THERE WAS SO MUCH BLADE IN THIS STREAM MY GOD. LONG POST FANGIRLING INCOMING
he looks so gorgeous in this animation GOD BLESS MAPPA 🙏🙏🙏
we got cute Bladies :3
WE GOT JOJO BLADE TOO AKJHSKJLGJFJHF they did this for me (also it's hilarious they dragged Ashveil for this part specifically, since he's voiced by Takehito Koyasu aka DIO)
and mask blade ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
girldad Blade with SW 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 they are too cute
lowkey scared about this one he's gonna go through so much pain before his "transformation" isn't he :(
at least he'll be SERVING
him falling like a meteorite in the 2nd pic is so funny AKJKSHJSGLDG this character can't be real dawg 🤭🤭🤭🤭
anyways he looks so fcking good i can't stand it I NEED TO PULL FOR HIM NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
bonus pics:
MY HIGH CLOUD QUINTET AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH 😭 i love them sm............ and this reminded me of how close Blade and Baiheng were, i'm so sad man.
moving on from one family to another, the Stellaron Hunters are so cvnt 💖
obligatory renheng crumbs section:
i can't believe we're eating so good my god. they are fighting together, holding the same spear, and fighting again in the new animation by Mappa (possibly anime? i hope so)
being a Blade stan rn is so crazy man this doesn't feel real. sometimes i think about the fact that he's in Fortnite and Honkai Nexus Anima and i can't believe it. i'm so used to giving and now i get to receive 😭😭
Relationship: M/F Yumeship - OG Verso Dessendre x OC
(Click here to read it on Ao3)
-Chapter One (1): "They say bismuth burns blue."
-Chapter Two (2) : "Its iridescent colours are enticing."
-Chapter Three (3) : "Feed the Flames."
-Chapter Four (4): "Bismuth is Arsenic."
Chapter Five (5): "Cold, blue flame."
Louise's parents came to apologize, first to Aline and Renoir, then to me. I shook my head to signal to them that it was in no way their fault, but Aline wouldn't let up: Louise had called me a servant because of my "Arab face." I grimaced, uneasy, my hands clasped in front of me, while they continued to defend me. It was obvious that Verso had achieved a feat in managing to get me accepted, I told myself, but it was just as clear that his parents had blind faith in their son and his friends. And speaking of him, he had taken forever to come back.
"Did you get lost on the way?" I joked.
"Yeah, sorry. I needed to get some air with... everything that happened," he replied.
Like a winged wolf, he fled my gaze, only letting me glimpse the shimmering stars in the depths of his eyes. He beat his wings, trying to distract my attention to something else. His hand nervously ran through his hair, a familiar gesture that betrayed his unease. A servant offered him a glass of water; he swallowed it in one gulp, before following it with a glass of wine. The rest of the evening unfolded in that strange atmosphere. Since his return, he hadn't spared me a single glance. Every time I had tried to brush against his shoulder or arm, he had moved away, leaving me distraught. I mainly talked with Aline, while Renoir, sensing that his son was not himself, called him over. He excused himself to me before isolating himself with Verso a little farther away.
My only anchor for the evening had long since departed. Aline, the gracious hostess, was preoccupied with her guests. I hadn't run into Alicia nor caught the slightest glimpse of Cléa. For the first time in months, I felt alone, like a ghost suspended between the drifting music and the distant echo of conversations. I leaned against the wall, surveying the crowd again, a glass of champagne in my hand. Alcohol didn't appeal to me, quite the opposite, but I had instinctively grabbed this glass from a tray offered to me. The atmosphere, confined within these gilded walls, was becoming suffocating. Overwhelmed by the opulence I was still unaccustomed to, I decided to step outside for some fresh air.
I asked a servant to bring me my cape, the one I had embroidered with my own hands to perfectly match my dress. She obliged easily, a smile on her lips. I politely returned it.
"Are you leaving us, Madame?" she then asked me.
My heart skipped a beat at that address.
"Not yet," I simply replied, after clearing my throat, "But I think I won't linger much longer. What time is it?"
She excused herself for a moment, moving a few meters away to read the time on the wall clock before returning to me. I took advantage of this pause to observe her attire: she wore an impeccable maid's dress, a white bonnet as immaculate as her collar. The Dessendre family's servants were clearly well-treated, and it showed in the care of their hands. The hands of the woman before me, for example, were slender and graceful, like lilies. Ending my contemplation, I adjusted the cape on my shoulders, which she helped me fasten.
"A quarter past eleven, Madame."
"So late already?"
"Time flies when one is having fun."
"Indeed..."
"Would you like me to call a coachman for you?"
I thought for a moment, my gaze directed toward the ballroom in the distance. It wasn't customary to leave without thanking your hosts, but the urge to return to my dilapidated theater and my camel skin blanket was becoming very strong. Aaron no longer lived with me; he had left with his new partner, a young Frenchwoman he had managed to make fall head over heels in love with him. I was happy for him; he was living a good life. But that also meant I would have to prepare tea and not be able to share it with someone. I sighed softly, weighing the pros and cons, then nodded. In either case, I would be alone.
"Please do. How long until the carriage is ready?"
"About ten minutes, at most."
"I would like to greet your young master before I leave. Is that possible?" I tried.
"Of course, Madame. Just enough time for me to commission a coachman, and I will call him for you."
I thanked her and stepped across the threshold, walking down the flight of stairs to the paved path. The evening coolness did me a world of good, seeping into my lungs and calming my nerves. My thoughts returned to this solitary end to the evening and Verso's evasive gaze. What had happened to make him no longer want to look at me? What had occurred? What could Louise have done or said to change him so completely? I hoped I could talk with him if he wished, to listen to him if he felt the need. But wasn't it simply my curiosity pushing me to do this?
I shook my head, leaning against the low wall bordered by thorny rose bushes that marked the entrance to the gardens. The lanterns illuminated my tattooed skin, my white dress, my scarlet lips, and my jewelry. Moths fluttered around the bright bulbs, protected by the glass and wrought iron.
A few moments later, I heard the carriage approach and straightened up. The young maid then returned, and from the expression on her face, I immediately understood what she was about to tell me. I spoke before she even had time to.
"Thank you, miss. Please excuse me for having given you that task. Good luck with the rest of the evening."
I gave her a smile, greeted her with a slight curtsy, and then hurried to the carriage. I announced my address to the coachman, who set off toward my little theater.
~~~
The days passed slowly, and my thoughts wouldn't stop racing. That evening was etched into my memory. So much had happened, so many words had been exchanged, so many mistakes had been made. Doubt was overwhelming me, just when I thought I had found a little peace. I hadn't said a word to my father yet, but I quickly understood that he knew. I retreated to my room, collapsing onto the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling moldings. My mind was a labyrinth with no exit. I felt both lost and tainted, and I had the impression that I had soiled my body and my mind. A maid knocked on my door, and I told her I was tired. She didn't insist.
The weight of my guilt and my doubts was reflected in the pale, lividness of my face. Even though Louise embroidered her stories with dramatic lyricism, her words rang hollow. Yet, her anecdotes concerning men and women from the colonies were so specific that they could only be the result of experiences lived by those close to her. As for me, my feelings for these women from elsewhere—I knew now that they were irrevocably sincere. But this Algerian woman, this friend who had intruded into my life as naturally as the air one breathes, she was different. My attraction to her transcended appearance. The nagging question tormented me: was it the same for her? Did she see beyond appearances, did she see beyond me?
