wimmi @wimmipimmi - Tumblr Blog

Jun 12

Hiiiiiii pookie! I saw that you're taking requests for our dear verso so here I am 😭 so after the angst that you hit us with can we get something fluffy ? Yet still a little angsty ? 😭 Like real verso that plays piano has a secret writer lover where she plays violin? 😭

Love your work and sending you many kisses <3

Boi did I fire up classical music when I read this ask bae, like, so fast lol. Honestly I am not sure if I got the angsty part down cause my mind immediately went to this harmonious symphony the two of them could play and fall in love, swoon! I know jack shit about operas, but I tried and hope you like it 😭💕 Word Count: ~ 7k Rating: T

[Real Verso / Fem!Reader]

(Writer!Reader & Violinist, Painter & Pianist, and the stage they never meant to share)

Muffled applause reached your ears, as if you were much farther away from the audience than you actually were – notes that should have been crystal clear replaced by the rushing blood driven by your pounding heart. Suddenly, you became aware of how heavy your gown was, how much effort it took to drag the silver-threaded train behind you as you stepped forward.

You really shouldn’t be nervous. After all, you’d sat on the stage of the Palais Garnier many times before. You should be used to the sight of all the people sitting before you, and the heat of the stage lights shouldn’t be enough to bring sweat to your brow.

But tonight – tonight you wore the more opulent gown, the peach-gold sparkling one with the heart-shaped neckline – tonight your neck was adorned with expensive pearls – tonight a delicate tiara rested atop your head, and the weight of all of it, paired with the fact that this was your very first violin solo, was overwhelming. So much so that for a few long seconds, you just stood there at the front of the stage, even after the applause had already faded and the opera’s audience was waiting in anticipation.

Your violin hung at one side of your body, the bow at the other. You swallowed. With all your might, you forced a soft smile onto your lips to keep your nerves from showing, and let your gaze wander in search of reassurance. The assembled symphony orchestra – many of them your closest friends – waited for you to begin the concert. One of the cellists, your friend Camille, gave you an encouraging smile, and that was all you needed.

With your eyes back on the audience, you drew in a breath.

“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine,” you recited the quote from that singular composer, Ludwig van Beethoven, who had taught you to love music.

Your arms found the strength to lift the violin to your shoulder and raise the bow. It began softly, only the sound of your instrument echoed gently through the Palais, barely audible to your own ears. Only those first seconds still took effort, the beginning, but once you recognized the familiar sequence of notes, all the nervousness melted away and your body took over.

The packed opera house faded into the background, your fingers found grounding in the strings pressing into your calluses and the melody you coaxed from your violin. You swayed lightly with the movement of your arm, and for a moment, you could even close your eyes and simply exist, be one with the music.

A wave of emotion, as unique as each performance and the very reason why music was more than just a hobby for you, washed over you as the orchestra finally joined in, guided by your trusty conductor. Strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion – together they created an enchanting melody that, like every time, made you feel like you could happily die right then and there. It was pure bliss, and pure adrenaline, all of it and more. You felt like a part of something greater, as if the universe itself was speaking to you, revealing its secrets, the meaning of life.

When the final note of the piece faded as quickly as the first had begun, you stifled the little sadness at the loss of the symphony, awakening from your trance as applause pierced through the numbness. It was almost too loud, but you smiled, partly out of habit, partly genuinely touched by the recognition granted to you. You placed your hand on your chest, your breath heavy and your skin hot with nerves, even beneath your sweaty fingers, and bowed.

From the front row, your little sister rose and walked toward you with a single white rose, pride written all over her face.

Your smile widened, and you bent down to accept the flower and place a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Merci, Louise.” She looked content and pure as she returned to her seat beside your parents.

The applause slowly ebbed. You gave one more soft nod of thanks, then returned to your place among the other artists, earning a few proud touches as you passed. Your conductor took his usual position before you and raised his baton.

