#manondo

She must have heard his unelegant meeting with the wall but he tells himself that she's been waiting for him. He's barely taken a step into the room before her arms trap him against the door.

"Hm, did you miss me?" he asks, folding his arms around her waist.

"I always miss you," she whispers and he chuckles.

"Have you been reading?"

"Yes." She inhales against his neck, hums, presses her lips to his jaw. "He kept you long."

"Ah, you know, he refills the glass and you get to talking," he say. "He had a bottle of Bourbon I could not resist."

She lets loose, looks into his eyes with a smirk. "Are you drunk?"

"No."

"You slur a little."

"Ah, no."

She kisses him, then, but pulls away before he can indulge. "And you taste horrible."

"Bourbon is not for you?" he teases.

"No, I prefer you undiluted."

He laughs, presses her against him until he can feel the soft swell of her breasts againt his chest. And then he kisses her properly, tongue-deep, until his jaw aches, until there's no whiskey left, only her. His hands find her backside, kneading, all her softness his for the taking. He's a glutton, he knows no limits to his indulgences, and there is no obstacle, only bare flesh underneath the wide shirt she's wearing. Manon is already writhing against him, aching, no doubt. He wants her but his body isn't quite ready yet.

When he pulls away the room spins around him. He sighs, planting another kiss to her lips before the world pulls straight again. "Let me wash off the day, hm? Then I'll have you."

She pouts but all it does is enable him and when he's in the bathroom, white tiles, lights too bright, he does think that the last glass of whiskey had better stayed in the bottle. He tries to work himself up in the shower, splashes his face with cold water, but the headache is already setting in and he can't feel more than a tiny swell that leads nowhere.

When he comes back, Manon has discared the loose sleeping shirt, obediently kneeling on the bed with her hands in her lap. He does stir, at that sight, her heavy breasts, the soft curve of her belly, the slender neck exposed as her hair falls down her back with no effort at all.

"You are a sight even our Lord must envy," he says, leaning against the doorframe for a moment longer. She smiles, pleased, and he approaches, lifting her chin with his bare finger. Her eyes shimmer, the sheer depth of them unfathomable. He doesn't understand how she looks at him the way she does. "Lie back for me, my dove, open yourself to me."

She does, the white sheets contrasting the dark hair on her body, the honeyed skin the summer has left her with. What he feels is gratitude, undeservedly so. He sighs, thinks that he should have known the whiskey would make him sentimental. A soft smile graces her lips, betraying an excitement he won't be able to live up to tonight.

No matter. He leans down, grabs her ankles, pulling her all the way to the edge of the bed before he buries his nose in the dark curls that frame her cunt. She yelps and he chuckles, throws her legs over his shoulders. How wet she is, how she aches for him, her pulse fluttering against his tongue when he presses to her clit. It's more than enough.

"Fuck," she whispers, rolls her hips to meet him. He's not patient, the hours away from her have left him starved and he feels like he'd have to crawl inside of her to satiate this hunger. It's an obsession more so than pure lust, the way he tries to get closer and closer until he doesn't know where either of them ends. Most days he wishes he could disappear like that and never return.

He makes her come on his fingers, licks her to another orgasm until her heels bite painfully into his shoulders. When he finally gets up his knees ache. He'd fold her in half if he could, fuck the last bits of sense out of her, but he's still soft, warm-cheeked, mind hazy from drunk exertion.

There is some frustration gnawing on him, if only because she is so much younger and not used to being with men, especially not men of his age. It shouldn't matter, really, it's not like he needs his cock to give her what she wants.

Her arms reach out for him, a sweet offer to draw him near, but he shakes his head as he gulps down that feeling of inadequacy. "Not tonight."

"Why?"

He doesn't deserve it, he thinks, but he can't find a lie. She sits up slightly, scoots back on the bed where he's slowly lifting the covers. It's entirely too small. When he lies down she's already turned his head to her and he can't avoid her clever eyes.

"Secondo?"

"It is not you, my dove," he says finally, if only to calm her. "Too much whiskey."

She kisses his cheek, multiple times, until he squirms and she giggles into his ear. It's enough to ease his mind, to calm the voices.

"Manon–"

"It's okay," she says and when his brows scrunch she laughs. "Secondo, you should know that I don't need an erection to enjoy myself with someone."

His lips curl. "No, you don't need a cock at all."

"So, will you let me enjoy you?"

He chuckles. Those are his words she's stealing. Let me enjoy you. And she doesn't wait for permission, something he'd use to his advantage on any other day, a drawn-out punishment perhaps. But right now he's too docile, doesn't have it in him to play games.

