#alessandro raise

[nick-cassidy]

x

[smellslikeonedirection]

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[rrysbabydoll]

A Night In Rome

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Alcohol consumption, public intoxication, suggestive sexual behavior in public, light dominance/submission dynamics, clingy Y/N.

Synopsis: A night in rome with a very drunk clingy Y/N.

You were wearing a white lace dress, with your hair tied loosely back, a few strands slipping free to frame your flushed face. The streets hummed around you, but you weren’t really paying attention to anything except Harry, well, Harry and the icy drink in your hand.

The cobblestone streets of Rome glistened under soft amber lights. It had rained briefly earlier that evening, just enough to coat the city in a sheen that made every step feel cinematic.

You were tipsy. Gloriously, gigglingly tipsy.

Harry leaned back against the wall of the trattoria you’d all just left, the collar of his blue shirt slightly undone, the hem of his trousers brushing his ankles. He was sipping slowly, his other hand tucked into his pocket, eyes watching you with that amused, adoring little smile.

Alessandro Michele was standing nearby with an arm lazily draped around his partner. He was telling some story to the group gathered around, all talking over one another.

But you were entirely fixated on your boyfriend.

You took a sip of your cocktail, lips pursing. “Why is this so good?” you said, stumbling a little as you reached Harry. You clung to his side, wrapping your free arm around his waist like you needed him to stay upright.

Harry chuckled, low and patient. “Because it’s your fourth one, bunny.”

You smiled dreamily. “It’s not my fourth.”

“It is.” He slid your glass gently from your hand. “And that’s enough, lovie.”

You blinked up at him, swaying just slightly on your feet. “You’re mean.”

“I know.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. “But you’ll thank me in the morning.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, hands gliding over the silk of his shirt, and buried your face in his neck. “You smell so good,” you whispered, then nuzzled in deeper and left a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath his jaw.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away or tell you to behave. Just let you nuzzle and nip at the soft skin beneath his ear, your lips brushing just beneath his jaw as if you were trying to memorize the shape of him with your mouth. You were delicate at first, barely-there kisses, your breath warm and sweet against his skin, but then your teeth grazed him, playful and a little greedy, and he made a low sound that barely passed as a laugh.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, hand warm and steady against the small of your back, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles. He was still listening to Alessandro and laughing softly with the others, nodding along, but every now and then, his hand would slide just a little lower, soothing, steadying, as your lips trailed along his neck with lazy devotion.

You kept going, half-draped over him, mouthing at the skin above his collarbone, barely noticing how your lip gloss had smudged just a little. You pressed another kiss to the side of his neck, then did it again, just because you could.

Harry tilted his head to the side slightly, offering you more space, still not saying anything. He didn’t need to. His body was so relaxed, like this was just second nature, letting his tipsy girl crawl all over him in the middle of a Roman alley while he chatted with old friends.

Every now and then, his fingers would tighten at your waist, squeezing gently when you got a bit too close to his collar or a little too sharp with your teeth. But he didn’t move you away. He just kept talking.

At one point, Giovanni, Alessandro’s partner, caught Harry’s eye and raised a brow with a knowing smirk.

“She’s had fun tonight,” Harry said smoothly, not missing a beat. He kissed the top of your head without even looking. “Haven’t you, bun?”

You hummed in reply, completely blissed out against his neck, lips still grazing skin as if it was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

Then you said softly, right against his skin: “You taste good too.”

That was when Harry finally blinked and let out a quiet laugh.

You kissed him again, then again, sloppier this time, hot lips dragging across the column of his throat. “Can we go back home?” you murmured.

“Not yet, bun.”

“Wanna be alone with you.”

“I know you do.” His voice was still gentle, but there was a warning edge to it. You’d pushed past that edge.

Your hand slid down, tracing the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly, until you reached the waistband of his trousers. You giggled, brushing the heel of your palm over the slight bulge in his pants.

His eyes widened. “Jesus,” he muttered, laughter bursting from him as he quickly grabbed your wrist and pushed your hand away. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“But it’s Rome,” you whispered with a giggle. “They’re romantic here.”

“Yeah, not that romantic,” he said, still laughing.

You pouted, leaning up to kiss him again. This time it was full-on, your mouth open, messy, hungry.

Your lips found his like it was the only thing in the world you could focus on. You tilted your head and opened wider, tongue brushing his, fingers tangling into the collar of his shirt as you pressed up on your toes to reach him fully.

Harry let you kiss him. Let you take and take, groaning softly into your mouth as one of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, steadying you. His other arm stayed looped around your waist, keeping you anchored, flush to him. His fingers curled at your lower back again, a slow, reassuring stroke up and down, up and down.

Around you, no one paid much attention. The group had splintered into smaller conversations, Alessandro now theatrically reenacting something with wide hand gestures, everyone too caught up in their own tipsy laughter and stories to care that you were practically devouring your boyfriend in the street.

You whimpered softly into his mouth, angling yourself closer, knee slipping between his, and Harry chuckled again, deep in his chest.

“You’re a menace tonight,” he murmured against your lips.

But he still didn’t stop you.

You were about to say something, something about how warm he was, or how you wanted to crawl into his shirt and live there, when a sudden arm slung casually around your shoulders from the side, pulling you back slightly with affectionate force.

“Alright, bambini,” Alessandro grinned, standing between you and Harry now like a human barrier, one arm still draped across your shoulders, the other flung around Harry’s. “Save some of that passion for behind closed doors, hmm?”

Harry threw his head back and laughed.

You blinked up at Alessandro, dazed and pouty, but didn’t resist his grip. You stood there for a moment, swaying a little under the weight of his arm, then slipped out from under it with a tiny huff and wandered toward the table nearby, sinking into one of the wrought iron chairs with a sigh.

Your cheek smushed against your hand, elbow propped on the table. You kicked your feet slightly under the chair and started humming to yourself, some soft, dreamy tune you couldn’t quite remember the name of. Probably something Harry had played for you once, or something Alessandro had blasted through his villa speakers.

Your dress caught the light every time you shifted, your flushed face dreamy and content as the night swirled on around you. People talked and sipped and smoked and laughed, and you just hummed and watched Harry from your little spot, like he was the center of your universe.

Because he was.

You kept humming, now swaying slightly in your seat, arms folded on the table in front of you. The streets had grown quieter now, just the low hum of traffic in the distance, a few passing voices, the clinking of ice in glasses.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze slip past and cool your flushed skin. You imagined Harry’s hand instead, those warm fingers tracing down your back, over your thighs, up the inside of your—

“Bun,” came his voice suddenly, close.

Your eyes fluttered open to find him crouching beside you, glass of water in one hand and that soft, bossy smile on his face.

“Drink this,” he said, nudging it toward your lips.

You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want water.”

“I know,” he said gently, tilting the glass anyway. “Be a good girl, yeah? Just a little.”

You let out the tiniest whine, dramatic and pouty, but opened your mouth. He helped you sip, watching you the whole time, free hand rubbing your thigh slowly under the table. You finished a little less than half before turning your head dramatically into his shoulder.

“There,” you murmured. “I’m healthy.”

Harry laughed, soft and warm. “You’re getting healthy. One more sip, bunny.”

“This is so entertaining,” Alessandro said suddenly, perched across from you both with a smirk on his face, chin in hand, elbow propped on the table, as you glared at him.

Harry smiled down at you, ignoring them entirely, lifting the glass once more.

“You gonna finish this for me?” he asked sweetly.

You stared at him. “If i get a kissy after.”

He smirked. “Deal.”

You took another sip, then immediately threw yourself at him. His arms came around you instinctively, laughing into your shoulder as you tried to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.

“Christ,” he muttered, letting you do whatever you wanted, still smiling as he glanced back toward Alessandro. “She’s relentless tonight.”

“Let her be,” Alessandro said.

“C’mon, time to go.” Harry said after a while.

You blinked. “Already?”

“It’s nearly two,” he said gently, crouching slightly so you were eye level. “I thought you wanted to go home?”

You pouted again. “No, I like it here.”

“I know, lovie,” he said, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, “We’re gonna come again tomorrow, right now you need sleep.”

You giggled and let him pull you to your feet.

Your legs wobbled a bit, and Harry steadied you immediately with both hands around your waist, then leaned in to kiss the tip of your nose.

“I want pizza,” you said dreamily as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you back to the group.

Alessandro gasped. “Finally, someone says what we’re all thinking!”

Within minutes, the group was making their way down the winding street toward a place Alessandro swore had the best late-night margherita in the entire city. You walked with Harry, arm wrapped tightly around his middle, your body practically glued to his side.

You kept kissing his shoulder as you walked. His arm never left your back.

“You know how much I love you?” you asked, not quietly.

Harry glanced down at you with a soft laugh. “How much, bun?”

You stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. “This much,” you declared, stretching your arms wide, nearly twirling in your spot.

He caught you before you could wobble too far and kissed your forehead, tucking you safely back under his arm. “That’s a lot.”

“You’re my favorite person,” you whispered into his chest.

He squeezed you closer. “You’re mine, too.”

Eventually, the group stumbled into the tiny pizza shop Alessandro had spoken of, and you curled up beside Harry in the booth, half-asleep on his shoulder by the time your slices arrived. He fed you bites between sips of water and whispered something against your hair that made you giggle again.

And when you finally left, the cobblestone streets still warm beneath your sandals, Harry wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, held your hand tightly, and guided you all the way back home.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Gift

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: Period typical sexism and treatment of women, period-typical ideas of virginity and virtue, Marcus is a bit rude at first but he comes around quickly, attempted assault that is heavily implied to be sexual, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, wound care, yearning, virginity loss, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, mushy endings :)

Summary: The Emperor of Rome has given his most valued General, Marcus Acacius, a generous gift after his recent successful battle. Rather than the gold he’s hoping for, Marcus is stunned when a young virgin is delivered to his chambers. At first, he refuses to entertain the idea of stealing the virtue of a scared girl, but their lives become entwined when he learns that refusing his ‘gift’ puts her in even more danger…

A/N: The art in the header is by @norththelemon and is inspired by Paulo and Virginia by Alessandro Puttinati. Thank you so much for letting me use this artwork for my fic!!! <3 The artwork does not necessarily reflect the appearance of the reader character; rather, it is a reflection of the original artwork. The only physical description I included of reader is that she has long, curly hair (color and texture are never mentioned). Marcus’s pet name for her, bellatora, very loosely translates to “little warrior.” Thank you to the lovely @leslie-lyman for the beta! **NOTE: as attempted SA can be triggering to some people, I have separated out this section with asterisks (******). You can quickly skip this scene and you will not miss any significant plot. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to send me a DM! Be safe <3

Masterlist

Marcus rides through the streets of Rome, the cheers of citizens ringing in his ears and the white petals being thrown from above him sticking in his curls. The populus is joyful, but he cannot help but think of the cost of the battle, about the sons and husbands who he knows are not returning home.

He longs for a bath, to wash the grime, dirt and blood from his body. He longs to strip off the heavy, soiled armor and lay down on his bed, naked and warm and full of bread and wine, and sleep for several days.

First, however, he must endure the long procession up to the palace, where the Emperor was surely waiting for him–where he would have to play all the little games that come with positions of power: smile, nod, say the right words and act in the ways that other people expect of a General.

The horse whinnies nervously as the cacophony swells, and Marcus gently pats its neck, sending a cascade of petals to the ground to be trodden underfoot by so many hooves.

The Emperor waits at the top of the Palace steps, surrounded by all of his court and Roman nobility. Without allowing any of the contempt he feels to show on his face, Marcus Acacius dismounts from the horse and slowly ascends the marble stairs. When he reaches the top, the Emperor pulls him into an exaggerated hug, slapping his back and cheering loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.

“Congratulations to you, my friend, for your triumph and victory over the vanquished,” the man booms, slapping Marcus's pauldron again for good measure and causing another great cheer to rise up from the crowd.

Marcus does not say anything, but he turns to face the onlookers and unsheathes his sword, raising it over his head victoriously, knowing that's what they all want him to do. The resulting din seems to rattle the very stones of the palace.

“You must be weary, good soldier,” the Emperor tells him. “Go now and rest. A gift will be sent to your chambers to show your Emperor’s appreciation for your prowess in battle.”

Marcus nods and bows deeply, indicating his gratitude for his Lord's generosity. He's most thankful, however, for the quick dismissal.

The General’s quarters in the palace are spacious and outfitted with all modern amenities Marcus could ever think to ask for. He quickly lights a fire under the basin to begin heating water for a bath. He begins removing his armor, leaving it by the door where he knows it will be collected for cleaning and polishing. He discards the filthy underclothing and retrieves a clean cloth with which to wash.

It is only now that Marcus is able to take sock tock of his injuries; as the grime is wiped clean from his body, he can finally see where the blood was his, and where the blood was not his. His arms are peppered with bruises and superficial wounds, but nothing that requires any dressing. 

He is lucky. 

Marcus dresses in loose robes, luxuriating in the feeling of being free and unencumbered by his armor. With a deep, satisfied sigh, he settles himself down on the bed, surrounded by the ornate pillows that come with Palace trappings, and closes his eyes.

They’ve barely been closed for a few minutes when a knock sounds at the door. 

Marcus frowns. All his joints and muscles protest when he reluctantly rises from the bed again and opens the door. He’s greeted by one of the Emperor’s personal guard, who is roughly holding the upper arm of a young girl.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus asks hesitantly, taking in the girl’s simple, white shift that clings to her breasts and hips, her trembling lips, and her wide, terrified eyes.

“The Emperor, in his generosity, presents you with this virgin as reward for your duty to Rome,” the guard announces. He pushes the girl forward into Marcus’s chambers and shuts the door behind him.  

“What in the Gods’...” the General murmurs under his breath as you are shoved unceremoniously into the room.

You curtsy deeply, remembering, despite your fear, what you have been instructed to do. “M-My Lord,” you whisper through trembling lips. You can only stare at the floor, unable to look at the man to whom you have been gifted.

“I had been hoping for gold,” the man grumbles. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He sounds angry. This terrifies you more.

“I am f-for your… p-pleasure,” you try to explain. “My Lord.” You deepen the curtsy, until your knees nearly scrape the floor. If you please him, perhaps he will not be unkind.

“Stop that. Get up.” the man snaps. “I’m not in the mood for deflowering virgins.”

“S-Sir?” You don’t understand. You weren’t prepared for the man to say no. You were bathed, dressed, and told that you were to be a gift for a mighty general. You were to please him, let him bed you, and serve him until he tired of you. You were instructed to kneel, to address him as only “My Lord,” and to do whatever he asked of you. Only then would the debt your father owed to the Emperor be paid in full. 

You were not given instructions on what to do if the General refused his gift.

“D-Do I not please My Lord?” you try again. Terrified of being turned away, sent back to your father, where they’d surely kill you both, you begin to cry.

“By the Gods–stop, come here,” the General says, sounding exasperated. He gently leads you to a chair and indicates you should sit. You do. He crouches on his heels so that your heads are level, and examines you. “Who are you, girl?”

“I… am the only daughter of Proculus Opilio,” you sniffle. “I am a gift for his Lord’s pleasure.”

The man’s fingers take hold of your chin; his hands are gentle as he guides your eyes up to his. “Why are you a gift,” he presses.

“M-My family owes a great debt,” you whisper. “I am to be payment for our transgressions against the Emperor.”

“The Emperor sends me a frightened child,” the man growls as he quickly stands and paces away from you, “and calls it a gift.”

“You must accept,” you say frantically, hopping up from your seat and following him. “They will know if you do not, and we will be punished for it.”

The general scoffs. “What, they intend on checking?” he asks, as if such a thing is too ridiculous to be spoken aloud.

“Yes,” you whisper. They told you as such.

“Girl,” he says sternly. “I am not going to enact such violence on a scared child.”

“I am not a child,” you argue, sticking your chin up. “I have seen nineteen summers, almost twenty.”

The General seems to find this funny. He huffs, shaking his head and turning away. “Go home, girl.”

“I cannot go home,” you say, and start to cry again. 

“Stop. Stop,” the man entreats. He turns toward you again and cages your face in his hands, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs. “Okay. Do not worry, I will… Gods, I will help. You and your family will come to no harm.”

“Thank you,” you say emphatically, your hands coming up to your shoulders in preparation to unclasp your shift.

“No! Stop!” You freeze again, eyes wide.

The General softens, and gentles his words. “Please stop. I am weary from battle and I need to sleep. Please… let us both rest, and after that we may discuss this with level heads.”

“Of course, My Lord,” you nod, curtsying again. 

“Marcus.”

“...My Lord?”

“Call me Marcus. I am no Lord.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” It comes out automatically.

The General–Marcus–raises one eyebrow.

“...Marcus.” You watch as the man pads over to the bed and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh. 

“You may sleep here, you may sleep elsewhere, it does not concern me,” he mumbles, eyes already closed. “I am not long for this world and will be unconscious for quite some time, I imagine.”

His words are correct; within a matter of minutes the man is snoring. 

Alone and scared, you sink back down into the chair, and begin to cry again.

Marcus wakes with something tickling his nose. Opening his eyes, he’s greeted by a mass of curls on his pillow, framing the angelic face of… 

Oh.

He had forgotten about you. At some point, you had clearly decided to sleep as well, because you are curled up next to him, your hands clasped under your chin and your lips slightly parted in sleep. This is the first time he’s seen your face not terrified, and he realizes that you are really quite beautiful.

He does not know what to do with you. 

Marcus has never had a shortage of willing partners, and he is uninterested in the alternative. You are pretty, young, and soft, but he is not the sort of man to force himself on a woman. Even if you did ask him in no uncertain terms to do so, it would not be for the right reasons. 

He needs to find a way out of this situation, ideally with his life, your life, and the lives of your family still intact; he did not wade through the blood and mire of battlefield just to condemn an innocent woman to death.

“Girl,” he says lowly, and your eyes open quickly. They go wide at his proximity, and you scramble back a few inches, creating more space between you.

“H-Hello,” you greet him shakily. 

“Good morn,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

“Well-rested, My Lo–Marcus.” You offer him a small, timid smile. 

Marcus glances toward the window. “It must be almost midday,” he says, noticing the angle of the sun. He’d fallen asleep yesterday in the late afternoon, slept all night, and through the morning. He hopes you did the same. 

“I am famished.” He gets up from the bed–Gods, his muscles still ache–and pads toward the door to his chambers. “With any luck, this morning’s breakfast will still be outside.” 

It feels like the only act of providence that has happened since his return to the Palace that the breakfast tray is still there, laden with fresh bread and fruit. He carries it inside and sets it on the small table in his chambers. He grabs a piece of bread with one hand and beckons you over with the other, too hungry to be polite and wait for you before tearing a piece off with his teeth. He finishes the bread in a few bites, but you still stand near the bed, unmoving and watching him with wary eyes.

“Come. Eat.” Marcus grabs another piece of bread and a handful of grapes. 

Hesitantly, you approach the table, looking like a wild animal unsure of whether the human offering you food can be trusted.

“I do not bite, girl,” he grumbles. 

You snatch a loaf off of the table and retreat backwards a couple of paces, breaking off small pieces and popping them into your mouth as you continue to stare at him. 

“What will you do with me?” you ask.

“Do with you?” Marcus laughs humorlessly. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” you repeat, beginning to sound angry. Good. Marcus would rather you be anything but the timid, scared girl that was shoved into his chambers. “So you would condemn my family to death?”

“I am not going to take an unwilling woman to bed,” he growls, taking more grapes from the tray and popping them into his mouth. 

“Most people would do far worse to save the life of a loved one,” you argue. 

Marcus scoffs. “I’ve seen and done things you could not imagine, girl. If losing your maidenhood is the worst thing you can conceive of–”

“It is not,” you snap, stamping your foot in a show of exasperated petulance. “If you are not going to help me, then… I—I hope the gods curse you!” you finish lamely. You spin on your heels and retreat to the corner of his room, sitting down on a chair and crossing your arms with a huff. 

Marcus closes his eyes. He is being too harsh with her, too cruel. He has spent too long shouting orders at his men of late, and not enough time offering comfort or kind words. He grimaces and approaches you with caution. You glare at him, and he doesn’t blame you, but he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you before speaking.

“I have been unkind,” he says softly. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

He watches as your pretty eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again as a number of emotions seem to flicker across your face. Your lips part, but you don’t respond, and Marcus forges on.

“I did not ask to be put in this situation, and neither did you. I made a promise to you last night that you and your family will come to no harm, but we must work together to keep you safe.”

“Would it not be easier to simply take your ‘gift’?” you sniffle, jutting your chin out and trying–unsuccessfully, he thinks to himself–to be brave.

Marcus chuckles softly, reaching forward and gently grasping both of your hands. “I have committed enough violence in the name of Emperor and Country to last a man several lifetimes. I may not have been as kind as I should have been to you, but I will not take the innocence of a scared girl who is being used as a pawn in the evil games of powerful men.”

You sniffle again, wiping your nose on the back of one hand. “Sometimes I wish I could just be free of this cursed ‘gift’ of innocence and lose all value to men like that.”

Marcus huffs in amusement. “Do you, now?”

You sigh, turning and looking out of the window. “How nice it would be to be valued for other qualities, instead,” you murmur, speaking more to yourself than to him. When you turn back to look at him, you ask, “How will you–we–subvert the wishes of the Emperor himself?”

Ah. He was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask, at least not yet. Truthfully, he has no idea; all he can really hope to do is attempt to sway the Emperor in some way, or at the very least, buy him some time. 

“I will request an audience,” Marcus tells you. “I must go soon to debrief with the other generals, and he will be in attendance. I will speak to him, garner favor…” he trails off, knowing how vague and uncertain he sounds. 

“You would really take such a risk for me…?” you ask hesitantly. 

“The Emperor, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon me a gift,” Marcus says sardonically. “And as I see it, that gift is now mine, and is under my protection.” He gently cups your cheek, letting his palm rest against the slightly damp skin. “We will use his… generosity… to our advantage.”

He stands, letting his fingers trail across your jaw before pulling his hand back. “I must go. Do not open the door to anyone while I am gone.”

In the General’s absence, you finish off the rest of the breakfast tray, which was plentiful. With a full belly, you wander around the man’s chambers, exploring the space that will also be yours for the foreseeable future. You wash in the basin, splashing cool water on your face and sighing in relief. For the first time in over a day, you are finally able to breathe and take stock of your situation.

You should be grateful, really. The General Marcus, although gruff and tactless at times, seems to be a caring, even kind man. You believe him when he says he will protect you, protect your family, even though you have nothing to give him in return. Nothing he wishes to take, at any rate. 

Your eyes fall on an ornate dagger sitting on a table near the window, and you cannot help but think of the way his hands–the same hands that would fiercely wield a weapon to slice through skin and bone–so gently touched your face. 

A loud knock on the door to Marcus’s chambers startles him out of your reverie. A soft noise of surprise escapes you before you are able to clap your hand over your mouth to stifle it. You can tell that whoever is on the other side of the door has heard you, because they pause, listening, and then knock again.

The handle rattles as someone on the other side turns it back and forth, testing the strength of the lock, and your heart pounds with trepidation. 

They cannot get in. They cannot get in. They cannot get in. You repeat the phrase over and over in your head, but then you hear the distinct click as the lock is bypassed or picked, and the door swings wide.

“Well, well, well,” a man in ornate robes sneers. “It appears the rumors are true.”

**********************************

Another man in similar garb pushes past him. “Our beloved general has a new toy.” The words are dripping in sarcasm.

You back up against the wall, and the table next to you rattles when you bump it with your hip. Quickly, you pick up the dagger and point it at the intruders.

Both men guffaw loudly, slapping their knees and shoving each others’ shoulders in their apparent mirth. “She has teeth, she does!” one of them jeers.

“Tell us, did you bite the General when he stuck you?”

The men lunge forward, and you slash with the blade. One of them howls, clutching at his arm, where red is already beginning to well up between his fingers, but you are unused to wielding weapons and the second man rips it from your grasp easily.

“You little bitch,” the injured one spits, and slaps you, hard, with his good hand, the blood from his injury splashing your face and your white robes. You crumple in an instant, clutching your cheek, as the two men close in.

“I bet she squeals nice and loud,” one of them growls menacingly as he reaches for you.

*************************************

A loud bang from behind the men makes them startle. You look for the source, and see the General standing in the doorway with fury in his eyes. He wrenches another dagger from its scabbard and, with no warning, lunges forward and plunges it into the neck of the man who had reached for you. With a sickening gurgle, the man collapses instantly, and red blood begins to pool underneath him. Marcus rips the dagger from the man’s neck and points it at the second man as he shoves him against the wall, who immediately begins to whimper and shake his head. 

“Sniveling cur,” the General spits. “I would happily kill you both, but you are going to deliver a message for me instead.” At the man’s frantic nod, he continues. “It seems that some need reminding that I am not to be trifled with,” Marcus snarls. “And the next person who disrespects me by harming my property will be dealt with in the same manner as your friend. Now. Go.” 

The man bolts, clutching the wound you had given him.

Marcus’s demeanor immediately changes. He drops the dagger on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands again… hands that are trembling. 

“They hurt you,” he murmurs, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth over your face, seeing the blood that had spattered on your robes.

“It isn’t mine,” you manage to say, although your voice shakes and your chest heaves with leftover terror. You can’t keep your gaze from landing on the dead man in front of you, his eyes still open and staring sightlessly ahead. “I–your knife I–”

“Okay,” he nods, his thumbs still caressing your cheekbones. “Okay. Shhh. Don’t look at him, look at me.” When you manage to pull your gaze to the General instead, you’re suddenly captivated by his wild, dark eyes. They’re so full of fire, yes, but with that fire brings warmth. He stares at you as if you are a precious object, not some scared little girl covered in blood and cowering against the wall. “Come here,” Marcus says softly. “Let me help you up.”

You surprise even yourself when you automatically lean forward and into the General’s arms. He stiffens, seemingly just as stunned by your trust in him, but he recovers and carefully stands, pulling you up with him and gently turning your body away from the dead man. He leads you forward, and you follow blindly as he guides you down onto a chair. 

“Let me fetch a cloth,” Marcus says, his expression stormy and troubled, “to clean you up. Do not move.”

You nod, watching as he fills a little bowl with water from the basin and comes back to crouch at your feet. “Your cheek,” he murmurs. “Is it very painful?”

You nod again, a few hot tears escaping from your eyes and stinging the small cut in question. 

“I will be as gentle as I can,” Marcus promises. “But it must be cleaned.”

You shut your eyes as his fingers carefully grasp your chin, using his hold to tilt your head and grant him easier access. The cloth is cold against the burning skin of your cheek, and you cannot stop the soft whimper that leaves your lips. Gently, the General dabs the little wound, dipping the cloth in water over and over and soothing the tender skin as he wipes it clean of dirt and blood.

