Archive of Our Own ^beta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Flour—check.”

“Tomatoes and mushrooms—check.”

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

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

Ah! The olive oil!

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

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

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

“You're most welcome, Amore mio.”

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

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

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

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

“I was thinking of making some pasta, actually. It’s a recipe a friend of my mothers gave to me a while back. I thought I would give it a shot and try to make it. You could see Cabrizzio’s eyes practically sparkle in delight at hearing this. He was a pasta lover as much as someone like Mitchell was, an Italian enthusiast in every way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends on how good it turns out.”

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

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

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

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

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

You only roll your eyes playfully.

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

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

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

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

“You have no idea.” Is all he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You—you speak Italian?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I love you, Cabrizzio.)

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

“Anch’io ti amo, amore mio.”

(I love you too, my love.)

The moment between you is both tender and passionate. You leave the kitchen full from the satisfying meal. But also slightly disheveled and breathless. To say the only thing being kneaded was the dough would be an understatement. (hehehe.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just… I feel pathetic, Dasha.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finally let go.

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

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

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

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

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

(That’s… not how trees work, Dasha.)

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh quietly together until Dasha speaks again.

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

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

“Ya lyublyu tebya, Dasha.”

(I love you, Dasha.)

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

“I ya tebya, moya lyubimaya.”

(And I love you too, my beloved.)

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