After your opening performance, you played the concert as one, presenting the enchanting classics of French opera with all the devotion your shared passion demanded, and were richly rewarded with a standing ovation. You all rose from your seats, bowed, and received a flurry of flowers thrown onto the stage. You always told yourselves you didn’t do it for this moment after a concert, but God, did it feel good.

Slowly, with deliberate and dignified elegance, you all left the stage one by one to mingle among the guests and accept their words of praise. Most of the artists had family present as well, so you made your way toward your own, certain there’d be time later to catch up with your friends.

Your little sister, just old enough now to be allowed into the opera, came skipping toward you with a broad grin, your parents just behind her.

“You were amazing!” she exclaimed, just a little too loudly, as you bent down to meet her outstretched arms. A few heads turned your way, mildly scandalized. After all, this was a formal evening. So you brought a finger to your lips with a playful wink. Louise caught on immediately and pressed her own lips together.

Your parents reached you and embraced you one after the other. “Well done,” praised your father, while your mother brushed your cheek with a tender hand. Gratitude couldn’t begin to describe how much you appreciated that your parents, despite their prestigious standing in the Writers circle, had never denied you your love of music, had, in fact, made it possible for you to pursue it wholeheartedly.

“Could you tell how nervous I was?” you asked, discreetly fanning yourself with one hand.

“Only at the beginning. There was a moment, wasn’t there?” your mother replied with an amused smile.

You nodded.

“Well, maybe that’s not a question you should ask your parents. Of course we notice – we’ve known you your whole life.”

“I didn’t notice anything,” Louise chimed in. “You looked like a princess.” She grabbed at the heavy fabric of your luxuriously flared dress and rubbed one of the silver-embellished threads between her fingers, just like she had this morning.

“I’m gonna ask some other people from the audience then,” you quipped, though you were genuinely curious to hear what some of the other patrons – familiar faces from Paris’ upper circles – thought of your solo.

“I’m going to get something to drink, if that’s alright.” You gestured toward the exit of the auditorium, where most guests were already streaming out toward the promenade hall, the foyer, and the restaurant, where the high society, now that the concert was over, would sit, stroll, sip, greet one another, and show themselves off. A forced evening, really, but crucial for maintaining the delicate balance between the factions.

Your parents nodded, having to hold Louise back as she made to enthusiastically follow you. Louise was often, nearly always, by your side, and you adored your sister, would’ve taken her with you anywhere, but your parents insisted that you expand your own network without having to mind her. Despite all the privilege, you were expected to marry one day, after all.

“You can talk to your sister again later, dear,” your mother soothed the deeply offended-looking Louise. She obeyed quickly, as well-behaved a child as she was, and also got distracted by one of her own friends, who joined your family alongside her parents, proudly showing off her newest fountain pen.

On your way to the restaurant, you passed countless people who all wanted to congratulate you on your first solo at the Opéra Garnier. You accepted them all with grace, engaged in polite small talk, doing everything you could to seem dignified and elegant without letting your overwhelming thirst show. An almost impossible task, given how parched your tongue grew with every word.

You were just about to step through the door to the room of desire, when yet another person said your name. Internally, you cursed. You feared that your voice would fail you with the next sentence, but you saw no other option than to turn toward the male voice.

Merde.

“Monsieur Dessendre.” And just then, you had to clear your throat, in front of the son of the Dessendre family of all people, Verso. You knew each other – barely, you would say. And yet, despite the superficiality of your past conversations, there had always been something beneath the surface, something you still couldn’t quite grasp to this day. It was an obscure attraction, born from the way Verso’s eyes lit up whenever you encountered each other at the opera and exchanged a few words about music – he was surprisingly well-versed.

Then there was his gentle smile, spilling over into a quiet grin whenever you couldn’t help but chuckle at one of his carefully delivered jokes. Perhaps it was also the way he moved that fascinated you, mind you, more than it should have. The way he casually crossed his arms while listening to you speak, shifting his weight to one leg, his gaze lingering on you, interested and somehow dreamy, with a single black strand of hair occasionally falling in front of his eyes.