Once satisfied with your cheek, he cleans the man’s blood off of the rest of your face and neck, as well as the few droplets that had landed on your hands from the other man as he was stabbed. 

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely as he gently turns one hand over and dabs away the last remaining spot of blood on the inside of your wrist. 

“You should not be thanking me,” Marcus says, voice tinged with bitterness. “It is because of me that you came to harm.”

“Yet it is also because of you that I was not harmed further,” you tell him quietly. Your eyes dart toward the body in a pool of blood still lying on the floor, and quickly look away again. “You killed a man for me.”

“You are under my protection,” Marcus says solemnly. “I do not take that vow lightly.”

As your heartbeat finally begins to slow, the deep terror that had been swirling inside you leaves, replaced with bone-weary fatigue. Your vision swims and your head sways slightly as you suddenly feel that you must fight the urge to fall asleep right here in this chair.

“Something ails me,” you say, alarmed at your darkening vision.

“Battle fatigue,” the General says matter-of-factly. “When the fog of war lifts, sleep often takes its place.”

“I am no soldier,” you protest tiredly. The world shifts–Marcus has scooped you into his arms and is carrying you to his bed, carefully laying you down on the blankets. 

“You are now,” he teases gently. “Victorious little soldier, bellatora, wielding a General’s weapon with ferocity. You even have a battle scar.” His finger gingerly brushes your cheek.

“Will others come?” you ask, struck with a sudden pang of fear even as your eyes threaten to close. 

“No.”

“What if they do?” It’s a silly question, and you aren’t sure why you even gave voice to such a childish fear. Warmth envelops you as Marcus covers your form with a blanket. Your eyes finally close, and the General’s last words seem to come to you through a dream.

“Then I will fight the entire Roman army to keep you safe.”

Marcus Acacius did not want this “gift.” 

He did not want a virgin to deflower, nor a scared girl to comfort, or even a servant that inexplicably tidied his rooms while he was away.

He did not want you. 

But here you are, sitting by his window with a book, eating all of your dinner and a good portion of his, and leaving long, curly hairs on his pillows, by the basin, and even on his armor–something he had discovered during a drill one morning, pulling the offending strand off of his pauldron with a bemused shake of his head. 

He does not want you. He doesn’t want the comb and mirror that now lie on the table by the basin, nor the extra rags he had to ask a servant for–ears burning bright red–when your… er… monthlies arrived. He does not want to spend his wages on new robes for you, but he hardly has a choice, not when your thin white shift became filthy with blood the night that he–

Gods.

The night that he almost lost you.

If his meeting had gone just five minutes longer, he would have been too late. He would have arrived to a much different scene, and he knows he would have killed every inhabitant of the palace in retribution.

This is how he knows that he cannot trust his own feelings when it comes to you. What should be an unwanted inconvenience in his life has quickly become much, much more. He acts like a man in love, the way he buys you trinkets and brings you sweets, but no matter how he twists the story in his own head, he cannot deny the truth: you are a captive. His captive.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, a wealthy merchant crosses his path in the bustling market, followed by another man carrying all of the man’s wares for him, purposely walking several paces behind as is the custom for slaves.

Marcus can dress you in all the finery his salary can afford, but that does not change the fact that you were intended to be a slave for his pleasure. 

He already has his intended prize from the market–a parcel containing two pieces of sweetbread tucked under one arm–but perhaps it is guilt over your imprisonment that causes his head to wander to the stall of jewelry to his left. 

“Trinkets for a special someone,” says a middle-aged woman wearing kohl eyeliner and almost as many beads around her own neck as are displayed in her stall. She shoots Marcus a knowing smirk as his fingers reach out to graze a length of beads of palest pink. 

“Rose quartz,” the woman tells him. “For love, compassion, and emotional healing.”

Rose quartz. He cannot help but picture the pretty, pale beads glowing, luminous against the soft skin of your neck.

“How much?” His voice is rough and thick. 

The woman’s smile widens.

They cost almost an entire weeks’ salary, and he’s never spent such a sum on anything for himself, let alone something so frivolous, but he’s already reaching for his purse.

You grin widely at Marcus’s return–a sight that makes his heart swell when he remembers how frightened you were of him on that first night. You make little grabbing motions with your hands, causing him to laugh as he hands over the parcel of sweetbread. You take your piece and hand him the other, hardly waiting until he’s taken it before you’re biting into the sweet dough with a sound of pleasure that goes straight to his nether regions. 

He thinks of the necklace, wrapped in cloth and hidden in his robes, but he is struck with a moment of uncharacteristic cowardice, and he leaves it where it is. 

“Tell me about the market,” you say wistfully. 

“Too crowded,” Marcus grunts before taking a bite of his own sweetbread. 

You seem to find his cantankerous nature funny, for Gods know what reason, and the pretty sound of your laughter fills the room–and his mind.

“There are a number of visitors for some play at the amphitheater tonight,” he explains further, shrugging slightly.

You suddenly exclaim in delight, startling him a little. “I love the amphitheater,” you say emphatically. “My father often had to punish me for sneaking in to see plays against his wishes when I was a little girl.”

Marcus chuckles, picturing a smaller version of you, but no less fiery.

“It was worth it,” you laugh. You pop the last piece of sweetbread into your mouth and suck each finger clean of the sticky dough in turn. Marcus should look away, but he’s entranced by the way your lips close around each digit, leaving clean, shiny skin in your wake.

He blames this momentary onset of utter madness for the words that leave his mouth next.

“Would you like to go see it? The play?”

 The pure delight that washes over your face is enough to make Marcus want to take you to a different play every night, but after too short a time, you are frowning warily.

“Would that be wise?” you ask. “Is it not dangerous for me to leave your quarters?”

“You would be seen as my consort,” Marcus answers. “No harm will come to you, bellatora.”

“Your… your consort?” 

“You cannot be a prisoner in these walls for the rest of your days,” he tells you softly. “If we play the parts we have been given–the General and his consort–no one will question it. They wouldn’t dare, not after my warning. The entire palace knows that I will gladly kill anyone who threatens you.”

You duck your head, looking down at your hands. Marcus wonders if you’re frightened of him, still. 

“Everyone will see my act as one of possession,” he says. “Of territoriality. If we allow them to draw that conclusion, they will never suspect any different.”

You nod, biting your lower lip and giving him a timid smile that slowly spreads across your face and turns into something bright and joyful. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“The play will end before we even arrive, bellatora,” Marcus grouses from the main chamber. 

“Patience,” you snap from the washroom. The stupid elaborate hairstyle that you keep trying to braid your hair into keeps falling out, and you’re beginning to feel frustrated. With a heavy sigh, you settle for a simpler plait that falls over one shoulder. You’re wearing one of the nicer gowns that Marcus has gifted you–robes of deep emerald green, but you still worry that you look far too common to be an appropriate consort to a General.

Since when has such a thing become a concern for you? Despite the roles you are forced to play, Marcus is not your consort, nor your lover. He has made it clear he will never touch you, so why are you hiding in the washroom, worrying over your appearance?

With a pained sigh, you shake yourself, square your shoulders, and turn to face the General.

“Ready,” you announce, and the man in question looks up.

His lips part slightly, a little crease forming on his brow as his eyebrows raise. He fixes you with that look–the one he keeps giving you lately. It’s as if he’s in a constant state of surprise every time he sees you, as if you aren’t a permanent fixture in his rooms and could disappear at any moment. 

“What?” you finally ask. 

Marcus seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “It is missing something.”

The statement confuses you. “I–I have nothing else to–” You cut yourself off as the man seems to be digging through his clothing, looking for what, you do not know.

“I thought this would suit you,” he says quietly, as he retrieves a small parcel and holds it out for you to take.

You hesitate, frowning. “What is it?”

Marcus huffs softly with impatience and opens the parcel himself, revealing the prettiest strand of stones you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you gasp. 

“Do you…” the man in front of you clears his throat and shifts in his stance, “Do you like it?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I like it.”

Wordlessly, he removes it from the cloth and moves behind you to clasp it at the back of your neck. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks across your face at the feel of the cool beads resting against your throat. Gently, you touch the necklace with your fingers and turn to look at Marcus. “Does it look pretty?” you ask, still grinning at him.

The General’s face is almost pained when he returns your gaze. His eyes don’t leave yours when he softly answers, “Yes.”

Marcus Acacius has never been much for plays, but never before has he experienced seeing one with you. He can’t help cracking a small smile himself every time you let out a joyful peal of laughter, which you do often, as the story is a humorous one. 

The necklace suits you just as he thought it would, but your beauty almost makes the stones appear dull in comparison. If anyone were to ask him, Marcus would say that your smile could outshine all of Rome. Pretending that you are his consort is far too easy; your delicate fingers find the crook of his elbow without prompting when he offers his arm to you as you walk through the streets when the show ends. Your eyes always seem to find his, your face bright and hopeful and oh so lovely as you look up at him. 

“Marcus?” 

He’s been lost in his thoughts again. He grunts and nods to you as the two of you walk back to the palace, when you suddenly stop. 

“I want to tell you…” you begin, wringing your hands together nervously. 

“What is it, bellatora?” Marcus asks with concern.

“I want to tell you that I am… very happy,” you say, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze. 

“I am glad that you enjoyed the play,” Marcus says hesitantly, wondering what is making you suddenly be so… shy.

“With you,” you add quietly. “It’s not only the play, it’s… it’s just you, Marcus.” The final word is almost a plea, with how earnestly it leaves your lips. “I–I want you to know that I would. I would be your consort, i-if you wanted, and I’d–”

Marcus closes the small distance between you and presses his lips against yours. You yield to him immediately, your small hands moving up the planes of his chest and coming to rest at his jaw. You kiss with the slight timidness of someone unfamiliar with how to do it, but oh, he’s happy to guide you. One of his hands gently cups your neck, the other caresses your cheek and it’s all he can do to keep the kiss chaste and not frighten you by backing you up against the wall of the alleyway and opening his mouth to you. 

When he releases your lips, you chase him–leaning forward with your mouth still pouted and your eyes closed, as though you cannot bear to be parted from him, and it takes a herculean effort not to indulge.

“Come,” Marcus murmurs softly, his thumb tracing back and forth over your cheekbone, watching as you flutter your eyes open and look at him with an expression of such open trust and want that he feels as though he’ll burn from the inside out. “Come, let us go home.”

You are ablaze.

Marcus’s hands seem to burn with heat as he guides you hastily through the palace and to his familiar quarters, but their temperature still seems to pale in comparison to the heat that rises within you. 

Once inside, he kisses you again, and you swear your knees could simply buckle and give out just at the feel of his lips on yours. You crave it again and again; your hands grip at his robes to hold him close to you, hoping he’ll never stop. 

“Sweet girl, little bellatora,” Marcus murmurs, his lips dragging from your mouth across your cheek to the side of your neck and oh, you like that even more–your head falls to the side and your back arches as you all but beg for his lips on your skin again. His hand on your lower back guides you even closer until your bodies are pressing together and you gasp softly at the feeling of his body against yours.

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, his lips grazing the shell of your earlobe and causing a cascade of shivers to course through you. “Tell me that you want this. If you do not, deny me now, and I promise I will never touch you again.”

“No,” you whimper automatically. “No, please don’t stop, just–”

“Shhh, bellatora.” Marcus seems to crumple with relief, leaning forward until your back hits the wall and his lips ravish your neck once again. “I won’t stop, just tell me you want me like this.”

“Yes,” you gasp, as the General’s hands cage your face and his mouth meets yours once again. “Yes, yes, yes–” You repeat the word over and over into his mouth, until he groans softly and parts his lips too, deepening the kiss and tasting you with his tongue.

His hands caress your neck, fingertips running up and down before settling on the clasps on your shoulders. “Let me see you,” he whispers. “Please, let me–”

You pull back, looking in his eyes as you nod slowly, giving him permission. He carefully undoes your dress, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The necklace is still around your neck, and he touches the beads lightly as he stares at the sight before him.

“Oh, Gods…” Marcus murmurs to himself, shaking his head in awe. “What a divine gift you are, bellatora.”

His eyes rake over your breasts, your hips, the swell of your stomach, and the fire burning within threatens to consume you. With one more soft kiss, he whispers, “Come to the bed, so I may worship you properly.”

You let him lead you, keeping your eyes on him as he takes your hands in his and pulls you toward the bed. You are too consumed with flames to feel fear of this moment, but a pang of nervousness thrums within you despite yourself. 

Marcus guides you down until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. You begin to scoot backwards–you might not have much experience, but you know you’re supposed to be lying on the bed–when he stops you, and instead sinks to his knees in front of you. 

“I–” you begin, unsure of what to do.

“I want you to watch,” the General whispers, looking up at you in the same way an acolyte may look up at a temple. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid of spooking you, he guides your legs open until you’re splayed out in front of him. You would be embarrassed, but for the hungry look in his eyes, how his chest seems to heave in anticipation, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips as if he’s about to enjoy a feast.

When he leans forward, his mouth moving toward you, you gasp and stiffen, and he pauses.

“Trust me,” he soothes. “It will feel good, I promise.”

You swallow thickly and relax again, watching as Marcus comes even closer, until he’s able to press a kiss right on–

“Oh,” you whimper softly. 

Emboldened, he angles his mouth against you and licks. The sensation of his tongue through your folds causes you to collapse backwards on your elbows, your head falling back and your eyes closing as you gasp toward the ceiling. 

“Watch,” Marcus reminds you. 

With you half-sprawled on the bed, your legs fall open even further and his hands wind underneath your hips as he pulls you even closer onto his mouth. His tongue, his lips… oh, it’s so decadent; you’ve never felt pleasure like this by your own hand. He thrusts his tongue into you, and you can only whine and babble wordlessly, your eyes wide as you dutifully watch him please you. He alternates between these deep, overwhelming strokes of his tongue and little licks right on the little bundle of nerves above, back and forth, back and forth until your entire body shakes. 

“Exquisite,” Marcus rasps, his voice rough with exertion and pleasure. His lips close around you and he sucks gently, and the fire within you burns until it reaches a crescendo, until finally, you fall.

“Bellatora.” The endearment is laden with affection, and when you slowly blink your eyes open, the General is smiling down at you. “Are you with me, mi bellatora?”

You giggle. “I think so.”

He must have disrobed while your eyes were closed; you stare at his slightly golden chest, at the light dusting of hair and freckles, and further down, where–

Oh, Gods. 

Marcus hangs thick, heavy, and proud, and you swallow in trepidation at the thought of all of that inside you.

“Don't look at that; look at me.” The words are soothing, but tinged with humor, and you can see the mirth sparkling in his eyes when you do as he asks and look at him.

“Let us just lie down together,” he says, smiling. “Nothing more.”

You scoot up until your head rests against the pillows, and Marcus crawls over you with a smirk, pressing little kisses up your body as he goes, until he lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms.

With your back against his chest, you can't exactly forget about the hard length of him, as it's currently pressing insistently against you. You wiggle, arching your back and trying to soothe the empty ache that still seems to reside within you. 

“Feeling greedy, mi bellatora?” 

You whine softly and push back against him harder. His arms are wrapped around you, but somehow, it’s still not enough. You want him everywhere, you need everything. 

“What have you done to me?” you laugh softly. 

“Nothing you have not also done to me,” Marcus murmurs, nipping your shoulder playfully. 

“I have done nothing,” you say airily, leaning further back into his embrace.

“Oh, you have,” he growls. “You have invaded my quarters–”

“That is hardly my doing–”

“–and shortly after, invaded my heart,” Marcus continues, ignoring your interruption. “You have made me crave as I never have before.”

“You have made me feel the same,” you whisper. “I have never… felt anything like this before.”

“Mi bellatora,” he breathes against your skin, sending shivers up and down your spine.

“Do not be cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“You are denying me.”

At your playful accusation, Marcus suddenly shifts, rising up from beside you and pinning you to the bed with his body. “And it is taking the effort of every bone in my body, more challenging than all twelve labors of Hercules.”

“Then stop,” you tell him softly, reaching up to palm his cheek. “Stop denying us what we both want.”

Rather than answer, the General lowers his mouth to yours. 

Kissing might be your new favorite thing–you thought the feel of Marcus’s lips was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt when he kissed you in the alleyway, but here, in his bed, with the weight of his body pressing deliciously down on you, his kisses feel even more profound. His hips roll gently against you, and you instinctively wrap one leg around his thigh to try and relieve your desire for more friction. 

The action causes Marcus to groan and bury his face in your neck, his light beard scraping against your skin. Your hips cant upward unconsciously, and the skin of his cock catches and rubs against your folds. 

With a little moan, you press against him harder, wanting more, more–

“Bellatora,” Marcus groans. He props himself on one elbow over you, spits on the other hand and rubs the wetness onto the head of his cock. He repeats the motion again, and then gently rubs the remainder onto you, making you arch back with a surprised gasp. 

“I know, I know,” he murmurs. “It’ll be easier like this.”

He lines up the thick head of him with your entrance and pushes the tip in ever so slightly. Your eyes widen as you feel him, your mouth falling open as you stare up at him in awe.

“That’s it, just look at me,” Marcus murmurs. “Just keep looking at me.”

His face is so close to yours that your breaths mingle as he slowly slides in. You expect it to hurt, but you’re so soaked from his earlier attentions that it’s almost easy for him, at first. When he’s only about halfway in, though, you start to feel unbearably full–too full–and it makes you whimper softly and squirm against him.

“Breathe for me,” Marcus reminds you. “Breathe, mi bellatora.”

In between more kisses and soft praises, he pushes forward, bit by bit, until you can feel his body fully pressing against your core.

“Oh,” you whisper, smiling shakily. “I can feel you.”

Marcus chuckles. “And I, you.”

He stays just there, unmoving, stroking your face, until you begin to squirm with impatience again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bellatora,” he says softly. “Please, love, tell me if I do.”

You nod, wide-eyed and enraptured by the feeling of being utterly filled. With one last gently kiss to your cheekbone, Marcus carefully begins to move. His cock drags slowly back and forth against your walls, and each time he buries himself to the hilt once again, it sends sparks of pleasure all over your body.

Your exhales turn high and breathy, little whimpers and gasps escaping every time Marcus reaches the end of you. You cling to his shoulders, the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his curls, eliciting a deep groan and a change in the rhythm of his thrusts as he gains confidence that you aren’t in any pain. 

The faster Marcus’s hips move, the more it seems to send you into a frenzy. Your legs wrap around his hips and your grip on his upper body tightens as the fire within you starts to build again. 

Your lips seek any available skin they can find, pressing open-mouthed against his jaw, his neck, his upper arm, anywhere you can reach. One of Marcus’s hands gently cups the back of your neck for leverage as he grinds against you; the other wanders up and down your body–gripping your hip, squeezing your breast and pressing his thumb against your nipple, stroking your cheek as he kisses you again and again. 

His kisses become more and more messy and frenetic as he loses himself in the pleasure of your body. He pants softly, his voice catching on every exhale, quiet little noises deep in his throat that only you can hear. 

Your bodies move seamlessly together, aided by the light sheen of sweat that beads on your skin. Marcus hand slips in between you, his fingers finding the little bundle of nerves and gently rubbing circles into the skin there.

“Oh, I–I–” you whimper brokenly, drunk on the sensations of pleasure that he’s pulling from your body. “M-Ma–” 

“Say it,” he rasps in your ear. “Please, bellatora.”

“Marcus,” you manage to gasp. 

“Again.”

“M-Marcus, Marcus, oh Gods, I–” 

Your body arches off the bed as the strongest wave of pleasure you’ve ever felt courses through you. You convulse against him, hands scrabbling for a hold on his broad shoulders, gripping him for dear life as though he is the only thing keeping you from being pulled under by the waves. 

Your cries reach a crescendo and Marcus gives you everything–his hips snapping roughly against you as your core continues to flutter weakly. Finally, when your body feels boneless and the fullness of him begins to ache, his thrusts falter and he finally stills, his cock twitching inside of you as he finishes. 

He slips out, frowning slightly with concern when you wince, but continues to hover over you, his eyes sweeping over your face as your breathing slows and your heart quietens. He stays there, stroking your hair and kissing you until his shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding himself over you. 

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm in Marcus’s arms.

[Several moons later]

“Must we really go?” you wheedle as you watch the General fiddle with the clasp on his ceremonial robes.

“It is the most effective way to make our little statement, bellatora.” 

You cross your arms and make a show of pouting, although you know Marcus is right. You raise your arms, which are currently holding half of an unfinished braid. “Help me with my hair?” 

Marcus sighs loudly, although you know that, like your feigned petulance, it’s also an act. He takes the braid from you and finishes it before moving to the next section, plaiting it together the way he knows you like. 

“Tell me the statement again.”

He huffs. “You just like hearing me say it.”

“Yes.”

“An act against one of us is an act against both of us,” he murmurs dutifully. “And tantamount to an act of war, to be met with a swift and disproportionate response.”

“You always say that–‘disproportionate response.’ I do not understand what you mean by it.”

“Mmm. An opposing force sends one arrow into my army, I send one back. Proportionate response. Someone sends an arrow into my army, and I reign fire from the sky, burn every building to the ground, kill every citizen and remove them from every map. Disproportionate response.” Marcus finishes your hair and gently drapes the long braid over your shoulder.

“If ever you ask why I was scared of you when first we met, I will refer to you to that statement,” you say wryly. 

“You did ask, mi bellatora.” He picks up a belt and scabbard–similar to his, but smaller, more delicate, and ornate. He fastens it around your waist, cinching your dress and making you feel not only more alluring, but powerful. 

You do a little twirl and turn to him. “Do I look like the consort of an esteemed General?”

Marcus leans in and gently captures your lips with his. “You look like so much more. Now let us go into this den of wolves.”

With your head held high, you walk proudly through the halls at the General’s side, your hand tucked neatly against the crook of his elbow, until you reach the banquet hall, where the Emperor is holding a great feast. In your wildest imagination, you cannot think of a single place you want to avoid more, but you hold Marcus’s earlier promise in your mind as the heads turn to look at your entrance.

This is the last time.

The Emperor, surrounded by his entourage, raises his glass with a shout and a laugh as he sees the two of you. “The good General,” he grins wolfishly. 

“Taking his little plaything out for a walk,” one of the other men sneer. 

“Letting his little pet out of its cage,” adds another, snickering. 

Calmly, you unsheath the beautiful, ceremonial dagger that Marcus had given you as a gift and hold it at your side, just as he’d told you. A powerful warrior does not brandish their weapon or wave it under people’s noses, he had said. A powerful warrior does not need to. They simply remind their enemies that the weapon is there.

“You disrespect me,” you say, keeping your face even and your eyes stern. “And you disrespect my husband.”

Silence falls around the room. The Emperor’s men look at each other, to Marcus, and back to you again, unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them laughs loudly.

“General Acacius is going soft,” he cackles. “Letting his little toy play pretend that she’s the wife of a noble.”

You fight to keep your expression free of malice or hurt, continuing to face them down calmly, your sword resting at your side. 

“Your gift to the General was far more valuable than you knew,” you say evenly, speaking only to the Emperor. “My family’s debt is paid in full, and I am therefore free to leave the palace at my leisure.”

The Emperor of Rome stares at you with befuddlement, his eyes wide, seemingly completely at a loss for words.

“We take our leave,” you announce with a flourish of a bow. 

“Leave?” The man sputters. “You are my finest General, you cannot–”

“I have given the Empire more than my fair share of years in service,” Marcus says quietly, standing resolutely next to you and placing his hand around your waist. “I find I have seen all I care to see of war, and the rest of my days will be filled with peace.”

Marcus turns to the other generals, who are all watching the confrontation with the Emperor. Without speaking, they draw their swords and hold them aloft in a silent salute to your husband–who solemnly returns the gesture. As you are still holding your dagger, you copy the gesture. This seems to please both him and the other Generals, who all smile. 

Marcus turns to you, beaming with affection and pride. “Let’s go home, bellatora.”

Epilogue

In a small hamlet south of the big city, a villa sits on a small hill overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. 

There is a rumor among some of the residents of the town that the man who lives there used to be a General in the Emperor’s army, but most of the inhabitants agree that this is a ridiculous notion. 

He’s too soft-spoken, you see; his gentle demeanor is unlike that of a soldier. He often likes to sit with his wife and watch the color of the sea change as the sun rises in the morning, savoring the moment of peace before his children wake up. 

There are five of them now–with a sixth on the way. His wife jokes that should she find herself with child for the seventh time, she’s going to feed the man’s privates to their goats. 

Their life is modest, but by all accounts of those who witness it, they are blissfully happy. Their home always seems to be filled with joy, laughter, and no small amount of chaos that always follows young children. They maintain a small farm, raise goats and chickens, and they sell their extra eggs and vegetables at the market every week, accompanied by their five children, who are helpful… to varying degrees.  

Sometimes, late at night, the odd passer-by will see the silhouette of a couple standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea, wrapped in a tender embrace.

They have few visitors, but those who have been inside their villa have noted that two swords are mounted above the front door. One is large, utilitarian, but expertly crafted–with signs of wear that might indicate it has seen more conflict than most. The other is small and elegant, the hilt decorated with precious stones. 

No one has ever dared to ask about them.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Eighteen

Series Masterlist

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The factory isn’t quiet, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s slipping into late afternoon and the sun’s already disappeared, casting long shadows across the mezzanine and throwing the aluminum banisters into soft relief. Most of the lights on the engineering floor are set to low power, but the glow of monitors still pulses behind frosted glass walls- slim bands of white-blue cutting through the dim like runway lights.

You walk slowly, tin tucked under one arm, the lid clinking gently against the edge with every step. There are only a few people still in, mostly aero guys- half-tired, half-hyper- working out final tweaks on next year’s car. The RB19 diagrams have been pinned up to the forefront of the workshop like some sacred relic. Everyone's itching for January. When the calendar flips, wind tunnel time restarts from period 6 to period 1, and this becomes a body. A beast.

You pass by Alessandro’s desk and pause.

He’s still there, hunched over a rendering, thumb pressed into the edge of his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping his skull upright. He doesn’t look up at first- just keeps scrolling, scrolling, the muscles in his jaw twitching subtly.

You knock lightly on the frame of the partition with your knuckle. “You’ll go cross-eyed.”

He glances up, startled- then softens. “You’re still here?”

You just shrug and lift the tin slightly. “I live here- what’s your excuse?”

That earns a faint smirk. “Trapped by love,” he mutters, gesturing lazily toward the screen. “Or masochism. Jury’s out.”

You step into the space and perch on the edge of his desk, knees barely brushing the underside of a pile of CAD printouts. You set the tin down between you and flick the latch open with your thumb.

The smell hits instantly- warm vanilla, browned butter, something like toasted sugar. Familiar. Comforting.

Alessandro tilts his head. “What’s this?”

“Cookies,” you say simply, nudging the tin his way. “Holiday tradition. Heart failure. Family recipe.”

