, pushing you further into the storm, overstimulating every fiber of your being. It felt impossible to stop, like your body was teetering on the brink of a second release even before the first had fully ebbed.
Then, suddenly, it all calmed. The waves subsided, the intense pulsing faded back into the steady, gentle rhythm of the vibrator. You were left breathless, trembling, the device still inside you and still humming quietly. Your chest rose and fell, legs weak, heart pounding as you tried to catch your breath.
Slowly, you sat up, fingers fumbling for the button, and pressed it. The hum ceased instantly, leaving a sharp, empty ache in its absence. A flutter of longing, the urge to turn it back on, rose in your chest, but you forced yourself to resist. Carefully, you removed the vibrator, placed it back in the box with the lubricant, and returned it to its hiding spot in the corner.
You collapsed onto your bed, legs still trembling, letting the sheets cradle you as sleep finally claimed you.
You didn’t notice the faint glow of your webcam. You didn’t notice that someone had been watching, observing every gasp, every shiver, every vulnerable, intimate movement throughout the entire experience.
You wake up slowly, legs still tingling, the inside of your thighs remembering every sensation from last night. A flush of embarrassment creeps over you, pleasure stolen, in a way, from a gift sent by your first stalker.
You get dressed and follow your usual morning routine. The kitchen smells of coffee, the toaster pops, and you settle in front of your computer with a small breakfast, savoring each bite as you normally would.
But when your computer boots up, a new email catches your eye. Hesitation freezes you for a moment before you click it open. Your stomach tightens, a cold knot forming as you read the words.
I really enjoyed our time together last night. You’re beautiful when you cum… I can’t wait to make you scream with more than just a little toy.
⭒˗ˏˋ Welcome to my Kinktober masterlist. This is my first time doing something like this so I hope it turns out okay and all works are written with a fem!reader in mind!! ˎˊ˗⭒
* October 1st – Sensory Deprivation w/ Morticia Addams
synopsis – being a vampire means that your birthdays were meaningless until tyler, who is not so secretly in love with you, makes sure you don't forget this one.
fluff
you were sitting at your usual table at the weathervane. your book lay open in front of you though your eyes kept moving behind the counter, searching for tyler. he was busy, hands full, lost in his own rhythm. finally, when you managed to turn your attention fully to your book, a cup of coffee slid toward you, in the foam, carefully written with cinnamon, were the words happy birthday.
tyler slid into the seat across from you, a proud smile on his face.
—i know you're usually a juice kind of girl because it helps with your vitamins, but i've been working on that all week.
you smiled, setting your book aside and wrapping your cold hands around the warm cup. —is there anyone enid didn't tell?
you meant your birthday. among vampires, it was not really common to celebrate it. years mixed together and somewhere along the way, the day stopped feeling important, you lost the sense of beginning or end. you had stopped waiting for cakes or gifts or voices singing your name. what was to celebrate when your existence was endless?
—well, who do you think delivered the cake?
your eyes widened a bit. this morning enid surprised you with a massive birthday cake with red berries and coated in white chocolate so sweet it had made your fangs ache, still you hadn't been able to stop eating. you had to pause and think about the last time you'd blown out candles prior to today. if you'd had blood still running in your veins, you were sure your cheeks would be hot by now, knowing that tyler was the one that made the cake.
—it was super nice, ty, thank you. and thank you for this, —you took a sip out of your coffee.
he showed you a little smile, one that said that he loved doing it.
—oh, is that, uh... that enid's gift? —tyler asked, pointing at the book you'd been reading before.
you nodded, —when i told her i hadn't read it, she was so offended.
tyler reached across the table, picking up the book. he quickly recognized the tittle, —twilight, —he read out loud, —a human falling for a vampire.
you took another sip out of your coffee. you knew why enid gifted you that book, she wasn't subtle, and tyler wasn't pointing out the plot of the story just to tease. the way his eyes looked at you after he said it told you he knew too. it was all about you two.
you set the cup down, —enid thinks she's clever.
—maybe she's just observant, —tyler rested the book on the table.
you met his eyes.
tyler always spoke about his feelings for you so lightly. he didn't seem to care who knew, didn't hesitate to admit that he was crazy for you. but for you wasn't so simple. of course you liked him back, more than you wanted to admit, yet the truth was as sharp as your fangs. you were a vampire and he was human. his blood called you in ways you tried not to think about, a constant reminder of your nature.
—what are your plans for tonight?
you leaned back, relieved he'd changed the subject, —nothing special, just hang out with wednesday and enid.
—so, if i asked you out to dinner with me... would that be something you'd be interested in?
the words caught you off guard. your first instinct was to build up a quick excuse, you could already hear yourself saying something like enid won't forgive if i skip out on them tonight. it was simple and believable. but before you could speak, a knock rattled against the glass right in front of your table. both you and tyler turned, and there they were, your two friends, one dressed head to toe in pink, the other in all black.
enid had the biggest grin in her face, her thumbs raised high as she mouthed a go! say yes! wednesday gave you the softest wink, letting you know that she'd being part of this plan all along.
—i'm guessing... that's a yes? —tyler said, eyes sparkling.
you took a deep breath, even though your lungs stopped working long ago, —yeah, —you said softly, —i'd like that. dinner with you.
for a moment, tyler just stared, as if making sure he'd heard you right. then his whole face lit up. another knock on the glass and enid's breath fogged the window as the leaned forward. she pointed at you, then at tyler, then she raised her eyebrows. tyler laughed and lifted his hands to gave her a thumbs up. your blonde friend threw her arms into the air like she'd just won the lottery, she tugged wednesday's sleeve to drag her away as if their mission were complete.
tyler looked at his watch again, just two minutes before your date time and you hadn't shown up yet. maybe you thought about it and came to the conclusion that accept had been a mistake. a vampire and a human. it sounded like the start of a tale, not a date.
but he caught it, the crunch of leaves somewhere in the distance. his head snapped toward the sound, but before tyler could even blink again, you were there. vampire speed. you'd crossed the woods, following his scent, and now you were standing just inches away, close enough for him to see the red in your eyes.
—you're here, —he said, almost to convince himself.
—yeah, —you brushed a leaf from your coat, —did you think i wasn't coming?
tyler showed you a guilty smile.
—i need you to close your eyes, —he said, and you tilted your head. the crypt behind him didn't exactly scream safe surprise. —just trust me.
and because you trusted him, you straightened your shoulders and let your eyelids shut. with your eyes closed you were even more sensitive to everything now. the call of an owl at the distance, the wind whispering through the branches, the sound of the door of the crypt opening and his heartbeat. you heard it clearly, steady, pushing blood through every vein, every inch of his body. it echoed in your ears, too tempting, every pulse called the hunger you tried to control.
you felt the warmth of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you inside the crypt. you allowed him to, moving step by step. the air shifted as you crossed the threshold, you heard the creak of the door as it closed behind you, the echo of tyler's breath and always, always his heartbeat.
—alright, —his hand remained on you, —you can open your eyes now.
the crypt was decorated with warm led lights across the stone walls. in the center, a blanket was spread carefully on the floor with a picnic basket and some candles around it. right beside all of it rested a bouquet of red roses.
you turned to look at tyler, amazed by the way he'd transformed the cold crypt into something gentle.
—what? no one's ever taken you on a picnic inside a crypt before? —he asked, teasing.
—shocking, right? my standards must be too high.
tyler's smiled widened, —then i'll just have to keep them there.
you both sat on the blanket, next to each other. you drew your legs to your chest while tyler leaned on one arm, his body turned towards you, close but not too much. and for a moment, you let your gaze wander around the soft lights like stars on the stone walls, the flicker of the candles, the bouquet of roses and its smell...
and while you admired the scene, tyler admired you.
the warm glow caught in your features, in your skin that looked like porcelain, in the depth of your red eyes, in the delicate tips of your fangs that showed when you talked...
—does anyone knows we're here? you know, just in case that giant stone door decides to trap us inside, —you asked.
tyler huffed a laugh, —enid and wednesday know. they, uh... helped me a bit with this...
—wednesday addams helped with this?
—she picked the crypt.
you let out a soft laugh.
and you kept laughing all date long, to his jokes, his terrible stories and the little accidents like him nearly tipping the bowl of snacks. you couldn't remember the last time you'd laughed this much, especially not on your birthday.
tyler had prepared some homemade snacks, laid in little containers inside the basket. you couldn't help but notice how much care he'd put into them, sandwiches cut into perfect halves, fruit arranged like he'd thought about colors, and those cookies that you loved carefully wrapped in paper. if you'd felt hunger the way humans do, you were certain the only thing you'd want to be fed for the rest of your life would be his food.
he even made homemade juice, two flavors bottled in glass: red berries and orange, knowing you lacked some vitamins thanks to your vampire lifestyle.
—okay, don't hate me. i'm just gonna come out and say it.
you took a slow sip of your juice, knowing that he'd try again, not being sure if you could keep pushing him away all he did for you.
—i want us to be more than friends, —he said. the words came out so easily.
you swallowed the juice, looking at him. he had a soft smile in his lips, one that let you know that he thought that this time would work, that you will not deny the way you felt about him.
—you'll snap out of it, —you answered, keeping your tone casual.
his smile didn't disappear, —don't do that. discount my feelings.
—you know things between vampires and humans don't usually end well.
—yeah, you can keep using that to push me away, but it's not going to work. i'm not scared, —tyler moved closer to you, and took the glass of juice of your hands, setting it aside. you allowed him to.
—you should be, —your voice didn't sound as intimidating as you wanted. his warm hand went to caress your cold cheek, his caramel eyes never leaving your crimson ones, as he leaned closer.
—i'm tougher than you think.
you didn't move away.
and tyler's lips met yours, testing, letting you decide how much to surrender. your fangs brushed his lower lip, but he didn't pull back, instead, tyler leaned closer. you felt your hands twitch, unsure whether to touch or remain still. tyler responded, tilting his head, deepening the kiss yet letting you set the pace. your lips were cold, almost icy, carrying no pulse of their own, yet tyler didn't flinch.
your hand rested against his chest as you also tilted your head, pressing a little more into him. and you felt it. the quick of his heartbeat beneath your fingers, beating the fastest you'd ever felt it. he was so real, so alive, so undeniably human.
it was like your coldness didn't scare him but drew him in closer, and his heart kept racing, louder and faster with each passing second he spent kissing you, as if it was beating for the both of you.
the moment stretched, until his chest rose and fell a bit faster than normal against your hand, and only then you realized why.
tyler needed air.
you pulled back slightly, enough to allow him to breath. his lips were parted, his face a little flushed. you stayed still, staring at him, watching the human necessity of him, the way he had to pause, while you never would.
—tougher than i think, huh? —you teased him.
—yeah... i'll have to work on my stamina.
you paused, holding his eyes, long enough for him to think the teasing was over, long enough for him to know that you were going to push him away again. —i think it could work out. us. i think we could work out, and i know you think it too, —he said, almost pleading.
you pressed your lips together, —yeah, but...
tyler waited, he was ready to debate any objection you could throw at him. now you were both sitting with your legs close to your chests.
—... you love cooking with garlic.
he raised his eyebrows, tyler expected anything, but not that. he couldn't help it, a small laugh left his lips before he could stop it.
—don't laugh! i've smelled it, and it's disgusting, plus, it could literally kill me.
—i can live without garlic, —he shook his head with a smile.
—and you love taking photos. we could never go to a photo booth, or take a mirror selfie. no wedding pictures, ty, you know us vampires don't...
—i don't need any of that, —tyler shook his head again, —you know it's kind of flattering that you're already thinking about our wedding.
you rolled your eyes. now he was realizing all the things little things that worried you, things he had never thought about before.
—we'll hire an artist to paint us, —he answered, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
if you had a living heart, you were sure it would shrink with each of tyler's solutions to what you considered to be problems.
—an artist... sounds safer. no risk of me disappearing from the photo mid smile.
tyler smiled as he leaned in, just enough for his lips to brush yours in a quick kiss. when he pulled back, you didn't meet his eyes. instead you looked down at your hands resting on your lap. he noticed instantly. —what happens? —he removed your hair from your face so he could look at you, even though you were avoiding him.
—what about blood, ty? you'll be fine watching me feed?
you looked at tyler, studying his face, expecting a reaction. the thought of him watching you wipe the blood from your mouth with the back of your hand or seeing the red in your eyes when your hunger was unbearable, had always been enough to keep him away.
but tyler just pressed his lips into a smile and leaned again to kiss your cold forehead, as if he had already pictured those moments and decided they wouldn't stop him.
—look, i know what you are, i've always known, and i'm okay with it. i don't care if it's dark, or dangerous, or messy, so stop trying to scare me away, it's not going to work.
you shook your head, slowly, finally giving in. there wasn't much more you could do if he had chosen to stand by your side anyways.
—enid's gonna freak out when we tell her about us.
tyler raised his eyebrows, —so there's an us?
you froze. for a second you looked for a reason to take it back, looking through the old ones you had used. too dangerous, too, different, too impossible. but nothing came, all you saw was tyler. your lips pressed into a line, and you finally nodded.
Summary : Spending a week in a lakeside cabin? Alone with Verso, no less? You couldn't have asked for anything better.
Author's note : I'm going to be away for a few days, maybe a week or two, to work on art works/comms, so I've written you a long chapter… a very spicy long chapter :)
CW : masturbation, virginity loss... it's fluff and smut ok? they're horny. good for them. Minors go away!
chapter X
Verso’s arms gather you close, steady and warm, and you sink into them as if they were built to hold you. The world hushes there, in the quiet curve of his chest. Overhead, the wind drifts through the leaves with a sound like breath caught in prayer. A bird trills somewhere near, answered by another farther off. Water folds its constant song through everything, the cascade never ceasing, the lake answering in a thousand small ripples. Sunlight rests upon it all, scattering bright shards across the surface until it looks like glass hammered by gold. For a moment, existence itself feels rounded and complete, nothing absent, nothing unkind.
Thoughts scatter forward into the days awaiting you here: the luxury of time without measure, mornings with no summons, meals made only to be lingered over. Afternoons where closeness is uninterrupted, where his mouth finds yours and laughter falls against your skin without fear of being overheard. The lake promises its own delights, cool water for aching muscles, the rush of diving side by side, the buoyancy of floating together beneath sky. And in the evening, perhaps, the heavens themselves will grant you their secret, stars unveiled so clearly you will believe no one else has ever looked upon them.
The sweep of your gaze drifts outward, taking in the tall trees with their mottled light, the shine of moss clinging to stone, the shifting green of the lake. Then, as if revealed for the first time, another presence claims attention. Resting at the terrace’s edge, tethered by a single rope, a wooden boat waits. Its hull gleams, varnished by time and care, each board curved with a craftsman’s patience. It looks both sturdy and graceful, a vessel that has surely carried lovers before you on quiet passages across the mirrored water. The sight of it alone stirs something, a longing not only for the journey but for the hush that would cradle it.
You ease yourself from Verso’s embrace, though his warmth lingers as you step toward the edge of the terrace. Boards shift softly beneath your weight, and the lake breathes just below, the boat rising and settling with each exhale of the water. Up close, it seems broader, more welcoming than from afar, an invitation to a slow drift with nothing but sky above and reflection below. A picnic laid out on its planks, a hand trailing in the water as stars blink alive, such visions come unbidden, woven into its very shape.
Turning back, your eyes find him where he remains, rooted yet attentive, a smile quieting his lips. He watches you as if wonder itself were rare and he is privileged to witness it. A single motion of your hand is all it takes, he responds at once, almost playfully obedient, crossing the space with the ease of someone who cannot help but answer your call.
When he reaches you, his arm slips naturally around your waist, anchoring you against him. The other hand disappears into the pocket of his trousers, casual, though the weight of his presence presses firm against your side. His voice is low when it comes, shaded with humor though he already knows, “Found something worth your attention?”
Your mouth curves with a softness you feel more than see, “Would you like,” you ask, hesitance tangled with hope, “to take a little trip on the boat with me? Sometime this week?”
His answer is not first in words but in touch, he bends enough to press his lips against your cheek, slow and certain, and the warmth lingers long after he pulls back. When he speaks, the words are quiet but full, “Anything, so long as it’s with you. If it makes you happy, then yes, always.”
When you turn back to him, something tender catches in your chest. Rising on your toes, you close the distance not with one kiss, but with a constellation of them, soft touches scattered across his face. Your lips find his forehead first, then skim down to the curve of his brow, the warm edge of his cheek, the bridge of his nose. You press another against the corner of his eye, light as a sigh, then drift to the hard line of his jaw. Piece by piece, you cover him, as though his whole face deserves devotion, as though every surface deserves to be claimed by tenderness.
Verso tilts his head, chasing you with quiet determination, lips parting in the hope of stealing a kiss that never quite comes. Each time he leans in, you dart away to another part of him, your laughter spilling against his skin like warmth itself. His own breath catches in a laugh, low and helpless, though there’s a thread of frustration wound through it, the sweet kind, the kind born of wanting more than you allow, “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the gleam in his eyes betrays how much he adores your refusal.
Without warning, the rhythm shifts. His body lowers, his arms moving with sudden certainty. One slides behind the small of your back, steady and secure, the other dips lower, curling behind your knees. In one fluid motion he lifts you, your weight gathered easily against his chest. The world tilts and your breath snags, startled. Cradled there in his arms, carried like something precious, you realize he has chosen the oldest gesture of devotion, holding you as though you are already his bride.
Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. Your arms loop around his neck the moment he lifts you, holding tight, a reflex as natural as breathing. His chuckle rumbles low in his chest, brushing against your ear, “Caught you,” he says, a thread of triumph curling through the amusement, “no more escaping my mouth this time.”
He carries you through the chalet’s quiet, steps slow, deliberate, until the bed greets the back of his legs. With ease, he lowers you onto the mattress, the sheets sighing beneath your weight. The playfulness doesn’t fade as he follows, bracing himself over you, shadowing your form.
His hand slips around your wrists, pinning them softly above your head against the pillow. The other steadies your chin, tilting it until your eyes rise to his. This close, there’s no chance to dodge him, no room to turn your lips aside.
“Now,” he whispers, gaze tracing every corner of your face, lingering on your mouth, “I’ll take what you’ve been keeping from me.”
The words hover between teasing and promise, his grip careful but insistent, a reminder that he holds you in place only because you let him. His breath grazes yours, warm and deliberate, the question already answered in the way your body arcs ever so slightly toward his. He turns the game back on you, tilting his head just enough to avoid your mouth. Instead, his lips find your forehead, your temples, the slope of your cheek. A quick press at the corner of your jaw, then another near your ear. He paints your face with feathered kisses, everywhere but the place you crave.
You push a little pout, lips thrust forward, eyes narrowing in mock indignation, “You’re mean…” you murmur, half sulking, half smiling, though the warmth rising in your chest betrays you.
His chuckle answers first, low and pleased, before words follow. Thumb brushing across your lower lip, he leans in just close enough for the tease to linger, “Only giving you what you gave me,” he replies, voice hushed with mischief, “fair’s fair.”
At last, his lips meet yours, light as a sigh. Small kisses, scattered, tasting, testing, until even restraint trembles under its own weight. Then the real kiss comes, tender, deliberate, slow. He drinks you in as though minutes could stretch into hours, as though he could measure eternity by the press and release of your mouths.
Gradually his body eases down over yours, every inch more of him settling against you. The hand that once guided your chin slides beneath your back, pulling you close until no space remains. The other releases your wrists only to thread his fingers with yours, palm to palm, an anchor wrapped in warmth.
Your free hand tangles in his hair, fingers combing through the soft strands, nails grazing the nape of his neck. He melts into the touch, sound rising unbidden from his throat, a low hum, half moan, half sigh. Each noise vibrates against your mouth, swallowed by the kiss, and you savor them greedily, every trembling breath, every fragile whimper, as if they were meant for you alone.
His mouth claims yours with a sudden, urgent force, lips pressed so tightly to yours it feels as though he’s trying to fuse the two of you into one. Every inch of him pours into the kiss, addicted to the taste, the heat, the texture of your lips, desperate for more. Breathless sounds slip from both of you, swallowed by the collision, and the sheer hunger of it leaves the world spinning.
When air finally becomes unavoidable, the two of you part with aching reluctance. Mouths swollen, breaths uneven, you remain close enough for the warmth of his exhale to brush your skin. Eyes lock, softened and burning all at once, and the silence between you seems to stretch as your lungs greedily fill with air again. Hearts pound loud enough to feel through your chests, then gradually begin to steady.
Only when the storm inside your body eases do you lean in once more, claiming his lips with your own. This time it is you who leads, pushing, coaxing, until he yields beneath you. With a shift of weight and a sudden burst of daring, you roll him gently onto his side, taking him with you, until your positions are reversed and he finds himself underneath you. Verso lets himself be guided without resistance, his body pliant, eager, his every motion wordless proof of trust.
Between fevered kisses, his voice breaks through in a hoarse whisper, equal parts murmur and sigh, “Putain… Je t'aime tellement, tellement fort.” the words fall against your mouth, trembling and raw, as though they’d been carved into his chest long before he dared to speak them aloud.
The kiss deepens until it steals breath, his arms tightening around you with a need that feels almost frantic, though his touch remains careful, never crossing the line he does not know if you wish to cross. Hands wander your back, your waist, pausing at the swell of your hips before sliding lower, not to claim, but to linger, trembling as if every inch of you burns him. Each motion begs without words, a silent plea hidden in restraint, a desire aching to be freed yet waiting for your command.
In the warmth of his hold, you allow yourself to drift, surrendering to the tide of heat pulling you under. Fingers slip down to his chest, fumbling at the first button of his shirt, then the next, determination hidden in the glide of your mouth against his. One by one, the fabric parts under your touch until his chest is bare to the cool air, though neither of you break the kiss, lips clinging as if air itself is less necessary than this closeness.
With the shirt spread open, your palm presses against his skin, warm and alive beneath your hand. You trace the firm lines of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle that shift as he breathes, the trail of hair leading lower, catching against your fingertips as though it, too, begs to be followed. Upward, your hand roams again, circling one of his nipples, watching with quiet fascination the way his chest rises beneath the soft torment of your touch.
A broken whimper shudders against your lips, the sound fragile, needy, impossible to mistake. His fingers tighten on your hips as though anchoring himself, as if the fear of you slipping away is stronger than anything else. Each subtle rise of his hips to meet yours, every restless movement of his body, speaks more clearly than words: he is begging you to continue, begging without shame, without armor.
When at last you shift, settling just enough to straddle him fully, you feel the hard press of him nestled between your thighs. The realization steals your breath, but it is his face that roots you there. Red-stained cheeks, lips swollen and raw from the storm of your kisses, lashes heavy as his half-lidded gaze drags itself to yours. A faint string of saliva glistens from the corner of his mouth to his chin, chest rising and falling like a man drowning and gasping for air. In this moment, he is undone, entirely at your mercy, entirely yours.
Memory flickers through you, the night before, when fear had knotted itself too tightly in your chest, when you had pulled away, whispering refusals no matter how much you craved him. It was not about denying him but about protecting what you wished to give, about keeping the first time sacred, chosen, offered when the moment was right. And maybe it was not yet. But maybe, tonight, you could give him something else. Not everything, not yet, but enough to remind him that you are his, that you choose him.
Your hand slips lower, daring now, cupping the bulge straining against his trousers. The sound he makes is instant, sharp and high, a moan torn unbidden from his throat as he arches into your palm. You trace his shape with a single finger, slow and teasing, watching his reaction unfold, savoring every twitch and gasp. Leaning close enough for him to drown in your eyes, you whisper, voice hushed but steady, “Do you want me to take care of you?”
His answer bursts out before he can stop it, raw and broken, “Yes, please.” the word cracks in his throat, nearly a sob, dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere he cannot hide. Hips jerk against your hand as though his body itself begs louder than his voice, trembling beneath the weight of desire. Every part of him leans into you, clinging, desperate, undone. He looks at you as though salvation rests entirely in your hands, as though he would shatter if you pulled away now.
You draw it out, teasing him mercilessly, your palm gliding slowly over the swollen outline pressing against the fabric. Every brush, every shift of your fingers only heightens the ache, and yet you refuse, for now, to undo the layers of cloth that keep him bound. The restraint is deliberate, a slow torture, and you can feel how hard he is beneath the thin barrier.
While your hand toys with him, you don’t look away. You study him, how his back arches off the mattress in tiny, uncontrollable jerks, how soft, broken sounds fall from his parted lips, how his thighs shift under you, muscles tightening, trembling, as though his body fights not to lose control too soon. His fingers dig into your skin, nails leaving half-moon crescents in the flesh of your thighs, gripping as though you’re the only tether he has left.
You expect him to beg, to plead for you to stop teasing, to take mercy and give him release. But he doesn’t. He stays utterly pliant beneath you, breathless, eyes glazed, letting you do as you wish. He surrenders to your rhythm as though this is all he’s ever wanted: to be guided, to be consumed, to take whatever you’re willing to give him as though each touch might be the last.
At last, after what must have felt like endless torment for him, your fingers slip to the button of his trousers. You work it open, then the zipper, tugging the fabric down. He lifts his hips at once, eager, helping you peel both his pants and underwear away in one smooth motion. The moment he’s freed, the weight of him settles against his lower stomach, flushed and swollen, impossibly hard.
For a heartbeat, you pause, simply looking. He is bigger than you expected, thick, long, intimidating in a way that makes your stomach clench. You trace him with your gaze, drinking in every detail. From the corner of your eye you catch the faintest smirk tug at his lips, pride flaring for a moment through the haze of surrender, as though he can’t quite hide the satisfaction at your reaction.
Slowly, deliberately, your fingertip trails the length of him, from base to tip. He twitches under your touch, a sharp hiss escaping between his teeth. When you circle the head, spreading the bead of slick already gathered there, his hips jolt up helplessly, as though trying to chase your hand.
The whole time, his eyes never leave you. They burn into your face, following the path of your hand, memorizing every flicker of curiosity, every breath you take. And when you shift, leaning down so your mouth hovers above him, a thin strand of spit falls from your lips to land across the flushed head of his cock, glistening as it slides down. His breath shatters into a ragged moan. You wrap your hand around him at last, spreading that wetness along his length, working it into his skin with slow strokes. His eyes flutter closed, his body arches, and the sound that tears from his throat is nothing short of worship.
Your hand begins its rhythm slowly, hesitant, each stroke more an exploration than an intention. You watch him carefully, every twitch of muscle, every shift of breath, the small tremors in his thighs as though his whole body answers to your touch. His lips part, soft sounds spilling from him, little gasps and whimpers that tell you more than words ever could.
“Does it… feel good?” you whisper, unsure, your strokes faltering for a heartbeat as your nerves betray you, “Am I doing it right?”
His response is immediate, voice rough, breathless, “Yes… yes, fuck, don’t stop. You’re perfect.” his eyes lock on yours, desperation written across his face, as though he fears you might pull away. The way his voice breaks on the words leaves no doubt, every inch of him is undone by you.
Encouraged, you grow bolder. Your wrist finds its rhythm, stroking him with a steadier hand, each pass smoother, surer. He melts beneath you, hips shifting up into your palm, chasing each movement, needing more. His face is a map of pleasure, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, lips swollen and damp, eyes rolling back only to snap forward again as if he can’t bear to miss a single moment of you. Every time his teeth catch his lower lip, a groan vibrates through his chest, torn between restraint and surrender.
You shift beside him, sliding down until you can press closer. One arm braces against the mattress, the other never leaving him, pumping him with a slow, deliberate pace. From this angle, your mouth finds his, claiming him with a kiss that deepens quickly into something ravenous. Your tongue teases, then tangles with his, the taste of him flooding your senses. He moans into your mouth, each sound swallowed, devoured, your kiss stealing every broken whimper he can’t contain.
His hand buries itself in your hair, grip tightening at the base of your neck as though he can’t let you go, can’t bear the thought of you pulling away. The other fists in the sheets, knuckles white, clutching hard enough to crease the fabric. Every thrust of your hand draws a deeper sound from him, moans rising, breaking, the pitch climbing higher with every stroke.
You stop suddenly, halting your hand just at the height of his need. The sound he makes is raw, a desperate cry strangled in his throat, and instinctively his hips jerk, rutting up into your palm as if he can’t help himself. His body takes over, moving against you, using your hand, and you let him, watching the way his chest heaves, the way every muscle strains toward release.
When you seize control again, stroking him with firm, quick movements, it’s already too late for him. His whole body tenses at once, back arching, thighs trembling, stomach muscles tightening hard beneath your hand. His breath breaks into a ragged cry, a mixture of moan and sob, spilling against your mouth as he comes undone.
Hot release spills across your fingers and his lower stomach, and still his body jerks with aftershocks, muscles convulsing helplessly as though the pleasure is too much to contain. He whimpers into your kiss, every sound caught between your lips, trembling and vulnerable, until he finally collapses back into the sheets.
Even then, his hand clings to your hair, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves, eyes glassy and unfocused. The last of his strength fades in a shaky sigh, his body limp beneath you, utterly spent, utterly yours.
At last, you break the kiss. A thin string of saliva clings between your mouths, stretched taut before snapping as you lean back, giving him space to breathe. His chest heaves, desperate for air, lips wet and parted, while you straighten, gaze dropping down. Your hand still glistens, streaked with his release, pearly white and viscous, dripping down onto the soft skin of his stomach where it pools warm against him.
Curiosity steals through you before hesitation can catch up. Slowly, almost cautiously, you lift your hand to your face, studying the shine that coats your fingers. His eyes follow every movement, dark and intent. When your tongue finally darts out to taste him, he huffs a laugh through his uneven breath. The flavor makes you wince, your face twisting despite yourself. He chuckles again, softer this time, half in amusement, half in wonder, watching you wrestle with the unfamiliarity of him. Perhaps it was something to grow used to. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.
With a quiet sigh, he turns, reaching toward the nightstand. He finds a small stack of tissues and hands them over, the simple act achingly domestic. The two of you clean up together, the soft rustle of paper filling the silence, until the mess is gone and the crumpled tissues land with a faint thud in the bin.
As soon as it’s done, his arms are around you again, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. His lips brush your forehead, lingering, tender. A smile curves against your skin before he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, “Where the hell did you learn to do all that?” he teases, voice hoarse but laced with affection.
Heat floods your cheeks instantly, the flush creeping down your neck. Embarrassment makes you glance away, but you force the words out, sheepish, “...Maybe I read a few books. The kind with…” you hesitate, struggling, “...scenes.” you cringe at your own confession, the absurdity of admitting it aloud making your throat tight. It wasn’t shameful, not really, but saying it so directly, to him of all people… it makes your heart race all over again.
His laugh softens into something gentler, and he shakes his head with a fond exhale, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “Adorable,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then the other, then the tip of your nose, “Perfect.” Each word is punctuated with a kiss, his lips scattering light touches over your skin. You answer them one by one, smiling into his affection until his mouth finally finds yours again. The kiss lingers, sweet and unhurried, before he pulls back just enough to whisper, “I’m so madly in love with you.”
The words leave you breathless. You press your lips to his once more, then whisper against them, voice trembling with both certainty and ache, “I love you too… more than you could possibly know.” your forehead rests against his, the two of you caught in the fragile silence that follows. Minutes slip by with nothing but the rhythm of your breathing in sync, the warmth of his body grounding you. Then, quietly, almost timidly, you break it, “Are you… are you still mad at me for yesterday?”
He blinks, brow furrowing, “Yesterday?” the confusion paints his features until suddenly, realization strikes, and his expression softens. One hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheek, “Hey,” he whispers, eyes steady on yours, “I wasn’t even mad at you in the first place. I told you. Your consent is what matters most to me.” his tone carries no reproach, only reassurance, steady and unwavering, as though to anchor you against the weight of your own doubt.
Relief spills through you in a long exhale. You nod, lips brushing his palm, letting yourself believe him fully this time. His arms draw you close again, wrapping you in his warmth, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. A shared laugh, quiet and tired, eases the air between you. With your legs tangled together and his hand absently tracing patterns across your back, you drift into a slow, blissful rest, the morning hours melting away in the safety of each other’s arms.
Two days slip by with the ease of water over stone, quiet, gentle, without urgency. Hours stretch into long ribbons of peace, stitched together by touches, glances, and the unspoken vow of never letting the other drift too far. The world beyond the lake fades into irrelevance, leaving only the cocoon of this place, and the way your presence in his arms feels like a truth older than either of you.
Every little act becomes an excuse to close the distance. Stirring a pot, rinsing plates, folding linen, each task finds interruption in the brush of lips at your temple, in arms circling your waist, in laughter shared through mouths barely parted. It feels at times like stepping into the pages of some sentimental romance you once dismissed as saccharine, the sort of story too sweet to be real. And yet here it is, unspooling around you, impossible to resist, making you wonder how you ever lived outside of it.
Nights blur with mornings, baths run over with steam and the quiet rhythm of conversation, meals are prepared less by your hands than by his embrace as he lingers behind you, chin balanced on your shoulder, making the simplest chopping of herbs into an impossible task. Sometimes he sits off to the side, content just to watch, eyes following every motion with that soft, unguarded devotion that leaves your chest tightening. Now and then, at your sigh or raised brow, he joins in, offering clumsy help with a smile that says he never intended to be useful in the first place.
