#polyglot reader

You barely catch your breath, wiping a triumphant grin across your face, while Jean Loo—Lil Crapper himself—paces back and forth, muttering under his breath like some toilet-themed rapper caught in defeat. (heh.) You just wiped the floor with Jean Loo at his own demand for a crap battle. It’s clear that Jean Loo isn’t taking it so well.

“Well, well,” he huffs, waving a hand dramatically. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, you didn’t just win because of sheer talent, okay? Jean Loo wasn’t even trying his hardest.”

You snicker, crossing your arms. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say right before admitting I’m amazing.”

Jean Loo’s eyes narrow, and he stomps one foot, clearly trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Jean Loo says: don’t let this ego inflate too much. Or Lil Crapper might have to—” he pauses for effect, pointing at you—“drop another verse to crush you again.”

You laugh, leaning back against the counter. “I’m shaking in my boots, really.”

His lips twitch, as if he’s trying to smile but failing. He can’t help himself. He’s taken in the flush of your cheeks, the way your lashes brush against them when you giggle, and the warmth in your laugh. There’s something about the way you look in that moment—soft, teasing, undeniably charming—that makes his chest tighten and his usual over-the-top persona waver. He clears his throat and mutters under his breath, assuming you won’t understand:

“Tu as un joli visage… vraiment joli.” (You have a pretty face… really pretty.)

Your eyes widen only slightly before a slow smirk spreads across your face. You walk towards him, leaning in, as you respond smoothly in French.

“Tu trouves mon visage mignon ? Je suis flatté, Jean Loo.” (You think my face is cute? I’m flattered, Jean Loo.)

Jean Loo freezes mid-step, his jaw dropping just a fraction. Then he stumbles, muttering in a strangled, panicked French.

“Tu… tu parles français ?!” (You… you speak French?!)

His usual confident bravado crumbles, replaced with a deep blush that climbs all the way to his ears and forehead. His hands flap awkwardly at his sides, and he stammers over his words like a rapper who forgot his own lyrics.

“Je… Jean Loo… Lil… Lil Crapper… euh… eh bien… je… je…”

You can’t hold it in. A soft giggle escapes your lips, and Jean Loo’s flustered expression makes it impossible to stop. He’s sputtering, muttering, and completely undone, all because you mirrored his own words back at him.

Finally, he glares—half annoyed, half embarrassed—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a tiny acknowledgment of defeat.

“You… you got lucky,” he says, switching back to English, voice low. “Jean Loo doesn’t just… let someone get inside his head like that.”

You step closer, inches away from his face. You decide to tease but gently. “I wouldn’t call it luck, Jean Loo. Call it… skill.”

His blush deepens, and his eyes dart away, pretending to inspect the floor. But you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. For all his Lil Crapper bravado, he’s impressed—and maybe, just maybe, a little flustered by your unexpected charm.

“You… I mean…” he stammers again, before finally giving up and muttering, “Jean Loo… okay… Jean Loo admits… you’re… good. Very good.”

You grin, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know. But don’t worry, Lil Crapper, I’ll still go easy on you next time.”

Jean Loo groans, leaning back dramatically like he’s been crushed by some unseen weight. “Jean Loo… can’t believe this. Defeated… by you… and in French, no less.”

You giggle, ruffling his hair lightly. “Better luck next time, Jean Loo.”

He groans again, muttering French under his breath, but you catch the words with a grin:

“C… c’est… c’est trop pour Jean Loo…” (I… this… this is too much for Jean Loo…)

You laugh softly, shaking your head. For all his posturing, Jean Loo is undeniably flustered, and you secretly enjoy that the tiniest slip of language turned the tables so effortlessly.

As he finally slumps onto the porcelain toilet behind him, pretending to sulk but sneaking glances at you, you can’t help but feel the warmth in the room—funny, chaotic, and a little… soft. Even the Lil Crapper has a side that melts when caught off-guard, and for now, that’s more than enough.

You had promised Mateo that you would help him spend the afternoon taking care of the inanimals. You always enjoyed the time you spent with them. Every rescue had such different and unique personalities that it was almost getting difficult to keep up with all of them. But you never minded, not really. Not when Mateo was always there at your side to make sure you were able to take care of each of them properly. Who knew better than Mateo, right?

You headed towards the living room—where the shelter also was—with your pet grooming tools in hand. You were supposed to help pamper the inanimals after a very stimulating play session with Mateo. He loved being able to create fun environments where the rescues could feel safe and play freely. Nothing breaks Mateo’s heart more than seeing one of his rescues hiding away in the corner, all scared and anxious. He will try his best to make them feel comfortable and loved. Mateo’s altruism and empathy are some of the things you love about him. An angel in every way.

The door to the Scraps of Hope rescue center barely swings open before chaos—pure, adorable chaos—explodes toward you.

