𝑎𝜐𝑎’𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑠

𝑎𝜐𝑎 ⟢ 𝑠ℎ𝑒/𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦

▏ 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑!

▏ 𝑡𝑖𝑘𝑡𝑜𝑘 / 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑚 / 𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡

⧽ 𝑡𝑜𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑜𝑙𝑓𝑓

somewhere in northern italy (part one).

somewhere in northern italy (part two).

somewhere in northern italy (part three).

pretty when you cry.

the secretary.

─

⧽ 𝑚𝑖𝑘𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑘𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑛

▎WARNINGS: smut.

▎A/N: not F1, but he’s been occupying my mind a lot.

𝑎 = 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒.

he’s surprisingly gentle for how brutal he fucks. he’ll scoop you up like you weigh nothing, carry you to the shower, wash your hair while kissing every mark he left. then wraps you in his hoodie and holds you against his chest.

𝑏 = 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡.

his: his arms and shoulders, the way they flex when he pins you down or flips you around like you weigh nothing. also his mouth; the man knows how to use it for biting, sucking, and filthy praise.

yours: your thighs and hips. he loves gripping them hard enough to leave fingerprints, spreading you wide, watching them shake when he’s pounding you.

𝑐 = 𝑐𝑢𝑚.

cody’s obsessed with pumping you full and then keeping you plugged with his cock or his fingers so it stays inside. he loves watching it drip down your thighs after and then pushing it back in. he’ll eat his own cum out of you sometimes.

𝑑 = 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡.

he jerks off to videos of your previous sessions in the tour bus bathroom. he also lowkey gets off on the idea of knocking you up right before a big PPV.

𝑒 = 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒.

years of wrestling means he knows exactly how to use his body to overpower you, edge you, and make you tap out from pleasure.

𝑓 = 𝑓𝑎𝜐𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

prone bone or full nelson. he enjoys pinning you completely, chest to your back, his weight crushing you into the mattress.

𝑔 = 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑓𝑦.

he can be surprisingly playful mid fuck. that cocky grin when you’re struggling to take him, teasing you with "c’mon baby, you can take more than that, I’ve seen you do harder spots."

ℎ = ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟.

his body hair is masculine and trimmed, happy trail you love licking. he keeps everything downstairs neat but not bald so it feels real when you’re face down ass up.

𝑖 = 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑦.

eye contact the entire time so he can see you cum. he makes you feel like the center of his whole universe even when he’s being filthy.

𝑗 = 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓𝑓.

it’s frequent when he’s on the road. he sends you voice notes of him stroking, breathing heavy, telling you exactly how he’s imagining fucking you in the locker room after the show.

𝑘 = 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑠.

primal play (chasing you around the house then tackling you onto the bed), wrestling inspired manhandling/pinning, biting & marking, belt spanking, breeding, creampie eating, rough but loving dirty talk, light cnc/consensual struggle.

𝑙 = 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

hotel rooms after shows, the tour bus, empty arenas late at night (fucking you in the middle of the ring), his home gym, and anywhere semi public where the adrenaline of almost getting caught hits.

𝑚 = 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝜐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

when you fight back a little: bratty, squirming, testing his strength. or when you’re soft and needy, calling his name all breathy while wearing his merch and nothing else. your mix of strength and submission drives him insane.

𝑛 = 𝑛𝑜.

anything that doesn’t feel good to either of you is an instant no. no ignoring you, no heavy degradation that doesn’t circle back to praise, no sharing. he needs the passion and connection.

𝑜 = 𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑙.

giving: it’s messy and greedy. he eats pussy like a starving man.

receiving: he loves when you drool on him, deepthroating while he holds your hair and praises you.

𝑝 = 𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒.

he can go from slow and deep (grinding into you while whispering dirty talk) to brutal and fast, slamming into you. always powerful.

𝑞 = 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑒.

he loves them. he’ll pull you into a bathroom during an event, hike your dress up, and fuck you hard and fast against the door, hand over your mouth.

𝑟 = 𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑘.

high risk, high reward. he’ll finger you under the table at dinners, fuck you in the parking garage after press.

𝑠 = 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎.

wrestler stamina is unreal. multiple long rounds, can fuck you for hours, recover fast, and still cum buckets. you’ll be limping and he’ll be ready for round three.

𝑡 = 𝑡𝑜𝑦𝑠.

he uses his wrestling gear: belt for spanking, ropes for light bondage, even the title if you’re into it. he had a toy collection for when he wants to edge you with a vibrator pressed to your clit while he fucks you.