Standing in front of her theater, a pastry in my hand, I was consumed by worry. It had been days since I had seen this Algerian woman so dear to my heart. Angélique had sent her home, giving her time to recover from a cold that had knocked her out. What was the point of stubbornly living alone in that shack whose walls let in the icy air? I knocked on the door repeatedly, with no answer. After waiting for a while, I decided to pull out the spare key she had entrusted to me one day, "just in case." I then headed toward the stage where she usually slept, behind the curtains. She suddenly pulled them aside and emerged, her face tired, her eyes dark-ringed. Seeing me, she seemed surprised, but also disappointed, with her dagger at her belt, that she wouldn't be able to use it against a friend.
"Oh, it's you."
"Uh... sorry?"
She raised an eyebrow and readjusted the shawl that delicately framed her face. I looked around: we were alone. Her companions' belongings were neatly folded in a corner, partially gathering dust. I approached her and set the box of pastries on the edge of the stage. She sat down, her legs dangling, her forehead furrowed with annoyance. I rubbed the back of my neck, sighing:
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? For leaving without saying goodbye last time? Or for leaving me without news?"
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. People said Algerian women were resentful, so I knew I was going to get an earful.
"It wasn't against you, truly. I'm sorry, I should have been decent to you."
"You certainly should have! You have no idea how angry I was!" she growled.
The shawl slipped from her head to drape over her shoulders.
"First, you leave for over an hour with your ex, and then, when you come back, you snub me?! I was worried sick! I still don't know what happened. When I ran into Alicia in the Tuileries walking the dogs and asked her for news of you, she told me you hadn't left your room for days."
Her words pierced me. I felt even more stupid, ashamed, and dirty than I already did. Silent, I waited for her to continue. She pushed the box of pastries away.
"I don't care that you came with food!" she cried out. "All I want are explanations. Talk to me, Verso! You're always afraid of saying too much. Do you think I don't notice? You spend your time hiding things, masking what you feel, and avoiding confrontations. Back home, in Algeria, the word of friends is sacred."
I noticed the tears welling up in the corner of her tired, dark-ringed eyes, and my heart tightened.
"You don't have the right to tell me you trust us, that you trust me, and then act like an asshole," she continued.
The last word echoed so loudly in the theater. Her voice had broken, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
I was an idiot. Or rather, I had reached a depth of stupidity I didn't recognize in myself. Not content with having broken myself by committing one of the worst mistakes of my existence, I had also hurt the only person who truly mattered to me. She had just confessed that she cared about me more deeply than I could have ever imagined. How could I have doubted her? To call her a gold-digger... the very idea was such an absurdity. Even a blind man could have seen the sincerity radiating from her. As she gritted her teeth, struggling not to let the tears that were burning behind her eyelids fall, I placed my hands on her knees, my thumbs tracing slow circles. My eyes searched for hers, and I suddenly understood why her gaze had always captivated me: it was a rare, piercing, unvarnished intensity. I invited her to come down and sit next to me. She didn't move, starved for answers. With one hand, I rubbed the back of my neck, and with the other, I took hers before taking a deep breath. I was trembling, my legs were weak, my heart was pounding, drumming in my chest, and my whole body seemed to cry out its sham.
"You know, I didn't feel anything... special for Louise, despite what happened between us..."
"Tell me more."
I nodded, a melancholic smile touching my lips. I then delivered the account of Louise's and my life—a patchwork of joys and sorrows, certainties and doubts. I confessed my past mistakes, those wrongs I had recognized far too late, and admitted our mutual betrayals, those faults that had undermined the foundation of our love. I recounted our ultimate quarrel, the explosion of our words, and the intimacy of the cab, then apologized for my coldness, my silence, for the distance I had established that made me seem like a stranger, a man I wasn't. I plunged my eyes into hers, but the gravity of my confessions made my gaze unbearable. I avoided it intermittently, my words becoming an overwhelming burden. She, imperturbable and silent, remained stoic. Her mutism was torture for me; her impenetrable look was an anxiety: how was I to know if she would ever forgive me for having avoided her for so long? I clasped her small hand in mine. She looked away, took a deep breath, and waited with infinite patience for me to finish my story before finally deciding to speak:
"That's... quite the mess, you know that?" she declared, looking at me again.
"I'm aware of it, yes." "I'm relieved you're telling me about it. That you're finally telling me what's wrong. But, I confess I'm deeply hurt. Why did you avoid me for so long? Didn't you trust me?"
There was a great deal of sadness in her voice, which had faltered again. I helped her adjust the shawl over her head and around her neck, an awkward grimace settling on my lips:
"I admit I doubted for a moment, I'm sorry. But after careful thought—"
"You're a really big asshole," she repeated, punctuating her words with a well-aimed flick between my eyebrows.
"Ow! Damn it, Naryman!"
"Efrah menna'tekch wahda bunya (Be happy I don't smack you)!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." i said, not understanding a single word she said.
We remained in silence for a moment, lost in our thoughts. I squeezed her hand in mine, like an anchor preventing me from drifting. When she leaned toward me, my senses awoke. She seemed hesitant to speak, searching for her words
"Yemma wrote to me again. I... I got her letter just before the ball."
"Oh? Is she well?"
"Yeah. As always."
Her distant gaze wandered to the few folded belongings piled up in boxes in a corner of the theater. My own eyes followed hers. I narrowed my eyes, and a new weight suddenly descended on my shoulders. My hand tightened on hers, fighting not to crush it, while I pressed my lips together to ward off the worst thought:
"Don't tell me that-"
"Some of my friends have already gone back home. They left to see their families while winter passes. Yemma wants me to go back too. She said they miss me..."
"The villagers?"
"And my future husband."
She shrugged, indifferent. I stood there, my eyes wide with surprise. Had I misheard?
"Wait, did you say 'husband'? Are you engaged?"
"I think so...?" she replied faintly, looking visibly confused. "And get this: I don't even know who he is. Yemma was vague."
Naryman explained to me that a French merchant had asked for the hand of the proudest virgin in her village because he wanted "to toughen up his son and make a man out of him, a real one." We exchanged a knowing look: we both knew perfectly well that her innocence had been lost long before she arrived in France.
We had already confided intimate details of our past to each other and exchanged suggestive jokes. This wasn't common behavior between a man and a woman, but she was far more open-minded than most people who talked about women from the colonies. They were often described as prudish, innocent, or even uptight. But that wasn't the case with the Algerian woman. For her, if those subjects needed to be discussed, one had to find the words, and if they didn't exist, one had to invent them.
No one knew, not even her mother. It was an unspeakable taboo, a silence that even the colonists exploited, trading the virginity of the poorest young girls for a few coins. A practice that wasn't so different from what happened here in France in wealthy families, where parents were willing to pay a high price to silence or accept the "dishonor" of their children. As long as rumors didn't spread and the newspapers remained silent, everything seemed perfect.
With this parenthesis closed, the immobility had become unbearable. My curiosity piqued, a growing confusion gripped me. Was Naryman going to announce her imminent departure to me? Had she really made the decision to leave, to live with a man whose name, situation, or even face she knew nothing about? I pursed my lips, restraining myself from asking any questions. I took a deep, discreet breath as she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders:
“You know, I miss my country, Verso. I miss it a lot. My mother, my neighbors and cousins, our herds... My life there, my life before...
“Are you going back to Algeria?” I asked simply, doing my best to keep my emotions from leaking into my voice.
A silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable, enveloping us both. Our eyes met for a moment. The solar flame that usually lit hers was weak and hesitant, but it still burned. Her decision weighed heavily on her, and the flu was draining her of energy. She leaned her head against me with a soft sigh, and I put an arm around her shoulders to offer her some of my warmth. I cleared my throat softly:
"A heart that sighs doesn't get what it desires, and when it's finished sighing, it still doesn't get what it desired," I quoted. "That's what Blaise de Montluc said."
"Why are you telling me that?" she asked, intrigued.
"Because you sighed, and it reflects your hesitations. You should ask yourself where you feel happiest. If you go home, you can always refuse that guy's marriage proposal, right? Well, if you want to. And besides, you say you miss your Algeria as much as he misses you."
"My Algeria is a little bit here too. And if I leave France, I know I'll miss my Algeria here just as much as I miss the France over there. Wherever I go, it's both home and home to others. I'll be with my loved ones in Kabylia, but my family in Paris means a lot."
My heart leaped in my chest, and I tightened my grip on her. Her words, heavy with meaning, pierced me. I remained silent, struggling to keep my breathing from betraying my confusion. Then she continued:
"We live under the same sky, so we're supposed to feel at home anywhere. Yet, I'm still hesitant..."
"Hm... if you're hesitant, it's because you need more arguments..."
"For and against. And for starters, winter here sucks."
She giggled, and so did I. Winters were indeed damn cold in Paris, but still less than in the provinces.
"Yet you do like the snow."
"There's snow in Kabylie too."
"But no Verso you can make them eat it."
She straightened up, raised her head, and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I offered her an amused, mock-questioning smile. She laughed again, and I joined her. She nudged me with a friendly elbow before grabbing a tissue to wipe her nose. I could see her holding back for a while. I slid a hand down her back, gently patting between her shoulder blades.
"Come on, my friend, it's time to leave this place that's going to kill you before you can even make up your mind. Gather enough to last a few days at the manor."
"At the manor? Verso, I can't impose myself like that."
"Impose yourself? What are you telling me? This is your house."
She wanted us to present her with arguments? I was going to do it. It was my selfish desire to convince her to stay in the part of Algeria she had built here.
warning : sexual content (18+), graphic violence, blood (p in v, rough intensity, dirty talk, desperation sex), strong language, some angst, porn with plot
summary : duty demands connor expose you. desire makes him betray everything he was programmed to believe.
word count : 5,016
the chair beneath you feels like punishment. hard plastic, too small for your frame, every edge pressing into you as if the precinct itself wants you to break before you’ve even spoken. the room is colder than it should be, white walls tinged with gray under fluorescent lighting, the kind of sterile brightness that makes it impossible to hide. the cuffs cut into your wrists when you shift, and you wonder, not for the first time in the past two hours, if this is how your life ends. not with a bang, not even with blood, but with the dull scrape of metal against skin and silence so heavy you can barely breathe.
you weren’t supposed to be here. you weren’t supposed to have blood on your clothes. and yet, when you close your eyes, you can still see the red splattered across your hands. you’d tried to explain, tried to choke out words to the officers who stormed your apartment, but the story collapsed under its own weight. you didn’t kill him, you never even touched the knife, you didn’t even know how the evidence landed in your sink. they’d looked at you with flat eyes, and you knew then what the rest of the city would think too.
murderer.
the door clicks. a sharp, final sound that makes you sit straighter in the chair. you expect another human cop, someone with tired eyes and a pen ready to etch your confession into paper. instead, what walks in doesn’t belong here, at least not in the way the rest of them do.
tall. perfectly pressed black suit that doesn’t wrinkle when he moves. pale skin without blemish. hair slicked into precision. and the glow at his temple: a slow, unblinking circle of thirium-blue light.
“i’m connor,” he says, his voice smooth but edged like steel beneath velvet. “i’m the android sent by cyberlife. i’ll be conducting this interrogation.”
he sits across from you, folding his hands neatly on the table, posture so flawless it makes you feel disassembled. for a long moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the ventilation system. then his gaze, dark, assessing, inhumanly steady, locks on yours, and your stomach twists.
“you are accused of the murder of daniel carrow,” he states. his tone doesn’t rise or fall; it’s a straight line, unyielding. “do you deny the charges?” you suck in a breath, your throat dry as sand. “i didn’t kill anyone.” there’s no hesitation in your voice, but there’s panic underneath it, and you know he can hear it.
connor tilts his head, and the movement is so precise, so calculated, it makes you feel pinned. “the victim’s blood was found on your clothing,” he continues. “the murder weapon was discovered in your sink. two eyewitnesses have already placed you at the scene. can you explain these inconsistencies?”
anger burns beneath your skin, as much at the situation as at the way he delivers the facts. calm, neutral, as if your life is nothing more than a checklist of evidence.
“i was framed,” you say, your voice sharper than you intend. the cuffs rattle as you lean forward. “someone set me up. you have to see that.”
he studies you. really studies you. his eyes don’t flicker or wander, they hold steady, as if each word you speak is a piece of code he’s running through algorithms in real time.
for a fleeting second, something shifts in his expression. not doubt exactly, but curiosity. intrigue. and just as quickly, it’s gone, buried beneath the mechanical neutrality. “we’ll see,” he replies softly.
the rest of the interrogation feels endless. he asks questions like scalpels, not knives: precise, clean, meant to open you up piece by piece rather than slice you apart. every denial you give, he counters with data. every explanation, he runs through his impossibly quick logic and finds holes you didn’t know existed. and yet, through it all, he doesn’t look at you like the others do.
the cops who dragged you in glared at you with contempt, muttered about how quickly they’d close this case. to them, you were already guilty. but connor’s gaze is different. not pity, not hatred. instead, he watches you like you’re a puzzle, one he’s been ordered to solve but doesn’t quite understand yet. you don’t know if that’s better or worse.
by the time the door finally opens again and another officer steps in to murmur something to connor, your body feels like it’s been wrung dry. your voice is hoarse, your wrists ache from the cuffs, and your nerves buzz with the sick awareness that no matter what you said, no matter how loudly you denied it, the evidence still sits stacked against you.
connor rises smoothly from the chair, buttoning his jacket with a precision so sharp it almost hurts to look at. “this investigation is ongoing,” he tells you, eyes lingering just a second too long before he moves toward the door. “you’ll be… supervised.”
you want to ask him what that means, but the words get lost in your throat as the officers lead you out, your cuffs clinking with each step. supervised. you don’t know yet that it means connor himself. but you’ll find out soon enough.
they don’t throw you in a cell. not yet. the official language is “supervised release under investigation,” but you know better. it’s not freedom. it’s a leash, just long enough to make you think you can breathe, but tight enough to yank you back the second you step out of line.
the leash has a name. connor.
he doesn’t announce it, doesn’t give you the satisfaction of hearing it out loud. you just know, the moment you’re escorted from the precinct and he falls into step a precise three paces behind you. you want to tell yourself it’s coincidence, but when you speed up, so does he. when you stop suddenly, you feel the weight of his gaze between your shoulder blades, steady and unflinching. it’s not coincidence. it’s surveillance.
the “housing unit” they give you is barely more than a box, four gray walls, a bed that creaks if you breathe too hard, and a window that overlooks nothing but another wall. the kind of place designed to make people break before trial. and he’s there. always there.
he stands near the door at first, silent, hands folded behind his back like a soldier. his eyes sweep the room, cataloguing every detail in seconds before landing back on you. and they stay there.
the first night, you try to ignore him. you crawl into bed, turn your back, and pretend his presence doesn’t sink into your skin like static. but it’s impossible. every creak of the bedframe, every breath you take, you feel his attention prickling at the edges. not hostile, not warm, just present. like a camera with too much weight to be invisible.