He raises a skeptical brow but selects one anyway, carefully avoiding the ones with slightly cracked edges like it matters. He takes a bite. Chews once. Stops. And then- “Holy shit,” he says around a mouthful, sitting back like the chair suddenly reclined. “You made these? In our kitchen?” You nod. “They’re- ” He holds the half-eaten cookie up like it’s evidence. “They’re perfect.”

You grin. “My talents are many.” 

He chuckles- low and genuine- and shifts his chair slightly to the side, angling toward you like this is just... normal. Like this is what people do on Christmas Eve. Talk. Share sugar. Pretend the world doesn’t feel quite so hollow without family in it.

Alessandro leans back in his chair, still chewing the last bite of cookie like it might buy him time to phrase the question gently. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, then eyes you sideways- not unkind, just curious.

“So,” he says, voice low, easy, “you’re really not doing anything tonight?”

You shrug, careful with the motion. “Not tonight, no.”

You mean it to sound casual. Light. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this- perched on the corner of a desk, surrounded by aero renderings and wiring diagrams, wearing two-day-old mascara and passing out cookies like a Girl Scout- is exactly what you had planned all along.

And maybe it is. In a way.

“But,” you continue, tapping the edge of the cookie tin with one nail, “Gavin’s picking me up tomorrow. Christmas dinner with his family.”

Alessandro’s expression flickers- surprise, then something warmer. “No shit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m going to help pack up their place afterward, too.”

He frowns. “Pack up?”

Oh. He hadn’t heard yet. “They’re moving,” you say, smile tugging at your lips now, this time real. “Got the job. Officially. My race engineer next season.”

Alessandro lets out a low whistle, mouth parting. “Damn.” He shakes his head, impressed. “Good for him.”

“Good for me,” you correct. “I get to drag someone I actually like with me to Faenza.”

That part’s true, and easy to say. You are over the moon. Having Gavin- brilliant, intuitive, work-himself-to-the-bone Gavin- by your side next year is the first thing that’s made this whole F1 seat feel remotely survivable. He’s the one who came sprinting across the paddock at Zaandvoort like his life depended on it to make sure you got a second shot in the car last season. It’s not just comforting. It’s foundational. Like maybe you won’t have to claw your way through every corner of the paddock alone anymore.

But even now, even saying it, something flickers under your ribs.  “I’m really lucky,” you add. Quietly. Like you’re trying to remind yourself.

And you are. You know that. You have a contract. You have plans for Christmas. Either is more than a lot of people get. Being wanted, welcomed, at someone’s table, even if you’ve never been there before.

It’s not nothing.

But it’s not home.

And now, with Alessandro looking at you like he’s not buying the cool-girl act you’ve been wearing all day, something small unravels. Just a little. He laughs under his breath, then quiets. “Still. Kind of a bummer, isn’t it? Spending Christmas Eve here?”

You pause. Look down at your hand, where your thumb is still idly rubbing at the side of the tupperware.  Then you shrug again, like it’s nothing. “It’s fine. I like it here.” And you do. Mostly.

You like the quiet. The familiar hum of the engineering bay. The ghost of adrenaline soaked into every hallway and blueprint. You like the feeling of proximity to something important. You even like the way the factory floor smells like machine oil and ozone from the welder and burnt rubber.

But underneath that- underneath the thin shell of practical gratitude and easy deflection- is the ache.

The kind that sits behind your ribs and presses in when the day winds down and there’s nothing left to distract you. When you’re not watching sector deltas or coordinating logistics or elbow-deep in data. When you remember what this night usually is.

And now?

Now there’s a cookie tin. A paper napkin. And Alessandro, kind and warm and here- but not family. Not staying. You press your palms against the edge of the desk and tilt your head, offering him an easy smile. “Tomorrow’ll be good. I’m excited.” 

And you are. Just not for tonight. You’re not going to cry about it.

It’s just Christmas, afterall.

Alessandro finishes the last bite of his cookie with a satisfied hum, then glances at the time. Something about the look makes your stomach drop a little, like you already know what he’s going to say.

He closes his laptop with a soft snap, tucks it away into his bag, and begins the quiet ritual of shutting down for the night. His coat goes on. His scarf. The leftover coffee in his mug is dumped unceremoniously into the trash can. You stay perched on the edge of his desk, still loosely holding the cookie tin, still pretending- successfully or not- that this doesn’t feel like something ending.

He pauses once everything’s packed and looks at you with that slight tilt of his head, the way these geeky types sometimes do when they’re not quite sure how to be kind without making it awkward.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, not patronizing.

You offer him your best smile- it’s not quite real but it’s good enough to fool people who don’t know you very well. “Yeah. ‘Course. Tell your wife I said merry Christmas.”

He raises a hand in a lazy wave as he heads toward the side door. “Wish me luck with the monster-in-laws.”

And then he’s gone.

Just… gone.

The door clicks closed and the space feels louder in the absence of his presence. You shift your weight, still sitting on the desk like maybe if you just don’t move, you won’t have to feel the silence creeping in.

Eventually, you slide off and make your way back into the corridor. The lighting is softer now- half the overheads switched off, casting everything in a faint, dusky amber. You find one of the composite techs by the copy machine- Kai, maybe? You think that’s his name. You’ve seen him around the floor, always head down, always polite. You offer him a cookie wordlessly, and he blinks at you, surprised, before murmuring a thank you and retreating to whatever last task he’s wrapping up. No conversation. No warmth. Just transactional.

One more person gone a few minutes later.

In the fabrication area, someone’s still fiddling with a mounting bracket. You don’t recognize his name, but you recognize the stress in his shoulders. You drop two cookies on the corner of his worktable as you pass and keep walking before he can say thank you.

You’re halfway back to the lobby before you realize you’re walking slower than before. Like every step closer to being alone is something heavy dragging behind you. A weight in your heart, not your body.

The factory is thinning. You hear it in the way your sneakers echo more now. Feel it in the way every automatic door you pass slides open with a sound that seems louder than it should. No phones, no chatter, no coffee machines to take the edge off the silence.

It’s Christmas Eve, and all around you, the walls feel like they’re expanding- one more person leaving, one more laugh fading, one more emotional mile placed between you and a house full of people yelling over each other to pass the gravy.

You imagine the noise. The chaos. The messy kitchen with five different casseroles warming. Someone defending the cookie tray from kids and husbands up to no good. The lights too low. The music too high. The fireplace screaming, the stove overworked, and the windows fogged.

Your mom’s garish wrapping paper. Your brother’s Christmas Coffee that will get you fucked up in a hurry. The smell of cloves and cinnamon and a brisket smoked for a half-day. Someone yelling from the porch that the dogs are in the garbage. Your dad yelling that it definitely isn’t his dog (it is, God bless you, Chili.) A kitchen too full. A living room too loud. A chair saved for you, even when you were halfway across the country.

Maybe they saved you one tonight. The thought kills you.

Upstairs, the dorm hallway is empty- just the low hum of the lights and the leftover smell from your cookies wafting from the communal kitchen. You shoulder your dorm door open with more force than needed, half out of habit, half out of wanting something to resist. Something tangible to shove this feeling into.

Twenty-two Chrismas Eve’s you’ve lived through- all loud, some with family arguments that got a little too personal, one in Florida, some you were too young to remember. But you’re certain you’ve never wanted one to be over so badly. One where you crawl into bed at -you check the time on your phone- 5:13 P.M. and pull the covers over your head and pray you sleep twelve hours through. 

But there’s this little part of you- this nagging, stubborn part- that begs you to see it the whole way through. To do Christmas, even if it’s not doing you. Fuck this. You’re drinking. At the very least it’ll get you to sleep faster. You kick off your sneakers and move straight for the bed, crouching low to dig out the half-case of Cab Sauvs from home. Your mom had shipped them out the week after Thanksgiving, and they had only arrived last week.

Six bottles. A folded note still tucked inside the flaps, her handwriting looping like a ribbon:

“Figured you might want a little something to make it feel like home. We miss you. Love you, Sweetpea.” – Mom & Dad

You take them out one by one, lining them up along the narrow desk in a little private ritual.

14 Hands. A classic. Everyone in the state drinks it- restaurants, weddings, PTA fundraisers. A good workhorse bottle. Then Chateau St. Michelle - solid, if a bit over-represented. Your mom probably snagged both at Costco for 10 bucks a pop. Good filler bottles. Good “drinking by myself, but it’s not a special occasion” bottles. Nice.

Then a Prosser one, a boutique label you’ve never seen with a hand-drawn label of a painted hillside. You hold it for a moment longer. She must’ve asked someone at the shop for a recommendation. Or guessed. Either way, it’s hopeful.

Next, the hometown wine. Not the best, not by far. But it’s close to the house. You’ve driven past it a hundred times on your way to the feed store or the river. It smells like 21st birthdays and tastes like sneaking a bottle from the house for a 4th of July bonfire. Objectively, terrible. Emotionally, like nostalgia. God, was she trying to make you cry? You move on from it before you can let anything serious take the shape of homesickness. 

And then- the Walla Walla wines. The good shit. Just two. One of them your favorite: a Dunham- deep, heavy, rich with pepper and cedar and something you can never quite name but always know. Your mom never forgets it. It’s the “if she’s having a bad day, open this” bottle. The “she’s on the podium, open this” bottle. The one she keeps on hand for you like some people keep Tylenol.

The last one is another gamble- something she thought you’d like. You probably will. You always do. Her success rate with you is almost alarmingly high.

You arrange them again in order of importance: not by quality, but by comfort. St Michelle on one end, the Dunham on the other. You let yourself sit back on your heels and stare at the row for a long moment. There’s no label that fixes the tight knot behind your breastbone. No vintage that unravels the part of you that wants to be home so badly it hurts. But it helps. A little. Enough.

You don’t let yourself linger in the silence too long. You follow the plan.

The plan you made last week, when it became obvious that no miracle was coming. No last-minute sponsor ticket, no discounted standby flight, no flash of divine intervention that would land you in your mother’s too-warm kitchen, being bullied into a third helping of sweet potato casserole.

You reach for your phone and call the pizza place down the road. It’s a little joint with a crispy crust you like, and they’re still open another three hours. You order a plain cheese- because if it’s going to be a sad Christmas, it might as well be consistent.

And then, you change. If nobody’s going to be around, you might as well dress for it.

You slide another bin out from under the bed, one hand already pulling your ponytail loose as you kneel down. Inside is your usual mess of comfort clothes. You dig through layers of leggings and old Dale Coyne joggers that you’d love to burn if they hadn’t splurged on Nike Pros- pushing past anything too thin or too new. You want something sturdy, but broken in. Soft. Comforting.

Your hand lands on a familiar gray fabric, and you freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough to decide they’re perfect.

You tug the sweatpants free from the bottom of the pile. They’re oversized, stupidly soft, and the lettering down the leg is cracked in the way only a thousand wash cycles can manage- Puerta Performance. You step into them without ceremony, pull them up over your hips. They’re long in the legs and slouch low at your waist, like they were made for someone nearly a foot taller who needed room for balls. They were. 

The fact that they’re not technically yours- that they used to belong to your first boyfriend, Dominic- isn’t something you dwell on. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. You’re still on good terms. Still text. Still sent as many Indy tickets as you could everytime the circus came to town. You don’t think about it too hard. They’ve been your go-to forever. Lived in every closet you’ve had since before Indy, before Japan, before Florida.

The first time you wore them was just after the worst night of your life. Pulled out of a drawer, carefully slid up each leg in a part of his family’s motorhome you had never been allowed to see, a quiet ‘lo siento’ whispered every time you flinched. Wrapped up like giving you the thickest pair of sweats he owned might fix it, somehow. Like clean fabric might make you forget the feeling of someone else’s blood on your firesuit. Might make you forget about cigarettes and police reports and county jails. Might keep you soft. 

It didn’t.

But you didn’t give them back, and he never asked. Not when you wore them on the plane to Florida. Not when you shared pits and podiums and pizza binges. Not when you lived four steps away and shared the same laundry room. Not when you rolled them into the bottom of your bag for Japan and even if it hadn’t been said- he wasn’t going to see them again. He knew it. You knew it. But you were nineteen and a coward.

And racing doesn’t wait for you to grow up and be brave.

You grab a tank top from the back of your chair and pull it on, soft cotton clinging to your skin. Shrug on a zip-up a sponsor gave you that surely costs more than anything you’ve bought for yourself in awhile. 

Welp.

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re dressed like a college student home for break, and the pizza place is still open for another few hours. That’s enough. It has to be, because it’s the best you’ve got. So you pocket your phone, your badge, and pick a bottle of wine.

The one from Prosser.

The Costco bottles don’t feel weighty enough. No doubt drinking a gas-station wine on the floor of your dorm would sum up your misery nicely, but it also feels like wallowing- like you’re trying to be miserable- and you don’t have the energy to be performative about it. You’re not wasting your favorite bottle, either. And the neighbor’s wine- the one from home, the one that tastes like dusk on the back porch and hobby races and post-branding bonfires- might make you cry.

Prosser it is.

The bottle dangles between your fingers, heavy, weighty, right as you descend the stairs and rummage through the break room for a corkscrew. There should be one in here. Surely. The factory hosts enough hushed dinners and churns out enough functioning alcoholics that surely- empty drawer. Empty drawer. Drawer of pens. Spoons. Forks. Random cables and wire nuts (?). Empty drawer. Carving knives. 

You sigh. There’s probably one in storage upstairs, where they keep the linens and cups and knives and all the shiny shit they put out when a sponsor is here, but you’re not doing a lap around the factory. Fuck that. 

You open the cable drawer and root around for the loose screw you spotted in your survey.  No screwdriver. But you've got good grip strength and ran out of fucks to give about a week and half ago. You brace the bottle between your knees and twist it in. One turn. Two. You grind your palm against the screw until the threads disappear and the cork bulges slightly under the strain. Then, carefully- deliberately- you press the heel of your hand down, popping the cork inward with a quiet thup and watch it disappear straight into the red under the added weight of the screw.

That’ll do nicely.

You lift the bottle before you even make it back into the lobby, tilt it, and take a sip straight from the neck. Just a taste.

The wine hits your tongue full-bodied, dark, and velvety. Rich with tannin. A little dry, but not sharp. There’s something peppery at the back- almost smoky- and a soft heat that lingers just long enough to make you want more. Fuck, that’s good. Your mom did good work. Of course she did.

You exhale through your nose, swallow once more for good measure, then set the bottle down on Nicole’s place at the front desk. You hover a moment, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Considering. The wine is good. Too good. Dangerous, even. It’s the kind that invites you to slide down the neck of the bottle without ever looking back- rich enough to pretend it’s dinner.

You take another sip.

Just one more.

You make a soft, involuntary noise- half sigh, half moan- and let the bottle tip back onto the counter with a gentle clink. Your mouth feels warm. Your chest, a little warmer. And for a second, you honestly consider it.

Fuck dinner.

The place is empty. The lighting’s dim. You could curl up in a pleather armchair, work your way through half the bottle, and let the quiet hum of the security system lull you into pretending this lobby is a living room. Pretend you’re not alone. That it’s not Christmas Eve. That the warmth in your stomach is joy, not just cabernet.

You are one- one- minor lapse in executive function away from sitting cross-legged in this sad little lobby, sipping on an empty stomach like a divorced woman on the worst Hallmark set ever built. And honestly? That doesn't sound awful.

You reach for the bottle again. Pause.

“No,” you mutter aloud, like you need to hear it to make it real. “Food first. Be a grown-up.”

You’re not sure whose voice you’re trying to channel, exactly. Maybe your mom. Maybe Gavin. Maybe your own better judgment, wherever she is these days. You drag your hand down your face, give yourself a little shake, and force a deep breath.

“It’ll be even better if I let it breathe,” you reason, already edging toward the door. “Tannin, air, science. All that shit. And I can drink more if I eat first.”

You tug your zip-up tighter, tuck your chin against the collar, and try to make yourself laugh at how pathetic this is. Your big Christmas Eve plan: wine, pizza, and… you open the drawer in the middle of the desk, suddenly remembering- oh, yeah. Coloring sheets. Wine, pizza, and coloring sheets stolen from the reception desk. Hell yeah. Real grown-up hours.

You pull out a stack of them, set them next to your bottle, and make a little stop motion with your hand like ‘stay’ as you back away. Like it all might just grow legs and leave you for Christmas Eve dinner like everyone else did tonight.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you tell it. Then you spin on your heel, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, and head for the door before you change your mind. The automatic doors part with a mechanical hiss, and you step out into the damp, too-warm December night.

Your shoes slap against the wet sidewalk as you cut through the parking lot, hands buried in your jacket pockets, head ducked low like you’re bracing for wind that never comes.

It’s only a five-minute walk, one you’ve done before, but tonight it feels quieter. More hollow. The only sound is the low hum of streetlights and your own footsteps, the distant thrum of tires passing over wet asphalt somewhere beyond the fence.

The pizza shop glows ahead- neon sign flickering a little above the front window, half-lit garlands limp against the glass. The bell over the door jingles when you step inside, startling you just a bit with how loud it sounds in the dead air.

Ghost town.

There are only two people here: a guy in the back by the oven, moving like he’s got music in his ears, and the kid up front- barely more than a teenager, all limbs and nerves, standing behind the counter like he just got hit by a freight train. His eyes go wide the second he sees you, mouth parting just enough to forget what it was doing before.

You clock it immediately. That locked-in, eyes-wide look. The nervous dart to your face, then away again, like he’s seen a ghost- or worse, recognized someone famous. Your stomach drops. 

Fuck. Fuck, no. Not tonight.

But the onlny way out is through, so you pull your wallet from your pocket, step up to the counter. "Can I get a small cheese?"

There’s a beat of silence. Then- “Uh. Yeah. Yep. Of course. Totally.” He types one letter at a time, like you’re going to combust if he presses too fast. His eyes flick to your face, then to your collarbones, then- oh. Yeah.

It hits you mid-breath. Not recognition. He just thinks you’re hot.

You glance down and suddenly see it through his eyes. The tank top clinging like skin. The zipper of your jacket parted just enough to frame your bare collarbones. The waistband of your sweats slouching too low, the hem of your tank just high enough to flash your belly button if you shift wrong.

Jesus. He’s not a fan. He’s a teenage boy with a brain hardwired for boners. And somehow, hilariously, you’re not even annoyed. Not really. You fold your arms across your middle, lean your hip into the counter, and smile just enough to be polite. His ears go pink.

Bless his heart. Poor baby.

You slide your card across the counter. “Takeaway, please.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, right,” he says, like he forgot you ordered anything at all. “The cheese.”

You raise an eyebrow as he slides the receipt toward you, still avoiding eye contact.

You sit, drop onto the hard bench by the window, stretching your legs out with a casual sprawl. The kind that says yes, I know you're looking. He lingers by the counter, pretending to check something on the till. Then straightens up, clears his throat like he’s winding up for a high dive. “So... you’re, um. American, yeah?” You glance up. He flushes immediately. Face and neck. Like you just caught him naked. “I just- the accent and all that-”

“Yeah,” you say. You could help him out a little. Throw him a bone, a detail. A story. But why, when he’s doing such a good job of chewing on his own foot already? 

“Oh. Cool. That’s- cool.”

You let the silence stretch long enough that he fidgets, then fold your arms loosely over your stomach. Honestly, it’s sweet. He’s trying. Not in a creepy way. Just in that innocent, starry-eyed, holy-shit kind of way. It’s been a while since someone spoke to you without knowing who you are. Without a camera in their hand. Without an angle.

He shifts from foot to foot. “You here on holiday, or- ?”

“I live here,” you say, gently. “Work brought me over.”

“Oh. Right. That’s cool.” He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek. “Do you like it?”

You hum. “Sometimes.”

Another beat. He glances toward the back- his coworker still hasn’t come out. He wets his lips. "It’s just that- uh, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but… just didn’t expect someone like you to walk in tonight.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Someone like me?”

He makes a strangled sound. “No- I mean- I just meant- uh, you look really- ” He aborts the sentence entirely.

You smile. Warm. Kind. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

He exhales, visibly relieved. “Right. Cool.” You go back to staring out the window, hiding your grin behind a hand. Poor kid. 

The oven guy finally notices the hold-up at the counter and ambles up, one earbud still in, balancing your pizza box on his palm like it’s piping hot treasure. He doesn’t even look at the kid- just thrusts the box forward and deadpans, “Cheese to go.” The kid takes it with all the coordination of someone handed a live grenade.

And then the older guy’s eyes land on you. There’s a pause. A flick of recognition, maybe. His brow furrows, and he pops the earbud out like he’s going to ask- Are you- ?

But you’re faster. Not hurried, just precise. “Thanks. Happy Christmas,” you say smoothly, plucking the box from the teenager with a sly little grin- one that tugs at the corner of your mouth like you’re in on the best kind of secret.

The man’s mouth opens, a syllable dangling on the edge. You’re already pushing the door open. The bell above jingles again.

Gone.

You’re halfway down the block before you let the smile unfurl into something wider, nearly a laugh as the warmth of it creeps into your shoulders, makes you walk a little taller. There’s a buzz in your veins that has nothing to do with wine or sugar. It’s the kind of hit you’ve always chased, even off-track- leaving people stunned. Scrambling. Remembering.

You don’t necessarily love people knowing who you are all the time. It’s happening more and more. You do, however, love being unforgettable. And they don’t need to know your name for that kid to go back to class after the holidays and brag about the hot older girl that came in on Christmas Eve and totally, trust me bro, definitely, was flirting with him. They don’t need to know your name to be the “Hey, remember that one girl?”

You press your hand flat against the warm cardboard, your dinner tucked under your arm, and grin like you’ve just stolen something. You’re still alone. But you’ve got a pizza, a bottle of wine, and a little giggle out of tonight. That’s one more thing than you planned on getting, and at least your mom won’t kick your ass for drinking before dinner. 

__________________________________________________________________

You’re halfway through your pizza, the crust gone soft in its own warmth, the grease shining faintly. Your wine glass sits nearby- half full now, smudged at the rim, little legs of cabernet curling down the sides like the memory of movement. The Prosser bottle rests where you left it, screw still sunk inside, cork bobbing like a ghost ship on deep red seas.

And you? Well, you made a plan. You’re sticking to it. You’re coloring.

Spa-Francorchamps, lines clean and sharp across printer paper, spread flat in front of you. You’ve got your elbows on the table, one foot tucked beneath you, the other bouncing gently to the quiet rhythm in your head. A green crayon- because apparently that’s what you decided La Source should be- is pinched lightly between your fingers. Absentminded. Almost dreamy.

You don’t really know why you picked Spa. Maybe because it was the first time it felt real. Not just racing- Formula 1. Your name on the time board, not as a curiosity or a backup, but as a driver. Maybe that’s why.

Or maybe you just liked the way the lines curved. Spa always felt like a track someone painted by hand. A little mythical. A little special, even back when you were running it on an Xbox wheel on Forza.

You exhale slow, the kind of breath that rolls out in waves when your chest has been too tight for too long. Days, at least, you think. Maybe weeks, maybe years, but what does it matter. You’re a little warm with wine. You’d shed the jacket a while ago- got too warm, too relaxed to care about anything but comfort.

It’s okay. It’s not home. Not the Christmas Eve you grew up on- no mess of cousins, no arguments over who gets the biggest piece of dark meat, no dogs begging for scraps. The lights in the factory lobby are soft, glowing just enough to keep the dark at bay, and outside the windows it’s still too warm, still too cloudy. No snow. No magic.

But there’s something here. Full belly. Soft buzz. Familiar colors filling familiar corners of a track you once tamed. Will get to tame again. You’re not happy. But you are okay. You tell it to yourself everytime you start losing focus on your sheet- start getting sad. This is okay. I’m okay.

The television on the far wall glows quietly, casting flashes of old race footage across the lobby tiles. It’s a rerun- Sebastian Vettel, 2012, Brazil. One of your favorites. You’d pulled it up an hour ago, more for company than focus. You haven’t been watching closely. The glass in your hand is far more interesting, its wine dark and full-bodied, swirling slightly each time you lift it. But even half-listening, you know exactly where he is in the race. The crash. The comeback. The wet track and that championship point hanging by a thread.

It’s not an underdog story, not really. He was always going to win. But it’s still a good story. Great driving. A little desperate, a little reckless, a little real. You like that. Under the feed, the place hums with a soft, sleepy quiet- the kind that only settles over spaces meant for chaos, now still. A little comforting. A little unnerving, like an empty school.  Which is why, in retrospect- despite all of your wallowing and wishing for someone to talk to- your reaction to the sound of the side door opening is panic.

Crayon-clenching, stomach-dropping panic. Because who the fuck is clocking into work at 8:48 P.M. on Christmas Eve? The sound itself isn’t loud or startling- just the gentle hiss of hydraulics and a soft metallic click as the latch catches- but it might as well be a fucking gunshot for the way it spikes your pulse.

You hold your breath. Your mind starts cataloging possibilities. Engineer? Cleaning staff? Maybe someone forgot a phone, a wallet, something dumb and harmless. You want it to be that. You need it to be that. But there’s a steady pace to the walk- unhurried, deliberate- and that feels… wrong. Like whoever it is isn’t in a hurry. Or confused. Or looking. Like they know where they’re going, and it’s not to the lab or the offices or the factory floor.

They’re coming here. 

Shit.

Your body stays still- but something deep in your chest begins to thrash. Your wine glass is half-full and far from reach. The pizza box is open. The TV is still playing. There’s no chance in hell this place looks empty now. You’ve left a breadcrumb trail of you across every surface- the crayons, the jacket slung over the chair, the bottle open beside your glass. It’s clear someone’s here. Someone walking in wouldn’t even have to look twice. They’d know.

You set your crayon down. Gently. Quietly. Stand. Not fast. Not loud. But steady. Deliberate. The kind of movement that says you will not be caught sitting down if this goes sideways. The muscles in your thighs brace like you're waiting for lights out, your spine tense, jaw locked. You angle your body halfway toward the hallway, halfway toward the front doors. Measuring. Calculating.

The lobby feels different now- smaller, tighter. All the soft comforts from a few minutes ago now sharpened into weak points. You clock the exits, your options. The stairs up to your room are a no-go. Nowhere to go from there. A trap. The other hallway is a blind corner. You don’t like blind corners. The main doors are just behind you- locked from the outside, but open from inside- your best plan if you need it. You’ve been running sprints like a madman for two months. You like your odds in a race more than a fight. 

Because you’re alone. And not in the “I miss my family and it’s Christmas,” way that had you feeling sorry for yourself two breaths ago. You’re alone in the way a girl is when it’s dark and quiet and shadows are moving and sounds are growing too long and there is nobody to hear you. 