A chorus of happy yips, trills, chirps, and tiny meows floods the air. A blur of patchwork bodies comes racing across the room. Before you can brace yourself, you’re tackled by a tidal wave of excited inanimals.

“Ah—wait—! Hey—!” you yelp, laughing as you hit the soft rug.

Warm tongues lap at your cheeks. Soft ears brush your chin. Several lightweight bodies wriggle into your lap, snuggling in as if they haven’t seen you in years. The room fills with joyous barking, meow-like squeaks, and the flutter of plush wings.

“Hey guys—¡por favor, con cuidado!” (please, be careful!)

A gentle, slightly panicked voice can be heard outside of warm bodies surrounding you. You know exactly who it’s from.

Mateo rushes to your side, soft hands gently scooping one of the excited inanimals who has found home on your chest. His face is the first thing you see. His soft features are filled with worry and slight amusement— his mussed snow-white curls frame his face in the most adorable way. He stands over you, all wrapped up in his oversized blue plaid cloak, tassels swaying, slippers soft against the shelter floor. That’s your blanket, no doubt about it.

“Chiquitos, así no se recibe a una invitada. Come on now, off.” (Little ones, that’s not how we greet a guest.)

The inanimals respond to his firm yet warm tone, scrabbling off of you. Mateo hurries to help you up. You don’t want to admit that the fall kinda hurt, so you try to act as normal as possible. No need to worry Mateo more.

“I’m so sorry Y/N,” he starts, worry framing his sleepy eyes. “They’re pretty hyper right now, and when they saw you come in...I guess all hell broke loose.”

You quickly manage to fix your rumpled shirt, getting rid of any stray feathers and cloth stands, while Mateo apologises. You look up at him sweetly as you hurry to reassure him.

“No, no, don’t worry about it, Mateo—really. I get it. I’m just as happy to see them… and you.” You can’t help but smile a bit wider at seeing Mateo blush a little on that last part. You are glad to see the inanimals, but you would be lying if it were only the inanimals you were excited to see.

“Oh uh—Thanks.” Mateo’s smile mimics yours as you stare into each other's eyes. This small moment feels so sweet and close to intimate that you almost feel upset when Mateo breaks the moment, directing his attention to the grooming tools in your hand.

“I see you came prepared,” he chuckles fondly, the sound makes your heart do somersaults. “Why don’t we get started?”

You both make your way to where the inanimals are and immediately get to work. Soon, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm: brushing, stitching, fluffing, trimming loose threads. Mateo hums quietly under his breath, occasionally whispering soft reassurances in Spanish to calm the more nervous rescues. The whole room seems to melt into a blanket of peace around him. (heh.)

You are currently trying to get Davi, the mischievous Tassel Hound, to stay still as you try to remove his frayed cloth strands from his delicate patchwork. His tail swishes happily, but the moment you try to trim a frayed seam, he squirms. This won’t do. You don’t want to accidentally hurt Davi or yourself in the process, so you try to soothe him.

“Davi, buddy, I just need you to hold still,” you murmur.

No luck. He wriggles even more.

You pause, thinking.

Mateo usually speaks Spanish to soothe the rescues… and they always respond positively.

‘I guess I could give it a try’, you think.

“Shh, Davi, tranquilízate, cariño. Estás bien. Estoy contigo.” (calm down, dear. You're okay. I’m with you.)

Your hand moves gently down his back, slow, warm strokes.

Davi haults his squirming—then melts in your hand.

He whimpers softly, curling immediately into your arms, his long patchwork snout nudging your chest as if to hide. You smile, giving him a reassuring scratch behind the stitched ear.

“No quiero hacerte daño, perrito. Necesito que te relajes, por favor.” (I don’t want to hurt you, doggy. I need you to relax, please.)

Davi huffs softly, his muzzle sniffing at your shirt. You can feel his body go limp as you continue your steady strokes. After a second, you whisper in his ear.

“¿Así está mejor, Davi? ¿Puedo seguir trabajando, pequeñito?”  (You feeling better, Davi? Can I continue, little one?)

He barks once—a soft, calm little “¡woof!”—and stretches out obediently, tail swishing like a ribbon.

You don’t notice him staring.

Mateo had looked up the moment you spoke your first Spanish words—and his heart just… dropped. In the sweetest possible way.

Now he watches you from across the room, hands paused in the middle of brushing a fluffy scrap kitten. His chest rises with a slow inhale. His smile softens, curls, warms. In awe.

You speak to Davi like you were born to do this—soothe souls. Your gentle handling and kind words do something to his heart.

Mateo presses his lips together before letting out a small exhale.

“Dios…si tan solo supieras lo que siento por ti…” (God...if only you knew what I feel for you...) he whispers to himself, so low, you wouldn’t be able to hear him.

He loves you.

He knows it without doubt.