𝑢 = 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟.

he teases you mercilessly. he makes you beg, makes you earn it. "not yet, baby. you’re gonna cum when I say."

𝜐 = 𝜐𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑒.

he’s loud and vocal when he cums. lots of "fuck yes, baby" and "gonna fill you up so good."

𝑤 = 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑑.

he once chased you through the house completely naked after a workout, caught you, threw you over his shoulder, and fucked you on the kitchen counter while still dripping sweat.

𝑥 = 𝑥 𝑟𝑎𝑦.

thick, long, veiny, with a slight upward curve that hits every spot. he gets rock hard fast and looks obscene when it’s flushed and leaking for you.

𝑦 = 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

the man is touch starved on the road and when he gets home he’s on you immediately.

𝑧 = 𝑧𝑧𝑧.

▎PAIRING: Max Verstappen x reader.

▎WARNINGS: none. just jos being an ass.

The paddock buzzed with the usual frenzy of engines revving and camera flashes, but lately, all eyes were on you—Y/N, the newest addition to the glamorous world of Formula 1 WAGs. As Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, you’d quickly become a fan favorite. Max wasn’t shy about showing his affection: an arm slung protectively around your shoulders as you walked through the garage, his fingers intertwined with yours during press conferences, or a stolen kiss on your cheek after a stellar qualifying session or race win. It was clear to everyone that Max adored you, his usually stoic demeanor softening whenever you were near.

But not everyone knew about your relationship from the start. Max had kept it private, especially from his father, Jos. He hadn’t breathed a word, letting the F1 gossip pages and social media do the revealing for him. So when Jos extended an invitation for dinner via a curt text message—"Bring your girlfriend. We should meet properly"—Max had stared at his phone for a long minute before reluctantly agreeing. "It’ll be fine," he’d told you, though the tightness in his jaw said otherwise.

The evening arrived, and you pulled up to the upscale restaurant in Max’s sleek Aston Martin. You were dressed elegantly—a simple white dress that hugged your figure just right, your hair cascading in loose waves. Max, in a crisp button-up and jeans, squeezed your hand as you walked in. "Just be yourself," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "He’ll like you."

Jos was already seated at a corner table, his posture rigid, a glass of whiskey in hand. He stood when you approached, offering a firm handshake to Max and a polite nod to you. "Max. And you must be Y/N," he said, his Dutch accent thick, eyes appraising you like he was sizing up a new tire compound. "Sit, sit. I’ve ordered some appetizers."

The start was civil enough. A bottle of red wine was poured, and small talk flowed as the server brought out plates of bruschetta and olives. Jos leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "So, how did you two meet? Max isn’t one for details."

You smiled, glancing at Max, who gave you an encouraging nod. "It was at a charity event in Monaco last year. I was there for work, and we just… clicked. He spilled his drink on me, actually—total accident."

Jos chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sounds like Max. Always focused on the track, not so much on the social graces." He turned to his son. "Remember that gala in Amsterdam? You were the same way with… what was her name? Daphne? Spilled champagne all over her dress too."

Max’s fork paused mid-air, but he forced a neutral expression. "Yeah, Dad. Ancient history."

The questions kept coming, innocuous at first. "What do you do for a living, Y/N?" Jos asked, spearing a piece of bruschetta.

"I’m a model," you replied confidently. "Mostly fashion and lifestyle shoots. It’s based in Monaco, which makes it easy to travel with Max."

"Monaco? Nice place. Expensive, though." Jos nodded approvingly, but there was a glint in his eye. "Max has always liked the glamorous types. Remember Kelly? She was from Brazil—model too, wasn’t she? Exotic look, always turning heads in the paddock."

Max shifted in his seat, his hand finding yours under the table. "Kelly was a long time ago, Dad. Let’s not—"

"And before her, there was that Italian girl, Sofia. Actress, right? Or was she a singer? Fiery temper, but she kept you on your toes." Jos waved his hand dismissively, as if reminiscing over old race strategies. "Y/N, you’re from Monaco—born and raised? That’s different. More… polished, I suppose. Not as wild as some of the others."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, but you kept your composure, sipping your wine. "Yes, born there. My family’s been in Monaco for generations."