Afternoons fold into golden warmth. You lie back with a book in hand, sunlight spilling through leaves overhead. Verso sprawls across you without ceremony, using your chest as his pillow, his breath warming the fabric of your shirt. Fingers wander idly into his hair, combing, scratching lightly at his scalp until a sigh escapes him, low and content, the kind of sound that roots itself in memory. The book rests steady in your other hand, its plain, unmarked cover drawing no attention, looking for all the world like a private journal. It gives you the luxury of reading without questions, of keeping this quiet secret close.
You uncovered more with every page, fragments of their magic, the trials of discovery, the strange brilliance that had shaped them. Some stories told of accidents, mistakes that sparked entire schools of practice, others, of stubborn patience rewarded after years of failure. The book spoke of names etched into their history. Thierry Duvall, who gave the world restless quills that chased thought across the page before it could slip away. Lucien Veyrac, remembered for his echo-ink, a formula that bound the voice of the reader into the text so that each future reading carried the weight and cadence of those before. And Sophie Lenoir, who created a special ink once used in the Great Library: when read aloud under a Story Anchor, the words spilled into the room as sketches of light and shadow, entire stories rising like living illustrations. Some inventions had changed the very rhythm of writing, others were simpler, softer, but no less wondrous, each one proof that words themselves could be coaxed into miracles.
Wonder tangled with unease as you turned the last page. Awe at what these scriptomancers had achieved, inks that breathed, quills that thought, stories that rose into air like living dreams. Yet beneath it all, a knot tightened in your chest. Instead of pride in sharing their legacy, you felt small, almost useless, a pale shadow of those who came before. Worse still, every line reminded you of the danger you carried within. Powers like these had been outlawed in the writers’ district, to possess them was to invite suspicion, punishment, perhaps even exile. The weight of that secret pressed harder with each name, each invention, until it felt less like history and more like a warning.
The contrast sharpened the longer you thought on it. The district, as it lived now, seemed hollow compared to the echo of what it had been. You tried to picture it as the book suggested, streets alive with ideas, writers who dreamed for the sake of dreaming, who reached not to outdo one another but to touch something greater. A time when creativity had been a kind of shared lantern, lifting everyone into its glow.
The present felt dim beside that vision. Joy had curdled into rivalry, ambition narrowed into proof of superiority. Where once invention had drawn people closer, now suspicion and division had pushed them apart. The quarrel between writers and painters had stolen more than trust, it had stripped the district of its radiance, leaving only cold embers where fire had once burned.
On the third morning of your holiday, you wake earlier than usual. Outside, the world hovers in that fragile space between night and day, darkness softening, yet not fully gone, the first hints of light revealing the outlines of trees and water. Beside you, Verso remains deeply asleep, breath slow and steady, his hair tousled against the pillow. A faint smear of drool stains the corner, proof of untroubled dreams, and the sight makes your lips twitch into a helpless smile.
Minutes slip by without sleep returning. You lean in to press a quiet kiss against his forehead, careful not to stir him, then ease yourself out of bed. Bare feet tread softly across the floorboards. The chalet holds a room you’ve peeked into before, walls lined with unfinished canvases, others still blank, propped against easels. Brushes rest in jars clouded with dried pigments, and the faint scent of oil and turpentine lingers in the air. It feels like a place where silence itself waits to be painted.
That first time, you also noticed a simple desk tucked against the wall, scattered with sheets of paper, a glass inkwell, and a handful of quills. Probably nothing more than supplies left for Alicia. Back then, you thought they might be useful one day, if you ever found the courage to test your powers again. Now, with Verso lost in dreams, the chance finally feels real.
You settle cross-legged on the floorboards with a sheet of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. A stray piece of sheet music lies nearby, that you had brought with you to conduct little experiments. Just as you did the first time, you set the paper before you, the tools ready, heart racing.
Back then, the magic had come when you hummed, when you tried to birth something new. What if, this time, you rewrote instead? If you inverted the notes of an existing song, bent them into something else, would the ink still respond?
Eyes sweep the page. You copy each mark carefully, then reverse the order, watching the stave fill under your hand. Nothing. No flicker. No warmth in your veins. Frustration gathers sharp in your chest. Another sheet. Another attempt. Silence. The stack of wasted pages grows, a graveyard of effort.
Each crumpled ball of paper tossed aside feels heavier than the last. Anger, sharp and hot, overtakes restraint. You drag your pen across a clean sheet in jagged lines and furious spirals, a storm of ink. Suddenly the black deepens, sinks into itself, and veins rise beneath your skin, dark, not gold. They pulse across your forearms, harsh and foreign, as though shadow itself had claimed you.
Panic seizes you. Breath shortens, comes fast and shallow. You tear at the page, shredding it into strips, into fragments, as though destroying it could erase what’s crawling through your body. The sound of ripping paper fills the room until the pieces scatter like ashes. Slowly, the black threads fade from your veins, disappearing as though they were never there. You curl forward, arms around yourself, trembling as air fights its way back into your lungs.
Gradually, breath evens out. A shudder leaves your body in one long sigh. You press your palms to your knees, grounding yourself in the wooden floor beneath, in the soft weight of silence.
The temptation to give up presses close, heavy. To shove the ink and paper aside, pretend none of it ever happened. But something stubborn inside you refuses to let go. A voice, small yet fierce, insists that failure doesn’t mean the end.
Setting aside the sheet music, you close your eyes. Empty your mind. You remember what stirred your magic before, creation, not imitation. It had been born from the wish to gift Verso something, to see pride in his eyes. Perhaps copying the notes of others will never work. Perhaps it has to be yours.
You linger on the floor, the sheet before you untouched, quill loose in your hand. Thoughts slip, unbidden, toward the people who raised you. You hadn’t even sent them a proper letter before leaving, only a hurried note left behind. The Dessendres had welcomed you so kindly after you fled, but a shadow nags at you: what if your parents show up at their door? What if they bring anger, or blame, or demand you return? The thought tightens your chest, a coil of dread wrapping itself around the fragile peace you’ve found here. You don’t hate them, not entirely, you can’t, but closeness has never lasted between you.
The ache turns into a quiet hum under your breath, a melody fragile as glass. Your hand moves almost without command, sketching small shapes across the page, hearts, circles, flowers, marks with no meaning but your own. The ink shivers, glows. Golden light threads across the page, and your veins blaze to life in the same luminous hue, chasing away the shadows. The simple doodles twist, lengthen, resolve into notes, into bars, into music itself. Sound swells around you, not imagined but real, spilling into the room, warm and clear. The melody you birthed breathes in the air, alive.
Wonder floods you, so complete that you fail to notice the footsteps approaching, the soft creak of the floorboards, the faint hinge-sigh of the door. The music holds you captive, gold shimmering in every note, until another sound breaks through.
“...Mon dieu.” Verso’s voice, low, almost reverent, slips into the room. There’s awe in it, yes, but threaded with caution, as though he’s unsure whether to step closer or stand still.
Only then do you jolt back to yourself. Your head whips toward the door, and the moment shatters. The music twists, warping into sour dissonance, as though invisible hands are striking the wrong keys on a piano. Notes buckle, crack, fall apart. Light collapses in on itself, vanishing in a sudden shower of golden dust that fades before it reaches the floor. Silence slams into the space, heavy, absolute.
Your chest locks. Words won’t come. You stare at him, searching his face, desperate to read his expression. Shock? Fear? Revulsion? You can’t tell. The uncertainty gnaws at you until panic blooms sharp and fast. Breath stutters in your throat, shallow, ragged. Air refuses to come, your lungs shrinking, your ribs closing in. Fingers tremble. Heart races too loud, too fast. You curl in on yourself, terror swelling, not just of what you are, but of losing him because of it.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” his voice cuts through, urgent but steady, like a rope thrown across water. He’s already kneeling before you, hands hovering near but not quite touching, waiting for permission, “It's okay, everything's fine, I'm here.”
Your vision blurs, spots sparking. A sob claws its way up your throat.
“Breathe with me,” he says firmly, taking your trembling hands in his. He presses them against his chest, right over his heart, “Feel that? Follow it. In…” he draws a long inhale, exaggerating the rise of his ribs beneath your palms, “…and out.” his breath leaves slow, deliberate.
You try, lungs catching on the inhale. Panic fights you, but his gaze anchors you, unwavering.
“Again. In. Hold,just a little. Now out. Good. You’re doing it.” his thumbs stroke lightly over the backs of your hands, grounding you.
The tremor in your body lessens by degrees. Each shaky breath follows his, ragged at first, then steadier. Your chest still aches, but air moves. Life returns. His presence fills the silence left by your fading fear, his warmth pressed to your skin, his heartbeat under your fingers, a rhythm steady enough to believe in.
Even after your breath steadies, the unease refuses to let go. Shame clings like a second skin. The words slip out before you can stop them, low and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” you repeat it again, and again, as if apology alone might undo what he just witnessed, as if it might shield you from the rejection you fear more than anything.
Verso frowns, confusion cutting through his features. His voice, normally velvet, sharpens with worry, “Why are you apologizing? For what? What was that?” the brusqueness isn’t anger, you can hear the tremor underneath, the way it cracks slightly from fear for you, but it still makes you flinch. You don’t know if he understood what he saw, or if he’s only guessing. The uncertainty swallows you. Words coil in your throat, trapped. Instead, tears streak silently down your cheeks.
He notices. Whatever storm brewed in him softens, and without hesitation, he pulls you into his chest. His arms fold around you, unshakable, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. The fabric of his shirt grows damp beneath your cheek, but he doesn’t mind. Time blurs, minutes spill past in silence, broken only by his steady hand stroking the length of your back, fingers threading gently through your hair. Little by little, your breathing evens, the shuddering in your shoulders easing until the room feels still again.
At last, he loosens his embrace just enough to frame your shoulders with his hands. He tips your face up, his own gaze steady, “Tell me,” he urges, quieter now, but no less intent, “What happened?”
Your throat tightens. The words come brittle, fragile, “Promise me first. Promise me you won’t hate me.”
His thumb brushes across your damp cheek, a touch so tender it nearly undoes you. His answer comes without hesitation, steady and warm, “Nothing could ever make me hate you.”
The breath you’ve been holding leaks out as a shiver. You hesitate, then let the dam break. The whole story pours out, your nightmares, the first terrifying moment when ink obeyed you, the strange glow in your veins, and the encounter with the Academician who named what you are. You speak quickly at first, then slower, afraid your own voice might condemn you, yet unable to stop. Verso listens without interruption, not once pulling away, his eyes fixed on you as if each word matters more than the last.
When silence finally comes, it’s his that terrifies you. The weight of it presses against your ribs, unbearable. Your pulse races as you wait for judgment. Then he exhales, slow, deliberate. His voice is low, thoughtful, but certain, “I always knew you were different. Special.”
Your body stiffens. The words sting instead of soothe, “I don’t want to be,” you blurt, louder than intended. The sound cracks the air, and you recoil instantly, guilt rushing in. Softer now, trembling, “I don’t want this. It’s dangerous. It’s been outlawed for a reason. If anyone finds out… I could put you in danger. Your family, too.”
Verso studies you for a long moment, his gaze steady, searching. Finally, he asks, quiet but pointed, “If you don’t want these powers… if they frighten you… why were you hiding here, trying to use them?”
The question cuts deeper than you expect. You want to answer, but nothing solid comes. The truth coils inside you in contradictions: one half of you alight with wonder, relieved to have found a path you thought lost to you, the other shackled by fear, whispering of risk, of danger, of the weight of what it all means. You are torn, suspended between awe and dread.
He seems to see all of it, the war inside you, as if your thoughts were written plainly across your skin. But rather than press harder, his attention shifts. His eyes fall to the sheet of paper at your feet. The music remains on the page, yet it looks unsteady, as though the notes themselves had been drawn by a trembling hand, hesitant, uncertain. He crouches, lifts the page delicately, and scans the lines.
Recognition flickers instantly across his face. His brow rises, and then his gaze returns to you, back to the page, then to you again, “This song,” he murmurs, incredulous, “Did you… make this?”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Your head bows, voice low, halting, “Yes… and no. It’s… complicated.” his silence holds, patient, and you feel the weight of his curiosity urging you on. So you gather yourself, breath trembling in your chest, “I was humming a tune… just something in my head. And while I was… I drew some silly little shapes. Then the ink… it changed. It became this. The music. And it played, by itself. This is the second time this has happened.”
You study him, searching for something in his eyes, but his face betrays nothing. Then he speaks, and the words land like a stone dropped into still water, “I think I’m… jealous.”
The word doesn’t make sense at first. Your brow arches, and your thoughts trip over themselves, wondering if you’d missed something, if he’d changed the subject without you noticing. But no, he’s still here with you, still looking at you, and so you ask, quietly, “Why jealous?”
He breaks eye contact at once. His cheeks color, and it feels like watching someone try to swallow back words already spoken. His voice is rougher when it comes again, reluctant,, “Because now… you don’t really need me to teach you how to play the piano anymore.” there’s no anger, only a quiet ache threaded through the confession, as though the thought of being left behind weighs heavier than he expected.
The honesty of it startles you. For a moment you can only stare at him, wide-eyed, before something softer unfurls in your chest. A smile, gentle, touched, pulls at your lips. You shift, climbing into his lap with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt. His arms find you instinctively, holding you as if he’d been waiting for the movement all along. You press a warm kiss to his cheek, lingering, “You’ll always be my teacher,” you whisper, voice low against his skin, “My only teacher.”
He exhales shakily, forehead dropping to yours, his nose brushing yours in a fleeting, playful nudge before his lips meet yours. The kiss is slow, fragile in its tenderness, as though he wants to seal the promise inside it. When he pulls back, his voice is steady again, though quieter, more deliberate, “Promise me you’ll leave the magic aside this week. Just… rest. If you do, I’ll make us a picnic tonight.”
You tilt your head, suspicion flickering through your gaze, “By make, you mean you’ll put down the blanket and set the cutlery while I do the cooking?”
The corner of his mouth quirks, and he pinches your cheek with mock indignation, “You’ll be surprised by what I can do.”
This time your smile spreads bright and unguarded, flooding your face with warmth, “Then I can’t wait to see.”
The rest of the day passes in a strange balance, as if you are both trying to step lightly around the morning. There are moments when unease nips at you, sudden tremors of thought you can’t quite chase away, in those moments Verso is quick to notice, grounding you with a word, a touch, a glance that steadies. At other times it’s him who breaks the silence, curiosity leaking through despite himself. His questions aren’t pressing, not cruel, but full of wonder, as though he’s looking at a locked door he longs to open, yet knows he mustn’t force.
No matter how much you want to set the subject aside, neither of you can ignore it entirely. And strangely, speaking of it isn’t heavy. Each small admission feels like air released from lungs held too long. Liberating, in its own fragile way.
By mid-afternoon, Verso insists on preparing for the picnic. His voice carries that quiet determination you know better than to argue with, though you try at first. He urges you toward the bed instead, promising you’ll ruin the surprise if you linger too close. You want to stay, to watch him the way he always watches you, but in the end you give in, padding back to the bedroom with reluctant steps.
The sheets are still warm on his side. You curl into them, pressing your cheek to the pillow that carries his scent, soap, faint woodsmoke, the sweetness of his shampoo. It holds you in a way your body can’t resist. Soon enough, your eyelids sink, and you slip into a dreamless sleep.
When you wake, it’s to the soft graze of fingertips against your cheek, the brush of lips at your temple. His voice is there too, low, coaxing, but the words tangle in the haze of sleep. You only catch fragments, “ready”, “picnic”, “evening”. The meaning comes slowly, you’ve slept longer than you meant to. The whole afternoon is gone.
The door creaks as he leaves, closing gently behind him. You lie still for a moment, rubbing the heaviness from your eyes, then stretch until your joints hum. At last you rise, moving toward the wardrobe. Your hands find something suitable for the evening, you change without hurry, the quiet of the room wrapping around you like a held breath. A quick glance in the small mirror, a last adjustment, and you step out to find him.
Evening stretches its colors wide across the lake, rose and amber melting into one another, streaks of gold trembling over the water’s skin. The air is still warm, softened by the breeze that carries the scent of pine from the woods. At the terrace, the wooden boat waits, rocking gently at its mooring. A blanket smooths the wooden seats, a basket rests at its center, and from the prow hangs a lantern, its flame not yet needed but already glowing faintly in the dim.
Verso straightens when he hears you. The fading light paints his profile in copper and soft shadows. When he turns, his smile is easy, unguarded. One hand holds the boat steady, the other extends toward you, palm open.
“You’re just in time,” he says, voice low with that note of satisfaction, like he’s proud you’re seeing all this now.
You pause at the edge of the terrace, the sight of him, of all this, pulling at your chest until it’s almost too much, “You’ve outdone yourself,” you murmur, half-teasing, though your throat feels tight with something far gentler.
His grin tilts, boyish, “Wait until you’ve seen the inside. Five stars, guaranteed.”
You laugh under your breath, then step forward. His fingers close around yours, firm, certain, guiding you down into the boat. The wood shifts beneath your feet, but his grip steadies you, holding you until you’re seated across from him.
The scene around you is simple yet aching in its care, the blanket spread smooth, the basket between you, the lantern’s glow bending across his features. Every detail whispers of thought, of intention.
“Verso…” you start, but the words thin out.
He tilts his head, studying you, “Hm?”
“This isn’t just a picnic, is it?”
For a moment, silence. Then he chuckles softly, dipping the oar into the water, pushing the barque away from the terrace, “Maybe not.” his eyes linger on yours, softer now, “Maybe it’s me trying to show you that you’re safe. With me.”
The shore drifts slowly behind, the world narrowing to water, sky, and the steady rhythm of the oar. Ripples spread and fade, catching the fire of the setting sun.
At the lake’s center, he lets the boat drift, hands resting lightly on the oar. His gaze finds you again, steady, unblinking, as though nothing else in the world is worth looking at, “Perfect spot, don’t you think?”
The colors overhead bleed deeper, rose into violet, orange into burnished gold. And here, in the middle of the still water, it feels as if the sky itself has folded close around the two of you.
The boat drifts lazily, cradled by the gentle rocking of the water. The last flare of daylight burns low across the horizon, streaks of orange and rose bleeding into violet. Every ripple catches the fading glow, the lake itself glittering as though holding onto the sun’s final breath.
Verso rests one hand on the oar, the other propped loosely on his knee. He studies you as though you belong to the scene, as though the light itself bends just to frame you. Then his voice breaks the stillness, warm and teasing, “So. Did you sleep well?”
You nod, still feeling the softness of the pillow clinging faintly to your skin, “Better than I expected.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and a mischievous glint flashes in his eyes, “Good. Because for a while, I thought the whole house might shake apart with how loudly you were snoring.”
Your eyes widen in horror, “What? I-”
His laugh comes bright and sudden, bubbling over the water. He shakes his head, hands raised as though to ward off your indignation, “I’m joking, I’m joking. You didn’t snore.” his smile softens into something gentler, truer, “You just looked… peaceful. Like you hadn’t breathed easy in days.”
Heat blooms in your cheeks, flustering you more than you care to admit. You turn away, to the shimmer of water, though his gaze lingers like sunlight against your skin.
He reaches for the basket and pulls it closer, drawing your attention back, “Alright. Let’s see what my grand effort has amounted to.” one by one, he unveils his work: bread still warm to the touch, cheese cradled in cloth, glossy fruits sliced with care, roasted vegetables kissed with herbs, and, most surprising of all, small golden pastries, dusted with sugar, delicate as something from a market stall.
You blink, momentarily speechless, “Verso… when did you even learn to make all this?”
He shrugs, trying for nonchalance though his pride flickers in the curve of his mouth, “Here and there. I pay attention sometimes, you know.”
You take a bite, and your expression answers for you, the shock, the delight, the way your eyes widen as the flavors bloom, “This is…” you pause, unable to hide your smile, “this is really good.”
He raises a brow, feigning offense, “You sound surprised.”
“Because I am,” you admit with a laugh, “I didn’t know you had this in you.”
His smirk softens to something quieter, his eyes steady on yours, “Guess I'll have to keep surprising you.”
The meal passes in an unhurried rhythm, broken by small conversations, laughter tucked between bites, long pauses where words feel unnecessary. The lake is still, the air warm with the breath of summer, and the lantern’s glow weaves gold across his features. By the time the last morsel is gone, the sky has shifted, violet deepening into indigo, indigo melting toward black. One by one, stars prick the surface of the night.
Verso moves the basket aside, unfolding the blanket so it covers more of the boat. He glances at you, a question in his eyes, then pats the space beside him, “Come here. There’s room if we stretch out.”
Carefully, you shift, the boat rocking beneath your weight, until you’re pressed against him, his arm curling naturally around your shoulders. Your head finds the slope of his chest, steady with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Together, you lie back, the boat swaying gently, the vast sky spilling above you.
The stars gather thick and bright, shimmering across the dark like spilled glass. A shooting streak crosses the heavens, brief and brilliant, and you find yourself holding your breath. His hand tightens at your side, as though he, too, felt the moment pass through him.
For a long while, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t heavy, it’s full, layered with the hush of water, the whisper of breeze, the faint creak of wood. Finally, Verso exhales, his voice low, threaded with something almost fragile, “You know…” he pauses, as if weighing the words, “I could spend forever like this. Just you, me, and the stars.”
Your chest tightens, a tremor running through you at the weight of it. You tilt your face just enough to glimpse him, his features softened in the glow of starlight, his expression bare, unguarded, “Forever’s a long time,” you whisper, your voice caught somewhere between teasing and trembling.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile it away. His gaze anchors you in place, “Not long enough.”
The words hang there, vast as the night itself. You feel them sink into you, a vow written in the quiet between heartbeats. Your throat thickens, and you press closer, your arm curling over his chest as though to keep the moment from slipping through your fingers. Above, the constellations wheel slowly, silent witnesses. The world is pared down to the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, the warmth of his body along yours, the stars burning in their endless watch.
The boat drifts as though cradled by the night itself, lantern glow trembling across the water. Your breath rises and falls in rhythm with his chest, the warmth of him anchoring you against the vastness of the sky. Then, sudden and swift, a streak of silver cleaves the heavens. A star, falling, burning.
You draw in a breath, eyes widening, “Quick, make a wish.”
Verso tilts his head, watching the streak fade into nothing. His lips curve, soft but certain, before he murmurs, “I don’t need to.”
You turn to him, puzzled, “Why not?”
His gaze meets yours, steady, unwavering. And then, with the kind of gravity that feels like it could shift the stars themselves, he says, “Because I already have everything I could wish for. You.”
The words fall heavy and sweet, making your throat tighten. You want to look away, to laugh, to break the spell, but you can’t. His eyes hold you there, and something inside you unravels.
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your bodies align, until his warmth replaces the cool of the night. He dips his head, and his lips find yours, slow at first, deliberate, like a question he already knows the answer to.
You melt against him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens, slow turning hungry, your breaths mingling, hearts racing as though trying to sync. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing your skin with the gentlest reverence, before sliding into your hair, holding you as though you might vanish if he lets go.
The world narrows to sensation, the press of his mouth, the taste of him, the heat building with each breath. The stars blur above, the night air shivers around you, but all you know is him.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “I could kiss you like this forever.”
Your chest aches with something too big to name, and you answer not with words but with another kiss, longer, deeper, until time itself feels meaningless. His hand slides down your arm, fingers lacing with yours, gripping tight as though anchoring himself.
The kiss deepens until the boat itself seems to sway with you, wood creaking softly under the rhythm of your tangled bodies. His mouth moves against yours with growing hunger, each pull and press more urgent, less careful. Your hands find his chest, sliding upward to clutch at the open collar of his shirt, while his arms cinch tighter around you, greedy in their need to hold you close. It’s breathless, unrestrained, and for a fleeting moment you wonder if the stars above burn brighter because of this.
You finally break away, gasping, your lips wet, swollen, tingling. A thin strand of saliva lingers between you, catching the faint lantern light before breaking as you lean back. His chest rises and falls in quick, uneven bursts, eyes blown wide, pupils drowning the soft blue of his gaze. He looks undone, beautiful in his disarray, and the sight alone makes heat surge through you like a tide that can’t be turned.
You study him, his flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat already beginning to form at his temple, the way his lips remain parted as though still reaching for you. And as you drink him in, a realization blooms low and steady inside you, equal parts terrifying and liberating: you want this. You want him. Not in some vague future, not in dreams, but here, now.
Rhe thought roots deeper the longer you hold his gaze. Yesterday, the idea had filled you with panic, your own hesitation closing around your throat. But tonight feels different. Tonight, you feel braver, steadier, warmed not only by his body but by the trust he wraps around you as surely as his arms. You don’t want to keep running from the edge, you want to step over it, with him.
Your fingers lift, brushing against the line of his jaw, sliding down to rest against his throat where his pulse thrums beneath the skin. You feel its frantic beat, as if it’s keeping pace with your own. Your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, certain in its truth, “Verso…” you pause, searching his eyes, “I think I’m ready.”
Silence follows, fragile and immense. His breath stills, his eyes widen, and for an instant the world seems to hold its breath with him. Then his hand rises, trembling just slightly, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that nearly undoes you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t press. He simply looks at you as if you’ve just given him the universe.
The words hang between you, fragile and vast, until Verso leans in again, his mouth finding yours with reverence first, then with heat. His lips move slowly, then deeper, drawing you in until breath itself feels optional. You sink against him, your hands threading through his hair, tugging softly at the strands, while his palms roam the shape of you, your waist, the slope of your spine, the curve of your hips. He touches everywhere but nowhere at once, as though memorizing you with each brush of his fingers.
The kiss lengthens, intensifies. His breath grows warmer, his tongue slipping against yours in a rhythm both coaxing and demanding. Every movement makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth, feeding your own desire. When he finally breaks from your lips, it’s only to drag his mouth lower, painting a trail along your jaw, down the tender slope of your neck. His kisses shift from feather-light to deliberate, open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
He lingers there, lips marking you in slow, deliberate pulls, suckling at your skin until heat blooms and you know it will stain tomorrow. The thought makes your chest seize, he wants the world, even the stars above, to know you’ve been his tonight. Between each mark, his tongue soothes, his breath fans hot against the damp he leaves behind. You can’t help the sounds that escape you, soft moans, gasps too quick, the kind of noises that slip free when you’ve forgotten how to guard them.
“God, you taste…” his words break off into a growl against your throat, his mouth fastening there once more. You feel the sharp inhale of his chest, the tremor of restraint in his arms, the way his hips shift against you almost unconsciously. He’s trying to take his time, to savor, but his body betrays him with every subtle grind, every tightening of his grip.
His hands grow bolder, sliding beneath the hem of your clothes, palms warm and broad against your skin. The contrast sends sparks skittering through you, and you arch into his touch without meaning to. He groans at the response, head tipping back for a moment as though to steady himself, before his mouth claims yours again in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation.
When at last his hands push higher, fabric giving way, cool air rushes over your bare chest. Your skin prickles instantly, your nipples hardening under the mix of night breeze and arousal. Verso pulls back just enough to look, to see. His eyes darken as they roam over you, drinking in the subtle rise and fall of your breathing, the way your chest tightens with each rapid inhale. His lips part, his gaze sharp and reverent all at once, as though the sight alone could undo him.
“Fuck…” he whispers, almost to himself, his voice low and rough. His hand hovers just shy of touching, fingers trembling as though he doesn’t know if he dares. Then his eyes lift to yours, burning, hungry, and yet still waiting, for permission, for your lead.
Your nod is all it takes. Verso doesn’t hesitate, his arms loop tight around your waist, pulling you close before his mouth descends. His tongue traces a slow, deliberate line from the dip of your navel up to your chest, a hot, wet trail that makes your skin shiver under the contrast of night air. When he reaches your nipple, he takes it into his mouth, lips closing around it, tongue circling with a hunger that steals your breath. The warmth of him, the scrape of his teeth, the sudden pull, every sensation collides, sharp and overwhelming.
Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, clutching at him as though to anchor yourself. His groan vibrates against your skin, low and desperate, and at the same time you feel it, his erection pressing, rubbing between your thighs through the barrier of fabric. Even clothed, the friction makes your pulse race, each shift of his hips deliberate, needy, a promise of more.
Then suddenly, he lifts his head. His lips are swollen, his eyes wild, but his voice breaks through with a rough edge of restraint, “Let’s go back,” he says, breathless, “Inside.”
You nod again, though this time it takes effort to steady your trembling hands enough to fix your top back into place. On solid ground, he climbs out first, then offers you his hand, steady and sure. The moment you’re up, you don’t let go. You walk together to the chalet, footsteps quick, anticipation tightening every second between you. The little basket and blanket are forgotten, abandoned in the wooden boat, because neither of you can think of anything but each other.
Inside the bedroom, the door shuts with a soft click, and before you can breathe, your back is against the wall. His mouth finds yours again, fierce and consuming, the kiss edged with a hunger he’s no longer trying to hide. His hands roam freely over your body, mapping every line and curve as though he might lose them if he stopped. You clutch at his shirt, fists curling tight in the fabric, desperate to hold him closer, to melt into him.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his eyes searching, “Do you really want this?” he asks softly, but the weight of the question is undeniable, his need tethered to your answer.
“Yes,” you breathe, the word spilling out before you can even think. It’s more than yes, it’s a plea, your voice breaking with how much you want him.
But you see it: the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of restraint in his gaze. He remembers. He remembers you’ve never been here before. And so he reins himself in, even if it costs him. That self-control, that care, it only makes your chest tighten with something hotter than desire. It makes him impossibly sexier to you.
He guides you toward the bed, sitting first at the edge, pulling you between his knees. His touch slows, his palms smoothing up your sides with reverence. One by one, he peels away your clothes, not hurried but unwrapping you like something sacred. Each inch of revealed skin is met with his lips, soft kisses scattered like worship, grounding you even as heat pools in your belly.
You tug at your shoes, tossing them somewhere unseen, uncaring where they land. The room is filled only with the sounds of your breathing, the soft rustle of fabric, the press of his mouth against your body.
His hands settle firm at your hips, turning you gently so he can see you, really see you. His gaze darkens, reverent, as if every inch of you is more than he deserves. He pulls you back against his chest, his arms encircling you with almost desperate tenderness. His lips graze your stomach, planting kisses like prayers, and between each one he whispers against your skin, “You’re perfect… God, you’re beautiful.”
He guides you down until your back sinks into the mattress, the sheets cool against your bare skin. Vulnerability hits you all at once, you’re completely exposed, the weight of his gaze trailing over you like fire. Heat rises to your cheeks and you instinctively bring an arm across your chest, shifting as though to shield yourself.
Verso notices. His brow furrows for half a breath before his expression softens, something raw and tender flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t tell you to stop hiding. Instead, he answers by standing tall at the edge of the bed, his hands moving to his own clothes.
Slowly, deliberately, he undresses. Each motion unhurried, almost sinful in its intent, as though he wants you to watch, wants you to see him in the same naked honesty he sees you. The fabric slides from his shoulders, his chest revealed inch by inch, muscles shifting with every movement. He peels away his pants, his underwear, until nothing is left between him and your hungry gaze.
You can’t look away. For a moment, your breath catches, caught between embarrassment and awe. And he knows it. The corner of his mouth tilts upward, not cocky, but warm, pleased, because you’re seeing him like this, because you want to.
When he finally climbs over you, braced on hands and knees, the mattress dips beneath his weight. The heat of his body engulfs you, and you can’t resist lifting your hands to touch. Fingers roam across the broad plane of his chest, tracing the defined ridges of his muscles, up over the hard slope of his shoulders, down the strength of his arms. He lets you explore, lets you claim him piece by piece, his gaze locked on your face the entire time.
Then his mouth finds yours. The kiss is deep, molten, dragging you under until all thought slips away. His lips part yours with an urgency barely contained, his tongue stroking, coaxing, claiming. You answer without hesitation, arms winding tight around him, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s no space left. The world dissolves into heat and breath, into the desperate sound of lips meeting again and again. His weight presses deliciously down, his chest against yours, his heartbeat pounding in rhythm with your own.
When he finally breaks the kiss, your lungs are aching, your lips tingling, swollen from the force of it. He shifts back just enough to meet your eyes. Slowly, he lifts his hand, two fingers rising to hover before your mouth, “Open,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
You obey, lips parting, and he slides his fingers in, pressing against your tongue. The taste of his skin fills your mouth as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, wetting him with careful attention. His breath stutters, his eyes hooded, watching you take him in.
When he pulls them free, slick with your saliva, he doesn’t waste time. His touch drops lower, trailing between your thighs. He strokes you there, softly at first, deliberately gentle, his damp fingers gliding against the tight ring of muscle, testing, coaxing.
His gaze flicks back up to yours, sharp with desire but steady with intent, “If it hurts… if you don’t like it,” he says, his voice grounding even in its roughness, “you tell me, and I’ll stop. Right away. Understand?”
The weight of his words lingers, soft yet firm, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your throat tighten. You nod, giving him that silent yes. His shoulders ease, though the hunger in his eyes doesn’t fade, it only deepens, tempered now by tenderness.
His fingers return, circling slowly, spreading the warmth of his touch with infinite patience. Each glide grows steadier, coated in the wet sheen you gave him moments before. The first push inward is tentative, barely there, more promise than act. Your body tenses instinctively, breath catching in your chest. He notices instantly, his thumb brushing soothing circles against your hip as he whispers, “Breathe… just breathe for me.”