It had never been avoidable for Writers and Painters to run into each other time and again, especially within the city’s high society. Events weren’t held twice just because of what you considered an unnecessary feud. Garden parties, ballet, the opera – especially the latter was where you saw Verso Dessendre most frequently. And somehow you always ended up in conversation, during which you’d discovered you actually had quite a lot in common. At the same time, you always tried to end the chats as quickly as possible so as not to be seen spending too much time with the son of one of the most influential Painter families.

He showed his usual, gentle smile and raised two glasses of lemonade. “I've been watching your long journey from the auditorium to the restaurant and figured you must be dying of thirst by now.” He offered you one of the glasses.

As thirsty as you were, you couldn’t prevent your tense shoulders from relaxing with a sigh, your eyes on the drink with the small lemon slice floating in its pretty glass. So you accepted it, hoping not too many eyes were on you still. You had, after all, essentially re-entertained the entire audience between there and here.

Another sigh – quieter now, one of relief – escaped your lips as you finally took a sip and soothed your aching throat.

“Thank you,” you said, making an effort not to empty the whole glass in one go.

“If I may,” Verso said after taking a sip of his own drink. “You look lovely tonight. And the way you played – indescribable. Congratulations on reaching such a milestone.”

He held out his glass. You clinked glasses with him, a little bashfully, feeling your cheeks warm, so you quickly took another sip.

“Thank you…” you repeated, offering a smile that helped you regain your composure. “Could you tell I was terribly nervous?” The question slipped out more than it was intentionally directed at Verso Dessendre, evident by the nervous fluttering in your stomach and the way you avoided eye contact. Showing weakness in front of a Painter was a bad idea, though, if anyone among them could be trusted, it would probably be Verso.

He blinked in surprise, and you weren’t surprised. So far, your conversations hadn’t been personal, no talk of feelings, family, or anything remotely intimate, but always about the weather, familiar faces, and of course, music. Still, he seemed to welcome the question. His puzzled look gave way to gentle curiosity and a determined shake of his head.

“Not at all. When exactly did this supposed nervousness happen?”

All the excitement of the evening, the previous polite conversations, and Verso’s friendly, attentive manner had apparently frayed your nervous system more than you realized. Before you knew it, you were babbling away:

“Honestly, it already started when I put on this dress. It’s really heavy, no matter how beautiful it is. The shoes pinch, the tiara too. And then, standing in front of all those people, I had a brief moment where I thought I wouldn’t be able to lift my violin, and would bring endless shame on myself and my family.”

You took another nervous sip of the lemonade, your glass nearly empty now.

Verso reacted surprisingly quickly. You had always known him to be someone who carefully chose his words, or so it had seemed to you all this time. That didn’t surprise you either; you yourself always spoke to him with careful deliberation – well, at least until now. So his immediate, amused smile surprised you as much as the words that followed: “Someone so talented couldn’t bring shame, even if she tried.”

You thought you saw a flicker of regret in his eyes, felt yourself wanting to ask him if something was wrong, but the expression vanished before you could say anything. Perhaps you had imagined it, had once again analyzed Verso far too intensely.

“Also,” he continued with a small smirk, and out of the corner of your eye, you noticed movement, “the audience would likely have been content just admiring your beauty.” You held your breath as his hand brushed against yours. His fingers were soft, his touch in your palm gentle.

The idea of resisting didn’t even cross your mind as he raised your hand to his lips, his gaze calm, like walking along the Seine on a warm summer night, resting on yours. For a moment, the world stood still. It was unexpected, yet the way the backs of your fingers were grazed, so tenderly and at the same time so reverently, sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t look away from his suddenly so inviting eyes, you were certain you saw behind them a starry, endless sky.

You managed to keep your composure, though you had to suppress the reflex to pull your hand back in shock at your non-reaction. Instead, you carefully brought your hand back to your body, gently slipping it out of Verso’s grasp, hoping that the warmth in your cheeks wasn’t showing on the outside. You had immediately believed what he said, the compliment, though cliche, weighed heavily on your confused heart. There had been something in his voice, something so honest, so raw. He was being bold tonight – but why? And why hadn’t you run away yet?