Jos leaned forward, his gaze sharpening on Max. "Polished is good, but does it push you? Remember how Daniella used to challenge you? Spanish firecracker—she’d argue with you about everything, kept your head in the game. Won you that championship in ‘21, I’d say. Distractions can be useful if they’re the right kind."

Max’s grip on your hand tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Dad, enough with the history lesson. Y/N’s here now. Can we just enjoy the dinner?"

Jos raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I’m just making conversation, Max. Comparing notes. You’ve had quite the lineup—models, influencers, even that one racer’s daughter. What was her name? Elena? Tall, blonde, always at the parties. She fit right in with the F1 crowd. Y/N seems quieter. Is that what you need now? Someone to… settle you down?"

The server arrived with the main courses—steak for Jos and Max, salmon for you—but the atmosphere had soured. You poked at your food, appetite waning, while Jos continued his barrage, each comparison laced with subtle digs. "Sofia had that edge, didn’t she? Pushed you to train harder. And Kelly—God, she was supportive during the tough seasons. Traveled everywhere with you. Y/N, do you plan to do that? Modeling’s flexible, I hear."

Max set his knife down with a clatter, his voice low and edged with warning. "Stop it. This isn’t about them. It’s about Y/N."

Jos shrugged, cutting into his steak. "I’m just saying, son. You’ve got to think long-term. Championships don’t win themselves. The wrong partner can—"

"That’s it." Max stood abruptly, tossing his napkin on the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing stares from nearby diners. "We’re leaving. Y/N, come on."

You rose quickly, heart pounding, as Max grabbed your coat. Jos looked up, surprised but not apologetic. "Max, sit down. We’re not done."

"Oh, we’re done," Max snapped, his blue eyes flashing. "Thanks for the invite, Dad. Real classy."

The car ride home was suffocating in its silence. Max gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. The city lights blurred past the windows of the Aston Martin, the engine’s low hum the only sound. You stared out at the passing streets, replaying the dinner in your head—the way Jos’s words had twisted from curiosity to criticism, each ex-girlfriend’s name feeling like a jab. You didn’t dare speak, not wanting to poke the bear. Max didn’t glance your way once, his focus laser-sharp on the road ahead.

It wasn’t until you pulled into the driveway of your shared Monaco apartment—overlooking the glittering harbor—that the dam broke. Max killed the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, breathing heavily. You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching for the door, but his voice stopped you—rough, laced with frustration.

"This is why I didn’t want to go to dinner," he said, finally turning to you. His eyes were stormy, but there was a vulnerability there that made your chest ache. "I knew he’d pull this shit. Comparing you, digging up the past like it’s some fucking scorecard."

"Max…" you started softly, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

"He shouldn’t have done that. He had no right to bring them up, to make you feel like… like you’re just another one in a line." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neat style from earlier. "You’re everything to me, Y/N. He’s stuck in his own head, always has been. Think’s relationships are just tools for winning races."

You reached over, placing your hand on his thigh. "I know, Max. It’s okay. I didn’t let it get to me."

But he wasn’t done, the words tumbling out now like he’d been holding them in the whole drive. "It’s not okay. He acts like he knows what’s best for me, but he doesn’t. Not anymore. I didn’t tell him about us because I didn’t want his judgment. And now… fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve shut it down sooner."

"Hey," you said, turning his face gently toward you with your hand on his cheek. His stubble was rough under your fingers, but he leaned into the touch. "You did shut it down. We left. That’s what matters."

Max sighed, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. "I just… I adore you, you know that? The way you handle the paddock, the media, all of it."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I adore you too, Max. Even when you’re being all protective and broody."

He let out a short laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Broody? Me?" He pulled you closer across the console, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It lingered, turning deeper as his hand cupped the back of your neck. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter, more earnest. "Promise me you won’t let what he said stick."

"I promise," you whispered, kissing him again. "Now, let’s go inside. I think we both need a drink that’s not from that restaurant."

▎made by me. do not repost to any other platforms without proper credits.

▎PAIRING: Toto Wolff x reader.

▎WARNINGS: Mentions of parent loss.

▎SUMMARY: After a year of grieving your mother’s death, you experience one of your recurring waves of sorrow.

▎A/N: I scrambled this together after sobbing my eyes out because I miss my mom and feel like I’ll get nowhere in life with grief (we gon ball regardless despite the despair and agony) 🫩 so, I kinda made this for me. Enjoy!