And not just alone. Not just a girl by herself. You’re a girl by herself with a press badge, a Wikipedia page, and a face that’s been plastered across TikTok and tabloid thumbnails since Spa. Your stomach twists. Not with fear, not exactly. Just that primal unease. That tiny ripple in your gut that whispers you might not be safe. Not yet. Not until you know.

The footsteps pause. Start again. Louder now. Closer. You flick your eyes toward the hallway entrance just as a shadow rounds the corner- broad, familiar.

Fuck. Of course.You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how. Of fucking course. You’d recognize that bastard’s walk anywhere. But even still- just before he comes into full view- your heart’s still kicking against your ribs like maybe, maybe, this is someone else. Maybe this is a stranger. A threat. A reason to run. Because that might’ve been easier than what you’re about to deal with.

It would’ve been easier than Max.

And then he’s there.

And then he stops.

And then he stares.

And then he opens his stupid fucking mouth. He pauses when he sees you, his sharp blue eyes scanning the scene. His lips twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “This is just sad,” he says, breaking the silence. You roll your eyes hard enough to see the back of your skull, unclench your fists, and flop back down in your chair. Pick your crayon up. Starting grinding it into the curve of Eau Rouge hard enough you feel it in your forearm.

But he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something worth his time. You glance up at him, unimpressed, and then back at your coloring page. “‘M not judging your Christmas. Don’t judge mine.”

Max shrugs, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, stepping farther into the room. “What, family wouldn’t take you back?”

Your head snaps up this time, eyes narrowing at him. Oh, fuck you, buddy. You sit straighter now, crayon still in hand but forgotten, the words hitting bone. “Can you not be an asshole for five seconds?” you snap, your voice biting. “As my Christmas present?”

You just… stare at him. Not blinking. Not breathing, really. Just still- elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around the crayon like you’re deciding whether to snap it in half. Fuck off is carved into every inch of your posture. You’re not scared of him. Never have been. But you are waiting for the punchline. For the dig. For the sick little twist of the knife he always finds a way to deliver.

Because this is what he does. He finds your bruises and presses- methodically, joyfully, like he’s testing for weakness. So you sit there and dare him. Go on. Say it. Say whatever shitty thing you came all the way here to say.

You’re convinced he’s here for that reason alone.

No way this is a coincidence. He detoured here. You don’t know what brought him to this town, to this country, tonight. Some liquor-soaked dinner with a friend or a date or your boss. You don’t care. You wouldn’t put it past him to fly here specifically to fuck with you. To blow tens of thousands of dollars on runway fees and expend a small country’s carbon emissions to see if he can make you cry on Christmas. 

And he must know he’s got you dead to rights. Alone, sad, half-drunk, coloring like a six-year-old while the rest of the world wraps gifts and pulls casseroles from ovens. He has every tool he needs to tear you apart.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t dig. He just stands there.

Still. Quiet. Less smirking now. Less postured. Not softer, exactly- but off. Like a dog that forgot how to bark. You narrow your eyes. He’s never backed off before. Not once. Which means it’s not kindness. It’s not mercy. It’s… something else.There’s something about his face, his stance, that doesn’t track. He’s dressed like he’s been out- jacket zipped up, hair windblown, keys still in one hand- but he looks… untethered. Like knowing your dog is sick because it quit chewing on the rug.

You can’t place it, but you feel it. It buzzes against your skin like static. Makes your shoulders itch. He looks like someone who wants to fuck with you- for fun, for sport, for whatever twisted reason this asshole does anything- but can’t quite bring himself to commit.

His head tips a fraction, mouth parted like he almost has something ready- some snide little insult queued up and waiting- but it dies before it makes it to air.

That’s what’s getting you. Not the fact that he’s here, not even what he said. But the stillness. The hesitation. The flicker of restraint from the one person who never holds back with you. And not because he suddenly grew a conscience- don’t be stupid- but because something’s off.

Why the fuck are you here, Max?

He shifts his weight slightly, shoulders still hunched like he’s not sure if he’s staying. Then, finally, he speaks. “Depends,” he says, voice low and flat. “What did you get me?” It’s not biting. Not sharp. Not kind, either. Just… tired. Dry. A flicker of something almost like humor, buried beneath all that brooding.

You squint up at him, a little disoriented from waiting for the strike that still hasn’t quite come. For him to call you sad or pathetic or make fun of you drinking by yourself at work on Christmas. Instead you got… a joke, maybe? Something you’re not sure how to respond to without the mediation of Danny’s presence and the social lubricant of four drinks.

It comes out before you really mean it to. “What do you want?” It’s not soft, but not jagged, either. Not aggressive. Your tone matches his in that strange middle ground between I don’t like you and you haven’t pissed me off (yet). A little genuine curiosity, because you have no idea what someone like him would ask for from someone like you, even as a joke. 

Max doesn’t answer, not out loud. Just stands there for another beat, head tilted slightly. His eyes flick toward the wine glass sitting next to your crayons, still half-full. He tips his chin in its direction- barely a nod. A silent ask, like it costs too much pride to say the words.

You blink at him. Seriously? But you’re still too off-balance to fight about something as petty as a half glass of cab. You don’t say anything, don’t move your arm, just give the subtlest flick of your fingers in his direction. A silent go ahead.

He takes it.

Fingers wrap around the glass, and for a moment he just frowns into it like he’s trying to remember how this works. Then he sips. Leans his hip against the edge of the table, the glass still in hand, posture loose but guarded. He doesn’t make a comment about the wine. Doesn’t praise it or sneer at it or ask where it’s from. Just drinks it. And for one, strange moment, it registers that this is the most normal he’s ever looked near you.

You go back to your coloring. Or try to. The crayon scrapes across the page, dragging red wax into the curves, about halfway done, now. You can feel him beside you without looking. A heat source. A glitch in your field of vision. The weight of his silence presses into your thoughts harder than any insult would have.

He’s not saying anything.

Not breathing too loud. Not hovering. Not staring at you, at least not that you can tell. But he’s there, and it throws off the whole balance of the room. You shift slightly in your chair, cross one leg under the other, then switch back again, like rearranging yourself might change the physics of the moment. Trying to pretend he isn’t messing with your nervous system just by existing that close to your shoulder.

You adjust your grip. Try again.

Still there.

You can feel him, the way you’d feel someone standing behind you in an empty stairwell- just close enough to make every hair on your body pay attention. Just close enough to ruin the quiet.

“Sit down,” you mutter, finally. Your eyes stay fixed on the page, but the edge in your voice sharpens slightly. “You standing there is weird as fuck.”

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, without a word, he drags the nearest chair out and drops into it, spine still stiff, still in that fight-or-flight posture like he’s not convinced he won’t bolt at any second. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. Neither of you speak.

And it’s okay like that, for a minute. Still a little odd. The quiet stretches a little too long. Your eyes flick to the wine bottle- closer to him now than to you. Your glass, too. Still in his hand.

You want another sip. You hesitate. You could ask. Or not. Go get another glass form the kitchen. Could leave it alone, pretend you don’t care, let the silence keep you guarded. But your mouth is dry, and the heat in your chest has begun to taper off. The wine had helped. Asking implies he can tell you no. Getting up feels like…defeat. Acceptance, that he’s here, in this space too, not just borrowing it.

You sigh, just a little, and stick your hand out without looking. Not a word. Not a dramatic gesture. Just palm-up, fingers loose, expectant.

He understands.

The stem clicks lightly between your fingers as he passes it over, no hesitation, no snark. You pause your coloring- no sense risking red wine on Eau Rouge- and bring the glass to your lips. One sip. Then another. It’s even better now. Breathing has softened the tannins, brought out the heat, the pepper. A little richer, rounder. You hum quietly through your nose, pleased, and pass it back to him without ceremony.

No eye contact. No acknowledgment. Just a transaction.

Your fingers graze his as you release it. Neither of you flinch. You pick your crayon back up.

But then your mind starts drifting- too much space between the words in your head, too much wine swirling around the little christmas-themed aches in your chest- so you flip through your stack of printed tracks, trying to re-anchor yourself. Find your next project. 

Zandvoort catches your eye. You pause. Twisting and narrow and brutal, like a rollercoaster track trying to bite you back. You don’t speak- just slide it across the table, casual, like you’re handing someone a menu.

Here. Maybe it’ll be less weird if he has something to do.

You go back to your own sheet.

For a while, he doesn’t move. He just sips from the glass. Refills it. Sips again. Every so often, you can feel him glance sideways, but he says nothing. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s… holding. Eventually, he lets out the smallest huff of disbelief under his breath. Not quite a laugh. More like an incredulous exhale. The kind that says I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this without needing to say it aloud.

And then- finally- he leans forward and grabs a crayon. Not a blue or a red or an orange. A green one. Not what you would have expected him to go for. It’s odd, realizing you had an expectation of what his crayon preference might be. A thought you hadn’t realized you ever held until you see him contradicting your assumption in real time. 

He starts shading in the banking at Turn 3 with the careful irritation of someone trying very hard not to feel dumb. You glance sideways. Just a peek. Casual. Or at least, you hope it looks that way.

Max is hunched forward slightly, brow furrowed in concentration as he drags a streak of green along one of the banked curves. His hand moves with that same ridiculous precision he brings to the sim lab. As if coloring were a job. As if the lines matter. As if anyone, anywhere, will ever see it.

And then it hits you. He’s Max fucking Verstappen.

World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Face on posters in bedrooms. Invited to galas and paddock clubs and palaces, probably. A guy with more options than most people have in a lifetime.

And he’s here. With you. In the factory lobby. On Christmas Eve. Coloring.

You blink once, slowly, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way the tendon near his temple tics faintly. He’s not smug. Not mocking. Not baiting you for a reaction. He’s just… here. Quiet. Tense. A little hunched. Like he can’t quite relax, but can’t quite leave either.

And suddenly, you realize. You thought he was here to be an asshole. He’s not. If he was, he’d have already done it. He’d have made a spectacle of it. He had all the right ammunition. Would’ve raked your night over the coals and seasoned it with whatever creative cruelty he had left in his back pocket.

But he hasn’t. He’s here. Drinking your wine. Not talking. Not smirking. Not being nice, exactly. But not being Max. And that’s what really makes it click. Because Max Verstappen doesn’t sit next to people he loathes and behave. Max Verstappen doesn’t enter a truce without reason. And if he’s not here to win something or prove something…

Then he must be here because this is the best he’s got.

You were so consumed with your own self-pity- your own quiet ache of missing cornbread and brisket and four kinds of potatoes- that it never occurred to you how pathetic this must be for him. To walk through a side door and settle into this very specific quiet. To tolerate you, of all people. 

That whether he ended up here by accident or design, this- this- was the best idea he had for Christmas Eve. That maybe the reason he hasn’t picked a fight is because he can’t quite stomach the energy it takes to be cruel. Not tonight.

And the more you think about it, the worse it gets.

Because it would take a crisis- a full collapse- for Max to willingly enter a truce with you. To share a wine glass and color quietly beside you without barbs or blame. And, if you’re honest, it took the same to get you here too.

Oh, God.

You’re both sad.

Oh, God.

You don’t know what to do with the realization. The quiet, slow-spreading understanding that he’s not just here- he’s here, with no agenda and nowhere better to be. That he might be lonelier than you are.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. Of course he has emotions. Of course he gets sad. He’s a person. With a brain and a heart and whatever arrangement of nerves make up the part of you that aches when the holidays feel too soft for how fucking hard your life is.

You know this. Logically.

But logic has never stood a chance against the Max Verstappen you’ve been at war with. The Max Verstappen you’ve had to armor up against for months now. You’ve spent so long flattening him into something sharp and unpleasant- an annoyance, a jackass, a wall- that it’s unnerving to see him as anything else. To have your field of vision adjust, ever so slightly, until the picture doesn’t quite match what it used to.

You shift in your seat, uncomfortable.

Because now the air is heavier. Not tense, not hostile, but full. Full of something you don’t know how to name. Not sympathy. Not friendship. But something. Something you don’t want to hold, but can’t quite set down. Emotional discomfort prickles across your arms like static.

God.

Should you say something?

You hate this part. The should I say something part. The emotional fog of maybe he’s sad and maybe I should care- but if you care, what does that make this? What does that make you?

You hate how quiet it is. How intimate this feels for two people who don’t even like each other. You hate that the part of your brain responsible for small talk is suddenly clanging like a fire alarm.

It’s probably just you, just your stupid need to make things smooth, and comfortable, and bearable for the world around you- the part that makes you so good at marketing and so natural with difficult sponsors- but you swear the air is starting to feel humid with unsaid things. Dense with meaning you don’t want to sift through. Your fingers shift on the crayon. Too tight. Too aware. You let out a slow breath through your nose and glance sideways again.

He’s leaning forward now, elbow braced on the table, one knee bouncing faintly beneath it. His head is slightly tilted, entirely locked into his picture. He hasn’t looked at you since you handed him the page. Hasn’t spoken since that dry, brittle joke. He’s not even trying to perform. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just coloring. Quiet.

And it’s so much worse than if he’d come in guns blazing.

Your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth. You swallow. Hard. Then- reluctantly- you ask, “...Did you go to Christian’s?” It slips out too casually. Too flat. It’s not warm. Not really kind. But it’s something.

Max freezes. Not dramatically- just a subtle pause. The faint bounce of his knee stills. The crayon stills. Even his breathing, maybe. He looks at you with the vaguest expression of suspicion, like you just spoke to a ghost and he’s not sure he saw it too.

You regret it immediately.

Why the fuck did you say anything? You’ve cracked the silence open like an egg on concrete- messy, irreversible- and now he’s going to shut down or lash out or- 

“Yes,” he says. Simple. Crisp. He drops his gaze back to the page, and for a second, you think that’s the end of it. Just a meaningless affirmative. Nothing else offered. But then-  

“I stopped to say hello. On my way to…” His voice trails off, but the sentence stays hanging in the air. Unfinished.

On his way to what? Where? Why doesn’t he want to go? You could ask. You're not going to.

Because it’s weird enough already. Because his version of Christmas includes dropping by Christian Horner’s house on the way to some unknown destination, and the idea that he can just stop in on his team principal on the way to Belgium- or Monaco, or wherever he’s dodging from- is such a bizarre, untouchable kind of strange that it makes your brain fog over. That’s not your world. Not your life.

And for a moment, it seems like that really is it- that your one attempt at human interaction has evaporated like breath on cold glass. Until Max- awkwardly, like it physically costs him something- clears his throat.

“Does your family…” He stops. Tries again. “Do they do anything?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting a return volley. You glance at him, but he’s still not looking your way- just dragging his crayon along the inside edge of a turn like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sit in an F1 factory on Christmas Eve and ask you personal questions with no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

You shrug. “Yeah.” You reach for the wine glass- and wrap your fingers around the stem like you need the excuse. Take a long sip. Then another. “They do the whole thing,” you add after a beat, voice casual enough to pass.

You stop there.

There’s more, obviously-  the way your dad plays the piano while everyone eats dessert on the couch, the seventeen half-eaten dishes, the smell of cinnamon and fried food and hairspray- but talking about it out loud feels like scraping skin over gravel. So you don’t. You just take another sip and let the ache settle quiet behind your ribs.

You sit back in your chair and roll the stem of the glass between your fingers. “What about you?” you ask, then immediately regret it. Because what about him?

Like the crayon, you realize you don’t know. Not really. You’ve never pictured him as a child in pajamas or holding a plate of food or doing anything human at all, really- just teeth bared in a helmet, champagne in hand. You can’t imagine Max Verstappen opening presents.

But you’ve asked now, even if you wished you hadn’t. And he wishes you hadn’t asked either. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even hesitate before pointedly not answering. His jaw flexes once, sharp and silent, and he shifts in his chair like the question itched him beneath the skin. Then he flicks his fingers toward the glass in your hand- a silent, impatient little gesture. Give it.

Wine. Okay. You can do that. 

You give it without a word, watching as he lifts it from your grasp, barely glancing down. He tips the glass up to his mouth like it might save him from the question still hanging in the air. Then he frowns. Swirls the glass. Tilts it again. Nothing.

He sets it down with a dull clink and looks at the bottle. “Vur sad little Christmas,” he mutters, his accent thicker now, vowels spreading like melting butter, “is out of fuel.”

You blink. That wasn’t quite English. Not really. Your lips twitch, involuntarily. His tone is dry, a touch sardonic- but soft at the edges. Something about the way he says it, the way the words drag a little at the end, immediately trips your radar.

Because it’s not fuel. Not the way he says it. It’s fuhl. And Christmas comes out almost like Krihsmess. The vowels stretch. The consonants roll in that particular, sleepy way that belongs to cloudy, brick-stacked cities and tired boys from the flat bits of Europe.

Your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek. Because fuck, he’s getting drunk. The wine, and whatever else he had before he got here, is doing its job.

It’s not obvious if you’re not looking for it. His face is still all sharp control. But his voice? That’s telling on him. Whispering things he would never willingly give away. Every word out of his mouth is sliding, lazy around the edges, slipping back into a dialect you know he tries hard not to let surface. You’ve heard it before, buried beneath interviews, in old Red Bull media days when you tracked his career like a sport in itself. But never like this.

You press your knuckles to your mouth, fighting the smile that wants to bloom there. Not because it’s funny. But because you know this. That quiet betrayal. That precise moment when the warmth hits and you stop sounding like the version of yourself you were trained to be- and start sounding like the people who raised you. Like the streets you came from. Like the walls you grew up inside.

You know that moment intimately. You’ve lived it.

He catches the corner of your reaction and narrows his eyes. ��What?”

“Nothin’,” you say quickly, voice a little too high.

Max’s eyes narrow like he’s squinting into sun glare. Defensive. Immediate. Suspicious in that prickly, unyielding way he gets when he thinks he’s being made fun of. Which- fair.  “What?” he demands again, clipped.

“Nothin’,” you say, too fast. You press your lips together tighter. Fight the upward tug of your mouth with everything you’ve got. But your cheeks are already warm, your eyes glittering with the effort of keeping it down.

He tilts his head. “You’re laughing at me.”

You shake your head. Absolutely lying. He knows it. You know he knows it. Max stares, eyes narrow and sharp and blue, and then glances down at the wine glass in his hand like maybe he can blame this on the alcohol and walk away before he has to deal with whatever the hell this is.

You huff out a breath and say it, fast and low. “Your accent.” His face doesn’t change. Doesn’t twitch. But something flickers behind his eyes. You wince, immediately raising your hands in surrender. “Not in a mean way,” you rush to add. “It’s just- god, it’s thick all of a sudden. Like, lowlands-thick. Like… if Coulthard was Dutch. ”

Max’s eyes narrow so hard you swear you can hear it. “You’re one to talk,” he fires back, tone laced in dry amusement. “You sound like a fucking cowboy.”

Your mouth drops open.

“I do not- ” you start to argue. Stop. Replay it in your head. That last word. Not. Long and flat and dragging through the dirt like you’re from East Texas. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Max doesn’t laugh- not fully. But his lips twitch. His shoulders loosen. He tips his head slightly, as if he’s finally caught you with your own pants down. You shake your head, half-horrified. “I sound like my mom.”

He smirks. “It’s bad.” You groan and drop your forehead to the table. And that’s when it happens. The laugh. Small. Dry. Incredulous.

Max fucking Verstappen laughs.

It’s barely more than a huff of breath, a sound pushed through his nose, but you feel it like a power outage- every light inside you flickering with surprise. Because it’s not cruel. Not smug. Not weaponized like usual. It’s quiet and human and stunned by itself, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

You peek up at him from under your arm.

He looks equally appalled.

“I need more wine,” you announce, abrupt. You snatch the empty bottle and your glass with one hand, gathering up your crayon and coloring sheets with the other. Your movements are a little too fast, a little too loud, like maybe if you just start talking and rustling and walking quickly enough, you can outrun the awful knowledge that you just shared an honest-to-god laugh with Max fucking Verstappen.

It’s not phrased like an invitation. Not even close.

“Got more upstairs,” you mumble. Just a statement. Nothing more.

Maybe you meant to come right back down. Maybe you were just going to grab the bottle and sit in the hall with your shame for a few minutes before rejoining your sad little coloring table and staring at Eau Rouge until you forgot how human he sounded. That was the plan. Sort of.

And then you hear it. Footsteps. Behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. That presence- that shadow moving just a beat behind your own- is unmistakable now. You hear the faint creak of the stairwell railing, feel the draft shift as he follows you up the narrow stairs, and suddenly your spine goes rigid.

Fuck.

This isn’t a bar. This isn’t a team dinner or a hotel suite where everyone’s pretending to be civil for PR. This is your room. Your tiny room. You slow, almost hesitate at the top of the stairs. There’s no grand entry. No threshold to stand behind and reconsider. Just one step and then you're in- a windowless box with a bed and a desk and a shelf and exactly two square feet of walking space between them.

Your mouth is dry.

You glance back at him for the first time since leaving the lobby, and Max- idiot- just stands there like this is normal. Like this isn’t the strangest, most intimate possible turn of events for two people who routinely threaten to strangle each other telepathically.

He doesn’t even look amused anymore. Just… there.

You look away. “It’s a mess, you don’t have to-” you mutter, instantly regretting it, like maybe if you hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t notice. Your dorm was never meant for company, certainly not Max Verstappen. The bed’s unmade- covers kicked to one side. A half-folded pile of laundry has colonized your only armchair, still topped with the towel you used earlier and forgot to hang. The bins under your bed are still askew from when you went rooting through them like an animal before you left to pick up your pizza. 

But he’s already stepped in. And now it’s real. Now he’s inside. The room is warm. The lights are low. You don’t even look at him. Just cross to the desk, crouch, and pull the cardboard wine box off the floor. Five bottles left. 

Costco bottles are out, immediately. You’re not serving Max Verstappen $10 wine, even if it’s better than the price lets on. Even if he deserves it. He probably bathes in bottles older than you on a weekly basis. Not the neighbors, either. Too nostalgic. Too loaded. And if you're honest, it's not that good- you just like the way it tastes like a memory. That just leaves the Walla Walla ones- the Dunham, your favorite- and the wildcard your mom picked. It should be fine. Great, even, if the one you just drank is anything to go by. But you don’t know for sure, and you can’t deal with the idea of Max staring down his nose at something thin or sharp or vinegary if it’s one of those bottles your mom pity-bought because she was three tasting deep and honey, they were just so nice. She’s known to do it. 

Dunham it is. You would’ve drank it first if you had felt more like celebrating and less like throwing a tantrum, less sad, less melancholy, less fucking alone- but- you’re not… alone now, are you? It’s not exactly company, but technically, yeah. You’re not alone. Dunham it is.

You pull the Dunham bottle from its slot like it’s a sacred object, cradling it in one hand while you open your desk drawer with the other. There's a smattering of office supplies in there- half-dried pens, a stapler, a wad of post-its with tire pressure notes on them- but mostly it’s tools. Not a full kit, nothing impressive. You’d had to leave all your proper gear in America, but you’ve scavenged enough since landing here. Tool reps. The mechanics. A trip to Machine Mart or two. Just enough to make things work.

You pick through the drawer until you find what you need: a fat screw, a pair of dikes, and your favorite little stubby wrench. It’s not the ideal method, but it works. Has worked. You line the screw up with practiced fingers, hold the bottle steady, and drive it into the cork with mechanical precision.

Different strategy this time. Instead of pushing the cork all the way through, you wedge the base of the bottle between your thighs, grab the screw with the dikes, and heft the wrench in your other hand- ready to tap it out, slow and controlled.

You're just winding up when Max’s voice cuts through the room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You glance over, not breaking your hold. “Opening the wine.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “With a wrench?”

“Unless you’re packing a corkscrew in those skinny jeans, Verstappen,” you deadpan, shifting your grip, “this is the show.”

A beat passes. Then, Max, voice flat-  “This is not a normal show.”

You grin- just a little, teeth sharp with amusement as you raise the wrench. “Watch and learn, bucko.” And you give the first gentle tap. Max, blessedly, shuts the fuck up. You brace your thighs tighter, hold the bottle steady, and give the cork three taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is soft, patient. Controlled.

On the third, the cork slides free with a gentle pop- clean, unshredded, not a drop of wine spilled. You set the wrench aside like a finishing move and lift the bottle by the neck with an almost casual flourish, like there, done. Max says nothing.

But he’s watching you the way he sometimes watches a pit crew in the American circuits duct-tape a bumper back onto a stock car and send it screaming back onto the oval- like it offends every ounce of his high-tech, finely tuned, aero-obsessed sensibilities… but some deeply buried, primitive part of him respects the hell out of it anyway.

Because that was kind of impressive. Degenerate. But impressive.

He's grown up rich. Wealthy. Tucked neatly into a world where wine bottles are opened with carbon-handled keys or one of those sleek, pressurized pin systems used on the truly rare vintages. Certainly never a bottle pinched between someone’s thighs and hammered open with a wrench like it was a fucking Jiffy-Lube oil change.

You pass him the glass without ceremony, barely looking up. The pour’s generous- generous enough to signal that you might as well stay awhile. He takes it, careful not to brush your fingers, and stays exactly where he is- two steps inside the doorway, like he’s worried the floor might fall out if he moves any farther.

He’s just holding the wine, taking a sip, looking around with those same tired eyes. Like he’s not in Max Verstappen’s brain right now. Like he’s just a guy, in a sad little room, on a sad little holiday, following the only other miserable person in the building without thinking too hard about why.

You’re not sure what the etiquette is here. You don’t know what this is. The silence between you isn’t hostile anymore, but it’s not exactly warm either. Just quiet. A little awkward. Like both of you forgot how to be people for a second. The smart thing would be to head back down to the lobby. More neutral. More space. Less... this.

But this is your space, shitty as it is. Familiar, functional, lived-in in the way a hotel room never really is. You know how the light hits the floor in the morning, how the baseboard heater hums when it kicks on. You feel safe here. Even with him.

So you don’t move.

You lean forward instead, grabbing the cup of crayons and a fresh coloring sheet from the stack, then slide off the desk chair and onto the floor. You sprawl. Take up space. Let your body stretch out across half of the sad little postage stamp of your floor, your pajama-clad legs half-crossed, toes flexing in your socks.

Then, quietly, without looking up: “There’s more there. You can use the desk, if you want. Just throw the laundry on the bed.”

you hear the subtle scuff of his shoes against the tile. Hesitant. Like he’s approaching a wild animal- or a bomb with a ticking clock and unclear instructions. A moment later, the quiet shuffling of paper. He’s flipping through the coloring sheets. Reading the options. Probably judging them. Tracks. Liveries. You’re pretty sure there’s more than one of him in there, since they came from the front desk.

You don’t look up. You stay focused on your page- sweeping your crayon across the tail section of a generic Bulls livery- but your ears catch every motion behind you, sharp and alert, even if your expression doesn’t shift.