“do you ever blink?” you mutter into the silence. there’s a pause. and then, “i don’t need to.” his voice is calm, flat, but something about the answer unsettles you more than silence.
the days blur. he follows when you’re escorted to the cafeteria, when you’re given an hour to walk the fenced perimeter outside. you can’t shake him. three paces behind, always. when you turn, sometimes you catch him watching you with that same sharp focus, as if every tilt of your head or twitch of your hand might be the missing key to his puzzle.
once, frustration snaps out of you before you can choke it back. “stop staring at me like i’m some kind of lab rat.” his expression doesn’t change, but his voice does. softer. lower. “i’m not.” the words are simple, but they land like a spark in dry grass. you don’t know what to make of them.
what unnerves you most isn’t his presence, it’s how quickly you start noticing him. the smooth, controlled movements of his hands when he scrolls through data on his interface. the way his eyes narrow when he focuses, lashes casting shadows against too-perfect skin. the faint scent of synthetic fabric and some sterile cleanliness that clings to him.
you shouldn’t notice. you shouldn’t care. he’s an android, and you’re under suspicion of murder. this should be the last thing crossing your mind. but the air between you grows heavier every day.
late at night, when the silence is so thick you can hear your own heartbeat, you imagine turning your head just enough to catch him watching you. you imagine asking him why he hasn’t looked away.
you imagine him answering. and beneath all the fear, all the anger, a new feeling coils in your chest, tight and dangerous: anticipation. you don’t know what you’re waiting for. only that something has to give. and when it does, it won’t be small.
rain slams against the narrow window of your unit like a thousand tiny fists, blurring the outside world into gray streaks. the storm rolled in fast, swallowing the sky, and now thunder rattles through the walls like a reminder that the city doesn’t care about your innocence. outside, people are still walking the streets, warm behind coats and umbrellas. you’re locked inside a box, under a gaze that never falters.
you’re pacing. you’ve been pacing for nearly an hour. connor leans against the wall near the door, arms folded neatly across his chest. calm. immovable. you think if the storm tore the roof off this building, he would still be standing exactly as he is now, perfectly balanced, perfectly composed, like nothing human ever touches him.
and maybe that’s what makes it worse. because you are human. your skin itches with restlessness, your throat burns with the need to scream. your life is collapsing and he’s just watching, silent and pristine.
finally, you snap. “you don’t believe me, do you?” the words tear out of you, sharp, brittle. you whirl on him, hands curling into fists at your sides. “all this time, following me, staring at me, you think i killed him. you think i’m lying.”
for a moment, the room hums with the sound of rain and nothing else. then, quietly: “i don’t know what to believe.” it isn’t the answer you expected. you wanted denial, cold facts, something easy to hate. instead, his voice is measured, thoughtful, almost careful.
you laugh bitterly. “that’s comforting.” his eyes flicker. not with irritation, not with mockery, but something more dangerous, conflict. “the evidence points to you,” he says. “but…” he stops, brows furrowing, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him hesitate. “there are inconsistencies i can’t ignore. details that don’t align with your behavior, your profile. the crime scene doesn’t… add up.”
you freeze. this is the first crack. the first time his certainty slips, the first time the mask of perfect objectivity wavers. “so what?” you ask, voice low. “you’re saying maybe i’m not a murderer after all?”
his jaw tightens, and his gaze finally drops, not far, just enough to land on your hands, the tremor in your fingers from hours of restless pacing. then back to your eyes. “i’m saying,” connor murmurs, “i need to know more.”
lightning flashes outside, illuminating the room in white for a split second. and in that moment, you see it, the way his stance has shifted, the faint crease between his brows, the weight in his gaze that goes beyond duty. something else lurks there.
you step closer, slow, deliberate. not enough to touch, but enough that the air between you tightens. you don’t know why you do it. maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s the storm making everything feel more raw, maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been under his watch long enough to feel the shape of his presence in your bones.
“careful,” you whisper, the word tasting like a dare. “you sound almost human.” for the first time, his composure falters. a muscle twitches in his jaw, his LED flickering yellow.
he doesn’t answer. but he doesn’t step back either. you stand there, the storm outside matching the electricity crawling up your spine, until the silence feels like it could burn through the walls. and in that silence, you realize, this is only the beginning.
the storm doesn’t let up for two days. rain hammers the unit walls until the sound is constant, like the world itself is trying to drown you. you think you’d go mad from it if not for the other constant, him. connor.
he’s a shadow stitched to your movements, precise as ever. three paces when you walk, always angled toward you when you sit, always awake when you stir from uneasy sleep. at first, the predictability gnawed at you. now, it’s something else. unnerving, yes. but strangely… grounding.
you notice more than you should. the way his gaze softens, not much, but just enough, when you fumble with a fork in the cafeteria, too tired to eat properly. the way his fingers hover an inch from your arm once, when you stumble on the slick floor by the showers, though he doesn’t touch. the way he studies every interaction between you and the officers, not just cataloguing but… assessing. like he’s looking for cracks in them, not just you.
then, one night, everything shifts. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the rain-blurred window, when his voice cuts through the silence. “i reviewed the surveillance data from the night of the murder.”
you turn, startled. connor almost never speaks first. his eyes are on you, dark and unyielding. “the building cameras were tampered with. there are gaps, minutes missing. and the witness statements contradict each other on the timeline.” your pulse stutters. “so you believe me?”
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he steps closer, his movements slow, deliberate. when he stops, he’s only a foot away, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him inside your space instead of looming at the edges of it.
“i believe,” he says finally, “that someone wanted you to be found guilty. badly enough to manipulate evidence. badly enough to take risks.”
the room feels smaller, tighter, as his words sink in. because they’re what you’ve been screaming since the start—but hearing them from him makes it real.
“then clear my name,” you breathe. “you have the power to do that, don’t you?” his jaw tightens. “not yet. i need more proof.” frustration rips through you, sharp and hot. “proof? how much more do you need before you stop treating me like a criminal?”
you stand, and suddenly you’re inches from him, anger propelling you forward until your chest brushes his suit. you expect him to recoil, to put that mechanical wall back up. but he doesn’t move. his eyes flicker down, just for a heartbeat, to your mouth, before locking back on your gaze. your breath catches.
the air between you vibrates, storm-heavy, and you realize your hands are trembling at your sides. not just with rage, but with something else, something dangerous that’s been building since the first night you felt his eyes on you.
“you shouldn’t…” he starts, his voice lower than usual, his LED flashing amber. “shouldn’t what?” you whisper, the words brushing the space between you. his lips part, as if to answer, but the sound of heavy boots in the hall cuts through the tension like glass shattering.
connor snaps back, straightening, mask falling into place in an instant. the door bangs open, and an officer strides in, rainwater dripping from his jacket.