"Can I still touch you?" she asks.

He nods reluctantly and she smiles, but it's a sweet smile, like she wants to reassure him. She bends down to kiss along his belly and he pets her hair, the soft silk of her long waves. Her lips trail over the dark line of hair over his navel and her hand wraps around him, gently, cradling him in her palm like something precious.

Her eyes flicker up to his face. "Is this okay?"

"Yes."

Surprisingly, it is. He wouldn't have anyone touch him in this state, not normally. He'd have tired them out in other ways until they forgot that he never actually fucked them. But of course Manon, the sleepiest woman he's ever met, suddenly possesses all the energy in the world. It's as if it is more interesting to her now, which he'd find hard to believe were it anyone else. But not with her, no. Manon has a habit of catching him by surprise, to burrow into his heart with as much as a glance. His pride is of no use when he's with her, not when she sets her mind to something.

"You find it hard to believe that I'm attracted to this, don't you?" she asks, stroking him so carefully that he can feel each finger as it moves.

"Usually, the people I sleep with are here for the thing between my legs." He stops, looks at her. "Yes, it is absurd."

He says it jokingly but all it does is make her frown. He can tell she's displeased with this admission, though he didn't think it would come as a surprise to her, considering their many conversations. She's never had an issue with his past.

"I want you to forget about that," she whispers just before her lips travel further down and he understands then, that it is not about jealousy. She doesn't appreciate when he assumes her intentions. Theirs is not a sexual agreement, it is no agreement at all.

He wants to voice his feelings but then her lips wrap around his dick and he blanks. It is a novelty, even for him, to feel someone's mouth around his limp cock and not with the aim to get it hard. Manon hums, a sound of genuine relief, as if this is for her, somehow. For a moment he's mesmerized by the sight of her, one hand gingerly holding the base of his cock while the other strokes along his balls, and she looks so tender, as if her face is made of clouds. Every sensation is slightly altered in this state, the warm cavity of her mouth hugging the soft curve of him. Smaller as it is now, it still feels like there is more of him. So much room, no harsh pressure, no choking, no hurry, only this pliable mess. Her tongue languidly moves around him, taking in the new feel of him, eyes closed, every movement an act of dedication in its own right.

"Manon–"

He's not sure what he wants to say. Keep going. Stop. Don't stop.

"I love how you taste," she whispers, kissing all over his thighs, his abdomen, her hand, spit-slick, almost lazily moving over his cock. He should be hard as a rock by now, should be bursting, but there's nothing. He thinks that he is not drunk on whiskey now but her.

"Come here," he orders. "Manon–"

Her eyes flicker up to him, unsure if she hurt him, but that's not why he stops her. He suspects that he'll die if he doesn't feel her soft weight on top of him, if he can't kiss the mouth that makes him feel so profoundly accepted.

Obedient as she is, he soon feels the gentle curves of her body meeting his. He makes her straddle him, then hugs her tight. Before he can give any orders she's already kissing him and then he feels the unmistakeable wet heat of her as their hips slot together. She moans, not yet satisfied, and the movements that follow are slow, sensual, like a snake moving through sand. She looks at him and he's not sure what she's seeing, what's happening on his face.

"Hurts?" she whispers.

"No," he breathes, his hands on her hips now, urging her on. She's so wet that he hardly feels the friction but he does feel her heat whenever she slides across his tip. And it doesn't matter, that he can't fuck her, not when he's stripped barer than ever, when she peaks while cradling his cheek, pressing her mouth to his so desperately that not even the taste of whiskey could hold her back.

Perhaps it is the fact that she's coming on his soft dick that somehow throws him into the abyss. It feels almost like an orgasm, not as intense but akin in its relief. His body trembles underneath her, his cock twitches with the phantom of a memory, and a comfortable warmth spreads in him. It's not quite the same and yet somehow heightened. His arms close around her so that she can't get up, keeping her heaving chest pressed to his until he feels the sticky warmth of perspiration.

"You're an angel, sent to me beyond reason," he whispers. "I am not worthy."

"You're dramatic," she whispers but her cheeks are deeply red when she burries her face against his neck.

He doesn't disagree. It's not like he cares about the humiliations of the past but there is something healing in the way she's accepting of him in every crooked shape he shows her. Perhaps it is dramatic, he has a habit of losing himself in his passions, but there is a certain weight to finding someone who never shies away. So many moments in which he thought he'd finally ruined her and yet she still won't let go of him.