What would he do without you in this shelter—without your warmth, your patience, your way of making every little creature in your arms feel safe?

What would he do without you in his life?

Knowing that you love doing what he does just as much as him, is so...so... beautiful.

You’re are beautiful. Inside and out.

He hopes—prays—you feel the same.

When you glance over, he quickly resumes brushing as if nothing happened… but his smile and thumping heart betray him. He wishes for more moments like this with you.

Always with you.

You pace here and there throughout the kitchen. Trying to check off the list in your head of everything you need.

“Flour—check.”

“Tomatoes and mushrooms—check.”

You continue to grab items from the fridge and pantry, making sure not to forget anything. After you manage to find your rolling pin and that troublesome 1/2 cup measuring spoon. You set everything down on the countertops you’ll work on.

“Okay, I think I have everything—wait...” You speed run through your list again, something is missing.

Ah! The olive oil!

You try to search for it in your lower pantry—nothing. You can’t seem to remember where you left that darn oil bottle. Until you look up and see it standing on the very top shelf of your pantry. Great. Stefan must have used it and placed it there—dang, that man was tall. You huff in annoyance and start to reach for the bottle. You stretch as much as you can go, tiptoes and all. The top of your soles start to hurt, but to no avail, you can’t seem to reach the stupid bottle.

You are just about to give up this whole struggle altogether, when a strong arm moves in front of you and effortlessly grabs the bottle for you. You whip your head around and meet a pair of captivating green eyes set on a handsome face.

“Oh-thanks Cabrizzio!” You smile in relief as he gladly hands you the bottle. He smiles back.

“You're most welcome, Amore mio.”

God, why did he have to be so devilishly good-looking?

“May I ask what you need this oil for?” He inquires as you lead him to where the rest of your stuff is. He seems to put two and two together, his expression changing from simple curiosity to one of bright excitement.

“Oh! You are cooking something, vero Amore?” (right love?)

You nod in agreement and go to put on your apron—the one both Stefan and Mr. Chuckles gifted to you when they finally trusted you to work in the kitchen with them. A very ceremonial and VERY emotional event to be sure(not that Stefan would show it, but he was proud).

“I was thinking of making some pasta, actually. It’s a recipe a friend of my mothers gave to me a while back. I thought I would give it a shot and try to make it."

You could see Cabrizzio’s eyes practically sparkle in delight at hearing this. He was a pasta lover as much as someone like Mitchell was, an Italian enthusiast in every way.

“Ah, Tesoro mio, making the pasta from scratch, too? You truly know the way to a man’s heart.”

You chuckle softly, spreading some flour onto the clean counter surface. “You say that like I’m trying to impress you.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, his shirt slightly unbuttoned—because of course it is. His dark chest hairs feel like eye candy to you. You're trying not to stare.

“Amore, you need not try. You already do.”

Your heart gives a tiny, traitorous flutter. You quickly busy yourself by focusing on the flour on the counter, forming a well in the center for the egg mix.

“Would you like to join me? I know how much you like pasta.” You say in the most nonchalant voice you can muster, trying to hide the small blush forming on your cheeks.

Cabrizzio's heart gives a flutter of its own. His dashing smile only seems to widen at the request—you might as well have asked this man to marry you, he’s that happy. He would rather die than let this opportunity slip by, to be by your side, doing something as romantic and intimate as making dinner together. What a dream come true.

He places a hand to his heart as he gives you his most endearing stare. “Tesoro, I would love nothing more.”

You both work together in the kitchen for quite a while.

He cracks the eggs carefully into the well, then adds a drizzle of golden olive oil. “Three eggs. Enough for two—unless you are very hungry.”

“Depends on how good it turns out.”

“Oh, it will be perfect, Amore mio. You have Cabrizzio in your kitchen. What could go wrong?”

You can’t help but smile as you both mix the ingredients together, his hands guiding yours when the dough resists. His touch is firm but gentle, the warmth of his palms steady against your flour-dusted fingers.

“Piano, piano… Slowly,” he murmurs near your ear. “You must treat the dough with love. Pasta can tell when your heart isn’t in it.”

You huff a soft laugh. “I’m treating it with as much care as I can.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping lower. “Then I am jealous of the pasta.”

You only roll your eyes playfully.

You rest the dough under a damp cloth to relax. Cabrizzio starts slicing tomatoes, his knife moving with effortless rhythm. The sound of the blade against the board mixes with the quiet bubbling of the water on the stove.

You move to stir the sauce in a pan: olive oil first, then garlic. The scent blooms through the kitchen—rich, inviting, almost intoxicating. Cabrizzio closes his eyes as he inhales deeply.

“Dios mio,” he hums softly. “You are truly magnificent, Amore. You cook like this, and any man would fight for your hand.”

Your hand stills for a second before you recover. “I didn’t realize I was that good.” You’re happy your back is turned so he can’t see how your face matches the color of the pasta sauce.