“rk800,” the man grunts, “we’ve got a lead. suspect spotted near the docks. you’re needed.” his eyes cut to you, sharp and mocking. “don’t worry, sweetheart. we’ll leave you with babysitting duty soon enough.”
the officer’s gone before you can snap back. but connor doesn’t move. doesn’t leave. his eyes linger on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s memorizing the way you look in this moment, anger and fear and defiance and want all tangled together.
finally, he turns, muttering, “stay here,” before disappearing into the hall. the storm swallows the silence again, but your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing with the memory of how close he stood. and for the first time, you wonder what would’ve happened if the officer had been a minute later.
the storm breaks by morning, leaving the city slick and gleaming under a weak sun. but inside your unit, the air is thicker than ever.
connor returns just after dawn. his suit is damp, hair darker at the edges, but his expression is as precise as always, controlled, calm, unreadable. except you can see it now, can feel it, the strain at the seams. the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours when he steps back inside.
you wait until the door shuts before speaking. “well?” he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he moves to the small desk in the corner, pulling up glowing blue files with a flick of his fingers. “the suspect at the docks was a false lead,” he says at last. “but i found something else.”
you step closer despite yourself. the holographic evidence hovers between you, records, maps, logs of security data. connor’s voice is low, steady, as he explains.
“the knife wasn’t just planted in your sink,” he says. “traces of thirium were detected on the handle. faint, but enough to suggest android interference. and your building’s surveillance wasn’t only tampered with, it was rewritten. whoever did this had access to high-level software.”
the room seems to tilt beneath you. “so… someone went out of their way to-”
“frame you,” connor finishes. his eyes lift to yours, sharp and certain. “yes.” the confirmation should feel like relief. instead, it’s terrifying. because if someone wanted you gone badly enough to do this, they won’t stop just because connor’s poking holes in their story.
your chest tightens. “so what happens now?” he hesitates. actually hesitates. “now,” he says slowly, “i continue the investigation. but until we know who’s responsible, you’re still in danger.” danger. the word curls around your spine like ice.
you step back, running a hand through your hair, the weight of it pressing in. framed for murder. hunted by someone with power. and trapped in a room with the one person who’s both your jailer and your only hope. the silence stretches too long.
“you should sit,” connor says finally, softer this time. “you haven’t eaten.” the words catch you off guard. not an order. not protocol. almost… concern. you laugh, sharp and humorless. “what’s next, you’ll tell me to get some sleep? tuck me in?”
it’s meant to sting. but when you look at him, you see something flicker across his face, something he crushes down too quickly. and then you realize how close you are.
at some point, you’ve drifted across the room again, the space between you shrinking until there’s only a breath of air left. his eyes drop, not to your mouth this time, but to your hands, clenched tight at your sides.
your pulse stutters. “connor,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you’re asking. his LED flickers yellow. “this isn’t… advisable,” he says, but his voice is too low, too rough, the edge of restraint sharp enough to cut.
you should step back. you should laugh it off. you should do anything except lift your hand, slow and deliberate, and touch his arm. the fabric of his suit is cold under your fingertips. solid. real. his breath catches. you’ve never heard that sound from him before, and it unravels something inside you.
before you can second-guess it, his hand comes up, fast, precise, but trembling ever so slightly as his fingers close around your wrist. not pushing you away. just holding.
the room hums with it, electricity so thick it drowns out the world. his eyes meet yours, and for the first time, they aren’t just sharp, they’re searching. raw. “why are you doing this?” you murmur. his voice is almost broken when he answers. “i don’t know.”
the words hang there, fragile and dangerous. his grip loosens, your hand still resting on him, and you swear the storm outside has found its way into your chest again, wild and unstoppable.
it’s only when a noise in the hall startles you both that the moment shatters. connor drops your wrist like it burned him, stepping back so quickly it makes the loss feel violent. his mask slams back into place, voice flat as he says, “we should focus on the evidence.” but you’ve seen it now. felt it. and there’s no going back.
night settles heavy over the unit, the kind of quiet that feels staged, too still, too controlled. you’re stretched on the bed, staring at the ceiling, nerves buzzing from the memory of connor’s hand on your wrist earlier. his touch still lingers, phantom warmth spreading through you despite the fact that he pulled away like he’d touched fire.
he hasn’t spoken much since. he sits at the desk now, posture perfect, eyes on streams of glowing data that dance over his interface. to anyone else, he’d look untouched. unshaken. but you saw it. the flicker. the slip. the part of him that didn’t know how to answer why he held on instead of letting go.
you’re about to turn over, force yourself into some shallow sleep, when it happens. a noise, sharp, metallic, at the door. you sit up instantly. connor’s head lifts, eyes flashing as he’s already on his feet, stance sharp and defensive. the second sound comes louder, the unmistakable grind of someone trying to override the lock.
“stay behind me,” he says, his voice clipped and urgent. the command in his tone makes your body react before your brain can. you move off the bed, pressing yourself close to his back as the lock gives way with a heavy click.
the door bursts open. two men push inside, faces shadowed by hoods, weapons gleaming in the faint light. one clutches a knife, the other a metal pipe, both moving fast, too fast. but connor is faster.
he intercepts the first swing, his arm snapping up with inhuman precision, twisting the attacker’s wrist until the knife clatters to the floor. his body moves like water, seamless, efficient, dropping the man with a brutal kick that sends him crashing against the wall.
the second lunges at you. you gasp, stumbling back, but connor is already there. his hand grips the man’s collar, yanking him backward, slamming him into the desk hard enough to splinter wood. the pipe falls uselessly as connor shoves him down, holding him pinned with terrifying ease.
you can barely breathe, your pulse racing, the whole room vibrating with the violence of it. the attackers groan, dazed, defeated, and connor doesn’t even look winded. but when his eyes snap to you, checking you over, there’s something wild in them. something rawer than the perfect android mask.
“are you hurt?” he demands. “no,” you breathe, voice trembling. “i-I’m fine.” his LED flickers yellow, then red, then back to blue, rapid and unstable. his chest rises and falls too quickly for someone who doesn’t need air. and when you realize he’s standing between you and the bodies, his hand half-raised like he’d shield you again if he had to, something inside you breaks loose.
you step forward before you can think. “connor-” the word barely leaves your lips before you’re reaching for him, grabbing fistfuls of his suit, pulling yourself against him. his eyes widen, LED stuttering, but he doesn’t push you away. not this time.
instead, when your mouth crashes against his, it’s like a dam bursting. he responds with a force that steals your breath, his lips hot and desperate against yours, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you gasp. he moves like a man starved, like he’s been holding back for too long and the fight just stripped away his last defense.
you clutch at him, pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of his body pressed against yours. he growls low in his throat, a sound you never thought you’d hear from him, and the vibration of it sends heat spiraling through you.
“this is-” he breaks the kiss, voice rough, almost broken. “this is a mistake.”
“then stop,” you whisper, your lips brushing his. “stop if you don’t want it.” his hands tremble where they hold you, his LED spinning wild red. and then he kisses you again, harder, hungrier, as if your words gave him permission to shatter.
the kiss deepens, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, the taste of him, synthetic and electric and utterly overwhelming, burning through you. his hand slides up your back, anchoring you, while the other fists in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
“i shouldn’t-” he mutters against your lips, the words unraveling as you drag him closer, your body arching into his. “but you are,” you breathe, and then there’s no space left between you. for the first time since this nightmare began, you don’t feel like prey. you feel alive. burning. and connor is burning with you.
the room is still humming from the fight. the two men lie groaning on the floor, one unconscious, the other barely moving, but neither is a threat anymore. the metallic tang of blood mingles with the sharp ozone of discharged circuitry, remnants of connor’s precision strikes. but all you can feel is him.
connor’s hands grip you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. his lips are still raw against yours, his LED spinning wild, his breath ragged though he doesn’t need it. the taste of him lingers, synthetic electricity and something you know is entirely him, uniquely connor.
