Warnings: MDNI, canon setting, mild spoilers for the game, some nsfw smutty headcanons in the last part
Writer's note: i have few ideas and wanna write a few little somethings, so just wanted to define Verso a little bit more for myself before I start doing all this.
Support banner by @cafekitsune
Verso doesn’t chase people, but he stays beside you. When he first meets you, he’s watchful, quiet. He listens more than he speaks, and his presence feels calm but unreadable. At first, you think he’s simply reserved. Later, you realize: he’s always looking for someone to hold onto.
He surprises you with how funny he is. Not the loud, outrageous kind of funny. Verso’s humor is dry, clever, and timed just right. He’s the guy who’ll quip softly under his breath at the worst possible time just to get you to laugh in the middle of a crisis.
You were the one who made the first move, or thought you did. In truth, he was quietly encouraging you the whole time. The small glances, the subtle closeness, the soft way he said your name - it was all intentional. He just never wanted to rush you.
Touch is sacred to him. He never takes it for granted. When you hold his hand, his fingers curl around yours so gently, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.
He’s not overtly clingy, but if you sit next to him, he’ll gradually lean in until your shoulders are touching. If you lie down beside him, he’ll shift closer until his forehead rests against yours, or you're tucked securely under his chin.
He kisses you slowly, thoughtfully. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s not sure he’ll get to do it again. It’s always careful, but never cold.
He holds you in his sleep. Always. Even if he starts on the other side of the bed, he’ll be curled around you by morning. You’ve woken up to find his hand in your hair, his face tucked against your neck, his breath soft and even.
He likes to do things with you. Even if it’s quiet work - making memos, cleaning weapons, preparing rations - he feels more grounded when you’re nearby.
He’s surprisingly good at small, domestic tasks. He braids rope better than anyone in the camp, and he brews tea like it’s a ritual. If you’re injured, he’s the one you want redressing your wounds: he’s gentle, precise, and always murmuring quiet reassurances.
He remembers everything. Your favorite way to eat eggs. Favorite pastry. Which side you sleep on. The fact that you get cold when the wind shifts. He rarely says anything about it, he just adjusts accordingly.
He doesn’t share easily, but he does with you. Not in big confessions, but in moments: a story, a sigh, a half-finished sentence. You learn to read the things he leaves unsaid.
You don’t know why he sometimes stares at the campfire like he’s mourning something. Or why he hesitates before kissing you goodnight. You don’t know what he carries, but you feel it. You’ve told him before: “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.” He didn’t answer, but he kissed your forehead and held you until morning.
NSFW headcanons:
Verso is gentle until he’s not.
He starts off slow. Careful. Every touch is like a prayer. But once you’re his, once you ask for more, there’s a darker edge beneath the surface. He holds nothing back. He can’t.
He doesn’t treat sex casually.
Whether it’s your first time or your fiftieth, there’s always an air of meaning behind it. You’ll catch him staring at you mid-act like he’s memorizing the way your body arches, the way you say his name.
He always puts you first.
You won’t even have to ask, he’s attuned to every breath you take, every small sound, and he reads your reactions like scripture. Your pleasure is his anchor, his obsession. He needs to make you feel good like it’s the only way he can prove he’s real.
He doesn't do dirty talk per se, bu oh does he talk.
He’s not loud, but when he speaks? It's all in that low, close voice that feels like it crawls down your spine. “There… that’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.”
“You’re perfect like this… you know that?”
He wants to hear you.
If you’re shy? He’ll tease it out of you slowly, murmuring praise in your ear, coaxing your voice with his touch. If you’re vocal? He drinks in every sound like it’s a gift.
He struggles sometimes with vulnerability afterward.
You might see him get a little quiet after, especially if it was intense or loving. He’ll hold you like he’s afraid to let go but won’t always say why. He’ll just ask, “Was that okay?” with more weight behind it than he lets on.
He does have a praise kink -for yours, not his.
He needs to be told he’s doing good. That he’s wanted. That he feels real to you. Whispering, “I want you,” or “You’re mine,” will wreck him every time.
Giving oral? An art form.
Verso takes his time, devotes himself to it like it’s sacred. Expect strong arms pinning your thighs down while he loses himself between them. He’d do it for hours if you let him. He loves the way you come undone.
He’s into eye contact.
Intense, soul-searching, “don’t-look-away-from-me” kind of eye contact. He wants to see you fall apart and wants you to see how much he feels for you when you do.
Loves it when you take initiative.
If you climb into his lap, straddle him, or whisper in his ear that you want him? He gets so still. Like his breath catches in his throat. He’ll blink once, then reach for you with shaking hands, like you just gave him the stars.
Loves aftercare.
Whether it was sweet or intense, he’s all about holding you close afterward. Pulling the blanket around both of you. Stroking your back. Kissing the top of your head and whispering, “You’re everything to me.”
There’s always something just beneath the surface. A tension, like he’s fighting something, holding back too much emotion or too much truth. But in these moments, it slips out:
The way he touches you like you’re a memory he’s terrified of losing.The way he gasps your name like he’s grateful to be saying it.The way he holds you after like he might never get the chance again.
He never says it during sex, not I love you. Not directly. But it’s in every touch, every look. You feel it more than you hear it.
Summary: you like Verso, but you think he likes Lune, and you're both clueless in love. Angst with a happy ending!
Rating: PG?
Warnings: none really. Canon-typical violence and injuries.
Author's note: I am PMSing this week so what started angsty turned mushy because Verso makes me mush
The realization hit you like a ton of bricks as your gaze followed Verso's lip movements; the way his sentence would finish and the corner of his lips would uptick slightly in a warm smile. His eyes were glittering, half lidded as he listened intently. The way the fire lit his beautiful eyes. How the flames made him seem softer and more content than usual. You could listen to the mirth of his laugh forever; let it lull you into a stupor as you sat there entranced. You wished you could reach out and brush away the stray hair that managed to fall over his forehead.
Fuck. You were falling for Verso.
There was a small...tiny...miniscule problem, though. You sat across the campfire, observing him from a distance. His current demeanor was not aimed at you, but at your teammate, Lune. And Lune was one of your best friends, so how could you interfere with her happiness?
Verso seemed so at ease with her. They would poke fun at each other and ask each other the most ridiculous questions, like "would you rather be a monkey or an elephant?" And then get into a heated debate about the pros and cons.
When did you even start to harbor these feelings for Verso? You couldn't remember a time that you looked at him without thinking how attractive he was or a time when his sarcastic remarks wouldn't make your chest feel warm.
You sighed to yourself and tore your eyes away from them, instead leaning your head on Sciel's shoulder. She was fond of snuggling and gently laughed while wrapping her arm around you.
"You know I can always tell what you're thinking?" She said mischievously. You pulled your head away to narrow your eyes at her. She stared right back with a smirk.
"Cards, yeah? Let's play," you suggested heavily. Since Sciel could summon her deck anywhere, you two were getting quite good at various games each night.
"Fine, but I'm not letting you win this time," she fake yawned before dealing your hand.
"Ouch," you laughed back. You tried your hardest not to look over at Verso and Lune. You'd had enough pining for one night. In turning your back to him you completely missed the way Verso's eyes softened at your laughter with Sciel.
_______________
You then thought, perhaps, that Verso viewed you as a liability. He'd suggested sparring with you to prepare for the next area you'd be exploring. "The nevrons there are really fast, and I noticed you haven't been our quickest dodger..."
You almost spit out the oats you were eating for breakfast. "Uh... I'm not sure how you want me to take that observation," you said, more than mildly offended. His eyes widened and his hands became super animated as he replied.
"No! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. All I'm saying is that I'd like to help you train. If you're not comfortable with me, I can ask Monoco to help too," he suggested. "It's just that I know some of these nevrons have effects that can't be parried. I need to be sure you can dodge."
It was still early. Lune was grumbling through breakfast (she's definitely not a morning person). Sciel was already helping Maelle with her pictos in a clearing nearby.
Verso's eyes looked helpless. He rubbed his neck waiting for your response.
Your heart raced against your will at the prospect of training with Verso in private, even if just for a few minutes. "Okay, if you think it will help," you agreed.
He gave you a crooked smile and stretched his arm to the edge of camp gesturing to an open area to practice. You walked past him trying to hide the blush that was inevitably creeping across your face. Get it together.
You stepped away from him and pulled out your daggers in preparation. "No daggers," he commanded. "I'm going to send blank chroma waves at you, gradually faster, until you're comfortable dodging them. And then maybe some hand to hand combat if you're up for it."
You nodded in anticipation. Admittedly, you were not the fastest fighter of your crew. You were methodical and always there to support the fight, but it wasn't in you to run in, guns blazing for a takedown. Verso shook his jacket off and removed his weapons belt, leaving him in his white blouse. That damn neckline showed off the valley of his chest and you had to force yourself to meet his eyes.
He started off slowly - sending blasts of chroma near your feet and then to your sides to dodge. As the speed picked up you were bending and jumping, cutting to the left and right to avoid the shots.
"Good. I'm not so worried about distance combat," he said, motioning his fingers to beckon you closer to him. Your chest was heaving trying to keep up with your movements.
Verso didn't give you a chance for a break, instead launching into a series of punches. He wasn't putting much weight behind them. You only noticed this because, as he expected, you were not as good at dodging in close range combat. His hands grazed your shoulders and arms a few times before you lifted your arms in defeat.
"I need to catch my breath," you admitted before scratching your flask of water.
"You're getting better," he offered while you took a long pull from the bottle. You couldn't help the next thought that popped into your mind, let alone left your mouth.
"Have you trained with Lune?" You asked. Your back was turned to him while you replaced the bottle cap and set the water aside.
"I don't have to. She's a strong fighter," he replied. Part of you was giddy that you had his attention, but the other part of you was horrified that his attention was on you for the wrong reason. When you didn't reply he started to stutter over his words. "Look, I...I didn't mean you're not a strong fighter. You've held your own. I just, I wanted to -"
"Save it, Dessendre. Let's go again." Your shoulder brushed his as you strode past him to your starting point. In an attempt to not show your defeated face, you missed the look of total regret covering Verso's festures. When he turned to you and nodded, you'd never be the wiser.
Verso was fast, but you knew the nevrons could be faster. You went through two more rounds of hand to hand before Maelle approached to watch. You'd been in the middle of taking a breather when she suggested it: "maybe I should practice with you. My sword can be very fast."
You took a hesitant look at Verso, but he agreed with Maelle. Maelle was giddy to be included, though you felt your time with Verso was cut short. You and Maelle started with hand to hand drills before moving to makeshift weapons. Her sword was replaced by a sturdy branch, your daggers replaced by twigs.
Lune came over during the sparring to see what was happening. You couldn't help but notice how both her and Verso's faces lit up as they talked. You saw her laugh out of the corner of your eye at something he said and the next thing you knew you were groaning in pain before landing on your ass.
Maelle's stubby branch had made contact with your ribcage and a bruise was surely forming. You felt the wind knock out of you as you hit the ground and Maelle gasped.
"Oh my gods, I'm so sorry Y/N!"
You shook your head as you winced and felt your lungs struggle to open up. Verso rushed to your side immediately and lifted your shirt to see if any real damage was done. "Look at me, Y/N. You can breathe. You just had the wind knocked out of you. Take a small breath through your nose," he coached you. His eyes were intently scanning your face before his hand reached down to brush the hair off your forehead.
As your breathing figured itself out, you felt immense embarrassment and anger at how you allowed yourself to be distracted. You needed to forget about Verso.
"I'm fine," you murmured as you rolled to your side, away from the team huddled over you, and pushed yourself up. They couldn't see the way your face scrunched up in discomfort.
"Y/N..." Lune managed to catch your arm as you went to pick up your water. "I can help heal it if you want." Of course she could. Lune could do fucking anything.
Your eyes met hers. Your resolve was crumbling as you felt Verso's pained eyes staring you down from where you fell. "I'm fine, Lune. I'd like to be alone for a bit."
She nodded and watched you stalk off to the springs to get cleaned up.
__________
You and Maelle were chatting over the fire when Lune interrupted to ask about your bruising. Maelle respectfully slipped away so Lune could sit with you on the log.
It was just the two of you. You lifted your shirt so she could see your injury more clearly. "Yikes, that's intense. I'm shocked Maelle had that much force behind it."
"I wouldn't underestimate her. I think I just lost focus after all that training." Lune nodded at your flimsy excuse and brought her hand to her chin thoughtfully.
"It doesn't look like anything is broken. Do you want any healing?" She asked. You lowered your shirt and shook your head.
"I'm okay. I'll just have to pay more attention next time."
There was a stretch of comfortable silence as you both watched the fire. You'd known Lune since you were children. If there was anyone who really understood you, it was probably her. "It was kind of Verso to offer to train with you," she said.
You didn't really have a response, still unsure of what to make of his intentions. You made a noncommital hum in response. Your thoughts wandered thinking how foreign it felt to hear Lune speak with you about Verso - about any man, really. Lune never was the kind for girl talk back in Lumiere.
"Sooo...what do you think of him?" Lune prodded. There it was. Lune wanted your opinion on the man she was interested in. Her smile was growing and you knew you had to choose your words carefully.
You ran your hand through your hair with a shrug. "From what I can tell he seems to be endearing. He seems to get along with everyone quite well."
She chuckled and crossed her legs. "Endearing? Are we playing a word game?" She teased.
You laughed a bit yourself, trying to relax. "I don't know, Lune. He's not been with us that long." 19 days, 2 hours, and 49 minutes actually. "What don't you want me to say?"
"I wish you'd get to know him better."
Maybe you didn't spend your days chatting with him nonstop, but you knew plenty. You knew he was a terrible sleeper. Knew he was hiding an arm injury from the way he favored his left arm. Knew that he savored the instant coffee the team brought because it took him 30 minutes of nursing his cup in the morning before finishing it. You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he found something undoubtedly funny. And you knew he was falling for Lune.
"I've gotten to know him plenty. I'm happy he's with the team."
What you were really trying to say to her was: I'm happy for you. But you couldn't bring yourself to say it directly yet.