“You have no idea.” Is all he says.

He moves beside you again, tossing chopped mushrooms into the sizzling oil. Your arms brush—accidental, but you don’t move away. Neither does he.

After the sauce thickens, you both move to roll out the pasta dough. The air fills with laughter when the flour puffs up into both of your faces. Cabrizzio chuckles, brushing a streak of flour from your cheek with his thumb.

“Perfetta. Even covered in flour, you are stunning.”

Your breath catches. You glance down quickly, pretending to focus on the dough. “T-thank you?”

He smiles, that same gentle warmth in his eyes. He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again. “Amore mio. Can I ask you something?”

You hum in response, busy cutting thin ribbons of dough.

“If Stefan or Mitchell had been here,” he says, voice light but his face is tinged with something akin to doubt, “would you have asked them instead?”

You pause, turning the question over in your mind. Then you shake your head, your voice soft but certain. “No. I wanted your company, Cabrizzio.”

For once, Cabrizzio looks caught off guard. His usual charm falters—replaced by something earnest and vulnerable. “Then I am the luckiest man in this kitchen.” He leans in to whisper the words, his breath brushing your cheek. You try your damnest to suppress a shiver. Seeing as you haven’t made any moves of discomfort or moved away from him, he rests his head on your shoulder as he hums a content sound. He practically breathes you in. His next words are but a whisper, but carry so much emotion.

“Dio, sei la cosa più irresistibile che abbia mai visto. Mi togli il fiato, amore mio. Potrei baciarti per sempre e non stancarmi mai.”

(God, you are the most irresistible thing I’ve ever seen. You take my breath away, my love. I could kiss you forever and never tire.)

You freeze, unsure if you actually heard him right. His words are soft, honey-smooth, and dripping with devotion — but he’s spoken them in Italian, assuming you won’t understand.

Your lips twitch into a small, mischievous smile. Oh, Cabrizzio.

You turn to face him, meeting those deep green eyes that still linger on your mouth. “Mi togli il fiato anche tu, amore mio.”

(You take my breath away too, my love.)

Cabrizzio’s entire body goes still. His head lifts from your shoulder, eyes wide in disbelief. “Aspetta—parli italiano?”

(You—you speak Italian?)

You tilt your head, trying not to laugh at the sight of the smooth, confident Cabrizzio actually stammering. “Of course I do. Why did you think I was nodding along this whole time?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, that dashing composure finally slipping. “Madonna santa, you’re going to kill me, Tesoro. First, your cooking, then your breath-taking smile, and now to know you speak my language? How is a man supposed to survive this?”

You giggle, delighted to see him so undone. “You’re the one who always says I am irresistible.”

He groans softly, a half-laugh bubbling in his throat as he steps closer again, his hand brushing against your cheek—gentle, loving. “You’re more than irresistible, Amore. You are divine.”

His gaze drops to your lips, but he pauses, waiting for you to close the distance. You lean in slightly, your foreheads touching, the scent of tomato and basil lingering in the air.

“Ti amo, Cabrizzio,” you whisper, your voice soft and certain.

(I love you, Cabrizzio.)

His breath catches for the second time—then he smiles, slow and adoring, before pressing a warm kiss to your lips.

“Anch’io ti amo, amore mio.”

(I love you too, my love.)

The moment between you is both tender and passionate.

You leave the kitchen full from the satisfying meal. But also slightly disheveled, clothes rumpled, and flushed, breathless.

To say the only thing being kneaded was the dough would be an understatement. (hehehe.)

A/N: Both Cabrizzio and Amir deserve more attention tbh. I MEAN JUST LOOK AT THEM!

The office is quiet, except for the sounds of your pen scratching on the papers scattered in front of you. Your eyes burn and you feel like you might collapse any minute now. The amount of paper stacked on your desk is enough to give you another headache. Your last one started when you sat down on your chair. It’s that dreaded time of the year. Tax Season.

You groan after another minute of filing. You close your eyes, leaning back in your chair until it creaks in protest. “If I ever see another form labeled ‘Schedule C,’ I’m throwing myself out the window.” (You hope Windowlyn didn’t catch that)

A deep feminine chuckle can be heard behind you, and a pair of firm hands land on your shoulders.

“If you do that, my beloved, then who will finish this nonsense for you?”

You blink, eyes opening, and you stare into the eyes of your strong, beautiful lover. “Dasha?”

She smiles at you. “Da. It seems my hardworking beloved has been at this since sunrise.”

“I didn’t hear you come up behind me.”

“Of course not,” she says lightly, her thumbs moving in slow, careful circles along your shoulders. “You are too lost in papers. You always push yourself too far.”

Her Russian accent curled softly around every word, rich and rolling. You can practically feel the affection in her tone, even as her hands knead at the tension in your shoulders. You take a second to revel in the action.