"Do you need anything?" she asks, peppering kisses all over his neck and chin.

"No," he says. "Just stay here."

"M'kay."

He knows she'll be asleep in a few seconds but what is running through his mind will keep him awake for hours, no doubt. His head is crystal clear now, the damned whiskey sweated out, and he wonders why he stayed out with the bishop at all. He finds that old comfort at having eased her anxieties, at least, particularly felt in the looseness of her body, the way the tension has all but melted from her.

Still, he kneads her back, her shoulders, her scalp, just to occupy his hands. Her skin is soft from her lotion, the smell of peaches and chamomile. He inhales it with relief like the first drag of a cigratte. Manon chuckles, rubbing her nose below his ear, and he pretends, under the strain of a slowly forming headache, that she didn't reshape his whole world tonight.

if you want to see manon, i have a drawing of her here :)

Manon looks up as though she only now noticed him, her pupils dilating at the sight of his hands working his shirt open. “No, not yet. Someone finally died, though.”

“Who?”

“The billionaire’s daughter.”

“Oh, it is about the rubies he gifted her.”

“They did get stolen,” she confirms, then focuses back on the words.

He notices with some satisfaction that she glances back up after he removes his shirt but he is quick to slip on the black tee he sleeps in while they share a room. “Is it not getting old? It is always the same formula, no?”

“I find it comforting,” she says. “It’s an old habit, I suppose. I would read a whole bunch of them on our family trips when I was young. It still feels nostalgic.”

Secondo leaves her field of view to change his pants, thinking of her in a bed just like this but twenty years ago. It is an easily conjured image, the long-haired girl with her tired eyes, staying up past her bedtime with a torchlight in her hand, flipping page after page to find out who killed the lady in the library. “An odd genre for a little girl,” he remarks.

She laughs. “Did you think I only read books about horses?”

The sound of her amusement settles warmly in his chest, bringing on a smile he does not bother to hide. She is comfortable, wrapped up in her blanket, and when he sits down at the edge of her mattress she scoots to make room for him. “Horses are more appropriate than corpses, are they not?”

“I don’t think anyone cared,” she says. “My mom has a vast collection of books but she only ever read crime novels and mass market erotica. So you know which ones she gave me.”

“Is this one of hers?” Secondo asks, turning the yellowed paperback in her hand to see the cover. It is old, weathered, read many times over. Der blaue Express.

Manon nods, sliding her bookmark between the pages. He realises that this is not just about the book, it is about feeling like that little girl again – safe, comforted, loved even, perhaps.

“I am glad they bring you joy,” he finds himself saying, feeling oddly tender. He is tempted to reach out and brush back the long curl that his eyes have been drawn to since he sat down, perhaps rest his palm on her cheek to see if it is warm to the touch. He knows she would blush if he stroked it, shiver against his fingertips.

When their eyes meet he finds it even harder to fight the urge but she is not moving and he gets lost in the simplicity of the moment. She looks lovely. Tired, yes, but he finds pleasure in seeing her resting. His legs have gone heavy and he knows he should get up before the exhaustion fully settles.

“I suppose I’ll have an early night,” she says. “It was a long day.”

“Yes, of course.” He stirs, finally willing himself to leave her be. ”Good night, Manon.”

She mumbles a reply but he is about to lock himself in the adjacent bathroom, lightbulb flickering against the white-tiled walls. When he returns her light is already dark and he can hear her even breathing. He tries not to think of her as he closes his eyes.

Steps in her periphery. Secondo leans in the doorway, dressed in casual all-black, smiling at her half-naked form, eyes unsubtly roaming her shape.

"I'm not late, am I?" she asks

"No, my dove, but I prefer to watch."

She finishes up her mascara, blinking against the brush to spread the ink. Manon doesn't feel nervous anymore when he watches her—it's almost a comfort, an easy boost of her confidence, the way his eyes are so filled with affection and longing.

When she touches up her blush, his arms wrap around her bare middle and he nestles close. "You look beautiful. Cosí bella," he whispers against her neck, soft lips trailing her skin underneath the rasp of his mustache. He litters her shoulders with kisses while his hands travel over the lush curve of her hips before embracing her once more.

"I have something for you," he says.

She quirks an eyebrow, hands fiddling with his. "What is it?"

"I'll show you when you're done."

Another wet kiss on her neck and he leaves her, casting a final glance over his shoulder before he passes the time with an espresso, no doubt. She hurries to finish, setting spray, deodorant, perfume—a cloud of scents surrounding her like a fragrant fog. Her black dress is neatly hung out by the closet door, a not so subtle suggestion by Secondo, and she slips into it effortlessly, half-long puffy sleeves and the skirt a silhouette of the 50s.