“you should sleep,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse, though his mouth trails along your jaw instead of pulling away. “you need rest-”
“stop pretending,” you whisper, your fingers curling in his shirt, pulling him tighter. “you don’t want to stop.” his entire frame stiffens, torn between programming and instinct, mission and desire. his hands tremble against your hips. his LED flashes yellow, then red again, stuttering like it might short out.
“i can’t…” his voice falters. “if i let this happen-” you cut him off with another kiss, deeper, hungrier. this time, he breaks. he lifts you effortlessly, pushing you back against the desk, sending scattered datapads and shards of wood tumbling to the floor. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer until there’s no space left. his body is solid, unyielding, but the way he clutches you feels desperate, almost human.
“say it,” you whisper, panting between kisses. “say you want this.” his forehead presses against yours, his eyes dark, almost feral. “i want this. i want you.” the confession unleashes something in both of you.
his hands slide under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. the contrast makes you gasp, he shouldn’t feel this warm, but he does, like his systems are running too hot, like wanting you is rewriting his programming. your shirt is tugged over your head, discarded, his mouth instantly finding the newly exposed skin of your throat.
you arch against him, breathless, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips move lower, teeth grazing your collarbone. “connor-” your voice shatters when his hands skim lower, unfastening your pants with precise efficiency but a trembling urgency that betrays his control. he pulls back just long enough to look at you, really look. his eyes burn, his LED gone solid red now. “tell me to stop and i will.”
“don’t you dare,” you breathe. the last restraint breaks. he surges forward, kissing you again, messy and consuming. clothes fall away piece by piece until nothing separates you, skin pressed to synthetic skin, every nerve in your body alight. his touch is everywhere, rough where you crave it, reverent where you need it most.
when he finally pushes into you, it steals your breath, your body arching around him with a gasp that feels like it cracks you open. he groans low, the sound vibrating against your neck, his lips biting down to stifle the noise.
“too much?” he pants, holding still, trembling. “no- please move.” you beg, clawing at his back. he obeys, but not gently. his rhythm builds fast, hard, every thrust driving the air from your lungs. the desk rattles beneath you, the world narrowing to the feeling of him inside you, his grip bruising on your hips, his mouth pressing desperate kisses against your shoulder.
he murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only anchor keeping him from falling apart. and when your climax tears through you, shaking your entire body, you swear you feel him follow, his body shuddering, his LED strobing violently as if his whole system is crashing around the intensity of release.
the aftermath is raw silence, broken only by your gasps. his forehead rests against your shoulder, his body still trembling against yours. “i shouldn’t-” he begins, voice wrecked. “stop,” you whisper, cupping his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “don’t ruin it by pretending this wasn’t real.”
he swallows hard. his LED shifts, finally slowing to a calm blue. “it was real.” before either of you can say more, one of the downed attackers groans. connor pulls away reluctantly, securing his clothing in seconds, but his eyes never leave you.
within an hour, backup arrives, hank leading the charge, grumbling about late-night calls. the men are cuffed, dragged out, and under interrogation they break quickly. the name they spill, the one who hired them to silence you, matches the fingerprints connor already found in the forged evidence. your innocence is confirmed. the case is closed.
later, when the paperwork is done and the night finally bleeds into dawn, you find yourselves back in the quiet of the unit. connor stands by the window, light painting sharp angles over his face. you step close, placing your hand against his chest. his hand covers yours instantly. “so what now?” you ask softly.
he looks at you, eyes steady, voice firm. “now, i protect you. not because it’s my mission. because it’s my choice.” and when he kisses you again, slower, gentler, but no less consuming, you know this is no longer about survival. it’s about combustion. and what comes after.
Relationship: M/F Yumeship - OG Verso Dessendre x OC
(Click here to read it on Ao3)
-Chapter One (1): "They say bismuth burns blue."
-Chapter Two (2) : "Its iridescent colours are enticing."
-Chapter Three (3) : "Feed the Flames."
Chapter Four (4): "Bismuth is Arsenic."
" Al Sheikh mat ! Ha ha!"
"Huh?! Already? Dammit!"
I proudly held out my hand to the young man, claiming my due after the crushing defeat he had just suffered. Though I was born in the mountains, I had lived in Oran for a good while, where an old woman I worked for would often invite me to pass the time playing board games.
She was incredibly skilled and even let me keep some of the money I won from the bets we'd organize in the evenings after the shop closed. Tons of people from the neighborhood wanted to challenge us, but no one could hold a candle to us. Verso, pouting, shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out two brand-new francs. He dropped them into the hollow of my small hand. With a mocking look and clearly annoyed at losing yet again, I leaned over the board and ran my hand over the top of his head, ruffling his neatly combed hair.
"Don't worry about it! This game just isn't for you! I can give you lessons, if you want. "
"I'm sure you're cheating. A-And stop that, will you?! Do you know how long it takes me to do my hair?"
"If you spent less time on it, you'd have more time to get better at this game."
He grimaced as I snickered, watching him try to fix his hair as best he could. Giving up, he slicked his hair back, clearing his forehead before the locks fell back onto his face on their own. I stared at him for a moment, observing how the waves of his hair were in perfect harmony with each other. Every single one was in its place, even after my assault. It was unfair how beautiful he was.
Twilight had arrived. The partially rebuilt roof of the theater, which served as home for me and the rest of my companions, let the last rays of daylight enter the building. The pink and orange sky above our heads signaled that the young man would soon have to return home. By reflex, I fixed my own hair as well, adjusting the curly locks that framed my face. As he watched me, he leaned back more comfortably in the chair he was sitting on. He frowned when he saw me pick up the chess set and put it away in its box. I could feel that he wanted to talk about something else, not to change the subject from his multiple crushing defeats, but he seemed... preoccupied:
"Say, did your mother answer your letters?" he asked calmly. "We haven't talked about it since."
"My mother?"
I retorted calmly as he nodded to confirm I had heard who he was talking about.
"Yeah, she answered me about three weeks ago. Well, the scribe from our village wrote for her. I got her letter about ten days ago."
He grabbed his lukewarm glass of tea and took a sip, listening intently and inviting me to continue:
"Yemma is doing well. And so are our herds. Apparently, a lot of French people are coming to the village to trade or buy some livestock. They even suggested to Yemma that she raise pigs. She accepted without a problem," I said, raising my eyebrows before finishing my glass of tea. "God said we should avoid eating them, not raising them."
"Oh? You believe in God?"
I shrugged and rolled my eyes. Meanwhile, he poured me another glass of tea, and I pushed a handful of roasted peanuts toward him. He thanked me with a nod, then I took a deep breath.
"Let's just say that, on some level, I'm pretty sure there has to be an entity watching over us—someone or something that watches us live and die, that shapes landscapes, creates storms..."
"That sounds an awful lot like the work of a Painter," he sang, taking another sip of tea with a smile.
"Yeah, that's true, like a painter," I snickered, "A very big painter with a huge paintbrush like this!"
I spread my arms wide, and he nearly choked as he burst out laughing. I got up and slid in next to him, patting him on the back while still laughing.
"Well now, little guy! What are you doing?!" I exclaimed in a comical, exaggerated accent.
"Oh! I'm really hearing Angélique..."
He took out a nice silk pocket handkerchief and wiped the small tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes. When he had fully caught his breath, he noticed I was sitting on the arm of the chair, one hand massaging the back of his neck, the other resting on my thigh. I had a faint smile on my face, but my gaze was elsewhere. I was still thinking about my mother's letter.