“Mm thanks, Dasha. That feels really nice.” You hum quietly. Dasha decides to lean in and give your forehead a small kiss, just a peck, but still no less sweet.

“Of course. How is the—what do you call it—taxes? Taxes. How is it going?” She asks and takes in how your expression sours at being brought back to reality. You fidget with some of the papers within reach, trying to decide whether to be honest or spare her your stress.

“It’s f-fine, I guess—well—” You don’t even believe yourself. Your voice comes out unsure and exhausted. It’s clear from Dasha’s concerned stare that neither does she believe you. You give up your attempt to downplay and huff. “No. No, it's not going well. Awful, actually.” No relief comes from admitting this, it only makes you feel worse inside.

Dasha hums softly, the sound deep and tender. Her hands still on your shoulders for a moment before turning your office chair around so you face her, one comes up to gently tilt your chin toward her.

“Look at me, dearest,” she says softly.

You hesitate, but when your tired eyes meet hers, you see no judgment there—only warmth. That steady, grounding warmth that always seems to melt the tension out of you, whether you like it or not.

Still, the dam inside you starts to crack. The exhaustion, the quiet frustration, the creeping feeling of failure—it all rushes up at once. You let out a weak laugh that sounds more like a sigh.

“I just… I feel pathetic, Dasha.”

She frowns, thumb brushing your cheek. “Pathetic? Nyet. You are tired, not weak.”

But the words tumble out anyway, raw and trembling. “I can’t even figure out how to do my own taxes without wanting to cry. I’m supposed to be an adult. I should be able to handle this stuff. But I can’t. I can’t think straight, I can’t focus, and—” you break off, voice cracking. “I don’t even have a job right now, so what am I even doing? I just sit here, pretending I’m holding it together when I’m not.”

Your throat feels tight, eyes stinging as the silence stretches. “I hate feeling like this. Like I’m… lost. And there’s no one to help me.”

You try to laugh again, but it catches halfway. “It’s not like you or Dorian or even Mac can do my taxes. I’m the only one who’s supposed to and should be able to handle it—but I can’t even do that right.”

Dasha listens quietly, her face softening with every word. Then, without hesitation, she bends down and wraps her arms around you, pressing you close against her chest. The warmth of her embrace is immediate—solid, anchoring. Dasha’s hugs never seem to fail to arrive just when you need them.

“Shh, moya lyubov,” she whispers, voice hushed and thick with affection. “You are not less of adult because you struggle. You hear me?”

You nod weakly against her shoulder, but she cups your face and makes you look at her again.

“You live, you breathe, you fight through days that are heavy. This—” she gestures gently to the mess of papers on your desk, “—is not measure of your worth.”

You swallow, unable to stop the tears that blur your vision. “It just feels like it is. Like, if I can’t get this right, then what good am I at the rest?”

Her gaze softens even more, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “You are not failing. You are learning. Life does not come with instructions, da? We make mistakes, we fall, we cry—and then we get up again. I have seen you do this many times.” Her eyes shine with a feeling of reminiscing.

She pauses, leaning your face closer to yours. “You are not alone, my beloved. You have us. You have me. Always.”

Her words sink deep and steady. For a long moment, neither of you move. You just sit there, in her arms, the scent of her faintly earthy and warm—like cedar and polish. The ache in your chest doesn’t disappear, but it softens a little.

You let out a shaky breath. “You make it sound so simple.”

She smiles faintly. “Simple, no. True, yes.”

And when she pulls back, she is quick to lift you in her strong arms. She moves both of you so she can sit down on the floor with you on her lap. The action is so smooth, it makes it seem like you weigh nothing at all.

You finally let go.

Not all at once, but slowly. The tears, the exhaustion, the guilt. It all spills quietly against her shoulder. Dasha says nothing more—just holds you, firm and unshakable, one hand moving up and down your back in patient circles. Your quiet sobs are the only sounds that echo throughout the office. She knows you don’t need words right now—just her presence here with you is enough.

After a while, when your crying subsides and your breathing finally evens out, she whispers, “Net nichego postyadnogo v tom, chtoby nuzhdat'sya v pomoshchi. Dazhe samye sil'nye derev'ya opirayutsya na veter.”

(There is no shame in needing help. Even the strongest trees lean into the wind.)

You manage a small, watery laugh. Having Dasha speak in her native tongue appears to be more soothing than you thought possible.

“Eto… ne tak rabotayut derev'ya, Dasha.”

(That’s… not how trees work, Dasha.)

She chuckles softly, kissing the top of your head. Not surprised in the slightest at hearing you talk back in fluent Russian.

“Maybe not,” she concedes softly, “but you clearly understand my meaning, dorogaya moya.” 