Lune threw an arm around you and you returned the embrace with a hug. Your heart might have felt like it shredded into a million pieces, but you would never let her know this.
__________
As if getting an injury during sparring wasn't embarrassing enough, Verso was constantly checking up on you throughout the next day. It felt like at each mile you walked he was asking if you were coping alright and telling you to stay out of nevron conflict - that the team could handle it without you.
You felt useless and like a hindrance all day. Your thoughts were unkind as you watched Verso and Lune walk side by side ahead of you. Verso was making Monoco walk near you since he was much bigger and could defend you quickly. By the time you made it back to camp, you were over it.
You completely skipped team decompression by the fire. As much as you wanted to be there for the team, you weren't sure you could handle another heart to heart with Lune.
Thankfully, you didn't have to tonight. You scrubbed your face with spring water and noticed Lune and Verso had made their way to the cliffside to chat. You couldn't resist peeking around the corner to see what they were up to. Their conversation looked intimate from the way he ran his hand through his hair and the way her hand was gently soothing his upper arm. Your heart completely crumbled at the sight.
You turned away quickly and tried to swallow the lump in your throat before anyone could see you. Your vision felt blurred and your chest ached thinking of their romance; not to mention the bruise on your side making it difficult to breathe deeply.
"Everything alright, Y/N?" Sciel asked, concerned when you snatched your bedroll and water flask up in a flurry.
"Fine, I'm just exhausted. I'm going to sleep," you replied in a rush before settling down in the cave where the Curator usually set up. It was always quiet and dark there. Once you knew you were alone, you couldn't stop the tears from slipping down your face. Eventually sleep took you blissfully away from any thoughts of Verso's proximity to Lune or Lune's boisterous laugh.
___________
You woke the next day with a wicked headache, surely from crying all night. Though, it did feel good to release all those emotions. You were resolved to start the day anew and distance yourself from Verso and Lune while you sorted out your feelings.
This proved difficult as Verso intercepted you on your way to the campfire in the morning. "Y/N, how are you doing? Sciel mentioned you looked unwell last night." Traitor, you thought.
You pushed past him to grab an apple from the supply stash. "I'm fine. Was just tired is all. You don't need to worry about me." Your words were clipped as you refused to make eye contact with him.
"Y/N! You're awake. Can I take a look at your ribs?" Lune exclaimed, coming around the corner with some fish from the stream. Your new day's resolution was imploding at both of them hovering over you.
"I'm fine," you said tightly. "Much better than yesterday."
"Is it normal for you to wince, then? You look pained," Verso remarked, crossing his arms.
"Are you guys going to fuss over me all day or can we just get going? I said I was fine. Let's leave it at that."
Verso and Lune shared a glance. They were having some secret conversation in their eyes. Your heart panged, but Lune put her hands up in surrender.
A few hours later the team was trekking through an area of dense forest trying to find an old expedition camp Verso swore had leftover supplies. You were thankful that the foliage was so thick that it prevented the sun from beating your forehead any further, but the forest felt oddly quiet. Too quiet.
"Stay close. Something is off," Verso whispered from the front. The only sounds for a few minutes were your feet crunching leaves and the wind whipping through the trees. Verso moved cautiously in front of you, his arm pulling you behind him. You startled at the contact, but your heart warmed at his protection.
You didn't have time to dwell on the moment because within seconds your team was surrounded by bulky nevrons with bladed arms and legs.
"It's an ambush! Circle formation!" Lune called from your side.
The team naturally moved so that everyone's back was facing the center. Everyone was focused outward and no nevron would get between the group. You were secretly grateful for Verso's trainings since these foes were, indeed, close range combat fighters. You parried their arms as best you could and then dodged to land blows at their sides. You had to have been close to the abandoned camp with how many nevrons were surrounding the area.
You were winded from fighting off three opponents, but you couldn't lose focus. Lune was dodging her opponents but was overrun. You helped her by taking down a nevron at close range. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed another nevron moving on Verso and hurried to meet it.
The nevron was fast, but when it noticed you coming it switched its attention from Verso to you. In one swooping motion, its arm aimed from Verso's side to your leg and you didn't have enough time to dodge from the way your momentum was carrying you. The blade sliced your thigh, tearing through your pants and leaving an immediate gash.
You let out a guttural yell as your dagger met its chest, the nevron disappearing as your leg gave out.
"Y/N!" Verso screamed. You were falling and your leg was on fire and you were pretty sure it was the dumbest thing you'd ever done. It dawned on you that Verso was immortal and would recover from the nevron attack. You, on the other hand, were already injured and definitely not immortal.
You could hear yourself screaming and writhing in pain, but your mind felt disconnected from your body. Your eyes searched the trees above you; your peripheral caught the flashes of Lune's fire attack and a burst of energy from Sciel.
The wind picked up again and as you watched the leaves dancing in the wind, your eyes fluttered closed of their own accord and strong arms gathered you from the ground.
__________
You weren't sure how long you'd been unconscious, but the next time your eyes opened it was dark. Your body had only woken you up to purge, for in seconds you rolled over to heave onto the ground.
Someone was saying your name. Someone else mentioned poison. The sensation of wet fabric cleaning your face was the last thing you remembered before slipping back to a dreamless sleep.
__________
You were hardly awake, but you were roused from your sleep by your body shaking intensely. You felt like your bones were trying to break out of your skin from how harshly you shook; your teeth clattered and you felt extremely cold despite a sheen of sweat coating your skin.
Lune's hands were on your leg while she attempted to cleanse and heal it. She had not realized your eyes were open yet. "Lune..." you croaked.
Her eyes whipped up to watch you before she yelled for the team. "So...cold..." you managed to whisper to her.
"You're cold? You're burning up. You've been poisoned by the nevron's blade. Your body is trying to rid the poison," she spoke gently. Verso was the first to make it over to you two. You were struggling to stay awake, but you would never forget the way his wild eyes held yours. "She's complaining that she's cold," was all Lune said before turning her full attention to your leg.
Sleep was coming for you, but not before you felt another jacket being placed on your body and the warmth of a body behind you.
__________
It was dusk when you opened your eyes next. The sky was a beautiful mix of pinks and blues while the sun was setting and you could smell someone cooking at the fire nearby. Your body was no longer shaking and your leg, while painful, at least was not on fire any longer.
You coughed from your dry throat and heard footsteps racing toward you. "Oh thank goodness! Let me get you some water," Sciel exclaimed. "Lune! Y/N is awake!"
You attempted to prop yourself up on your elbows when you noted a log behind you. Lune was by your side in an instant to help you rest against the log in a semi-seated position. Sciel returned with a flask of water, but Lune warned not to drink too much in case your body threw up again.
"Your fever has broken," Lune commented after touching your forehead. Sciel was stroking your arm soothingly, trying to be close to you, but not too close.
"Where is everyone?" You asked. You seemed to be at the old expedition camp, but it was just these girls with you.
"Verso took Maelle and Monoco to look for something. They should be back soon," Lune commented before examining your leg.
"How long was I out?" You asked through a wince while she prodded at your bandage.
"About a day...although you were up a few times to puke through the night. We were afraid to move you back to camp, even with Esquie. You were...in pretty rough shape," Sciel responded.
You caught a glimpse of your mottled leg under the bandage and grimaced. It was dark and the scar looked rotten. Lune had done more than a fine job of closing up the wound.
"I remember you healing me, Lune. I can't thank you enough," you said quietly. She shook her head as she replaced the bandage.
"None needed. This is what we do for each other. We do what we must."
You caught her wrist and made to hold her hand, but her eyes got all weepy. "Lune, there's something I've been wanting to say and now feels as good a time as any since Verso isn't here. I'm so happy for you," you stated as best you could.
Lune's face held pure confusion as she looked from you to Sciel. Sciel shrugged. "What...do you mean?" Lune asked.
"I mean you and Verso. You don't have to deny it. I saw you two the other night at camp and the way he acts with you. I'm happy you found someone that cares for you."
Lune stared at you with wide eyes before busting out laughing. She ripped her hand out of yours to wipe tears from her eyes. It was your turn to look confused. "You...you think...Verso is into me?" She managed to get out between laughs.
Meanwhile, you and Sciel eyed each other, both confused as hell at whatever was happening. "Lune, you two have spent most nights in each other's company."
"You idiot," she smirked as her laughter finally calmed down. "He's been asking me about you. He's been so nervous about getting to know you. I guess it looked like we were together, but I did nothing but speak of you in private. Trust me, Verso only has eyes for you."
"Me?"
"Y/N?" Sciel asked at the same time.
Lune shook her head laughing and adjusted to sit on your left. Sciel sat on your right in a cozy gal pal circle...well, triangle.
"Y/N, I've been coaching Verso on how to approach you. Albeit, my advice doesn't seem to always work, but he's trying to get comfortable around you. He cares a lot for you," Lune shared and Sciel 'awwwed.' Your heart soared at the prospect of Verso inquiring after you.
"That...makes no sense. He practically told me I was a bad fighter and then had Monoco babysit me on our trek."
"He just didn't want to see you get hurt. He's...not the best with words yet, but his intentions were good, I promise," Lune offered.
The fire cracked and the sky grew darker. You weren't sure how much longer you had before the others returned, but your mind was still trying to make sense of Lune's admission.
"Soooo...you're not into Verso, then?" You asked quietly.
"No, Y/N. That's why I asked what you thought of him. I already gathered that he was into you, but I needed to know if you had any interest."
"Gods, I feel ridiculous," Sciel laughed.
"Why?" Lune questioned, eyes narrowed.
"I'm pretty sure I aggressively hit on Verso and few nights ago. Makes sense why he turned me down now." The three of you cackled and it felt just like old times in Lumiere. It took a minute or two to calm down from the laugh attack before you sighed.
"I am happy that you would have supported me if Verso and I were a thing," Lune said, squeezing your hang. "But, I have to know...you are into him right?"
You felt your cheeks heat and you looked down at your lap. "I'm very into him," you admitted.
"Okay good, because that man stayed up all night trying to keep you warm and he's currently out looking for sunflowers for you."
You opened your mouth to reply, but were cut off by Esquie's shouting coming through the clearing. "Mes amis! We return!"
Both Sciel and Lune stood up, the latter giving you a wink before checking on the food over the fire. You couldn't even imagine what you looked like after 24 hours of poison-fueled sickness, but there was no time to fix that.
It just registered to you that Verso's jacket was covering you since he approached the group in just his white shirt. You felt like you might explode with anticipation, which admittedly was better than feeling like you might puke again. Verso picked up his pace when he saw you were awake.
"She's awake and thankfully it looks like she's on the mend," Lune announced. She was stirring a stew of some sort - an expedition speciality to throw whatever you could find into a pot.
Verso's eyes met yours once in the camp perimeter and you caught a glimpse of a bundle of flowers in his hand. He immediately came to kneel by you. You could see the exhaustion lining his features before he forced a smile. "You're awake," he said in disbelief.
"I already said that," Lune chimed in. She grinned as she watched you two and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.
"Lune..." you warned. She laughed and turned around, but you sighed and noticed Sciel watching you too.
"Any chance you can help me to a more private location so we can chat?" You whispered to Verso. This time he gave you a real smile and nodded. He handed the flowers to Maelle and scooped you up in his arms. He might have looked exhausted, but the ease at which he carried you said otherwise. Maelle trailed behind with the flowers saying how relieved she was to see you recovering.
Verso brought you to a tree log around the corner and set you down gently before turning to Maelle. You shrugged his jacket off while he turned away, and as Maelle sauntered back to camp, you both turned to each other with an offering: his arm outstretched with a bouquet of wildflowers and your arm bearing his jacket.
"Thank you for the jacket, but it's getting cold and you may need it."
"Are you still cold?" He asked before sitting next to you.
"No, and I hear I have you to thank for that," you blushed. He took his jacket from your hands and slipped it on.
There was a moment where he didn't say anything, just contemplated the ground and refused to meet your eyes, but you didn't want to rush this conversation.
"I'm struggling to decide if I should yell or scream or cry over what you did yesterday, but I'm just...so happy you're alive," Verso said quietly. A shiver made its way up your spine at the vulnerability in his words.
"Me too. I'm forever indebted to you and the team for taking care of me. I wasn't thinking properly when we were attacked."
Verso gave a small nod and met your eyes. "What were you thinking?"
You laughed a bit to yourself. "Probably something along the lines of 'I'll show Verso how fast a dodger I am and how dare he think I'm a terrible fighter.'"
He raised an eyebrow at you. "I don't think you're a terrible -"
"But the louder part of my brain was thinking that I couldn't stand to see you get hurt. Even if you would recover," you cut him off. You could see him visibly swallow before reaching for your hand. His right hand gently covered your left and he stared at the connection for a moment.
"I was terrified," he whispered. "I'd never felt someone shake as violently as you did last night. I honestly wasn't sure you'd beat the poison. I kept checking your breathing when you weren't shaking just to make sure you were still with me." His eyes began to search yours, like he was making sure you really existed next to him.
With me. Your heart ached, this time for all the right reasons.
"I'm with you," you whispered back. The proximity of his face to yours allowed him to rest his forehead against yours and he closed his eyes. You wanted nothing more than to let him rest, but part of you wanted to soak this up as long as you could.
"Lune told me about your chats," you said quietly.
"Merde..." he laughed before pulling back a bit. You smiled and gripped his hand tighter.
"I'm sorry if I've been moody. I...was totally convinced that you and Lune had something going on."
"I royally fucked this up, haven't I?" He joked. You shook your head and reached for his jawline with your right hand. Your hand cupped his face and you swear his eyes melted at your contact.
"I don't remember when it happened, but these days one of the only things I'm sure of is that my heart belongs to you. I look at you and I'm sure that nothing else matters," you said shakily. He grasped your hand that was on his face and brought it to his lips, placing a light kiss on your knuckles.
"I remember exactly when it happened for me. You and Maelle were leading the charge on maybe my third day with your group. You were trying to cheer her up and kept showing her shapes you made with your ice magic. The way she finally broke when you made her that Esquie in a tiny hat... I'll never forget your smile or the kindness you showed her."