“Everything alright here?”

Startled, you flinched as Camille's voice snapped you both out of your prolonged eye contact. The blonde, graceful in her dress that mirrored your own in color, moved toward you both. She smiled broadly and cheerfully, but you knew: she was checking whether you needed rescuing from the Painter standing opposite you.

“Monsieur Dessendre,” she addressed Verso, her smile unwavering. “Surely you know that one shouldn’t monopolize the star of the evening for too long. She and the rest of the orchestra have a performance to celebrate.”

Verso’s gaze briefly flicked between Camille and you before he smiled and extended his hand toward you, gesturing at the glass. You followed the gesture and handed it back to him.

“Of course,” he said. “It was nice seeing both of you. Congratulations once again on this exceptional performance.” He leaned in your direction, whereupon Camille grabbed you by the arm and began pulling you away. You let her guide you, but couldn’t help glancing back over your shoulder. Your stomach fluttered with exaggerated excitement as you realized he was still watching you, holding both glasses. His smile widened as your eyes met, and you returned the gesture, raising your free hand in farewell.

Camille steered you into the crowd and out of Verso’s sight. “What was going on there, then?” she asked mischievously.

“Nothing,” you replied instantly, too instantly, and you knew it made you seem far more suspicious than if you had told the truth.

Camille let out an amused sound. “He is a handsome one, isn’t he?”

“Camille!” you implored. She couldn’t go planting even more foolish thoughts in your head than the ones you had already let grow there. Still, you had to say it out loud: “If only he didn’t always look so sad.”

Now your friend giggled. “You’ve been watching him, hmm? I can’t blame you. Honestly, how can it be that in all this time there’s never been any romance between us and them? Nonsense, if you ask me. Just all secret affairs. Can’t hurt, and Verso seems to be into you.” She gave you an impish look.

“Camille…” You rolled your eyes, but amusement and curiosity were beginning to creep into your consciousness.

As the long evening wore on, you caught yourself repeatedly letting your gaze wander, searching for the dark-haired source of your questionable fascination. Yet all your eyes found were his family members, scattered throughout the vast halls of the Opera, though even they seemed strangely captivating, in the way they carried themselves, but especially in their eyes, all of which observed the world with a curious glint. Maybe that came with the occupation of being an artist. You all were always somehow searching for inspiration, eyes wide open, ready to capture the soul of a moment, should it choose to reveal itself to you.

When the evening finally came to a close and the guests began heading home, you let your parents know you'd be staying a while longer. The night felt special, so special, in fact, that you weren't ready to let go of it just yet. You said goodbye to as few people as possible to avoid having to explain yourself, and slipped back into the auditorium.

The door clicked shut behind you, swallowing the sounds from outside. Even as a child in the audience, the opera house had always brought you a quiet sense of ease, and the musicians on stage with their instruments and gentle movements had held a magical pull over you, so much so that you had begged your parents for violin lessons. Being able to stand on this very stage yourself now, despite everything, was a privilege you lived out with deep gratitude.

That gratitude was only magnified by your parents' generous donations to the opera, which meant you could have the space all to yourself long after the building should have closed. The lights were dimmed, only a few soft fixtures illuminated the immediate area around the stage. That, combined with the wonderful silence, created the sense of another world – a world so peaceful that you didn’t want to disturb it with heavy steps.

You bent down, unfastened the straps on your shoes, and let your feet, still covered in tights, slip out. The soft carpet plunged you fully into this otherworldly existence, as if it and not the door behind you were the portal to it. It cushioned your cautious steps toward the first row in front of the stage, grounding you in the here and now. In the middle of the room, you let yourself sink into one of the plush seats, nestled into the soft fabric, not sitting up straight, but rather leaning back.