"In my last letter, I told Yemma that my life in Paris could be hard sometimes, but that I have the support of someone here. Like an angel who fell from the sky..."
"Ah, I see. And I wonder who that angel could possibly be," he said with a chuckle as I gave his cheek a gentle pinch.
"I'm talking about Angélique, of course..."
"Obviously..."
I playfully stuck my tongue out at him, then continued.
"She replied that she had said a prayer to thank that guardian angel, and that she had also asked God to protect me and grant me happiness, such as someone who could support me as strongly as Baba had supported her when she arrived in the village."
"Your mother isn't Kabyle?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if the news was more shocking than surprising.
"Yes, she is, but you know how people are: all it takes is for you to come from another land or a tribe from the other side of a mountain, and you're treated differently."
"I think we're the ones most able to understand that, Naryman."
I met his gaze. He had placed his hand on mine without me even realizing it. The gesture touched me. His words resonated with me, and strangely, deep within his eyes, I understood that they truly resonated with himself as well. His words weren't just simple sounds floating in the air but the deep, vibrant echo of his soul. Every word he had spoken was woven from the very fabric of his being, a symphony of thoughts and feelings that resonated far beyond the lips that formed them. His words seemed to carry the weight of his experiences and the whisper of his secrets.
The night fell quickly, faster than it needed to. Our tea had grown cold, the peanuts were going soft, and the inside of the theater grew dark, but we remained there, his arm around my waist, mine around his shoulders as we hugged peacefully. The position may have been uncomfortable for our bodies, but our souls found their rest there. The wolf had closed its wings around me, the solitary jasmine flower that had braved the storms and simply wanted to rest for a moment.
"Tell your mother not to worry."
"I'll send my letter tomorrow."
The memory of the letter I had sent my mother, and her reply, remained anchored in my mind. It was a short while before the ball. I squeezed Verso's hand tighter, almost crushing it, but he didn't mind, simply stroking mine with his thumb. After a quick thought, I grabbed his arm instead. I didn't want to break his bones.
When we returned to the ballroom, several pairs of eyes landed on us. It was as if, for a moment, we were the evening's entertainment. I noticed Renoir, who gestured for us to join him and his wife. Aline's gaze was almost as piercing as her son's, but I saw kindness in it as she approached me. She scrutinized me from head to toe, then from toe to head. Had my efforts not to seem vulgar been in vain? Was there something about me she didn't like? But then why was her gaze so kind? My mind raced, turning in circles, collecting every possible curse word in French, Derdja, and Tamazigh, which I repeated to myself over and over. I nearly dug my nails into Verso's arm, took a deep breath, and detached myself from him before offering a respectful bow to his mother, inclining my head as I had with her husband.
"Good evening, Madame Dessendre. My name is Naryman. It's an honor to meet you and take part in your festivities. Your son is a person who—"
"The feeling is mutual, young lady," she interrupted me. "And I have no doubt that if my son invited you, it's because he has a great deal of respect for you, unlike some of the people here whose whispering I can't seem to silence..."
"Mon ange, it's going to be okay..."
Renoir slipped his hand into his wife's. I fell silent. Just as his father had said a few moments earlier, our brief escape had caused a stir, sparking rumors and remarks that were all part of the game of high society: like a great game of chess or checkers where strategy goes hand in hand with destabilization. Then, to my great surprise, Aline spoke to me again.
"You're Algerian, aren't you? We were there once with my husband, in Algiers."
"Mom, really?" Verso asked, not hiding his surprise.
"We went to meet some Painters who showed us around the capital."
"If you ever go back, let me be your guide," I declared with contained enthusiasm.
"Hold on, I just missed an episode," Verso said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You've already been to Algeria?"
"Everyone in the aristocracy has been there at least once. And we were planning to go back someday with your sisters and you," Renoir said simply, amused to see his son react that way.
~~~
For a moment, her smile faded. She listened to my parents talk about the good times they had in her country—hardships they had never truly known because they had money and, above all, because they were French. While some saw the colonies as nothing more than playgrounds for the wealthy, those who came from there viewed our country as a land of opportunity, willing to help whomever it chose. Naryman had been lucky, she was aware of it, but many people she cherished hadn't had that privilege. I wanted to offer her a family she could lean on, but at what cost? Was I going to want something in return?
The rest of the evening went off without a hitch, at least until a guest approached us. Damn it! It was Louise. What was she doing here? I knew her parents had been invited, but knowing them, they would never have allowed their daughter to accompany them, especially after everything that had happened between us. I bit my lip, holding back a curse. My mother's eyes widened in astonishment, but she tried to stay calm. I brushed her arm and gave her a nod: I would handle it.
"A lavish reception worthy of the Dessendres, isn't it?"
Louise inquired as she stood right next to Naryman, who jumped at her arrival.
"What are you doing here? Aren't you with your husband?" I asked dryly. "Unless he found better company?"
"Richard is in London on business; he left this morning."
"And how does Richard's absence give you the right to insert yourself into this evening? Your own parents didn't want you to meddle in their business, so why insist?"
Getting closer, she bumped into the Algerian.
"Let me through, dear, go see if anyone needs anything."
Was this woman taking Naryman for a servant? And by what right did she speak to anyone that way? It was too much. Though I had loved this woman with all my heart back then, I now felt only sadness and anger toward her. Just as I was about to retort, the young woman beside me refused to stand for it. She grabbed Louise's wrist firmly and met her gaze. The incandescent embers in her eyes seemed to come to life, and I held my breath, as if I were the one about to run out of air.
"Benti (my girl), if you're in the habit of speaking to people around you that way, it's no surprise to me that your parents think you're a dishonor to them."
"Let go of me, you're hurting me. Aline, tell your servant to get her hand off me."
"She is in no way a servant; she is our guest," Mom declared. "And I couldn't care less what you're feeling. So I would ask you to get out of here before I get angry and involve your family. Is that clear?"
"I'll walk her outside," I said, turning to Naryman. "Will you wait for me?"
The Algerian's jaw was clenched, so she only answered me with a simple nod. She abruptly let go of Louise's wrist, leaving the imprint of her fingers behind. Knowing that several guests had already noticed the altercation, it was crucial to avoid a scandal at all costs. I invited Louise to follow me, under the disapproving gaze of my parents. Irritated, she cast one last resentful look in Naryman's direction, who returned it without flinching. My mother placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her. It was good. I knew I could count on my family. Somehow.
As I led Louise outside, annoyed, I turned to her, crossing my arms.
"You have to be an idiot to hope for my family's favor after what you've done."
"So what? You were the first one to betray me, I'll have you know! All those nights you were absent, all those endless delays—I know you were seeing someone else!"
"We've already talked about this, and you know as well as I do that you lied to me! How many times did you have to cheat on me to get pregnant with that guy, huh? Three, four, or even a dozen times, wasn't it? And to think... to think I had started painting again just for you... that I got the urge to give you a portrait of us... and you ruined everything."
The young woman squinted, and her forehead did the same. I could tell even with her bangs covering it. She knew as well as I did that my frequent absences had a reason.
"You only think about your fucking paintbrushes, Verso! You only think about your fucking self. You know what? You're just incapable of loving someone if they don't serve one of your interests. You used me to give yourself the desire to paint and give meaning to our relationship. Maybe you did love me as much as I loved you, but I waited for you to say it."
"You waited for me to say it? 'Waited'? That's a joke. Tell me I'm in a fucking dream..."