You exhale shakily, and little by little the resistance eases. The gentle pressure slides deeper, stretching, filling in a way that is strange, new, teetering between discomfort and something sharper, sweeter.
Your back arches against the sheets, a sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it. His jaw tightens at the noise, a ragged breath shuddering through him, but he forces himself to stay slow, to wait, his gaze searching yours for any sign of regret.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice husky but low, “Do you want me to keep going?”
Your answer comes in a breathless nod, need thrumming through your veins like fire. Encouraged, he pushes a little deeper, curling his fingers just enough to coax out a reaction. Sparks ignite low in your belly, your thighs trembling as heat pools thick and heavy inside you.
The sensation is overwhelming, but not unbearable. It’s more than that, it’s intimate, vulnerable, consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solidity of him as every nerve in your body wakes to his touch.
His lips brush over your cheek, your jaw, your throat, kisses that soothe even as his hand works you open, gentle but insistent, coaxing your body to trust him, to crave him.
At first, his rhythm is unhurried, almost reverent. Each movement of his fingers is careful, patient, as though he’s mapping you from the inside out. His voice stays low, steady against your skin, each word dripping like honey, “You’re perfect… so perfect… taking me so well.” the praise wraps around you as much as his touch does, every syllable feeding the fire that curls low in your belly.
Bit by bit, he begins to move faster, testing the pace, watching every shift in your body, every breath that escapes you. Then he finds it, that one spot, buried deep, that makes the world lurch sideways. The sound that leaves you is unbidden, raw, and you clutch at him instinctively: one hand tangled tight in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as if he’s the only thing holding you together.
His lips brush against your chest, your throat, murmuring against your skin as your body shudders. The pressure builds unbearably, cresting, and then it breaks, waves of release rolling through you, leaving you trembling, undone. He feels it all, the way your body tightens then melts, and his eyes darken with wonder. For a heartbeat, he simply holds you there, whispering into your ear, “That’s it… that’s it, beautiful… I’ve got you.”
Slowly, carefully, he withdraws his hand, then shifts back onto his knees. You watch as his palm wraps around himself, stroking slowly, deliberately. He spits into his hand, the sound crude in the quiet, and spreads the wetness along his length. His head tips back for a moment, jaw tight, a hiss slipping through his teeth at the contact. When he looks at you again, it’s with a hunger barely held at bay, though his touch stays steady, controlled.
He leans forward, caging you beneath him, the heat of his body overwhelming. The blunt head of his cock rests against your entrance, not pressing in yet, just a reminder of what waits. His gaze locks with yours, searching, almost desperate, “Are you sure?” he asks, voice roughened, but the words steady, deliberate.
The answer falls from your lips without hesitation, almost a plea, “Yes.”
He exhales sharply, forehead pressing to yours, “I’ll go slow,” he promises, his voice trembling at the edges of restraint, “But if it hurts, if you don’t like it, you tell me. I’ll stop.”
Then, with a tenderness that steals your breath, he begins to push forward. The stretch is sharp at first, enough to make you gasp, but his hand is there, stroking your side, soothing you through it. His lips brush over your cheek, murmuring soft words, “That’s it… you’re doing so well… gods, you feel incredible.” you bury your face into his shoulder, muffling the sounds that slip from you, teeth grazing his skin, fingers clawing into his back as your body adjusts around him.
He stills once he’s part of the way in, forcing himself to wait, to give you time, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. Only when he feels you relax beneath him does he move again, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside you. His breath comes ragged against your neck, every exhale a shaky confession of how hard he’s fighting to stay gentle.
He pauses the moment he’s fully inside, holding still, letting your body adjust around him. His chest hovers above yours, warmth pressing close, and he lifts his head slightly to meet your gaze. His eyes scan your face, drinking in every flicker of your expression, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, watching the subtle shifts of your breathing, “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low, soaked with care and hunger.
You nod, lips parting slightly as your chest rises and falls, “Yes…” you whisper, almost breathless, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails brushing the curve of his skin.
At last, he moves. Just a little at first, shifting his hips with deliberate, gentle precision. Each stroke is slow, teasing, giving you the time to settle fully, to sink into the rhythm of his body. His gaze never leaves yours, watching as your reactions bloom across your features, the way your eyes roll back, the soft moans that escape, and the delicate shiver that runs through your body.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, voice both possessive and tender, “How does it feel? Good… right?”
You tilt your head, breath hitching, “Yes… so good…” every word is soft, a mix of pleasure and wonder, and your fingers dig lightly into his back, holding him close.
He increases the gentle rhythm, just slightly, watching how your body responds to each movement, “You’re amazing,” he whispers between shallow kisses along your jaw, “so perfect… so fucking perfect for me.” his hands slide along your sides, holding you steady, guiding the motion with care, while his hips trace small, controlled arcs above you.
Your chest rises and falls faster, and your breaths come in ragged bursts, “Verso… I…” you gasp, voice trembling, fingers tangling in his hair as he leans in closer, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes dark with lust and tenderness.
“Yes? Tell me,” he murmurs, voice low, every word a tremor, his movements deliberate, slow, “You like this? You feel good… don’t you?”
“Yes… I… yes…” your words are scattered, weak from the pleasure, your body responding instinctively, every nerve alight, trembling under him.
He smiles against your skin, lips brushing your temple as he watches the rise and fall of your chest, the tiny tremors of your fingers curling into his shoulders, “That’s it… just like that,” he whispers, voice husky, “You’re doing so well… so perfect for me.”
Each movement is a little more confident now, though still slow, careful, measured. His hands cup your sides, his weight balanced so you never feel crushed, every press of his hips designed to heighten, never hurt, “Look at me,” he murmurs again, voice low, “I want to see you… I want to see how much you’re enjoying this.”
Your eyes meet his, gaze wide and burning, lips slightly parted, breathing uneven, “I… I am… so good… Verso…” the words stumble out in gasps and moans, and he grins, pushing just a little further, feeling the subtle clench of your muscles, the way your body begins to mold instinctively to his movements.
He continues to move slowly, deliberately, hips brushing against yours with a steady rhythm. Each thrust is measured, exploring, teasing, letting you melt around him, your hands clutching his shoulders as his chest presses against yours. Lips meet, brushing, tasting, searching, every kiss a promise, every press of his mouth igniting sparks along your skin. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, pulling him closer, pressing your body flush against his, as if you could never get close enough. He groans softly into the kiss, a sound that vibrates deep, setting your nerves alight, and you respond with gentle moans, letting your body mold fully to his.
“You’re perfect…” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough with desire, “so fucking perfect…” his hands slide down your sides, resting on your hips, holding you steady while his motions start to build a careful, irresistible rhythm.
Each movement, each press of his body sends little tremors through you. You gasp, lips parting against his, teeth barely grazing as you kiss him with growing hunger, as if your mouths could fuse together, “Verso… I… oh…” The sounds tumble from you, gasps and soft whines mingling with the wet press of lips.
He tilts his head, watching your reactions, your chest rising and falling, nipples brushing against him, skin warm and slick from the friction of your bodies, “Shhh… it’s okay, just feel…” he murmurs, voice low, husky, “You’re doing so well… so beautiful…”
The rhythm starts to build, slow at first, then gradually more insistent, each movement designed to coax your body higher. Your arms tighten around him, hands tangling in his hair, holding him to you, pulling him closer as the pleasure coils tighter, spreading through you.
He leans over you, holding you fully in his arms, every part of him pressed against yours, lips brushing your temple, jaw, mouth between kisses that grow desperate, hungry, “I love you,” he murmurs, each word vibrating against your skin, against your lips, as the warmth of him and the press of his body ignite something deep within you both.
Your moans mingle with his, low and ragged, as your body responds instinctively to him. Muscles clench, breath stutters, hips arch slightly, and every touch, every movement spirals into tension. Slowly at first, then faster, the sensations build, coiling tight like a spring. Your body trembles, chest heaving, skin flushed, until the wave breaks, a full, shuddering release that ripples through your pelvis, leaving you warm, breathless, and spent, your heart pounding against his chest.
Verso groans deeply into the crook of your neck as he reaches his own climax, his body taut above yours. The heat of him, the pulse of his release inside you, sends shivers down your spine. You feel him shudder, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest, the slick warmth of him pressing inside you. His lips brush yours between ragged breaths, eyes half-lidded, a mixture of relief, desire, and awe written across his face.
He holds you tight, rocking you slowly, careful to let both of your bodies ride out the peaks of pleasure. His hand strokes your back, cupping your hip, his thumb brushing soothing circles over the skin, grounding you both, “I love you… so much,” he whispers again, voice rough and ragged, pressing soft, lingering kisses against your temple and jaw.
Your arms cling around him, hands tangled in his hair, body pressing flush against his. You feel the warmth of him settle fully, the lingering tremors of your climax still coiling through you, the smooth, steady pulse of him inside keeping you connected, your bodies moving as one. Every breath, every moan, every whispered word seems to stitch you together, an intimacy unbroken, fierce and tender all at once.
The heat between you begins to ebb, leaving a soft, quivering warmth that lingers beneath your skin. You hold him close, fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, brushing through his hair, resting on the strong lines of his back, “You’re incredible,” you murmur, voice low and tender, letting each word brush over him like a caress. His chest rises and falls against yours, shoulders relaxing under your touch, every movement a quiet surrender to your praise.
You press soft kisses along his temple, his cheek, and the edge of his jaw, murmuring little words of affection, praise, “I love the way you move… the way you hold me… you’re perfect,” his lips part slightly in a shiver, eyes fluttering closed, every sound from him, a soft groan, a breath caught, fueling the gentle power of your touch. Your hands roam freely, over his shoulders, down his spine, cupping his sides, memorizing the warmth and the weight of him pressed against you.
The room grows still except for the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the faint rustle of sheets, and the soft hum of his contentment. Each brush of your fingers, each tender murmur, each kiss along his skin makes him melt further into your embrace. The quiet intimacy lingers long after the storm of passion, a tender aftermath in which praise and care are the most potent touch of all.
Minutes drift by like this, tangled and safe, his chest pressed against yours, arms curling around him, fingers tracing patterns over the firm planes of his back and shoulders. His breath evens out, sighs softening into peaceful murmurs, and each small movement from him, a tilt of the head, a relaxed sigh, a shiver against your hand, feels like a reward, a silent thank‑you to the comfort and admiration you give.
Eventually, the quiet lull of fatigue overtakes you both. You press a final kiss to his temple, brush a hand once more through his hair, whispering, “You’re amazing… so perfect.” he nuzzles closer, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours, arms tightening around you instinctively. The warmth of his body, the soft rhythm of his breathing, and the gentle weight of his trust wrap around you like a cocoon. And there, in the quiet after everything, you drift together, holding each other close, the world outside forgotten, surrendering to the comfort of sleep in each other’s arms.
Summary : You’ve built your life around music, singing each night as if it were a battle for survival. And yet his shadow lingers, Verso Dessendre, the prodigy everyone admires, the one you can’t stand. Where his world is light and acclaim, yours is sweat and struggle. Two paths that should never cross, and yet the thought of him never really leaves you.
The TV won’t quit. It gushes, it preens, it polishes every word until it squeaks, like some relentless machine designed solely to annoy you.
“A standing ovation last night at the Paris Opera… the young pianist Verso Dessendre continues to dazzle…” zap.
“Critics call him the prodigy of his generation, a true heir to the family’s genius…” zap.
“Verso Dessendre’s latest performance has already gone viral, his name on everyone’s lips…” zap.
“…Verso Dess-” the screen goes black as you stab the power button. You don’t just press it, you pin it like an enemy’s throat, as if sheer force could make him disappear from the world.
“Don’t they ever shut up about that spoiled brat?!” you snap, the words spilling out through clenched teeth. A curse follows, low and bitter, the taste of frustration sharp on your tongue, metallic and hot. You can almost feel it crawling up the back of your throat, mixing with the faint acrid smell of burnt coffee left in a mug on the coffee table.
In your head, his name is a wrong note that keeps ringing. It drones, persistent and unrelenting. You’ve never understood how someone like him managed to climb the ladder. To you, he’s nothing more than one of those rich kids who can get whatever they want just because of mommy and daddy, their money, their precious connections. Anyone could reach his level, hell, surpass it, if they had the luxury of living his cushioned life.
To say you hate him would be an understatement. Every time his name comes up, it’s only to spit venom, to tear him down as an artist with no real talent. Your friends, and even the rest of Ashborne, your own rock band, swear it’s just jealousy talking. But to you, it’s nothing but the truth, plain and sharp, as clean as a blade.
Aless, your best friend and the guitarist of Ashborne, lounges in the armchair next to the couch, feet propped on the coffee table as he lazily tunes his guitar. He looks perfectly at home in the mess, ankle bouncing, thumb flicking the tuning pegs, a faint grin that says he’s seen this movie before. The sunlight spilling through the slanted loft window catches dust motes in lazy spirals around him, giving him an almost angelic glow, if you squint, you might forget he’s the instigator of half your daily annoyances.
“Keep talking about him like that and I’ll start thinking it’s a toxic obsession,” he teases, a smirk tugging at his lips. His voice is low, lazy, but there’s a note of amusement that grates on your nerves.
Your eyes snap toward him, blazing with irritation, “Obsession? Don’t be ridiculous. The moment I start obsessing over that arrogant, silver-spooned piano prodigy, you can put me out of my misery yourself.”
The idea that he thinks you’re obsessed with him, that you secretly adore him, maybe even that you’re sickly in love, feels almost like the worst insult imaginable. Your face twists into a mask of disgust at the very thought, your shoulders knot, your jaw locks. You take a slow, deep breath, letting the sharp air of the loft fill your lungs, trying to calm the sudden flare of irrational panic that rises inside you.
Aless, finishing the last tweaks on his guitar, strums a short, cheerful riff. The bright notes sparkle in the room, infuriatingly sunny, bouncing off the bare walls and echoing faintly in your ears, “You hate him, and yet you keep talking about him?” he says, eyebrows raised, “Honestly… you’re worse than his fans, I swear.”
You cross your arms, leaning back slightly, fire still in your gaze, “Worse than his fans? Please. At least they’re clapping and crying over the overhyped prodigy. Me? I’m just pointing out how absurdly overrated he is.”
A sour twist curls your lips at the thought of him. You feel your chest tighten as memories of a childhood friend praising Verso, or worse, family members comparing you to him, flash unbidden through your mind, “Now, can we talk about literally anything else before I start believing that even the universe thinks I have a thing for that insufferable brat?”
Aless chuckles, shaking his head, clearly enjoying the fire in your words, “Sure, sure… but admit it, he’s on your mind more than you’d like to admit.”
Frustration crackles in your chest as you leap to your feet, the couch springs squealing at the sudden shift, “It’s not fair!” you burst out, the words sharp as broken glass, “There are people out there, people actually talented, who deserve recognition far more than he does!”
The conviction hangs in the air, stubborn and sharp. Your life isn’t hard enough to be called poor, yet far from comfortable. Some months flow smoothly, bills paid without a hitch, the relief is quiet, temporary. Other months, you tighten your belt, survive on instant noodles or discounted groceries teetering on the edge of expiration. Most of your money disappears into rent, water, electricity, food, bare necessities that leave little room for anything else. You remember counting coins in the bottom of your wallet, the clink of copper and nickel mocking your ambition.
Memories of fun with friends feel distant, almost unreal. The last time you went to a restaurant, the movies, bowling, or took a proper vacation slips from your mind like a word on the tip of your tongue. Even the smallest things become games: an empty can on the street to dribble with your boot, a run through the park where slides and swings stand in for amusement rides. Nothing that feels extraordinary, but enough to keep your pulse from going grey.
New clothes? That’s a luxury you can’t afford. The ripped tights and worn jeans aren’t fashion statements, they’re what you have to wear, because you have nothing else. Makeup is another story. Each time it runs out, replacing it feels impossible. Prices keep climbing, and you just can’t afford to restock constantly. Offstage, it sits unused, a reminder of what you can’t have every day, a row of little empty mouths on the shelf, staring at you like tiny accusatory faces.
Aless exhales, setting his guitar down with a soft thud, the sound muffled by the carpet, “And you really think trashing him is gonna change our lives? If insulting people for free made money, trust me, I’d be a billionaire.”
You’re not sure what annoys you more: the fact that he’s right, or that no sharp comeback comes to mind. Nothing. Heat crawls up your neck, your brows knit. Both middle fingers shoot up on instinct, and you storm out, boots thudding the floorboards, leaving Aless grinning behind you. The creak of the stairs echoes, a little too loud, marking your dramatic exit.
The loft above the bar where you and Aless live is tiny, barely deserving the name “apartment.” The ceiling slopes in odd places like a tent pitched in a hurry, and the floorboards creak under your weight as if complaining personally. Still, it’s better than nothing. The landlord lets you stay for half the rent in exchange for a few songs at night and the occasional bit of cleaning or moving supplies. Not much, but enough to scrape by without ending the month in complete chaos.
Bigger, more comfortable spaces feel like a dream you touch with your eyes closed: high ceilings, a proper kitchen, a room for instruments that don’t feel stacked on top of each other. For now, this cramped spot will do. The bar already provides most of the equipment: a microphone, a bass, a guitar, and a drum kit. Aless and the bassist refuse to use anything that isn’t theirs, insisting on the feel, the sound, the familiarity. The rest sits ready on stage, and somehow, in that cluttered arrangement, it already feels like home, a constellation of who you are.
Music is your saving grace. The crowd’s decent, mostly regulars who actually listen. Sometimes a biker with tattooed sleeves drops a few coins as a tip, a small acknowledgment that someone cares. And it’s not just the money. There’s energy in the room, a warmth that makes the cramped space feel alive. It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours, and the feedback hum in the air is a kind of heartbeat, vibrating faintly against your ribcage.
The bedroom is tiny, like the rest of the apartment, but you’ve carved out your space. A lofted bed creates room underneath for a desk, a worn armchair, and several wicker baskets overflowing with odds and ends: a doll from when you were five, far too precious to let go, a pencil case stuffed with colored pencils, scraps of paper, old ticket stubs, random trinkets, an honest jumble that maps your life more accurately than any résumé. In the corner, the wardrobe leans against the wall next to a full-length mirror. Posters cover the walls, some pristine, some torn at the edges, mixed with photos of friends and a few strings of fairy lights that cast a soft, forgiving glow.
Your phone hums from the desk, still plugged in. Picking it up, you notice a notification flashing on the screen. A message in your Ashborne group chat, your bandmates are talking. Curiosity nudges you forward as you tap it open, ready to see what’s happening.
A new message from Élodie, your bassist, pops up, “Ready, guys?! A friend at the bar said it’s packed tonight!”
Just as you read it, a sharp crash! echoes from downstairs. Glass shatters against the floorboards, rattling through the thin walls. You smirk at the timing. Almost immediately, Aless replies, “Yeah, the walls are thin here. You can hear everything. Looks like the intern just knocked over some glasses.”
“I don’t know how this guy got hired. Breaks more glasses than he serves, ” adds Gary, the drummer.
“Tell that to the guy who used to fling his drumsticks everywhere the first time we met,” you fire back, tapping send before setting the phone aside on your desk. You pause a moment, listening to the faint hum of activity from below, the clink of glasses, muffled conversations, the occasional laughter, and feel a surge of anticipation. Tonight might be small, cramped, but it will be alive.
You scramble to get ready in record time. Your wardrobe opens with a creak, revealing the organized chaos of your clothes: jeans with rips in all the right places, black tops, a few band tees, and the outfit you’ve been saving for tonight. You grab it, tossing aside a few other pieces without a second thought, the fabric rustling sharply as it hits the floor.
The bathroom feels warm, cramped, and faintly scented with soap and steam from the shower Aless took earlier. You splash cool water on your face, shaking off the last traces of sleep and nerves. The tap squeaks faintly, echoing in the small room. Then comes the makeup: soft but edgy, black and red to match your stage look. Each brushstroke feels like armor, a subtle ritual transforming you into the performer you’ve worked so hard to be. The mirror reflects your focus, eyes sharp and determined, lips painted in a dark, bold gloss.
With your look complete, you strip off your old clothes, sending them spinning into the laundry basket with a satisfying thump. You pull on your concert outfit, adjusting it just so, smoothing the fabric, checking the fit. The mirror shows a version of yourself ready to step into the lights, the music, the noise. Your pulse steadies into a faster, cleaner tempo, anticipation threading through your veins.
Laughter and chatter drift from the other side of the door. Three voices, you recognize them immediately: Aless, Élodie, and Gary. Their energy leaks into the bathroom, buzzing with excitement and impatience.
Sharp knocks interrupt your focus. Aless’s voice calls through the door, “Hurry up! It’s a concert, not a fashion show!”
You roll your eyes, leaning against the sink, smirking despite yourself, “Maybe you should worry about fixing that scruffy face of yours before bossing me around!”
You step out of the bathroom, still adjusting the last strands of your hair, and greet your friends. The French tradition of cheek-kissing isn’t exactly your style, too formal, too intimate. You stick to what feels natural: a quick fist bump, a tap of hands, a small check with elbows. The group laughs at your half-serious, half-playful energy, and for a few minutes you trade stories about the day, teasing each other about little mishaps and annoyances. The tension and excitement build gradually, each laugh, each glance binding you tighter as a team. Finally, the chatter dies down, replaced by the unspoken signal: it’s time to get to work.
The familiar tension coiling in your chest like a spring. The wooden floorboards creak slightly under your weight, carrying the echo of each step into the bar. The faint scent of polish mixed with spilled beer drifts upward, grounding you in the space you’ve come to know so well. Your fingers twitch almost instinctively, brushing the microphone stand, feeling the cool metal beneath your palms. The stage lights cast long shadows, and beyond the heavy curtain, you sense the murmur of the crowd, a low hum of anticipation threading through the room. Each heartbeat feels amplified, every breath measured. The air is thick with expectation, and your chest tightens with the delicious, familiar mix of nerves and excitement.
“Lucky us,” someone says, glancing around, “Saves a ton of time compared to moving all our own gear.”
You and Gary exchange a pointed look at Aless and Élodie. The drummer mutters under his breath, “And yet they always redo their own setups… costs us so much time.”
Élodie looks up, unfazed, “My bass isn’t just an instrument, you know.”
Aless crouches slightly, shielding his guitar like a precious child, “Exactly. Don’t even think about offending it. My child needs respect.”
You shake your head, suppressing a grin, as the group prepares to play. The red velvet curtain hums with the low anticipation of the crowd beyond, waiting for the first notes. You adjust your outfit and take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the red velvet curtain between you and the audience. The muffled buzz from the bar seeps through, a reminder that the crowd waits just beyond.
Élodie crouches by her bass amp, twisting knobs with a frown, “If one more pedal dies tonight, I’m burning the manufacturer’s headquarters,” she mutters, barely keeping a straight face.
Aless groans, yanking a stubborn guitar cable free, “Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to make these things spaghetti?”
Gary taps the cymbals lightly, then slams the snare a couple of times, “Kick mic’s live, right? ‘Cause if it’s not, I’m blaming all of you when the crowd thinks I’ve gone silent.”
You hum a few notes into the mic, letting the vibrations calm the flutter in your chest. Aless waves at a twisted cable. “Hey, hand me that one before I lose my mind.” You step over it, toss it to him, and he snorts, “Perfect. You’re officially my favorite person for today.”
Élodie flips a switch on her pedalboard, shaking her head, “Honestly, between pedals and cables, I’m starting to think we deserve hazard pay.”
You run through a few scales, adjusting the mic one last time. The muffled chatter from the bar presses through the curtain, a low hum of anticipation winding tighter in your stomach. The stage vibrates beneath your feet, alive and ready. A final glance at your bandmates shows them focused, half-grumbling, half-smiling. It’s chaotic, messy, but somehow it always works. Tonight, this is your world, and the music will take over in a few moments.
You grip the microphone lightly, feeling its cool metal under your fingers. Aless strikes a few chords, Élodie plucks a short bass line, and Gary taps a simple rhythm on the snare and hi-hat. The four of you play a short, tight riff, just enough to test the sound and let the bar know you’re here.
The music stops, leaving a soft echo in the small space. The chatter dies down, though some conversations linger, quieter now, curious, expectant. You can feel the room’s energy shift, a subtle buzz pressing from beyond the curtain.
You lift the microphone to your lips, “Is everyone ready tonight?” Your voice cuts through the low murmur, clear and confident.
A ripple of cheers, whistles, and claps erupts. It’s not huge, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. Excitement tingles along your spine, your chest tightens with adrenaline, your fingers grip the mic just a little harder. Aless adjusts his strap, Élodie bounces her foot to the rhythm, Gary taps the cymbal, a grin tugging at his lips. Even through the curtain, you can feel the anticipation radiating from the crowd. Every glance between you and your bandmates carries a spark, you’re all riding the same thrill.
The chatter fades almost completely. The hum of attention presses closer. The curtain begins to rise, slow and deliberate. Your stomach flips. The first notes are about to come. And just like that, it’s happening.
The curtain has lifted, and the small bar, now fully in your sight, hums with expectant energy. The dim lights cast warm, uneven pools across the wooden floor, and the scent of beer and polish mixes with the faint tang of sweat and anticipation. Every face in the crowd is blurred at first, shadows moving against the glow of the stage lights, but you can feel them. You can feel their attention crawling along your spine, warming the back of your neck, threading itself through the air like electricity.
Your hands tighten on the microphone, your fingers brushing over the cold metal. Aless strikes the first chord, a rich, ringing tone that reverberates in your chest. Élodie’s bass line follows, a grounding pulse that threads through the air, steady and alive. Gary’s drums tap and thump, a heartbeat you can sync with if you dare. And you, your voice, your lungs, your very soul, become the conduit that threads it all together.
Every note is more than sound, it’s release, it’s survival. It’s the classical scales you practiced in solitude, the songs that stitched themselves into your adolescence when the world felt cold and overwhelming. Each lyric, each chord, each beat carries pieces of your life, the life of Ashborne, the chaotic moments that shaped you, that made you cling to music like oxygen.
The audience is no longer just a blur of faces. You see reactions, subtle at first: a head nodding, a tap of a foot, a hand moving unconsciously in rhythm. A group of friends in the back whispers excitedly, their eyes sparkling with recognition. You feel the warmth, the connection, the tiny threads of empathy stretching from the stage to the crowd. Each movement, each glance, is a reminder: you are seen.
You sing, and it’s an act of vulnerability, of baring yourself to the crowd. Every line is a thread pulled from your chest, every chorus a piece of your heart laid bare. Some songs are sharp and raw, tales of heartbreak, fights, the darker corners of growing up and scraping by. Others are gentle, a soft reprieve, a fleeting moment of calm that lets both you and the listeners breathe. The balance keeps the night alive, keeps it human.
As the set moves forward, sweat glistens along your temples, your throat grows raw, each word a little more strained than the last. Your fingers ache along the microphone, your legs stiffen, but still, you push through. Every note is a choice to continue, to share, to survive through sound. The crowd becomes a single organism, breathing and reacting in waves, and it drives you. The tension, the expectation, the simple thrill of being heard, fuels every syllable.
There’s a moment in the middle of the set where you close your eyes for just a second, letting the music take over completely. You’re no longer performing, you’re living inside each song. The weight of past struggles, the laughter and fights with your bandmates, the small victories, the endless nights of practice, pulse through you. And in that instant, the audience isn’t a crowd anymore, they’re witnesses, co-conspirators, feeling the same highs and lows. You give them yourself, stripped bare, every heartbeat echoing in the bar.
By the final song, your voice cracks slightly, raw from overuse, but it carries a kind of grit that adds power to the lyrics. Your throat burns, your chest aches, your fingers tingle from gripping the mic so tightly, but still, you pour every ounce of energy you have into the performance. The lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the bass hums in your bones, the drums vibrate through your feet. You are exhaustion, you are fire, you are music incarnate.
When the last note finally fades, there’s a pause so complete it feels like holding your breath underwater. Then a ripple of applause, cheers, the clink of glasses, the faint hoot of someone in the back. You collapse back slightly, catching your breath, muscles trembling, throat raw, heart pounding. Aless grins, Élodie’s foot taps the last note in rhythm, Gary wipes sweat from his forehead. The set is over, but the energy lingers, a tangible pulse you can still feel thrumming through the floorboards, the air, your veins.
You smile, exhausted but elated. This is more than a concert. This is survival. This is your life, your music, your story, given away in fragments to strangers who understand, in some way, exactly what it means to live through sound. And as you step back, chest heaving, the music still vibrating faintly in your ears, you know you would do it again in a heartbeat.
You exchange glances, faint smiles on your lips despite the exhaustion. One by one, you step down from the stage. Aless and Élodie linger a moment longer, carefully unplugging their guitar and bass, fingers moving with precision and familiarity. It’s a ritual, a small, private moment of connection with the instruments they refuse to part with.
Once everyone is off the stage, you walk slowly toward the bar, your footsteps muted on the wooden floor. You collapse into your seats, bodies heavy, sweat still clinging to your skin. The fatigue presses down, comforting and real. The owner greets you with a wide, warm smile. His name is Henry, an older man with a face lined by years but eyes that sparkle with mischief and kindness, the kind of grandfather everyone secretly wishes they had.
On the counter, small bottles of cold water wait for each of you. Aless takes a slow sip, Élodie savors hers with her eyes closed. You don’t hold back, your bottle empties almost in one gulp, the ice-cold water soothing your throat, quenching the fire left from singing your heart out. You needed it more than you realized.
Henry approaches, shuffling slightly but steady, hands clasped behind his back. He smiles, eyes crinkling, “Well…” he says softly, yet with a hint of humor, “you could’ve helped with the service tonight… but I can see the exhaustion written all over your faces.” he shakes his head, amused, like a protective grandfather, “I think it’s better this way.”
Then he hands each of you a small cloth, soft and practical, to wipe the sweat from your foreheads and temples. A simple gesture, yet it carries warmth and care. You take yours, brushing away the moisture, feeling the heat and tension begin to fade.
Gary is the first to break the silence once he’s finished cooling down, wiping sweat from his brow with the cloth Henry handed out, “We’d be glad to help you out, of course,” he says with a tired but warm grin, “But… maybe we’ll take a little break before we get back on our feet, yeah?”
Henry looks at him with a small smile, touched but slightly regretful. His eyes glimmer with gratitude as he shakes his head, “You don’t need to. You’ve already done more than enough. The bar hasn’t been this alive in years, and I think your concert had a lot to do with it.”
The words settle warmly in the air. Élodie leans forward, her cheeks flushed with energy, “It’s the first time we’ve ever had so many people actually listening! More reactions, more applause… more than usual.”
Gary chuckles, tilting his head back, “Let’s just hope someone out there recognized our talent tonight. Maybe we’ll get an offer, a contract, something real.”
You let out a small laugh at that, shaking your head, “Don’t get your hopes up too high.” with that, you twist slightly in your chair, turning to face the crowd again. The empty water bottle crinkles softly between your fingers as you toy with it, rolling it against your palm without really thinking.
Your gaze sweeps lazily over the room. A few familiar regulars catch your eye, you nod to one, raise your hand quickly to another. Their smiles warm you, grounding you. Then you move on, noticing the newer faces, strangers drawn in by the music. It’s casual, unhurried… until suddenly, you stop. Your stomach twists, disbelief sparking in your chest. You blink, rub your eyes quickly, but when you look again, he’s still there. The rest of the table fades. Shapes blur. Voices dissolve into meaningless noise. You don’t care who’s sitting with him. You barely register them at all. Your entire focus narrows to him.
He leaned slightly forward, talking to the people around him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Dark waves of hair fall casually against his face, brushing the edges of a carefully trimmed beard. His features are sharp, defined, alive with expression. And then, those eyes. Icy blue, pale and piercing, like shards of frozen glass catching the light. They aren’t even directed at you, but the sight of them is enough to make your blood boil.
Your grip on the bottle tightens until the plastic creaks, threatening to collapse under the force. Your teeth grind together. The words tear out through your clenched jaw, dripping with venom, “No… no, tell me this isn’t real. What the hell is he doing here?!”
Aless is the first to notice. Of course he is, he’s right beside you, and he knows you too well. It’s like he has a sixth sense for when your temper starts to boil. He tilts his head slightly, following your line of sight. The moment his gaze lands on that table, on him, a grin spreads across his face.
“Well, well,” Aless teases, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear, “The man of your life, showing up at your workplace and, conveniently, right under your apartment. If that’s not destiny, I don’t know what is.”
Your jaw clenches so hard it aches. Gary and Élodie both turn their heads at the exchange, curious. It takes them a second to follow your glare, but then their eyes find him too. Élodie’s reaction is immediate and explosive. Her eyes practically sparkle, wide and gleaming, as if literal cartoon hearts had just popped up around her head. You swear you can almost see them floating above her in bright pink, bouncing like bubbles.
Aless bursts out laughing at her expression, “Forget it,” he snorts, “Our brilliant singer already has her eyes on him.”
That does it. You whip around and smack his shoulder, hard. Not enough to really hurt, but the sting makes him wince and flinch. The pained twist of his face is almost satisfying.