You'd actually forgotten that afternoon; it was distant compared to the trials you'd faced on your journey, but you smiled at the memory. That something so small could make him fall for you, but then you supposed it was just like the way you recounted the way he watched the sunset or the way he would re-challenge Sciel to cards when he lost.
It was all the small things.
"I, uh, I went looking for sunflowers today. Lune said they were your favorite," he grumbled. He leaned away to reach for the bouquet and presented it to you. "But I couldn't find any."
"Too early," you smiled. "They won't bloom until summer.
He smiled back as you accepted the flowers. "But I did find these other yellow ones that I thought maybe you'd like and then these lavenders - I remember you said purple was your favorite color. The kind of purple that fades into the sunset."
It was the most beautiful bundle of purples, whites, and yellows you'd ever hold. "It's perfect, Verso. I love them. I wish you'd have gotten some rest today, though."
He brought his arm around you, warming you against the early evening temperature. "I wouldn't have been able to anyways."
It was comfortable, the way his hand found your ribcage and his thumb moved up and down gently. You stared at the flowers while you allowed the weight of your head to rest against his shoulder. "My mom used to get sunflowers at the market every spring. She'd plant them in our roof garden and then every summer I'd watch them sprout until they were taller than me."
He chuckled and the vibrations from his chest brought a smile to your face. "It sounds like you were very fond of your mother."
You nodded and continued, "she used to say sunflowers were innocent. They always found the sun and when they couldn't find the sun, they would turn to each other. Sunflowers were truly always finding the light, whether literally or within each other. I always loved that."
Verso gently pulled away and brought his hand up to cup your cheek. The way his eyes crinkled looking into yours told you that he was truly happy.
"That's what you are to me - a sunflower. Your positive attitude and the way you continue to support the team will always make me turn to you, even when it's dark." His words made your eyes crinkle back and brought a toothy smile to your lips.
It wasn't until you felt him leaning towards you that you placed a hand on his chest to stop him. "Verso, this moment is literally perfect, but we can't kiss right now." His face turned to immediate confusion. "I'm pretty sure I threw up a dozen times in the last day and I have yet to clean myself up," you stated with a laugh.
Verso let out the loudest laugh you'd heard from him yet and he shook his head. He placed a kiss on your forehead and agreed, "Alright, no kiss tonight, but I'm looking forward to when I can properly romance you."
"Me too, and perhaps when Sciel isn't spying on us," you said loudly, turning to the rock formation where you knew she was listening.
"Putain!" She shrieked before running away. Both you and Verso laughed again before he rested his forehead against yours and you took in the miracle that was your sunflower.
(Part 2 - If you haven’t yet, go read part 1 for getting the full picture)
[Real Verso / Fem!Reader]
Part 1 ◂ Part 2 ▸ Part 3
Word Count: ~ 7k
Rating: E (contains smut)
Author's Note: I was overwhelmed with all the love coming my way after part 1 🥹 Didn’t expect that honestly! So yay, have part 2. I hope I can live up to expectations. I have all these headcanons about the Writer’s powers, but also, there is smut cause Verso’s face needs to be between those legs. So I really tried to keep it balanced. Reader ist now Fem, I was able to keep it Gen in the first part, but for this, well… There will be one more part!
You opened your eyes with a yelp.
You had manifested stories you had written yourself before. You had even stepped into stories written by others. Your closest friends, who wanted to share them with you, to invite you into their worlds and show you what the perfect construct of thought meant to them. So you’d thought yourself used to experiencing these subjectively unparalleled stagings, and then finding yourself back where you had entered the manuscript, the first page in front of you, without the urge to to dive right back in.
But you hadn’t been prepared for how much more powerful the experience would be when it involved a real person written between those pages. Especially not in the way you had crafted the encounter, a short but intense scene meant to convince you to never return to the Dessendre manor, to burn the paper and leave for the countryside with Soleil the next morning, letting time bury both the matter and your feelings.
Instead, the written words had devoured you whole, so much so that you’d momentarily lost touch with what was fiction and what was real. The written Verso had entered your bedroom, carrying the hungry look you had given him, had grabbed you tightly, loved you roughly.
Somewhere in the maelstrom of emotion and sensation, you’d started to accept it as a new truth. You’d felt the exact moment hit, so revealing, it had allowed you to take back control. Your story had, for a short while, refused to be seen as just that, and you’d had to pull yourself together, had to remember that you had deliberately not described how you actually perceived Verso, so this false version of him would be the last thing you experienced with him.
Your plan hadn’t quite worked out. You now understood why the council members argued so fiercely over the ethics of it all. With just this one manifestation, you had almost lost yourself in what you had shared with a real person in there. Worse yet, it consumed you even now, knowing that you could write what you truly thought of Verso, and how he would treat you in this room, with reverence and abandon instead of roughness and possession. You wanted to experience it. Your plan had failed, you wanted more. You never should have tried, because now you knew what it could feel like.
You pressed your hand on your throat to feel your racing pulse, to ground yourself in reality and get your breath under control. How long had you spent between the pages? It had taken you quite some time to write it in the first place. It had to be the middle of the night by now. The breeze from your open balcony door dried the sweat on your forehead.
You moved to get up and close it when suddenly a small projectile sailed through, and you had to dodge it with another yelp. It landed on your duvet. Soleil, back on the bed after you had been sitting quietly in front of your desk for long enough, immediately perked up and leapt playfully after the tiny thing.
“Soleil, don't!” you implored her, alarmed.
You rushed over to see what had just come flying through your window and was now pinned under Soleil’s paws. The little cat meowed in protest as you removed her from her prey. What came into view was just a pebble. Confused, you picked it up, turned the tiny stone between your fingers, inspecting it under the faint glow of your bedside lamp. It really was just that.
At that moment, another one hit the back of your head. “Ouch! What the…” Cautiously, you made your way to the balcony door, stepping outside to peer down at the street in search of the source of the attack.
“Oh, merde…” you muttered, then raised your voice in a sharp whisper, “What are you doing here?!”
Verso stood below, near the entrance of your house, already mid-motion to throw the next little stone through your open window. He paused when he saw you, lowering his arm. The silence of the night stretched out between you. His face was barely lit by a distant streetlamp, his features half hidden in shadow. Shifting restlessly, he glanced down at the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet, then just threw his arms into the air.
“I couldn’t just let you walk away,” he said, dragging a hand across his face.
“You did,” you replied, still trying to tame the storm inside you, the wind at your back pushing you toward him.
“And then came to find you.”
“Well, that’s just creepy.” You rolled your eyes. “How did you even find my house?”
Verso gestured around vaguely. “I asked the neighbors.”
You raised an eyebrow. “But it’s the middle of the night.”
“I might’ve asked a few more people.”
Your expression softened. He’d searched for you until the moon stood high in the sky. Had asked more people than he could count, only to end up at your doorstep, too afraid to knock, scared you wouldn’t open the door.
“Verso, you can’t…” you began, and even just starting the sentence made the barely patched-up wound in your heart split open again.
“Let’s just talk,” he pleaded, his raised voice echoing into the night.
You winced. “Please don’t be so loud.” This wasn’t his part of town. Writers lived here. Who knew who he’d asked. Chances were the council would be informed by morning that Verso Dessendre had come asking about your address. Some people had likely refused to tell him anything, surprised he was asking about you at all. Some kind soul, probably the old lady from down the street, must’ve been swayed by his handsome, longing face.
“I don’t care who sees or hears me,” he shot back, a little louder this time. “And I won’t leave until we’ve talked.”
“Putain, Verso,” you complained in frustration before pushing away from your balcony railing without another word. You absolutely believed he would wake the neighbors and put himself in danger just to make his point.
You hurried down your narrow hallway staircase, past the turnoff to your living room and into the equally small entrance of your home, yanking the door open. He had already positioned himself in front of it, so you grabbed him by the collar to pull him inside quickly, and hopefully unnoticed.
“Alright, listen,” you tried to be the voice of reason, “you can’t do that. You can’t be searching for me in this part of the city. You know how dangerous that is for you. And we can’t…” The words caught in your throat. You’d managed to say them with conviction once, but a second time? Not when he looked at you like that. With that soft, dreamy look in his eyes, that gentle smile on his lips.
“You think this is funny?” you asked, folding your arms, his tender gaze tightening around your heart like a vice.
“I don’t,” he murmured, lifting a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. You inhaled sharply. “It’s just that –” he watched his fingers trace softly along your cheek, tucking the hair behind your ear as you held your breath, “I don’t care how dangerous it is. I told you, I don’t care. The time I spend with you, it’s…” He inhaled shakily. “It’s the first time I feel like I can actually be me. You know me. I never thought anyone would. I’d go through hell to be with you.”
Your resolve faltered. This was the man you’d write poetry about. The one you were too afraid to experience, because you feared he would consume you, that you’d never want to leave his arms again.
“You have to go,” you snapped yourself out of the trance he was pulling you into. Waving your hands, you forced his touch away, then pushed past him head over heels, fleeing upwards, nearly tripping on the stairs, darting past Soleil, who was trotting toward Verso with her tail raised.
“You little traitor!” You exclaimed, pointing accusingly at your fluffy cat, now contentedly hanging in Verso’s arms at the base of the staircase. “Leave, Verso – but don’t take my cat.” That made Verso smile, not your intention, but he was breaking down your barricades, one by one, and you wouldn’t be able to resist him much longer.
You heard him follow you up the stairs, his pursuit only fueling the excitement and confusion bubbling inside you, conflicting feelings tearing you apart. Your door never reached the lock; it was stopped by Verso’s hand. Standing in your bedroom, you turned to face him. Soleil had disappeared from his arms.
“We don’t really know each other, Verso. Look,” you pointed to your desk, where the papers now lay scattered, no longer in the neat order you’d once arranged them in, disheveled by all the chaos of the last hours. You reached into the mess, pulled out a single page and held it up to his face before turning back toward the window, your voice building into a blind, frustrated tirade. “I am a Writer. You don’t know anything about me. You are a Painter. I don’t know anything about you.”
What you did know about the craft of Painters came from secondary sources, admittedly, but it was enough to understand how utterly opposite the two of you were. Writers, those who scripted things into perfection and manifestation. The more advanced ones could absorb words to invoke states. And Painters, those who created imperfect, sentient worlds with free thought, essentially playing God. Within your circle, there was always consensus that the powers of Painters were unnatural, an abomination, and that their works should not be traded for such absurd amounts of money. What might they say in his circle about the Writers?
You scoffed and turned back toward Verso, ready to repeat that you didn’t know each other, even though you knew exactly what he meant. But you were forced to stop in your tracks. Verso was holding the page you had just shoved at him, reading it with rapt, almost haunted attention. Your heart dropped to your stomach. You glanced back at the stack of papers from which you’d pulled it. Your hand shot to your mouth the moment it opened in shock. Eyes wide, you froze, caught in a moment of horror you couldn’t yet escape.
“Well, maybe we really don’t know each other, because that is not how I would…” He trailed off, a startled snort escaping him as he reached the end of the page. He flipped it over to check the back, then lifted his eyes, clearly surprised, to look at you.
The instinct to explain yourself hit you instantly. You couldn’t possibly let him believe you really saw him the way you’d described him on that page. You snatched the paper from his hands. “That was clearly not meant for your eyes. And, I know this is not how you would –” You paused briefly. “How you would do this. In fact –” You inhaled, exhaled, “I should never have done this. It’s highly forbidden where I come from to weave others into your writing. I wrote it like that because I hoped it would help me get over it.”
Verso raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “By describing me like some kind of manhandling caveman?”
“Hey, it is not that primitive,” you defended your prose. You had tried to write it poetically, hadn’t you? Had given him warm, praising words to say. “Besides, if you think it’s that unflattering, then maybe I did the job right.” You placed the sheet back on your desk.
He looked at it again, this time with a stricter, more confused, and troubled gaze. “And what do you do with this, exactly? Did you plan on using it on me? So I’d take you like that, and then you could definitely not look me in the eye after?"
You blinked, baffled by the implication. What did he mean by that? “N-No. It’s –” He didn't seem to know much about the power of the Writers. Or maybe he only knew about the most powerful ones. “It’s not like that. I wouldn’t even know if it’s possible to affect someone like that, let alone with normal ink. I just… lived through it.”
Verso’s tense, angry features softened a little, though his arms remained crossed. “Lived through it? Like, you entered it?”
You nodded.
Now his posture eased as well. “I see. I can see why you think it to be forbidden.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “I feel a little violated.”
“I’m so sorry.” You scrambled to gather all the pages on your desk, shoving them into a drawer to get them out of his sight, so he wouldn’t have to bear the shame of seeing them. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was deeply wrong. It stripped you of your agency. It was dangerous. And it didn’t even help.”
All those warnings your family had drilled into you had been right. You had violated Verso’s deepest privacy, to him, off all people, you should have shown more respect. And your shame over it didn’t exactly help you push back against his presence. It gnawed at you, eroded your defenses from within.
“It’s okay,” Verso tried to ease your guilt. “I get it. It’s the desire to experience something you don’t believe you can ever truly have.” He moved toward you with a smooth motion, his fingers trailing lightly along the edge of your bed frame. Nervously, you watched his approach. If he didn’t leave now, if he so much as uttered another declaration of affection, you wouldn’t be able to resist him any longer.
“So what you’re really saying is, you didn’t like it? What you wrote?” His eyes sparkled with the slightest hint of mischief as his gaze shifted from the bed to you.
Your heart, which had only just begun to settle, picked up its pace again. You cursed yourself for having accidentally handed him that sheet of paper. “I really thought I would… just get over you with this,” you said, your eyes drifting to a small uneven spot in the wallpaper opposite you, desperate not to meet his inquisitive gaze. “That I could create a moment that was enough without being real. I should have known better. So, no, I didn’t like it. Quite the opposite…”
“You asked yourself what the real thing would be like,” Verso said, reading your innermost thoughts with eerie precision.
You saw him come closer out of the corner of your eye, so close you were forced to look at him if you wanted any hope of stopping what you both actually wanted. The hardwood floor creaked under the weight of his meaningful steps. It fell silent when he finally stood in front of you. You looked up at him as his hands gently found your upper arms, the touch so innocent, yet it made your nerves spike up uncontrollably.