Toto pushed open the door to your shared home in Monaco, the faint scent of rain from the evening storm lingering on his coat. The Formula 1 season had been grueling, but nothing compared to the quiet battles he fought at home. It had been a year since your mother passed, and while time had dulled the edges for some, for you, it was a relentless wave—crashing without warning. He’d learned to read the signs: the unanswered texts, the dimmed lights in the house. Tonight, the silence was too heavy.

He kicked off his shoes and made his way upstairs, his heart sinking as he heard the muffled sobs from your bedroom. The door was ajar, and there you were, curled up on the bed in a tangle of blankets, your face buried in a pillow that still carried the faint lavender scent your mother had loved.

"Y/N?" Toto’s voice was soft, laced with concern as he crossed the room in long strides. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gently resting on your back. You flinched at first, then leaned into his touch, your body shaking with fresh tears.

"Toto…" you whispered, your voice breaking. You turned toward him, your eyes red and swollen, cheeks streaked with mascara. "I… I was fine today. I went for a walk, had coffee… and then I saw this woman in the park with her daughter, and it just… hit me. She’s gone. She’s really gone."

He pulled you into his arms without a word, enveloping you in his warmth. His suit jacket was still on, but he didn’t care; he held you close, one hand stroking your hair as you sobbed against his chest. "Shh, liebling," he murmured, his accent thickening with emotion. "I know. I know it hurts. I’m here."

You clung to him, your fingers twisting in his shirt. "It feels like yesterday sometimes. Like I could just call her and hear her voice. Why does it keep coming back like this? I thought I’d be better by now."

Toto rocked you gently, his chin resting on the top of your head. "Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, Y/N. It’s not a race with a finish line. You’ve been so strong—stronger than anyone I know. But it’s okay to not be okay. Your mother was everything to you. Of course it hurts. And I’ll be here every time it does."

Your sobs began to quiet, turning into ragged breaths and then sniffles as you nestled deeper into him. "You always say the right things," you said, your voice muffled against his shirt. "How do you do that?"

"Because I love you," he replied simply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And because I’ve seen how much you’ve carried. You’re not alone in this, ever."

You sat like that for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, until your breathing steadied and the tension in your shoulders eased. Toto pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands and wiping away the last of your tears with his thumbs. "How about I draw you a bath? Let me take care of you tonight."

You nodded weakly, a small, grateful smile breaking through. "That sounds nice."

He helped you to your feet and led you to the en-suite bathroom, his arm around your waist for support. While you sat on the edge of the tub, he turned on the faucet, testing the water until it was warm but not too hot—just the way you liked it. He added a generous pour of your favorite lavender bath oil, the scent filling the room like a soothing embrace, reminiscent of your mother’s garden.

"Arms up, schatz," he said gently, helping you out of your clothes. You stepped into the tub, sinking into the water with a sigh, and he knelt beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

As he lathered shampoo into your hair, he kept his voice low and steady. "You’re doing so well, you know that? Even on days like this. Your mother would be proud of how you’ve kept going."

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. "It doesn’t feel like it. Some days I just want to hide from the world."

"That’s human," Toto replied, his hands gentle as he worked the suds through your strands. "But look at you—building a life, smiling through the pain. You’re resilient, liebling. Stronger than any driver I’ve ever managed." He chuckled softly, trying to lighten the moment.

You let out a watery laugh, the sound warming his heart. "You’re biased."

"Guilty as charged." He cupped water in his hands and began rinsing the shampoo away, careful not to let any soap sting your eyes. "But it’s true. Grief is a storm, and you’re navigating it. One day at a time. And on the days it knocks you down, I’ll be here to help you up. Always."

▎WARNINGS: smut, p in v, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, public sex (?)

The silence between you and Toto had become a living thing, thick and oppressive, wrapping around the house like the humid summer air. It had been four days since that rain-drenched kiss in the orchard—four days of averted gazes at dinner, of you retreating to your room early, claiming headaches or fatigue. Toto buried himself deeper in Papa’s study, his laughter rarer, his presence a ghost. Your frustration built like a pressure cooker: every creak of the floorboards from his room through the connecting door was a reminder, every shared meal a torture. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, but pride—and fear—kept you silent. Instead, the ache manifested in restless nights, fingers twisting sheets, mind replaying the taste of his lips, the reluctance in his voice. Why won’t he just admit it? You thought, staring at the ceiling. You both felt it.