“Keep talking nonsense,” you growl, “and I’ll cut the strings on your precious guitar.” That shuts him up. He lifts both hands in surrender, lips pursed, wisely deciding silence is safer.
The silence doesn’t last long. Gary breaks it, his brow furrowed, “Seriously though… what’s he even doing here? I mean, it’s Verso. He plays at opera houses, not small bars hidden in backstreets of Paris.”
Henry, who’s been hovering quietly behind the bar, polishing a glass with unhurried ease, finally speaks up, “No idea,” he says calmly, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “but… would you kids do an old man a favor? I’ve always dreamed of offering different styles of music here. Jazz or classical music…”
The request hits you like a shard of ice. Your chest tightens, breath catching. You understand exactly what he means, and you hate it. On one hand, you care about Henry too much to refuse him. On the other… the last thing you want is Verso anywhere near this bar. Near your world. The thought of him playing here makes your skin crawl. You force a brittle laugh, turning toward Henry with a half-smile, “Funny joke, Henry. Really. But I’ve heard better from you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up from the glass he’s polishing. With the same calm, steady rhythm, he says, “I’m serious. He’s known. Talented. Having him here could raise the business, maybe more than you realize.”
The words stun you. For a moment, you think you’ve misheard him. The bar feels suddenly too small, the air too thick. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, each beat a reminder of the precariousness of this situation. Verso, a man whose name alone can draw crowds and headlines, is not meant to be here. Not meant to sit quietly, sipping wine as if the world belongs to him.
Élodie jumps to her feet, eyes glowing like fireworks, “OK! New mission: catch the pianist!” she declares, practically skipping toward his table. Gary follows, a little more hesitant, while Aless lingers only long enough to give you a sheepish look. His expression says it all: sorry, no choice. Then he trails after them.
And just like that, your friends, your traitors, slip into the orbit of the one person you never wanted here. You watch them sit down at his table, practically forcing themselves into his company, laughter and chatter already spilling between them. The sound feels like a jab in your chest, an intrusion into the carefully built world you protect.
You remain at the bar, hands gripping the counter, fury burning in your veins. Every fiber of you prays the same desperate thing: that Verso doesn’t cross that invisible line. That he doesn’t step into your world. That he never, ever finds a way in.
Time seems to stretch. Verso leans back slightly, swirling the glass in his hand with effortless poise. The light catches on the rim, sending tiny reflections across the table. His smirk never wavers, calm and confident, as if he knows the effect he has. Your stomach twists. Jealousy, indignation, and a strange, reluctant curiosity swirl together into a hot, bitter brew.
A cough from the bar pulls you back slightly, Henry watching you with quiet patience, “Take a deep breath,” he suggests, though his eyes betray a knowing amusement, “Sometimes the universe has a funny way of introducing talent.”
You bite back a retort, grinding your teeth under the counter. You want to storm over, throw a verbal grenade, make your disdain known. But the room, the crowd, the sweat and music of the night, all press around you like a gentle cage. For now, you are forced to watch.
Verso’s gaze drifts momentarily, catching yours across the room. He doesn’t smile, not really, but the faint tilt of his lips suggests he’s aware of you. A chill snakes up your spine, followed immediately by heat. Your jaw tightens, every instinct screaming to look away, to ignore, to retreat, but your body refuses. It’s as if the stage, the music, the night itself, has conspired to make this moment unavoidable.
And through it all, the laughter of your friends threads through your chest, maddening and unbearable. Élodie’s voice, bright and exuberant, cuts through the tension. Gary’s careful, almost hesitant observations follow. Aless, the instigator, the sixth sense, leans back in his chair, relaxed, almost smug.
You grip the edge of the bar, knuckles aching. You’ve survived stages, crowds, exhaustion, heartbreak, but this, this is new. Watching him here, knowing how easily the world bends for him, seeing your friends gravitate toward him, it’s a different kind of performance. One where you aren’t the center. One where your carefully constructed bubble of music, sweat, and survival feels fragile.
And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the sting of jealousy, there’s a strange pull. A recognition. A challenge. The presence of someone like Verso here doesn’t just threaten, it provokes. And in the quiet, taut seconds that stretch between your breaths, you realize something. You don’t just want him gone. You want to be better. Stronger. Seen. Heard. You want to survive, to claim your music, your space, your stage, even if it’s just a small bar in the backstreets of Paris.
The world may have sent him into your orbit tonight. But you will not bow. You will not break. And as the laughter continues, the faint hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, you steel yourself. Tonight, the night is far from over.
the dessendre group. a large conglomerate run by the grieving dessendre family who lost their youngest child, alicia, in a tragic house fire. since alicia's death, aline and renoir have been trying to grow their wealth and power, sending their surviving children on business ventures, verso and clea, in their stead.
you expect that since the dessendre group recently acquired the company you work for, a big overhaul will happen.
what you didn't expect is to fall for their son, verso.
and verso didn't expect he'd fall harder.
[modern!au, office!au]
Click Here for AO3 Link!
hi all! i'm uploading my verso/reader fic, 'ruin, rinse, repeat' in chunks for those who don't use ao3. below the cut is chapters 2 to 5 :)
Chapter 2: farewell
"W-We're going under!?" You exclaim, heart instantly dropping to the pit of your stomach.
"Yes and no… We were going to go under with the rise in AI. I mean, this business was built on the backs of humans, not computers. We refuse to change that as it violates our ethos, however other businesses cannot afford artists and graphic designers in this economy." Maria sighs.
"O-oh god… So are we all…?" You cross your arms against your chest tightly, hoping the pressure steadies your rapidly beating heart.
"No - no. Just me - it's about time I retire anyway. I'm not getting any younger and I've always wanted to see the world…" Maria's brown eyes dart wistfully to the window briefly, before settling on yours again.
"So I'll be keeping my position?" You ask, chewing on your bottom lip in anticipation.
"Yes, Envisager will function as normal, subject to the changes that the Dessendre group make." Maria nods.
"Wait, so we're getting bought out? By the Dessendre group?" Your eyes widen a little.
"They made the best offer and aligned with our ethics the best - Envisager is still profitable, however as times and technology have changed, I simply cannot keep up, and I'm getting tired. I know when to hang my coat up." Maria says solemnly.
"…You're the best boss I've ever had. Please don't forget that, Maria." You smile softly at her, and she returns a big grin in turn.
"I'm so glad I made you team lead. I know you'll do great things and work excellently with the new CEO to make the best decisions possible." Maria reassures.
The four week period rolled around faster than you thought. In a little brasserie, the upper floor shone with brilliant amber lights and shook with laughter.
"To Maria!" You shout, raising your champagne glass, the pale-wheat colour liquid ever so slightly sloshing with the motion of your hand as everyone mimicked the movement.
"To Maria!" The rest of the team echoed back, and on the very rare occasion, you watched Maria shed a tear.
"I cannot believe we actually got bought out. Well… It could've been worse. She could've just shut everything down and we'd all have to scramble for new jobs in this shitty economy." Sciel guffaws, taking a long sip of her champagne. "Ahhh. The taste of being bought by Dessendre group is pretty sweet." She adds in a joking tone.
"I looked at their track record extensively over the last few weeks as soon as word got out that we were bought by them. Honestly? It was the most ideal situation, they've got a lot of connections and they've pivoted businesses like ours before. In my opinion, I believe the new CEO will be one of their children. Aline and Renoir - their parents, are the bigwigs, but they'd never embark on such tasks. They've been handing out these opportunities to their kids instead." Lune chimes in.
"Ohhh, really? I hope we get Clea. I read some interview with her on Paris Post a while back - she seems to run a tight ship and she gets shit done. I like that in a woman." Sciel wiggles her eyebrows and widens her eyes for dramatic effect.
"It could also be Verso Dessendre - I heard Clea takes on the slightly bigger projects. And Verso took a while to recover from that whole fire incident." Lune notes, as if she had studied the Dessendre line like they were a semester final.
"Shame… If it was Clea I'd be swooning." Sciel jokes.
"Whichever person it is, Clea or Verso, ugh, I just hope they're not snobby little rich kids making out of touch changes. Because it's me that has to deal with all of that." You pinch the bridge of your nose, imagining the headache you'd have arguing with someone's entitled, out of touch, rich child.
"Ugh, true. Good luck." Lune gently claps you on the shoulder in jest.
"I'll probably need it…" You groan, taking another long sip of champagne.
"Merde… My fucking head…" You groan as your alarm blares from your phone. Smacking the snooze button, you pull your linen duvet over your head, relishing in the cold, dark comfort of your bed for another 5 minutes. The weekend went by much too fast for your liking.
Black heeled boots clicking on the uneven cobblestone, threatening to throw you off kilter. You head towards the big glass building, ripping your lanyard from your bag as you scan through the gates and head into the elevator.
Impatiently - as is your usual fashion, as soon as the doors opened, you began to repeatedly slam your finger against the 'close' button, tapping your foot on the floor.
As the doors begin to close, you hear a voice call out.
"Yeah, whatever…" You whisper to yourself, folding your arms and stepping back. As you do, a hand shoves between the doors, triggering the sensor. You inwardly groan in annoyance.
"Apologies." A man with jet black wavy hair and an interesting white streak on one side of his hair. His eyes were a striking pale blue - so pale they almost seemed iridescent, but what was even more eye-catching was the faint vertical scar that traversed from the top of his eyebrow, almost down to the middle of his cheek, intersecting with his eye. Despite the obvious scar and the unconventional streak which others may perceive as a flaw, the man was devtastingly handsome. The 'once in a generation' type of handsome, and it was kind of blinding to look at.
"No, honestly my fault. I didn't really hear and I'm desperate to use the toilet." You truthfully admit, smiling sheepishly.
"It's okay, I would probably do the same." He crosses his arms and chuckles a little, and you note how deep his voice is. You also note that he is not pressing another floor's button. In no way…
"Guess we're both going to the same floor then, but I've never seen you around." You comment, trying to sneakily confirm your suspicion.
"Ah yep - first day on the job." He nods. So this man is probably Verso Dessendre, the new CEO.
"Oh… You're Maria's replacement then?" You ask in a tentative tone.
"That would be me. Correct." He replies, and you notice he's a man of few words. His tone isn't rude or flippant, his replies are just short. Borderline curt.
"I see." You nod, as the doors open and you both begin to walk.
"So you are…?" Verso asks, trailing off. You give him your name as you pull out your lanyard again.
"And you?" You ask him as you scan your tag to deactivate the office security, quickly punching in the alarm code. The grey silicone buttons feel particularly mushy under the pad of your index thumb today.
"The name's Verso." Verso replies. You already know that, but you nod and pretend it's the first time you've heard of his name anyway.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Verso." You nod in acknowledgement as the fluorescent lights flicker to life.
"So it is Verso then. Dammit." Sciel pouts playfully, stabbing her wooden fork into her caesar salad.
"I wish it wasn't, but not for the same reasons as Sciel. Verso doesn't really do interviews nor does he have a lot of media coverage on him… He's harder to predict in terms of what he might do." Lune taps her chin, deep in thought.
"He seems… Fine? I guess? He's been inside his office since this morning when the day started. He doesn't talk much, if anything." You shrug.
"Weeell, I did stalk your calendar. Keep us updated on how your meeting with him at the end of the day goes." Lune lowers her volume by a few decibels to avoid being overheard in the cafe, just in case anybody from work is nearby.
"Since we haven't seen him much, I'm going to assume it's okay. I feel like if he were a massive asshole, he would've caused a scene by now." You deduce.
"Maybe, but also you know how these kinds of people are. They might just make some quiet, subtle changes, and before you know it… They replace us all with their own cronies and such." Sciel sighs.
"As team lead, no fucking way would I let that happen to you guys. No. Fucking. Way." You reassure them. You look down at your watch and gasp. "Shit - gotta go, I've got a meeting about that mural in the community arts district with the local council." You add, bidding them goodbye.
The rest of your way day goes by in a blink. You stare at your online calendar, the little red bar hovering just above the little blue block titled 'CEO and team lead meeting'. You sigh, packing your items before walking over to the door.
It felt weird approaching the door, knowing that Maria was no longer going to be in there. You softly knock, and hear a muffled "come in" from the other side.
Stepping in, the first thing you notice is the deep warm and wooden tones. It didn't feel cold or unapproachable, but it felt darker, moodier… More intense. He must've made these changes rather quickly over the weekend.
"Hello again." You greet, striding over as Verso gestures to a chair facing his large oakwood executive desk. That was also new. Maria loved the light and bright scheme - she was all about pops of colour, sheer white curtains, and birch wood tones. It's like Verso almost inverted the place.
"Hi - take a seat." He greets, clicking off his computer for a moment.
"So… Did you have anything in particular you wanted to discuss?" You begin, kicking your legs crossed underneath your seat.
"Hmm, a few. We'll jump right into it." He says, and you suppress a quirk of your brow. He is nothing like Maria and it sucks. Maria was all about opening with a chat and being genuinely interested in how people are doing - Verso was straight to business, seemingly cut and dry, uninterested in his coworkers. You purse your lips in the hopes that a rude comment doesn't fly out of them.
"Sure." You nod.
"So, as we know, AI is taking over plenty of creative's jobs. Envisager is in a very unique situation, where you've all fostered connections with several industries, including the gaming and food industry, alongside local government collaborations. It's a great multi-pronged approach, however, as costs rise, well… It'll get tougher. I say we focus on our niche supplying artistic talent to the gaming and local government industries, but there's so many food packaging businesses that are using AI now, so the field is much less lucrative. I think there's no point and we will pull the plug. Thoughts?" Verso asks. You hold your breath - Sciel was in the midst of securing a deal for a major food chain, if this goes, she'll lose such a huge project…
"Hold off on the food packaging for a moment; we've got someone securing a deal with Bun and Grill, they're a significant food chain and it'll bring a great deal of revenue." You express.
"Bun and Grill are big, but they are not consistent with their partnerships. They could use Envisager today, and another company tomorrow. We need more stable partners." Verso replies.
"I see. However we will lose a few big projects doing this, which can decrease our revenue short term. This is quite risky, you know? At least they should complete those negotiated stints." You reply, feeling a little prickly under the collar now.
"That's another thing, team size is relatively small but there are a few things we can do to up productivity, such as internships." Verso adds, and you barely suppress your sigh.
"That's… Complex. Internship also requires training students to a degree, and we'd not be doing it at an extra cost. Not for the employees who take those students on at least, the money that comes from universities will not be seen by them directly." You argue. He had a good point, but something about his suggestions and turning Maria's office upside down just really seemed to get to you…
"And how would you propose we move forward then, team lead?" Verso asks. Did he just use your title instead of your name…?
"We need all the connections we can get as we transition through this, and our team is so small, I don't think we're equipped to deal with narrowing our scope so suddenly. Instead of internships, we should actually do graduate programs. Build our numbers so that people don't end up in a scope they're not passionate about." You reply, folding your arms.
"That's good, but, we need to think about revenue and how we can keep people paid." Verso says, tapping his fingers against the heavy oakwood surface.
"We're going to cut the ties with a few industries - food and product design first. Internship is good - it's less labour and a good experience for the team. I'll consider your other suggestions at a later point in time." Verso acknowledges, and you feel like combusting into a million pieces across his moody little office.
"Okay… Listen. I understand that this company is in an odd spot and I'm sure you've got plenty of experience, but as team lead, I'm the one on the ground a lot of the time. I've known our employees for years, and they're loyal to this company for a reason. With all due respect, this is a massive, massive jump to something entirely new. You're going to throw them into the deep end without a lifebuoy and it's concerning me." You can't help but blurt out.
"If they're good employees and worth their salt, they can overcome change." Verso quips back.
"Yes but you can't be a good employee if you're not supported well enough! You're only as good as your management." You sigh, trying to calm yourself.
"Perhaps you and Maria have been quite soft - if we don't adapt, we don't overcome. Business is much more brutal than it ever has been in these times." Verso says, and you swear there is a condescending tone in that voice. It's fucking pissing you off.
"But does it matter if we're soft? That's what makes this place good to work for. Sure, we're small. But when you walk into the office, you don't feel like your life force is draining the moment you set foot in here. Increasing revenue is equally as important to show your face and ask your employees how they're doing." You avoid his gaze as you slam your mouth shut after that last sentence.
"Right… Perhaps this meeting didn't go as predicted. I understand that I am making some big changes and they're not what you'd expect. Maybe cool off and we can discuss strategies in future." Verso says, rising from his executive black leather seat and coolly striding towards his door, holding it open for you. You narrow your eyes ever so slightly at him, wordlessly walking out and not glancing back.
Entitled, ignorant fucking asshole.
Chapter 3: the office window
"Fuckkkkk. Glad you didn't get fired after that." Sciel's hand flies to her mouth as you debrief the girls over coffee at lunch the next day.
"I'm just sorry I couldn't get him to hold off on making the decisions until after you secured the gig with Bun and Grill." You apologise to Sciel. Ever the gentle and kindhearted woman, she shakes her head with a small smile.
"Not your fault, it would've really helped get mine and the companies' name out there a little more, but we'll never know now… You went above and beyond for me and I appreciate it." Sciel reaches over, squeezing your hand reassuringly.
"Well, we just don't know him well, do we? Maybe we've misunderstood him." Sciel pauses.
"He could be dealing with a lot of merger matters. I mean, while he's made some changes that really go against what we know, it's not like they're unforgivable." Lune adds.
"I don't know, it's a slippery slope." You sigh.
"It's hard when we don't really know him and he doesn't really know us at all, right? I didn't see his face once around the office. He's cooped up in there all the time. We need to approach this change carefully…" Lune comments, her eyes beginning to glaze over as you assume she's gone to her 'mind palace' to scheme.
"He's probably just fucking jacking off looking out the office window." You snort.
…
"Ah shit, I'm running late…" Lune taps her foot at the printed.
"You all good?" You ask her, plucking a hot laminated sheet from your fingertips as you quickly drop it onto the table.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Stupid thing keeps jamming. I can come back to it but I've got a meeting in 5." Lune grumbles.
"Go on - I'm laminating stuff, I'll keep an eye on it while you attend." You say, slotting another sheet of paper into the glossy sleeve.
"You're the best." Lune smiles, quickly dashing out of the room.
You're left with only the hum of the laminator machine processing another sheet and the stuttering of the copier. You flick the machine off and walk towards the copier, sighing.
"No wonder it got freaking stuck… Who just shoves sheets in the tray this way?" You whisper to yourself, attempting to pry the jagged stacks of A4 copy paper from the tray. The papers begin to fray as you wrestle and wiggle with it some more, but with some luck…!
"Merde." You groan, paper flying everywhere. You smooth your trousers with your hands as you lower to your hands and knees, attempting to gather the paper that flung everywhere on the floor. In the midst of grappling with all the stray copy paper, you hear footsteps pass the room. Craning your neck ever so slightly, you see him. Verso. Maybe it's a trick of the light or just your tired vision, but you swear you saw him looking at you. Either way, instead of helping, he walks right past the copy room and you hear the door shut. You roll your eyes, muttering another expletive under your breath about the man.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Your office chat suddenly roared to life for the first time since Maria left. You sigh, clicking on the notifications.
'Team Building Evening - Friday. (Invite sent by Verso Dessendre)'. Huh. Maybe he did listen to you, even if it was just a little?
Ping.
'When you have a moment please come see me in my office' (Sent by Verso Dessendre - 4:07pm). Fucks sake.
'Sure, will be over in a moment' you quickly type, shutting your laptop.
You softly rap your knuckles against the door, his low voice hummed in acknowledgement as you opened the door.
"You wanted to see me?" You ask.
"Yeah. We've got a big meeting with a gaming company that I need your attendance on." Verso replies.
"Okay." You reply, unsure of what else to say. Surely that could've been sent as an email?
"Along with this, I've decided you'll be in charge of the internship agreements with a handful of universities." Verso instructs. Fucking asshole.
"Hmm…" You think over your next words carefully.
"Perhaps once you're involved you can see my vision for how this can work. If it's unsuccessful, then we won't do it the following year. As team lead, this role is best suited for you." Verso adds.
"Okay. I trust in your decision and I will facilitate this to the best of my ability." You nod, placing your hands in your lap to fight the urge to throw his stupid name plaque at his stupid head.
"Pleased to hear it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fucking jack off looking out the office window." Verso almost snarls out his last sentence, and you feel like your heart dropped so fast you've practically just shit it out on the seat.
"…Have fun with that." You can't help but quip back, hoping you didn't give away that you squirmed a little under his intense gaze.
"Ha! That's so good. Like, it's actually a miracle he hasn't fired you for that. You're a cat with 9 lives." Claude snorts, flinging his arm around the back of your couch.
"I'm a fucking idiot! Oh my god." You sigh, speeding up the dicing of your onions.
"Careful - you might just take your finger off." Claude warns playfully.
"Shhh, that's the secret ingredient to this meal." You joke, now mindfully slowing down.
"Should be a rich person's finger in there. Eat the rich!" Claude snorts.
"Real. The Dessendre's are like every other rich fucking asshole - he definitely just sees us all as dispensable. I think he's only putting up with my shit because I'm leverage; I keep the company morale up, if I'm replaced too fast, I'm sure it'd all crumble too soon. I probably need to start looking for a new job…" You sigh. You really didn't want to leave.
"Probably. Maybe you can start your LinkedIn influencer career and like, start posting photos of yourself crying or having profound revelations about people living with a disability." Claude jokes.
"Oh my god yes - did you see that one guy who made the post on his LinkedIn who said that talking to a blind woman was 'groundbreaking for his business skills' and that 'people with disabilities are human too'? Fucks sake, talk about patronising and shallow." You spend the early evening babbling even more nonsense with Claude before he heads home after dinner.
Ah shit - tomorrow is the 'team building event' at the bar.
Chapter 4: going to the bar is not a team building activity!
"It's kind of evil that this got held on a Friday evening after work. Feels just like work after work." Sciel comments, and you nod.
"To be fair, we did say that we barely see Verso's face around, so I guess we shouldn't complain." Lune chimes in.
"I'd prefer to see less of his face right now. I feel like that's such a waste of good looking genes, he's impossible to work with." You comment absentmindedly.
"Did you just say he's good looking?" Sciel raises a brow.
"Huh? Like, objectively. Anyone with eyes would agree." You blink owlishly. Sciel and Lune just stare back at you for a moment.
"Like, true, but…" Sciel trails off.
"I'm surprised you'd admit that out loud. You almost never acknowledge when someone is good-looking." Lune finishes.
"Wait - no. That's absolutely not it. At the risk of being overheard again - I'm just saying the personality is a shame when you factor in the looks." You whisper to them both.
"Huh? Overheard again?" Sciel asks.
"Yep... The other day when I made a joke about him looking out the office window and jacking off, he repeated the line back to me, verbatim." You recount with a guilty look plastered on your face.
"Merde, that was stupid." Lune makes a sound that is halfway between a scoff and a chuckle.
"Really stupid - I'm so about to get fired once the dust settles." You groan.
"It's not too late, maybe you could apologise to him about it on Friday? If you're going to get fired, you've got almost nothing to lose if you say sorry." Sciel suggests.
"…Putain. Yeah I suppose." You bite your lip.
"Maybe something like 'sorry for calling you a wanker!' would be good - short and sweet." Sciel jokes.
"Aaaaah! God I'm such a mess." You sigh, burying your head into the cafeteria table as Lune lightly pats your shoulder in comfort.
Friday. 4:59pm.
"Maybe I shouldn't go…" You whisper to yourself, wanting to back out of the arrangement, but as team lead, it wouldn't be a good look.
Shrugging on your cardigan, you step out of the building and breathe in the crisp evening spring air and… Oh god, the fuck is that smell?
Which asshole threw up on the side of the street!? Your heels click away from the vile odor - the funky stench from the chuck-up practically acted as smelling salts and made you walk even faster to the bar than you had originally hoped to.
Walking in, you see Lune and Sciel are already perched at the bar. Your eyes scan the room a little more intently, and you notice Verso off to the side with a whisky on the rocks in hand. Typical toxic male manipulator ass drink…
"One gin and tonic, please." You ask the bartender before slotting in between Lune and Sciel.
"Ahhh, long time no see!" Sciel playfully greets.
"So, planning on apologising to him tonight?" Lune asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"Urgh… Yeah just need a drink or two first…" You groan.
"It's like I can see you dragging your feet on this, but like, mentally." Sciel observes.
"I don't wanna apologise to him! I mean I should, but I don't wanna!" You're aware that you sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum at this point.
"It's okay… You're equally as passionate about the company, your perspectives and approaches are just different. And that's ok!" Sciel reassures as the bartender slides your drink over to you.
"That's a very nice way of putting it, I suppose." You shrug, briefly turning back to see that Verso's eyes were already settled on you. You can't help but gulp down another huge swallow of your drink.
As the night went on, the sky quickly turned from dusk to dark, the amber streetlamps lining the Paris streets illuminated the reflections in the windows of the bar.
"You're now two and a half drinks in… Any more in the same hour and you'll just throw up on his shoes. Come on. You've got this, you're a big girl." Sciel encourages you with a playful nudge.
"Yup, okay yup, fine…" You sigh, clutching your drink in hand as you approach Verso sitting in a small group with other employees.
"Heya!" Amelie, one of your coworkers greets.
"Hi! Sorry, just weaving through trying to say hello to everyone before I forget." You smile.
"Oh of course!" Amelie nods.
"Actually, while I've spotted you, Verso… I just need to check something with you about, uh, something." You add, trying your best not to look sheepish.
"Yeah, sure… I'll be back." Verso flashes a small robotic smile to the group as he gets up, wordlessly following you as you both step out onto the secluded balcony. The spring evening air sends a chill up your spine, and you wrap your cardigan around your body a little tighter.
"So, uh… About the other day." You begin, clearing your throat.
"Right." Verso replies, the same unwavering husky and low tone he always uses.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I let my emotions and feelings get the better of me and I carelessly made a harmful comment. I'm sorry." You purse your lips, forcing yourself to stare into his eyes. He blinks. Once. Twice.
"Thank you for acknowledging that." He says, turning away from you as he looks out onto the view of the balcony.
"I'd say you're welcome but that feels… Wrong to say." You awkwardly respond.
"You need to trust that I know what to do to pull this business off the collision course." Verso replies, disregarding your awkwardness.
"…Yeah. I know we're equally passionate about the company but we have different preferred methods. You're at the helm. I shouldn't be like this towards my own team member, especially my own boss. I promise I'll do better going forward." You mimic some of what Sciel said in your response - oh how you loved your emotionally mature friend.
"I appreciate it." Verso replies - dry and disengaged as ever. You try your best to ignore his tone and try to connect with him further to make things less awkward (thank you liquid courage).
"I have a slightly absurd question that isn't related to business whatsoever for you." You ask him, gripping one hand on the balcony railing to hide the fact that you're starting to sway a little in your shoes.
"What is it?" Verso humours you.
"Do you believe in aliens?" You ask, with full serious intent.
"…Huh?" Verso blinks in confusion. For the first time, he looks like he just responded like a normal human being.
"Like, do you believe in aliens? Other forms of life?" You ask him, hoping to get a response that is past the short sentences he typically gives.
"Haha, um… Personally? I think there's no way we live in this vast universe all by ourselves. There is definitely extra-terrestrial life out there." Verso indulges you - maybe it's the few glasses of whisky he had, but he actually indulged your question. For some reason, it made your chest feel a little fluttery, which was weird.
"Right? I often think that maybe they're trying to communicate or they already have, it's just that we might not even see them or pick up on their methods to communicate." You agree. "D'you reckon they'd be bald or have hair?" You add, almost stumbling as you pivot to look at him.
"You're drunk." He scoffs, but he doesn't have a mean bite to his tone. You swear you even saw a flicker of an actual grin.
"You're at least equally as drunk for humouring me on that topic." You chuckle, taking another long sip of your drink before beginning to almost stumble walk off.
"You don't seem to be looking over your shoulder too much on this sunny Monday. Seems the apology worked?" Lune notes, and you nod.
"Honestly, I was not that smooth with it though. I updated my resume over the weekend." You reply.
"Really? Did you like, throw your drink in his face after you apologised?" Sciel asks jokingly.
"Might as well have. Maybe I should've talked to him only one drink in. I asked him if he believes in aliens." You take a bite of your sandwich.
"No you didn't." Lune shoots an 'are you serious' look.
"I did…" You reply pathetically.
"That's… Wow. It was nice knowing you." Lune stifles a laugh.
"I mean, I was drunk! He probably was too." You throw your hands in the air.
"You can only hope…" Sciel comments, unscrewing her water bottle and taking a sip.
"Ahhh, it's whatever. If I'm fired, Maria will vouch for my resume anyway. I have a meeting with the man and our stakeholders in 10, so I'm gonna head off." You sigh, packing up your lunch bag.
"Goodbye and good luck!" Sciel waves.
...
The cool metal of your laptop sizzles against the warm skin of your palm, as you push the meeting room door open. Verso was the only other one in the room - indicating both your affinity for being early.
"Oh, no one else is here yet?" You shut the door quietly, staring at the desk. Would it be awkward to sit right next to him? Is it weirder if you sit directly opposite? You could sit on the edge but then you'd be at the head of the table - wait, why isn't he just sitting at the head of the table? That would make things so much easier…
"We're a bit early. You can take a seat on this side of the table." Verso replies, barely glancing your way as he clicks away on his laptop, yet somehow he still reads your mind.
You slide the upholstered chair 1 seat away from Verso and take a seat - not awkward enough that you're sat directly next to each other, but not so far away that it's giving 'you're a leper to me'.
"I didn't realise we'd have a stakeholder meeting so soon. Is there anything you need me to quickly read up on?" You ask.
"No, it's okay. I'll be leading it, I invited you and the other team leads so you all have a firsthand recount of the first meeting, so that we can brainstorm afterwards." Verso replies. You nod.
"…How was your weekend, anyway?" You ask offhandedly, opening your laptop to try and ease the awkwardness. The clock ticks a few times, filling in the silence. Just as you're about to turn away, he replies.
"Spent it mostly recovering from Friday's hangover. I wanted to sleep in, but I have a very demanding dog that likes to wake me up at 5:50am, almost like clockwork." He says, a very small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he mentions his dog.
"I didn't know you had a dog!" You gasp excitedly.
"Two, actually. Monoco and Noco. Monoco is the father." Verso explains, his pale blue eyes softening talking about his dogs. You notice very subtle changes in his facial expressions when he's talking about Monoco and Noco. For a moment, it almost seems like Verso is a completely different person. Human.
Before you can get another word in, the door opens and you spot Amelie and Minh - the other team leads. You all exchange a little wave with each other, as more people begin to fill in. As stakeholders arrive and nobody from the team is left, you're forced to shuffle up and sit right next to Verso anyway, making your over-thought seating arrangement completely redundant.
"Thank you everyone for attending this meeting, firstly, I'd like to acknowledge everyone's attendance for the day. This is the first stakeholder meeting to be held since the Dessendre Group's acquisition of Envisager…" Verso begins, and your eyes flicker down, staring at his forearms.
You don't know much about Verso - you're unsure of what he does in his free time, unlike Maria who often talked about her love of marathon running and yoga. But his forearms were objectively large, with defined veins. It makes you wonder what kind of sports he does to have such muscular and large forearms. Your eyes roam over his hands, following the contours of his arm veins until they were hidden by the rolled sleeves at his elbows.
"…Which is why we have taken such an approach. I'd like to extend this opportunity for stakeholders to voice their thoughts, feedback, and concerns." Verso concludes. Ah. You realise you haven't even been listening. Your gaze flicks back to Verso's face in the corner of your vision, before you look towards the stakeholder who began discussing proposed targets and milestones.
…The meeting was admittedly boring as shit, but you forced yourself to listen, as you needed to advocate for your team.
"Alrighty, team-leaders and managers, let's discuss." Verso concludes as the stakeholders had all officially left the room and were escorted out. The main topic of the discussion was the revenue target and how cutting costs is now inevitable. What you weren't prepared for, is how easily almost everybody rolled over to Verso almost immediately, even when you could see in their eyes that they didn't want exactly agree with everything said.
"Sorry, I do have some reservations." You pipe up, as Amelie finishes a sentence praising Verso's decision to skim a small amount of employees.
"Of course." Verso says, leaning his palms back on the desk, arms outstretched. His eyes were practically burning holes into yours as you speak.
"I understand that in order to survive, we need to make cuts. But I'm worried about the sustainability of our workload when we do not have interns to rely on for the smaller tasks, as they will likely be handballed to other employees who will then have increased responsibility, yet their pay remains the same. I think this could drive a lot of our current and reliable team members." You state, and you notice Minh avert his gaze.
"I see your concern; what I would like to do is take on interns and also create a new graduate program. A lot of young people in Paris are struggling to get their foot in the door, especially when it comes to more creative or business pursuits. This gives them a chance to gain experience, while we save costs with salary. According to our files, Envisager has not employed a new graduate in the last 2 years. I think it would be an excellent opportunity to give the new generation of Paris' workforce a chance." Verso explains, and you bite your lip. He did have a good point - an excellent point even, about giving young workers a chance. But the cynicist in you does not cease its voice. 'He's probably going to hand all of these positions to the rich brats of families that have their fingers in the pie. This is how it starts.' You think to yourself.