“Verso…” Your voice faltered, barely a whisper, and you knew you’d been lost the entire time, your restistance merely a self-prompted spectacle.
His soft, sincere smile only began to quench the thirst you had for him.
His careful touch sent a shiver down your spine as it hovered just above the fabric of your loosely buttoned, dark cotton shirt, gliding upward until his fingertips met the heated skin of your neck. All the while, his eyes followed. He took the edge of your collar between his fingers and moved it just far enough to expose your collarbone. Breathing became harder, and you knew he noticed.
“I think we know each other just fine,” he said, “in spirit.” He closed the remaining space between you, his chest pressed softly against yours. One hand slipped to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing the edge of your hairline. “I know that you are so idealistic you’d hurt yourself trying to be perfect. And you know that I am very much imperfect.”
Your eyes met. Whatever fire had existed between you had never burned out, only smoldered. You shook your head gently. “Not to me.”
He smiled, visibly touched. “And that’s why you know me. You embraced the man behind the mask without even knowing I wore one.”
No longer able to hold back, you brought your hands to his chin, the roughness of his beard familiar now from the first time, just hours ago, when you had touched him. He exhaled and closed his eyes for a second. You rose to your toes, leaning toward him, your lips already impossibly close to his.
“What does that mean?” you whispered.
His forehead met yours. “Doesn’t matter. All I know is, you know me. And I want to be with you, in spirit… and in body. I want to make love to you in the truest way I can. Bare myself to you completely, if you’ll have me.”
Your breaths mingled as you smiled. “And here I thought I was the Writer.”
The crooked, adorable grin you’d come to know appeared even through your blurred vision. “Can I kiss you already?”
A flicker of trepidation returned to your burning nerves. “I am afraid,” you admitted, still grounding yourself in the gruff of his beard.
“I know.” He ran his fingers through your hair, looking down at you with quiet reassurance. “We don’t have to tell anyone just yet. Not until we have a plan, or maybe even several. Making you uncomfortable is the last thing I want. We’ll take it slow. Would that be alright?”
No answer came from your lips, your lips were the answer. You leaned forward, just a bit too fast, to reunite with him. No matter how selfish, no matter how wrong, you couldn’t fight the pull of him. He pulled, and you pushed too deep, falling right back into him.
The way he kissed you now was passionate, but so much more reverent than the false version of Verso you had written. His lips were softer, his touch more intentional. Once more, your fingers moved through his midnight-black curls, smooth against your skin, opening your body to him, and he let himself in.
Verso wrapped his arms around you, pulling you gently against him, wanting to envelop you, to show you how deeply he cherished you. He didn’t want to possess you, didn’t want to take you, he wanted to love you, in body and in soul.
Without removing his lips from yours, he lifted you effortlessly from the floor, turned with you in his arms, and carried you toward your bed. Like a princess, he gently laid you down in the sheets, your head resting on the delightfully soft pillow, and Verso’s body moved atop yours.
He felt the slight, nearly imperceptible tremble that ran through you, and your racing pulse, as he placed his hand on your neck, brushing his thumb over your chin, only seeking grounding and the thrill of your skin, sending tiny electric jolts through his fingers. He could have stayed like that with you forever, feeling your closeness, sensing you, but then there was that little devil on his shoulder, urging him to slowly and indulgently open the buttons of your shirt.
You came up for air from the ever-growing passion of his lips, only for your breath to hitch as you saw his face above yours. He wore the happiest expression, tenderly loving, as you’d only ever seen it when he played the piano, with that touch of sadness in his beautiful eyes.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, and your heart burst open.
He leaned down, pressed one last, soft kiss to your lips, then let his mouth travel down your chin. Your instinct was to stretch toward him, chasing his warm breath, feeling it at your neck, where he lingered, gently taking your delicate skin between his lips. You exhaled, searching for support in his arms framing you, hidden beneath his shirt, reaching into its expensive fabric.
Your shirt was opened by nimble fingers down to the base of your skirt, but he didn’t stop there, instead pulling the lower ends out of the waistband. The soft fabric slid down your sides. A cold breeze from the still-open window tickled your exposed skin, your upper body now only covered by your cache-corset, the pretty, short top you liked to wear under your shirts even without a corset.
He watched your chest rise and fall with your heavy breath, saw the perfection that was you. Your even skin was like a blank canvas, one on which he would gladly immortalize a piece of his soul. But you were so much more than that. Inside you was already an entire world, your essence a symphony so harmonious that he wanted to hear it forever, and be near it forever.
His soft fingers traced along your waist. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was playing you like his piano. The way he moved them, tickling your skin, sparked a shiver and goosebumps spread across your body. And when his mouth followed to tenderly explore those same spots, your lower abdomen tensed with anticipation. All the more so when he gently traced the hem of your undershirt.
“Is this alright?” he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.
“Yes, yes,” you breathed, arching your back into his hand.
Beneath your undershirt, he felt the smooth curve of your breast with pleasure, and a small sound escaped you as his fingertips brushed over its peak, the sound enough to send a warm tingling through his body, settling in his loins, more demanding than he wished for, prompting him to brush the last bit of fabric from your torso and over your head, then starting to peel off his vest and unbutton his own shirt.
You, now exposed, didn’t feel the slightest bit ashamed, his presence made you feel like you were slipping between the pages of your favorite story. But now, for the first time in a long time, you felt safe in the real world. So you helped him out of his clothes, and they joined yours on the floor.
Before you looked, you reached for him to feel him first. His body was lean, perfectly firm in all the right places, soft black hair spread across his evenly built chest. You ran your fingers through the fuzz, leaned into him, and pressed your lips to the crook of his neck. His own pulse was fast but steady as he pressed his head against yours, gently took your wrist, brought it to his mouth, and kissed your palm.
He wrapped his arms around you to flip you over in one swift motion. A giggle escaped you at the sudden move, just before you ended up straddling him. His back sank into the soft mattress under your weight, his hands immediately returning to your body, the sight of your splendor like a gift.
“You are so, so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice now a whole octave lower with desire for you.
“You already said that,” you breathed out with amusement, bent down and laid yourself on top of him, your heated bodies rubbing against each other, fueling your own desire to feel everything of him. So you began fumbling with the fastening of his trousers while your lips pressed against each other, your balance in jeopardy.
He hummed. “And I would say it again,” he whispered a kiss on your lips, “and again,” on the tip of your nose, “and again, praying it like the most devoted believer out there.” He reached between you too, untied the ribbon at the back of your flared skirt and then, almost too skillfully, unfastened the clasp. “You are the most beautiful woman I ever got the honor to look upon.”
Your bottoms joined the rest of your clothes on the floor. And so you did what he proposed. You bared yourselves to each other, body and soul, and his sight was glorious. You sat up on him, his hands persistent, never retreating, on you. You drank each other in, your eyes roaming over your bodies.
Behind his loving, wholly devoted gaze now hid more than just longing, you saw the hunger in his eyes begin to show itself, the slightly firmer grip of his hands, his parted lips searching for more air.
He straightened up, shifting your weight so he could capture your mouth in a kiss so passionate it robbed you of your senses, your focus entirely on him and the heat between you, his arousal only a few inches away, aligned for you to just lower yourself onto him, to fill yourself with him.
“Are you sure?” he asked, breathless, though he didn’t know what he would of done if you said no. “I wouldn’t want to –”
You placed your index finger on his mouth to silence him. “I want you, Verso,” you told him, feeling vulnerable as you admitted, “I want you so much that I’m afraid I won’t be able to live without you.”
With those words, you allowed him to find your entrance, and slowly, then with more pressure, you sank down onto him, savoring every inch you took in, your slick walls making it all too easy. You both let out a shaky breath as he bottomed out inside you, your breaths mingling so sensually that your muscles immediately clenched around him and instinctively, you grabbed onto his shoulder, your hips rolling forward, drawing a sigh from you.
“Oh mon dieu,” he gurgled against your neck, rocking you on his cock, coaxing the next sigh from your lips that nearly drove him insane, “wait, wait.” He stopped you with a hand on your hip.
You looked at him, confused, the pull in your core too strong, you needed the release, the friction, wanted to ride him and let him hit that spot inside you that would send you into bliss. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” you asked uncertainly.
His brief confusion vanished in a split second, replaced by that charming, slightly crooked grin and an amused sound. “Are you kidding me? You feel divine. No, I –” one of his hands snaked down your body, over your stomach, between you, while the other remained on your hip, “I want to give you more than that. So much more. Please, let me make you feel good. Let me revel in you.”
You couldn’t resist the request, and you wouldn’t have wanted to, especially not in the moment his confident, gentle fingers found their mark. You gasped, arched toward him, clung to him as he began to rub you with steady, deliberate circles that sent waves of sensation through you. With closed eyes, you focused solely on the feelings he stirred in you, he seemed to know exactly how much pressure and speed would bring you joy. Soon, you had to part your lips for breath, soft sounds escaping your throat.
Verso, intent on being a devoted lover, took his time. Your receptive response only deepened his desire. You were in tune with him, arching your back, your thighs trembling progressively harder, especially when he squeezed your hip gently but firmly to move you against him, just a subtle motion, but enough for him to hit that sensitive spot inside you and make you moan, prouding him immensely.
“Is this good?” he asked nonetheless, his voice a low, sensual whisper, ”Just tell me how I can please you, I’ll do anything.”
His teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck playfully, and a groan escaped him as your walls tightened around his length, making his fingers twitch into your flesh. He felt you throbbing at his fingers, so he kept up the pace just as you seemed to be enjoying it.
“Don't stop”, you breathed, your hips stuttering against his touch, the heat pouring into your core the more he rubbed your clit. You moved instinctively on him, chasing your imminent high. You tensed, legs straining, unable to get enough of him, even knowing the moment wouldn’t last forever.
“You're amazing,” he praised adoringly. “Will you come for me, mon cœur?”
His gravelly voice washed over you like summer heat, making your skin tingle with comfort. You melted into his embrace, sank even deeper into his lap as he met you with his own rhythm, not enough restraint left in him in response to how lost in sensation you were.
Your body gave out as another powerful wave overtook you, licking down your spine. You felt that familiar pull deep inside that signaled your release. You exhaled, your head falling onto his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you finally let go. “I’m coming.”
It was the most peaceful and sensual climax you’d ever experienced. Verso's steady fingers slowed, becoming a gentle presence, replaced by a soft yet insistent pressure on your hip, encouraging you to move with the wave instead of being overwhelmed by it. It wasn't ecstatic, it was better. Lasting, satisfying, and deeply fulfilling, your spasms didn't go into nowhere, but wrapped around him, feeling him more intensely than you'd ever felt anyone before.
Verso guided you through your continuous twitches, drawing out your orgasm as much as you were able to give, rocking you on him, holding you close as soft sounds of pleasure escaped you – sounds that alone could keep him satisfied for nights to come. If only he could make you feel like this always, swept up in emotion, in what you felt for him and what he did to you. Only when your body slumped against his, entirely spent, did he finally pause to let you rest. A steady, satisfying throb still lingered under his fingers.
You gasped against his heated skin, barely able to speak. Luckily, Verso found the words for you: “There’s nothing like a petite mort, non?” A kiss touched your cheek as he gently rolled with you, never breaking your connection.
You blinked, looking up at him in the dim glow of your lamp. His eyes were ablaze, a wildfire of emotion, contentment, desire, and love. All the feelings that made up a great, tragic love story.
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” you gasped truthfully, your fingers exploring his sides, making him shiver ever so slightly.
He smiled. “I aim to please.” His face lowered to press his lips to yours, and a surprised, overstimulated sound escaped you as he rolled his hips into you, seeming to tease your essence out of you, feeling the air around you, heavy yet comforting, like a weighted blanket pulled over you.
His movements were instinctive; he couldn’t resist you, this soft, welcoming abyss that was you, more tempting than anything else in his life. Everything else, even his problems, faded away. With you, anything felt possible. And that was what fueled his longing to be connected to you, to sink into you again and again.
“Verso –” you gasped, and to him, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. You saying his name like that.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath.
“Yes,” you whispered in return.
His strokes within you were were as deliberate as his earlier touch. Intense, precise, each thrust aimed to finding the spot that made your breath hitch. There was so much sensuality in the way he moved that you would have happily drowned in it. Skin rubbed over skin, so hard did he press himself against you, only to hover over you after, gaining better leverage, and sink himself back into you so purposefully that you saw stars.
The noices you made, those breathy, sinful notes, and the sound of skin against skin only drove him further, made him lose what little restraint he had left. He didn’t notice how his pace quickened, he only saw you: the expression on your face, the parting of your lips, your closed eyes… “Look at me,” he said, the gentle command surprising you so much that you obeyed without hesitation.
It felt as if he was looking right into your soul. And you couldn’t look away, you didn’t want to. The world around you blurred. You pressed yourself as close to him as possible, your legs firmly anchored to his sides. You reached for his cheek, only for him to take your hand, place it next to your head and intertwine your fingers, his gaze never leaving yours always looking down at you, always showing you how much he adored you.
He had planned to take his time with you, to spend the whole night spoiling you, perhaps even coax another petite mort or two from you. But he hadn’t counted on the overwhelming pull your body had on him. He had given in to it, to his shame. And now, he was ploughing into you, completely out of control of his own body, chasing a high that should really be another one for you. He vowed he would make it up to you as the night went on. For now, he focused on your every reaction, trying draw out as much pleasure as he possibly could, ere he would surrender to the temptations of your clenching walls around his cock.
You could feel it, his passionate movements becoming less controlled, more erratic. His rhythm faltered as tension overtook him, his brows furrowed in desperate effort.
“It’s alright,” you whispered, your body moving with his.
His fingers tightened around yours. A strangled sound escaped his throat, a great declaration of love on his tongue that he could barely hold back from escaping, and a delicate shiver washed over his body. “Merde,” he groaned. He let go of your hand, pulling out of you in one fluid motion, leaving your center with a strange emptiness, as if he had simply painted over you, given you a new normal.