She reaches for her jewellery when Secondo rejoins her, fiddling with his cufflinks.

"Leave your neck bare for me, will you?" he asks and she smiles, knowing.

It's not the first time he's surprised her with accessories, dresses, other items of clothing. He loves to doll her up on occasion, not pretentiously but in the way of an artist. Like she's his canvas, his muse, and he's the designer of something precious.

Since the dress debacle in Rome shortly after they got together he's been meticulously analysing what makes her feel safe and comfortable but carries her out of that zone of comfort by just the right degree. So far he has never missed.

"It is vintage," he says as he withdraws the velvet box from a drawer in his nightstand. "I know you prefer gold, so."

The necklace is a delicate thing but not less impressive for its subtlety. Branches of golden leaves are woven together, framing the recognisable shape of a dove.

"It's perfect," she says, her lips parted not just in awe of the piece but the gesture. He must have spent quite a while trying to find a piece like this.

"I couldn't help but get it for you," he says, aware of her aversion to the easy way he spends his money for her. But by now she's used to it, more than she'd like to admit, spoiled by a man who loves nothing more than to make her smile.

"Thank you," she whispers and he places it around her neck, fastens it with sure fingers.

Manon runs her fingertips over the necklace, cold but slowly warming to her skin. It matches the outfit as well as her other pieces perfectly, as though he knew. And in that moment in dawns on her that he didn't suggest the dress for any other reason than its perfectly low neckline.

Before he can withdraw she's wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to brush her nose against his. Secondo hums, grabs her a little tighter in the way that threatens any punctuality at the restaurant. He considers her lipstick for a moment, glancing down, but she knows it's kissproof and closes the gap before he can pull away. The kiss is entirely too chaste for what she truly feels, that perpetual gratefulness, the steady love he shows her in every little gesture, but it's the only way to express her gratitude without awkwardness.

"I love you," she whispers. "Even though you insist on wasting your money on me."

"It's not a waste," he stresses. "Not for you."

They both smile, then, her thumb drawing a gentle curve across the back of his neck. Secondo sighs whistfully and leans against her, stealing another kiss before he risks a glance at his watch. It'll be a quiet, subdued evening, the way he prefers them now that he's older—privacy and the company of those who matter. Manon is glad of it, reaches for his hand to show him she's ready. He glances down at the necklace once more, a subtle smile on his lips, before he finally pulling her along.

─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───

if you want to see manon, i have a drawing of her here :)

He does let her, observes the concentration in her eyes, like she’s analysing him, the eyes of a scientist or perhaps an artist, trying to figure out their subject. Secondo thinks he’s inscrutable, mostly, but with Manon he feels oddly exposed. Her clever eyes, like she might actually figure him out, reach into forgotten depths he’s not willing to disclose.

She has the patience of a saint but he grows uneasier with every passing second. When she trails his lips, he snaps after her thumb, bites down gently. She laughs and he smiles as he presses her palm to his lips. He kisses along the ball of her hand, then down to her wrist where he lingers, breathing in the remnants of her perfume.

Manon all but melts under his touch.

“And what did you see?” he asks when he ends his trap.

“A beautiful man with a rich history,” she says, cradling his cheeks in both hands now. “I wish I could know all about him.”

“You would not like it,” he returns with a soft shake of his head.

“Don’t make assumptions about me.” She flicks his nose and his lip twitches. “No matter how many times you call me your dove, it doesn’t make me the pure innocent angel you’ve created in your head. I don’t need to be protected and I certainly don’t mind what you did in the past, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

He lets this sit between them for a moment, looking at her determined features.

“To me, you are, Manon. It is not… purity or protection, I know you are not fragile,” he says. “It is about freedom. About peace. You are this to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see me in a way no one has seen me before. A way– I cannot see myself in. I would not change it, I would not show you what you cannot–” He pauses, the word omitted. “You are too good for me.”

She’s confused by this, he can tell. For a while she contemplates his words, then she shakes her head at him. “I know enough things to make up my mind. If you are an Emeritus, you are notorious. It comes with fame.”

“Not my brother. Primo never strayed from his teachings.”

“I think you lived what you stood for,” she counters. “Freedom, indulgence, pleasure, sin.”

“Hm, perhaps, but often I let myself go more than I should have,” he says. “It was easy, to piss off Imperator. But that is not the whole truth.”