"…Okay. I'm saddened to hear we'll need to be letting a few people go. I am excited to hear about the graduate program plan though." You speak honestly and earnestly. Amelie gives you a look as if to tell you you're committing career suicide.
"I hear you and I understand. It's always tough, however to the people we are letting go, we will write an excellent letter of recommendation under the group's name, and they will of course be paid severance pay as standardised by French law." Verso nods. You can't help but think to yourself that this is fucked up - it's the same brutal corporate playbook everyone plays. Nobody who actually needs their foot in the door will get this position. It grinds your fucking gears. You stare at him, a hint of discontent in your gaze. He stares back with a pokerface, but you swear you feel it. You can't prove it, but you know he's displeased with you.
Forget wanting to get to know him better. Forget trying to see if there is an ounce of humanity under his perfectly styled hair and corporate armour. This guy fucking sucks.
"Could you look over my resume?" You ask Claude, who nods. The paper makes a soft, scratchy noise as you yank it off your desk, handing it to your brother.
"You're going to leave for sure then?" Claude asks.
"I plan on it. Just letting the dust settle. I'm just a bit over it all - he wants to cut smaller roles and would be offloading that work onto our already small enough team, and won't pay them more. In fact, nobody is getting paid more even with all of these structural changes." You sigh.
"It's shit isn't it?" Claude hums in acknowledgement as he plucks a red marker from your coffee table, circling a few things as you place dinner down on the table.
"So… What do you think?" You ask.
"I circled a few changes, but, yeah. Looks good to go." Claude responds. As you're both about to settle down at the table, you hear a ping from your phone.
'Hi, it's Verso. I hope you don't mind that I'm texting you outside of business hours on your personal number, but it's not really work related. I thought about what you said in our meeting earlier today. I think we have a few differences and it's not resolving the way we'd like. Maybe we should have a chat away from the office environment during the lunch break period tomorrow?' You read Verso's text. Perfect grammar, syntax and all. Was this man ever not stiff?
"What's up?" Claude asks, his mouth stuffed with your famous rocket, walnut, and honeyed pear salad.
"Verso texted me." You say in a suspicious tone.
"Huh? That's so demanding. It's 7pm and he's texting you?" Claude raises a brow as you type a response.
'hi Verso, that's fine but I'd prefer to not make it a habit. I can come find you in your office when I'm heading to lunch and we can chat' you reply, turning your phone face down and on silent.
"What's going on?" Claude asks.
"He wanted to see me during break. Says we have differences and it's not resolving the way we're both hoping." You breathe out.
"Ooooh putain. You're getting fired." Claude snorts, but you can see the sympathy for you in his eyes.
"Thank god." You snort, putting on a brave front. But on the inside, you're freaking the fuck out.
Chapter 5: a cat with nine lives
It feels almost routine now. Knock on Verso's office door, enter, have a passive-aggressive verbal exchange, leave. Ruin it. Rinse and repeat.
"Come in." Verso replies to your knock.
"You… Wanted to see me?" You ask.
"Yes, but let's head downstairs and to a cafe." Verso says, grabbing his coat as you walk together. You catch a glimpse of your reflections in an opposite glass-panelled building as you both head to a nearby cafe, walking side by side. Verso is about a head taller than you, his posture straight and imposing, while you're a little bit slouched. Upon seeing this, you straighten your back as you direct your gaze to the street again. Your mind begins to swirl with anxious thoughts as you both walk in silence, the sound of the busy business district as many workers come out in droves to purchase their lunch serving its purpose to muffle the awkward silence between you both.
'So this is it - I'm going to be fired. Fuck. Even worse, he's definitely going to eviscerate the shit out of me verbally to the point where he doesn't want other employees to be around and hear how-'
"Putain!" Verso shouts, grabbing you by the waist and arm as a truck barely skims past your body. You fall backwards at the excessive force, the back of your head tumbling into his chest.
"Holy fuck!" You gasp, glaring at the speeding truck that continued to drive off with total disregard for the pedestrian crossing. You look down and see Verso slightly grimacing as he lifts his head from the pavement.
"Are you okay?" He asks, pale blue eyes looking up into yours. His black waves were fanned out, a thin sheen of sweat threatening to break through on his forehead.
"Y-Yes! I'm fine - but you hit your head pretty hard… I-I think I should take you to a hospital." You panic.
"I-I'm fine…" Verso groans, sitting up, and you quickly scramble off of his body.
"No, no - my father had a stupid accident falling backwards on our patio and he had an awful concussion which could've killed him if we didn't take him to the hospital. No way, I'm not killing my fucking boss." You say, frantically flagging down a taxi.
"I'll call admin and they'll reschedule our meetings. I'm not taking any chances." You add. Verso looks as if he's about to protest as the taxi pulls up, but decides to keep his mouth shut.
"…You're in extreme luck. It shouldn't be a long wait, about half an hour." The hospital desk staff confirm, and you nod as you both take a seat.
"I'm sorry. I'm sure you were going to fire me back then, but even if you weren't, you should probably do it now." You sigh, clutching your arms around your chest in defeat.
"Fire you? I don't plan on firing you at all." Verso chuckles.
"…Really?" You ask in a small voice, looking at him from the corner of your eye.
"Really. It takes all kinds of people to make up a team. If I'm surrounded by a bunch of yes-men, it makes it difficult to know if I'm truly making the correct decision or not." Verso explains, and you nod silently in response.
"I really don't mean to cause trouble... I can become really attached and I struggle to let go. I can be resistant to change, because I can't always help bringing my personal morals into it." You sigh.
"Don't speak about it like it's a bad thing. It's not a bad thing." Verso gently chides, and you can only nod in response again, unsure of what else to say.
"…I'm really sorry you got hurt saving me." You blurt out, uncomfortable with the lapse of silence.
"Well, for starters, I don't want one of my employees dying. Plus, I don't want to watch someone die in front of me again." Verso almost mumbles the second half of his sentence, but you hear it. Your body goes rigid as you think back to the news report on TV in 2023.
"I… Yeah. That's traumatising as hell. I'm surprised you recovered and began working full-time again so quickly. In your shoes, I'd imagine it would put a lot of stress on you, both psychologically and physically." You mumble, kicking your feet.
"It was. …It is. My sister, Clea, is the stronger one out of the two of us. She's trying to find the people responsible for Alicia's death, whilst turning major profits on all these new projects our parents are handing us. I don't know how she's keeping her head above water. In fact I think she's swimming against the tide just fine." Verso admits, and you hear a tinge of sadness in his voice.
"Burying your head in a vendetta and work can put up a strong front, but it doesn't make you strong. The whole situation was fucked up, and you saw the most of it. And that doesn't go away after the event is over, because grief is an ocean that hits you in waves. Plus, our body keeps the score when it comes to trauma." You empathise, drawing on your own experience of grief.
"…The body definitely keeps the score. I never used to have white in my hair, and I'm only 28. Doctors said it was a stress response, my hair won't ever return to normal." Verso says in a low voice. Before you could say more, a doctor called his name out.
"I'll stay here. I'll write up the injury for our report and I can get us back to the office if you're fit to work." You reassure him, and he nods with a grateful expression.
"Just a mild concussion. I was told to rest tonight and tomorrow, and if I don't have any symptoms the following day then I can go to work." Verso explains to you as you get up out of your seat.
"Merde - I think my phone slipped out when I was getting checked out, I'll quickly run back and ask them." Verso touches his pockets before walking over to the clinicians.
You walk over to the admin desk to confirm your departure.
"Hello - who was it for again?" The woman smiles.
"Verso Dessendre." You reply.
"Ah, yup. If you could just sign here…" The woman hands you a clipboard. You see some information pre-filled by the woman.
"Oh - um, can I get a new form? I-I'm not his wife…" You request awkwardly. Just as you mention the last sentence, Verso appears by your side again. You can't help but feel a little red in the cheeks for some reason. The woman apologetically hands you a new form, and you scribble 'coworker' in the title box. You both thank them again, walking out.
If Verso overheard the wife thing, you're grateful, since he didn't mention it as you walked out of the hospital.
"You need to get home - but I'm just worried something could happen to you on the way there. Is it ok if I take you home?" You ask, voicing your concerns, but also internally smacking yourself in the head for using the phrase 'take you home'.
"Yeah, okay. I do feel a bit shit." Verso nods, and you flag down another taxi. Verso gives the address to his apartment, a 12-minute ride away from the hospital.
"I swear I'm not trying to fob off work. I promise." You say as the taxi rolls to a halt.
"You sure about that?" Verso jokes as you both step out of the taxi.
"Haha - okay maybe I'm trying to fob off work a little. I'll do overtime tomorrow." You admit with a grin.
"Hmm, I'm not even there to watch you. How can I be so sure?" He jokes, swiping his key card as you into the foyer of the luxury penthouse complex. The foyer had a beautiful old school black and white harlequin floor tiles, with gold accents throughout the foyer. It appears the complex kept the original materials and maintained the panels, resulting in a blend of 1920's opulence with modern technology camouflaged throughout. Ugh, rich people.
"Uhh, you can just trust me?" You say in a playful tone.
"Yeah alright. Sounds good." He jokes in a deadpan manner.
"Alright, well, I should get going. Oh - wait." You pause, rummaging through your bag as you fish out a small box of paracetamol and electroytes mix. "I overheard one of the nurses earlier talk about paracetamol and electrolytes so you can recover faster. Thanks again for saving my life, bye bye!" You wave, as Verso gives a small wave back in return.
Verso stared at the box of paracetamol and electrolyte mix, a small grin ghosting across his mouth.
"Hey! You were gone for so long. So what happened? It must've been bad if you were gone for ages…" Sciel walks over as we all pack up for the day.
"Yeah, I was gone for like almost three hours. But anyway, I'm not fired." You confirm.
"Are you still gonna like, quit?" Sciel pouts.
"Hmm, no. As long as the changes don't turn the place into a sinking ship, I'll stay." You confirm.
"You're staying?" Lune pokes her head around the corner as you and Sciel begin to make your way to the corridor.
"For now." You nod.
"What made you change your mind? You seemed to really hate it before." Sciel pushes the elevator door button closed as the three of you have the little space to yourselves.
"Erm - well, he was quite convincing. He said he wants people with diverse opinions to make sure he's making well thought-out decisions." You explain, trying to dance around the main event.
"I feel like you're not telling us everything…" Sciel trails off.
"Oh my god - did he threaten you? Blackmail you? He didn't lay his hands on you, right?" Lune gasps.
"No way! No, no. Ugh… I almost got hit by a speeding truck on the way to the cafe, he pulled me back onto the street but I fell ass backwards underneath him and he got a mild concussion from the impact." You explain, looking at your black boots, refusing to look Sciel and Lune in the eye.
The two girls burst out into laughter as the elevator door opens, with the few people in the office complex lobby looking at the three of you as if you've gone mad.
"Shhh! It's already embarrassing enough just thinking about it. I could've fucking killed our boss!" You scream-whisper, which only makes Lune and Sciel laugh even harder as you walk out onto the street.
"Fucking hell, you are a cat with nine lives!" Sciel hollers.
"Wait - but you were gone for three hours? Did you take him to the hospital then?" Lune deduces.
"Yeah, wasn't a long wait. I also made sure he got back home - he's not really that far from work." You shrug.
"You know, you only hear of this type of stuff in a romance novel." Sciel snorts.
"Oh god - no. Guys I am seriously not an unprofessional person." You shake your head insistently.
"Yeah but… Hot, young, likely single CEO. If you guys slept together… Your secret is safe between the three of us." Sciel giggles.
"Genuinely - I didn't sleep with him. I swear on my maman's life. Almost died, hospital, escorted him back. That's all." You frown.
"Okay, okay… We'll stop teasing. I do think it's funny that you really assume there's no tension between you both though." Lune says in a more gentle tone.
"Yeah, like, angry tension. Not sexual. Our approaches to things are usually inverted versions of each other." You insist.
"Yep, right… Definitely no sexual tension." Sciel exchanges a look with Lune.
You groan as the girls continue to playfully tease you. Deep down the teasing didn't matter that much to you - it even made your ears turn a little pink.
Summary : It's so romantic of Verso to want to teach you how to play the piano. But this strange dream… Is it just a meaningless dream, or does it hide something even deeper?
Author's note : Two chapters in a few days… I hope you're happy mes amis :>
CW : Verso gets hard just from a few kisses. You can't change my mind. I promise you that the next chapter will be more spicy.
chapter IX
Days passed in a gentle rhythm, almost too quickly, filled with the quiet pulse of the Dessendre household. You spent hours beside Verso at the piano, watching, listening, trying, failing, and then trying again. He taught you the names of notes, the spacing of the keys, the feel of the ivory beneath your fingertips. At first, the sounds you produced were sharp, jarring, almost painful to hear, each note a small rebellion against the music in your head. But you learned quickly, each mistake building into knowledge, every small success coaxing a thrill of triumph.
Alongside your lessons, life with the Dessendre wove itself into a tapestry of warmth. You cooked with Aline, tasting, adjusting, laughing at the inevitable disasters of new recipes. Alicia chattered constantly, pulling you into conversations about stories, books that you both like, offering her own interpretations, while you shared your timid thoughts, learning to speak aloud ideas you had only ever held in your mind. Cléa painted, and you watched, fascinated by how a brush could pull entire worlds from color and shadow. Renoir, quiet but attentive, spoke in measured tones about everything and nothing, letting you hear the calm certainty in his voice, until the days settled into a rhythm that felt both endless and fleeting.
And yet, the dream, or the nightmare, returned, often enough to unsettle you. Some nights it crept back in, ink crawling along your veins, panic tightening your chest, even after hours of sunlight and laughter.
One night, sleep eluded you entirely. You lay beside Verso, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the soft curve of his lips in repose. Fingers ghosted through his hair, tracing lines as if to memorize the way the strands fell across his forehead. After a while, you rose. Softly, carefully, moving without a sound, you gathered a notebook, ink, and your quill from your bag. The house was hushed, every footstep muted against the floorboards. You opened the door to the music room and let it close almost silently behind you. The piano stood before you, dark, still, a promise of sound.
Instead of sitting at the bench, you lay on the cold marble, notebook on the floor, quill poised. Legs lifted, swinging slightly, you rested your face in the palm of your hand, other hand clutching the quill, and began to draw notes across the page. You hummed the melody that had been lodged in your mind all day, each sound a small thread trying to weave itself into reality. You weren't sure whether the notes on the paper were correct or not. At worst, Verso would see your attempt tomorrow and guide you.
And then, it happened. A faint glow, golden and trembling, traced your veins from the palms of your hands up your arms. Your eyes widened, heart stuttering. The notes on the page shimmered, lifted from the paper, each one curling in luminous arcs before settling back into shape, shifting, correcting themselves. The quill felt heavier, lighter, vibrating slightly, and the melody you had only half-whispered began to play in the room around you.
The sound startled you, both terrifying and beautiful. Notes floated and intertwined, rising and falling, filling every corner of the space. You could feel the warmth of it against your skin, the subtle pull of something larger than yourself threading through the music. Panic twisted in your stomach, sharp and urgent, but awe mingled with it, breathless and dizzying.
For a moment, you couldn’t move, couldn’t even think. Everything was alive, the gold light in your veins, the melody bending around you, the room humming with its own pulse. Then, as quickly as it had come, the glow faded, the notes cooled to normal ink on paper, solid, still. Your chest heaved with a shaky laugh of disbelief.
Acting without thought, driven by both fear and instinct, you tore the page from your notebook, crumpled it, and flung it into the wastebasket. Your heart still thumped wildly as you snatched your quill, ink,notebook and fled, careful not to stumble. Marble bit into the soles of your feet as you ran quietly, breath shallow, ears straining for any sign of movement.
The door to Verso’s bedroom felt impossibly far away. Each step was a careful negotiation between speed and stealth. Finally, you crossed the threshold, closing it softly behind you, collapsing onto the bed. Your heart still raced, but warmth and safety wrapped around you immediately, the mundane, the solid, the human reality of his presence was a balm against the fantastical terror you had just experienced.
You lay down beside him, careful not to wake him, and instinctively he shifted closer, a quiet, unthinking motion. One arm came around you, drawing you in, his cheek resting lightly against your chest, pressing just enough to remind you that you were not alone. You took a shaky breath, then another, letting the rhythm of his body seep into your own. Fingers flexed against the sheets, seeking purchase, grounding yourself. Slowly, you tried to calm the storm of panic that still pulsed beneath your ribs. You whispered to yourself, half to hear your own voice, half to summon courage. There is only one person who could help you…
The thought of returning to the writers’ district made your chest tighten, a coil of anxiety twisting your stomach. It was the one place that promised answers, and yet, it was also the source of so much pressure, of judgment and expectation. You closed your eyes, trying to let the fear drift away, but it clung stubbornly, teasing your mind, whispering reminders of the impossible.
Minutes stretched into hours. You shifted slightly, pressing closer into Verso, inhaling the faint scent of him. Each rise and fall of his chest became a metronome for your own breathing. Slowly, tentatively, your body began to release its tension. You let your thoughts float aimlessly, circling and settling, until finally exhaustion wrapped itself around you like a soft cloak.
Somewhere in the quiet hours before dawn, sleep took you. Verso still held you, unknowing but steady, his presence a tether to reality, to warmth, to the calm you so desperately needed. Your breathing softened, harmonizing with his, and for the first time that night, the panic eased completely, leaving only the faint, lingering pulse of wonder, and relief, beneath your skin.
The morning was quiet, almost deceptively so, but the tension had already begun to coil in the corners of the manor. Renoir had gathered them in the sitting room earlier in the day, voice calm but firm, “The Dessendre family will be returning to the writers’ district tonight,” he announced, “Just for one evening, a dinner, again, nothing more.”
Verso had been the least enthusiastic, shoulders tensed and jaw tight, “I don’t want to go,” he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl, “I don’t want to see them.”
Aline immediately reached for Verso’s hand, her brow furrowed with concern, “It’s only for a few hours,” she said softly, but he frowned, lips pressed tightly together.
He had exhaled slowly, leaning into her reassurance, but you could see the flicker of unease in his eyes. He had come so far since the days of madness he had endured, and yet even now, the thought of returning to the presence of the Council, the main suspects in what happened to him, made him restless.
Over the next few days, you stayed close, lingering near him, offering quiet words and gentle touches. Every hand on his arm, every brush of your fingers through his hair was meant to anchor him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. It helped, though not entirely, a shadow of fear still lingered, a cautious whisper beneath his calm facade.
By the afternoon of the appointed day, a sleek black landaulet arrived. You recognized it immediately, the same vehicle that had carried Verso and his family during the earlier incident in the other district. Your stomach tightened at the sight. The memory came unbidden, Verso in the arms of this other woman, looking at you and ignoring you at the same timel… and now, they were returning there tonight.
Renoir approached, his expression gentle but decisive, “If you prefer,” he said, turning toward you, “you may stay here while we go. You don’t have to come along.”
Verso’s gaze snapped to you, a frown tugging at his features, “Are you coming?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head, voice calm but firm, “I have to see a friend,” you explained.
Aline’s eyes softened with concern, yet held a firm edge, “Be careful,” she said, resting a hand on your shoulder, “I know it’s your home, but… one can never be too careful.”
You nodded, understanding the weight behind her warning, and followed Verso outside. You climbed into the landaulet, settling beside him. As the door shut and the engine purred to life, the world outside began to slide by in blurred strips of light and shadow. The streets of Paris unfolded under the afternoon sun, shutters painted gold by the light, horse-drawn carriages rattling over cobblestones, a faint smell of bread and smoke from nearby boulangeries. Yet as the vehicle approached the borders of the writers’ district, your chest tightened, a subtle nausea threading through your stomach. Anxiety rose, unfurling in your limbs. You swallowed against it, fingers trembling slightly.
Verso noticed. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with a quiet insistence, “I’m here,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your knuckles, “I’ve got you.”
The reassurance was grounding, but only just. The district drew nearer, its familiar buildings looming, the weight of unspoken history pressing at your sides. You clenched and unclenched your hand in his, letting the contact remind you that you were not facing it alone.
Finally, the landaulet stopped, glinting in the low sun near the great library, its stone façade massive and imposing, and right next door, the house of the head of the Writers’ Council. Both structures rose like silent sentinels, impossibly close to one another, the space between them almost taut with expectation. You all descended from the vehicle. Verso’s parents lingered by his side, the subtle tension of the day weighing down their posture.
Before anyone could separate to follow their own paths, you pulled Verso aside, discreetly, pressing your body close to his. Your hands cupped his face, fingers brushing over his jaw, over his temples. You pressed your lips to his briefly, tenderly, “It will be alright,” you whispered, soft as the wind between the library columns, “For you… and for me.”
The words hung between you, almost a farewell, and your chest tightened. Verso returned the kiss, soft yet certain, pressing closer. When he finally pulled back, his gaze locked on yours, he murmured with a faint, reassuring smirk, “And if anything goes wrong… I’ll shake the entire district until I find you.”
The promise made your heart skip, but also filled you with warmth. With one last squeeze of his hands, you let him step back to join his mother, who stayed at his side, ever watchful. Your own heart was still pounding as you turned, weaving through the space between the two towering buildings, and melted into the immense interior of the library.
The scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped you instantly, sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting latticed patterns across the wooden floors. Here, at last, you could take a shallow breath, but a tight knot remained in your chest. The thought of the evening’s journey, and the questions it might unearth, pressed against your mind like a quiet drumbeat, sharp and unrelenting. Fear of what you might discover lingered just beneath the surface, keeping your pulse restless.
You wandered through the towering aisles of the writer’s district library, your steps slow, hesitant. You could have gone straight to the tower where your friend lived, but something inside you held you back. You weren’t sure if they were home, if they’d be in their room, or elsewhere, lost in their own world as they often were. The quiet of the library pressed around you, that familiar scent of old paper and dust filling your lungs with every shallow breath.
Then a voice called your name. Bright, curious, with that unmistakable note of joy you knew so well. You turned. Your friend stood a few shelves away, waving at you, a wide smile spread across their face. Beside her stood a tall woman you had never seen before. Her robes were unmistakable, the heavy, flowing garments of an Academician.
“Hey! I didn’t expect to see you here!” your friend said, walking quickly toward you.
You hesitated, words caught somewhere between your throat and your lips. The Academician’s eyes fixed on you, calm but sharp, and after a moment she stepped forward, extending a hand.
“So our paths finally cross," she said, her voice low and even, though her mouth curved into a faint smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The words made you freeze. Our paths finally cross. That meant your friend had already spoken of you. You lowered your gaze, timid, and reached out, your fingers brushing against hers in a soft, awkward shake.
Before you could say anything, your friend tilted their head, curiosity plain in their eyes, “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you for days.”
The question pierced through your hesitation. You bit your lip, torn between silence and confession. But something told you, if anyone could help you, it might be this woman, this Academician. The words rushed out before you could stop them, faster than your own breath, “Verso came to see me,” you said, “We kissed. My parents caught us. I… I ran. I went to the Dessendre. And then… something strange happened. I needed to talk to someone about it.”
By the time you finished, your lungs burned, your chest heaving. Your friend’s eyes widened, flickering through disbelief, shock, then worry. The Academician, by contrast, remained unreadable, her face composed, her gaze steady. As though she knew far more than she allowed to show. She leaned down slightly, meeting your eyes directly, her voice soft, “Why don’t you come with us?” she said, “We can talk on the way.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and began to walk, her robes whispering against the floor. Your friend followed without hesitation, glancing back at you with an encouraging nod. And so you had no choice but to follow too.
As the three of you walked, your friend peppered you with gentle questions, never digging too deep, never prying into the Dessendres’ private life, but seeking to piece together what had happened, “So that night… the investiture,” she said quietly, “He came to you?”
You nodded, “He kissed me. He stayed the night. My parents… they were furious. My father especially. So I left. Since then, the Dessendres have taken me in. Things have been… different. But safe.”
She nodded slowly, but before you could explain further, you realized the path beneath your feet was too familiar. The walls closed in, cold stone dripping with faint moisture, and you froze.
“This way,” the Academician said, her voice echoing faintly against the tunnel walls.
You swallowed, your heart racing. You recognized it instantly, the passage leading to the archives, “…We’re going to the archives?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” the Academician replied, without turning her head, “I had forgotten something there.”
The words struck you as a lie. Not in their sound, but in the way she said them, too casual, too smooth. A prickle at the back of your neck told you she had another reason. But her presence, calm and assured, carried no malice. Against your better judgment, you chose silence.
The passage opened, and the stale air of the archives washed over you. The room was just as you remembered, nothing had been tidied. Boxes overflowing with scrolls, shelves crammed with uneven stacks, scrolls spilling onto the stone floor.
You moved slowly between the piles, fingertips brushing against the edges of forgotten texts. Then, as you passed a crooked stack, your breath caught. A book resting on top shone faintly, a pulse of gold beneath the dust. And then it happened. Your veins lit up, threads of gold blooming beneath your skin, snaking down your arms in glowing patterns. You stopped dead. The book trembled. Pages flipped on their own, fluttering wildly until they landed open at the middle. A single quill lay between the blank pages, as though it had been waiting.
Chest tightened. Fear clawed up your throat. You wrapped your arms around yourself, desperate to hide the glow beneath your sleeves, but it was too late.
Your friend’s voice was sharp with worry, “What’s happening to you?”
“I…” your voice cracked. You lifted your arms, staring at the glowing veins, “I don’t know. I don’t understand. It’s the second time, ever since the nightmares started, these marks, they just appear…”
Your breath hitched, faster, shallower. The room swayed. Your friend took a step forward, but it was the Academician who reached you first. Her hands settled firmly on your shoulders, “Breathe with me,” she said, her tone quiet but commanding, “Inhale. Exhale.”
You tried. At first your lungs resisted, your heart hammering too hard. But her eyes held yours, steady, grounding, “Inhale. Exhale.”
You followed, shaky at first, then steadier. Minutes dragged by, but slowly, your chest loosened. Your trembling lessened. Tears blurred your vision, and when they spilled free, the Academician’s touch shifted, fingers brushing gently along your cheeks, wiping them away, “There,” she murmured, “Better.”
She let the silence linger before speaking again, “Now. Tell me what happened.”
And you did. You told her about the nightmares. About the glowing marks that haunted your skin. About the night you wrote music and the ink itself seemed to come alive. The words spilled from you, leaving you drained, empty, but strangely lighter.
The Academician listened, her expression unreadable, until finally she stepped back. Her smile was calm, almost reassuring. She moved among the piles, searching, until she returned with a plain-looking book. The leather was cracked, the cover unmarked, “It’s not a curse,” she said, “You’re not broken. You’re discovering what you are.”
You frowned, confusion and doubt warring in your chest. You glanced at the book, then back to her. She pressed it into your hands. The first page read in bold letters, “The History of the Scriptomancers.” you whispered the title aloud, your voice trembling.
Your friend gasped softly, eyes alight with wonder, “Scriptomancers! I’ve heard of them. Writers who could weave magic into their words. They created scrolls like these,” they gestured to the mess of parchment around you, “But you know what happened next... magic was banned, and the Scriptomancers were forced to stop practicing magic.”
You snapped the book shut, shoving it back toward the Academician, “No. That’s impossible. I’m not… I’m not even a writer, I can't write!”
But she refused to take it back. She folded your hands around the book, firm, insistent, “You don't have to be the best writer,” she said softly, “Scriptomancers weren’t always… writers. They were creators. Dreamers. That’s why they were dangerous.”
Your gaze fell again to the glowing book on the pile, to the quill resting between its pages, vibrating faintly as though calling for you. You hesitated only a moment before setting the history book down, and reaching out. The quill was warm in your hand. The blank pages glowed. A line of text unfurled, delicate, shimmering, the letters forming as if written by an invisible hand, Ask, and you shall be answered.
In rhyme, and truth will be rendered. Your breath caught. The letters shimmered faintly on the page, as though waiting, expectant.
Your friend leaned closer, whispering with awe, “It’s… it’s asking you to write something. To ask it a question.”
The Academician’s gaze, though harder to read, betrayed a flicker of interest. She folded her arms, watching you closely, yet not stopping you.
Your fingers trembled around the quill. A question pressed so heavily in your chest that you could barely think of anything else. The stolen scrolls. The shadow that had haunted Verso. The doubt that lingered like poison. You lowered the tip of the quill to the blank page. The golden ink spilled without you dipping it anywhere, flowing freely, alive. Voice a little more than a whisper as you wrote, shaping the words into rhyme, because the book demanded it, Who stole the scrolls, who played this game, Was it one alone, or many to blame?
The letters glowed, brighter, brighter still. The page quivered as if alive. Your friend gasped, stepping back, and even the Academician leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharpening.
The lines of ink began to move. They swirled, stretching into shapes, curling until they became something else, lines turned to strokes, strokes to shadows, shadows into an image. And then you saw it. On the page, a single silhouette appeared. Feminine, of middling height, the features blurred but unmistakably poised. The drawing pulsed once, and above the figure, a glimmering sigil formed, the symbol representing the family of the head of the Writers' Council. The brooch owned by him, his wife, and their two children. The golden veins on your arms flared in recognition, burning in rhythm with the image on the page, as though your very blood confirmed the truth.
Your friend exhaled sharply, “I knew it. That little brat. Of course it was her.”
The Academician, silent until now, finally spoke. Her tone was calm, measured, almost too calm, “Now that you know the truth… What are you planning to do next?”
Something in the way she said it unsettled you. It didn’t sound like a question born of surprise, but one of expectation. As if she had already known who the thief was, and only wanted to hear it confirmed.
What were you going to do? You didn’t know. Even if you told Renoir and Aline, even if you showed them what you had seen, would they believe you? A forbidden book, a banned magic, it wasn’t the kind of proof anyone would dare present to the Council. The thought of it pressed heavy on your chest, “I don’t know…” you admitted at last.
The silence stretched until the last of the light disappeared from the archives, until the marks on your arms disappeared. You bent to pick up the other book, the one about the Scriptomancers, holding it close as if it were something priceless. The weight of it steadied you, even as your thoughts raced. When you turned back to the Academician, the words left your lips before you could second-guess them, “Can I… keep it?”
Her expression softened, the corners of her mouth curving into the faintest smile, “Of course. It won’t be missed.” she turned and began to walk toward the exit. At the threshold she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and said simply, “Come. We’ll talk somewhere else.”
Your friend, who had been watching in silence, frowned, “So you brought us here for this? How did you guess before she even spoke?!”
The Academician only smiled, offering no explanation, and continued on. Your friend hurried after her, muttering under their breath, and you followed close behind, clutching the book tightly against your chest. It felt heavier than it should have been, heavier, and far more valuable.
The archives faded behind, replaced by the softer light of the street. The Academician walked with you a while, her words measured, though they slipped past without leaving much trace. At a quiet intersection she paused, excused herself with a faint nod, and disappeared, leaving only the two of you together. Home came to mind, an idea heavy enough to tighten your chest. Your friend didn’t argue, she simply offered to walk at your side. The road was short, but every step stretched long. She tried to lighten the silence with small remarks, half-playful, as though her voice might keep the weight from pressing too hard.
At the door, your knuckles tapped once, twice, three times, hesitant. No reply. The stillness beyond the wood felt colder than you remembered. A pause, then the latch yielded under your hand. The silence of the house pressed in, heavier with every room you crossed. By the time you reached the living room, the weight had become unbearable.
A desk stood waiting, paper, quill, and ink set neatly as if prepared for you. If they weren't there so you could reassure them in person, you might as well leave them a note. Sitting down, the first words came almost by instinct, “Papa, Maman,” and then nothing. The quill hovered uselessly above the page. Thoughts crowded your chest but refused to take shape.
Your friend, watching quietly, leaned forward, “Maybe… this could be a way to test it. See how it works.”
The suggestion made you hesitate. Power still pulsed faintly in memory, the book, the glowing script, words bending themselves into truths you hadn’t dared to speak. Fear prickled at the edges of your thoughts. But curiosity answered too.
Drawing a breath, you lowered your eyes to the page and let go of the pressure to form the right sentence. Instead, you focused on what lived beneath it, the ache of wanting them to know you were safe, the fragile joy of what you’d found, the fear they’d never accept it. You thought of Verso, of the peace his presence gave, of how desperately you wanted your parents to see that.
Ink began to flow, the quill moving as if carried by a current. At first the words were your own, awkward, halting, but then the veins lit along your arms, gold threading through your skin. Letters brightened, twisted, reshaped. Sentences softened and shifted until the page reflected exactly what you had meant all along. That you were well. That no danger shadowed you. That happiness filled you more than ever before. That they need not worry. That the Dessendre gave you shelter, and if your parents wished to come, they could, so long as it was in peace, never again in defiance of your bond with Verso.
The glow faded slowly, ink turning ordinary once more. The marks along your arms dimmed, retreating as if nothing had happened at all.
“It’s like the ink is alive in you,” your friend whispered, awe softening her tone, “Like it listens to what you feel.”
Your gaze left the page, finding hers, “It seems so...”
The clock ticked steadily in the corner, indifferent. Dinner was still a long way off. For a moment, staying here tempted you, cooking together, filling the house with warmth, but the thought of your parents walking in tightened your stomach.
Instead, the question slipped out, “Would you like to eat outside? We could stop by a bakery. Find somewhere quiet.”
Relief touched her smile, “I’d like that.”