To shake it off, you turned to Marcus. He’d been persistent all summer, showing up with wildflowers or invitations to ride his Vespa. At twenty, he was boyish charm personified—curly brown hair, a lopsided smile, hands calloused from the garage. But he was clingy, always had been: one conversation turned into daily check-ins, a casual touch lingering too long. You didn’t like it; it felt smothering, like being wrapped in too many blankets on a hot night. What you craved was Toto’s measured distance, his quiet intensity that made every glance electric. Marcus was safe, predictable—a Band-Aid for a wound that needed stitches.

Still, when he called that afternoon, you said yes to the date. “Pick me up at seven,” you told him, voice flat. Anything to drown the silence.

He arrived on his Vespa, engine purring, a picnic basket strapped to the back. “You look amazing,” he said, eyes lighting up as you climbed on, arms wrapping around his waist out of necessity. You sped toward Lake Garda, wind whipping hair, the setting sun painting the water gold. At a secluded cove, hidden by reeds and rocks, he spread a blanket: cheap wine, bread, olives, cheese. “I thought we’d watch the stars,” he said, pouring cups with eager hands.

You talked—or rather, Marcus did. “I’ve been thinking about us, you know? You’re heading to university soon, but we could make it work. Visits on weekends…” His words tumbled out, needy, probing for reassurance. You sipped wine, nodding absently, mind elsewhere. Toto would discuss books, not plans, you thought. He wouldn’t cling.

As night fell, stars pricking the sky, Marcus leaned in. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. His kiss was enthusiastic, wet—tongue too soon, hands roaming your back, pulling you close. You kissed back, fueled by wine and frustration, but it felt wrong. His touch was frantic, fingers fumbling with buttons, exposing skin to the cool air. “God, you’re perfect,” he groaned, palms cupping breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they hardened. You arched slightly, body responding despite the mind’s protest, but his constant whispers—“I need you,” “Don’t stop”—grated. Too clingy, too desperate.

He laid you back on the blanket, shedding clothes hastily. His body was lean, youthful—nothing like Toto’s solid, experienced frame. Marcus kissed down your neck, stomach, parting thighs with trembling hands. “Tell me if it’s okay,” he said, voice thick, before his mouth found your center, tongue lapping eagerly, fingers sliding in. It was sloppy, overeager; you gripped his hair, eyes squeezed shut, imagining Toto’s deliberate pace, his knowing gaze. Pleasure built anyway, coiling tight, and you came with a muffled cry, hips bucking.

Marcus grinned up, proud. “Your turn?” But you pulled him up, guiding him inside—bare, urgent. He thrust haphazardly at first, then found a rhythm, grunting with each push. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he panted, hips slamming, hands pinning your wrists above your head. It was rough, uncoordinated; sweat slicked your bodies, the blanket bunching beneath. You wrapped your legs around him, chasing release, but his endearments—“Baby, I love this,” “We’re so good together”—ruined it. You faked a moan, clenching around him until he shuddered, spilling inside with a drawn-out groan. Afterward, he collapsed beside you, arm draping possessively, whispering, “That was incredible. We should do this every night.”

You stared at the sky, emptiness settling in. It hadn’t helped; if anything, it sharpened the want for Toto. Marcus was a boy playing at love—clingy, suffocating. You wanted the man who held back, who made you feel seen.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Back home, the frustration peaked. You couldn’t bear another day of silence. In your room, lamplight flickering, you tore a page from your notebook and wrote: Toto, this silence is unbearable. We need to talk—really talk. I can’t pretend anymore. Please. You slipped it under the connecting door, heart racing, then paced until exhaustion claimed you.

Dawn brought a reply, slid back: Midnight. Orchard. Be careful. -T

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The day crawled. You ignored Marcus’s two calls, letting the phone ring. Night fell, the house asleep. You crept out, grass dewy underfoot, to the fig tree. Toto waited, shadows etching his face, shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low, strained. “You shouldn’t have written that. It’s risky.”

“And ignoring me isn’t?” You shot back, stepping close.

He ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. “This—us—it’s impossible. Your father, the age… I’d be taking advantage.”

“You’re not,” You insisted. “I want this. You.”

His resolve cracked. “God help me,” he muttered, pulling you in. The kiss ignited—fierce, hungry. Lips parted, tongues tangling, hands urgent. You sank to the ground, leaves soft beneath. Toto’s touches were masterful: fingers unbuttoning your nightdress slowly, reverently, exposing breasts to the night air. “So beautiful,” he whispered, mouth closing over a nipple, sucking gently, teeth grazing. You gasped, back arching, fingers in his hair.