No, the truth is that Secondo clings to control but the grip is so tight that it hurts. When he slips, the result is ugly.

She might not believe him but excess is never a pretty sight. Perhaps it's a lie he tells himself, that he's honoring the Morning Star, that he fucks and drinks and spends out of spite for those who think true virtue lies in making yourself small, in denying yourself the baser pleasures of life for a merciless God.

The illusion is potent, his reputation, the admiration he sees in the eyes of so many, the image he sold to everyone by never letting them glimpse beneath the surface. It's easy to tell yourself that you're not transgressing when surrounded by people who don't believe in shame.

But that doesn't mean he never felt it.

Manon didn't see him when he threw up all over the hotel room in Vegas, when he lost his dead mother's necklace and cried drunkenly into some woman's shoulder whose name he never caught, when he couldn't fuck her because he was too wasted to get it up and she laughed and left him sitting, pitiful and naked his underwear. She wasn't there the many times he woke up draped over dirty hotel toilets with a pounding headache, shirt stained with the liquid contents of his stomach, long abandoned by whomever he spent the night with.

Something tells him she'd laugh and call him silly, to expect any of this to change her mind. If he revealed the deformed, withered insides of his own self she'd shake her head at him and tell him she knew about it all along.

It’s the brush of a hand in public, the pressure of his fingers around hers, the ever gentle turn of his head in her direction. A tug at her arm to bring her close, the hand on her back to guide her to his side. A rare unprompted smile, a message sent with untrained fingers, a call that lasts longer than planned. It’s the attention to detail, every minuscule change, to see and know and listen, to not miss anything.

His love is a manifestation, shared worship, when he lights two black candles every night and seals the prayer with a kiss. It’s in the glass of water on her nightstand, in the shirt he lays out for her. It’s in the words he reads to her at night, in his voice as it lowers with her sleep, the urge to fill her dreams with the sureness of it all.

Manon dries her hands, pruney from washing the dishes, and tiptoes through the living room. The smell of incense lingers in the air, though the cat-safe cone she lit before lunch has long since crumbled into light grey ashes. It's her earliest memory of Christmas, watching the plumes of smoke slowly climbing up towards the ceiling, trying to catch them with her tiny hands.

Secondo fired up the old wood stove in the corner and it's a wonder Pinot hasn't curled up in front of its gentle warmth. Instead, she's fit herself neatly between the crook of his neck and the sofa, her paw curled around his throat in a skewed display of protection. With her green eyes closed she's barely visible on his black wool sweater. His hand rests supportively under her legs and they must have fallen asleep a while ago, judging the depth of their snores.

It's been an exhausting few days for him.

Manon volunteered to take over today, under stark protests, only accepted through the promise of a rich German potato salad. He loves to host and he barely left the kitchen at all the day before, feeding his brothers, feeding her, and she knows that he would have fed the whole congregation if given the chance. Christmas barely feels like Christmas here, but he managed to extract its essence in their shared meals, thoughtful gifts and his nonna's old recipes that he's been holding onto since his childhood.

When she sits down, the sofa dips but it doesn't rouse him. Pinot blinks her eyes open for a second to assess her but after a slow brrp resumes her slumber. She's feasted as well, spoiled by the man she's resting on who can't help but feed her scraps whenever she's begging. They're an odd sight, even months later, this tiny animal and the man who insisted cats don't like him, only to be swarmed by them in the shelter.

A wave of gratitude overcomes her, for having them in her life, for the love she finds in even the most ear-splitting of snores that leave his mouth.

The fire crackles between each of their breaths, fighting against the frigid air pressing through the gaps in the old windows. Secondo never looks more peaceful than when he's sleeping, the tension leaving his sharp features, his long lashes fluttering. It's a delicate sight, rare that he drifts off so easily. A good meal will do it, but Manon likes to think it's because he finally feels safe.

After a minute Pinot casts another suspicious glance at her and Manon scratches her belly, watches her twist into her touch, chirping happily. Secondo blinks a conspicuous eye open and she tries to remember when the snoring stopped. Moving her hand from Pinot to his cheek, she leans in, presses a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. She feels his lips curl into a smile, his free arm reaching out to wrap around her, easily finding its way below her skirt.

"Will you join us, my dove?" he whispers.

"I would love to."

"Come."

He scoots to make room and Pinot protests with a mewl that melts into a deep yawn, her paws spreading as she stretches. It's a bit of a squeeze but they make do, Manon half-draped over Secondo, one stockinged leg between his, her fingers buried in Pinot's soft black fur as the cat curls up once more. Their shared warmth envelops them, the familiar scent of his cologne, and Manon tries to remember a time in her life when she felt this safe and wanted.