The bakery gave way to a café, light spilling softly against the windows. Inside, you shared tea and simple food, conversation drifting between you until hours dissolved unnoticed into evening.
By the time you stepped back outside, uncertainty still lingered. When would the Dessendre return? You couldn’t guess. So, the two of you made your way back to the library, climbed its wide stone steps, and sat together on the stairs as the sky deepened above, waiting.
Half an hour slipped by on the library steps before lantern light spilled from the house of the head of the Writers' Council, and the Dessendre family emerged. You waited until the Head of the Council and his entourage wish them a safe journey home before returning home themselves and disappearing. Only then did you rise. Your friend stood when you did, footsteps close behind.
Alicia spotted her first, “You!” she burst out, delight brightening her face as she hurried over, “I hoped I’d run into you again.” she caught your friend in a quick, easy hug, already chattering about nothing and everything.
Aline and Renoir followed at a calmer pace. Their attention went to your friend, warm, curious, unmistakably sincere, “So you're the one Alicia and Clea told us about,” Aline said, smiling, “We’re very glad to meet you.”
Renoir inclined his head, “Truly. Thank you for keeping them company today.” he didn’t look at you when he said them, but the word landed gently all the same.
While greetings flowed, Verso drifted toward you as if pulled by a thread. The moment his shoulder brushed yours, the churn in your chest eased. He didn’t speak at first, only fitted his fingers between yours, thumb faintly tracing the bridge of your knuckles, a quiet question, “Did it go… alright?” you asked, searching his face.
“As well as it could,” he said, mouth curving into a tired, private smile, “Maman didn’t leave my side.” a flick of his eyes toward Aline, fond, rueful, “It helped.”
A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding loosened, “Good.”
“And you?” he asked, “Your afternoon?”
“Tea. A long talk. It helped too.” you allowed the barest nod toward your friend, keeping the rest tucked safely away for now.
Aline’s attention slid briefly to you, soft and knowing, before she turned back to your friend with the same gentleness, “We should let you rest. It’s getting late.”
Renoir added, “We’re heading home now. You’re welcome at our house anytime, truly. Alicia would be thrilled to have you visit.”
Alicia practically sparkled, “Tomorrow? The day after? I’ll send a letter!”
Your friend laughed, a little flustered, “I… soon. I promise.”
“Good,” Aline said, pleased, “Then we’ll look forward to it.”
While farewells were traded, Verso leaned closer, voice low enough for you alone, “Thank you for waiting,” he murmured, “I kept thinking about you.”
“Likewise,” you whispered back, “Every minute.”
He lifted your joined hands and, without theatrics, pressed your knuckles to his lips. The kiss was brief, but something in it steadied the night around you.
Renoir’s voice carried gently over the small knot of goodbyes, “We should go.” he gave your friend a parting nod, “Truly, anytime.”
Your friend gave you a warm hug, then stepped back and watched as you turned with the Dessendres toward the waiting landaulet idling at the curb. Inside the car, the city drifted past in lantern-struck ribbons. Verso didn’t let go. His hand stayed laced with yours, then slid, palm warm, to rest lightly over your wrist, thumb moving in slow circles that matched the rhythm of the wheels. Streetlight shadowed the angle of his jaw, in the passing dark he stole a small, grateful glance, as though confirming you were really there.
“Brave,” he said, almost to himself.
“For waiting on some stairs?” you tried to tease, and it came out softer than you meant.
“For today.” he corrected, a little breath of a laugh, “And for kissing me like a benediction before I walked into that place.”
Heat warmed your cheeks, “You made a dramatic promise, remember?”
“Oh, I meant it,” he said, the smirk quick and real, “If anything went wrong, I’d have shaken the entire district until I found you.”
“Wild,” you murmured, but your smile wouldn’t hide, “And oddly comforting.”
He turned your hand, pressed another kiss into the center of your palm, then folded your fingers as if tucking the warmth away to keep. Across from you, Aline pretended to watch the street while a satisfied softness settled over her expression. Renoir met your eyes once in the window’s reflection and gave a small, approving nod, as though the quiet peace between you counted as the best outcome the evening could offer.
The manor rose out of the night, its windows lit like patient stars. When the landaulet halted, the chill of evening slipped in as the door opened. You stepped down with Verso’s hand still secure in yours, followed the familiar gravel path and the glow of the entry lamps.
Just inside, the hush of the foyer folded around all of you. Aline touched Verso’s shoulder, mother-gentle, “Go on,” she said, meaning rest, and turned down the hall with Renoir, Cléa and Alicia, each of them ready to curl up under their blankets for a well-deserved rest.
Left in the soft spill of the entry light, you and Verso lingered that fraction of a moment longer, close enough to share the same breath, close enough that the worst parts of the day felt like a story someone else had told. He brushed a curl from your forehead, fingers lingering at your temple.
You step into Verso’s room, and the soft click of the door feels impossibly loud in the hush that follows. The air itself seems heavier, warmer, charged with something you can’t name. You both change quickly, the rustle of fabric against skin magnified, each movement making your pulse spike. When you slip under the sheets, side by side, facing him, your bodies so close it’s almost unbearable, the heat radiates between you. Every inch of space is suddenly gone, every heartbeat echoing in your chest.
His gaze meets yours, slow, searching, and your stomach twists at the intensity. He leans in, lips brushing yours in a feather-light kiss that makes your knees go weak. At first, it’s soft, almost hesitant, as if he’s testing the waters. Then, without warning, the pressure behind the kiss deepens, warmer, firmer, and you feel yourself drawn in, a tug you cannot resist.
The world narrows to the brush of his lips, the weight of his body pressed against yours, the quiet heat building low in your belly. He trails his lips down your neck, teasing, claiming, leaving little marks that sting deliciously. Your breath comes in small gasps, your fingers threading through his hair, gripping at the strands as if holding him in place will keep the moment from shattering. He returns to your lips, kisses hungry and insistent, and the tension coils tighter with every motion.
Then his hands slide down your back to your hips, pressing you closer. His fingers splay, cupping your backside, and your body reacts, instinctively pressing into him. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts your leg and passes it over his. The shift makes your bodies lock together, the closeness sending a rush of heat you can barely contain. The pressure of his erection against you presses low, and your breath hitches, caught between exhilaration and anxiety.
The kisses grow fiercer, each one a storm against your lips. His tongue teases yours, slow and exploratory, then pulls back only to return with renewed hunger. You shiver with every touch, your chest pressing to his, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The quiet sounds of the room, your shallow breaths, his soft exhalations, the subtle scrape of skin against skin, fill the space, each one amplifying the tension, making it impossible to think of anything else.
When you finally pull back, just a fraction, lips swollen and wet, foreheads pressed together, the heat still radiating between you, both of you gasp softly. He strokes along your waist, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours, steady yet urgent. The intensity lingers, a coiled thread of want and restraint binding you together.
Your hands press lightly on his chest, seeking space. The words catch in your throat before spilling out, trembling and uneven, “I… I don’t know if I’m ready.”
A shadow of guilt pricks at you, sharp and sudden, you hate the thought of stopping him, of breaking the moment, “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes darting away, shame curling in your chest.
He stills at once, no hesitation, his gaze steady and unwavering on yours, “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, tender, “don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to apologize for.” one hand lifts, brushing a thumb across your cheek, grounding you, “You don’t owe me anything. Just being here with you… it’s enough.”
The tension in your chest eases, replaced by a fragile warmth. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, only holds you closer, letting the silence between you soften into safety. For a long moment, the two of you stay there, side by side, hearts racing, breaths mingling, fingers brushing almost by accident but with meaning. The quiet hum of the night outside presses in, the faint creak of the bed, the soft rhythm of your breathing, all of it magnified in the stillness, making each glance, each brush of skin, each shared sigh feel electric, charged with the intensity of the closeness, the desire, the unspoken connection.
The pressure between you remains, low and undeniable, reminding you both of everything you feel and everything you’re holding back, the uncharted territory of first love, fragile and thrilling. And yet, the restraint, the care, the mutual understanding makes it all the more intense, a tension that thrums in every nerve, every breath, every heartbeat.
He shifts slightly closer, his voice dropping into a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, “Would you… like to spend a week together? Just the two of us?”
You lift your head, caught off guard, curiosity sparking in your chest. Your heart quickens, “A week… just the two of us?” you repeat, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes locking on yours, warm and certain, “Papa and Maman have a little vacation house by a big lake. We could go there… swim if you want, relax by the water, be completely alone. No one around, just… us. And when the sun sets… it’s very romantic. The kind of place where everything slows down.”
Your imagination takes flight. You picture the lake stretching endlessly under the evening sky, soft ripples catching the last of the sun’s gold, the little wooden house tucked among whispering trees. You imagine the two of you on a narrow dock, legs dangling over the water, laughing until stars appear, or wrapped in blankets on the porch, talking quietly as fireflies drift past.
A soft gasp escapes you. Your eyes are wide, sparkling with wonder, “I… I think I’d like that,” you admit, a shy warmth curling in your chest.
He smiles, a mixture of relief and quiet joy, and bends down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. His lips linger, soft and sure, “Then it’s settled,” he murmurs, “We can go tomorrow. My parents are fine with it and, they can even drive us there if you want.”
“Tomorrow?” you ask, a little startled, blinking up at him, “Will we have time to pack? Are… your parents okay with this?”
He chuckles softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, “Don’t worry,” he says with calm confidence, “I haven’t packed yet, but Papa and Maman are ready to help and happy to drop us off. That’s all we need to start. Everything else we can figure out once we’re there.”
The worry in your chest melts away, replaced by a delicate flutter of excitement. You scoot closer under the covers, letting his warmth envelop you. He drapes an arm around your shoulders, drawing you gently against him. The space between you disappears, and you feel the soft pressure of his body, grounding and comforting, a silent promise of presence and care.
You rest your head against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. His fingers weave through your hair, tracing tiny, soothing circles, each movement deliberate and calming, “I can’t wait,” you whisper, your breath warm against his shirt.
“Neither can I,” he replies, nuzzling the top of your head, “It’ll be our little world… just for us.”
The moonlight spills across the room, casting silver patterns over the sheets. The quiet is punctuated only by your synchronized breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, and the occasional sigh that slips past your lips. You feel safe here, cocooned in his presence, every small touch and murmur reinforcing the closeness between you.
Minutes stretch in a gentle, unhurried rhythm. His hand rests over yours, thumb moving in lazy, comforting circles. Your eyelids grow heavy, and the warmth of his body, the soft press of lips to temple and hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, it all lulls you toward sleep. The last thought that drifts through your mind is that tomorrow, and the week to follow, will be filled with these quiet, perfect moments, closeness, laughter, shared secrets, and the gentle, unspoken promise of a love that feels infinite.
Dawn slips through the curtains in thin bands of gold, excitement kicks in your ribs before thought can catch up. A hand slides under the covers to nudge Verso’s shoulder, “Verso… wake up,” you whisper, half laughing already.
A drowsy sound, then lashes lift. Sleep still clings to his face until a slow smile blooms. He hooks an arm around your waist, pulls you close, and kisses you, unhurried, warm, the kind that lights the whole day from the start, “Ready for our adventure?” His voice is rough with sleep and happiness.
“Yes,” you breathe, “Completely.”
Sheets are thrown back, the room fills with movement. Clothes laid out the night before become a swift reality, comfortable clothes and a cardigan, his shirts folded with rare care. Notebooks and quills find their place, the Scriptomancer volume tucked deep in your bag as if it could hum through the luggage. A pair of sturdy shoes thump to the floor. By the time the last clasp snaps shut, two neat stacks of luggage wait by the door like obedient dogs.
Downstairs, the house already smells of coffee and bread. Aline has set the table with ruthless efficiency, porcelain cups clink, steam rolls up.
Cléa lifts her gaze as you enter, a sly spark in her eyes, “Try not to get lost in the woods, little brother.”
“I’ll manage,” Verso replies, sliding a plate toward you.
Cléa arches a brow at you, lips curving, “Good luck with that.”
Renoir clears his throat, failing to hide the curve of amusement at his mouth. Aline’s hand brushes your shoulder as she passes behind you with a dish of jam, a touch that says be safe without the weight of a lecture. Breakfast becomes a pleasant tangle of chatter and small catastrophes, Alicia drops a spoon, Cléa rescues a runaway slice of butter, Verso steals the last strawberries and shares it with you in secret, the sweetness dissolving on your tongue like a shared promise.
Suitcases thud softly on the tiles by the front door, goodbye hugs collect in the foyer. Alicia bounces on her toes, bright-eyed, “Have fun!” she insists, clapping her hands together.
“We will,” you promise, and she squeezes you hard enough to squeak the breath from your lungs.
Outside, the automobile waits, a 1900s touring car with a long hood and polished brass lamps gleaming in the sun. The leather seats are cool to the touch, carrying the faint scent of oil and polish. Renoir settles at the wheel, posture upright, while Aline arranges her skirts with a soft rustle beside him. You and Verso climb into the back, the spring of the seat dipping under your combined weight. His hand finds yours almost immediately, warm and sure.
With a cough and a roar, the engine comes alive, rattling the frame before settling into a steady growl. The car shudders forward, wheels crunching over gravel until the estate gates swing open. Once on the road, the rhythm evens out, a low, mechanical heartbeat carrying you away.
Wind cool against your cheeks. The smell of damp earth lingers in the air, mixed with resin from the pines bordering the path. Fields roll out on either side, their grasses bent beneath the lazy weight of morning dew. Poppies flash red among the green, quick sparks of color that vanish as the car speeds on. Trees gather closer after a while, tall trunks flanking the road like watchful sentinels. Sunlight filters through the canopy, scattering dappled gold across the path, the flicker of light and shadow slipping over your skin. Birds wheel above, their cries momentarily lost beneath the hum of the engine and the faint squeak of metal joints.
In the front seat, Renoir and Aline lean toward each other, voices low, their words drowned by distance and motor but colored by smiles and half-glances. You don’t need to hear to know it’s memory that binds their conversation, old summers, familiar trails, the kind of stories that live best between two people who have carried them for years.
Forests replace farmland. Birch trunks stand pale as candle stems, spruce darkens the understory. Sun glitters in quick coins between leaves. Hills swell, flatten, and rise again, the engine hums a patient note. Verso traces slow circles over your wrist with his thumb, and time folds into the motion until forty-five minutes feel like the length of a song.
The lake reveals itself in a sudden opening of trees. Water spreads out in a sheet of glass-green, so clear the stones beneath look close enough to touch. The chalet appears next, a broad-shouldered structure of timber and stone, eaves deep, windows wide, as if the forest had grown a home and decided to keep it. A wooden deck runs along the edge, skimming the water, wicker chairs wait with cushions the color of moss. To the left, a waterfall threads down a face of rock furred with lichen and fern. Not a roar, more a perpetual hush. Spray hangs in the air, catching sunlight into brief stars. The pool below the fall trembles, sends faint ripples across the larger basin, and the whole place seems to breathe with it.
Renoir brings the car to a smooth stop. Doors open, cool, pine-scented air pours in. Bags come out one by one. Verso shoulders the heavier trunk and pretends it weighs nothing. Planks on the deck flex with a familiar creak. The water is so clear you can count the stacked, honey-colored stones beneath, minnows flicker like moving commas.
“It’s… perfect,” slips out before caution can rearrange the sentence.
Verso’s smile answers it, “Ours for a week.”
Aline unlocks the door and lets it swing wide. Inside, cool shade and the sweet scent of old wood. Exposed beams run the length of the ceiling, a stone hearth anchors the far wall, shelves hold a friendly disorder of books and shell-filled jars. A narrow ladder leads to a loft hung with mosquito netting, a soft white cloud suspended over a bed. In the kitchen corner, polished copper pans, a deep porcelain sink, a jar already waiting with tea leaves. Someone loved this place into being, then loved it enough to leave it ready.
Renoir sets the last case by the entry and casts a satisfied look around, chin lifting in that way of his that means the world has met his standard, “We’ll leave you to it,” he says, and Aline adds a quick embrace that smells of lavender and home.
“Send a telegram if you need anything,” she says, and you nod, though nothing in this moment suggests you’ll need a thing beyond each other and the hum of the cascade.
Goodbyes drift down the steps and across the deck. The car rolls away, swallowed by green. Silence returns, not empty, but generous. Water speaks in its constant hush, a bird contributes two clear notes and flies off like a thought you decided to keep.
Verso leans against the doorframe beside you, shoulders relaxing as if he has set down something invisible, “What do you want to do first?” he asks, voice light.
“Explore,” you say, because the word fits your mouth and the place at once.
Shoes come off by instinct. Bare feet meet warm wood, then the cool stone of the threshold, then the sunlit deck. When fingers test the water at the edge, a shock of freshness climbs your arm. Verso crouches, grinning, and trails his hand through the green clarity.
“Swim later,” he decides, eyes flicking to you for agreement.
“Swim later,” you echo, already imagining the clean rush of it, the weightless quiet under the surface, his laughter cutting through when you both come up for air.
Inside again, unpacking becomes a small ritual. Clothes breathe in the wardrobe that smells faintly of cedar. The Scriptomancer volume rests for a moment on the table, its presence a gentle tide under everything, then disappears into the drawer to keep it safe. A linen blanket gets shaken out over the back of the sofa, a kettle clucks on the stove while you open windows to let the forest drift in, sap, sun on bark, the thin sweetness of distant blossoms.
Verso touches your elbow, tilts his head toward the deck, “Come see,” he says, though you were already on your way. Together you step outside. The waterfall keeps its patient cadence, light slides across the pool until the bottom looks like hammered copper in motion.
“Does it feel real to you?” he asks, almost whispering.
“It does now,” you answer, “Now that we’re here.”
His hand finds yours again, easy, certain. The week stretches ahead like the lake itself, clear, deep, edged with trees and possibility. Somewhere a dragonfly skims the surface and writes a brief, brilliant line before the water closes over it, whole and calm.
Summary : This is your first time visiting Verso and his family. So far, everything has gone well, with a warm welcome and a feeling of already being accepted. But only time will tell if this harmony will last.
chapter VIII
Walking through the different corridors, you caught sight of the dining hall already filled with voices. Verso bent low to greet the dogs, their tails thumping wildly. A fleeting kiss brushed the corner of your lips before he guided the two animals away, disappearing down a corridor toward the gardens.
Everyone else was already seated when you entered, save for him. Timid feet slowed at the threshold, uncertain where to go, which chair might be his and which might be left for you. The table stretched wide, gleaming silverware catching the light of the chandelier, crystal glasses waiting, and the scent of food already curling through the air, rich and enticing.
Aline leaned forward, her movements graceful, serving generous portions of filet de sole à la Normande, the tender fish resting beneath a velvety sauce of cream, mushrooms, and wine. Steam rose delicately from the dish, filling the air with a fragrance so luxurious it startled you. Never had you seen a meal like this, something both beautiful and almost untouchable, art set on a plate. Your parents had never afforded such richness, their dinners had been simple, necessary. This was different.
Sensing your hesitation, Aline gestured toward the place she had just set, her smile kind, her voice warm, “Here, mon enfant. Sit here.”
Your steps were cautious, measured, before lowering yourself into the chair. Not long after, Verso returned, slipping into the seat beside you as though the place had been waiting for him all along.
Glasses lifted as Renoir rose slightly, voice steady and resonant, “To family,” he said, his gaze sweeping the table before resting briefly on you, “new and old.”
A quiet heat stirred in your chest, unfamiliar and steady. The first bite felt almost ceremonial. Careful hands cut precisely, fork raised without a sound, lips closing around the delicate flesh. The taste unfurled slowly, tender fish melting on your tongue, sauce smooth, almost silken, a whisper of wine lingering beneath the cream. Every flavor balanced, elegant, nothing like the meals you had grown up with. A soft ache of hunger returned as though your body feared this might be the only chance to taste such luxury. You chewed with care, determined not to make a sound, swallowing gently, every movement deliberate, anxious not to stain the table, or the cloth napkin spread over your lap.
Under the table, the warmth of his hand settled gently against your thigh. Not hurried, not demanding, simply there, steady and grounding. His thumb moved in slow circles against the fabric of your clothes, a quiet rhythm meant only for you. The gesture carried nothing but tenderness, a reminder you weren’t alone at this vast table. The weight of his touch anchored you, softening the nerves still coiled tight inside your chest.
Conversation blossomed like spring around you, voices weaving together in rhythm. They spoke of the gardens needing more lavender before the season ended, of Renoir’s idea for a short trip to the coast when summer came, of Alicia’s insistence that they should bring the dogs this time, no matter how chaotic it would be. Laughter scattered through the room like sunlight across glass, not noble, not rehearsed, simply alive.
At first, you only listened, ears tilted toward every voice, afraid to intrude. But slowly the attention turned toward you. Alicia leaned forward, chin in her hand, asking your favorite color, your favorite book, if you played a musical instrument, what kinds of flowers you liked best. Cléa teased that if you named roses, Aline would drag you into the garden tomorrow to prune them with her. Even Renoir inquired softly if the meal suited you, as though your opinion mattered in this house, in this family. Each question felt like a hand extended, pulling you further from the edges, placing you at the center where they sat.
The food continued to pass, plates refilled, glasses topped with wine that gleamed ruby in the light. For Alicia, since she was too young to drink, water filled her glasses instead, clear and simple, the contrast almost symbolic. Aline made sure your plate never emptied, nudging more bread toward you with a quiet insistence, “Eat, mon enfant. Here, no one leaves the table hungry.”
Timidity lingered, but the weight of it shifted, no longer so heavy. Smiles answered yours, warm and unforced, until your posture eased, shoulders no longer curled so tightly inward. The hum of their voices, the easy banter, the steady pressure of Verso’s hand against your thigh, piece by piece, all of it wove into a fabric strong enough to catch you.
Dessert arrived in quiet ceremony, silver trays carrying delicate dishes that gleamed under the lamplight. Aline set down small plates of île flottante, pale clouds of meringue adrift on pools of golden custard, the caramel glaze catching the glow. The scent of vanilla rose faintly in the air, rich yet light, a sweetness that promised comfort after the richness of the main course.
Spoons tapped softly, laughter rising again as the family slipped easily back into stories and jokes. The conversation flowed like water, sometimes overlapping, sometimes bursting into sudden laughter, always warm. Questions came your way often gentle, curious, woven into the conversation so you didn’t feel singled out. Still, you couldn’t help noticing the difference. At home, meals had been quieter. Breakfasts filled with clipped exchanges before your parents left for work, dinners peppered with light talk of the day but little that lingered on you. Weekends held longer conversations, but rarely about your life or theirs, always drifting around the surface, never diving deep. This table, though, brimmed with voices that welcomed you into its circle.
Aline’s attention returned to you, her voice gentle as though she had been waiting for the right moment,
“So,” she began, spoon laid carefully aside, “tell me… do you enjoy cooking?”
Heat crept into your cheeks at once, “A little,” you admitted softly, shoulders shifting, “I know some basics, but not much.”
Her smile held no judgment, only warmth, “Basics are the best foundation. Everyone starts there. Have you cooked much for yourself?”
Fingers curled lightly around the edge of your plate as you nodded, “I tried making breakfast this morning… for Verso and me.” the memory made your lips twitch upward despite yourself, “But I couldn’t even get the eggs right. He had to help.”
At that, Aline’s smile deepened, not with mockery but with softness that eased the tension in your chest, “Ah, so he helped? Then it was not a failure at all. Cooking is something best done together.” she tilted her head, eyes sparkling faintly, “Would you like to help me next time? I’d be happy to teach you.”
The offer caught you off guard, chest tightening with something warmer than surprise. After a small pause, you nodded, voice steady this time, “I’d like that.”
“Me too!” Alicia burst suddenly, leaning forward, her eyes bright and wide, “I want to learn! Can I help too, maman?”
Aline laughed softly, her hand reaching to brush a strand of hair from Alicia’s face, “Of course. The kitchen is big enough for three. Though,” she glanced teasingly toward Verso, who had been listening with a faint smirk, “perhaps four, if your brother can be persuaded not to eat half the ingredients before we begin.”
“Hey.” Verso muttered under his breath, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him.
The laughter that followed wrapped warmly around you, and for once, the timidity that had shadowed every step since you entered the manor loosened its hold. Surrounded by their voices, their easy warmth, the steady kindness woven into every glance and word, the knot of nerves in your chest began to ease. Here, within this family, you weren’t only tolerated, you belonged.
Renoir, who until then had mostly listened, finally turned his attention to you. His tone was calm but earnest, carrying the weight of genuine curiosity,
“So tell me,” he began, “as a writer… what form does your work usually take? Do you write stories, poems, perhaps journalism?”
The question caught you off guard. Spoon hovering above your plate, you froze, the words sticking before they could form. Silence stretched a beat too long, and heat rose to your cheeks, shame prickling faintly under your skin.
When you finally found your voice, it came softer than intended, “I… don’t really write. Not properly. I’ve only ever managed a few poems, and even those are recent. It wasn’t for anyone else, more just to… lift a weight off my chest.” eyes lowered, you pushed gently at the edge of your dessert with your fork, “I don’t think I have any real talent. Nothing that deserves the name ‘writer.’”
Renoir leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful, as if measuring each word before releasing it. His voice carried no judgment, only calm reason, “Perhaps,” he began, “you are not truly a writer. Not in the way the district defines it.”
The silence that followed pressed faintly against your chest, shame creeping in before you could form a reply. But Renoir lifted his hand lightly, cutting you off before the protest reached your lips, “Or perhaps,” he continued, gaze steady, “one of your parents is not a writer either.”
His question startled more than it should have, sending your thoughts spiraling backward. Images of your mother rose in your mind. She had been born in the central district, ordinary in that sense, and had only carried with her a love of books, and a particular fondness for writing and inventing stories. Maybe that was why she had not raged when news of you and Verso had surfaced, because her roots were elsewhere, outside the weight of tradition.
Your voice came quieter this time, but certain,
“My mother,” you admitted, lifting your eyes toward him, “She isn’t a writer. Well, she is one, but she wasn't born that way, she learned to love writing as she grew up. She was born in the central district. That’s why she moved here, to the writers' district… for her passion, not for bloodline or title.”
The table fell quiet, voices dimming as though everyone sensed the weight of the subject. Eyes shifted, toward Renoir when he spoke, toward you when you replied. Yet in your field of vision, only one pair of eyes never left. Verso’s. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady, protective, as if ready to move the instant your throat tightened or your eyes grew wet. Beneath the table, his hand rested against yours, thumb tracing calm, patient circles across your skin, anchoring you.
At last, Renoir leaned forward, fingers laced together, “You should know,” his voice steady, “I was not born a painter.”
The admission struck like cold water. Surprise sparked in your chest, you had always believed that the Dessendre were a family entirely made up of painters, that the gift ran pure and unbroken through both parents, no exceptions. To learn otherwise was proof of how little your own district truly knew about the Dessendre, and yet still, they wasted no chance to hate them. It struck you then that, in truth, your families shared something rare in common, one parent born with the talent of their district, the other carried by passion alone, or perhaps by love, learning to cherish what belonged first to someone else.
His eyes flicked toward Aline, then softened, “If my children carry a gift for it,” he said, “it comes from their mother, not from me.”
The silence that followed pressed against your ribs. A strange ache swelled within you, sharp yet warm. These were the words you had starved for, the words you had wanted to hear from your own parents for so long. Words of permission. Of acceptance. Of love untied from duty. And now, they were spoken not by them, but by a man you had been raised to distrust, to resent before you even knew his face. The irony bit deep, yet the comfort wrapped around it all the same. Cruel. Tender. Unavoidable.
Renoir broke the stillness again, his gaze drifting from you toward his son, “Even if you are born for something,” he said carefully, “it does not mean you cannot choose something else instead.”
Your eyes followed his, meeting Verso’s. A memory stirred, one you had brushed aside before, the moment he told you he preferred music to painting, that the piano drew him more than canvas ever could. You hadn’t thought much of it then, too tangled in your own feelings, too busy drowning in the storm of him. Only now did you see what you had missed. He had already shown you the very truth Renoir was speaking, that destiny was not a prison, that perhaps your path, too, lay somewhere unseen, waiting outside the walls of books you had been forced to worship.
The meal came to its end, plates emptied, conversation still humming like the echo of warmth in the air. Yet inside, you felt… strange. Light, and unbearably heavy at once. It was impossible to name the feeling, impossible to anchor it. Part of you floated, lifted by comfort, by the rare relief of being understood, of being reassured that there was space, permission, for you to explore, to fail, to find your way. And yet, that same possibility stretched vast and endless before you, like a sea without shore. Too deep, too infinite. The thought of it dragged you down, pressing at your chest until breath felt tight, suffocating.
A sudden sound startled you, the voices of Verso and Cléa breaking through your haze. Blinking, you turned your head to either side, focus sharpening on their faces. Cléa leaned toward you slightly, her tone firm but not unkind, “Papa and Maman would like to talk with you. About what we learned yesterday.”
It took a few moments for the words to make sense. Your thoughts, still tangled in the weight of Renoir’s earlier admission, lagged behind. Then it clicked, and the single word slipped out, low and uncertain, “Oh… all right.”
You rose slowly, ready to follow her, but Verso’s hand caught your wrist. He waited until Cléa stepped out of the dining room before turning to you, both his palms rising to cradle your face. His eyes searched yours, steady, protective, “Are you okay? You’ve looked pale ever since the talk with Papa.”
The tenderness of his touch softened you instantly. Even with that hollow ocean still roiling somewhere inside, the press of his hands against your cheeks let you breathe again, “I’m fine,” you murmured, voice faint but true, “just… lost.”
He studied you a moment longer, as though weighing whether to believe you. Then he bent, his lips brushing your forehead with gentle finality, a seal of comfort. His voice dropped, reassuring but edged with mock gravity, “Don’t worry too much. Answers come when they want to. If you think too hard, you’ll just give yourself headaches.”
A laugh escaped you, light and unexpected, breaking through the heaviness clinging to your chest. His mix of seriousness and humor always seemed to land exactly where you needed it. Smiling, you leaned up, stealing a brief kiss from his lips, tender, fleeting, but enough to anchor you. As you pulled away, he caught your hand, threading his fingers through yours, and together you left the dining room.
The murmur of voices reached you even before the salon door came into view. Cléa’s voice, sharp and heated, cut through the air, “In any case, I hope they never set foot here again.”
Renoir’s reply followed, calm and steady, though tinged with something heavy, “Ma puce, I understand your anger. But for the sake of Paris, for the districts, we must face this problem with calm.”
When you and Verso entered, the atmosphere struck you instantly. Alicia was already perched on a sofa, her posture smaller, quieter, as though keeping balance within the storm. Cléa occupied a chair nearby, body stiff, her position radiating anger. Aline and Renoir sat side by side, every line of their frame poised, elegant, carrying the nobility that never seemed to leave them, even in moments of tension.
Verso guided you to sit beside Alicia, his presence warm at your side. The room felt heavier now, the weight of expectation and conflict pooling in its silence, ready to break.
The air in the salon felt heavy, as though the silence itself had weight. No one spoke, no one seemed willing to be the first to break it, or perhaps no one knew where to begin. It stretched long, taut, until at last Aline cleared her throat softly. Her eyes found yours, calm yet piercing, and her voice slipped into the stillness, “What do you think?”
The question caught you off guard. What did she mean, exactly? What you thought of the supposed love spells cast on Verso? By whom, and for what purpose? What you thought of the culprits, whether the head of the Writer’s Council was involved, or just their daughter? The gears in your mind spun too fast, colliding with one another, until you finally asked, hesitant, “About what… exactly?”
Aline tilted her head, a faint curve at the corner of her lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Either she had read the tangle of your thoughts, or your face betrayed them too easily, “About the situation as a whole.”
Pressure closed in, sharp as a weight on your chest. For a moment, you felt yourself shrinking under their eyes, as though everything hinged on what you might say. The wrong word could tilt their judgment, could decide whether you were seen as capable or naïve, trusted or not. And then, softly, Verso’s arm slid behind your back. His hand rested against you, guiding you subtly closer. The gesture sent a shiver through you, both from the intimacy of it, still something you weren’t fully used to in front of others, and from the reassurance it carried.
You drew in a breath, “The situation is… very delicate,” you began carefully, “Because we only have one clue. Something we thought might be proof, but in truth, it raises more questions than it answers.” you paused, glancing across the room, meeting their gazes briefly before continuing, “We found a brooch, yes. But that alone doesn’t prove whether they were there the day of the theft, or only afterwards, when the scrolls were already gone.”
Cléa leaned forward slightly, waiting until you had finished before speaking. Her voice was steadier now, her anger tempered by thought, “But the whole family wore those brooches the first time we saw them. Every one of them. And yesterday, when we saw them again, the daughter didn’t have hers. That makes it obvious whose it is, doesn’t it?”
Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what answer she was hoping for, and you couldn’t give one you didn’t believe, “If it’s truly unique,” you said slowly, “if each of them only has one, then yes… it must be hers. Otherwise…” you let the words trail off, the possibility unfinished.
Alicia was the next to break the silence, her voice quiet, tinged with defeat, “Then in the end, our proof doesn’t mean anything at all?”
You turned toward her, catching her downcast eyes, and something like regret pricked at you, “Yes and no,” you murmured, “At the very least, it’s proof that one of them was there. But we can’t know when… or why.”