“You prove my point, you know.” She says after a moment. You look up at her with a confused expression.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, “you sit here and tell me you are pathetic, but then you speak to me in Russian so easily. Not to mention the other languages you know.” Her thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your jaw. “Do you know how many adults can do that, lyubimaya? Not many.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait—how do you know about the others—”

She gives you a knowing smirk. “Let's say you and that charming Cabrizzio gave Abel quite the show in the kitchen. Poor Able came to me all red and flustered.”

You responded by burying your face in her shoulder out of flustered embarrassment. “Oh my god—he told you?”

She laughs as she pets your hair gently. “Of course he did. He could not look me in the eye for hours.”

You laugh quietly together until Dasha speaks again.

“You are not pathetic, moya lyubov. You are human—and extraordinary in ways you forget to see.” You finally lift your head up to see her face again. Her stunning smile does wonders for your heart. What would you do without someone like Dasha? You lean in slowly and press a kiss to her lips, and she gladly reciprocates the gesture.

When you finally part, your voice is little more than a whisper.

“Ya lyublyu tebya, Dasha.”

(I love you, Dasha.)

Her eyes only soften further, a faint smile curving her lips as she whispers back,

“I ya tebya, moya lyubimaya.”

(And I love you too, my beloved.)

And for the first time since the morning, the papers, the forms, the worries—all fade into silence. There is only her warmth, her breath against your skin, and the quiet certainty that you are not alone.

A/N: I would die happy in her arms. UGH Dasha is such a sweetheart. ˚‧º·(˃̣̣̥∩˂̣̣̥)‧º·˚

1 day since Keith's Realization…

To say that everyone was only shocked would be a terrible understatement.

No one had seen it coming… or at least they had never imagined he would be capable of doing such a thing, especially not to someone like you.

It wasn't until you were finally kneeling on the cold floor, crying your poor heart out with only a crumpled dollar bill trembling in your hand, that the realization of what happened seemed to set in…

Keith had lied to you.

Betrayed you.

Betrayed all of them.

He wasn’t who he claimed to be, and now the man was gone…leaving behind a trail of devastation that none of you knew how to recover from.

Some mourned the friend they thought they knew. Others resented themselves for falling for his charm so easily. A few could not even bring themselves to speak his name anymore, the syllables leaving a bitter taste in their mouths.

But none suffered more than you.

It was no secret that you loved Keith deeply—and that when he finally revealed his true nature to you, it was like everything around you began to crumble.

And the troubling issue was that none of them quite knew how they were going to save you from it.

13 days since Keith's Realization…

You have always considered yourself a compassionate person. Perhaps too compassionate.

You like seeing the good in others, even if they are too stiff and serious, like Dorian, Daisuke, and Friar; too obnoxious and loud, like The Hanks, Kristof, and Scandalabra; or just plain mean, like Tina, Doug, and Rebel.

You believe people deserve understanding, patience, and kindness. Maybe that is your greatest strength... Or maybe it has always been your Achilles' heel.

Because in the end, that same compassion is what allows Keith to get so close to you in the first place. He is so convincing. You look at him and see loneliness instead of danger. Grief instead of manipulation. Vulnerability instead of deceit.

Heartbroken.

Used.

Humiliated.

No one word can describe what you feel.

And the worst part is that you cannot even bring yourself to hate him. Not completely. Some disgusting, pathetic part of you still misses him despite everything he has done. You hate yourself for that more than anything.

Your days slowly blur together after his disappearance.

You spend hours curled up in bed, doomscrolling endlessly on your phone, absorbing meaningless information just to keep your mind occupied long enough not to think about him. About his voice. His touch. His lies.

Betty worries constantly, while Timothy, on the other hand, is displeased. The clock hates seeing you waste away like this. (And he is not the only one.)

The surprising thing is that you never stop wearing the Dateviators.

If anything, you wear them more now.

You still speak with everyone. Still help around the house. But there is an invisible wall between you and the others now, one you refuse to let anyone cross. Because talking about Keith feels unbearable. You cannot stand the thought of saying his name aloud, only to break down all over again. He breaks into your safe, takes all the crypto in that online account, and then laughs in your face, absolutely rapturous about his deceit. His heartlessness hurts so fucking bad... You have never cried so hard as in that moment.

But now, time has passed, and you refuse to sit here crying while everyone watches you fall apart over a man who has made a complete fool out of you.

How can you, of all people, allow yourself to be manipulated so thoroughly?

The questions gnaw at you endlessly—day and night—festering quietly beneath your skin. And the feelings you try so desperately to suppress only continue to grow worse. Sadness slowly curdles into resentment. Resentment into anger.

Not just toward Keith—but toward yourself, too.

Then comes that morning.

That fucking morning.

The television is playing in the background more as noise than anything else while you sit motionless on the couch, half-paying attention to your phone. Another sleepless night lingers heavily beneath your eyes.

You almost ignore the flat screen entirely.