You expect the chair to make a noise. Expect him to sit like a normal human being at a desk. Like you said he could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, you hear the faintest rustle- the zipper of his softshell scraping on the laminate- and then the slow, deliberate sound of some man over the age of twenty five settling themselves to the ground.

Your eyes flick up. Barely. Just a glance sideways.

There he is. Max fucking Verstappen. Laid out on your floor. Not with you, exactly- he’s as far as he can possibly be in the cramped space without backing into your desk- but still beside you. Elbow down. Shoulders curled forward. His long legs bent awkwardly to fit the geometry of your tiny dorm room. Like he’s trying to minimize himself. Or disappear.

He places the wine glass between you with a soft tap and leans slightly to fish a crayon from the cup. Doesn’t say a word. Just starts coloring. And something in you releases, just a notch. Because now the wine glass is right there- within easy reach. You don’t have to ask every time you want another sip. You don’t have to break the fragile rhythm this has somehow become. You’re… sharing? 

You settle back onto your elbows for a moment, watching the tip of his crayon glide over the paper. He’s quiet- focused, or pretending to be- and for once, not a single part of him seems weaponized. No sharp comments, no loaded glances. Just… silence. And color. You glance at the wine glass between you, then down at your own page.

Alright.

You slide onto your stomach, legs bent at the knees and swaying idly behind you, and pick up where you left off. Just a little more red on the nose cone, then the diffuser. You don’t realize how long you’re there, how long you’ve been smoothing wax into every corner, how time has started to drip instead of tick- until you’re fully locked in.

And you are, locked in, that is. Trading red for navy for yellow in turn. The wine’s warm in your stomach, your head pleasantly fuzzy. It wraps around your brain like gauze, softening the edges of everything until it’s just you, your paper single-seater, and the sacred task of getting this shading just right. Yellow over yellow over yellow, layering to make the light bounce right where you rub wax on wax- almost like a glow.

In the background, you hear him. Max. Not breathing hard or talking or fidgeting like a child- just... not settled. His motions are restless. Color, pause. Shift. Sip. Sigh. Color again. Pause longer. Another sip.

You don’t look. You don’t engage. It’s not your problem if he’s bored. He could’ve left at any point. Still could. You didn’t invite him to your floor, didn’t ask him to drink your wine or share your crayons or sit awkwardly close enough that you can hear the shift of his clothes against your floor when he adjusts. Not your issue. Not your job.

You lean forward, reaching for the brighter of the two yellows- your final pass to really bring that beautiful nose to life- 

Swipe.

Your brain takes a full two seconds to register it.

There’s a hand on your page. Not just any hand. His hand. And it’s holding a green crayon.

Green.

GREEN.

Right across the nose cone. The nose cone. Which you had painstakingly left open. Purposefully saved for last, like a crown jewel. Which you had been actively reaching for with the exact right shade in your grip. You freeze. Stare.

There it is. A crooked, casual, green swoop right across the tip of the car like it belongs there.

“Max,” you breathe, voice sharp and flat all at once.

Max doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t backpedal. Just glances sideways, one brow raised, glass tipped loosely in his other hand.

“What?” he says, too casual. “Green. Christmas.”

Your mouth falls open. Words scatter. You blink. “That’s- no- that’s not- what’s wrong with you?”

He has the audacity to smirk. “You were obsessing.”

You scoff, huffing through your nose. “I was not obsessing.” He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, just a look- delighted blue eyes saying sure you weren’t. 

God, he’s such an ass.

But- he’s not being cruel. Not mean, not biting. Just a dumb schoolboy with too much wine and no concept of boundaries, clearly thrilled by how easy it is to get a rise out of you right now. You grumble under your breath and twist your coloring sheet a few degrees away from him, throwing one elbow out wide in a clear territorial maneuver. He huffs a quiet laugh, and you can already tell he’s going to be a problem. Head down. Focus restored.

For a second, it works.

The next time his hand darts out, you’re ready. You block him with the crayon in your off hand- deflecting like you’ve trained for this your whole life. “Don’t,” you warn, eyes narrowed. You jab an elbow toward him without looking, but he evades. Then waits. Two seconds. Four. You let your guard down just a little- back to coloring in the last bits of the halo- when suddenly-

Swipe. It lands. More green- on your sidepod, for God’s sake. The sidepod. 

“Oh, you bastard!” you gasp, half-sputtering, half-laughing. Not because it’s okay- you were so close to being done- but because the audacity is just so stupid and somehow hilarious in a way that wine makes everything. You grab for the page, then his wrist, but he’s already leaning back like the smug little asshole he is, admiring his handiwork. So you snatch the crayon out of his hand- remove the tool of destruction right out of his grip.

He looks briefly scandalized. Then delighted. He blinks at you, mock offended, hand still outstretched between you like this is a diplomatic negotiation. “Give it back.”

“No.” You say it fast, fierce, like the word’s been sitting on your tongue for years and finally found its moment. “You’ve lost crayon privileges.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters, letting his hand drop, but his eyes are bright now- sharper than they’ve been all night. Not angry. Not smug. Just surprised. Entertained, even. You’ve caught him off guard, and for once, he’s not trying to hide it.

He leans back onto one hand, glass dangling loosely in the other. “You’re hoarding.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You vandalized my livery.”

He huffs through his nose. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s honest. And quieter than before. Quieter than you expected. Your thumb rolls slowly over the waxy paper wrapper of the crayon. His eyes flick down to the movement. You watch his gaze track it, then lift. You’re ready for another jab. Ready for him to press. But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. And for some reason, that’s worse.

You meet his stare like it’s a challenge. Like maybe you’re still playing. But the moment hangs- odd, suspended- until you realize something about his face. About the way the light sits against his cheek, the way his mouth tips ever so slightly to one side. How different he looks when he’s not scowling or calculating. How young he looks without the armor.

You lose the thread.

Just for a second.

Oh.

He’s- 

You blink hard and tear your eyes away, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Jesus. It’s just the wine. You shake your head like it’ll clear the thought.

He laughs- quiet, deep, from somewhere in his chest- and extends his hand again, a little more pointed this time. “Come on. Quit playing.”

You glance down at the crayon in your grip. You’re white-knuckling it now like it’s something worth defending instead of literal children’s art supplies. And for a second- just a second- you forget what the hell you’re doing, because when you look up, his eyes are on yours again, steady and unflinching. He’s close. Much closer than you realized. Those stupid cheekbones. That stupid mouth. God, he really is pretty when he’s not snarling.

You clear your throat. “Still no.”

Max’s brows lift just slightly. Not in offense. In interest. You see it flicker across his face. Something small and sparking. A game.

His gaze drops to your hand, then back up to you. He doesn’t move right away- just watches, like he’s calculating risk, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch. And when you don’t, when you lean back slightly on your free hand and mirror his smug little look-  That’s it. The corners of his mouth lift. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something crooked and barely formed. “Okay,” he says softly, “your funeral.”

And then he lunges.

You yelp, scooting back across the floor with a laugh caught in your throat, crayon clutched to your chest like a trophy. He’s faster. His long reach closes the gap easily, and now you’re dodging, rolling onto your side with a clumsy twist of limbs and fabric and wine-fueled reflexes. It’s not graceful. Not even close. But it’s real. It’s ridiculous.

It’s fun.

You squeal when his fingers almost snag your wrist, twisting just out of reach. “You’re cheating!”

“You started it,” he growls, grinning full now- genuine and wild- and for a second, you’re not thinking about stolen sodas or slammed doors or podiums or fights or Christmas or any of the shit that lives between you. Just this. The stupidest game in the world.

Just him and you and a crayon and a laugh you didn’t know you still had in you.

You curl around the crayon protectively, breathing hard, wine haze buzzing behind your eyes. “You’re gonna have to take it from me.” There’s no teasing in it now. No laughter. Just the sharp, wordless thud of bodies trying to outmaneuver each other. Max is focused. You’re focused. The wine is irrelevant, the coloring pages forgotten. This isn’t about crayons anymore. It’s about the principle.

You twist again, pivot your hips, make a break for the other side of the room- but his hand catches your ankle mid-scramble, pulling you back with enough force to collapse you into a heap. You curse, breath knocked half out of you, but he’s already crawling up the floor space after you, practically feral. You twist, arms tucked in, guarding the crayon like it’s nuclear launch codes.

“Give it,” he growls, low and laughing and way too close.

“Get bent.” And that’s when he does it. Max pins your wrist. One hand, firm. The other comes for your fingers.

Oh shit.

He starts prying them open, one at a time- careful, deliberate, methodical. Your heart rate spikes. You thrash under him, try to jerk your arm back, but he’s stronger. Steadier. His grip doesn’t falter. He’s laughing now- quiet and smug and goddamn infuriating- but not stopping.

You grunt, trying to twist free, but your side’s already to the floor, and he’s braced over you, weight held up just enough not to crush you, but enough that you’re not going anywhere. You let out a frustrated sound- something halfway between a growl and a gasp- as he peels another finger loose.

Three down. Two left.

“No,” you hiss, wriggling like it’ll help, but you’re losing ground. Literally. Physically. And emotionally. Because he’s going to win. You can’t let him win. 

You squirm. Twist. Dig your heels in and push, just enough to get a sliver of leverage- not much, but enough to roll your hips hard and lurch toward him with all your weight. It’s not graceful. It’s not smart.

It is effective.

Max doesn’t see it coming. His balance breaks for half a second- just long enough for you to launch into him like a linebacker. You both go down in a blur of limbs and elbows and shocked, wordless noise.

The desk takes the hit first. A hollow bang echoes through the room, followed by the sudden explosion of coloring sheets and data printouts raining down like confetti- fluttering paper and half-loose crayons skittering across the floor in a storm of chaos. You land half on top of him, half in the wreckage, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you move.

Just staring at each other. Eyes wide. Limbs tangled. Mouths open like did we just- ?

And then laughter.

Real, deep, gut-pulling laughter, ripped from both of you in stunned, breathless waves. Max folds first, face turned into his own shoulder like he can’t believe it, shaking. You follow suit, breath hitching, tears burning at the corners of your eyes because what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing?

There are crayons under your thigh. His knee is jammed between your calves. Your ribs hurt from laughing, your elbow’s probably bruised, and Max Verstappen- perpetual bastard, walking headache, F1 World Champion- is laughing with you on the floor of your too-small, too-warm dorm room like the two of you don’t know any better.

And maybe, for a minute- you don’t.

The laughter slows- first his, then yours- softening into breathless exhales and fading chuckles that taper off like static. The room quiets around you, thick with the remnants of sound. You blink up at the ceiling, still catching your breath, body curled awkwardly where you landed, limbs in soft collision with his.

And then it hits you.

Where you are. How close. How tangled.

Max’s thigh is still pressed between yours, his arm crooked under your shoulders like he forgot to move it. His shirt is pulled slightly off-center, jacket collar tugged loose where you grabbed him, exposing a line of skin at his neck. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours- too steady for someone who just laughed that hard. Too careful.

He’s quiet now. Looking at you. Really looking.

Your gaze flicks up- meets his. And- fuck. There it is.

A flicker of heat in the air between you, sharp and unmistakable. His lips part, just slightly. His brows pull together like he’s trying to process something in real time, something he didn’t expect to feel. Something he shouldn’t feel. You don’t move. Neither does he.

But god, if one of you did…

If he shifted a little closer, if you tilted your chin up just a bit- your mouths could meet. It would be easy. Stupidly easy. And you wouldn’t stop it. You don’t even think you’d be mad.

All you can think about was the way he stared at you, through you, in the rearview mirror that night after Christian took you out for beers. Your breath hitches. He hears it. He swallows.

The air turns molten.

It’s the first time you’ve felt this- this thing between you- like it might not be hatred. Like it might be something with teeth and heat and tension, a live wire strung taut between the two of you that no one was ever supposed to touch.

But here you are. Hovering. Right above it. And he’s not backing away.

And then your phone. It rattles against the floor with a brzzzz brzzzz brzzzz that might as well be a grenade. You flinch. Max blinks, startled too, the spell between you sliced clean through like it was never even there.

You roll away in a scramble- off his arm, out of the heat- grabbing for the phone like it’s a lifeline. The screen lights up: Mom 💐. FaceTime.

Jesus Christ.

You clear your throat and hit accept, already forcing a smile to your face. “Hi, Mama.”

“Merry Christmas, baby!” comes the immediate, sunshine-soaked reply, all syrup and sparkle. Your mom’s face fills the screen, warm and aglow, her curls pulled back, lipstick immaculate, an apron on over one of her good dresses. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see your face. You get my wine?”

You sit up straighter, trying to keep the heat out of your cheeks. “I did. I’m drinking it right now, actually.”

She squints through the screen. “Wait- are you still in your room? That doesn’t look like the lobby.”

Your eyes flick to Max before you can stop yourself. He’s sitting up now, legs crossed haphazardly beneath him, hair slightly mussed. He’s not looking at you, but he’s listening. Of course he is.

“Uh,” you say, trying to keep it breezy. “Came up to get a second bottle.”

“Oh?” your mom sings, voice lilting like she already knows exactly what’s going on. “You sound a little put together for gettin’ after a whole bottle on your own,” she adds, mock-solemn. Christ, the woman doesn’t miss a thing.

You stifle a groan. “I wasn’t alone.”

“Oh?” She leans closer to the camera. “Who’s there with you?”

And then Max- fucking Max- leans just enough for his face to enter the frame, one brow raised like he’s challenging you to stop him.

Your mother’s eyes light up. “Ohhh.”

“Mama, no- ”

“Honey, don’t you Mama me. Is that Max Verstappen in your dorm room?” You make a strangled noise in your throat, but she’s already on a roll.

“Well, hi there, sugar,” she says, clearly delighted. “You are just as pretty in person as you are on TV. I mean, I see what all the fuss is about now.” She gives you a sly glance.

Max, bless him, has no idea what to do with that. “Uh… thank you?” he says, hesitant and deeply confused.

“Oh, of course. And you’re bein’ so sweet to keep her company tonight. I told her, I said, You’re not foolin’ anybody pretendin’ you don’t care about the holidays. And now look at you, all cozied up with a boy and coloring.”

“Mama,” you mutter, half-mortified, half-amused. “We’re not- he’s just- ”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says with perfect Southern innocence. “You’re the one who sounds guilty.” Max chokes on his wine. You shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up- not my fault.

Your mother beams. “Well, I just wanted to check in and say hi before it got too busy. And tell you the blackberry pie came out fine. So fine, actually, that your daddy, Kaleb, and your uncle got into it last night after I went to bed and I had to make a new one this morning. Gave ‘em a piece of my mind this morning, let me tell you.” She tuts, like even the thought of it pisses her off. 

“Get ‘em good, Mama. You tell ‘em.” You laugh softly, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You can imagine the three of them, hunched around the island with a couple forks. Feeling a little too brave off of Coors light and Pendleton and God knows what else the men in your family get to drinking when left unsupervised in a shop for too many hours. Nobody would dare to touch Marissa’s Christmas pie sober. That’s the Lord’s pie. That pie is for Baby Jesus.

“But I’m real glad you’re not alone.” She gives Max a parting smile, eyes already somewhere else in her kitchen- cataloguing what else she needs to finish before the bigger family gets there, because there’s no worker bee like a Southern woman before Christmas dinner. “Y’all behave yourselves, I’m just gonna set-” the camera angle begins to shift. Not end- just tilt, go a little off center, like the phone’s been set against a mixing bowl. “There. I have to start the potatoes, holler at me if you have anything to say.”

Max looks over at you. “Did she just…”

“...set us down? Yeah. She’s got shit to do.” Sure enough, you catch a glimpse of your mom’s kitchen- all wood and stone and old tile countertops, the smell of roasted garlic and butter you can practically taste through the screen. Marissa’s muttering faintly to herself, moving in and out of frame, stirring something in a Dutch oven. You hear her talking to someone in the background.

It makes you smile at the screen faintly, the warmth of wine and the fact that even just in this small way, you can be a part of it- when Max smirks beside you, eyes dancing. “You do sound like you’re from the same place.”

You groan again and throw yourself back onto the carpet, eyes to the ceiling, already regretting everything. But your smile still won’t quite go away. It’s not for him. It’s for her. For home, and not even Max can dull the shine of this call. “Her accent’s way stronger. ‘S just harder to tell over the phone.” 

The peace, the sweetness of hearing your mom cook, the odd conversation between you and Max- is broken by footsteps. Fast ones. A blur moves behind your mom’s frame. A blur in a carhartt hoodie and bedazzled jeans and a ball cap full of hair. Marissa clocks it too late. 

“Bailey- don’t you touch that roll!” Too slow. A hand snakes into frame and snatches one off the tray cooling beside the oven.

“BAILEY!”

Then the camera swings wildly again, and you’re face-to-face with her: your cousin, Bailey, triumphant, cheeks puffed full of stolen bread, grinning like the absolute menace she is. She ducks into a corner, the phone clutched in one flour-dusted hand.

“Well, well, well. Cousin,” she says around a mouthful of carbs, “your mama says you got a boy in your room.”

You blink. “That’s- Bailey.”

“In your room,” she repeats, scandalized, like she’s reading it out loud from the Ten Commandments. “On Christmas. Give me something juicy, I’ve got a two year old. I haven’t heard a good story in- God. So, is this a hostage situation orrr…”

You exhale a laugh despite yourself. “Grow up. It’s not like that.”

Bailey leans in, peering, turning the phone just enough to get a look at Max, who’s frozen halfway through a sip of wine. Still sitting on the floor like a very guilty golden retriever. “Who’s this?” she asks, dramatic as hell. “Introduce me to your holiday miracle.”

You roll your eyes. “This is Max.”

Bailey stares.

Then leans closer.

Then squints.

“Wait,” she says slowly, “wait a minute. Is that- ?”

Max braces himself- you can see it. You know he’s thinking: Here it comes. The gasp. The oh my god, Max Verstappen?! You’re certain he can already hear it bouncing around in his little antisocial brain, alarms blaring. You brace yourself, too. Because you know what’s about to come out of her beautiful, lovely, big-fat fucking mouth and it’s not what he thinks it’s going to be.

“Oh my god,” Bailey breathes. “Like… Diet Coke Max?”

Max blinks.

You cough, choking down your laughter. “Yes.”

Max blinks. “What?”

Bailey gasps theatrically, a hand to her heart. “Quarter Max?” You lose it. Cackle, teeth bared.

Max turns to you, slowly. “What the fuck is Quarter Max.”

You shake your head. Still laughing. “Nothing.”

Bailey is delighted. “So it is him. Oh my god.” Max’s eyes snap to you, clearly reeling, his answered questions still branding around between you- what the fuck is Quarter Max?

You nod solemnly. “Yes.” Neither of you elaborates for him.

Bailey, now vibrating with energy, flips the camera around and runs screaming down the hallway. “Y’ALL. SHE’S WITH DIET COKE MAX.” The phone tips. You’re treated to a sideways view of a doorframe, a dog bed, and the echoing hollers of other cousins demanding explanations. Some are in on it, some aren’t, all of them now want to be in on whatever the fuck y’all’s crazy cousin is screaming about.

And then your mom, poor, sweet, under-informed Marissa, off-screen- “What does that mean?!”

Max looks stunned. “You’ve been talking about me,” he says slowly, a little shell-shocked.

You lift the wine glass and sip. “Only the important things.”

He just stares at you, then glances toward the phone- where chaos still reigns- and mutters, “What the fuck is Quarter Max?”

You grin into the glass, debate whether you should dignify him with an answer. He’s in on the joke, maybe the butt of it, technically, just… needs a little more context. What harm can giving him the puzzle piece do? “The jukeboxes at home take coins called Quarters.” Max’s face is slow to process. Like he’s putting two and two together in real time. The Diet Coke incident. The jukebox standoff. The fact you had him kneeling on the floor of some locals pub begging for your spare change. Her fucking cousin(s) know. She’s been telling stories. Laughing about him. He stares at you, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. “You’ve been talking shit.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Relentlessly.” He mutters something in Dutch and leans back against the wall like he’s rethinking every choice he’s ever made.

Bailey laughs like it’s the best thing she’s heard all week, and the camera tips as she shoves the phone back toward Marissa, who yells something unintelligible about setting the table through the chaos of clattering pans and shouts from the background. There’s more laughter, more chatter- names called out, someone asking about biscuits, someone else yelling no, not that knife- until finally, with a flurry of sweet goodbyes and one last ‘gotta go, sweetheart’ from your mom, the screen goes dark.

Silence.

You’re still holding the phone. Your fingers slide across the black screen once, twice, like you’re not quite ready to let go of the feeling. The noise. The background warmth. The easy rhythm of home.

But it’s quiet now. Just you and Max and the four thin walls of your dorm room.

You blink once, then glance around like you’ve just remembered where you are. The mess is everywhere- crayons scattered, coloring pages wrinkled and overlapping. You take a breath- too shallow to steady anything- and start to move. Not because it needs to be done, really. But because it gives your hands something to do. Something safe. Something that makes you feel less like you might accidentally say I miss them out loud.

You kneel and start gathering the pages first- carefully at first, then faster, like it helps. Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches from where he’s sunk against the wall, his fingers still loosely wrapped around the glass he snatched back from you when he realized you told people about it all. The Diet Coke. The 20p, or the Quarter, or the whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Told people about him. 

You're humming something- tuneless, cut off halfway through. Your hair slips out of its tie and falls forward. A strap of your tank top slips to the side, just a bit, as you scoop crayons back into their little plastic cup, one after another. Max doesn’t help. Doesn’t offer. He just watches.

He’s thinking- trying not to, but he is.

Because you’re doing something simple. Casual. Normal. Something you probably do all the time. And all he can think about is that phone call. That kitchen. That voice calling for Bailey. The screech of laughter and rustle of bodies and the dim clang of silverware.

They sounded fun, he thinks.

It slips out.

“They sound fun,” he says aloud, too quiet to sound casual.

You glance over your shoulder at him. Just a flicker. Your throat moves when you swallow. “They are,” you say. Your voice is thin, stretched out over too many feelings and too much wine. You stack the coloring sheets together, one hand smoothing down the corners. “They’re a lot. But they’re… home.” It hangs there. The silence. The unspoken.

You have a place to be and can’t get there.

He could get to his family, no problem. He’s just… not. You don’t know why, and you’re not asking. He fills the glass again, careful not to spill. Doesn’t push you for more, which you’re grateful for. 

You’re quiet as you climb onto the bed, shifting the wrinkled comforter into something resembling order. Your laptop’s still perched on the far side of the mattress, and you drag it over, flip it open. The screen lights your face in soft blue. You curl your legs under yourself, shifting a pillow behind your back, and gesture vaguely toward him. “I was gonna put a movie on,” you say. Then, eyes on the laptop instead of him: “What do you wanna watch?”

It’s casual. Easy. But you don't ask if he wants to stay. And he doesn’t ask if he can.

You mull it over, thumb hovering over the trackpad as the little carousel of thumbnails spins slowly on screen. Max sips more wine in silence, settles onto the furthest edge of your bed, like he hasn’t quite figured out if this is an invite or a test. Maybe it’s both.

He seems like a crude humor guy. Like the type who still quotes Step Brothers without irony and probably thinks Superbad is a cinematic achievement. Which… okay, no judgment. You like that stuff too. Comfort food for the soul. Millennial gold.

For half a second, Borat flashes through your mind. You smirk. Too risky. Even for Max. You're not trying to get fired for ruining Christmas with cultural insensitivity. Not tonight.

Your eyes snag on a familiar poster. Talladega Nights. Yes.

It’s perfect. Low stakes. Just enough racing to be familiar, but far enough from Formula 1 not to feel like homework. Plus- bonus points for mocking your country, not someone else’s. (Mostly.)

You click it. The title screen boots up with that weirdly aggressive intro music, and something unspools quietly in your chest.

Your mom’s old SUV had a DVD player that ate discs like a woodchipper, and Talledega Nights got jammed in it before your ninth birthday. For the next six years, you watched it on loop every time you drove further than ten minutes from home. You must’ve watched it two hundred times on road trips. Kaleb used to mouth every line from the backseat while you begged your parents for literally any other movie, but now…

Now you miss it.

You click play, trying not to linger on that thought.

“Alright,” you murmur, settling back against the wall, eyes flicking up toward Max. “Hope you like America.” You pause. “And NASCAR.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just moves slowly to sit on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, wine glass balanced between his fingers.

The screen goes dark. And then, the immortal words: “America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed.”

You bite back a grin. Max huffs. Not quite a laugh. But not not a laugh, either. You don’t make it ten minutes into the movie before the quoting starts.

You mumble along with the punch lines under your breath, lips twitching. Max doesn’t even bother pretending he hasn’t seen it.  When Ricky Bobby starts praying to little baby Jesus, both of you laugh- not because the joke is fresh, but because it is so goddamn stupid. Because it’s familiar.

It’s easy, for a minute. Too easy. So, naturally, you ruin it. “Talked to Danny lately?” you ask casually, not looking at Max- just watching the screen, as if it’s a throwaway comment. It’s not. You’re genuinely wondering.

You’ve been trying to avoid texting Danny too much- no more than he texts you. Do your best to be an easy friend. An un-annoying friend. A friend he might want to keep around for longer than three weeks.

He glances up at you- barely a beat of delay. “Yeah.” He takes a sip of wine. “Couple days ago. He’s in Perth.”

“Right, right.” You nod like you didn’t already know that from Instagram. “Holiday with the family?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Adds, “Surfing. BBQ. Being….Australian, or whatever.”

You snort. That sounds about right. Max doesn’t say anything else for a second. Just sips again. Eyes on the screen. 

But he’s not watching anymore.

He’s turning something over in his head- he’s transparent like that when he’s trying not to be. You’ve noticed he didn’t inherit Jos’s subtilty. The movie’s still playing, Ricky Bobby still blazing gloriously across the screen, but Max is suddenly too still. Too deliberate. “You two still… hanging out?”

Your head tilts, just a little. “Me and Danny?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “Not since the party. Why?”

“No reason.” Another shrug, a sip, a pass of the glass, his eyes still fixed forward. He shifts beside you, kicks his legs out next to yours, the twin mattress groaning beneath the movement. His knee brushes yours by accident- both of you flinch- and he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back the complaint all night. 

“This bed,” he mutters, grimacing. “Jesus. This has to be the worst bed in the world.” You don’t look at him. Just sip wine, gaze flicking toward the screen. He doesn’t stop. “Seriously. How do you bring anyone back here?”

You turn your head. Slow. Stare at him like he’s sprouted a second nose. “Bring…” you echo, blinking. “A man?”

He shrugs, already regretting the question. “I mean… yeah.”

You huff. Dry. Amused. “To this? My dorm? At my job? With six square feet of personal space and cameras in the lobby?” You raise your brows. Let the silence do the rest. Hard, hard pass.