I rolled my eyes and ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back. I took a deep breath, trying to contain the storm brewing inside me. This woman had demanded proof of my love, as if everything I had done for her was just a fantasy. Yet I had spent entire days in my studio painting the most sumptuous worlds for her; I had never stopped praising her to every member of my family, and the time I had left, after my classes and my duties as a young Dessendre, I gave to her. I was sometimes at my wit's end, but it didn't matter to me. Of course, to this day, none of those painted worlds remain; I destroyed everything. Seeing those works again would have been torture; their blades would have pierced my heart. She continued:
"You neglected me and you stopped making love to me; you were always tired. I felt like you didn't desire me anymore, Verso."
"Someone else was already taking care of that anyway, weren't they?"
"You went to brothels too, sleeping with foreign women. And now you've got one wrapped around your finger. Where did you find that one? In Boulogne?"
My jaw clenched, my fists tightened until the leather of my gloves creaked, and I stared at her with a dark look.
"Take that back. Right now."
"About what? The little women from the brothel or the one you pay to keep you company wherever you go? Plus, she's an Algerian. You know perfectly well they're only good for paving our roads and picking grapes in Barbès, those foreigners. There's nothing else to get from them, except diseases" she said.
Rolling her eyes and turning her back to me as she headed toward her carriage.
"You know, Verso, in this whole story between us, no one is all white or all black. You just have to compare our two versions to see that, in the end, we're just fucking hypocrites. Stay with your Algerian, and you'll see how she'll take advantage of you and your privileges. We both know how it's going to end, with her just like with me. Except with me, your feelings were always clear: you hate me so much you want to fuck me. It's your chance, I'm leaving Paris soon."
My face froze at her words. I knew Naryman wasn't like that, but it was true that I had helped her a lot to integrate into France, into Paris, and soon into our family. I had confided some of my secrets to her, while deep down, I didn't know much about her. As for the rest of Louise's words...
Under the inky sky where I stood alone, I watched the wide-open carriage door. Louise was watching me with that look I knew all too well. I took one step, then two, then three... until I joined her in the carriage and we shut ourselves in.
"We know how it's going to end, with her just like with me."
Her words echoed over and over in my weak mind. I hated her as much as I had loved her, that was obvious, but I was a fucking hypocrite, just like her. She wrapped her arms around me, once so warm, now heavy on my neck. I captured her lips with fervor, lifted her ball gown, and positioned myself between her legs. Louise's fist hit the ceiling of the carriage twice. Immediately, the coachman gave a sharp tug on the reins, and the vehicle lurched forward. In the swaying alcove, time stood still. The shadows of the streetlights danced across our feverish bodies, our sighs mingling with the creaking of the crimson velvet seat. Every jolt brought us a little closer, in a symphony I wanted to be silent and that she desired to be clandestine in the heart of the Parisian night. A dull frustration filled me. I was frustrated by her words, by her kisses, by her caresses, by my own actions. Frustrated by what I felt and what I was doing in that moment. There was no love in this liaison, not anymore. Only vengeance. We were nothing but wretched sinners.
The coachman brought me back, and I didn't turn around, letting him drive away with my head held high while my own was bowed. I didn't dare lift my head and sighed deeply, my heart both heavy and tight.
"Shit... shit, shit!"
I ran my bare hands through my hair several times, my soiled gloves abandoned on the side of a road moments earlier. I was ashamed to go back to the mansion, ashamed to meet the young Algerian's gaze: it was clear that I felt much more than friendship for her, but maybe it was just desire, that same thing I had felt the first time a woman from somewhere else had shared my bed. Bullshit! It couldn't be that; we had spent time together, both difficult and happy, carefree moments. It was much more than friendship, but what did she really feel? She still remained so secretive to me.
So this was what others felt when they were in my presence? Everything was jumbled in my head, and waiting any longer would be useless. I took deep breaths again and again, then walked toward the mansion, wearing a mask of indifference.
pairing: painted!verso x gn!reader. (bonus part with f!reader because i can)
contents: nsfw/smut with fluff, minors/ageless acounts do not interact!
a/n: .......... should i make a verso x virgin!reader?
Verso is old, so I don't think he's a virgin and he's probably already had a few little adventures on the side.
This old man knows what he's doing.
He's a switch, definitely a soft dom. This man is way too soft you can't change my mind.
He doesn't care whether he dominates or is dominated, all he cares about is spending those intimate moments with you.
His favorite positions are missionary or cowgirl, any position that lets him admire your body, your face and those expressions that embellish it thanks to the pleasure he gives you.
Your pleasure is his pleasure, he likes to give more than he likes to receive, hearing you moan, moaning his name or seeing your eyes roll into the back of your head is enough to bring him closer to orgasm.
But when you compliment him, his body, his length, tell him how good he makes you feel or that you love him, he's a different man.
He'll ask you to repeat yourself over and over again.
I think we can all agree that this man has a praise kink.
So please praise him.
I know this tough guy likes pet names, so call him a good boy, darling, sweetheart... anything, and he'll putty in your arms.
About markings, Verso is very possessive, but he'll never bite or scratch you, only if you ask him to, because he doesn't want to hurt you.
But expect lots of hickeys.
On the other hand, he LOVES it when you mark him. Bite him, scratch him, it shows him what a good job he's doing.
But don't bite him too much, because he wants to hear the perfect sounds you make. Please stop biting him and bless his ears.
Even in the most intimate moments, this man loves cuddles and kisses, he can't get enough of the taste of your lips and the feel of your arms around him.
Consent is important, and he'll take great care to ask you if you're sure of what you want, if you really want to make love with him, no matter if it's your first or your tenth time.
Ask him anything and he'll obey. He'll change the rhythm as you wish, change the position... anything for you.
He loves the sight of your hands wrapped around his length.
Stroke him, praise him, cover his face, neck and chest with kisses if you want to hear the most delicious sounds escape his lips.
When you suck him off, and lift your head to look at him with your beautiful eyes... he's a blushing mess, his heart throbs in his chest and he does everything he can not to cum on the spot.
Cums inside only with your permission, otherwise he'll paint your body with his seed.
If you let him cum inside, count on him to admire the mess he's made.
AFTERCARE.
This is his favorite part. Hug him, play with his hair, give him little caresses and massages, tell him how great he's been because he deserves it.
She falls asleep in your arms, his face against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
He sometimes pleases himself while thinking of you when he can't have the real thing, but he soon regrets it because it makes his desire to feel your body against his even worse.
bonus: painted verso x f!reader
I don't see many people talking about Verso's love for eating pussy.
I swear this man could spend hours between your thighs eating you like a starving man and never get tired of it.
Shaved or not, nothing will stop him from making your thighs tremble.
The only time he'll be a tad bit dominant, praising you, telling you how delicious you are and how you're the best thing he's ever tasted.
He'll lick your pussy clean, not wasting a single drop of your precious nectar.
If you have trouble keeping your legs apart: smother him with your thighs. Yes, he's into that.
If you're afraid of smothering him, he'll have no trouble keeping your legs apart for you, his fingertips digging into the fat of your thighs.
He's a pianist: of course his fingers will take you to seventh heaven in seconds.
He always has this smirk on his face when he sees the effect his expert fingers have on you, the way you shake and squirm beneath him.
I hope you like being overstimulated because oh boy...
He's ready to make you cum on his fingers again and again.
Of course he'll use both his fingers and his tongue at the same time, otherwise it's no fun.
Sit. On. His. Face. Don't be shy, put all your weight on him.
Yes, you can grab hold of his hair if it's too much for you.