When she's in his arms it is hard for her to imagine a time before Secondo. Perhaps it was the little girl she remembers, content with illusions, full of hopes and dreams, trying to catch affection like smoke between her fingers.

"I used to dislike this time of year," she whispers, drawing a Pinot-shaped pattern on his chest.

"Your family?"

"Yes."

Secondo squeezes her, his lips in her hair, and she knows what he thinks but doesn't say. They have each other now, it doesn't matter. He understands that relief better than anyone and she's grateful that she doesn't have to speak, that she never has to, not in his presence.

For a while they simply doze, Manon's fingers spread over his chest, weaving through invisible plumes of smoke. She opens her eyes when she feels Pinot's paw fiddling for her thumb, a playful glint in her feline gaze. A moment of stillness, reconfiguration. When it passes, the world remains soft and solid, filled with Secondo's easy snores, Pinot's slowing breath. By the time they're both fast asleep Manon decides that Secondo is decidedly louder, and, with a smile, she lets herself drift off as well.

go wish our lovely Anna a happy birthday if you haven't already ♡

Manon thinks he must be tired after she found him awake late last night, staring at the ceiling for Satan knows how long, only relaxing when she gently turned his head and kissed him back to sleep. But he seems to be in a decent mood, smiles when she fiddles with his fingers, toys with the ring.

It is still early when they park the car but they find a café that is just opening up, a kind young waiter serving them two much needed cappuccini and a small breakfast on a quaint little terrace. Manon is nibbling a chocolate-filled cornetto, watching some birds as they pick at the cracks between stone tiles, skittering, glancing around in rapid staccato movements.

“You are quiet,” Secondo observes and when she looks at him he’s taking off his sunglasses, revealing his two-coloured eyes with notable dark circles underneath.

“You’re not very talkative either,” she says, reaching out to run her knuckles over his cheek.

“Am I ever?”

“Sometimes.”

He smiles, gently takes her hand and presses a lingering kiss to her palm. “You are tired?”

“Mhm. I think so are you. You were up pretty late.”

“I could not sleep.”

“What kept you up?”

Secondo places her hand back on his cheek, palm against the freshly shaved skin. He looks at her for a moment, then shakes his head in a sort of half-shrug. “You, always.”

She smiles, her thumb stroking over the soft skin underneath his eye. “Did I snore?”

He huffs a laugh. “No.”

Manon pulls her hand away when he doesn’t elaborate, though he catches it and lets their joined hands rest in his lap. She wants to ask, at least get a vague sense if it is a good or a bad thing, but he is once again not very forthcoming with his feelings. He is empathetic enough to sense her withdrawing, though, leans in to kiss her, coffee breath and the taste of pastry on his tongue.

The waiter hides a grin when he brings them the bill and two more coffees to go. They walk through slowly rousing alleyways, hand in hand, on his doing, immediately fiddling for her whenever they somehow slip apart. He’s surprisingly sentimental like this, Manon finds. Whenever he can’t quite voice his thoughts he’ll make up for it in gestures, almost as if to make amends. Or perhaps it is wishful thinking on her part, that any of this means more than he lets on.

They’re not really aiming for anything but when they reach the town square they stumble upon a couple of vendors that set up for the day’s market. They’ll be accommodated at their next stop in Modena but Manon can’t help eyeing the bright red strawberries, fat and sun-soaked.

“Do you want to look around?” Secondo asks.

“If we’re not in a hurry.”

He presses a kiss to her hair and leaves her at the stall. Before she can ask where he’s going the vendor, an elderly man with a bushy grey moustache, strikes up a conversation in rapid Italian and she does her best to keep up when he tells her about his orchard just outside of town. When he notices her accent he slows down, kindly asking about her and what brings her to Italy. By the end, after reassuring her that her Italian is perfectly understandable, he offers a large basket of strawberries for half the price. She moves to retrieve her wallet but in that moment Secondo is back by her side, two large sunflowers under his arm, and quickly hands over a banknote.

“Ah, signore, il suo amore é una bellissima signorina,” the man says as he pockets the money. “Ancora più dei girasoli.”

“Non posso contestarlo,” Secondo says with a polite smile. “Grazie, signore.”

Manon takes the flimsy basket, filled to the brim with vivid red strawberries, and Secondo reaches for her hand again, not so subtly dragging her off.

“I didn’t know you like sunflowers,” she remarks.