Silence pressed in from every side, a knot tightening in your stomach as though the weight of the room had shifted onto your shoulders. You hadn’t meant to crush what little certainty they clung to, but truth mattered more than comfort. Better to keep questions alive than accuse blindly, risking sparks that could burn into war.
Aline’s gaze found you, sharp yet measured. Her voice cut through the stillness, calm but heavy with meaning, “And if it were you, mon enfant? What would you do in our place? Would you speak to them?”
The question startled you. Lips parted, then closed again. Thoughts tangled in circles before a breath steadied you enough to answer, “If you tell them now… it could make everything worse. Maybe it was just the daughter, acting out of desperation. Or maybe the family planned it, a diversion, an attack from inside. Either way… it’s too dangerous.”
At your words, shadows deepened across both Aline and Renoir’s features. You sensed they had already considered the possibility, but hearing it spoken aloud made it solid. Real.
Cléa leaned back, arms crossed, a half-smile playing at her lips, “Well,” she said, walking the line between serious and teasing, “Verso looks better now. That’s what matters most.”
Relief flickered in his parents’ faces, the kind only love for a child could summon. Aline’s eyes softened as they found yours again, “Merci. Whatever you’ve done, merci. But, rell me… what exactly did you do? Do you know how to undo this sort of… spell?”
Heat rose in your face before the words even finished. Verso mirrored your flush, crimson spreading up his neck. There was nothing, no hidden trick, just closeness, soft words, kisses stolen in the dark, the quiet rhythm of two hearts resting against each other. Things you couldn’t possibly say aloud, not here.
Before silence swallowed the moment, Alicia leaned forward, her voice ringing bright, full of sincerity, “They probably confessed. Kissed. Spent the night together, like in a romance novel!”
Your head dropped instantly, eyes fixed on your knees, while Verso’s gaze darted anywhere but on his family, jaw tight, ears aflame. Alicia’s innocence made it worse, her words carried no teasing, only joy for you both, and somehow that left the room even heavier.
Time dragged until Renoir cleared his throat, deliberate, grounding the air. Aline followed with a soft laugh, easing the tension like sunlight through fog, “Peu importe,” she said gently, “However it happened, we are grateful.”
The conversation withered on its own, nothing more to be said without circling the same doubts. Verso rose first, brushing his hand discreetly against yours as if to guide you out of the heavy air, “Come,” he murmured, “you haven’t seen the gardens yet.”
What began as an invitation became a family decision. Chairs scraped back, footsteps echoed together, and soon you found yourself trailing into the open air, the manor’s weight giving way to sunlight and sky.
The gardens unfolded like a world apart. Gravel paths curved through wide lawns, trees heavy with late blossoms throwing patches of shade across the grass. Beds of flowers spilled color in every direction, ivory roses climbing trellises, blue irises swaying gently, clusters of lilies bright against the green. Renoir paused near a row of carnations, fingers brushing a red bloom. He explained, half to himself, that he had planted them years ago for Aline on their anniversary, red for admiration, white for devotion, pink for gratitude. She gave his arm a playful squeeze, lips curving with memory.
Closer to the heart of the gardens stood a wrought-iron gazebo, its roof tangled with vines, petals drifting like confetti whenever the wind stirred. A little further, beneath the spread of an old oak, rope swings dangled, worn smooth by countless hands. The children, once smaller, had begged for them, and Renoir had tied the knots himself. A wooden treehouse clung just above, tucked between branches, its ladder still sturdy, though clearly aged with years of secret climbs and whispered games.
Alicia darted first toward the swings, calling for Cléa to follow, laughter trailing behind her. Renoir and Aline walked arm in arm along the beds, stopping now and then to prune or admire. That left you and Verso with the dogs, Monoco bounding ahead, Noco sticking closer, his head nudging your hand as if demanding constant affection.
On the grass, Verso dropped into a crouch, whistling softly. Monoco came barreling into his arms, tail thrashing like a flag. Noco, meanwhile, leaned more heavily into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You laughed, sinking to your knees to steady him, your fingers sinking into his fur.
When you glanced up, Verso’s gaze was already on you. He had the same look he always wore when his guard slipped, half amusement, half wonder, a quiet awe he never voiced. He reached over, brushing stray strands of hair from your face before his hand lingered at the side of your neck, thumb grazing gently as though the simple contact anchored him.
The dogs, oblivious, wrestled each other onto the grass. Their barks and Alicia’s laughter rang through the air, but for a moment the world narrowed to just the two of you. Verso leaned closer, not quite kissing you, just close enough that his breath mingled with yours, “I think they like you more than me,” he teased softly, nodding toward the dogs.
Your smile betrayed you, tender and nervous all at once. You could only shake your head before letting your forehead brush his, a wordless answer more honest than anything spoken. Above, petals shook loose from the vines wrapped around the gazebo, carried down by the wind until they scattered across your shoulders, his, and the restless fur of the dogs circling you both.
The afternoon stretched on in warmth, Alicia calling from the swings, Cléa daring her higher, Renoir sharing old stories about the treehouse, Aline’s laughter echoing between flowerbeds. Yet even among them, it felt as though the gardens had given you and Verso a small corner of stillness, a place apart, where everything heavy from before dissolved into sunlight and quiet closeness.
From somewhere beyond the flowerbeds, Aline’s voice carried across the garden, calling for Alicia and for you. Dinner, she explained, since you both wanted to learn how to cook. You excused yourself softly, rising from the grass, brushing stray petals from your clothes. Verso surprised you by standing as well, brushing dirt from his palms with a half-smile.
“You’re coming too?” you asked, surprised.
A hint of a smile curved his lips, “Someone has to make sure you don’t burn the kitchen down.” you rolled your eyes but let him walk ahead, heart lighter than you cared to admit.
The kitchen was warm with late light, polished counters gleaming, copper pots catching the glow. Aline selected a heavy book from the shelf, its leather cracked and softened with years of use, and laid it open on the table. Her finger traced the lines until she stopped on a dish, “Here. Poulet à la crème.”
Alicia’s eyes lit with interest, yours followed the careful script as Aline explained. Soon the rhythm of cooking filled the room, the scrape of knives on the board, the low simmer of butter melting in a pan, the rustle of herbs crushed between fingertips. Alicia leaned close beside you, repeating Aline’s gestures as if every movement was a lesson worth remembering. You mirrored them both, cautious at first, then steadier, the scents rising around you, shallots, tarragon, a trace of white wine sharp in the steam.
Behind you, a chair creaked. Verso had taken his seat at the table, chin in his hand, watching. Or rather, watching you. Each time you risked a glance his way, his gaze didn’t falter, as though you were more captivating than the dish slowly taking shape on the stove.
“Are you only going to watch?” Alicia teased, glancing at Verso.
He shrugged, all innocence, “I’m learning. Just… differently.”
“By staring?” her question was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a smile, more amused by the situation than anything else.
“Careful, not too much cream,” Aline reminded gently, guiding your hand with the ladle, “The sauce should coat, not drown.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight in concentration, Alicia stifling a laugh at your seriousness. She leaned close to whisper, “You look like you’re painting a masterpiece.”
By the time the chicken was laid in its sauce, the kitchen smelled alive with richness and warmth, the sort of meal that belonged to laughter and lingering at the table. But Aline wasn’t finished, “Dessert,” she declared, pulling forward a small basket, “something light, something sweet.” strawberries glistened in their bowl, sugar waiting in a porcelain dish, dark chocolate cut into neat squares.
You reached for the fruit, only to notice movement from the corner of your eye, Verso’s hand darting forward, plucking a strawberry. He bit into it before anyone could protest, juice catching at the corner of his mouth.
“Verso,” Aline scolded, her voice more fond than sharp, “wait until we’re finished, or there will be nothing left for the rest of us.”
He leaned back in his chair, utterly unrepentant, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “It’s quality control,” he insisted.
Alicia burst out laughing, nearly dropping the spoon she was stirring with. You shook your head, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. Aline sighed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement, “You can have as many as you like, after.”
He winked at you across the table, as though you were somehow complicit in his theft.
The strawberries dipped in melted chocolate set cooling on a tray, their sheen catching the light like jewels. You worked carefully beside Alicia, arranging them neatly, while Verso watched with the same quiet attention as before, as though each small task, each careful gesture, mattered more than the meal itself.
The last of the chocolate-stained bowls were set aside, the strawberries tucked carefully into the cool of the fridge. You and Alicia moved in tandem, wiping counters, stacking plates, and rinsing utensils. The rhythm of cleaning, simple and mundane, felt oddly satisfying after the intensity of creation. Steam rose from the last of the pans as you scrubbed them, water sloshing softly in the sink, the scent of tarragon and cream lingering in the warm kitchen air.
Aline paused to survey your work, eyes bright with pride, “Well done, both of you,” she said, voice gentle but firm, “You’ve learned quickly, and I couldn’t be more proud. Truly.” She stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on your shoulder, “You’ve done beautifully today. Remember that.”
Alicia beamed, her small hands still damp from washing, while you felt a warmth swell in your chest at Aline’s words. The praise, simple and sincere, grounded you in a way few things had.
Together, Aline and Alicia moved to prepare the table for the meal, arranging plates, silverware, and glasses with meticulous care. Their voices drifted softly as they chatted, leaving the space feeling alive yet orderly. You lingered a moment, watching, until both were out of view around a corner.
Verso stepped closer, his presence sudden but quiet, “I need to check something,” he murmured, voice low, just for you.
You blinked, caught off guard. Before you can respond, his lips meet yours. The kiss is short, tender, and unmistakably deliberate. You taste the sweetness of strawberries, the faint richness of chocolate lingering on him, mingling with the warmth of his touch.
When he pulls back, just enough to tilt his head slightly, he licks his lips and smirks, “Your lips… they taste better than the dessert.”
Heat blooms in your cheeks, fierce and unrelenting. Your words fail you, caught somewhere between surprise and delight. Verso, as if sensing the danger of prolonged vulnerability, turns on his heel, moving away before you can recover from the moment.
It takes a heartbeat, maybe two, for you to descend from your cloud. Heart pounding, you grab your skirts and hurry to catch up, closing the distance between you. His hand finds yours effortlessly, warm and steady, as you fall into step beside him. Together, you move toward the dining room, the scents of the kitchen lingering behind, mingling with the sweet ache of what just passed.
The table was filled with the scents of the meal you had prepared, mingling with the soft warmth of the evening. You took your place beside Verso, the plates laid out before you, the silverware catching the light of the lamps above. Alicia’s voice rang out with excitement, describing each step you had taken together in the kitchen, her words spilling over in rapid, delighted bursts. She gestured and laughed, retelling every little detail, the way you stirred, the way she had almost dropped the strawberries, the careful folding of cream into chocolate.
Everyone listened with smiles, occasionally exchanging quiet chuckles or nods, their attention full of warmth. The conversation flowed naturally, laughter punctuating sentences, the simple joy of shared effort filling the room. You watched their faces, bright and engaged, and felt a comforting weight settle in your chest, the happiness of being included, of having contributed, of being part of something alive and full of care. You mirrored Alicia’s enthusiasm quietly, adding your own little recollections when prompted, the room alive with voices weaving around each other.
By the time dishes were cleared and the last crumbs swept from the table, fatigue weighed heavily on you. Every muscle ached pleasantly, your body vibrating with the accumulation of excitement, nerves, and effort. Verso’s hand found yours, warm and insistent, guiding you silently toward his room.
Once inside, you dug through your bag for a change of clothes, pulling out something soft and simple for the night. You didn’t hesitate to shed the day’s garments, letting them fall where they may, the fabric of your pajamas comforting against your skin. Though a flush of shyness lingered, it was fleeting, there was only one thought pressing against your mind, to change, to sink into calm.
Dressed, you looked up to see him already on the bed, lying on his side, waiting. He had been quick, efficient, quiet. The bed looked impossibly inviting, and the sight of him there made your pulse quicken.
You paused for a heartbeat, then, with careful deliberation, slid under the covers. The warmth of the sheets enveloped you as you curled against him, his arms immediately wrapping around you, holding you closer. The day’s tension, the excitement, the nervous energy, all seemed to melt away in the press of his body, the steady beat of his heart against yours.
His hands moved over your back, slow and gentle, tracing soothing circles, “You look like you’ve had quite the day,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “Had fun?”
A soft smile tugged at your lips. You pressed your cheek against his chest, letting it serve as a pillow, “More than I thought I could handle,” you admitted, voice quiet, tired but content, “It’s the first time I’ve spent this much energy in a day… and I feel like I could sleep forever.”
You tilted your head slightly, catching a glance of him in the dim light, his expression soft but focused on you. The warmth of the day, the closeness, the steady presence of him, everything settled into a quiet glow in your chest.
“I think…” you whispered, voice barely above the rustle of sheets, “that today might have been… one of the best days I’ve ever had. Exhausting, but good. Really good.”
Verso tightened his hold, nuzzling the top of your head, “Then rest,” he murmured, “I’ll be right here.”
You let your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of sleep pressing down gently, the security of his arms and the soft brush of his hands across your back lulling you into a rare calm. A small, tired smile lingered on your face as you allowed yourself to simply be, your thoughts slowing until only warmth, comfort, and the faint hum of closeness remained.
The next morning, or at least it felt like morning, you found yourself back at your desk. Sunlight poured softly through the window, brushing surfaces with warmth, and the faint scent of the garden lingered in the air. In your hand rested a delicate quill, its plume soft and feathered, the tip catching the light as you flexed your fingers around it.
You dipped it into the inkwell, dark liquid smooth and rich, and began to write. The words flowed easily at first, calm and comforting, like a continuation of yesterday’s laughter, strawberries, and warmth. The rhythm of the quill against the paper was hypnotic, grounding, almost soothing.
A strange sensation crept along your veins. They shimmered in the color of the ink, pulsing with every heartbeat, indigo at first, then green, gold, violet, pink, each shade thrilling, alive. Your chest tightened slightly, but curiosity mixed with fascination.
But then, the colors darkened. Red spread along your arms, deepening to black, snaking through your veins as if the ink had a will of its own. Panic clawed at your ribs as the darkness surged toward your heart, filling your chest with pressure. Every inhale felt labored, your lungs straining against an invisible weight. The quill slipped from your fingers, clattering to the desk, powerless against the blackness racing inside you. Vision blurred, light fading into shadow at the edges, until the world seemed consumed by ink. A suffocating dread coiled in your chest, relentless. Your breaths came fast, shallow, and sharp.
Suddenly, you gasped, jolting upright. Heart hammering, sweat dampening your hair and skin, the room was still, silent, the quill gone. Darkness lingered, heavy and thick, pressing against your chest, but a faint sound reached you, the distant notes of a piano. Soft, deliberate, soothing, the rhythm wrapped around your frayed nerves. Gradually, your heartbeat slowed, lungs unclenched, and your trembling hands wiped at the sweat on your brow.
Even as calm began to seep back, the memory of the ink spreading, of veins and heart and chest consumed, refused to vanish entirely. A subtle whisper remained in the edges of your mind, something was stirring. Something within you, awakening.
You took a deep, shuddering breath, letting the air fill your lungs, holding it for a moment as if to convince yourself that the world was real. Your eyes swept across the room, taking in the familiar shapes, the soft light filtering through the curtains. Fingers brushed over your arms, your shoulders, tracing the lines of your body, grounding yourself in the solid certainty of flesh and bone. You pinched the skin on your arm, felt the mattress where Verso had been lying, caressing it lightly, as if testing the edges of reality itself. Each movement reassured you, yes, it was all real, not a shadow, not a whisper of black ink racing through your veins.
The memory of the dream still clung to the corners of your mind, but slowly, deliberately, you rose from the bed. Carefully, you pulled on your day clothes, each motion measured, almost ritualistic, letting the tactile normalcy anchor you. When you were ready, you stepped from the bedroom, following the faint strains of music that drifted through the house.
The notes led you to a doorway left wide open. Beyond, the room unfolded, a sunlit, spacious chamber, filled with warmth. Verso sat at the piano, fingers poised above the keys, paused mid-song as he sensed your presence. The notes hung in the air, unfinished, delicate, waiting.
You hesitated at the threshold, heart still beating fast from the remnants of fear. His gaze found yours, concern softening the edges of his smile, “Are you alright?” he asked gently, voice low, “Did you sleep well?”
You returned a small, shy smile, stepping closer until you reached him. Rising onto your toes, you pressed a brief kiss to his temple, a quiet anchor. Your arms wrapped around his neck from behind, fingers lacing together at the nape, “It was only a nightmare,” you murmured, letting the words soothe both yourself and the lingering echoes of terror.
Verso shifted on the bench, turning to face you fully, his arms immediately circling your waist. His eyes searched yours with quiet intensity, “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.
You shook your head gently, still holding him close, “No,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, “even I couldn’t explain it. I don’t… I don’t know how.”
He nodded slowly, taking your hand in his to plant a reassuring kiss on the back of it, letting you cling to him as the lingering shadows of the nightmare receded, leaving only the steady warmth of his embrace and the faint echo of the piano keys in the air.
You stayed in his arms, your hands drifting slowly into his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands. The simple contact drew a shiver from him, barely there, but you felt it ripple beneath your palms. His shoulders loosened, his breathing deepened, and you could sense him settling against your touch. For a while, you said nothing, only letting your fingertips massage lightly at the crown of his head, grounding both of you in the quiet intimacy.
Your gaze slid past him, landing on the piano. The polished surfaced gleamed faintly in the morning light, and the ivory keys reflected the faintest glow like rows of silent teeth. Something about its stillness pulled at you, the unspoken invitation of it. You hesitated, then spoke softly, your voice barely above the hush of the room, “Would you… play for me?”
Verso lifted his head, eyes meeting yours, surprise flickering briefly before softening into something warmer, “Of course,” he said gently, “Do you have a song in mind? Something you’d like to hear?”
You went quiet. The question echoed in your mind, and you sifted through what little you knew. You had heard music, yes, snippets of classics drifting from windows, simple melodies hummed like lullabies, half-remembered nursery rhymes that clung to childhood. But compared to him, compared to the way his life seemed to bleed music, you had nothing. No cultivated taste, no favorite ballads.
Your silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. When at last you shrugged, a small gesture of helpless honesty, you whispered, “I don’t know… play what you want.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he straightened on the bench. He patted the space beside him, it was wide enough for two, and you slipped into the seat next to him. His shoulder brushed yours, a quiet, comforting contact.
“Joyful? Somber?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.
You leaned your cheek against his shoulder, closing your eyes for just a moment, “Something romantic,” you murmured.
His breath left him in a soft sigh, not exasperated, but touched, resigned in the way someone might be when they’d already known the answer before they asked, “Of course,” he replied, voice a murmur of warmth.
Then his hands moved, and the piano bloomed to life. The first notes unfurled like silk, smooth and deliberate, wrapping around you with tender insistence. Each chord was careful, considered, as though he were laying petals one by one into your lap. The air thickened with melody, soft yet vibrant, carrying with it a kind of gravity that drew you inward, pressed at the edges of your chest.
You let yourself sink into it, your head heavy against his shoulder. The music curled through you, slow and deliberate, and suddenly it was no longer a song but a vision. You could see it, the gilded glow of chandeliers, the polished marble of a ballroom floor. Couples twirled in graceful arcs, dresses sweeping, shoes gliding, eyes locked in silent confessions. The piano’s voice became the violins, the cellos, the very heartbeat of the room. You had never been to a ball, not truly. As a child, you’d overheard the whispers of adults, their sighs over invitations and gowns, and you had never understood the fuss. It had seemed frivolous, meaningless. But now, with the music cradling you, carrying you, you saw what it could be. Lovers spinning in each other’s arms, gazes tender, losing themselves in a rhythm made only for them. You felt the ache of it, the longing.
And in that vision, you were there, awkward at first, your feet uncertain, but Verso’s hands steady at your waist, guiding you through the dance. You could almost feel the way he would anchor you, leading with quiet assurance, letting you stumble if you must but never letting you fall. Around you, the imagined couples blurred into insignificance. Only him, only his gaze, only the way his steps taught you how to move.
The music swelled, and your mind wandered further. You saw yourself and him slipping from the hall, fingers twined, laughter hushed against the backdrop of celebration. A balcony under the stars, or a quiet garden lit only by lanterns. There, away from the crowd, you would dance again, no audience, no eyes, only the rustle of leaves and the weight of his hands at your back.
And your imagination, greedy, wild, carried you still further. You saw yourself clothed in white, flowers trembling in your grip. The notes of the piano became an anthem of vows, of promises whispered with eyes and lips and touches. Verso before you, steady, radiant, and yours. You were dancing not in borrowed spaces but in one of your own making, a circle drawn only around the two of you. Your heart swelled so fiercely that it almost hurt, and in the haze of it you closed your eyes tighter, clutching at the music as though it could fuse with your ribs and stay there forever.
And then, his voice, close, near your ear. You startled, realizing you had missed the words entirely. Blinking your eyes open, you caught his gaze, bemused and tender, “Did you say something?” you asked, sheepish.
A soft laugh escaped him, more fond than mocking, “Dreaming so deep you don’t even hear me anymore?” he teased lightly. His fingers stilled on the keys, and silence filled the air before he added, “I said, next month is la fête de la musique.”
Your head shot up, eyes widening, “Already? Time is slipping so fast…”
The reaction coaxed a smile from him, warm and amused. He turned back to the keys, starting anew, this time a melody gentler but still touched by romance, a quieter confession woven into each note.
He played for a while before speaking again, hesitating as though weighing the words, “If you want… you can watch me practice, in the weeks ahead. And maybe…” he glanced at you, gauging your reaction, “Maybe I could teach you a little. Show you how to play.”
The words rooted in your mind, unfurling with slow wonder. To listen to him, yes, that alone would have been a gift. But to learn? To place your own fingers where his had been, to join him in the music instead of only listening, it was something you had never dared to imagine.
Your eyes lit up, bright and eager, and you nodded quickly, “Yes. Yes, I’d love that,” then you faltered, doubt rising sharp and sudden. Your enthusiasm cooled into hesitation, and you bit your lip, “But… what if I’m no good at it?”
He noticed, of course. He always did. He stopped playing, turning to you fully. One hand lifted, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingertips lingering against your cheek, “You’ll do fine,” he said softly, conviction lacing each word, “I’ll be there. I’ll guide you.”
The warmth in his gaze smoothed the fear from your chest, and you let yourself lean into his hand, breathing in his reassurance. And then he kissed you. Not tentative, not shy, but with a slow-burning intensity that curled fire through your veins. His lips pressed against yours, and you melted, letting the kiss deepen, your hand rising to his jaw, holding him closer. For a moment, the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the steady weight of his hands at your waist, the soft hum of breath shared between you.
When he drew back, the sunlight caught in the glass panes, scattering gold across his face, across the polished wood of the piano. He smiled against the lingering closeness, a promise in his eyes. And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned back to the keys, his fingers finding their place again. The music returned, richer now, a song of light and tenderness, and you listened, your heart full, your mind still painting visions with every note, but now, each one tethered firmly to him, to the warmth of his embrace and the certainty of his presence.
Summary : As Verso and you were about to enjoy a quiet breakfast together, everything seemed to be going well. But would this moment of calm and tenderness last?
chapter VII
The table was almost laughably small, barely more than a square plank balanced on its legs, the kind one might find in the corner of a quiet café, built for two and nothing more. Knees brushed beneath without effort. Steam curled from the mugs between you, carrying the rich scent of chocolate, mingling with the faint aroma of butter and jam. It felt like the world had narrowed to that fragile space, to the soft scrape of cutlery against plates and the muted hum of a house still waking. For the sake of playfulness, or maybe just romance, a slice of toast was lifted from your plate, offered to him across the short distance. His lips parted without hesitation, teeth sinking into the golden crust, and laughter ghosted over the table, unspoken but alive in the sparkle of his eyes.
Attention lingered on the simple act of chewing, on the way his jaw moved slowly, rhythmically, as though savoring more than bread. Each swallow felt deliberate, a patience that seemed carved into him. Silence draped itself gently over the kitchen, filled only by the occasional clink of ceramic or the faint patter of rain still dripping from the gutters outside. Watching him finish that bite stirred a quiet warmth in your chest, and when the last movement of his throat stilled, the question escaped almost without thought, softer than the hush of the room, “Is it good?”
His gaze lingered for a moment before the corners of his mouth curved, playful and teasing, “It’s bread,” he answered lightly, almost deadpan, “Nothing extraordinary.”
A scandalized breath caught in your throat. You clutched a hand to your chest as though wounded, eyes widening in mock betrayal, “How dare you speak that way about my cooking?”
A laugh escaped him, low and easy, and he shook his head, “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was in the company of a master chef.” fingers curled around his cup, he took a sip of chocolate, savoring it before meeting your eyes again, this time with sincerity softening the smile, “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
The sincerity of it, his joy, his ease, melted something inside you. For a heartbeat, he looked untouched, free of shadows, his happiness so radiant that the danger clouding him seemed to vanish. The illusion was fragile, and yet you clung to it, desperate to push away thoughts of curses, of love spell, of anything that threatened the calm. For this morning, you chose to live in his peace, his laughter, his warmth.
Cup rose to your lips, a conspiratorial curve shaping your mouth as you said, “For a moment, I thought perhaps I should burn your food next time, or poison it even… but it seems you’re spared.” the words trailed into a hum of amusement as you drank, the rich taste of chocolate warming your tongue.
His gaze lingered on you, lips curved in that way that mixed playfulness with something softer, almost reverent, “Next time?” he repeated, letting the words stretch. A heartbeat passed before the rest followed, quieter, more deliberate, “Because you’ll cook for me again? I wouldn’t say no.”
The sip caught wrong, tumbling down your throat too fast, forcing a cough into the warm air. Heat flushed your cheeks as realization dawned, what had slipped from your lips carried more weight than intended. Cooking for him, for both of you, didn't bother you, if you forgot the fact that you had to learn how to cook first. The thought of it even pleased you, more than you wanted to admit. Yet beneath those words lived something deeper, something unspoken, because for such a thing to happen again, you would have to be here, in the same house, in the same life. The implication hung heavy, bold in its innocence, the dream of a shared home, of belonging to each other not in secret meetings or fleeting hours, but in the simple rhythm of days spent side by side.
Hands lingered around the cup, warmth seeping into your skin, before you lowered it slowly. Instead of setting it directly before you, the porcelain was nudged aside, placed at an angle, almost deliberately. A quiet act, as though even the faint veil of steam rising from the drink felt like too much distance between you and him.
Eyes softened as they rested on him, tracing the quiet curve of his smile, the ease in his posture. The thought slipped in uninvited, what it would be like to live with him. The vision painted itself with disarming clarity, mornings spent waking in his arms, nights falling asleep against his chest, afternoons filled with the faint music of piano keys. Walks down quiet streets, perhaps even with his two dogs at your side. The image drew your lips into a smile that deepened and grew without you meaning it to.
The more you allowed yourself to imagine, the more vivid it became. Happiness felt tangible, within reach, in the tilt of his grin and the luminous spark dancing in his eyes. Looking at him, you had no doubt he was lost in the same dream, that his thoughts mirrored your own in their longing and quiet wonder.
His voice broke the silence at last, gentle and unhurried, matching the tenderness of his expression, “Would you rather live in the heart of the city,” he asked softly, “or somewhere quieter, a little more distant?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks at the question. Perhaps it was nothing more than idle curiosity, but your heart clung to a different possibility, that beneath his words lay something more, a subtle way of asking what kind of place you might one day share with him.
Leaning forward, you let your elbows rest on the table, palms rising to cup your face. The question lingered heavy as you turned it over in your mind. City life had its charms, the closeness of shops, the nearness of family, the endless hum of activity. Yet the thought of the countryside pulled harder. A quiet home tucked away from the world, no neighbors to complain about late-night lights, a garden where flowers could bloom freely, or perhaps rows of vegetables and fruit trees, simple and sustaining. The peace of it, the stillness, felt like a dream.
The answer left your lips with calm certainty, “A small house in the countryside would be perfect.” you didn’t look away, not as your words settled in the air between you. Instead, the question found its way back across the table, fragile but sincere, “And you? What would you prefer?”
His gaze held yours without wavering. The quiet smile softened into something steadier, more absolute, “Any place suits me,” he said, voice rich with quiet conviction, “so long as it’s with you.”
Your heart stumbled into a quicker rhythm, each beat so strong it felt like it might spill out of your chest. The sensation mirrored the first stirrings of love all over again, as though you were falling for him anew. Fingers reached across the table of their own accord, brushing against his skin before settling against the line of his cheek. He leaned into the touch, then tilted his head just enough to press his lips against the center of your palm. The kiss lingered there, warm, reverent, sealing the unspoken dream with a tenderness that left your whole body trembling in its wake.
Breakfast unfolded in calm simplicity, conversation weaving itself from stray thoughts and fleeting subjects, the kind that rose only to vanish again, light as the steam that still curled faintly from the cups. Even after the food was gone, the table held them close, unwilling to break the spell of such ordinary sweetness.
At last you rose, gathering cups and plates into your arms, carrying them to the sink where water gleamed faintly in its basin. Cloth swept across the wooden surface, brushing away crumbs and faint stains of chocolate until the table was bare again. Behind you, a chair scraped quietly, his footsteps followed, light against the floorboards. He stopped at the counter, leaning back against it, arms braced lazily, watching as you turned your attention to the dishes.
A smile curved his lips, playful yet warm, “I really like your new hairstyle,” he murmured, voice low enough to be almost conspiratorial.
The words startled you. Brows arched as you froze, searching his expression for some hidden meaning. Confusion sent your gaze darting around until at last your hand reached for the nearest reflective surface, a polished tray meant for carrying biscuits. You held it to your face, only to find a wild tangle staring back at you, strands defiant in every direction.
Fingers combed through the unruly mess, an attempt both desperate and futile. Spinning back toward him, you narrowed your eyes though laughter tugged at your mouth, “You could have told me sooner,” you scolded, half exasperated, half amused.
“Why would I?” his voice was easy, disarming, as he pushed off the counter to close the distance. A soft kiss landed at the crown of your head before his fingers tousled your hair even further, deliberately mischievous, “I told you, it suits you.”
Water splashed lightly as the last of the dishes were rinsed and set aside. Towel brushed over your hands, drying them, when suddenly the world shifted. His hands caught you, turned you, guided you a step back until the edge of the counter pressed into your spine. His palms bracketed the wood on either side, boxing you in without force, only presence, his nearness a cage you welcomed.
“No one,” his voice dropped lower, steadier, “has ever looked as beautiful without trying as you do right now.” fingers traced inward, slipping gently around your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed to his. Eyes gleamed with an earnest light, every word steady, “I mean it. Every word.”
Arms slid upward around his shoulders, pulling him down, closing the gap inch by inch. Breath mingled, lips brushed once, again, before the kiss caught in full, sweet, lingering, with the faint taste of chocolate still shared between you. Depth followed quickly, lips parting, tongues meeting in unhurried hunger. Heat coiled in your chest, in the pit of your stomach, every thought lost in the rhythm of mouths pressing together. His taste, his breath, his warmth, all of it consumed you, so much that you never heard the front door creak open, nor the footsteps wandering through the hall. It wasn’t until shadows shifted at the edge of the kitchen, drawn by light or perhaps by scent, that the fragile cocoon you shared threatened to shatter.
Only when another voice cut through the air, a voice that was not his, did reality return with a violent jolt. Lips broke apart in haste, heads snapping toward the source, and the sight struck like thunder. Your parents stood in the doorway.
A chill ran the length of your spine, skin prickling as though doused in icy water. Heart lurched, beating so wildly it almost hurt, and the words stumbled from your lips, broken, trembling, “Maman? Papa? What… what are you doing here?”
Their silence weighed heavier than any shout might have. Verso’s eyes flicked to theirs, and for a heartbeat he seemed caught, hands still resting against your waist, yours looped around his neck. Realization dawned, and he pulled back with measured slowness, stepping to your side instead. The space between you widened only an inch, yet the loss felt sharper than it should. Both of you stood there, shoulders squared, exposed under the weight of a forbidden truth.
Still no answer, only the stunned stillness of two figures who had not expected this. Words pushed themselves from your throat, shaky, uncertain but insistent, “Why… why are you here? You weren’t supposed to return until the end of the week.”
It was your mother who finally broke the silence, her voice quiet but steady, “There was a problem. We had to come back earlier.” her gaze lingered, unreadable, before she arched a brow and folded her arms, “And you? What is all this?”
Not anger, not yet, only something masked, carefully hidden beneath their calm. The absence of fury unsettled more than raised voices might have. Your eyes darted toward Verso, a flicker of panic rising, but the thought of lying, of weaving some excuse, felt impossible. Breath drew shallow, but the confession came anyway, soft, halting, “We’ve… been seeing each other. For a little while.” the next words trembled out before you could stop them, almost defiant in their honesty, “And this morning, we became… something, more than friends.”
Shock lingered in the air after your confession, heavy and suffocating. Only your mother seemed capable of holding herself together, her expression still, calm in appearance, though whether it came from true composure or the desperate attempt not to lose control, you couldn’t tell. Your father, however, carried no such mask. His face betrayed everything, not only anger, but fear too. His eyes widened as though the worst of monsters had crossed the threshold of his home.