The heavy but comforting fabric of your dress gave your hands something to cling to as you absentmindedly ran your fingers over it, your head tilted back to look at the stage and the eternally high, ornate ceilings above, lost in thought. Would you leave your mark in the world of music? Or would the day come when you’d have to give up the dream and return to your original profession, to your actual power? For a moment, you closed your eyes.

“Hi.”

Your eyes flew open instantly, a startled squeal escaped your lips, and you bolted upright.

“Verso?” you asked, surprised, your heart pounding in fright. Where had he come from? Had you really been so immersed in the space that you hadn’t heard him enter?

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Your hands started sweating slightly – again – and you clenched the fabric of your dress to calm yourself. “Well, you did.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, real regret in his sincere voice.

His features lay in half-shadow, accentuated by the gentle light from up front, casting soft rays on his face. His midnight-black hair glowed like starlight, his lips, drawn down in concern, were somehow still soothing, somehow alluring in this light, so much so that you brought your hand to your own, where they had touched you hours before.

“Wh-What are you doing here?” you asked hesitantly, once again caught off guard by how drawn you were to him, something you knew you should be avoiding, yet here you were, alone with him.

“Me, I…” He loosened the tie of his elegant suit in a sheepish gesture, his gaze drifting toward the stage. “I just wanted to soak up the atmosphere a little. Actually sat in the back when you came in.” He nodded toward the rear of the auditorium, prompting you to glance back, eyes sweeping over the many rows of seats. No one else was there.

“Oh.” You chuckled. “I didn’t see you there. Seems like we had the same idea.”

Verso visibly relaxed at your more inviting words. “Can I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the seat next to you.

“Please.” You smiled. You had originally intended to enjoy the moment by yourself, but Verso’s presence was pleasant, and from everything you’d learned about him so far, you knew he appreciated the magic of the opera just as much as you did.

He returned your smile and sank down beside you. A comfortable silence settled between you as you both gazed ahead, at the stage and the lonely, rarely moved piano. Next to it stood your violin, which your parents had apparently forgotten to pack. They were still Writers, after all, you had to look after your little treasure yourself. Good thing you had come back in. The rest of the orchestra had already been cleared away.

It was you who broke the silence: “What would you have done if they had locked up?” You looked at him curiously.

He chuckled, his gaze remaining on the stage. “I kept an eye on the time. If I’d been locked in… I think it wouldn’t have been too bad, at least in here.”

You made a small, appreciative sound. “I understand the sentiment,” you said softly, so your voice wouldn’t disturb the room. “If I could, I would stay here forever.” You got up and walked toward the stage, intending to pull yourself up instead of using the stairs. For that, you had to pull up your dress, but then your hoop skirt got in the way too.

“Ugh, this damn thing,” you complained. You should’ve cast it aside ages ago. Rummaging through your skirts, you searched for the fastening, only to stop and glance up toward Verso, who was watching you, his cheek resting in his hand. Despite the dim light, you saw the interested sparkle in his eyes.

“You don’t mind, right?” you asked, somehow certain that Verso was a safe person.

“Not at all,” he answered with a strangely dreamy smile. You were almost impressed by how polite he remained despite how you were presenting yourself – after all, you had to hike your dress up quite a bit to get to the hoop skirt. But the relief of getting rid of the heavy thing outweighed the slight discomfort as it dropped to the floor.

“Finally,” you sighed as your dress clung more naturally to your body, still heavy, but at least now more flowing. You stepped out of the hoop skirt, now able to climb up onto the stage, careful not to tug on your dress and accidentally lower the off-shoulder neckline further.

Then you stood up there, this time without the bright lights around you, without the applause, no nerves, just you, the lonely instruments, and the lone man in the front row. You soaked in the feeling – a different one, but still so familiar – breathing it in with your head tilted back before your gaze returned to Verso.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” you asked, smiling, your hands behind your back.

“That she is,” Verso replied, his voice barely loud enough to reach your ears, but you felt like you were in a play, with the way his eyes rested on you as he said those words, rather than on the ceiling, or the curtain, or anything else but you.