Max looks at you like you’ve just confessed to living in your car. In a blizzard. With no shoes. Twists to look at you fully, like maybe he’s just misheard.  “Wait- so you just go to their place every time?” he asks, incredulous, like this is the part that’s difficult to wrap his head around.

You stare at him. Truly, honestly stare. “Max. I don’t have anyone to go to.” He starts to say something, stops. Blinks. His brows pull in slightly, confusion breaking up the usual arrogance. “I’ve literally said this before,” you continue, voice flatter now. “Multiple times. Danny literally just asked me. You’ve been in the room. I don’t have time for a social life. Or friends. Or whatever it is you think I’m doing in my free time. Christian took me out for beers with you, for God’s sake.” You take another sip, wave your fingers like you’re dismissing the conversation. 

Max frowns like he’s trying to replay those conversations in his head. You can see the wheels turning, slowly, like he’s trying to file this under “unlikely but technically plausible.” But it just doesn’t compute. “You’re telling me,” he says finally, like each word costs him something, “you haven’t… hooked up with anyone since moving here?”

For fucks sake, he’s not letting it go. You sigh, like you’re trying to explain something to the world’s dumbest dog. “Correct.” His mouth opens. Then closes. The silence that follows is almost insulting in its length.

“…Not even once?”

“Nope.”

“Since you got to Europe?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.” Max just sits there, stunned. Processing. Watching you like you’re a rare insect he found in his bathroom sink. It takes him way too long to realize you’re not kidding.

Max is quiet. A little too quiet. He’s not shocked anymore- he’s analyzing. Assessing. Like he’s trying to puzzle out some hidden, catastrophic flaw that would make you, you, un-fuckable. As if this is some logic problem, and he’s waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

Then- dry, deadpan, one corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smirk- “Maybe you should try talking less.”

Your eyes snap to him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. “Just saying. Might help.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He ignores that. Or maybe enjoys it. Probably both. “No, I’ve figured it out,” he says, a little more animated now, as if he’s truly cracked the code. “You like saying no.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you. At events. At dinners. You- ” he lifts his hand, gestures vaguely, “- set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. Then you get to shoot them down. Keep all the power.”

You stare at him for a beat, jaw clenched, but you don’t fire back right away- because the worst part? Is that he’s not entirely wrong. Not really. Just smug about it. And so very Max. You roll your eyes and grab the wine glass instead. “You think you know everything.”

He shrugs, but that smirk- that fucking smirk- lingers. “Not everything. Just enough.”

You take a long sip of wine, then tilt your head toward him- sweet, patronizing, eyes wide with mock praise. “That’s a very astute observation,” you say, tone dripping with teacher-to-preschooler energy. “Especially coming from someone with the emotional control of a five-year-old. Very good!” 

Max huffs a breath of laughter- quiet, begrudging, maybe even a little impressed. “Or,” you continue, push the glass back into his hand, “hear me out- there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.” He raises a brow, skeptical.

You know Max doesn’t want to hear the truth. But he keeps fucking pressing for it, so goddamnit, you’ll give it to him. You’re so sick of explaining yourself to boys, and you know what, he deserves to be uncomfortable. 

You go on, deadpan. “I just don’t feel like going through the inconvenience of shaving my legs, making small talk, hauling myself to someone’s apartment just to get my left lip rubbed like a fucking stress ball for thirty seconds and asked if I came yet.” You pause. “It’s not my fault men are incompetent. Why bother with them at all, honestly?”

Max chokes on the wine.

You don’t flinch. Don’t laugh. Just raise a brow and look back towards the screen, unbothered, like you’ve simply recited your grocery list.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still recovering from his wine misfire, then leans in just slightly- one elbow braced behind him, the other hand cradling the glass like he’s about to lay down wisdom.

“So what I’m hearing,” he says, slow and mock-thoughtful, “is that you’re just really bad at picking hookups.” You glance over, deadpan. He nods, all condescending concern now. “That’s fine. That’s fixable. You just don’t know the tricks.”

You blink at him once. Slowly. “Oh,” you say, voice flat. “There’s tricks, huh?”

He shrugs, smug and infuriating. “Obviously.”

You turn your whole head to look at him now. “Please,” you say, dry as bone, “do enlighten me, Casanova.”

Max shrugs, casual, like he’s discussing using wets at Silverstone in March. “You kiss them.”

You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Like he’s just explained paddle shifting to you. “No shit,” you deadpan. “You kiss someone before you sleep with them. Groundbreaking.”

“No, no,” he insists, sitting up a little straighter, the glass in his hand sloshing just slightly. “Not like that. Not during. Before. Like, early. Test run.”

You blink, the corner of your mouth twitching with restrained laughter. “A test kiss.”

“Exactly,” he says, as if this is a widely accepted, peer-reviewed strategy. “If they’re a bad kisser? Don’t even bother. If they’re okay, maybe. But if they’re really good- like really good? That’s almost always sex worth remembering.”

You blink again, slowly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

But you’re grinning now. Just barely. Because he’s dead serious, and he doesn’t even realize how much he’s leaning toward you while making this Very Important Point. You keep poking at him, grinning wider every time he bites. “Okay, professor. What makes a good kiss, then?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the last sip of wine in the glass like it’s something to contemplate. You don’t even care if he didn't offer you the last swallow of your own wine, because you’re testing something. “Mmm,” he hums, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Can’t give away the answers before the test.”

Your brows shoot up. Oh. Oh. He’s really doing this.

You sit up straighter, practically vibrating now- glee thrumming behind your teeth. You know exactly where this is going, and it’s hilarious. He thinks he’s being smooth. You think you’ve never seen anything so transparently thirsty in your life. He’s trying to half-drunkenly flirt his way into your mouth like it’s a clever psychological tactic. On Christmas, no less. For shame, Max.

He leans back just slightly, like this is no big deal. Says it like he’s offering you a sample tray at the fucking supermarket. “Yeah,” he nods, casual, “kiss me. Then we’ll see if that’s your problem. Science.”

You almost burst out laughing. Does he- does he- think you were born yesterday? That you’re going to fall for this little power play? That he’ll let you kiss him- like he’s doing you a favor- and then what? Rank it? Pat your head? Tell you he approves?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Your grin sharpens, toothy and electric. “No, thank you,” you say sweetly, like you’re declining a timeshare. You pause, letting the silence stretch- just long enough for him to think that’s the end of it.

Your grin turns razor sharp as you lean back onto your elbows, eyes glittering with mischief. “But hey,” you say, all false magnanimity, “you’re welcome to kiss me. And I’ll let you know if you seem like you might be decent in bed. Science, and all.”

That lands.

Max’s mouth twitches- just barely- but you see it. A flicker of something bruised under the surface. He masks it quickly, but not quickly enough. For half a second, he looks like you’ve just outmaneuvered him in his own fantasy- a fantasy where he was the one in control, the one doling out favors and deciding outcomes.

And now? Now he’s the one on his back foot.

You can see the irritation bloom across his features- not because he’s angry, but because he knows you’ve seen through him. Knows you’re right. Knows if he wants this kiss- and oh, he wants it- he’s going to have to do it your way now. Swallow the pride. Take the step.

You’re tricky. You’re sharp. You’re not some girl dazzled by a half-drunk Max Verstappen in a twin bed on Christmas night. You’re a challenge he didn’t see coming, and he’s annoyed because part of him loves it.

He stares at you a moment longer. Considering.

The air shifts.

You’re still close- so close- and the buzz in your bloodstream crackles again as his eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. When he looks back up, it’s different. Looser. Pretending it’s no big deal. Playing it cool.

“Okay,” he says, shrugging one shoulder like he couldn’t care less. Like he’s just humoring you. Like this is purely academic. “Why not.” And you bite your tongue to keep from smiling. Because you won. He leans in- slowly, almost like he’s giving you time to back out. But you don’t.

You don’t move. You barely even breathe.

And then his lips touch yours.

It’s soft. Shockingly soft. Firm in pressure, but not forceful- just the sure contact of one mouth meeting another with no fanfare. No tongue. No push. Just warmth and shape. Skin on skin. A delicate drag as his bottom lip shifts against yours. A breath, exhaled.

Your spine straightens. Nerves fire.

The contact isn’t hungry or possessive- if anything, it’s careful. Like he’s taking a first pass. Feeling it out. Like this isn’t just some cocky play to get in your pants, but something he actually wants to feel.

Your whole body responds on a microscopic level.

Your chest lifts with a sharp inhale, and suddenly your skin feels too tight for your frame. Heat curls low in your stomach, slow and slinky, and your hands twitch slightly against the bed, fingers flexing with the effort of staying still.

Behind your ribs, your heart gives a stutter. Not a pounding gallop, but a heavy thud. Like it’s recalibrating. Like it just noticed something your brain hadn’t caught yet. Your lips part slightly, reacting more than deciding- but there’s no escalation. Not yet. It’s still simple. Still closed. But everything inside you is wide awake.

His lips are warm, not chapped- slightly dry at the center, where the soft of his lower lip drags against yours. You feel the texture of him. The difference in shape. The way his top lip presses a little firmer, the way his bottom one lingers. The faintest catch of breath between you when he shifts- like neither of you are sure what comes next, but neither of you are pulling away.

Your thighs tighten, abs bracing without meaning to. It’s like a silent alarm went off in your body, a thousand small muscles contracting in the same moment.

You feel the wine in your bloodstream like a hum. Feel your fingertips tingle. Feel the entire front of your body start to buzz with the nearness of him- even though you’re not touching anywhere but your mouths. The rest of your bodies are still a breath apart.

And it’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect. In a way that makes it hard to think. Hard to blink. Hard to remember that this was supposed to be a joke. That you were supposed to win.

And just when you think it’s over- when you think he might pull back, break the tension, let it stay light and unspoken- you realize with almost a sense of relief: a kiss without tongue doesn’t really count. Not for adults. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that leaves fingerprints on your ribs. If he stops now, you can both pretend it didn’t happen.

But he doesn’t stop. Instead, his lips shift. Just slightly. His mouth parts. And then there is tongue. Not forceful. Not aggressive. He doesn’t invade- he offers. Soft. Warm. A quiet invitation. And without thinking, without calculating, you accept. Your mouth opens to meet his like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And then- there.

The press of it- your tongue sliding against his, a tentative flick that turns into a rhythm before either of you consciously guide it- sends a shock straight to your spine. It’s not messy. It’s not greedy. It’s precise, like you’re figuring out the way his body wants to speak yours, and yours is already fluent.

Push and pull. Pressure and retreat.

You feel the shift in him immediately- his hand bracing against the mattress to keep from closing the last few centimeters between your bodies. His breath hitches, and the way he tips his chin tells you he’s chasing more. Not rushing. Just following. Syncing to the same tempo you are. Your teeth graze- just barely- and you feel him smile against your mouth like he felt it too. Like he liked it.

And something clicks into place you didn’t know was missing.

Heat pools low in your belly, rising slowly, steadily, until your whole torso feels flooded. Your palms burn against the sheets. You’re still not touching anywhere but your mouths- but it feels like so much more. It feels like the kind of kiss people look back on. The kind that burns into the inside of your skull and lives there forever.

You’re both panting now- barely, but enough. Breath warm between you, barely contained. Your lips sting in the best way, swollen and wet from where he kissed you like he meant it, like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care who got wrecked in the process.

Then his teeth catch your bottom lip. Just a graze. A scrape and a tug, slow and deliberate, before he lets go. And leans back in. This one’s different. Already. There’s a charge behind it- an intention. It lands deeper, darker, laced with something that makes your hips twitch with the need to chase him. Makes you want to fist your hands in his hoodie and pull him flush against you, want to feel the weight of him, the shape of him, press your body against something solid and real and hot. But just as you start to shift, just as your hand flinches to move- 

Max freezes.

It’s not big. Just a second. A half-second. His body stiffens, his hand curls tighter into the bed, his mouth pulls just the slightest bit away. Not enough to break contact, but enough to break momentum.

And then- he’s retreating. Eyes wide. Lips still parted. Breathing hard like he’s been running, or fighting, or caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Something forbidden. He blinks down at you like he’s startled by his own body. Like he doesn’t quite recognize what just came out of him.

You’re still. Still wanting. Still stunned.

And he looks- 

Panicked. A little. Gutted. Maybe. Or like he just remembered who you are. And who he is. And what a terrible, terrible idea this probably is. But still, he doesn’t move further away. Doesn’t bolt. He just stares- wild and stunned- like he’s caught somewhere between what did I just do and why can’t I stop?

He recovers. Of course he does.

You see it flicker across his face like a muscle memory- panic replaced by bravado, by that smug, bulletproof mask he wears in a press conference after he ran someone over on the way to P1. The tilt of his lips creeps back into a smirk, slow and curling, like he’s already rewritten the scene in his head and cast himself as the one in control.

“Well…” he murmurs, voice low, rough from want, “what’s the verdict?”

Cocky. Fucking. Bastard.

Your pulse is pounding. Your lips are tingling. Your body’s still practically vibrating from where his mouth touched yours, where his tongue-  Nope.

You sit back. Just enough to put a breath of air between you. Your palms find the edge of the mattress, grounding. You force your breathing to even out, force the blood to cool beneath your skin even as you feel how flushed you are. He’s watching you closely now- too closely.

But you’re… you. And he’s Max. And you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

You hum. Shrug, like this is just another Tuesday. Like you didn’t nearly melt into a puddle on your own sheets. Like you weren’t fifteen seconds from humping his leg like a dog in heat. You shoot him a sideways glance and smirk right back.

“Mmm…” You let it hang there. Let the anticipation curl. “Decent.”

His brows lift. A flash of disbelief, of protest. “Decent?”

You grin wider. Innocent. Infuriating. “Yeah. Not bad.”

Like you didn’t just come this close to dragging him under you and making very, very bad choices. He stares at you like he doesn’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.

Max looks at you like he might actually say it- that you’re full of shit. That decent is a goddamn crime. That you should be ashamed of yourself, lying like that with your cheeks flushed and your lips still parted like they miss him already.

His jaw twitches. But he doesn’t say a word. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and sharp, like the kiss was just a thing that happened and not what it was. Scoffs- barely audible. Then leans back against the pillow like none of it touched him at all. Like he isn’t still riding the same high. Like the movie he’s seen four times this year is suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

You mimic him perfectly. A little mocking. A little delayed. You wipe your mouth too, soft and slow. Scoff- just as light. Settle yourself back into the other side of your pillow, leaving a space between you that feels too big and too small all at once.

And you watch. Or… pretend to. Because the truth is, you’re aware of everything. Of the way his knee shifts a fraction closer every time he adjusts. The drag of his breath when it catches just a little too long. The warmth radiating from the place where his shoulder brushes yours- barely. But it’s there. You could measure it in microns.

You don’t blink at the screen. Don’t laugh at the dumb jokes you’ve heard a hundred times. You’re too busy trying to keep your body still. Trying not to respond to the electric, alive sensation of almost.

Almost touching. Almost saying something. Almost doing it again. And then somewhere between Ricky Bobby screaming about fire and the rise of the final music cue- your body betrays you. Your lashes flutter once. Your limbs go heavy. And before you can chase down the last sparks still buzzing under your skin- you’re asleep. Just like that.

And Max doesn’t move a muscle. Not for a long, long time.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════ A/N: Hiatus is OVERRRRR. Sorry to kill y'all. No excuses. But here is nearly 50 pages of good, good stuff. I went through a bit of a hard time in terms of motivation and comparison, but it was you guys who interact with the fic on a deep level- with these amazing, reflective comments and asks that spurred me through this writers block. So thank you for that, and please keep them coming because it's truly so meaningful <3

[rosalyn51]

Focus Features Reveals First Downton Abbey The Grand Finale Trailer at Cinema Con 2025

⚠️ Spoilers ⚠️

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Focus Features today offered CinemaCon attendees an emotional look at the first trailer for Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale. This is the last in the trilogy of big screen continuations of the British TV drama phenomenon. It’s written by series creator Julian Fellowes and directed by Simon Curtis.

Plot details had previously been sparse, but the trailer shown today includes a title card that tells us “It’s time to say goodbye” before we see Hugh Bonneville’s Earl of Grantham patting the facade of the manor house on the Grantham Estate in what indeed appears to be a farewell.

Before that, we hear Jim Carter’s Mr. Carson saying, “Welcome to 1930.” There are images of the family at the races, of Dominic West’s Guy Dexter in London’s West End and Michelle Dockery’s Lady Mary ascending steps while wearing a sumptuous red gown. A portrait of the late Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess is also lovingly framed. The first two Downton movies grossed over $287M combined globally.

Source: Deadline

But as one generation passes to another, the trailer notes that it is “time to say goodbye,” and closes with a shot of Lord Grantham giving a fond, possibly farewell pat to Downton Abbey. Will the film see the family leave behind their beloved home? “Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale” hits theaters Sept. 12.

Source: The Wrap

Then, finally, Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale: Begins on a horse track with a shot of the Crawleys. Carson announces, “Welcome to 1930.” We see Lady Mary and Edith a few times. Then one by one each of the original cast return to Downton Abbey, with Lady Mary dressed in all red. Several shots of parties and everyone celebrating. It ends with Robert kissing his hand and then placing it on the side of the Abbey.

Source: ScreenRant

In the footage shown, the cast of Downton Abbey walks onto a field and the audience are welcomed by an announcer to 1930. Taken from cinemas to playhouses, the period piece makes you feel like you’ve time traveled. Then, we’re back at the castle, with a painting on the wall paying homage to Maggie Smith. The friends and family members gather and celebrate for their final farewell.

Source: Collider

Focus Features presented the first look the sequel as part of Universal’s presentation to theater owners and executives at CinemaCon, and it offers some of the upstairs, downstairs drama that’s made this series so beloved — only this time everything is done in a more elegiac key. It’s 1930, and Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery) is mostly seen enjoying herself in London’s high society. For the rest of the short teaser, Lord and Lady Grantham (Hugh Bonneville and Elizabeth McGovern) are shown walking around the grounds of the estate, touching bannisters and stone pillars with an air of finality. As for their loyal servants, they are seen raising a glass to each other, as if to pay tribute to each other for all the immaculately washed linens and perfectly arranged plates of cucumber sandwiches.

Source: Variety

Finally, there’s Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale, which is billed as the last film of the franchise. The entire cast is back, including Hugh Bonneville, Laura Carmichael, Jim Carter, Raquel Cassidy, Brendan Coyle, Michelle Dockery, Kevin Doyle, Michael Fox, Joanne Froggatt, Paul Giamatti, Harry Hadden-Paton, Robert James-Collier, Allen Leech, Phyllis Logan, Elizabeth McGovern, Sophie McShera, Lesley Nicol, Alessandro Nivola, Simon Russell Beale, Dominic West, Penelope Wilton, Arty Froushan, Joely Richardson, Paul Copley, Douglas Reith. The teaser takes place in 1930 and hints that the film is about the Crawleys coming to terms with leaving the Abbey behind. I unabashedly love Downton Abbey, so it will be hard to say goodbye. The finale is set to hit theaters on September 12th. Series creator Julian Fellowes penned the script, with Simon Curtis directing.

Source: JoBlo

[mydearesthrry]

honeyed bliss - h.s.

a/n: hi! here’s another one. post hslot harry, and dadrry, which should be a warning in itself. enjoy!

🎀 warnings/cw: nothing, fluff, ITALYRRY AND DADRRY. im a wreck.

🐇 pairing: husband!dad!harry styles x fem!reader

💐 wc: 800

“Babe, can you come here? I need to tan, but I can't get the tanning lotion on my back.” Y/N shouted sweetly to her husband, voice soft as she turned on her tummy. 

“Yeah m’love, give me two seconds. ‘M cutting up some watermelon for Daisy.” He called back, standing at the drink bar, a knife in his hand as he watched his daughter toddle around in the small area that he stood in. Daisy knocked on the doors that were in the square, knocking on the door to exit as she babbled quietly to herself. 

“Mumma, want mama,” Daisy pouted, perking up when she heard her moms voice. She stumbled a bit when she turned around to look at her dad with pleading puppy dog eyes, her axis of gravity not perfect quite yet. 

“Oh, y’want mama, baby? Okay, let’s get y’to mama.” Harry plucked her up off the ground and hiked her up onto his hip, scooping a couple blocks of watermelon into a yellow bowl. Harry pushed open the door to the drink bar, walking over to his wife who was laying down on a beach chair. His wife turned onto her side, reaching out for her baby who was already squirming in her dads arms. 

“Hi baby! You wanna come lay down with mama? Wanna sunbathe?” Y/N turned on her mom voice, babying her daughter. 

“Mama, mama, mama,” Daisy giggled, patting her mom’s face, a wide smile on her face, looking almost identical to Harry down to the dimples. 

“God, H. I can’t believe I birthed her, held her in my stomach for months, the whole nine yards, and she just looks exactly like you. Like, not even an inch of me in here. She’s got her Daddy’s curly hair, pretty green eyes, and cute little dimples… Don’t you, Dais?” She smiled, turning onto her back to place her baby on her thighs, Daisy’s head coming up to rest on her knees, her legs laying on her torso. 

“Guess so, m’love, but don’t worry, she still loves her Mumma waaaay more than her Daddy.”  Harry comments, munching on watermelon on the beach chair next to you. She turns her head to him and raises an eyebrow, and he smiles sheepishly. 

“Sorry,” he scratches his nose awkwardly. “I didn't mean that.” 

“Good, y’know she loves you just as much as she loves me.” She gave him a stern look, and he could see her eyes through her sunglasses. 

“Yeah, I know. Bad joke, didn’t land. Tough crowd, eh?” He smiled sheepishly. 

“Mmm, guess comedy isn’t for you, hm? Better stick to singing, pretty boy.” Y/N muttered before bringing her baby up to her chest, pressing small butterfly kisses to her head. 

“M’sweet girls, prettiest girls ever,” Harry grins, pulling your phone from underneath the throw pillow your head was resting on, snapping a few precious pictures. “Can’t believe ‘M so lucky.” 

Twisting his back to look behind him, he reached out to switch the bowl of watermelon for the camcorder, turning it on and recording his wife and daughter, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Today is July 26, 2023, a couple of days after the final Love On Tour show, and we’ve just gotten home to the Styles Villa in the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Here we have Mama and baby bunny in their most rawest forms,” Harry narrated, a grin on his face when he heard a sweet giggle emit from his wife’s chest. “Baby bunny’s sporting a cute swim set gifted to her from her favorite uncle, Uncle Alessandro, and Mama’s wearing a Gucci swim set as well, looking as beautiful as ever with the most beautiful and glowy skin-”

“H, shut up!” She guffaws, placing an embarrassed hand on her face. “Dais is gonna watch these one day and be scarred by the way you’re talking about me.”

Harry turns the camera so it’s on his face, “Little Daisy, if you’re watching these right now in the future, never settle for less than how I treat Mama. Y’deserve to be treated like a queen, m’soul, never ever settle for less.”

He flips the camera around again to face his girls, catching a tail end of YN’s eyeroll on camera. “Yes, sweet girl. I agree with Daddy, never settle for less.” She places more sweet kisses on Daisy’s head, cooing with Harry when a soft snore leaves their baby’s lips.

“Well, since y’asleep now, I think that’s a good place to leave it. We love you, Daisy. Byeeeee!” Harry waves, turning in his seat to have the camera face him and his small family. YN giggles and blows kisses, waving until Harry turns off the camera.

“We’ve got it good, Lovie.” He smiles, leaning forward to peck a kiss to her cheek, her temple, and then one on her lips, being cautious of the sleeping baby on her chest.

“Yes, we do.”

[yoshi1517]

THE CARABINIERI ACADEMY

CHAPTER 1 : THE DREAM BEGINS

The sun was high in the sky as the new cadets of the latest Officer Training Course arrived at the grand gates of the renowned Carabinieri Academy in Florence.

Antonio had come with his family, eager to embark on this new adventure. The journey to get here had not been easy, written tests, physical trials, and psychological evaluations had made it a real challenge, but now, he stood before those imposing gates.

"Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. I'll see you on oath day," Antonio said.

He bid farewell once more to his family, knowing he would only see them through a phone screen for the next year. With his suitcase in hand, he followed a superior officer who had come to escort the new cadets.

As they walked toward the academy's main square, Antonio took in his surroundings. The academy looked enormous, but what truly caught his attention were his new coursemates. He saw many young men around his age—24 years old—but also some who were older. Everyone was dressed formally, wearing jackets and ties. Some were incredibly muscular, with thick arms and legs, while others, like him, were simply fit.

Once they reached the square, they were lined up, and to welcome them stood none other than the academy commander himself, Commander Alessandro.

"Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome," the commander said. "You will spend the next 12 months training here as Carabinieri until the day of your oath. Remember, with dedication and commitment, anyone can become an outstanding officer. So, give it your best."

After the commander left, two young cadets, recently sworn in, gave the newcomers a tour of the academy. The new recruits were fascinated by the classrooms, the gyms, and the training grounds, their expectations were being met, and they couldn’t wait to begin.

At the end of the tour, one of the cadets explained that they would now receive all the clothing they needed for their stay at the academy, along with the study materials and the room assignments.

Antonio felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He was eager to meet his new roommates but hoped they would be friendly, and, most importantly, open-minded.

The room was not small, just the right size for what they needed. There were three beds, each with a wardrobe and a bedside table with a lamp. In front of the window stood a large desk with a lamp, perfect for late-night studying. When Antonio entered, he saw that his two roommates had already settled in and were putting on their cadet uniforms.

"Well, now we’re complete," one of them said as he noticed Antonio.

"Hi," Antonio greeted them timidly.

"Relax, we don’t bite," the other replied jokingly as he finished adjusting his uniform. "I’m Marco," he said.

"Paolo," the other introduced himself with a nod.

"I’m Antonio," he responded. "Where should I put my stuff?" he asked, looking at their belongings.

"The middle bed, if that works for you," Marco said, pointing to the only unoccupied bed. "I prefer to sleep near the window, unlike Paolo," he added with a grin.

"Listen, if I hear noise, I won’t sleep, and then waking me up for the morning flag-raising will be your problem," Paolo said with a smirk.

The three of them burst into laughter. The initial tension had vanished; they were now roommates, ready to take on this journey together. While waiting for dinner, they chatted about their families, their reasons for choosing this path, and their dreams for the future after leaving the academy.

Marco had a strong, athletic build and never hid his passion for the gym from his friends. His friendly face, warm gaze, and dark brown curls gave him an undeniable charm. He came from a close-knit family that always valued helping others. This upbringing instilled in him a deep sense of responsibility, which ultimately drove him to join the Carabinieri. He wanted to make a difference. Naturally inclined to leadership, he had set his sights on becoming an officer. His ambition extended in two directions, one day, he hoped to become an academy instructor, but he also longed to serve in the field.