Shifting his weight above you, he leaned on one forearm, stroking himself, his eyes fluttering shut, his breath ragged against your skin as his release landed on your stomach. You appreciated his still quick thinking, while your mind was a complete blank, you didn’t even thought about the end of it all.
Verso’s heart was still hammering in his chest, long after the moment had passed. Just the sight of you was enough to keep his pulse running wild. He leaned down to capture your lips, careful not to touch you with the hand he hadn’t yet cleaned.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said with a sheepish grin, glancing down at your glistening skin.
You let out a soft laugh. “That’s fine. Thank you.”
He settled beside you on the mattress, holding his hand in the air as if it were poisonous, while you reached into your nightstand drawer and pulled out two of your linen handkerchiefs. Shortly after, he pulled your blanket over both of you, beckoned you closer to him, and you snuggled into his warm embrace.
“You’re hot,” you murmured, drawing little circles in the hair on his chest, the heat still radiating from him, his skin damp with the faintest sheen of sweat.
“And you’re soft,” he replied quietly, content, placing a kiss on your hair.
There was a rustling at the foot of the bed, then a small meow. Soleil jumped onto the mattress and strutted over the blanket with big, wobbly steps, toward Verso, where she pressed her tiny head against his chin. He grinned as he stroked her little body, and once again, Soleil purred in his presence as if she were in love.
“Here she comes, making sure I know how to share,” you sighed in amusement, scratching her head. She blinked at you, as if to tell you she still liked you too, even with the attractive man in her bed.
“Don’t tell her, but for me, you still come first,” he murmured into your ear.
“Careful, she can hear you.” You hummed, smiling blissfully. Slowly, though steadily, your dilemma crept back into your awareness. There was no turning back from what you had both committed to now. You still had a chance to keep it secret, but you didn’t want to end it anymore, you couldn’t.
“Verso?”
“Yes?”
“What you said earlier, about knowing how I feel, that I had the desire to experience something I didn’t think I ever could. Why did you say that so quickly? Does it have something to do with you being a Painter?” You continued the thought: “What can you do?”
His fingers gently caressed your upper arm while he seemed to think for a moment. “You mean they didn’t tell you about our powers?”
“They did,” you answered, “but probably just as twisted as whatever they told you. What I know about you is that you create worlds, with real, free thinking beings, and that’s the reason why everything between us is so complicated.”
“Mhm,” he acknowledged, “and what I know about you is that you can influence reality with what you write. They tell us that your kind can impose your will on others, even write over our canvases, if you wanted to. That’s why you threaten our way of life.”
You scoffed. “I’ve never heard of a Writer who did that.”
Verso continued petting Soleil, but his hand paused for a moment. “Is it possible?”
You thought briefly before replying. “I don’t know. Among us, there are people with very different levels of strength. Usually, we just write, and our works aren’t even always meant to be manifested. The more advanced among us can take on and execute conditions, but only on ourselves.” You straightened up and leaned over him. He listened intently. “We simply write something, and then,” you touched the ink-black stubble of his beard with your fingertips, “we take the words into ourselves. They disappear from the page. Whatever we wrote, we inherit for a short time. We don’t create anything, we merely take it on.” You ran your fingers over his chin, then smiled. “I do it with music.”
Soleil let out an indignant meow, she was no longer the center of attention. Verso blinked, surprised. “So you’re writing sheet music and then – absorb it?”
“And then I play it, one time,” you concluded.
“That’s a shame, you write beautiful music.” He played with a lock of your hair. “So you’re an advanced Writer?”
You shrugged. “I have my talents.”
“That you do.”
You both grinned.
“And then, well, there are the truly powerful among us,” you continued without reservation. He should know what your kind could do, he obviously had a warped idea of your powers. “Maybe they can write over your canvases, but that’s only possible, if at all, with blood.”
“Blood?” he asked, surprised.
You nodded. “Blood is the strongest ink in the world. Especially when it’s your own that you write with. Whoever among us writes a book in blood and manifests it probably won’t come back out of it. If they even make it that far before they bleed out. The less powerful we are, the more blood we have to use.”
“Have you ever tried it?”
“Noooo,” you insisted quickly and at length, “I am not nearly powerful enough, it is so dangerous. Only the most powerful among us write in blood. But they actually can, if you interpret it that way, change reality.” You traced invisible letters on Verso’s chest. “They can, for example, heal wounds. Whether they can really influence your works, I don’t know. I’m not really that educated about blood sacrifices.”
Verso made a thoughtful sound. “I guess on both sides, they tell us stories to turn us against each other.”
“So is it also not true what they tell about you? That you can create worlds like gods?” you asked, curious to learn more about his powers now that you had explained yours.
He pulled a face. “It’s not wrong. But we refrain from using words like that to describe it. We basically do the same as you, describe worlds in the form of art and bring them to life. We can enter our canvases and live inside them for a certain amount of time.”
“And can you really trap people in there, if you wanted?” You suspected that was the piece of information that was spread to scare your kind.
Verso’s eyebrow lifted questioningly, confirming your guess. “We definitely can’t do that.” His gaze softened. “If I could take someone into my painting, I'd love to show you this world.”
“So you created one of those worlds?” The thought that he had done so made you uneasy. Your whole life you had been taught that Painters broke the laws of nature by creating what shouldn’t exist.
“I only ever painted one canvas,” he replied, raising a finger, “where I left a piece of my soul to give it life. I was a child back then, and it was a family project, really. Clea helped paint it, our parents sometimes came in with us. Only Alicia preferred to spend time in her room.”
“A piece of your soul? What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I think you think it means. We leave a piece of our soul in the paintings we want to enter.” Verso’s eyes drifted upward to the ceiling. “Powerful Painters like my parents can create many such paintings. Others… not so much.”
“I see.” You let yourself sink down onto his reassuring chest, and he wrapped his arms around you. Parts of what you knew about each other were true, parts were false, the kind of miscommunication that led to class wars like this, likely born from jealousy, envy, and materialism. In the end, it was art that connected your clans, really.
“I would like to see your painting some day… but I would rather listen to you play the piano all the time.”
His chuckle vibrated through his chest. “And that is why I…” he paused.
You pressed yourself closer to him, wrapped your arms around him. “It’s alright,” you whispered, “I love you, too.”
How about Verso falling for an expeditioner (reader) and making the choice to keep the canvas alive because he decides that eternity will be bearable because they're there. I'm a sucker for overly romantic things like this. Hopefully it's not too cringe and actually an interesting idea :)
A Change of Heart [Verso Dessendre]
pairing: verso x reader
words: 1.1k
Lumière was quiet again.
But not the hollow kind of quiet that follows death, or the brittle silence that lives in ruined places. Rather, a soft one, that of peace. Of life like it was before. Like a painting finally dried after years of constant rethinking.
People moved through the streets again—voices calling out, feet hitting cobblestones. The harbor rippled with life. Boats. Laughter. Music. The sun filtered down through the white arches like it belonged there.
They were all back, the ones erased by the Gommage. Given shape again by Alicia’s brush.
And Verso stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, wind caressing his hair, watching it unfold like a man still not sure if he deserved it.
He had almost destroyed it.
He had wanted to.
⸻
Back when the Paintress fell and the Canvas cracked open, Verso stood upon the broken world with the power to let it all go.
The cycle could’ve ended. And he wouldn’t have to keep waking and walking forward alone anymore.
No more rebuilding.
No more loss.
Just silence.
But then he thought of you.
The way you looked at the stars like they whispered the secrets of the universe to you. Or the way you fought—not to be brave, but because you had to show strength. The way you made him laugh, once, out of nowhere, and he didn’t know how to stop.
He couldn’t destroy the Canvas anymore.
Not if you were in it.
⸻
Alicia was the one who still had a piece of the miracle left in her brush. The last real artist left there.
And under different circumstances, Verso would be willing to fight his own sister in order to put an end to this miserable world. He would’ve given his all one last time to erase what grief had created, so beautiful and yet, so haunting.
If.
Things were different now, in a way that he failed to predict. Like a silver lining, like a miracle.
This is why he sided with his sister.
Alicia blinked. “But you… You hated this place. You said the cycle was a curse.”
Verso’s voice cracked. “It was. But now I’ve got something I’d rather not lose.”
She stared at him for a long time, searching his face for hesitation.
There was none.
⸻
Now there he was.
By the sea, on a quiet day, waiting for you.
And when you finally arrived—boots scuffed, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes full of light—he knew he’d made the right choice.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey.”
You stood beside him at the edge of the dock, the water shimmering in front of you both.
“I still don’t get how I’m alive,” you murmured. “Or why.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then you laughed, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“I’m still trying to process it. I mean, I was, am, a painting. I was gone. And now I’m… here? Breathing? Talking to you?”
You shook your head. “What does that make me?”
“Real,” he said. “It makes you real.”
You didn’t respond right away.
Then you whispered, “I feel like I’ve stolen something. Like this life doesn’t belong to me.”
“You didn’t steal anything,” Verso replied, voice firm. “You earned it. You lived. That matters more than how you started.”
“But it’s not just that,” you went on, the words coming quicker now. “I look around, and everyone’s rebuilding like it’s simple. Like they can go back to normal. And I can’t even figure out what normal is. I don’t know who I am outside of the expedition. It’s all so different now…”
Verso reached for your hand and you let him take it.
His fingers were warm. Rough. Steady.
“You are you,” he said. “The same person who held a broken team together. The same person who stood at the edge of hell and refused to fall. And if you don’t know who you are now, that’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”
You looked at him, eyes shimmering. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I spent decades not wanting to live,” he said. “And then I met you.”
The words sat heavy in the air between you.
“I was ready to let it all burn,” he continued. “The Canvas. Everything. I was tired of surviving everyone I ever cared about.”
His voice dipped. “But you made it all worth it,
y/n.”
You stared at him for a while.
Verso seemed at peace. You hadn’t seen him like that before, expression calm and serene. And you had to admit, it suited him just fine.
The expedition had left scars on everyone, scars that would take a long time to heal. But he was calm, maybe a bit more than that, as if he had finally made amends with how things would be from now on, like the past could finally be left in the past.
You had a long way to go before everything settled in your heart.
But you knew you wouldn’t be alone this time.
And then you noticed it.
“You’ve got grey in your hair again.”
Verso blinked. “What?”
You reached up, touched a strand near his temple. “Right here.”
He went still. Then laughed—a soft, real laugh that felt like sunlight through storm clouds.
“Time’s catching up faster than I dye my hair, I guess,” he said.
You smiled, something fragile and beautiful blooming in your chest.
“You gave up eternity?”
“For one lifetime with you?” He smiled. “It’s a better deal than I ever thought I’d get.”
He stepped closer, hands gently resting on your waist now.
“I love you,” the words rolled off his tongue like he’d said it million times before.
Well, it wasn’t like you didn’t know already. You felt it in the way he looked at you, in the way he fought beside you, treated your wounds, lied next to you near the fire every night. But hearing it—really hearing it—was something else.
Your eyes welled. “Say it again, please.”
“I love you.”
You reached for him like you couldn’t stand not to. He pulled you close, and the hug was messy, tight and perfect. His heartbeat was real against yours. Mortal. Alive.
“I love you too. So much, Verso.”
When you pulled back, you leaned your forehead against his. “You’re really going to grow old with me?”
He grinned. “Wrinkles and everything.”
You laughed.
It cracked the grief and cracked the fear and cracked the doubt.
And then he kissed you.
There, by the sea, with the city behind you and the future unpainted ahead, he kissed you like he’d waited almost a hundred years for it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Enemies to Friends to Lovers- Enemies to Lovers - Touch-Starved Verso - Emotional/Psychological Abuse - Loneliness - Alternate Universe / Canon Divergence - The Dessendre Family Needs Therapy (Clair Obscur: Expedition 33) - Verso Needs a Hug - Depressed Verso - Reader is a journalist - Very rare use of Y/n - Smut will come later
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. When a bold letter earns Y/n, a young art journalist, a month-long stay at the legendary Dessendre Manor, she expects to document the genius of Renoir and Aline Dessendre—the most enigmatic artistic duo in France.
What she doesn’t expect is their son.
Verso Dessendre—brilliant pianist, reluctant heir, walking contradiction.
Their first meeting is a disaster: she mistakes him for a staff member, he flirts—then freezes the moment he learns her purpose. “Ah. One of those,” he says, and the war begins.
But beneath the manor’s gilded ceilings and flickering shadows, hostility twists into fascination. Late-night encounters grow charged, secrets unravel, and the piano begins to sound different when she’s near.
❛ ao3 ⋅ requests ⋅ Part 2❜
➜ ┊: chapter 1/4. ~5K.
‘Our ‘almost’ will always haunt me.’
The Dessendre Manor rose at the end of the gravel drive like something pulled from a painting you’d once studied under the soft yellow lamps of your university library—impressive, yes, but in the way thunderstorms were impressive: beautiful from the distance, overwhelming once you stood beneath their weight.
It was a house that carried its history not as decoration but as gravity, its symmetrical façade and tall, austere windows watching you with the same heavy expectation as a museum guard standing a little too close to remind you not to touch anything. Others spoke of it with reverence, as if stepping inside was akin to entering a cathedral carved from artistry and genius. And perhaps, in a way, it was.
But as you stood at the foot of the manor with your suitcase trembling slightly in your hand, the feeling that threaded up your spine was not awe—it was an intricate blend of dread and disbelief.
Only a week ago, the idea of being invited into this place would have made you laugh in that slightly hysterical way reserved for impossible dreams. You had always admired the Dessendres’ work from the respectful distance of a student—Aline’s sharp, delicate lines that seemed to breathe on the canvas, Renoir’s deep colors that felt like you could step into them and be swallowed whole.
You had written essays about them that your professors praised, had spent long nights tracing the evolution of their styles from early exhibitions to private collections, had once even joked that you’d sell your soul for a glimpse into their studio. And then, with the kind of reckless boldness born from equal parts desperation and passion, you had written the letter.
A letter too direct, your friends had said. Too presumptuous. Too forward.