You shook off the rising embarrassment with your next question, though the anticipation between you grew. The room might have been huge, but the sphere between you felt alarmingly small. “You… have a lot of love for the art of music, don’t you?” You lowered yourself to the floor of the stage, your legs dangling off the edge. “You speak so knowledgeably about music, and I see you here at the opera so often.”

“So you have been observing me?” he asked curiously, with a touch of mischief in his voice.

You chuckled. “I can be quite observant, Monsieur. Especially when someone visits the opera as often as you.”

“I see,” he chirped. He pushed himself up from his seat and walked toward you. Your eyes darted to his hands as he opened his jacket. “You don’t mind, right?” he echoed your earlier words.

“Not at all,” you recited his, as the fabric slid from his shoulders and joined your hoop skirt on the floor, shortly followed by his tie, which he seemed particularly eager to part with. You’d never worn one yourself, but you could imagine that a suit with so many layers was just as uncomfortable to wear, especially as the hour grew late.

Under his jacket, Verso wore a simple white shirt, with suspenders stretched over it. You had never seen a Painter look this casual before, and of all people, it was Verso Dessendre, who now ran a hand through his black curls, brushing them back. With that simple gesture, he didn’t just mess up his hair, but flustered you in the process as well. You watched, captivated, as he leaned against the stage right next to you.

“I’ve been watching out, too,” he admitted, “I mean, how you play. It’s inspiring. Even if I can’t play the violin.”

“So you do play?” you asked curiously, watching as Verso’s gaze drifted toward the piano.

He nodded. “I play the piano.”

“Really? Why have I never seen you play?” Maybe he wasn’t any good, but with the way he talked about music, how he seemed to love it, you didn’t really believe that.

He lifted his shoulders as if to brush off the question but answered with a revelation you hadn’t expected: “My parents aren’t as supportive as yours.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” you began, trying to find the right response to the source of that spark of sadness you’d often glimpsed in Verso’s eyes, just like now, even as he looked down at the stage floor.

“It’s alright,” he interrupted your frantic fumbling. “It’s… nice, in a way, to know there are people, Writer or Painter, who get to live their passion. Nice to live vicariously through them.” He made a half-hearted, winning gesture, but his hand dropped back onto the stage just as quickly.

“Mhm,” you murmured, debating with yourself whether to open up to him. But then, he had done so as well. “It’s not like my parents were thrilled to see me swaying away from writing either,” you admitted.

His gaze met yours, and he evoked so much compassion in you that you reached for his hand. Your fingers brushed lightly, cautiously over the back of his hand, afraid he might pull away, but all he did was give a brief, crooked, uncertain smile.

You relaxed, let your hand settle more closely against his. “I only ever wrote one novel,” you told him, deliberately amused at yourself, “and it really wasn’t a good one. Maybe –” you chuckled, “maybe my parents just gave up on me.”

Verso furrowed his brows thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. They seem to be very proud of you. And I’m quite certain your powers are just as extraordinary as you are.”

Without breaking eye contact, he turned his hand over, letting yours rest in his palm, then traced soft fingers across the back of your hand. Your skin tingled, like electrically charged, every time he drew a new path across it. He brought your own fingers to his skin, your breath escaping softly but heavily as you followed the lines in his palm. His skin was so soft that you immediately believed he played the piano.

“Your fingers bear the marks of the strings,” he noted as he felt you calluses. “I like it.” The gentle smile returned to his face.

“Never heard that one before,” you grinned. Normally, women’s hands were expected to be soft and moisturized, but the string players of the opera had chosen a different fate. You loved what you did, but that didn’t mean the occasional insecurity didn’t creep in. “You don’t like painting, then?”

You knew almost nothing about the powers of Painters, usually kept your distance, only ever hearing stories of how they created canvas worlds, but that wasn’t the point right now.

Verso let out a quiet sigh. “It’s not that I dislike it. It’s just not really my passion. I, like you, only ever created one work, one canvas, as a child. And since then, I’ve disappointed my parents by not being the Painter they want me to be.”