“Are you out of your mind?” his voice cut through the silence like glass shattering. One trembling hand pointed toward Verso, sharp, accusing, “He isn’t just a painter. He’s a Dessendre.”
Instinct propelled you forward, shifting into place before Verso as if your body could shield him from the weight of your father’s words. Protection might not be necessary, you knew they would never harm you, nor him, but you needed him to see, to feel, that you stood with him, “And?” The single word left your lips like defiance sharpened to a blade.
Surprise flickered in your father’s face, whether at your audacity to answer back or at your decision to defend someone he deemed an enemy, you couldn’t know. His jaw tightened, the words that followed bitter as iron, “Painters are dangerous. All of them.”
The dispute ignited like dry wood catching flame. Voices rose, sharp against the fragile morning calm. Accusations spilled between you and your father, words striking with growing force, each exchange louder than the last. No insults, never that, but every phrase struck with weight enough to bruise. Your mother tried to soothe, her hand reaching for his arm, her voice rising like a soft counterpoint. Verso, too, touched your arm gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in silent plea, asking you to breathe, to slow, but the storm inside you drowned them both.
Heat surged in your blood, each beat of your heart pumping fire through your veins. That endless rivalry between painters and writers, pointless, senseless, rose like a wall between you and the man who had raised you. Proof already existed in your hands, evidence that danger had never been confined to painters alone. Writers, too, had their shadows, their sins. The hypocrisy boiled until you could hardly see, “Writers are just as dangerous!”
Then, without warning, your father’s voice thundered over all others, raw and jagged, “And what could you possibly know of it, when you’re nothing but a failed writer yourself?”
The words struck harder than any blow could have. Silence swallowed the house whole, broken only by the echo of his voice as it ricocheted against walls, against bones. Your chest hollowed out, breath lost, as though the sentence itself had carved you open. Movement blurred, your mother rushing to him, her lips shaping words you could not hear. A low hum filled your ears instead, a ringing that drowned everything. Regret already clouded his face, his shoulders sinking, but it didn’t matter. The wound had been dealt.
Fingers tightened around Verso’s hand, stronger than you meant, clinging as though he were the only anchor in a storm. Without a word, you pulled him with you, through the hall, up the stairs, away from the voices and the hurt. Silence clung to your steps, every heartbeat echoing in your chest like a drum.
In your room, you seized a bag, not too big, not too small, but enough. Clothes filled it in hurried folds, daywear, nightwear, underthings, small necessities, the book you would never leave behind. The rhythm of packing steadied your hands even as the rest of you trembled.
From the corner of your eye, his shirt caught your gaze. You held it out to him without hesitation, the meaning in the gesture unspoken but clear. He met your eyes, reading your decision, and though he knew it wasn’t wise, knew perhaps that nothing good could come of running, he understood. And he would not try to stop you.
The woolen sweater came off his shoulders, folded neatly aside as he slipped into his shirt. All the while, you slid the sweater into your bag, a quiet, broken smile tugging at your lips, “You can wear it again later, if you’d like.” you murmured, as though tucking away not just fabric but the memory of a night that had been yours alone.
Silence wrapped itself tightly around him, his body still, his expression unreadable. No words rose to his lips, no clever remark or empty comfort, only the uncertainty of a boy who wasn’t sure if solace would soothe or sting. Instead, his hand found yours, fingers slipping between with a hesitance that vanished when you clutched back, harder than intended, holding on as though the gesture alone might steady you.
The weight of your bag pressed against your back, seams straining with hurriedly packed clothes and secrets. A door closed softly behind, careful not to echo through the house where raised voices had not yet dimmed. Shadows of arguments filtered even through the walls, your parents’ tones sharp and muffled, rising and falling in an endless clash. Each step away from the threshold tightened something in your chest, yet you did not look back. Cobblestones replaced the safety of the floor you’d always known, the faint chill of the morning biting against your skin as the house fell behind you.
Pavement stretched endlessly, boots striking a rhythm quick and relentless. He followed without protest, his presence close, steady, a shadow moving at your side. Not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged, the city around you blurring into little more than stone and distant echoes. Only when the heavy outlines of the central district appeared did he halt abruptly, forcing you to stop as well, the suddenness breaking the fragile trance of your pace.
Turning to him revealed no storm, no fire, just the emptiness of a gaze stripped of expression. His hands released yours only to cradle your face, gentle in their firmness, as though he feared that too much pressure might cause you to shatter. Thumbs traced patient circles across dampening skin, grounding you with each motion, his eyes never straying from yours.
At last, his voice surfaced, quiet yet unshakable, carrying words that seeped straight through the ache, “It’s all right. I’m here.”
The sound cut through you like the strike of a match in a darkened room, a single spark igniting where only stillness had been. Moisture gathered at your lashes, unsteady, and lips trembled as the tide you had kept contained broke free. Every restraint faltered, the emotions you had locked away tumbled forward, raw and unrelenting.
His arms opened and pulled you into them, holding close, one hand firm at the back of your head, the other steady against your spine. Against his chest, grief was given space at last. Tears bled quietly into fabric, shoulders shaking, breaths uneven. He did not ask you to stop, did not hurry the storm, only anchored you, letting time bend to the rhythm of your sobs. Fingers combed gently through your hair, voice weaving fragments of comfort into the space between heartbeats. Soft words, low promises, the kind that blurred at the edges but still carried enough warmth to wrap around you like a blanket.
When at last your steps retreated from him, only a pace away, palms rose to wipe the remnants of salt from your cheeks. Eyes red, lids heavy, you lifted your head with a fragile steadiness, “I feel better, thanks you… Let's keep walking.”
A raised brow answered you, followed by the simple question that uncoiled in the air, “And where exactly do you want to go?”
Realization crashed into you, sudden and sharp. In your flight, no destination had taken shape; the path had been an escape, not a journey. Fingers fumbled into your pocket, drawing out the small coin purse. Enough for an inn, perhaps, a few nights tucked away somewhere anonymous, “Well... I know there are a few cheap inns here.”
His sigh carried a weight that was not reproach, only weary affection, “Put it away.” he murmured, hand reaching once more to reclaim yours with quiet certainty.
Obedience came without thought, the purse disappeared back into fabric as you let yourself be guided. Steps fell into his, matching his pace as the question repeated on your tongue, where was he taking you? Yet every time, silence was his only answer, a faint tug at your hand the only reply.
Streets unfurled until at last he stopped, the edge of a wide boulevard beneath your shoes. The sound reached you before the sight, hoofbeats striking stone in a rhythm that carried both weight and music, the jangle of harnesses chiming faintly with each step. Iron rims crunched against the cobblestones as the carriage drew to a halt, the faint snort of the horse clouding in the cool air. The world seemed momentarily reduced to that symphony of leather, wood, and breath, the lingering scent of damp pavement mixing with hay and sweat.
From the seat above, a voice carried down, gravelly yet not unkind, laced with the accent of a man long accustomed to the streets, “Where to, monsieur, mademoiselle?” the driver’s cap shadowed part of his face, but his beard was thick, peppered with grey, and his eyes, though tired, glimmered with something attentive, steady, as he adjusted the reins in his weathered hands.
A polite nod passed from your companion to the driver before words followed, simple yet striking with weight, “To the Dessendre manor.”
Your head snapped toward him, disbelief flashing hot in your chest. The manor? His home? Happiness and anxiety wrestled inside you at once. The thought of finally seeing where he lived made your chest flutter, yet a knot formed in your stomach at the idea of intruding, of stepping into a space that belonged to his family, not just to him.
The driver shifted on his seat, pulling gently on the reins to steady the horse. His voice carried down to you, rough but not unkind, “It’s not exactly around the corner,” he said, “On foot, you’d be looking at half an hour, maybe closer to an hour. For the carriage, two passengers… it will cost this much.” he named the fare without hesitation, as though he’d spoken the same words a hundred times before.
The number landed heavy in your ears. It wasn’t unreasonable, not really, but still far from small. A frown tugged at your lips, and before you could stop yourself, the protest was out, “Verso, it’s too much. I can’t let you pay for that.”
His head turned sharply, blue eyes catching yours in. Calm, certain, he answered without hesitation, “It’s nothing.”
The driver stepped down from his seat with practiced ease, boots landing on the cobblestone with a muted thud. A hand tugged the brim of his hat as he opened the small door, his voice low but firm, “Payment once we arrive, monsieur.”
A gentle pressure at the small of your back urged you forward. Verso’s hand lingered there, warm and steady, guiding without words. Hesitation pulled at you for a second, nerves fluttering in your chest, before your foot found the step. The inside smelled faintly of leather and wood polish, worn but clean, a space made for travelers and fleeting moments. You slid onto the seat, back straight at first, eyes darting over the interior as if cataloguing every detail. Verso followed right after, settling close beside you, his presence filling the narrow space.
The driver shut the door with a solid click, the sound echoing inside the carriage. A moment later, leather reins snapped, hooves struck stone, and the world shifted forward. The wheels rumbled in rhythm, steady and unbroken, while the clop of horses marked time like a heartbeat against the morning air. Through the small window, buildings slid past in slow procession, iron balconies, shopfronts just waking, the faint blur of figures starting their day. Paris stretched outward, alive yet muffled by the carriage walls.
A shift in weight brushed against you, Verso’s arm moving behind your back, drawing you closer in one simple motion. No hesitation, no question. Settling sideways onto his lap, not facing him, you tucked yourself against his chest. Leaning into him felt as natural as breathing. His chest rose and fell under your cheek, a steady rhythm that grounded you, while his warmth pressed through the thin layers of fabric. The hum of the city, the jostle of the carriage, all faded when you curled against him, finding his shoulder as your pillow.
The remnants of tears left your eyes heavy, the dull ache of a headache tugging you toward stillness. Breathing evened out, slow and soft, until each inhale matched the cadence of his heart beneath your ear. It beat steady, strong, almost lulling. Little by little, the noise of hooves and wheels blurred, the shifting light behind the glass dimmed, and your body surrendered. Sleep found you gently, folded into his arms, your pulse echoing the quiet strength of his.
The jolt came suddenly, wheels clattering over uneven stones, rougher ground shaking the carriage enough to pull you from sleep. Eyelids fluttered open, vision blurred for a few heartbeats before the world steadied. A hoarse, drowsy voice slipped out, heavy with fatigue, “Are we there yet?”
The sight that greeted him was enough to pull a quiet, crooked smile to his lips, hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded, a faint trail of drool glistening at the corner of your mouth. With nothing else at hand, his sleeve brushed gently against your lips, wiping it away as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, “Not yet,” he murmured, amused, “We’ve made it past halfway.”
Limbs stretched languidly, your body shifting just enough to ease the stiffness before settling back down more comfortably. Head found his shoulder again, nestling there like it belonged.
Quiet filled the space, broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the creak of wheels. After a pause, his voice threaded through the hush, soft but deliberate, “Do you want to talk?”
A tilt of your chin brought your gaze up to him, puzzled, searching, “Talk about what?”
He hesitated, head tilting until his cheek rested lightly against the crown of your hair. Careful with his words, he let them fall gently, “About what happened at your house.” no mention of shouting, or accusations, only the weight of what lingered.
A laugh escaped, bitter, hollow, stripped of joy. The memory of slammed words and broken calm burned fresh enough to sting, “I don’t know. There’s not much to say.” silence threatened, then a hard swallow, “I don’t know what hurts more… that he’s right, or that for years he made me believe something would come of me, while secretly thinking I was a failure all along.”
The way you said it, the way doubt clung to your voice, cut into him sharper than anything your father had thrown. His hand tightened against yours, steady, his voice quiet but sure, “You’re everything but a failure. That poem you wrote for the writers’ day,” his eyes softened, “It was beautiful.”
Even with a smile tugging faintly at your lips, the weight behind it betrayed you, empty of true ease, “It’s the only poem I’ve ever written,” you admitted, gaze drifting away from his. A beat passed before your voice faltered, correcting yourself, “No… the first. I wrote others too. During... During that time when you had ignored me….”
Eyes flicked back to his, regret blooming instantly as the weight of your words sank in. They had come out sharper, more accusing than you had meant, and the sting of it gnawed at you. Voice rushed forward, tripping over itself, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was hurt, but now I know you never ignored me on purpose. You weren’t yourself. I don’t blame you...”
Words spilled faster than usual, urgency tightening each syllable. Fear pressed into your chest at the thought of wounding him, of staining a day already heavy with cracks. Silence from his side only deepened the panic, heart quickening, mind racing through what-ifs, wondering if you had just made everything worse.
Instead of answering, his movement caught you off guard. He shifted across the seat, hand brushing against the door before drawing the curtain over the narrow window, dimming the world outside. A pause, then the same gesture mirrored on the opposite side. Shadows wrapped the carriage in a muted hush, soft light still slipping through the fabric, enough to see but not enough to invite the gaze of anyone.
When he returned, it was with a steadiness that rooted you. His hand guided you closer, coaxing you into his lap, straddling his thigh without thought, palms resting instinctively on the warmth of his chest. Arms looped around your waist, firm and protective, holding you close as though nothing could pry you from him. His eyes met yours, unwavering, and his voice, low and resolute, cut through the quiet, “I won’t ever leave you again. That’s a promise.”
Fingers trailed upward, sliding from his chest to cradle his face, thumbs brushing against his skin as though memorizing him. Forehead lowered slowly, your breath mingling with his until lips met, tentative at first, testing, before his answered with unhesitating devotion. Kiss after kiss, soft collisions turning into something inevitable, until neither of you could pull away. It felt like this was all you had done since the night before, trading breaths and warmth, living only in the space where your lips met. Perhaps it was true. Yet nothing else mattered now, only his arms anchoring you, only the press of his mouth moving with yours. All that had fractured this morning melted in the fire of his closeness. The need was not only for escape, but for love, real, tangible, alive in the way he held you.
Nothing rushed. Each touch, each kiss lingered, unhurried, as if time had softened enough to allow you both to breathe again. No storm outside the carriage, no sting of cruel words, only a quiet reprieve. In the dim light, tenderness reigned, his caress steady on your back, your lips fitting together like they had always belonged. A fragile pause in the whirlwind, yet one you clung to with everything in you.
The kiss broke at last, and in its place came a smile, thin, unpolished, but true. The kind of smile that seemed to say that with him at your side, there was nothing you could not face, no storm that could not be weathered.
Curiosity tugged almost immediately, the question slipping free before restraint could catch it, “Tell me, what does the interior of the manor look like?” the manor you had only glimpsed from a distance, its silhouette against the sky, but never stepped inside.
Fingers brushed your cheek, a gentle pinch meant more in affection than teasing, “And deny myself your reaction when I show you?” he said, grin tilting just enough to be playful, “Not a chance.”
A pout shaped your lips, deliberate and exaggerated, though it only earned a laugh from him, warm, unguarded, the kind that broke whatever weight still lingered in the air. It pulled your own laughter free, lightening the space between you until tension felt like nothing but a memory.
But his curiosity returned, steady beneath the ease, “Why don’t you ever write? Or so little?”
Shoulders rose faintly as if even your own body didn’t hold the answer, “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quiet, “Words come only when it’s… confession. And the only times I’ve ever truly managed to write, It was when I felt at my lowest point.”
Arms around you tightened a fraction, his palm tracing the length of your back, steady and soothing. Breath caught briefly before you added, “So what’s the point of writing if inspiration only finds me when I’m standing at the edge of a cliff?”
Silence stretched, thoughtful rather than dismissive. He weighed his words carefully, and when they came, they were slow, deliberate, “Maybe you’re simply… not meant for it?”
Eyes lifted sharply to his, ready for the sting such a phrase should carry. From anyone else, it would have. But from him, it sounded different, not cruel, not mocking, but almost gentle, like he was trying to free you from a weight you hadn’t realized you carried. The reply left you softer, “Maybe. But… I’ve never tried to look for something else. Never tried to see if there’s another hidden skill, another hobby waiting somewhere. Some way to fill the empty spaces.”
The carriage slowed, wheels creaking as the horse’s pace fell steady to a halt. One of his arms slipped away to tug the curtain aside, revealing the world beyond. A faint smile crossed his lips, “We can talk about that later. We’ve arrived.”
Eyes followed his, excitement and anxiety colliding in your chest. The manor loomed tall and dignified, but it wasn’t the building that made your breath hitch, it was the sight of the figures waiting just in front. Renoir, Aline, Cléa, Alicia. Brows arched sharply, you turned to him, voice low but incredulous, “Why is everyone waiting for us?”
He blinked, leaned closer to the window, and groaned, hand pressed to his forehead, “Merde…” the mutter was half under his breath, but enough for you to catch. Clearly, this welcome committee hadn’t been planned.
The carriage rolled to its final stop before the great doors, and the driver climbed down, boots crunching against the gravel. The door swung open with a bow, “We’ve arrived,” he announced politely.
Verso stepped out first, hand extended back toward you. Fingers closed around his as you rose, pulling your bag onto your shoulder before letting him help you down. Her steps were hesitant, almost shy, as though each movement toward the manor carried invisible weight. He paid the driver, who tipped his cap, “Thank you. Good day to you both.” with that, the man climbed back to his seat, reins snapping as horse and carriage moved away down the path.
Your hand was claimed again, warm and steady, guiding you forward. Before the manor’s steps could even be reached, Aline swept toward her son, her hands cupping his face as though she had been waiting days for this. A smile lit her features at once, “Mon petit ange… you look better. You’ve got color again. I can finally breathe.”
She lingered a little behind him, nerves bubbling under her skin, shoulders curling ever so slightly as if she feared being in the way. He endured the embrace with faint embarrassment, only to redden further when she released him and turned to you, arms wrapping around you with motherly affection. The sudden closeness made your breath catch; timidity tightened your chest, but you allowed yourself to melt into the hug, uncertain yet grateful, “Thank you for taking care of my little one.”
The nickname made his cheeks darken further, his expression twisting into quiet protest. You caught the flicker of his discomfort and bit back a smile, though your own cheeks heated as well, uncertain if you truly belonged in this exchange of family tenderness. Aline only carried on with grace, moving toward the manor with steps full of lightness, elegance unshaken. The first time you had seen her, she had been calm, reserved, almost distant, now she radiated warmth, life itself. Perhaps the change was simple, the relief of seeing her son alive and whole again.
At the top of the steps, greetings came in chorus. Each voice welcomed you, words warm, faces kind, and for the first time since the morning, your chest loosened a little. Still, you kept your gaze lowered at first, afraid of meeting their eyes too directly, anxious at the thought they might secretly disapprove.
Cléa, however, was the first to break into mischief. Her eyes flicked to the bag on your back, her grin immediate, “Well, well… so it went that well, hm? Moving in already?”
The words landed like cold water, reality crashing into your chest. You were staying here, yes, but only for a while. Days, perhaps. Weeks, at most. You couldn’t stay forever. But you wouldn’t go home either. The thought tangled inside your ribs until Verso cut in, sharp enough to end it.
“Cléa.” his eyes narrowed, “Not the time.”
Alicia, ever the more perceptive, looked between you both, her voice quiet but edged with concern, “Did something happen?”
He inhaled, ready to answer, but your hand lifted, silencing him. His head tilted, curiosity flickering in his gaze as if to ask, are you sure? You nodded, though your pulse raced, your words threatening to stumble under the eyes watching you. Still, you forced them out before hesitation could strangle them.
“I had a fight with my parents,” you confessed, voice steady but low, “And I left. But don't worry, I won’t stay long. Just a few days, a week or two maybe...”
Renoir was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, his presence calm but firm, and laid a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “You may stay as long as you need,” he said gently, “Consider it our way of thanking you for helping our family.”
The gesture almost made your knees weak, relief pricking behind your eyes. Still, you dipped your head slightly, timid in your gratitude, unused to such open acceptance. Eyes shifted from him toward Alicia and Cléa, standing a few steps behind their parents. Cléa spoke next, voice steady, “We told them everything. The library. The scrolls. The love spell. The brooch.”
It was true, they had said they would tell their parents. But so soon? The thought struck you with unexpected weight. If anything, it showed just how deeply they valued family, how important it was for them to keep nothing hidden.
Turning back toward Renoir, you found his gaze steady and kind. A small smile returned to your lips, and you whispered, “Thank you.”
Together, the group finally crossed the threshold into the manor, Verso’s hand brushing against yours as if to steady you. The interior opened wide before your eyes, high ceilings painted in soft cream, walls dressed in black, tall windows filtering daylight across gleaming marble floor. Golden accents glimmered on frames and sconces, and heavy velvet curtains gave the space an air of dignity and wealth without feeling cold. Everything was grand, immense, even, for a family so small. Curiosity tugged your gaze in every direction, admiration rising with each step, though your hands fidgeted nervously at the hem of your sleeve, unsure of where to place yourself in such grandeur.
Before Verso could draw near again, Aline slipped in first, looping her arm neatly under yours. Her eyes met yours with a gentle spark, “Would you mind if I spoke with you for a little while? And show you around at the same time.”
The sudden intimacy startled you, timidity making your voice falter as you nodded quickly, too polite to refuse. Verso immediately protested, his face twisting into something almost boyish, like a child who’d just had his sweets taken away, “But I wanted to show her the manor.”
His mother’s smile softened, though mischief lingered in her tone, “You’ll have the gardens. Far more romantic, don’t you think?” her fingers pinched lightly at his cheek before she added with playful affection, “Don’t you want to let your old mother get to know your lover?”
Both you and Verso flushed crimson, cheeks betraying everything words could not. Your hands twisted together in front of you, eyes darting away in shy panic. There was no hiding it, not from a couple who had lived through the very thing you were only just discovering. Not from his parents, who knew him too well. And even if you had tried, love burned too brightly between you, impossible to disguise. Everyone seemed to know, everyone except Alicia, whose wide-eyed face carried shock, then quickly blossomed into happiness.
She stepped closer with a little bounce in her step, unable to contain her excitement, “Since when?” she asked, voice eager, almost breathless.
Verso took a quiet breath, shoulders straightening as he found the courage to speak. His gaze moved from Alicia to the others, “Since this morning,” he said, steady but warm, “Officially, we’re together since then.”
Alicia’s joy was contagious. Her smile beamed, soft and radiant, as if she were sharing the happiness directly with you. Renoir slipped closer to his wife, gently wrapping his arms around her to coax her into letting go of you. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he murmured, “Let them settle for a while. They should put their things down, breathe a little. We can speak of important matters later.”
Aline paused, thoughtful, before releasing a small sigh, though her smile lingered, “All right,” she agreed, giving in almost too easily. But as her eyes slid back toward you and Verso, her expression sharpened, soft yet vaguely menacing, “I’ll see you later,” she added, words laced with playful warning.
The couple slipped away down a long corridor, vanishing toward the gardens beyond the distant door. Left behind, you stood with Verso, Alicia, and Cléa.
Never one to miss her chance, Cléa crossed her arms and tilted her head, a brow raised in sharp amusement, “So, one night with them,” she teased, eyes darting toward you with a grin, “and you’ve already bounced back? Looks like we don’t need to dig around for a cure after all.”
Alicia’s eyes shimmered even brighter, her expression softening into something dreamy, “Ah… saved by true love.” she sighed, clasping her hands together as if she were watching a scene from a novel, “So romantic!”
Verso looked as though he wished the ground might open and swallow him whole. Shifting uneasily, he muttered, “We’ll… go. I’ll show them around the manor.”
“Can I come? Please? Can I?” Alicia chirped instantly, bouncing on her feet. She repeated the question once, twice, three times, each one more insistent than the last.
A heavy sigh slipped from Verso as he lifted a hand in defeat, “Fine. But when we reach my room, you both leave us alone.”
Cléa, naturally, couldn’t resist. A sly grin tugged at her lips as she leaned in, “Your room, huh?”
The smack he gave her shoulder was light, playful, enough to earn a little laugh but not a protest, “For them to put their things down.” he corrected quickly, cheeks burning crimson.
Hand finding yours, he tugged you along before anyone could tease further, and the tour began. The manor was vast, almost overwhelming, every room immense, ceilings stretching so high they seemed to swallow sound. The palette of black and gold gave everything a strange duality, dark yet radiant, shadowed yet gleaming with reflected light. Paintings adorned the walls, each frame heavy, ornate. Some looked like family pieces, others like works from unknown artists. And as you walked, Verso’s voice filled the halls with small anecdotes, this was where he once tripped and hurt his head as a child, that corner still held the handmade decorations for Mother’s Day, crafted clumsily but kept all the same. The house was alive, steeped in memory, every corner humming with the weight of their shared history.
At last, the small group stopped before a tall door. Cléa leaned close with a conspiratorial wink, “Good luck putting up with him for the next few days.”
Alicia waved cheerfully, her goodbye light and bright as she followed her older sister down the hall. Left in sudden quiet, Verso rolled his eyes with a helpless smile before opening the door. The moment it swung wide, two shapes barreled toward him, nails clicking on the floor, Monoco and Noco, his loyal companions, throwing themselves against his legs in a storm of wagging tails and demands for affection.
The sight of him kneeling on the floor softened something inside you. His hands moved with familiarity, scratching gently behind eager ears, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant only for them. The dogs leaned into his touch, tails wagging so fast they blurred, joy radiating from every twitch of fur. The tenderness in the way he greeted them tugged at your chest, a piece of him revealed in those small, unguarded gestures. You had wanted to meet them ever since he first mentioned them, Monoco, and Noco, both restless and full of energy. And here they were, real and alive, their affection for him undeniable.
Verso finally straightened, brushing fur from his clothes, and stepped aside, making space for you. He reached for your bag before you could stop him, slinging it easily from your shoulder and carrying it toward the wardrobe without a word, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to take that weight from you. Left to yourself, you turned slowly, letting your eyes wander through his room, drinking in the details. It was simpler than you expected neat, organized, without much in the way of decoration. And yet, there was warmth here, a quiet kind of intimacy. What caught your eye most wasn’t the furniture, but the low table near the window, where delicate rails had been laid out. A small model train rested there, its painted body worn with use. That little touch of childhood sat in stark contrast to the rest of the room, like a piece of innocence frozen in time.
A rustle of movement broke your reverie. You turned, startled, to find the two dogs padding toward you, curiosity gleaming in their dark eyes. For a moment you hesitated, unsure if they would accept you, but then you stretched out a cautious hand. They sniffed delicately at your fingers before pressing their heads closer, encouraging your touch. Relief bloomed in your chest as you ran your hand down their backs, fingers threading through soft fur. First Monoco, calm, leaning gently against your palm, then Noco, impatient for attention, nudging your arm with his nose until you laughed and gave him his share. The floorboards pressed cool against your knees as you crouched down, surrounding yourself with the warmth of them both, showering them with affection as if you had known them for years.
The sound of steps behind you drew your gaze upward. Verso stood there, watching, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement, “If I had known,” he teased, voice carrying a mock gravity, “that I’d have competition by bringing you here…”
You tilted your head back fully now, breaking into a broad grin, shyness giving way to ease. The dogs stayed pressed against your side, but you rose anyway, slow and unhurried, until you stood close enough to reach for him. Your arms slipped around his frame in a natural, easy motion, as though drawn by instinct alone. Head against his chest, the weight of the day eased, and words hovered at the edge of your tongue, something soft you meant to confess, but the sound of a door slamming open cut you off.
The doorway filled with Cléa’s figure, “Stop cuddling and come on!” she announced loudly, her voice carrying across the room before either of you could react, “Lunch is ready!”
Verso groaned, face dropping into his hands. Before he could form a reply, Cléa spun on her heel and darted down the corridor, her laughter trailing behind like ribbons. The door remained flung open, her footsteps echoing in retreat. With a muttered curse under his breath, Verso lunged after her, his voice raised in protest, calling down the corridor, “Ever heard of knocking first?”
Left behind, you stood motionless for a few moments, the warmth of his embrace still clinging to you, the interruption lingering like an unfinished note. Monoco and Noco nudged against your legs, their presence grounding, loyal and steady. At last you sighed, stepping from the quiet of his room into the corridor, the dogs following at your heels as though they had already decided you belonged to them as much as he did. The contrast struck you at once. In your own home, silence had always ruled,heavy, oppressive, every corner echoing with absence. Meals were often alone, your parents too consumed by work to fill the house with voices. Here, though, everything was alive. The manor breathed with laughter and arguments, footsteps and greetings, a family bound not just by blood but by choice, by love. It was noisy, yes, but the kind of noise that brought warmth instead of loneliness.
As you trailed after the others, the realization grew clearer, this place was not just walls and ceilings, not just luxury. It was life, vivid and overflowing. For the first time, you could imagine yourself not merely as a guest but as someone who fit here, woven into their moments, welcomed into their stories.
Walking through the corridor, your heart beat steadier. Each step felt like a promise, fragile but real. The nervous shyness that had weighed on you since stepping from the carriage loosened its grip, fading bit by bit with every smile, every kind glance. You weren’t only closer to Verso now, though he remained at the center of it all, drawing you like gravity. You were closer to something larger, brighter, a world of color, of possibility, where shadows could be softened and wounds could heal. And deep within, a quiet certainty unfurled. With him, yes, you would find your voice. But even without him, someday, you would stand tall, whole in your own right. The thought lingered like sunlight through glass, you were not lost anymore. You were beginning to find yourself. And here, within these walls, timid no longer, you felt the first stirrings of truly belonging.
summary: for all his life Verso never lived the life he so desperately wished for, never fitting into the perfect puzzle of his painter family, but things are about to change when a letter arrives on a sunny spring morning..
pairings: real!Verso x fem!OC
So yeah, this is the start of a whole new fic I am cooking for you. Expect some drama, laughter and most of all: love.
Enjoy :)
It was a calm, soft and sunny spring morning. The Dessendre family was enjoying their breakfast in a peaceful silence when the door bell rang. "I'll get it" Clea, the oldest sister, announced with an eyeroll when no one made the effort to answer the door.
A moment later she returned to the table, holding an envelope in her hand.
"What is it?" Alicia, the youngest of the three siblings, asked curiously, eyeing the envelope with a twinkle in her eyes. "It's actually..for you" Clea said meaningfully, pointing the envelope towards her younger brother, Verso, who looked around the table nervously when everyone was looking at him with a questioning look.
He cleared his throat audably and took the envelope to open it carefully, all eyes on him while he was doing so. He started reading with an unreadable expression on his face "So? What is it about?" Aline, the mother of the family, asked with a hint of impatience. He handed her the letter wordlessly and she started reading it out loud "Dear Monsieur Dessendre, we are delighted to welcome you in our conservatory as a new student. Your apply has been by all means very inspirational and sparked our interest in you immediately and we look forward to see you in a month from now to start your piano studies. Sincerely, Artur Lefevre, Conservatory Director."
Everyone fell silent, a tension building in the air that was almost palpable. "You applied to the conservatory without our knowledge?" Aline asked and Verso could feel his mouth go dry "I..yes I did.." he said quietly, his gaze falling to his folded hands on his lap. "Why didn't you just tell us, son?" Renoir, the father, asked with a calm voice, yet the angered undertone noticable for everyone. Verso took a deep breath, steadying his posture to look into his father's eyes, gathering all the courage he could "Because I know that you would have tried to talk me out of it. Because you see no sense in my love for music. Because I was born in a family of painters and you would expect me to become no less or more than that. Because I..I finally want to start a life of my own and follow my dreams.." he said the last part very quietly. "And you thought we would not support you nontheless?" Aline spoke up, causing Verso to look into his mother's eyes. She was smiling at him, actually smiling.
Verso could feel cunfusion coming up inside of him "But I..you always said the study of music would be fruitless and that I am a painter and.." he stumbled over his own words. "I think it's wonderful!" Alicia exclaimed happily, causing Renoir to smile warmly at her. She was, without a doubt, his favorite. Aline cleared her throat "And how do you get there everyday? The conservatory is miles away from here" she said with a light twinkle in her eyes "I actually thought of that too already and there is in fact a small apartment above a boulangerie that is close by, I could move in anytime I want" Verso said quietly, half expecting his mother to disagree with his idea. She sighed "I see you are capable of taking matters into your own hand" she said with an almost sad looking smile and Alicia sobbed "So your are leaving us?" she asked with a tearful look and Verso smiled softly at her "Hey, it's not like I am gone forever and you can always come and visit me" he said and the red-haired girl beamed happily at him at that.
"So, in a month from now then?" Renoir asked calmly and Verso nodded "So be it then,,if that is what you truly wish" he said and for a moment Verso thought he could see tears glistening in the older man's eyes.
They continued their breakfast and soon the three siblings started chattering excitedly about decorating Verso's apartment and if he wanted to take his piano with him "Of course I will, how else am I to keep up with the other students outside the lessons?" he said with a smirk, causing them to fall into a fit of giggles. Aline looked at Renoir with an unreadable expression and he took one of her hands in his "I know" he simply said and she smiled sadly at him.
In the evening Verso was sitting on his bed, gazing into the nightsky through one of his bedroom windows. He had expected more resistance from his parents, expected that they would deny him his wish as they had done so many times before. From a young age on he had been different from everyone else. Never really fitting into the picture of the perfect and highly respected family of painters. He sighed and closed his eyes, a light smile spreading over his face.
In a month from now, he thought, his life would finally change, he would finally start to follow his dreams and become what he so desperately wished to be for all his life.