A letter in which you dared to express not only your fascination, but your belief that it would be a tragedy—yes, you had written the word, and yes, you still flushed at the memory—to allow their artistry to fade into fragmented anecdotes simply because they disliked Writers—and that journalists were different.
You had told them that their process deserved to be preserved, that their devotion deserved a witness, and that you, humble as you were, would be honored to be that witness. You had imagined the letter tossed into the fire.
Or worse—read aloud in a mocking tone over dinner.
You had never imagined Renoir Dessendre himself replying.
You reread his invitation so many times the ink practically warmed under your thumb, each line more impossible than the last. A month-long stay. Full access to the atelier. Documentation for a cultural journal and, perhaps—he had written gracefully, almost offhandedly—an artistic recueil if the collaboration proved fruitful.
It had felt too unreal to believe. Now, standing before the looming manor, its shadow stretching long across the wintry lawn, it felt almost too real to bear.
You drew in a breath that tasted faintly of frost and old stone, squared your shoulders, and stepped toward the heavy doors—doors that would open you into the world of Aline and Renoir Dessendre, into their sanctuary of creation. Unaware, of course, that it would also open you into the path of the one person in this house who would have rather slammed those doors shut.
The door opened with the soft groan of old hinges, releasing a breath of warm air scented faintly with polished wood and something floral you couldn’t name. A housekeeper—stern-faced, impeccably dressed, and far more elegant than anyone had a right to be while answering a door—looked you over with the composed precision of someone who had seen decades of guests and could sort them instantly into categories you were certain you didn’t want to know.
Before you could muster a greeting that didn’t sound like you were about to apologize for your own existence, a familiar voice called from deeper inside the foyer.
“Ah, mademoiselle Y/n! You’ve arrived. Finally! I was beginning to fear the train had decided to keep you for itself.”
Renoir Dessendre appeared with the kind of presence that seemed to draw the room toward him. Not through force or intimidation—though he certainly could have commanded both—but through warmth, genuine and unguarded, the kind you hadn’t expected from a man whose name carried the weight of museums, collectors, and whispered genius.
He strode toward you, cane in hand, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, his hair more silver than the portraits you’d studied, but somehow he looked more alive than any image had captured. He took your hand, as if greeting an old friend rather than an untested journalist who had practically begged her way into his home.
“Welcome, welcome. You must be frozen.” His voice carried a melodic cadence, softened by years of speaking over the scratch of brushes and the hum of creativity. “Come in quickly before the cold decides to steal you.”
You stepped inside, the door shutting behind you with a quiet finality. The manor swallowed you in its grandeur—the high ceilings, the dark wooden beams, the glint of art deco fixtures catching the light like scattered stars. It was beautiful. It was overwhelming. It was exactly what you had dreamed and nothing like anything you had been prepared for.
Renoir kept speaking as he guided you further inside, his hand still lightly at your elbow, as though you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you. “We’re very glad you’re here. Aline has been restless all day, asking every hour if you’ve arrived. She does not like waiting.” He chuckled, but there was a note of truth beneath it.
Your heart stumbled slightly at the mention of her.
Aline Dessendre.
The woman whose work had shaped entire movements. The razor-souled artist whose gaze in photographs always seemed two seconds away from slicing through whoever held the camera. The countless stories you’d heard floated up without invitation—her sharp tongue, her perfectionism, her disdain for critics.
You had always assumed that fame carved pieces out of people until only brilliance—or ego—remained.
That the price of renown was humanity, that the higher one climbed, the more you had to shed. The Dessendres were legends, myths almost. Too extraordinary to be ordinary, too prolific to be gentle. You had never dared imagine warmth from them. Yet here Renoir was, beaming at you with the easy sincerity of a man welcoming someone into a family home rather than into the private sanctum of two artistic giants.
“Come,” he said, guiding you toward the heart of the manor. “Aline will want to see you immediately.”
You barely had time to take in more than a blur of polished wood, gilded frames, and the hush of old luxury before Renoir was already guiding you down a long corridor, his pace brisk enough that you had to gather your suitcase closer to your side and hurry to match him.
Every instinct in you wanted to slow down, to absorb every detail, to memorize the geometry of the staircase and the way the winter light fractured through the tall windows—but admiration would have to wait. Renoir Dessendre moved with the certainty of a man whose life had been spent in motion, answering inspiration as it struck, expecting others to simply keep up.
You swallowed your awe and followed.
“Thank you,” you managed, breath slightly unsteady from nerves more than speed. “Truly, monsieur Dessendre, I can’t express how grateful I am for—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted, waving a paint-stained hand dismissively. “If anyone should be grateful, it is us. Your letter was the first honest one we’ve received in years. No flattery, no pretension. Just curiosity.” His smile deepened. “Curiosity is something we value here.”
You weren’t sure whether to preen at the compliment or shrink under the pressure of what it implied. So you simply nodded, trying to convey sincerity rather than the internal chaos spiraling inside you.
Renoir led you through another hallway that opened into a wing stretching deeper into the manor. The air thickened with the unmistakable scents of turpentine, linseed oil, chalk dust, and wet pigment—the perfume of creation. Your pulse quickened. This was it. The heart of the house.
“The atelier is just ahead,” he said as he pushed open a tall door, “Aline insisted you see it before anything else. She believes a person’s first impression of a studio reveals something fundamental about them.”
You tried very hard not to read too much into that. “And she is… expecting me right now?” you asked, suddenly aware of how your palms were sweating despite the chill outside.
“Expecting, waiting—there is little difference with my wife.” Renoir chuckled, but there was a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, the kind a man gets when he loves someone formidable.
You clutched the strap of your bag a little tighter.
“Still,” you whispered, almost tripping on the final step as the atelier door swung open wider, “thank you so much for this opportunity. I… I won’t take a second of it for granted.”
Renoir paused just inside the threshold and turned back toward you, his expression softening into something almost paternal. “I know you won’t. That is why you are here.”
And with that, he stepped aside. So you could see everything.
The atelier opened before you like a cathedral of color and light—wide, high-ceilinged, flooded with the pale Parisian sun. Canvases leaned in regimented rows along the walls, half-finished portraits staring back with uncanny lifelike gazes. Pigments dusted every surface like settled stardust. It was grandiose, overwhelming, the sort of room that swallowed sound and expectation whole.
And at its center stood Aline Dessendre.
She didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the space long before her gaze did—cold, poised, composed with a precision that could cut. Where Renoir radiated warmth in every gesture, Aline was winter distilled into a woman. Dark hair bound in a severe knot, a pearl-buttoned blouse without a single crease, eyes the color of polished steel sliding toward you in a slow, appraising movement.
Whatever stories you had heard about her—her ruthlessness, her genius, her exacting standards—they suddenly felt less like gossip and more like simple reportage. You swallowed discreetly, steadying your voice before it could betray nerves. “Madame Dessendre,” you managed, offering the smallest, respectful incline of your head, “thank you for agreeing to let me observe your process. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Her expression didn’t soften. It didn’t change at all. A fleeting glance traveled from your shoes to your eyes, measuring, weighing, discerning something you couldn’t guess.
Renoir chimed cheerfully beside you, as though to cushion the impact. “She’s eager, Aline. Very professional. I think you’ll enjoy having her around.”
Aline’s gaze held yours for a beat longer—too long—before she replied, her tone smooth but glacial. “We’ll see.” The words were neither welcome nor rejection. Just a verdict deferred.
You forced a steady breath, spine straightening, refusing to let awe or intimidation carve the first impression you gave her. So you met her cold stare with quiet resolve, offering a faint, polite smile. “I’m looking forward to learning from the both of you.”
Renoir drifted deeper into the atelier, already shedding his coat and rolling up his sleeves, but Aline’s attention flicked toward him as though cued by instinct. They exchanged a few quiet words—efficient, practiced, the cadence of two people who had spent a lifetime creating both art and empire side by side.
“Her room?” Renoir asked, glancing back at you with a warm, reassuring smile. “I was thinking the east wing—good light in the mornings, close enough to the atelier so she won’t have to cross the whole house every day.”
Aline wiped her fingertips on a linen cloth, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “No,” she countered, tone cool but not unkind. “The east wing is occupied.”
Renoir raised a brow. “Since when?”
“Since yesterday evening.” Aline didn’t sigh—but something wry ghosted over her lips. “Verso arrived unannounced again.”
There was no mistaking the subtle change in her voice when she spoke her son’s name. The frost in her tone thawed, replaced by something soft and fond—an undercurrent of maternal indulgence she did not bother hiding.
Renoir chuckled, shaking his head. “He said he wouldn’t be back until next month.”
Aline’s answer was immediate, almost automatic. “He changed his mind.”
She continued, straightening with a kind of regal decisiveness. “Put her in the south corridor. The guest room with the balcony. It is far enough from Verso’s space that he won’t complain.”
Then, as though the memory of him opened a tiny window into her warmth, Aline allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You know how he is when he composes. He prefers not to be disturbed.”
Renoir laughed, bright and affectionate. “Prefers? No—he demands it.”
Aline’s eyes sharpened in amusement. “He is brilliant. Let him be eccentric.”
You stood quietly, absorbing their exchange—this glimpse of domestic familiarity behind the legend. The way Aline’s voice softened when she spoke of her son was unmistakable, a warmth she hadn’t extended to anyone else in the room. It was striking… and unexpectedly humanizing.
Renoir turned back to you with a gentle clap of his hands.
“Perfect. We’ll show you your room once Aline finishes her mix here. Make yourself at home, mademoiselle.”
Aline nodded once in acknowledgment, already returning to her palette—her world of color—and yet the echo of “Verso” lingered in the air, a name carrying weight, fondness, and, perhaps, complications you had not yet begun to understand.
—
You didn’t do much on your first day—or rather, they did not give you much to do.
Renoir and Aline worked with a kind of intensity that left little room for conversation, their focus so honed it felt almost sacrilegious to interrupt. So you lingered quietly at the edge of the atelier, notebook closed, observing the way their brushes moved, the rhythm of their speech, the strange and silent language only artists of equal genius seemed to share.
By the time the sun began tilting toward evening, your presence had become part of the background, a tolerated shadow against the wall. A housekeeper eventually approached you with a polite smile and informed you that you could settle into your room before dinner as he took your bags gracefully.
Renoir, wiping his hands on a paint-stained cloth, repeated his directions—down the main hall, left at the staircase, follow the corridor with the gold sconces, and the dining room will be just past your quarters—as though he’d been giving tours of the manor his entire life.
You thanked him, and slipped out of the atelier.
The manor’s corridors stretched long and velvety around you, dressed in deep colors and gold accents, as if every wall carried the weight of a century. You walked slowly, half in awe, half trying to commit each turn to memory. Renoir’s instructions guided you true, and after a few minutes you pushed open the tall door leading into what looked less like a “living area” and more like an entire salon—wide windows, dark wood floors, and an elegant table set for far more people than you assumed would actually dine there.
Only one chair was occupied.
A teenage girl sat perched at the long table, legs swinging under her seat. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with ginger hair neatly braided down her back and a posture far too poised for someone her age. Her eyes—sharp, curious, and unmistakably Dessendre—lifted from the book before her the moment she heard your step. You froze for half a second.
She blinked at you. You blinked back.
Then, with a calmness and manners that suggested rigorous training, the girl closed her book and folded her hands on the table. “You must be the journalist,” she said, voice soft but precise, as though reciting a line she had memorized perfectly. Alicia Dessendre—there was no doubt.
You nodded gently and offered her a small, uncertain smile before taking the seat across from her. The chair was heavier than it looked, its polished wood groaning softly against the parquet floor. As if your presence alone had been the signal they were waiting for, a housekeeper appeared from a side door almost instantly, gliding forward with a tray of steaming dishes. Silverware chimed softly as plates were set before you both, the manor’s quiet breathing filling the spaces between sounds.
Alicia didn’t reach for her fork. She watched you instead, her pale blue eyes—so like Aline’s, so like Renoir’s—shining with a strange mix of curiosity and resignation.
“Is it… only us for dinner?” you asked gently, trying to keep your tone neutral, polite. You didn’t want to pry, but the emptiness of such a large room felt impossible to ignore.
Alicia gave a small, practiced shrug, the movement too elegant for someone her age but too weary to be anything but familiar. “I usually eat alone,” she said simply.
Your heart dipped.
She went on with an eerie calmness, as if reporting on the weather. “Papa and Maman are always working. They say it’s easier to keep painting while they’re in the flow. They don’t like to stop.”
You thought back to the atelier—how the Dessendres seemed to merge with their canvases, devoured by creation. Alicia’s eyes dropped briefly to her untouched plate. “And Cléa is away for the week. She doesn’t like being here when they’re working on a big project.”
There was a small pause before she added the last part, quieter, though not for lack of confidence—rather, it felt like a confession wrapped in inevitability. “And Verso… he won’t come. Not if there’s a chance he’ll run into them.” The way she said his name—Verso—held a peculiar warmth, a softening around the syllables that didn’t match the tension you’d sensed from Aline earlier.
“So,” Alicia concluded, lifting her fork at last with a delicate sigh, “it’s just me. I hope it’s fine for you.” Alicia’s fork scraped softly against the porcelain as she finally took a small bite. You followed her lead, though your appetite felt dulled by the weight of her words, by the cavernous quiet of the room.
A flicker of protectiveness stirred in you—unexpected, instinctive—at the sight of this graceful, quiet girl speaking of loneliness as if it were simply part of the family architecture. You rested your hands lightly on the edge of the table, keeping your voice gentle.
“Well,” you said, offering her a warmer smile, “I don’t mind sharing dinner with you, if you don’t mind sharing with me.”
Alicia paused mid-bite. Her pale blue eyes lifted, studying you. Then, subtly, her shoulders eased.“I don’t mind,” she said. “You’re… different from the others who come here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Others?”
“Journalists. Collectors. People who want something from us.”
She stabbed a piece of roasted carrot, then added lightly, “They never talk to me.”
That struck deeper than you wanted it to.
“Well, that’s their loss,” you replied with a cheerful smile. “You seem like the most interesting person in the house.”
Alicia blinked—surprised, or maybe simply unused to being addressed as anything other than an afterthought. A faint flush touched her cheeks; it made her look her age for the first time.