He trailed kisses lower, parting thighs, breath hot.

His tongue delved in, expert—circling, flicking, fingers joining to curl inside, hitting spots that made stars burst. You writhed, moaning softly, climax building fast. “Toto… please…”

He rose, shedding clothes, body strong, aroused. “Are you sure?” he asked, positioning himself.

“Yes,” you whispered, guiding him.

He entered slowly, inch by inch, stretching, filling. “Christ,” he groaned, pausing to let you adjust. Then movement—deep, controlled thrusts, hips rolling. You met him, nails digging into his back, legs locked around. “Harder,” you urged. He obliged, pace quickening, skin slapping, breaths mingling. Sweat beaded; he kissed your neck, murmuring in German—endearments you didn’t understand but felt. Release crashed over you first, clenching around him, crying out. Toto followed, burying deep, shuddering with a low moan.

They lay tangled, breaths slowing. “That was…” you started.

“Everything,” Toto finished, kissing your temple.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Morning light woke you, Toto’s arm heavy. Conflict surged: This is wrong—Papa’s friend, the age, the secrecy. Guilt twisted, but desire lingered. What have we done?

Toto found you later in the garden, alone on the bench. “Y/N? You vanished this morning.”

You looked up, tears welling. “Toto… we have so little time. Summer’s ending. You’ll go back to Vienna, I’ll go to university. What then?”

He sat, pulling you close. “I don’t know. But we’ll find a way. I can’t let you go now.”

“Promise?” You sobbed, clinging.

“I promise,” he said softly, stroking your hair.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Three days blurred in secret touches, whispered plans. Marcus, radio silent at first, appeared at the door, face etched with hurt. “Y/N? Can we talk?”

You stepped out, crossing arms. “What is it, Marcus?”

“I’ve been calling. Three days, no answer. After the lake… I thought we were starting something.”

“It was one night,” you said indifferently, gaze distant. “Fun, but that’s it.”

His eyes widened. “Fun? That’s all? I told you how I feel. I care about you—really care.”

“I know,” you replied coolly. “And that’s why it won’t work. You’re too clingy, Marcus. Always wanting more, planning futures. I don’t want that.”

He flushed, voice cracking. “Clingy? Because I actually give a damn? You’re just using people, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you shrugged, unmoved. “But it’s over. Leave it.”

“You’re heartless,” he spat, turning away, shoulders slumped.

You closed the door, a flicker of pity, but no regret. Toto waited inside, pulling you into an embrace. “Everything okay?”

▎WARNINGS: none.

The days blurred into a rhythm after that first tennis match, the summer heat pressing down like a hand on your shoulders. Venice’s casual kiss with Toto lingered in your mind like a bruise—tender, insistent, impossible to ignore. But you buried it deep, focusing instead on the familiar: books in the shaded garden, piano keys warm under fingertips, laughter with Marcus and Venice by the river. Toto, for his part, seemed content in the study with Papa, poring over yellowed maps and dusty manuscripts, their voices murmuring in a blend of Italian and German.

Yet, cracks appeared in the routine. One afternoon, as you practiced a Bach prelude in the sala, Toto paused in the doorway, listening. When the piece ended, he clapped softly.

"Beautiful," he said. "You play with such… introspection."

You glanced up, fingers still hovering over the keys. "It’s just practice."

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Practice is everything. Would you mind if I sat?"

From then on, he did—often. He’d bring a book or notes, settling into the armchair, eyes half-closed as you played.

It started innocently enough with the walks. The village was a short stroll down the winding road—cobbled streets, a bakery with fresh focaccia, the piazza where old men played bocce under plane trees. Toto suggested it one evening after dinner, claiming he needed to stretch his legs after hours bent over papers.

"Join me?" he asked you casually, as if it were nothing.

Papa encouraged it. "Go, cara. Show him the sights."

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The first walk was awkward. You pointed out landmarks—the ancient Roman bridge over the stream, the frescoed church facade—while Toto nodded, asking questions about local history. His stride was long; you had to quicken your pace to match. But by the third walk, conversation flowed easier. He spoke of Vienna’s cafes, the opera house where he’d seen Don Giovanni as a young man. You shared dreams of university, maybe studying literature or music in Bologna.