“It’s hard,” you said, “not being what others expect of you.” You gently squeezed his hand. In his case, the disappointment probably weighed heavier, given the greater influence of his family – but you understood him. You didn’t just share the passion for music, but also what it meant for both of you and your surroundings. Talking to Verso was easier than you had dared to believe. Maybe it was the peaceful setting, the dim light in which all barriers seemed to fall away.

“Yeah,” Verso agreed, “but it’s comforting to share this burden with someone.” He let your hand slip from his and lightly ran his fingers along your forearm. Your breath quickened. His gaze briefly followed the path of his touch before returning to your face.

“Is this alright?” he asked, and that simple, respectful question made your heart skip a beat. What was happening here? Could you really allow this? Let yourself be further drawn into Verso Dessendre’s orbit, despite all the taboos and rules? Maybe it was already too late – your skin tingled pleasantly under his touch, and you didn’t want him to stop.

You swallowed and nodded softly. His fingers continued their path up your arm, as far as they could reach, until they rested on your shoulder. You allowed yourself to lean slightly toward him from your elevated position. His hand settled in the hollow of your neck, his thumb gently brushing your chin.

“Is this alright?” he asked again. You followed the gentle pull of his hand in his direction, downward, until his other hand caught your face. His dreamy eyes, now with the slightest hint of haze, never left yours, carefully searching for hesitation or uncertainty. You wished it wasn’t so dark, you might be able to make out the nuances of his eye color, close as you now were. Your hand twitched upward and lightly touched his cheek, prompting a soft, audible inhale from him. His neatly trimmed beard, maintained for the evening, tickled your fingertips pleasantly.

Your breaths were already mingling when he asked again, “Is this alright?”

You took a breath and smiled. “Are you asking me or yourself?”

His fingers breezed against your skin, echoing your gesture. “I guess both. I always felt, when we talked…” His eyes flitted between yours. “That there was something. You fascinated me from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” He gave a lopsided grin you’d never seen on him before, but it was adorable. “And I know that sounds cheesy.”

“No, no, not at all.” You wanted to touch the hands holding your face, but had to support your body weight on the stage floor to avoid tipping forward. “I felt the same. But… you know.” You alluded to the feud between Writers and Painters.

“Yeah, I know,” he whispered, satisfied with your shared feelings, and continued his approach.

“What are we doing?” you whispered, your lips already brushing against his.

“That I don’t know,” he replied, then your lips met.

It was a tender, hesitant kiss, just a touch, really. You both held back, not quite believing how strong this attraction was, how you’d managed to ignore it for so long, and, at least on your part, how on earth you had ended up here.

But for every question in your mind, another gentle kiss followed – each time a little more intent, each one clouding your senses a little more. In your current position, you couldn’t lean into him further without risking your balance, but you wanted so badly to feel more of him, more than just the gentle hands holding your face. You were tempted to let go and let him catch you. But then his lips claimed yours again, and you were lost in a moment you didn’t want to interrupt.

Until he did. After the last movement of his lips, which you didn't know would be the last, he gently pulled away from you, but kept his face close to yours. Your breath was shaky, and you knew he could hear it. Thankfully, so was his.

“I know what we can do,” you said, an idea forming, one you were sure Verso would like.

“Oh yeah?” The curious grin returned to his previously serious face. “What's that?”

You straightened up, his hands slipping from your face, and he let you pull him up onto the stage with you. For a moment, he looked at the empty rows of seats, a longing expression on his face, until your gentle pressure on your intertwined hands brought his attention back to you.

“Nice up here,” he remarked.

“Let’s play something,” you offered, pulling him toward the instruments. “Together.”

Verso’s gaze flicked again toward the audience rows, as if he saw an invisible crowd, then to the closed door leading outside.

“You sure?” he asked, though you already heard the excited anticipation in his voice.

“I have the keys, I have the power,” you replied cheekily. “Sit.”