“What about you?” she asked. “Why did you come? You don’t look like someone who chases fame.”
You let out a soft breath, taken aback by her perceptiveness. “I… came because your parents’ work deserves to be remembered properly. Because artists like them don’t come around often.”
Alicia held your gaze, “And because you love art,” she added quietly.
Your lips parted. “Yes,” you admitted. “A lot.”
Alicia nodded, as if confirming something she had suspected all along.
There was a small silence—comfortable, almost fragile—before she continued, her voice dipping conspiratorially: “If you’re staying here a month… you’ll see him eventually.”
“Verso?” you asked, careful not to let your curiosity color the word too much.
She nodded. “He says he hates this place. But he always comes back.”
“Why?”
Alicia looked down at her plate, and for the first time, the practiced poise wavered.
“Because I’m here,” she murmured.
It was so soft you almost missed it.
—
Alicia grew unexpectedly talkative as the meal unfolded, as though something inside her had quietly unlocked. Once the initial formality dissolved, she spoke with a soft eagerness, telling you which hallways creaked at night, which portraits were rumored to move slightly when the lights were dimmed, and how the gardens seemed to breathe differently after rain.
She told you about Cléa—how her older sister was brilliant but restless, always fleeing the manor with the speed of someone running from her own reflection. She spoke, too, of their parents’ obsession with perfection, how it swallowed days, meals, birthdays, and sometimes entire seasons without warning.
And she laughed a little, shyly, when you asked about the elegant piano you’d passed.
“That’s Verso’s,” she said. “He plays at night. Always at night.”
A pause. “He says the piano listens better when the house sleeps.”
By the time dessert plates were cleared away, you realised the oppressive silence you had expected from the manor had been replaced, at least for now, by Alicia’s quiet company. When you both finally rose from the table, she walked with you through the long hallway, the chandelier above scattering soft amber light over the parquet floor.
“My room is the closest to yours,” she explained, pointing down a narrower corridor. “Mama says it’s good for me to be near the guest wing. It teaches me manners.”
Her tone suggested she was unconvinced of this reasoning, but she smiled anyway, small and sincere. You returned the smile, grateful for this fragile bridge she was offering.
You said goodnight softly.
Alicia retreated to her door, pausing once to glance back at you before slipping inside.
The corridor fell silent.
You took a slow breath and continued walking toward your own room, trying to memorize the layout: the tall windows drowning in heavy curtains, the sculpted wall panels, the faint scent of old books and linseed oil that seemed embedded in the air.
Renoir’s directions had been clear, but the manor’s scale made you second-guess every turn. You passed a series of closed doors, each identical in its ornate frame, until finally—you reached yours.
Or at least, you hoped you did.
You tested the handle.
Locked.
Odd. Renoir had said—
A soft sigh escaped you. Perhaps you had mixed something up after all.
You turned around, scanning the dim corridor for help. The sconces flickered faintly, casting long shifting shadows on the walls. Just as you were debating which direction to take, footsteps approached from the darker end of the hall. Steady. Unhurried. You straightened instinctively.
A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in the crisp uniform, in simple dark clothes that could have belonged to anyone in the house. His hair fell in soft dark waves around his face, catching the low light like strands of fire, and in the dim glow, his eyes—icy pale, unmistakably Dessendre eyes—seemed almost luminescent.
But you didn’t notice that at first.
You noticed the way he moved: effortlessly, noiselessly, like someone familiar with every secret step of the manor. “Bonsoir,” you said, relieved. “Excuse me—could you help me? Renoir must have given me the wrong room key.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. He simply looked at you, head slightly tilted, as if cataloguing the sight of you—your presence in his corridor, your misplaced confidence, your mistake.
Then— A slow curve of his lips. Not polite. Not warm. Amused.
“I’m not staff, I don't wander around with a spare set of keys. You can imagine how heavy it would be in my pocket.” he said, voice low and smooth.
You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Oh—my apologies, I didn’t mean—”
He raised a hand, silencing your apology without saying a word, still wearing that faint, entertained half-smile. He stepped closer, leaning one shoulder casually against the wall beside your locked door, as though he had every right to occupy your air, your space, your breath.
You hesitated under his gaze, embarrassed by the mistake but grateful he hadn’t laughed outright. His smile—lazy, crooked, undeniably handsome—made him look far softer than the rumors suggested. If anything, he seemed amused in a way that felt… oddly intimate, as though your error had given him a private joke to savor.
“I truly am sorry,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t mean to assume. I’m still learning my way around the house.”
“That much is obvious,” he replied, a soft huff of laughter warming his voice. “Most guests get lost at least twice before dinner.”
His tone surprised you—light, teasing, almost kind. He didn’t seem bothered by your presence at all; if anything, he seemed entertained by it. He leaned toward you, the faintest hint of cologne following him—something dark, woodsy, threaded with smoke.
When he leaned a little nearer, his eyes swept over your face with a curiosity that felt… deliberate.
Measured.“You’re new,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes,” you replied. “Only arrived today.”
“Well,” he murmured, “that means you haven’t yet learned which hallways to avoid after dusk.”
A playful glint entered his eyes. “Like this one.”
Your breath caught. “Should I be worried?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. Then, softly: “Only if you’re easily frightened.”
You weren’t sure whether that was a warning or a provocation.
He chuckled when he saw your reaction, a low, rich sound that hummed pleasantly in the quiet corridor. He looked—just for that moment—nothing like the rumors. Nothing like the cold, storm-eyed son of two geniuses.
He looked almost gentle. Almost boyish.
“You don’t seem scared,” he added. “That’s good.”
“I’m not,” you said, surprising even yourself.
He smiled again, slower this time, and something warm flickered between the two of you—unexpected, uninvited, but undeniably real. He straightened, his posture relaxed, one hand sliding into his pocket as though settling in to prolong this strange, accidental meeting.
“So,” he asked lightly, “what brings you to our charming maze of a home? Don’t tell me you’re here for the wine—my mother guards the cellar like a dragon.”
You smiled back without thinking. “No, nothing like that. I’m here to—”The moment the words left your mouth, his expression began to shift, but you didn’t notice until it was too late.“—document your parents’ work. Renoir invited me for a month-long stay. I’m a journalist.”
Silence.
It was immediate.
Electric.
His smile didn’t fade. It disappeared. Completely.
The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by something you couldn’t read—ice, steel, shadow. He pulled back—not physically, but in the way a door slams shut behind someone walking away.
The air cooled. “Ah,” he said quietly. No humor. No softness.
Just recognition dripping with disdain. “One of those.”
His tone wasn’t raised, but the disappointment in it struck harder than if he had shouted. As though he had allowed himself—for a fleeting, careless moment—to enjoy your company, and now regretted it bitterly.
You straightened, instinct tightening your spine. “I’m not sure what that means,” you said, careful, controlled.
He pushed off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who did not need to hurry for anyone. “Of course you do.” You opened your mouth to retort, but he continued, voice smooth as glass and twice as cold. “You’re here to poke at their genius with your little pen, write about their ‘process,’ and pretend you understand the world they live in.”
You bristled. “That’s not what I—”
“Oh?” His brows lifted, mocking curiosity sharpening his features. “Then what are you doing here? Enlighten me.”
There was a challenge in his eyes now, pale and cutting, and the warmth you’d briefly seen was gone, buried under something older and bitter. You sensed this was not about you—not entirely. You had stepped on an old wound without knowing it.
You held your ground.
“I’m here because their work deserves to be preserved. Because history deserves more than rumors and critiques.”
He let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing humorous in it.
“History,” he repeated. “Yes. It always gets everything so perfectly wrong.”
You narrowed your eyes. “It doesn’t have to.”
He took a step closer—not enough to frighten, but enough that you felt the deliberate press of his presence. Enough that the air between you tightened, heated, even as his expression remained glacial.
“And you,” he murmured, voice dropping, “think you’re the one who’ll get it right?”
His nearness made your pulse stumble.
You refused to look away.
“I intend to,” you replied. “And if that bothers you, that sounds like your problem, not mine.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but the shadow of one, dark and dangerous.
“Bold,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
“It’s called doing my job.”
“No,” he corrected softly, eyes tracing your face with an intensity that made your breath hitch despite your irritation. “It’s called arrogance.”
You exhaled sharply. “And judging someone you just met is called what, exactly?”
For a moment—just a brief, crackling instant—you saw it again: the warmth behind the frost, a glimmer of amusement trying to break through, fighting with irritation.
Then he stepped back, the wall sliding down between you once more.
“You’re in the wrong room,” he said curtly, all the softness of earlier carved away. “Yours is two doors down.”
You stiffened. “Thank you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t offer to show you the way. He simply watched you pass, gaze following you with something unreadable—annoyance, curiosity, or perhaps that same fleeting warmth he was trying very hard to suffocate.
Just as you reached the correct door, he spoke again, his voice lower, almost begrudging:
“Next time,” he murmured, “try not to get lost.”
You didn’t turn back. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for staff,” you shot over your shoulder, “try not lurking in dark hallways.”
A beat of silence. Then—very soft, very reluctant— “…Touché.”
You slipped into your room, heart unsteady, cheeks warm, breath tight. The door clicked shut behind you.And despite the tension, the irritation, the sharp edges—you couldn’t deny the truth.
Your first night in the Dessendre Manor had become far more interesting than you expected.
summary ⚔ SFW & NSFW headcanons
pairing ⚔ painted verso x gn! reader
[a/n] ⚔ yall clair obscur: expedition 33 is french so OBVIOUSLY i had to write about its characters… especially verso because he literally caught my eyes. anyway, as usual guys if you see any mistake, feel free to correct me :>
word count ⚔ 672
content warnings ⚔ HEAVY ACT 2 AND 3 SPOILERS, NSFW themes, emotional vulnerability, power-play themes, first time, possessiveness, “broken but yours”, praise, angst-tinted intimacy
SFW
guarded but loyal:
i headcanon verso at not being someone to open up easily, i mean in the first hours of act 2 he doesn’t speak a lot to the others
well he tries but fails miserably
but once you earn his trust, he IS incredibly loyal
like, he’ll never say “i love you” lightly but when he does– oh mama, he MEANS it
expect his affection to be shown more through actions than words though
quiet protector:
he watches you closely, not the stalking type or whatever, not possessively but more like protectively. just as he did for maelle since the beginning of the game
if you’re ever in danger, there’s no hesitation at all: he’ll just throw himself between you and harm without even blinking
gentle touches in private moments:
in public, he might seem a little aloof
but when you’re alone he allows himself small, tender gestures: brushing your hair behind your ear, his fingers resting either on your knees/thighs or on the small of your back, long gazes that say more than words, etc…
kinda sensitive to your pain:
if you cry, he literally freezes
it wrecks him to see you hurt, especially if he feels responsible
his way of comforting you might be awkward to be honest– he just wraps you in his arms silently, pressing his forehead to yours until your breathing calms
he is the type who takes a long time to admit his feelings–even to himself
expect longing stares, subtle jealousy (especially when monoco is involved…), and moments of tension where he’s so close to kissing you… and then pulls back
fixes your pictos and such, makes sure your canteen is full, positions himself between you and danger like big nevrons or whatever on the battlefield… these are his love languages
he seems to open up most when the world is quiet– being on watch together, under the stars for example
he’ll just share fragments of his past or philosophy in that low, tired-of-life voice, like he’s letting you hold a piece of him
NSFW
when he finally touches you, it’s like holding back a storm
every kiss feels earned, like he’s been starving for you and can barely contain himself
big on consent, even if silent about it:
he’ll ask with his eyes, his hands hesitating just slightly before they slide over your skin
if you say “yes”, he commits fully– no hesitation at ALL
not possessive in a toxic way obviously, but primal
the kind of man who grips your hips hard, groans your name into your ears like a sacred thing, and mutters things like “mine” under his breath when he’s buried inside you
he has a praise kink
surprising but real
your praise makes him lose it
whisper that he feels good, tell him you need him and you’ll see him tremble
he is not used to being wanted for himself at all
he likes to be in control at first– holding your wrists gently above your head, directing your pace, etc…
but when he gets close, he loses control
he needs you as much as you need him
he loves biting your shoulders, scratching down your back or thighs, leaving faint bruises…
it’s about proof, that he was there, that you’re real to him
the contrast is triking: after sex, he turns soft
he wipes you down carefully, tucks you close against his chest, murmurs apologies if he was rough, etc
he might not say “i love you” but his body does
BONUS:
he is careful if it’s your first time, he might even be hesitant too
even if you’re inexperienced, you might have to be the one to guide and reassure him
but once he knows you’re sure, he lets go
completely
there’s so much emotion in it: desperation, longing, maybe even tears if he’s been carrying a lot of inner guilt of grief
he kisses you like it hurts
he holds your like he is afraid you’ll disappear
and when you whisper his name, he answers with breathless, reverent moans– like you’re saving him
The knock on the door has Verso's heart beating in double time.
"Verso, it's me."
He wipes his palms on his shirt before he opens the door. There's no way he's going to lead you into his apartment with sweaty hands the very first time you visit.
Verso can't explain it, but each time he sees you he feels like heart lighten, his belly does a weird flop that it's never done before, and he couldn't help but smile.
It also helped that you always had a smile when you were looking at him.
"So this," you say, looking in through the doorway, "is where the great Verso Dessendre practises his genius."
Verso takes you by the hand and ushers you in before you tease him further within earshot of the neighbours.
"I did try to clean up, but it is rather a small set of rooms and I do have quite a lot of things," Verso starts rambling an apology as you walk around his apartment, occassionally touching the spine of a book or looking at a sheet of music.
"Oh hush, Verso! It's your house. It should be comfortable for you."
Verso smiles again. Of course you would understand why things were where they were.
"Besides, living above the best bakery in the city sweetens anything."
*******
You walk around while Verso busies himself with getting tea. That's when you spot it. An easel and an old paint-stained pot with brushes and bits of charcoal, covered by a dusty sheet.
"You paint?" you ask incredulously, "Is there anything you can't do?"
"You know who my family are. The Dessendre children were all given a paintbrush before our first birthdays."