Paolo, on the other hand, was more of an intellectual. Incredibly intelligent and endlessly curious, he had always excelled in school. At some point, he realized that law enforcement wasn’t just about physical strength, it required strategy, knowledge, and quick thinking. His talents could be an asset in this world, which led him to enroll in the academy. Though leaner than Marco, he was still in good shape, having trained rigorously for the physical tests. His short black hair and thoughtful expression made it seem like he was always deep in thought. His ultimate goal? To join the intelligence division of the Carabinieri.

And then there was Antonio. Determined and strong-willed, at least on the surface. His build was athletic and well-toned, nothing compared to Marco’s, but still impressive. His piercing black eyes reflected his resilience, and his straight, jet-black hair had a small lock that always fell onto his forehead. Coming from a family with a history in law enforcement, Antonio had always felt destined to follow in their footsteps. His dream was simple: finish his training and become an officer in his hometown’s station.

Dinner was just as enjoyable as the rest of the day. The mess hall buzzed with conversation as the cadets got to know each other, their camaraderie growing with every passing moment. Antonio, Marco, and Paolo continued chatting throughout their meal, discussing football, music, and their favorite video games, even making a pact to challenge each other once their time at the academy was over.

That night, Antonio went to bed with a contented smile. Everything was better than he had expected, his roommates were friendly, and the year ahead suddenly felt less daunting and much more exciting.

The next morning, Antonio was rudely awakened by a sudden jolt, he had fallen out of bed.

"Move it! We have flag-raising in five minutes!" Marco called out.

Still half-asleep, Antonio groggily looked up to see Marco shirtless, tidying up his bed. At the same time, Paolo was stepping out of the bathroom, also shirtless, after freshening up.

"The bathroom’s free. Hurry up, you still have to get dressed and make your bed," Paolo said.

But Antonio was momentarily frozen. He couldn't help but admire his roommates. Marco was more defined than Paolo, but both of them were undeniably attractive.

Before they could notice the way he was staring, Antonio rushed into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to shake off his thoughts.

"I can't let this get to me. For all I know, they’re not even into guys," he muttered to himself.

In just five minutes, he washed up, dressed, and straightened his bed. Soon, all three of them were standing at attention in the square alongside the rest of the cadets for the morning ceremony.

During breakfast, Antonio was still feeling groggy from the abrupt wake-up call.

"Try not to fall asleep in your milk," Paolo teased.

"I hate waking up with a start… I guess I'll have to get used to this schedule," Antonio muttered, stifling a yawn.

"You’ll have plenty of time to wake up, our first class is Criminal Law and Procedure with Professor Locatelli. Not the most exciting subject, but apparently, he’s a good teacher and has a sense of humor," Marco said.

By 8:30 AM, they were already seated in the lecture hall as their fellow cadets trickled in. Antonio, however, found his mind drifting back to that morning. He knew this wouldn’t be the first or last time he’d see his roommates shirtless, or possibly even more, but he couldn’t afford to let his emotions jeopardize everything. Not until he knew where they stood.

Would they accept him if they found out? Would they react badly? The uncertainty gnawed at him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their professor.

"Good Morning"

The entire class immediately stood at attention.

"Be seated."

As soon as everyone settled, the professor continued, "Welcome to the academy and to your course on Criminal Law and Procedure. I’m Professor Locatelli. Now, let’s begin."

Despite his initial drowsiness, Antonio found himself more awake. Law wasn’t his favorite subject, but Professor Locatelli had a way of keeping the class engaged. Everyone listened intently, taking notes, everyone except for one student in the back row.

Antonio noticed him right away. Unlike the rest, this guy wasn’t paying attention at all. Instead, he was absorbed in his laptop, typing away, seemingly uninterested in the lesson.

Antonio leaned toward his friends and whispered, "Do you guys know who that is?"

"I don’t," Paolo replied, "but he clearly doesn’t care about the class. Personally, I find it fascinating."

"I don’t know him personally," Marco added, "but some of the others said his name is Gio. He’s our age."

Antonio nodded but kept glancing back at the mysterious student. Throughout the lecture, he found himself wondering, what was so important that Gio couldn’t even pretend to listen?

"Hi guys and welcome to the first chapter of the new story. Let me know your thought in the comments as always and remember to subscribe if you want to read all the other chapters I'll publish and all the stories I have already published"

[acesw]

The statues in Apeiron's Hall of Truth are real statues

In Apeiron's Hall of Truth, there are 5 sculptures that are laid out along the walls of the room. While looking around, I found that the statues happened to be ones you can find in real life.

I was able to identify 3 of the 5 sculptures, but the two sculptures on the far left are currently left unidentified since it was too dark to be able to image search them properly.

Though, I want to focus on the sculptures that I was able to find information on. Let's get started.

These 3 statues were identified to be from the Schönbrunn Garden, a palace garden located in Vienna, Austria (surprising, I know). In the Great Parterre area of the garden, there are 32 statues depicting various Greco-Roman mythological deities and virtues. These 3 are no different.

Asclepius, Greek God of Healing and Medicine (Veit Königer)

Asclepius is most known for the rod that he holds, wrapped by a snake (a sacred animal who held wisdom, healing, and resurrection) who granted him secret knowledge in exchange of kindness. The rod—similar to Hermes' caduceus by design—is the most iconic and used symbol for medicine and healing today.

Gaius Mucius Scaevola, Roman Youth Figure (Johann Martin Fischer)

Mucius here is most known for his willpower during the Roman-Etruscan wars. "Scaevola" is a term/cognomen that means "left-handed." The name was given to Mucius after he willingly placed his right hand over an open flame when he was held captive and threatened for execution by Clusian King Lars Porsena.

Porsena let him go after finding that the young man (and by extension, the young Romans) was more than willing to hurt himself if it meant that Rome would reign victorious over Clusium.

Flora, Roman God of Spring and Flowers (Johann Wilhelm Beyer)

She was a well-celebrated minor goddess in Roman mythology, and was also one of the many deities that signified youth and fertility given the nature of springtime. The Floralia is a ancient Roman festival that celebrated Flora with drinking, flowers, and entertainments. She has a temple that was established in 238 BCE.

Note: At one point, I mistook the statue for the Flora Farnese, one of the many statues part of the collection of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese (later Pope Paul III). I found that Flora had her own statue in the gardens as well a bit later.

The Unidentified Sculptures

There are two other sculptures that are currently left unidentified because the area was too dark and thus leaving too much room for pixelation of the images when it came to cropping them.

There are a couple of notes that can be considered if you wish to find them:

The first sculpture has a beard, and holds the cloth wrapped around his waist. The cloth also seeps to be wrapped around his shoulder.

The second statue is of a clean-shaven man with very loose clothing. He has his right arm raised while also having an animal by his side.

Neither of them are sculptures from the garden. Trust me, I already went through each image of the article more than once.

Here's the sculptures but under a brighter light despite there being less details.

A close match I could get from the second statue would be that of Bacchus by Georg Pfründt, but it's not quite as close as I'd like it to be.

Anyways, these are just some observations I wanted to note down. I spent way too many hours trying to find the two sculptures. Thanks for reading and have fun if you want to try to search for the unidentified statues.

[legendary-69420]

☆ Christmas in Monaco ☆ Racing Hearts Holiday Special

A/N : MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!

Song : "Snowman - Sia"

Mark Spencer had always enjoyed spending Christmas with the Leclerc family, even if it wasn’t his own. His parents, Alessandro and Isabella, were always wrapped up in business commitments, leaving him with an unusual sense of freedom during the holidays. And so, he found himself once again on the French Riviera, tucked away in the warmth and comfort of the Leclerc family villa in Monaco. The Leclercs had long become like a second family to him.

The moment Mark entered the house, the air was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. Pascale was busy in the kitchen, her gentle humming filling the space as she prepared the final touches for the family’s Christmas feast. Mark’s heart warmed at the sight of her—it was hard not to feel at home in such a welcoming place.

“Mark, dear, would you mind grabbing the chocolate chips?” Pascale asked, her hands flour-dusted as she worked on the dough.

Mark grinned, pulling a large bowl of chocolate chips from the cupboard. “I’m on it,” he said, only for a few chips to spill onto the counter as he fumbled with the bowl. He didn’t mind the mess—it was part of the fun.

Pascale chuckled softly. “You know, Mark, you’re welcome to call me Pascale. No need to be so formal.”

Mark looked over his shoulder, pretending to look serious. “Of course, Mrs. Leclerc… uh, I mean, Pascale, Ma’am.”

Pascale let out a small laugh, the kind of laugh that made anyone feel at ease. “You really do have a knack for making me smile, don’t you?”

He shrugged, still grinning. “It’s my secret weapon.”

As he continued his clumsy task, flour got everywhere—his hands, the counter, even his sweater, which was an obnoxiously festive red with snowflakes on it. It was a gift from Arthur, who had insisted it would be the perfect addition to Mark’s holiday wardrobe. Mark would never admit it aloud, but he liked it, even if it made him look a little ridiculous.

The moment he tried to scoop more chocolate chips into the bowl, he slipped on one that had rolled off the counter. The bowl went flying, spilling flour everywhere.

“Whoops!” Mark exclaimed, his voice high-pitched with embarrassment. He stood up, covered head to toe in white powder. A sneeze wracked his body, making him cough.

Pascale doubled over, her laughter ringing through the kitchen. “Oh, dear. You’ve certainly made a mess now, haven’t you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Mark mumbled, attempting to brush some of the flour from his face.

Pascale tried to regain her composure, but the sight of him looking like a snowman had her laughing even harder. “It’s alright, darling. Just be more careful, next time.”

Mark gave a sheepish grin and wiped his nose. “Not my finest moment.”

Charles, who had been lounging in the living room, glanced up from his iPad when he heard the laughter. His eyes briefly met Mark’s, and for a moment, there was something in his gaze—something that Mark couldn’t quite place. He turned his attention back to the book he was reading, but his mind wandered back to Mark.

Arthur, sitting on the couch next to his brother, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You’ve been stuck on Chapter 34 for months now. Just admit it already,” he said, his voice low enough that only Charles could hear.

Charles stiffened and glared at his brother. “Shut up, Arthur.” He didn’t dignify the teasing with a response, but his eyes flickered back to Mark.

Mark, oblivious to the conversation happening between the brothers, made his way upstairs to change. Flour still clung to his sweater as he tried to peel it off, but the fabric stuck stubbornly to him.

“Need help?” Charles’s voice broke through the silence. He leaned against the doorframe, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched Mark’s struggle.

Mark groaned, trying to yank the sweater over his head but only making it worse. “I got it, don’t worry,” he muttered, stepping back and stumbling around the room, still trying to pull off the stubborn sweater. In his clumsy efforts, he knocked over a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Ow! Damn it!” Mark groaned, smacking his head against the wall as he tried to navigate around the room. “Fine, fine, help me,” he conceded.

Charles stepped closer, his smirk widening. “And what do we say?”

Mark glared at him with a mock angry expression. “Help me before I punch you in the face,” he snapped, but there was no real heat in his voice.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Nope. Try again.”

Mark huffed, leaning against the bed. “Help me before I murder you in your sleep.”

Charles’s grin grew. “Nuh-uh. Say the magic word.”

Mark crossed his arms and groaned, then muttered reluctantly, “Ugh, please?”

“Better.” Charles chuckled, stepping forward to help Mark with the sweater. As he did, he was careful to avoid touching too much of Mark’s body, but his eyes lingered slightly longer than they should have. Mark noticed the pause, but he didn’t comment on it.

Mark’s voice broke the tension as he teasingly remarked, “You’re staring, Sharles.”

Charles immediately flushed, his face turning red. “Oh, please. Like you don’t flash your abs at every opportunity.”

Mark laughed. “Fair enough.”

Downstairs, Pascale and Arthur exchanged a knowing look as they waited for the boys. The family had settled in front of the fire, the Christmas tree twinkling softly in the background, and a cozy warmth filled the room.

“So when do you think they’ll acknowledge the elephant in the room?” Pascale asked casually, though there was a playful glint in her eyes.

Arthur feigned innocence, pretending not to know exactly what she was talking about. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low enough to make it sound like he was hiding something.

Pascale’s smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. “I’m their mother. Of course, I know what’s going on.”

Arthur choked on his water, his eyes widening. “You knew?”

“Always,” Pascale replied with a sly smile that spoke volumes. “You two may think you’re subtle, but I’ve been around long enough to know better.”

Arthur shook his head, trying to suppress a grin. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping track of this the whole time.”

Pascale merely shrugged. “You boys are a lot easier to read than you think.”

When Mark and Charles finally returned downstairs, Mark had changed into a crisp white button-up shirt. It was a stark contrast to the casual warmth of the day, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Charles. As soon as Mark entered the room, Charles’ eyes immediately went to the undone buttons on Mark’s shirt, his chest visible underneath.

“You’ll catch a cold, idiot,” Charles muttered under his breath, stepping forward to button up the shirt for Mark. It was a small gesture, but it held so much weight. Their proximity created a bubble of tension in the room, unnoticed by everyone else. The family continued with their festive cheer, but the air between Mark and Charles had shifted. The others noticed the change, exchanging amused glances, but no one commented on it.

Just as the moment seemed to linger too long, Leo, Charles’ dog, broke the silence. The small dog bounded up to Mark, tail wagging furiously. Mark laughed and crouched down, scratching Leo behind the ears. The moment of tension dissipated as the family chuckled, the soft sound of Leo’s excited bark filling the room.

Later in the evening, the Leclerc family gathered around to decorate the Christmas tree. Mark was eager to help, his enthusiasm infectious. He insisted that Pascale place the star on top of the tree, but when she hesitated, he quickly turned to Charles.

“Come on, pick me up so I can reach the top!” Mark urged, grinning mischievously.

Charles rolled his eyes, trying to sound casual. “We have a ladder for that, you idiot.”

Mark shot him a knowing look. “I knew you’d try to be the hero,” he teased, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Charles replied, though the playful glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

As they decorated the tree, the festive spirit grew in the house. Everyone was laughing and teasing each other, their voices blending together in a symphony of Christmas cheer. Mark felt a sense of warmth inside him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time—like he truly belonged.

The soft chime of the doorbell echoed through the cozy warmth of the Leclerc family villa. Mark glanced around, mildly confused. He hadn't been expecting anyone—after all, the Leclercs were supposed to be his family for Christmas. Pascale, holding a tray of steaming mugs of mulled wine, smiled mysteriously. "Why don’t you get that, Mark?" she suggested, her tone so casual that it raised suspicion.

Mark squinted at her, his lips quirking into a playful smirk. “Alright, but if it’s carolers, I’m bringing them in, and you’ll have to feed them,” he teased as he strolled toward the door, his socks muffling his steps on the polished floor.

As he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing before him were Alessandro and Isabella Spencer, his parents, looking as elegant as ever yet softened by the festive warmth of the season. Alessandro’s sharp suit was offset by a wool scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, while Isabella's emerald-green coat and matching gloves seemed to shimmer against the soft glow of the villa’s Christmas lights.

“Mom? Dad?” Mark’s voice broke slightly, disbelief and joy mingling in his words.

His mother’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and she opened her arms wide. “Surprise, darling!”

Before he could process what was happening, she had pulled him into a tight hug, the familiar scent of her lavender perfume flooding his senses. His father followed, clapping a hand on Mark’s shoulder with a rare, tender grin.

“We couldn’t let you spend Christmas without us this year,” Alessandro said, his voice warm but with its usual authoritative undertone.

Mark swallowed hard, fighting the sting of unexpected tears. He hadn’t realized how much he missed them until they were standing in front of him. He pulled them both into another hug, his voice muffled against his father’s coat. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Pascale appeared in the doorway, her face glowing with satisfaction. “I thought it might be nice to have a full house this year,” she said with a knowing smile.

Mark turned to her, his grin wide and boyish. “You knew about this?”

She nodded, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “A little Christmas magic never hurt anyone.”

Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo joined them, standing slightly back as Mark introduced his parents. Isabella’s warm, maternal energy immediately won over Pascale, the two women exchanging compliments and laughing as if they were old friends. Alessandro, while more reserved, greeted Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with a firm handshake, his sharp eyes assessing but kind.

Charles watched the scene unfold, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something in the way Mark’s face lit up—a vulnerability that wasn’t often on display. It stirred something unfamiliar in Charles, something he quickly pushed aside.

Later in the evening, with the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner and the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air, the family gathered in the living room for a game of charades. Pascale had insisted, pulling out a small basket filled with slips of paper bearing prompts ranging from festive movies to absurd actions.

Mark, ever the showman, volunteered to go first. He reached into the basket, pulling out a slip of paper and glancing at it before dramatically placing a finger to his lips.

As Mark took center stage during charades, Charles couldn’t stop watching him. It wasn’t just Mark’s dramatic antics that held his attention—it was the way his energy seemed to fill the entire room, drawing everyone in like a gravitational force.

“Okay, here we go,” he said, stepping into the center of the room.

He began by miming a large, exaggerated box, pretending to tie a bow on top. Arthur immediately shouted, “Present!”

Mark nodded enthusiastically and moved on, flapping his arms like wings before cupping his hands to his mouth and mimicking a loud “ho ho ho.”

“Santa!” Pascale guessed, clapping her hands.

The final clue had everyone stumped. Mark mimed skiing down a slope, then falling over dramatically, rolling on the floor and clutching his leg in mock agony.

“Is it a skiing accident?” Arthur guessed, his brow furrowed.

“Close!” Mark exclaimed, pointing at him and then miming a cast on his leg.

“Broken leg while skiing?”

Mark gave an exaggerated nod, and the room erupted in laughter and applause.

Charles, reluctantly pulled into the game by Pascale, took his turn. His first prompt was “snowman,” and he hesitated before stiffly miming rolling three balls of snow. His awkward movements had everyone in stitches, particularly Mark, who couldn’t stop laughing.

“You’re terrible at this, Sharles,” Mark teased between fits of laughter.

When Mark rolled on the floor, laughing so hard his cheeks turned pink, Charles found himself smiling despite his usual reluctance to indulge in such games. He told himself it was because of the ridiculousness of the scene, but deep down, he knew better.

Charles shot him a mock glare, his lips twitching into an unwilling smile. “At least I’m not rolling on the floor like a lunatic.”

Lorenzo proved to be a surprise hit, his natural confidence and charm making him an unexpectedly skilled mime. His impressions of a reindeer and a chimney sweep had everyone howling with laughter, particularly Pascale, who wiped tears from her eyes.

The game continued late into the night, the room filled with laughter and teasing banter. Even Alessandro, usually reserved, joined in, his dry humor adding a new layer of fun. By the end, everyone was sprawled across the couches, breathless from laughing so hard.

The next afternoon, a rare snowfall blanketed Monaco, turning the usually sun-drenched streets into a winter wonderland. Mark had been the first to suggest venturing outside, bundling up in a thick scarf and gloves as he dragged Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with him.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Mark declared, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a perfect ball.

Arthur grinned mischievously. “You mean a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pelt Charles with snowballs?”

Before Charles could protest, Arthur launched a snowball that hit him square in the chest.

“You’re dead,” Charles growled, grabbing his own handful of snow and hurling it back.

The fight escalated quickly. Mark, ever the instigator, joined forces with Arthur, the two of them pelting Charles relentlessly as he tried to defend himself. Lorenzo stood back at first, observing with amusement, but soon joined the fray, his competitive streak emerging as he expertly aimed snowballs at everyone.

“Cowards! Three against one isn’t fair!” Charles shouted, laughing despite himself.

Pascale and Isabella watched from the villa’s patio, sipping hot chocolate and laughing as Alessandro stood stoically beside them, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Mark’s competitive streak took over, and he charged at Charles, tackling him into a snowbank.

When Mark tackled him into the snowbank, Charles was caught off guard—not just by the force of it, but by the way Mark’s grin hovered so close to his own. His heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

They wrestled briefly, snow flying everywhere, before Charles managed to flip Mark onto his back.

“Say uncle!” Charles demanded, pinning Mark’s arms down.

“Never!” Mark shouted, squirming as Arthur lobbed another snowball at Charles.

Eventually, they all collapsed into the snow, breathless and red-faced from the cold and exertion. The laughter carried across the snowy yard, a sound so pure and joyful that even Alessandro couldn’t resist cracking a smile.

Mark lay on his back, staring up at the pale winter sky. “Best Christmas ever,” he muttered, the words soft but sincere.

Charles, lying beside him, turned his head to look at Mark. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the snow muffling all sound. “Yeah,” Charles said quietly. “It’s not bad.”

Lorenzo, noticing the sudden seriousness, lobbed another snowball at them, breaking the moment.

“Come on, you lovebirds!” he called, laughing as he ran back toward the villa.

Mark and Charles exchanged a look, both flustered, before scrambling to their feet and chasing after Lorenzo and Arthur, their laughter echoing through the snowy streets of Monaco.

----

(Dividers by @junabuggy @wcnderlnds @issysh3ll )

Another Surprise is awaiting for you!!!!

[princess-of-the-corner]

Weird trivia to improve Lila's credibility:

No, Zoe, it's not just France where cashiers get a chair. In fact it's everywhere but the US.

English is not a Romance language but a Germanic one that had much of its vocabulary killed and replaced by the French equivalents after the Norman conquest. Especially when it came to stuff for the (French-speaking) nobles. To paraphrase Walter Scott, it was pig, with a Germanic word, when the peasant raised the animal, and pork, with a French one, when the noble ate it.

Zorro started out as a novel character. Yes, a novel. Back in the day, The Curse of Capistrano was that big of a deal and people convinced themselves it was based on folk tales.

Oh, you think Zorro was a big hit? Well, The Bethroted was so big in 19th century Italy that one of its runaway memes is the standard Italian language. Because when people finally got around starting unification there was the problem of the common language, as the 14th century Tuscan favored by intellectuals and Lingua Franca just didn't cut it anymore and every state had at least one language, almost everyone of course favored theirs, and then Alessandro Manzoni, from Milan, went and literally learned modern Florentine just to write the definitive version of his novel on it, and it was so big of a hit the discussions lost meaning as now the Florentine dialect of Tuscan WAS the Italian language.

The Italian language had a word for technobabble over a century before Star Trek, it's Latinorum. And another meme from The Bethroted, because Manzoni was that big back then.

As someone who works as a cashier in america I am dying give me a chair.

[rovasdiary]

haven’t seen anyone write about him so i took matters into my own hands, enjoy!

kyle alessandro x fem!reader . ✧.*

warnings: mutual pining, some swearing, SLIGHT angst if you squint, smoking in future chapters, too lazy to proofread

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

꩜ you saw him before he saw you.

technically, he wasn’t even looking your way—just standing behind a small group of press, tugging at the sleeves of his silver jacket like it didn’t fit right, like he hadn’t already worn it on stage three times. his hair was messier than usual. his hands kept fidgeting like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was meant to be chill. and god, he still did that thing—tilting his head when he was listening to someone, nodding a little too earnestly, like the world needed encouragement just to keep spinning.

you should’ve walked the other way.

you should’ve grabbed your mic and followed your team toward the green room and pretended like you didn’t feel your stomach drop into your knees the second you saw him.

but you didn’t.

instead, you stood there for a second too long. long enough for your stylist to give you a weird look. long enough for the music in the press lounge to change. long enough for kyle alessandro to turn his head, look up—

—and freeze.

his lips parted slightly. he blinked. once, twice. then his eyes widened, just a little. like he hadn’t prepared for this, either.

because of course he hadn’t. this wasn’t supposed to happen. he was supposed to be norway, and you were supposed to be the netherlands, and sure, you were both on the list for this stupid media week warmup, but nobody had said he’d be here. not at the same showcase. not within ten feet. not looking at you like you were a memory that had just materialized out of thin air.

and suddenly, it was summer again.

your lungs forgot how to work. your dress felt too tight at the ribs. and you remembered—in vivid, excruciating detail—how his voice sounded in the dark. how his fingers had traced half-written lyrics across your back. how you’d left him in spain with nothing but a paper plane note and a lie about timing.

you didn’t know he’d kept the note.

you didn’t know he’d be smiling like this—soft, surprised, stunned—like seeing you again was something good. not something that cracked open every part of him that had tried so hard to move on.

he didn’t say anything.

neither did you.

his manager called his name first. yours called it a second later.

and just like that, you both looked away.

you didn’t see him again until rehearsal. he was standing just offstage while you sound-checked, sipping water from a beat-up thermos and pretending not to look directly at you.

you pretended not to care.

but you knew. you felt it. his eyes on you. the hesitation in his step when you walked past him on your way out. the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you, or say something, or—

but no. he didn’t.

and neither did you.

because it wasn’t summer anymore. it wasn’t barcelona rooftops and stolen kisses behind gear trucks. it was a big stage, and bright lights, and a thousand cameras waiting to catch a single second of weakness.

so you kept walking.

and behind you, kyle didn’t follow.

the first time you met him, he was upside down.

literally.

it was some strange rooftop party in barcelona, the kind that smelled like citrus and wine and bad decisions. you were there with your friend from a songwriting workshop—just tagging along, pretending not to hate the crowd—and he was hanging off the edge of a couch, legs up against the wall, trying to play guitar backwards.

“i call it creative blood flow,” he said, when you raised an eyebrow.

you were unimpressed. “you’re gonna pass out.”

he grinned, upside-down and entirely too confident. “worth it if the verse slaps.”

he ended up passing out ten minutes later, but the verse actually did slap.

you didn’t know he was from norway until halfway through the night. didn’t know he was kyle alessandro until three days later, when you saw his name on a busking schedule near the marina.

but you remembered his face. the way he lit up when people sang along with him. the way his smile cracked a little more on the right. how he let you steal his bracelet without protest and then asked if you’d come to his show that night as “payment.”

you hadn’t planned to stay the whole summer.

but somehow, you did.

somehow, kyle became your safe place. your late-night songwriting buddy. your stupid, sweet, annoying almost-boyfriend. the guy who danced like a glitchy npc and kissed like he couldn’t believe it was allowed.

you kept it quiet. no one else needed to know. it was just the two of you, and barcelona, and a playlist full of drafts neither of you had the nerve to finish.

he asked you, once, if you’d ever write about him.

you didn’t answer.

you left a week later with a hug that lasted too long and a goodbye that wasn’t really a goodbye.

just, “this was fun.”

and him, standing barefoot in the doorway, asking “will i see you again?”

you had said, “maybe.”

you didn’t know “maybe” would feel like a lie for the rest of the year.

divider by strangergraphics!

rova’s notes ౨ৎ

hope you guys enjoyed! tell me if you want more (idc im going to make more anyway)

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Old men aren’t always wise, Primo is well aware of that ; his own father being the most striking exemple of elder stupidity he can think of. Yet he, Primo Emeritus, humbly thinks he himself has been made wise by life. Raising three younger brothers since their idiot of a father wouldn’t...well, it definitely taught him things, and, most importantly, allowed him to form a strong bond with them.