"You’re young," he said once, as they paused by a fountain, water trickling cool in the dusk. "The world is open to you."

You looked at him then—really looked. The lines around his eyes, the way his shirt clung slightly in the heat, the quiet intensity in his gaze. "And you? What about your world?"

He smiled faintly. "Mine is smaller now. Books, digs, the occasional lecture. But it’s enough."

It wasn’t, you thought later, lying awake in bed. The connecting door to his room was thin; you could hear him moving about, the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of pages. One night, insomnia gripping tight, you slipped through that door—just to see. The room was dim, moonlight slanting across the bed where Toto slept, one arm thrown over his head. Books stacked on the nightstand, his glasses folded neatly. You stood there, heart pounding, inhaling the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the night’s cool air. It felt illicit, thrilling. You left before he stirred, but the pull grew stronger.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The archaeological trip sealed it. Papa planned a day excursion to the ruins near Bolzano—a small Etruscan site he’d excavated years ago, now half-overgrown with vines. "Toto must see it," he insisted. "And you, Y/N—come along. It’s history alive."

You drove in the old Alfa Romeo, windows down, wind whipping hair. Papa droned on about pottery shards and burial rites, but you barely listened, sandwiched in the back seat, thigh brushing Toto’s accidentally on turns. He didn’t pull away.

At the site, the sun baked the earth golden-brown. Papa led them through crumbled walls, pointing out inscriptions in faded Latin. Toto knelt to examine a fragment, dusting it gently with his fingers. "Remarkable," he murmured. "The craftsmanship…"

You watched him, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up revealing tanned forearms and prominent veins. When Papa wandered off to sketch a map, Toto straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Hot work," he said, offering you a canteen of water.

Your fingers touched as you took it. "Thanks."

You explored together then, stepping over roots and stones. He explained the site’s layout, voice low and engaging, gesturing with those capable hands. You asked questions, leaning close to see what he pointed out, your shoulders brushing. Laughter came easy—a shared joke about Papa’s endless enthusiasm, the absurdity of chasing ghosts in the dirt.

By midday, you picnicked under an olive tree: bread, cheese, salami from Mamma’s basket. Papa napped in the shade, leaving you alone. Toto stretched out, hands behind his head, staring at the sky.

"This reminds me of my first dig," he said softly. "Austria, 1950s. I was your age."

You lay beside him, grass tickling your back.

You wanted to reach out, trace the line of his jaw. Instead, you whispered, "I’m glad you’re here."

His expression softened, something unspoken flickering there. "Me too."

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Back home, the tension coiled tighter. More walks, longer talks—philosophy over coffee in the piazza, debates on art versus science. You found excuses to be near him: helping sort papers in the study, playing piano pieces he requested. Sneaking into his room became a ritual—touching his books, imagining his presence. The jealousy from Venice faded, replaced by a deeper ache: desire, confusion, an inexplicable draw to this man twice your age, worlds apart.

It built gradually, like a storm gathering on the horizon. One evening, after a walk where your hands brushed too often to be accidental, you couldn’t hold it back. You were in the garden, fireflies winking in the twilight. Toto sat on the stone bench, smoking a rare cigarette.

You paced, then stopped. "Toto… I need to say something."

He looked up, exhaling smoke slowly. "What is it?"

The words tumbled out, halting at first, then rushing. "These days with you—the walks, the trip, just… being around you. It’s more than friendship for me. I think about you all the time. It’s stupid, I know…"

His face tightened, the cigarette forgotten. He stood, crushing it under his heel. "Y/N… we can’t discuss such things."

"Why not?" you stepped closer, voice trembling. "Because of the age? Because you’re my father’s colleague?"

"All of that. And more." His voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed conflict. "You’re young, brilliant. This summer will end, and you’ll move on. I won’t complicate that."

"But I feel it," you insisted, heart cracking. "Don’t you?"

He hesitated, jaw clenching. "It doesn’t matter."

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

It did. Days passed in strained silence—you avoiding the study, playing piano with doors closed. Toto buried himself in work, polite but distant at meals.

Then, one afternoon, rain drove everyone inside. Papa and Mamma visited neighbors. You found Toto in the orchard behind the house, sheltered under a gnarled fig tree, rain pattering on leaves.

"I can’t avoid you forever," he said as you approached.

"Don’t," you replied, stepping close. The air hummed with unsaid words.