“They are for you.” He glances at her, stopping in the shade of a building. “No more bleak guest rooms, hm?”

“They are lovely,” she says, not bringing up the subject of money again. He enjoys buying her things, she struggles to accept gifts, but when she looks at him, the sunflowers as big as his head, she feels quite unburdened by it. “Thank you, Secondo.”

He lifts her hand, places it flat on his chest. “No arguing today?”

“No.”

Manon smiles, uses the chance to push his sunglasses up his forehead. His sensitive white eye blinks before it adjusts but by then she’s already tiptoed up to kiss him. His free arm snakes around her, pulling her as close as possible with the strawberry basket between them.

“What is a flower compared to this smile,” he whispers, kissing her again, a little deeper than is appropriate in public. The glasses sit crooked on his head when Manon pulls away and she adjusts them back over his eyes, letting their hands join and dangle between their bodies once again.

They have no more than forty minutes left until they reach the abbey outside of Modena but Secondo takes his time, going slower than usual, and the landscape around them is worth the delay. Summer is still in full swing and they pass vineyards, orchards and open fields. Modena appears on the horizon but they’re not heading straight into the city, instead leaving the road to continue on a gravelly path that leads through the abbey’s own beautiful vine-covered hills.

The building is an old converted cloister, built in the typical medieval styles of the Emilia-Romagna region that Manon has already seen, red-tiled roofs and light stone walls, only this specific complex must have been modernised not too long ago. Once they have escaped the welcome committee of Siblings that immediately start fawning over the former Papa they are ushered into a fairly modern building that seems to house a handful of offices. Through another hallway they are entering a residential area and then the Sister leading them shows them into their room.

“His Dark Excellency said that you requested to share a room during your residency,” she says, almost as if she’s expecting him to contradict. “Is that… correct?”

“Yes, as long as we have a proper workstation in your library or a separate office,” Manon says. “Papa prefers simple accommodations. By the way, do you happen to have a vase?”

Secondo merely scowls and enters, ignoring the exchange. The Sister looks doubtful, likely not convinced of his humility considering his whole get-up and the designer bags he’s carrying. The room is once again a rather small twin bedroom, bleak as expected, but it offers a lovely view over the rolling hills beyond the cloister.

They unpack some of their belongings but then the Sister is already back with two rapid knocks, handing over a water-filled vase before she carries Secondo off to meet the Bishop in residency. Without him, the room feels foreign. Manon busies herself by cutting the flower stems and placing the vase on her nightstand, two bright yellow specks in the midst of a clinically white room.

“Mhm?”

He doesn’t reply when she thumbs at his nipples, something he’s rather sensitive to, though she can feel a muscle in his throat jump. His hand drags her hip further across his lap, resting on her bent knee with spread fingers. She smiles against his neck.

“Grabby hands,” he remarks.

“Says you.”

He huffs. She thinks about how he casually cradled her whole breast in his hand all through last night, snoring against her neck and sweating against her back, waking her with his other hand pressing between her thighs. If she accused him, though, he would simply say his usual phrase. I am Papa. Which somehow absolves him of everything.

She’s content to rest like this, though, it seems, Secondo is not. His hand begins to wander, innocently at first, stroking along her thigh, full-palmed, his warmth sinking into her skin. After a moment his fingers toy with the seam of her sleeping shorts, wandering underneath the loose fabric to cup her ass. He squeezes, spreading her apart, feeling how she moves.

“Grabby hands,” she whispers.

Secondo laughs.

He leaves her be for a while, then, content to just rest his hands on her. Manon’s eyes have already closed. As always, she is easy to succumb to sleep, especially when sharing a bed with him. She can feel her palm getting sweaty against his chest, barely tying her to the present, but then she’s wide awake again as his fingers dip lower, grazing her cunt. No accident, he does it again, fingertips exploring her unceremoniously.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, voice already tinged with sleep.

Naturally, he doesn’t reply. His fingers part her, spread her open, playing with the wetness that has already begun to pool. At first she tries to hide her little moans but it seems to annoy him so much that he lets his middle finger dip inside of her, stealing the sounds he wants to hear. He’s deft, always, and when he can’t reach her well enough he squeezes his hand between her leg and his body instead.

Manon moves to sit up but his free hand grabs her elbow, holding her in place underneath his shirt.

”It stays,” he says. “If you pull it out I will stop.”

Her cheeks are aflame. She sinks back down, spreads her fingers, a silent confirmation to his order. Secondo hums, then his fingers are teasing her again. He allows her to hide her face against his neck and after a moment he lets go of her arm, gently stroking her brow instead.