Until something the reporter says catches your attention:

"Authorities have confirmed the death of a male passenger involved in yesterday’s in-flight incident aboard a private flight bound for Ibiza. Witnesses reported the individual displayed erratic behavior prior to a verbal altercation with members of the flight crew. According to investigators, the situation escalated after the passenger gained access to one of the aircraft’s emergency exits and proceeded to jump out from said aircraft while it was still thirty thousand feet in the air The individual is pronounced dead as of late…"

You feel bile rising in your throat, your vision growing blurry from the tears beginning to form. Your breaths come in short and uneven bursts as the reporter keeps talking, continuing to the next segment, all while your world shatters for the second time.

Something hot twists violently inside your chest. Your entire body feels like it is overheating. Your skin prickles. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears. Every muscle in your body seems wound painfully tight.

You are angry.

More than angry—you are furious.

The realization scares you to your core. Never in your life have you felt rage this overwhelming before. Before you can do something stupid—like hurl the remote at the television and accidentally hurt poor Telly—you push yourself off the couch and stumble toward the stairs.

You want more than ever to get out of here. To step outside your house where nobody can see you like this—fall apart like this.

But that is impossible.

You feel so trapped even as you make your way up the stairs, your feet hitting each step hard enough to make the wood groan. Everything around you becomes a blur as you head upstairs, your breathing growing more ragged with every passing second.

You do not even think about where you are going. You just need to be away from that room, away from the sound of television static. The door slams behind you harder than you intend, and guilt immediately stabs through you.

Sorry, Dorian.

Your legs finally give out, and you slide down against the door's grain until you are sitting on the floor, body shaking. It does not take long for the waterworks to come.

I hate this, you think as you roughly wipe the hot, fat tears away. The sounds of your hiccupped sobs echo through what you realize is the gym room. Your hands curl into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms. As much as you despise yourself in that moment, there is something—someone—who takes the damn cake.

Keith.

...I hate him.

Keith.

A bitter laugh overtakes you.

"God, I fucking hate you..."

How could he do this?

Despite everything he did—the lying, the stealing, the humiliation—some part of you hoped he would have at least made use of the human life you gave him. Enjoyed it, as he was so determined to do so. He'd live the high life and go on living. Because if he did...

then all that pain he caused would have meant something.

The bastard could even do that!

Instead, he threw it away.

Carelessly.

Recklessly.

Stupidly.

He chose death instead.

A choked sound escapes your throat.

You hate Keith so much.

Yet somehow... you find yourself mourning him.

Can't get any more pathetic than this, right?

Your body still feels too hot to think properly. Your mind is ensnared with hostile thoughts and self-loathing. Maybe that is why you do not notice the tall figure approaching you.

"I would have never thought I'd get to see you like this."

You stop crying and look up to meet a pair of steel-blue eyes. His entire frame is terribly imposing; it is enough to make you want to shrink back.

"Ah shit—Kristof." You scramble to your feet, wiping your sleeve over your now-puffy eyes. "Sorry, I was just—I'm fine..."

If there is someone in the entire house you do not want seeing you like this, it is Kristof. You can already imagine his disappointment at seeing you in such a degrading state.

Weakness is something he cannot stand.

"If you think your attempt at reassurance is serviceable, you are sorely mistaken."

You wince. Even though he betrays no clear emotion in his tone or expression, the hard look in his eyes is enough to make you abandon any attempts at persuasion. You pause for a long moment, trying to find your voice again. Even when the words finally come, they emerge rough and broken from all the crying.

"He's dead."

Kristof does nothing or says nothing. Instead, letting the words hang between you.

"He's dead," you repeat. "And I just... I just can't believe it."

Your heart feels like it is being squeezed to death, ready to burst at any moment.

"After everything he's done, how could he have been so... so careless?"

The last word catches in your throat.

"Did he really value his life so little?" you choke out. "Was it all just some joke to him?"

You are seeing red and find no reason to hold back any longer.

"How could he leave me here with this?" You press a hand against your chest. "With the guilt. With the pain. With all of this shit!"

The tears return in full force.

"He might be able to move on from all this now that he's gone. But I can't! I'm still here!"

The words spill out with venom, the deadly kind.

"I have to wake up every day knowing what he's done. Knowing I let him die! Knowing I loved him too much to see what he really was!"

An angry sob tears its way from your chest.

"I hate him so much, Kristof!"

Your body is shaking again, and the urge to punch something returns in full force.

"Why would he do this? Why? WHY?!"

You are practically screaming in his face, but Kristof does not react. His eyes travel down to your shaking fists, then back to your face, burning with a vengeful fire of his own. The words that come out of his mouth seem to make the world pause.

"Hit me."

You are so stunned, the anger almost disappears. You blink through your tears, staring up at his massive, unyielding frame. "W-what?"