He hesitated for another second, then walked cautiously over to the piano while you picked up your violin. You watched him as he reverently ran his hand over the expensive material, slowly and deliberately circling it, until he reached the stool in front of the keys. A soft tone emitted when he pressed one. He sat down, while you took a few steps back.

“Whatever you play, I will chime in,” you said. “It’s your stage, Monsieur Dessendre.” You gestured over to the darkened audience seats. “Your Palais."

His eyes drifted across the keys in front of him, then back to you. You thought you could make out his joy, but maybe you were mistaken. “You are –” he began devotedly, but seemed unable to find the right word. “I think you’ll know this one.” He sat up straight at the piano and lowered his fingers onto the keys.

You weren’t entirely sure whether to laugh or throw your arms around his neck when he played the first notes. Of course, you recognized it immediately, and it was cheesy and ridiculous and utterly romantic that he, of all things he could have chosen, elicited the melody of Plaisir d’amour from the piano.

For a moment you just listened to him play, in his own unique style, skillful, that was clear right away, as he played not only without sheet music, but not by the book either. He added a few odd notes into the sequence of chords, turned what was usually a very serene piece into something more thrilling, imbued it with the promise of an adventure between two lovers who couldn't help but find each other, again and again, no matter the circumstances.

Then you joined in with the delicate, bright voice of your violin, matching Verso’s tone and speed, pouring your soul outward, right there to the center of the stage, where Verso’s was already waiting. You could have used so many words, but nothing brought truth to light like the conversation of music. It revealed how much Verso longed for a life he couldn’t have and how much he envied you for yours. It revealed how unsure you were about the path you had chosen and how much you envied Verso for his conviction. And then – it revealed how deeply both your souls had craved the comfort of knowing they finally found their other half.

The wave of emotion hit you hard and relentlessly. You knew immediately that it wasn’t just the effect of the music. You would almost call it divine intervention, the realization, as if a missing puzzle piece had appeared, as if a long-forgotten key had found its lock. The melody carried feelings into the air that weren’t supposed to be, but had to be. Merde, did he feel it too?

Your symphony faded smoothly into the hall, and only your tears remained to remind you of what had just happened to you, what you had experienced with all your senses, without really paying attention to him. Your eyes searched for his in the dim light of the stage, and you exhaled when you realized that his were already searching for yours.

Verso looked as overwhelmed as you must have, his eyes shimmering with tears as well, both of you deeply moved by what you had created. And so desperately did you find each other in the wake of this symphony. You quickly wiped the salty pearls from your face as you stared without blinking.

He was the first to move, standing up quickly and circling the piano. You bent down to put your violin away. You walked toward each other, the distance short, the steps urgent, and then your bodies crashed together, and this time, you didn’t hold back. His arms wrapped around your body, pulling you to his with need, and your hands finally had the chance to touch him. You savored every inch, splaying your hands over his back, sliding up the soft fabric of his shirt, up into his smooth black curls. You reveled in their texture – all while your lips explored each other’s in a kiss so devoted on both sides that it took your breath away.

You were demanding, searching and finding the rapture that was his body and soul, your exploratory hands finding their way from his hair to his beard, while his own returned to your neck, gently but firmly positioning your face exactly the way he wanted – and God, did he do it right. A small sigh escaped you against his virtuoso lips, which only slowly ceased their pursuit, and only to let you both catch your breath.

He gently pushed you away from him, yet his hands kept reaching into your skin, as if he wanted to pull you back every second, because he had changed his mind and decided that air wasn’t as important as your lips.

Both of you were breathing heavily, your thoughts racing from one scenario to the next, but unfortunately sticking to the one rational thought still clinging to your mind: “You know, this is like, very forbidden.” And even though you said it, you hoped he cared as little about that as you did.

He blinked the trance from his eyes, trying to clear his mind enough to form an answer. “We don’t need to tell anyone, right?” he replied, a crooked grin full of affection following those words.

#e33 #verso dessendre #verso dessendre x reader

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