You hum a response while taking the sheet of the easel and carrying it towards the setee.
"What are you doing?" Verso asks, walking towards you before you knocked over his cello stand with the easel.
"Positioning the set up so that you," you push him on to the stool nearby, "can paint me."
Verso catches the mischievous twinkle in your eye. He knows you love teasing him and it doesn't help that he turns into a mooning lovesick fool when you do.
"I'm not as good as my siblings...or my father...or my mother," Verso protests.
"Well good thing that I do not have the means to pay for a world class Dessendre painting then," you laugh, "I'll take a simple charcoal drawing, good sir. I'll even make it worth your while."
"How do you mean?"
*******
And that was how Verso ended up in the worst and best position of his life thus far.
There you were on the setee, a shaft of light through the curtains illuminating the room, arching your back slightly with your hands covering your breasts and legs slightly bent to show your curves.
The fact that you did not have a stitch on did nothing to calm Verso down.
You turn your head towards him, and calmly say, "I'm ready now. You may begin."
Verso doesn't know how he finds the presence of mind to focus on moving his hand across the canvas. He fully believes that muscle memory is what's guiding the charcoal to draw the planes and valleys of your body.
Because his mind is entirely focused on making sure you don't see how hard he is getting by the minute.
He adjusts his seat just so, tries to take minimal peeks at the gorgeous display mere feet away from him.
He wills himself to focus on the canvas. He's studied your face enough times, he could draw you from memory...yes, that should work.
Or it would have if he hadn't heard a moan from behind the canvas.
What Verso sees when he peeks past the canvas remains with him for the rest of his life.
He watches as you raise your arms, showing off your beautiful breasts, nipples hardened in the cool air. Hands cup them and gently squeeze to show that yes, they are as soft as they look. Fingers roll a nipple, and you moan again. A hand saunters lower and lower, past your sternum, your stomach, your hips, and into the space between your legs.
And Verso hears it clear as day.
A sweet squelch as your fingers move past your pussy lips to find your clit. He hears it again as you slowly touch yourself.
You tease yourself, sighing and moaning softly. And then suddenly you turn and catching his eye, you whisper,
"Verso...please"
Like a man possessed, Verso gets up and stalks towards you. In seconds he's at the setee, on his knees and pulling you towards the far edge, his callused fingers spreading your knees.
He looks at you, waiting, hoping.
You nod.
And that's all he needs.
He dives into your pussy, tongue first. Licking a long stripe up, he finds your clit and sucks. He sucks soft and hard, there's no technique, just a desperate man who had been toyed with enough.
His charcoal covered fingers leave smutty marks on your thighs as his grip hardens.
You feel his beard scratch at your inner thighs and break out in goosebumps. Your fingers twist themselves in his wavy hair and you pull him closer.
"Verso...Verso, I'm so close...please..I'm so so close," you plead, eyes closed and body squirming on the setee.
If you had opened your eyes you'd see Verso watching you, his pale blue eyes taking in every gasp and moan, the way you try to muffle your sounds with your hand.
Verso hums as he eats you out. A simple melody, his breath hitting in soft puffs. Wet sounds marking the tempo.
Your climax hits you without warning. You feel it rush up your spine and feel your thighs get drenched. You gasp in great gulps of air as you try to come down from the high.
You open your eyes to see Verso, pupils blown, face wet, unbuttoning his shirt as he gets up off the floor. He wipes his face with his shirt and that's when you see it.
A dark stain against his trouser leg.
"Verso, did you..."
"How could I not?" he says simply, the words laced with a smile.
The blush on your cheeks darkens as you watch Verso unbutton his trousers. He frees his cock, heavy and hard, the veins tight against the skin, the tip wet.
He lines himself up against your pussy and eases in, gasping at the stretch.
"Look at me, chérie."
His voice, so calm and deep, makes you look up. Verso's face, the pale eyes, his small smile, the mussed hair. He's adorable.
He's yours.
You reach up and kiss him. A peck that turns deeper. He snaps his hips as he kisses, going deeper and deeper.
You moan against his mouth. He whispers your name against your lips.
"Touch me, Verso, please..."
His hands move across your body, cupping your breasts. He dips to kiss and lave your nipple, rolling it gently between his teeth. You let out a small scream as the move has you tightening around his cock.
"Chérie...I'm not going to last...I need to," he manages to say as his cock continues to drive into you.
"Inside...please ..I need it so bad."
Something snaps in his mind. He fucks into you harder, pulling your hips higher, driving himself deeper. "Cum with me, my love, show me you can do it again for me."
You feel the orgasm crest and crash over you, pussy clamping down on his cock. You feel him cum inside you, feel him soften a little as he pulls out, feel his cum flow out of you.
Verso presses his forehead against yours as he catches his breath. He peppers kisses against your hair and your cheeks before taking your lips.
*******
Hours later, as he holds you in bed hearing the quiet rhythm of your breathing, Verso wonders if every day could be like today. What should he do for it to be so? Would you agree to have every day be like today?
The last thought he has before sleep claims him is that he should start painting again.
***********
there was a dearth of Verso smut on this website so I fixed it.
summary: falling for you was never part of Verso's plan.
but when do things ever go as planned?
warnings: nsfw; descriptions of intimate acts *cough* ; also some fluff
Enjoy :)
It started slowly, silently, almost not noticable. He caught himself more and more often looking at you for longer than necessary and god forbid if you looked back and even smiled at him.
When he walked by it happened more and more often that his hand would graze yours and even if only for the briefest of moments. He held your hand longer than necessary when helping you up, steadied you by the small of your back when you stumbled, more intensely than he needed to.
It all started to go downhill when you barely escaped an attack by Nevrons. He threw himself in front of you, taking any strike he could much to your dismay.
"You know my wounds heal. Yours don't" he said almost pleadingly "Doesn't mean you have to throw yourself in front of any danger I encounter..because it doesn't mean I don't care about you, you idiot". You didn't talk to him for three days after that.
It was after a long day of strolling and fighting through the continent that you found yourselves at camp. The mood was gloomy, to say the least.
Sciel sighed audibly "Hey guys I am going to bed, I am absolutely wrecked" she said and stretched with a yawn looking at Lune with a grin. The two of them had recently become a little more than close. "Guess that's my call" Lune said with a smile and followed Sciel to their sleeping spot.
Maelle let out a hearty yawn "Might be better to call it a day. You coming too, y/n?"
You shook your head with a smile "I am by all means not tired yet, so go ahead, I'll join you later". Maelle just shrugged her shoulders and trotted away to her bedroll. "Teenagers" you thought to yourself with a chuckle.
Monoco cleared his throat audably "I'll be on my watch with Esquie" he said.
With everyone gone you and Verso sat by the fire, both of you lost in thought. He was the first to finally break the silence "Y/n.." he began and you looked at him with a sigh "Verso..if this is about what happened lately, then leave it..I will not discuss that again" you said "If you just hear me out.." "Then what? You will tell me again how you're basically immortal and I am just..ah forget it" you said and got up "You're just what, y/n?" Verso retorted, this time a serious expression on his face. You gulped and sighed, not daring to look into his face "I am just yet another expeditioner that is destined to die anyways.." you said so quietly you would have sworn he coulnd't have heard you. But he did. You could feel your eyes filling with tears and your body betraying you, letting the first tear roll down your face.
You let your eyes stay closed when you suddenly felt the most gentle of touches on your face. You looked up only to be met with Verso's stormy gaze "You really are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my life" he said quitely, almost gently.
Time seemed to stand still in that moment because you couldn't tell for how long you kept staring at each other. "You're one to talk about stubborness" you said with a light chuckle and if you didn't know you were in fact still alive you would have died on the spot by the way he smiled at you.
He took one of your hands between his warm palms "You are so much more than just another expeditioner y/n.." he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours and you could feel yourself getting lost in his ocean-like eyes. "I am no one special.." you said, feeling your lower lip tremble slightly, your body betraying you once again. Verso kept holding your hand in one of his and with the other he wiped your tear away with the most gentle of touches. You shuddered. "What do I have to do to show you how special you are to me y/n?" he asked with a light smile. You felt completely dumbfolded in that moment, no words left your lips.
"I just..I don't know..I am..I.." you felt yourself stumbling over your words, your gaze dropping to your joined hands. "Hey, look at me" he said quietly and you obliged. Once again you felt yourself getting lost in his eyes, a light breeze tousling his hair. He looked breathtakingly beautiful in that moment and you could feel your face heating up. His thumb gently stroked your cheek down to your chin, holding your face in place and forcing you to keep looking at him "I ask you again. What do I have to do to show you how special you are to me y/n?" he said with an almost husky tone and you could feel his face getting closer to yours until your noses slightly bumped into one another. Another shudder ran through you. "Verso..please.." "Say it y/n" "Please..kiss me". And then your lips crashed.
The moment his lips were on yours he pulled you towards him, your body pressing against his and your hands got lost in his hair. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a half-growl and your body shuddered once more. After a while you parted just to come up for air, only to join into another passionate kiss moments later. Your body stayed pressed flush against him, your hands lightly scratching the nape of his neck, his hands wandering down your waist to your butt. And that was when you felt it. Felt him. His hips pressing against yours you, without a doubt, felt the effect you had on him and you couldn't help but grinning against his lips. "Having fun?" he asked with an half-amused tone and you could see the twinkle in his eyes when you looked at him.
"Is that one of your knives in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" you said jokingly and he couldn't help but laugh at your stupid joke. "Why don't you find out?" he said with that husky tone once more and you felt your mouth getting dry. A nervous laughter left your lips and he used the opportunity to crash his lips into yours once more, his tongue finding yours with slow, deliberate strokes. The softest of moans left your lips and now it was his turn to grin against your lips. "Having fun?" you echoed his words from earlier and before you knew it his hands slid to the back of your thighs, lifting you up like you were as light as a feather and you let out a yelp followed by a giggle. "Tell me you want this as much as I do y/n..tell me you want ME as much as I want you.." he said so quietly that you almost missed it. His eyes looked at you with a mixture of lust and an undeniable hint of insecurity. "Verso.." you said softly and stroked his cheek with the tips of your fingers, his eyes closing to your gentle touch. "I want it..I want you..please.
That was all he needed to hear. In the next moment you felt yourself sinking to the ground with him, causing him to lay on top of you. He started to kiss your cheeks each, then the corners of your mouth and your chin, letting his mouth wander lower to your collarbones, sucking lightly on your sensitive skin until he left a mark. His lips wandered further to the top of your breasts, the fabric of your expeditioners uniform marking a border he yet had to cross. He looked at you with parted lips, his eyes glazed over with desire, a silent ask for permission. You bit your lower lip and nodded at him. He slowly, almost agonizingly slow, started to undress you until you were laying bare before him "You are so beautiful y/n.." he said dreamily, leaving kisses on both of your breasts causing them to perk into the chill night air. His lips found your ribs, your stomach until he ended right where you needed him most.
With shaky hands he finally undressed himself and you couldn't help the shudder that went through your body once more. He grabbed one of your thighs and lowered himself to shower the inside of your thigh with kisses, earning gasps from you. He repeated the same thing with your other thigh. His face stopped in front of your most sensitive area and he silently, almost pleadingly looked at you for permission "Verso please.." "Tell me what you need, mon amour" he said, his hot breath fanning your sex, leaving you shuddering in anticipation. "I need to feel you..please. And oh how you did feel him. His tongue dragged through your folds in an almost brutally slow stroke, tasting you like he was a man starving. When his lips finally closed around your bundle of nerves you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips and you pressed the back of your hand against your mouth just for it to be dragged away by him with an almost-growl "Don't..I want to hear you when I make you feel good" he said and your breath hitched in your throat when he continued eating you out.
You could feel the heat building up in your lower abdomen, the pressure between your legs becoming almost unbearable. And then you collapsed with a moan and for a moment you could see stars. "God..you are so good at this" you said and a proud, almost cocky smile plastered his face. He was definitely enjoying the praise.
He crawled on top of you and you could feel his hardened member against your inner thigh, causing that delicious pressure to build up in your lower belly again. "I am going to make you feel so much better even, mon amour.." he said huskily and lined himself up with your entrance "Please.." you said with a breathy voice and he pushed himself in, splitting you open, the burn of your walls widening felt amost painful and yet filled you with bliss at the same time. He growled lowly and took a moment to adjust himself before finally starting to move.
Your legs wrapped around his waist causing him to sink into you even deeper which stole a moan from the both of you. His pace started to quicken and the pressure in your lower abdomen started to build up again. You both were a moaning, sweaty mess. "S..so good, you feel so good.." you moaned, knowing fully well how the praise was making him feel. His pace grew impossibly fast and you started to see stars again when your orgasm finally washed over you once again. He rode you through your high, just to release himself inside of you with a low moan moments later, coating your inner walls.
He stayed on top of you, his head reasting on your chest, both of you panting, you could feel his member softening inside of you but he did not pull out yet, wanting to stay like this a moment longer to stay close to you, looking at you with shining eyes "Are you okay? Was it allright?" he asked in an almost concerned tone and you smiled softly "It was perfect" you said and he shot you that breathtaking smile of his once again causing your skin to tingle. "You know..if throwing myself in front of Nevrons was all I had to do to get you in bed with me, I would have done it earlier" he said with a cocky grin and you smacked his arm with a laugh "Okay okay ow, sorry..just a joke" he said with a chuckle and you rolled your eyes playfully.
"Honestly though..I would do it all again if I had to.." he said with a more serious tone now and you sighed "I know..and I would scold you for it again". He grinned "If that means having you in my arms again at night, I won't mind". You couldn't help but laugh at his behaviour "You are impossible, you know that?" you said with a shake of your head but the grin did not leave your face "Oh I know..and you enjoy it" he said and you sighed "I do..and many other things too" "Oh yeah?..I might know one of these things" he said with a cheeky grin and you could feel him hardening inside of you again. "You're such an idiot" you laughed, ignoring the heat in your lower belly "I am. But I am your idiot" he said with a smile and you pulled him into a passionate kiss.
After all, you still had all night. And hopefully many more nights to come.