He knows his brothers like the back of his hand ; severe, cold and bitter Secondo, who shies away from the very love he desperately craves ; flamboyant, charismatic Terzo, hidding a bottomless pit of self-hatred under pretty smiles, witty jokes and flirty comments ; sweet, kind-hearted Copia, who feels like an impostor as he battles with Sister Imperator’s clumsy, sometimes harsh and unfit motherly affection. They aren’t perfect, and neither is Primo or their relationship, but they tried, tried so hard, built trust, love and loyalty between all of them, and in the end, it’s all that matter.

Point is. Primo is wise, and he knows his brothers. Knows Terzo – no, not Terzo. Alessandro. So as he watches the scene unfolding in front of him, he knows instantly. It’s in the way his brother’s eyes linger on the rythm guitarist, not long enough for it to be obvious, but enough for Primo to notice. In the way Terzo is almost always subcounciously turning toward the quintessence ghoul as he talks and offers new ideas. In the way his face lights up when Omega praises said ideas, and add his owns. In the way the singer takes every occasions to brush against his ghoul, to adjust the position of his crooked grucifx, to pat his strong arms. How Terzo’s ears grow pink when they make eye contact for just a fraction too long.

Omega is, admitedly, harder to read, even though Primo worked with the ghoul for a time. He always liked him, sturdy, serious, as amazing a pack leader as a musician. He seems more relaxed with Terzo than he was with Primo, a tad more playful, which the older man doesn’t resent. And despite his difficulties to intrepret the quintessence ghoul’s attitude, there are signs that don’t lie. A way of angling himself so that Terzo is never out of his sight, leaning ever so slightly into Terzo’s fleeting touch, praising him with a special kind of warmth in his voice, the ocasional soft, fond chuckle at one of the singer’s joke, absent-mindedly brushing his tail against Terzo’s leg.

If all that wasn’t enough, the other ghouls’ frequent shared knowing glances would be great giveaways as well. So Primo smiles and keeps listening, keeps watching.

Once they reach the end of the practice session, Terzo saunters toward the armchair his older brother folded himself in, ever the showman, grinning.

« So, what do you think, old man ? »

Primo chuckles softly.

« I see you’ve been working hard. I must say, I’m impressed. You’ve grown, and your music with you. »

For just a moment, Primo gets a small, private smile ; Alessandro’s smile, as his little brother squeezes his bony hand in his gloved one.

« Thank you, » he whispers. Then his smile widens, turns into that cocky grin everyone knows, his voice rising again. « Had any favorite ? Ah, your growling vocals-loving hide must have liked Mummy Dust, right ? But you’re a sentimental one too. Maybe He is ? »

Primo shakes his head with a huff.

« Both are very nice, as is the rest of the album, but I have to confess, Deus In Absentia struck me the most. »

At that, Terzo’s face makes something complicated, and he looks over his shoulder, meeting Omega’s eyes from where the ghoul is packing his guitar. He stares back, tipping his head in acknowledgement. Terzo looks back at Primo with an expression just a tiniest bit more eager than he’d usually let it be.

« Really ? Omega helped me with the lyrics. I admit, it might be one of my favorites as well. »

As always, Terzo is quick to offer his arm to his older brother when Primo gets up, much less gracefully than in his youth.

« Well, it is truly a touching song, in my opinion. Both emotional and majestic. »

He leads the both of them to his rose garden in comfortable silence, and only speaks up once he’s sure they are truly alone.

« So, Omega, eh ? Somehow, I’m not even surprised. »

Terzo splutters, almost tripping over his own feet.

« Wh- what ? I don’t- »

A warm smile pulls at Primo’s lips, lightening his weathered face.

« Alessandro Terzo Emeritus, I have known you for your entire life. I know how being in love looks on you. »

For a few seconds, his little brother stares at him, before letting out a long sigh and running a hand through his hair, ears going pink again.

« He is- he’s special, Prim- Dante. He- I never felt that way before. Not that much. »

Primo huffs, gives Terzo’s arm a light squeeze.

« I am glad. I always thought he was a truly admirable ghoul. I trust he takes good care of you ? »

Terzo hums, hanging his head down, raven black locks brushing his features.

« It might sound stupid, but he makes me feel...special. Me, not Papa Emeritus the third. Like he can see right through every layers of bullshit I wrap myself in. »

Primo stops walking, turning around to face his little brother. His happy-looking, flustered little brother. Softly, gently, he presses his bony hand to Terzo’s chest, right above the heart.

« You deserve it. You deserve someone who sees you. I am so, so very happy for you. »

Terzo lights up.

« I’m thinking...I’d like him to know my name. My real name, I mean. I know he would use it wisely ; hell, he was long hesitant about calling me Terzo in public. »

Though it isn’t a question, he looks up through his lashes at Primo, in search of something. The older man pats his brother head with a raspy chuckle. Gives him the reassurance he needs ; the one their father could never give them ; the one Primo endavored to offer his brothers whenever he could.

« I’m sure he’ll be honored. A lovely ghoul indeed. » Primo takes a step back, considers, then decides that a bit of teasing cannot hurt. «  And he’s big too, isn’t he ? »

Terzo chokes on his inhale, instinctively covering his ears, either to hide the flush that can only be seen there because of the paint, or to fruitlessly try and block words he already heard.

« I- the hell ? »

With a snort, Primo smiles mischieviously.

« What ? He is, you barely reach what, his chest perhaps ? »

He waits for realization to dawn on Terzo before adding :

« But, you know. Huge down there too, I’m sure. »

His little brother splutters, before shaking his head incredulously.

« If you were Secondo, I would have kicked you, old man. »

Primo chuckles.

« I am sure that if Secondo had made such a comment, you two would be fighting like you used to as kids, rolling on the ground and all that. »

Terzo smirks.

« Well, I wouldn’t be able to pull his hair anymore. »

With a tut, Primo swats his younger brother on the back of his head.

« Low blow. But, in all seriousness. I am so very glad you are happy. »

« ...Thanks, Dante. »

[rrysbabydoll]

Bad Mood

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: D/s dynamic, brat taming, light punishment (spanking), emotional distress, crying, aftercare, power imbalance, age gap (consensual), mild humiliation, subspace, tenderness and comfort.

Synopsis: After bratting in front of Harry's friends and being punished upstairs, you're still holding back tears until he gently pulls you into a private bathroom, realizing he forgot to give you the aftercare you need.

It was May in Tuscany, the kind of afternoon that draped gold over the hills and made everything glow. You were curled into the corner of the outdoor sofa on Harry’s terrace, your legs bare under the loose hem of your pale yellow mini dress, your lips pressed into a pout so full it was practically trembling. The breeze smelled like cypress trees and rose petals. But you weren’t enjoying it. You were in a mood.

Harry’s friends were over for lunch, Alessandro Michele, a few work mates, some art-world people you couldn’t be bothered to remember. They were all loud and laughing, passing around little glasses of limoncello and making fun of each other in that overly familiar way that made you feel like the youngest one in the room, which, to be fair, you were. Significantly.

You hadn’t wanted them here. You hadn’t wanted to put on this dress. You hadn’t wanted to sit through polite smiles and shared olives while Harry played the host. You wanted him. All of him. You wanted his lap and his fingers on your thigh and that low voice he used just for you, not the cheerful one he used for guests.

So you bratted.

You’d huffed when he asked if you were okay.

You’d kicked off your shoes with a sigh when Alessandro complimented them.

You hadn’t laughed at a single joke, even though you normally laughed at everything Harry said.

And when he asked you softly, just once, “Can you be a bit nicer, love?” you gave him a look like you might explode. You folded your arms. You pushed your little sunglasses up so they perched right on your head and ignored him.

Now Harry was watching you from the head of the table. Something about the way his jaw was set made your stomach flutter with nerves. You shifted your weight. Bit the inside of your cheek.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked calmly.

The table fell quiet. You looked up, blinking. His voice wasn’t sharp. It was too gentle, too even. That was worse.

You looked around. Everyone was watching.

“Upstairs,” Harry added.

He didn’t wait. Just rose from his chair and headed toward the house.

You followed.

Quietly.

The bedroom door shut with a heavy click. The light from the window poured across the floor in a buttery stripe. You stood near the foot of the bed, your arms still crossed over your chest.

Harry turned slowly. His eyes moved over you, your dress, your bare legs, the stubborn tilt of your chin, as he folded his arms.

“What the fuck was that, bun?”

You looked away.

“I just— I didn’t feel like talking.”

“Didn’t feel like talking.” He repeated it like it tasted bitter. “You sulked through the whole afternoon. Made every person at that table uncomfortable. Me included.”

You sniffed. “They weren’t even talking to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. You know how it looked?” He stepped closer. You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Like I’ve got a spoiled little brat I can’t control.”

You bristled. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said. “You are. Right now, you are. And you know what I do with spoiled little brats?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He was right in front of you now. You could smell the vanilla scent on his skin, the faint warmth of sweat from the sun. You looked up, and his gaze softened for a second, like he saw the little tremble in your lip.

Then it hardened again.

“Over the bed.”

“Harr—”

He raised a brow.

You turned.

The sheets were soft under your hands. Your dress was bunched up around your waist, your underwear tugged down to your thighs. You hated how quick the tears came, always did when he got serious like this.

His palm landed on your ass, sharp, sudden.

You jumped.

“You don’t get to embarrass me in front of people I care about,” he said calmly.

Another smack. Harder.

“You don’t get to sulk through an afternoon because I’m being a host.”

You sniffled. “I didn’t mean to—”

Another slap. “Yes, you did. You meant to. You do this when you don’t get what you want. And I’ve let you slide for weeks.”

You buried your face in the duvet. Your thighs trembled.

Harry’s hand came down again, slower this time, more deliberate. His rings left little warm imprints in your skin. You gasped, partly from pain, partly from shame.

“You’re not a little girl, baby,” he said softly. “You know how to behave.”

A whimper left your lips. You didn’t fight back now. Not even a word.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” he added. “Not when I’ve been patient. Not when I’m trying to include you.”

Another sharp smack.

“I love you, but I won’t tolerate disrespect.”

Your tears soaked into the pillow. Your lip quivered.

Then he leaned over you, fingers sliding over your hips. His touch, suddenly gentle, ghosted between your legs.

You were wet.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured. “My poor, pretty baby. So full of attitude, but suddenly so obedient when I really punish you.”

You nodded quickly, crying harder.

“I know. I know you do.”

He rubbed you softly, just once, then pulled your panties back up and helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Your hands trembled. He knelt in front of you.

“Look at me.”

You did.

His thumb brushed your tear-slick cheek.

“You’re gonna go back down there,” he said gently, “and you’re gonna sit by me. You don’t have to be chatty, but you will be polite. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded.

He kissed your forehead.

“You’re my good girl now, yeah?”

Your voice was tiny. “Yeah.”

He stood. Straightened his shirt. Ran a hand through his hair.

You took a moment to breathe, wiping your eyes, your heart thudding hard in your chest.

The walk down the stairs felt like a dream. Your legs were still shaky. Your face was warm. The lump in your throat refused to disappear.

Harry took your hand as you stepped back onto the terrace. Everyone looked up, casual smiles, not prying. Maybe they thought he’d scolded you. Maybe they knew exactly what happened. You didn’t want to know.

Alessandro was the first to speak, “There’s my girl. You alright, bella?”

You gave a small nod. Managed a soft, “Yeah.”

Harry sat back at the head of the table and pulled you down into the chair beside him. His hand stayed on your thigh. His thumb traced slow circles. You leaned into his side, still trembling slightly.

Harry passed you a small glass of water. You sipped it without speaking.

He kept talking like nothing had happened.

But every time he glanced at you, his eyes were warm. Every time your fingers twitched, he gave them a reassuring squeeze.

The sun was slipping lower in the sky now, casting long shadows across the terrace. The conversations had picked up again. Alessandro was gesturing wildly about a new design, and two of Harry’s friends were bent over a chess board they’d found inside. Laughter hummed through the air.

But you were quiet.

Still curled into the seat beside Harry, still letting him rest his hand on your thigh. You hadn’t spoken more than a word or two since coming back down.

Harry hadn’t pushed. He was keeping you close, making sure your glass stayed full, brushing his fingers gently over your skin every few minutes. But he hadn’t really looked at you since you sat.

Now, he did.

And he saw it.

You weren’t pouting anymore. You weren’t bratting. But your eyes had that soft, glassy sheen, the one that came just before tears, when you were trying so hard to be brave and good.

He leaned in, lowering his voice near your ear.

“Baby,” he murmured. “You alright?”

You blinked up at him quickly, too quickly. Like you were trying to hide it

Your lashes were damp.

Harry’s heart squeezed. He slid his hand higher on your thigh and gave it a firmer squeeze, not in warning, but in apology.

“C’mere, love. Just a minute.”

You swallowed hard. Didn’t resist when he helped you up.

He didn’t say anything to the others. Just led you gently through the arched doorway into the house, down the hallway, and into the quiet, tiled bathroom near the guest room. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the laughter and chatting from outside.

You stood still near the sink, arms wrapped around your stomach, the last shiver of shame curling inside you.

Harry stepped close, one hand cupping the back of your neck. The other smoothed down your back, all the way to your waist.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, “I didn’t give you what you needed, did I?”

You shook your head slowly, lips wobbling.

“I was just trying to handle it,” you whispered. “I was trying to be good…”

“You were good,” he said, pulling you gently into his chest. “You were so good for me, lovie. I should’ve taken care of you right away. That’s on me.”

The tears started. Quiet at first, soft sniffles pressed into the cotton of his shirt. You wrapped your arms around him, tight. He held you closer, hand stroking your hair, murmuring against the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You didn’t deserve to feel that way. You were overwhelmed, yeah? And I should’ve helped you come back down.”

You nodded quickly, pressing your face into his collar.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the evening…”

“You didn’t ruin a thing, baby. You’re my girl. I don’t care about a mood, I care about you.” He kissed your temple. “You’re allowed to feel things. I just needed to help you through them better. That’s my job.”

His voice was so soft, so steady. Like a hand stroking down your spine. You breathed in the scent of him, warm and familiar and safe.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked quietly, rubbing your lower back.

You shook your head. “No. Not really.”

“But you feel floaty?”

You nodded.

“Sad?”

Another little nod.

He held your face in both hands now, tilting your chin up gently. Your eyes were wet, nose pink.

“I’m gonna run you a bath after they leave,” he promised. “Warm water. I’ll stay with you the whole time. And then we’ll lie in bed and I’ll play with your hair until you fall asleep. You want that?”

Your voice was small. “Yes, please.”

He kissed your cheeks, first one, then the other, like sealing a promise.

“I love it when you’re like this.” he said

You hiccuped a little tearful laugh. “Why like this?”

“Because you let me see all of you,” he whispered. “And all of you is beautiful.”

You melted into him again, arms wrapping tighter.

[maswartz]

Power Rangers Bolt Boosters

(Logo by WryytArt)

A brilliant inventor in Italy created a device he dubbed the Bolt Booster. The booster can store and release massive amounts of electricity capable of supercharging machines. However nobody would buy it due to the cost of production. One day he met a man named Alessandro Voltolini who agreed to fund the production of the Bolt Boosters. The inventor and his siblings went to work making the first set of the boosters immediately. One night however there was an accident when the main Booster overloaded and exploded, seemingly killing Alessandro. One year later though Alessandro resurfaced, now calling himself the Bolt Baron he exhibits electric powers and leads a force of robots all powered by Bolt Boosters to take over the world. Racked with guilt the inventor creates gear for him and his siblings to use as Power Rangers to defeat this threat.

Power Rangers Bolt Boosters! Ride the Lightning!

Red Boost Ranger- Enrico Cavalcante- A tech genius who gave up many opportunities to help raise his two younger siblings. He created the Bolt Booster system but was unable to find anyone willing to listen to him until he met a rich young man named Alessandro who agreed to fund his project. Enrico never told his siblings the truth of the accident. He discovered Alessandro was attempting to weaponize the Bolt Boosters and a fight broke out which led to the main Booster overloading. Out of guilt Enrico created the morphers and zords to combat Alessandro when he resurfaced as the Bolt Barron. Blaze Booster- Months after forming the Rangers, Enrico returned to the scene of the the accident and recovers one of his prototype Boosters. He deemed this particular model a failure due to it creating intense amounts of heat. With Lorenzo's help Enrico reworks the Blaze Booster into a battilizer, using the excess heat to supercharge its weaponry including a powerful blaster that shoots high pressure water. Face Claim: Vincent Martella

Blue Boost Ranger- Rinaldo Cavalcante- A software genius who can program or hack into anything. He tends to overthink during stressful situations but once he has settled on a plan of action he strikes. Face Claim: Luca Saviozzi Murphy

Pink Boost Ranger- Marianna "Mari" Cavalcante- A former car model who wants to prove she belongs behind the wheel instead of posing near the cars. Tends to take risks in order to get the respect she feels she deserves. Face Claim: Lucia Luna Laurenti Sellers

Black Boost Ranger- Giovanni Romano- A romantic who once dated Mari before the two had a mutual break up. Not long after she introduced Giovanni to her brother Rinaldo and the two began dating. He then became a ranger to help the trio defend people. In his spare time he is writing a romance novel called "Love at the Finish Line" Face Claim: Leo Gassmann

Orange Boost Ranger- Beatrice Valenti- A childhood friend of the siblings who spent most of her time at their home in order to escape her own broken home. After graduation she even lived with them until finding a place of her own. Hides her insecurities about not being as gifted as the others beneath a joking carefree exterior. Became a ranger to help repay the siblings for all they've done for her. Face Claim: Angela Giarratana

Violet Boost Ranger- Lorenzo Adesso- The illegitimate son of Alessandro. For years he hated his father for casting his mother and him out to protect his own image. One day not long after witnessing the Bolt Barron's announcement Lorenzo receives a package in the mail containing a Bolt Booster and a morpher as well as instructions on how to modify it. The package also included a note from Alessandro claiming that Enrico was to blame for the accident that turned him into the Bolt Barron. Lorenzo used the morpher to confront the Rangers only to learn the truth about the accident. Angered at having been used as a pawn by Alessandro he vows to avenge himself and his mother and finally get revenge for all that his father has done by joining the Rangers. Face Claim: Pietro Castellitto

The Red, Blue and Pink Boost Rangers are armed with the Bolt Blasters and Booster Batons. Mari often improvises using the Baton upside down as the Booster Basher. When in Boost the power can be channeled into this to shoot pulses of energy. The Black and Orange Boost Rangers are armed with the Bolt Axes and Booster Blades. The Violet Boost Ranger is armed with the Bolt Bow. All the Rangers can use the tires on their suits for travel or attacks. Enrico can also call on the Trailer Cannon which the Rangers load their cars into to launch at the enemy. The Rangers can release the built up charge in their morphers to access a Booster mode. This supercharges their bodies with electricity enhancing their speed and striking power as well as the ability to launch energy tires at enemies. They can only maintain this for two minutes without risking harm.

By using the Motor Storm Zord with their morphers the Rangers gain the Motor Storm Form in which they are able to summon any zord weapon.

Bolt Zords! Boost Up!

A series of special vehicles enhanced by Bolt Boosters. Each Ranger has multiple Zords Red Boost Ranger Bolt Trailer Zord- Forms the base of the Megazords Bolt Racer Zord- A blazing racecar that can ignite with powerful flames. Bolt Hot Rod Zord- A classic speedster that turns into a slashing sword Bolt Flame Rescue Zord/Blazing Lion Zord Bolt Flame Zord- A swift firetruck speeding to the rescue Bolt Rescue Zord- A powerful ladder truck that combines with the Flame Zord. Blue Boost Ranger Bolt Off Road Zord- An off road vehicle that turns into a lance. Bolt Aqua Zord- An aquarium car that shoots energy blasts

Pink Boost Ranger Bolt Wagon Zord- A quick car that turns into a hand Bolt Hunter Zord- A safari car that turns into a claw Black Boost Ranger Bolt Patrol Zord- A police car that turns into a spiked clamp Bolt Squad Zord- A police van that turns into a pair of pistols Orange Boost Ranger Bolt Digger Zord- An excavator that turns into a missile launcher. Bolt Dozer Zord- A bulldozer that turns into a hammer Violet Boost Ranger Bolt Formula Zord- A high speed racing zord. Motor Storm Carrier Zord- A mighty carrier zord capable of carrying all the Bolt Zords. Nitro Boost Zord- An auxiliary zord that turns into boosters for the Motor Storm Carrier. Bolt Booster Megazord- The Trailer zord combines with two zords forming arms and weapons to access various modes Bolt Booster Megazord RBP Tri Mode Trailer Zord Off Road Zord Wagon Zord Bolt Booster Megazord Red Warrior Mode Trailer Zord Racer Zord Hot Rod Zord Bolt Booster Megazord Black Officer Mode Trailer Zord Patrol Zord Squad Zord Bolt Booster Megazord Orange Construction Mode Trailer Zord Digger Zord Dozer Zord Bolt Booster Megazord Monster Mauler Mode Trailer Zord Aqua Zord Hunter Zord Formula Racer Megazord Formula Zord Bolt Racer Megazord Trailer Zord Off Road Zord Wagon Zord Formula Zord

Blazing Bolt Megazord Trailer Zord Flame Zord Rescue Zord Bolt Bazooka Formation Blazing Bolt Megazord Formula Racer Megazord All Zords Motor Storm Ultrazord Motor Storm Carrier Zord Nitro Zord Bolt Booster Megazord

Bolt Baron and his Lightning Legion

The Bolt Baron- Alessandro Voltolini- A man of great wealth and grand goals. He saw the potential of the Bolt Boosters the moment he met Enrico. Unfortunately that potential was to turn them into weapons of war. When Enrico found out the two fought causing the main Booster to overload and explode. During the explosion Alessandro's body was altered somehow allowing him to generate electricity from his own body. Fleeing the scene he hid in a secret factory he had planned to use to make the weapons. He spent months testing his new powers and using what he had learned from Enrico to build his own Bolt Boosters. He also built himself a set of powered armor to wear into battle. He then created a legion of robotic warriors to do his bidding.

BoomBlast- A robotic warrior capable of generating explosive waves from his body. His ego is stronger than his attacks. Thunder Tigress- A feline robot whose claws are charged with electricity. To the Barron's dismay she's just as lazy as a house cat. HiJax- A fixer bot who acts as Bolt Baron's confidant

Spirill- A warrior wielding a powerful drill and a drive to win no matter the cost. Created specifically to fight the Rangers. Rebuilt into stronger forms after defeats. Maddox- A repair bot who upgrades bots to increase their attack power. Recykil- A repair bot who can rebuild destroyed bots stronger than before. Jeevolt- A bodyguard for the Baron fashioned in the image of a butler. Bolt Breaker- A war machine built in the image of the Bolt Booster Megazord. BoltBots- Mass produced robotic warriors

Power Rangers Armored Boosters: A member of the Insetario still loyal to the previous warlord escapes stealing a Potenseto. They find their way to Earth where they steal a Bolt Booster and use it to boost the Potenseto's power causing both teams of Rangers to unite to deal with the threat.

Morphers: Bolt Morphers- Wrist worn Bolt Boosters. Red Blue Pink Hand Held- Black and Orange Gauntlet mounted- Violet Morphing Call: Boost Up the Power!

Morphing: The Rangers activate their Bolt Boosters and a ranger colored energy wheel is generated. As they activate it the morpher announces "Bolt" "Bolt Boost" "BOLT BOOSTERS!". They shoot it and when it hits a surface it speeds back to them. It then spins around the ranger from their feet up forming the suit before becoming the visor.

Location: Modena, Italy

Faces by Joekeybladeaura

Power Rangers Armored Swarm Powerverse

[justsomeonewow]

Sup! I'm Pietra/Dollface

Here's my other account

@trevekandchild RP account of Trevek and their adoptive child

Characters fantart request

Just give me a thing you want me to draw as Hoppy and I'll make it

Already posted about it

Idiots in a Freakshow

A AU where I mix Total Drama, Disventure Camp, The amazing digital circus, Popee the performer and Raggedy Ann and Andy, ask whatever you want to them (abandoned)

The amazing Disventure circus

Adventure camp x Total Drama Island x Disventure Camp x The amazing digital circus just that (abandoned)

Bringing some Brazil 2 USA/other country you're in

Basically take Brazilian meme videos and traduce it to English (abandoned)

Playlist

Rps

I RP as Hoppy, Rose, Dollface, Alex, Alejandro and Ann, no matter the fandom(it's mainly tadc)

Friends/Family/Roleplay Besties

@shortmomma1993 (wife)

@ask-pomni-things (friend) [quitted]

@ask-jax-things (biological son)

@ask-angel-dust-w (adoptive son)

@yourlocalauro (adoptive daughter)

@starlit-mess (adoptive daughter)

@ask-jaxy-boy (Whimsy is her adoptive daughter) (adoptive father)

@zooble-the-whatever-i-am (friend)

@voxtechsmells (adoptive father) [quitted]

@madly-enthusiastic (adoptive father)

@princesscharliesstuff (adoptive sister)

@hazbinsprotectorxxx (adoptive sister-in-law)

@askyourauntierosie (aunt)[quitted]

@two-left-halfs (friend/ex)

@geromethejanitor (friend)

@ask-jaxy-boy (friends?)

@itzay0910 (daughter)

@blueberrybambiboi (uhh...I don't know-)

@malauna (guilty) (grateful) (adoptive mother)

New Characters:

1 - introducion https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771426232245092352/new-characters-added?source=share

2 - their hangout https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771787751228096512/in-their-hang-out-btw-that-man-is-dollfaces?source=share

3 - Abnormally dancing gem https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/771906055106150400/suicide-attempt?source=share

4- Lost sympathy https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772872479991562240/you-too-actually-you-need-a-raise?source=share

5- Alexandre https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772773682660753408/oh-thank-you?source=share

6- Mini Alexandre and Alessandro

https://www.tumblr.com/hophopscotch/772819672997543936?source=share

7- Silly stuff https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773651840142344192/soosince-ann-is-also-gonna-be-blue-i-decided-to?source=share

8- Dollface's psychological https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773658255957360640/i-have-an-opinion-alongside-the-trauma-dollface?source=share

9- P.D's color palette https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773634911981780992/felt-cute-so-i-made-a-pd-color-palette-and?source=share

10- Theme songs https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/773696772208017408/do-the-characters-have-any-theme-for-them?source=share

11- Hoppy's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774061109780103168/character-themes-pt1?source=share

12- Dollface's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774063701590425600/character-themes-pt-2?source=share

13- P.D's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774151129054543872/tyyy?source=share

14- idk either https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/774866151864926208?source=share

15- Alexandre's themes https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/775204664935432192/theme-songs-last-part-alexandre?source=share

16- issues https://www.tumblr.com/justsomeonewow/775204378799947776/blood-murder-and-homophobia?source=share