“Brava,” he whispers, moving onto her hair, rhythmic circles against her scalp.

Her head is somewhere else entirely now, as though she has entered the space that only Secondo occupies. It is one that allows her to let go so safely, not just guided by his patience but by the way he soothes the very ache in her bones. Sleep is a far-away concept. This is better than unconsciousness, it is a tether to her own self.

“You had a long day, my dove,” he says, finally circling her clit. “Will you dream of me tonight?”

Her lips part, though the whimper comes from her throat. His hand feels so warm against her mound, so large that it is all she can attune her senses to. Then he parts her once again, rubs patterns against her entrance with two fingers, lazily, pressing deeper and deeper to open her up. It is not enough, though there is only so much movement left in her, and her pelvis rolls slowly forward to take more. Secondo chuckles, a sound she has only ever heard from him when he elicits the exact reaction from her he was expecting.

“You have not answered me, Manon,” he complains, though it is an observation more so than a demand. He is not here to sanction tonight.

“I will,” she whispers. “What else is there for me to dream of after your reckless torture of my every sense?”

“Torture? What an odd choice of words while you're dripping into my hand.”

“I don’t mean tonight,” she clarifies. “You have a habit of haunting me.”

It earns her another rumble from his chest, no doubt showing how very pleased he is, though she is not sure if he understands the extent of this statement. Is he aware how he lingers on her? Traces of him, fractures squeezed into every crack of her, his scent in her clothes, skin raw, purpled, shaped like his mouth, paint stains on her white blouses, fingerprints on her hips, her thighs, his voice echoing in her ears for hours. And his face, in countless expressions, memories taped to her brain like polaroid pictures, labelled in black ink, his name, every word he ever whispered to her, a dictionary of his language.

When his fingers press inside of her she knows they will leave another mark, a feeling that she will be chasing for the rest of her life. When he fucks her this slowly she can feel every knuckle, every single movement of his joints. Pleasure is an odd word for something that her body is starving for, an appetite he inspired in her, unlike anything she’s known before. Secondo carries her through it, starving her, feeding her, consuming her in turn.

All she has to anchor herself to is his chest now, leaving fingerprints of her own. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth opened against his neck, moans that fog against his skin. The ball of his hand presses against her core, every roll of his wrist met by her hips. He whispers in Italian, not that she understands a word in her state, but the syllables sound sweet, drawn-out, a caress of his voice against her ear. She clenches, gasps, her body shuddering against his that is so very calm, barely out of breath while she struggles to take in air.

A beat passes. She comes to, hips still jerking against his hand, his fingers lazily pushing against her from inside. His lips linger on her forehead and she notices that he’s angled her face away from his neck.

“Breathe, my dove,” he whispers.

She sucks in air, notices how her fingers are still grasping at his chest, though he doesn’t show any signs of pain. Even so she’s not eager to retract them, stroking over his pectoral muscles instead, that odd sensation of soft skin underneath coarse hair she’s become so addicted to.

Secondo removes his fingers slowly, easing her out of the sensation. It is a loss, of sorts, though quickly forgotten when she finally allows her hand to wander down across his belly. She can feel him inside of his pants, not as unaffected as he otherwise appears, the soft linen warm against her palm where he strains against it. She thinks she’d like to use her hands as well, just as gentle and slow. Only he carefully wraps her up in his and pulls it away.

“No need,” he whispers. “I am content.”

He must feel her frown against his lips because once again he chuckles, as though she is so predictable that he finds it greatly amusing. When she lifts her head to look at him his brow twitches. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.

“Don’t you want to feel me?” Manon whispers, voice still half-choked from how hard she’s been clenching her jaw.

Not the question he expected this time. His eyes soften, hand brushing back the hair that has fallen into her face. “What if you fall asleep and twist it off, hm?”

She rolls herself fully on top of him, kisses stamped all over his jaw, down his neck, back up to his cheek. “I don’t have to use my grabby hands, you silly man.”

Her heart swells when he gives another tired, chest-heavy laugh, amused until she’s kissing it off his face under his grumbled protests. She easily sinks down on him, his knees pulled up, hands encouraging her to move at a slow, lazy pace that will carry them both to sleep. The greyed sheets have fallen off of them, but the candles still flicker, orange light cast over each of their movements. Secondo’s eyes, half-lidded, are intent on staying on her until he can't keep them open anymore. It won't matter, she'll be asleep long before him, and she suspects that he doesn't truly mind at all.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

as always thank you for indulging me and my oc shenanigans ♡