Kristof repeats his words, no less serious. "You are angry—you have every right to feel angry. The violence that surges through you is immense, it must be released in some way. But I don't believe in any of those soft methods Dunk teaches like yoga." He shakes his head in disdain at the word. "No, you must do something more vicious than that. And I am more than willing to help you accomplish that."

It takes you a second to understand what he means, and when you do, you refuse immediately.

"Kristof, no," you press your back hard against the door. "I can't... I can't punch you. That's insane. I'm not a violent person."

Kristof lets out a roaring laugh.

"Oh, but you are my violent delight! Have you forgotten about all our training? You are more than capable of defending yourself, now I want to see you hold the offensive side."

He steps into the center of the gym room and slams a fist against his own chest. The heavy, metallic thud of his armor clashing. "Look at me! I am a vessel built for the absolute limits of human endurance! I am steel, iron, and sweat! You cannot break me! But this rage within will break you if you keep it locked away like this!"

You don't know whether to laugh or cry at this absurd idea of his. But your indecision doesn’t dispirit him in the slightest.

"Come on, Min kjære! Put all of that humiliation, all of that grief, and all of the disgusting lies that skeleton-thief fed you into my flesh!"

Your chest heaves as his encouragement slices right through your defenses. He isn't making fun of you. He is offering his own body to be your punching bag without a second thought. His Viking ways seem to come out at the most unexpected of times.

And you love him for it.

"Do it! Unleash your violence on me!"

With a raw cry, you lunge forward, balling your hand into a tight fist, and swing.

THUD!

The impact shudders violently up your forearm, a dull, bruising ache as your knuckles collide with his solid chest. Kristof doesn't flinch. He doesn't even move an inch backward. He just plants his feet firmer into the floor, his eyes blazing with absolute, unwavering support.

"Ja!" Kristof shouts, leaning straight into the blow. "Igjen! Again!"

With another breathless scream, you throw your other fist. And then another.

You rain blow after blow down upon him, pour every ounce of your fury into Kristof's chest. Tears stream down your face the entire time. And soon your muscles begin to burn from the repetitive motion.

You feel alive again—it's a thrilling feeling.

Fighting your way through the pain has never felt this good. Even as Kristof expertly blocks your more reckless attacks, the smile he gives you is what encourages you to see this through.

With every strike, you pour out the suffocating pain that has trapped you in your own bed for days. You hit him to let go of Keith—tearing down the phantom and the agonizing grief of a closure you will never get. But most of all, your violence is an act of forgiveness for yourself. You strike until you finally forgive your own heart for loving too deeply and for simply being human.

Time loses all meaning in the gym, and eventually you begin to tire.

Your knuckles are stiff and begin to throb. The hostile heat in your skin finally begins to cool, trading the emotional pain for the pure exhaustion of physical release.

The final punch loses all its power, sliding weakly down his chest. Your knees give out entirely. You expect to fall onto the hard floor. But you don't, as Kristof’s massive arms catch you before you can hit the ground. He pulls your trembling, spent body against his broad chest. He holds you tightly as you let out a quiet, shuddering weep.

"Du gjorde det så bra, elskling. Jeg er så stolt av deg." Kristof whispers, his voice a soft, protective rumble. "Ser ut som all treningen var verdt det, ikke sant?"

You rest your forehead against his frame as you take a long, shaky breath.

You can't believe what you just did. It was unhinged, dangerous, and entirely crazy. And yet, looking up at his fierce face, you love him down to your very core for giving this to you. In a world full of lies, Kristof’s honesty is the only thing that feels solid enough to hold you together.

He slowly helps you sit down on the bench. He hands you a clean towel to wipe your face.

"Det kommer til å bli bedre, min kjære." He kneels so he is looking up at you. His smile is tender and reflective. "Det skal vi sørge for."

You trust Kristof. You trust your friends. They don't know how to fix you—you don't either, to be honest. But at least you know you're not alone.

A tiny, fragile smile forms on your lips even with the drying tears.

You are not put back together yet.

But as you look out the window at the setting sun, you know, with absolute certainty, that things will get better.

Someday.

A/N: I realized I didn’t touch on certain characters featured in Gaia's route (inspired this entire work btw), so I'm going to do that. The other character getting a major chapter will be Keyes, the others will be mentioned.

***Note that in-game, Kristof claims to be from Hell, Norway. Bokmål is the primary official written language there.

Translations:

Min kjære! — My love

Ja! Igjen! — Yes! Again!

Du gjorde det så bra, elskling. Jeg er så stolt av deg. —You did so well, darling. I'm so proud of you.

Ser ut som all treningen var verdt det, ikke sant? — Looks like all that training was worth it, wasn't it?

Det kommer til å bli bedre, min kjære. — Things are going to get better, my love.

Det skal vi sørge for. — We'll make sure of that.

I live for MC angst sm even if it hurts