He reached out, tentative, cupping your cheek.

Then, in that secluded spot, hidden by branches and storm, he leaned in. The kiss was soft at first—hesitant. You melted into it, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. It deepened, his reluctance giving way to urgency, bodies pressing together.

But he pulled back, breathing hard. "We can’t go further."

You nodded, dazed, lips tingling. "Okay."

▎WARNINGS: none.

▎INSPIRED BY CALL ME BY YOUR NAME: In the summer of 1983, eighteen-year-old Y/N lives a quiet, introspective life in rural Northern Italy with their archaeologist father and mother, spending days reading, playing piano, and hanging out with childhood friends. When Y/N’s father invites 54-year-old Austrian professor Toto Wolff to stay for the season to assist with academic paperwork, Y/N initially assumes the older, scholarly guest will have little in common with them. Over time, however, subtle moments of connection—shared conversations about literature, quiet appreciation of Y/N’s music, and Toto’s calm presence—begin to stir unexpected feelings.

The summer of 1983 settled over the hills of Northern Italy like a warm, heavy blanket. Your family home sat on the edge of a small village outside Trento—stone walls painted pale ochre, terracotta roof tiles baked by decades of sun, and a garden thick with rosemary, lavender, and the lazy hum of cicadas. The air smelled of cut grass and distant hay, and the days stretched long and golden.

You, eighteen and freshly done with scuola superiore, spent most hours in one of two places: curled in the old armchair by the window with a book, or at the upright piano in the sala, fingers wandering through Chopin nocturnes and bits of Debussy. Friends Marcus and Venice called almost daily, dragging you out for gelato in the piazza or lazy afternoons by the river. Life felt suspended, pleasantly aimless.

Then Papa announced the guest.

"Professor Wolff is coming from Vienna," he said over breakfast one morning, folding his newspaper with satisfaction. "A brilliant mind in ancient history and epigraphy. He’s agreed to spend the summer helping me organize the paperwork from the last dig in Puglia. We’ll give him the east room—yours is connected, cara, but there’s the shared bagno. It will be fine."

You nodded politely, though inwardly something tightened. A 54-year-old Austrian professor sounded… orderly. Precise. The opposite of the soft chaos you preferred—dog-eared pages, half-finished melodies, the freedom of long unstructured days.

The day he arrived, the Fiat taxi labored up the gravel drive in the late afternoon heat. You watched from the upstairs window as a tall man unfolded himself from the back seat. Broad shoulders, dark hair, a crisp linen shirt already slightly rumpled from travel. He carried a leather satchel and moved with the calm assurance of someone used to being listened to.

Papa greeted him warmly in the courtyard. German and Italian mixed in cheerful bursts. You lingered on the stairs, curious despite yourself.

"Torger—please, call me Toto," the man said, extending a hand first to Papa, then to Mamma, his voice low and accented but warm. His smile reached his eyes.

When it was your turn, his handshake was firm, dry, professional.

"Piacere," you murmured.

"Likewise," he replied in careful Italian. "Your father speaks very highly of you. The pianist, sì?"

You felt color rise. "I just play for myself."

He tilted his head, studying them a moment longer than necessary. "Sometimes that’s the purest kind."

Papa clapped his hands. "Come, let me show you to your room."

You led the way upstairs, Toto following with his suitcase. The hallway smelled of beeswax polish and sun-warmed wood. You pushed open the door to the east room—simple, whitewashed, with a narrow bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the vineyard slopes.

"This is yours," you said. "Mine’s through there." They gestured to the connecting door. "We share the bathroom. It’s old, but the water’s hot. Just… knock first, I suppose."

Toto set his bag down and glanced around, taking in the faded floral wallpaper, the small crucifix above the bed. "It’s perfect. Thank you."

You hesitated. "Dinner’s soon. Mamma’s making risotto with porcini. If you’re hungry…"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a small gesture that suddenly made him look tired. "The flight was long, and the train from Verona even longer. Jet lag, I think. Would it be rude if I rested first?"

"Not at all," you said quickly, relieved. "Rest. I’ll tell them."

He gave a small nod of thanks, already loosening his collar.

Downstairs, Mamma was stirring the pot, apron dusted with flour.

"Well?" she asked without turning. "What do you think of our Austrian professor?"

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "He seems… nice. Organized. Polite."

Mamma laughed softly. "High praise from you, tesoro. You usually say less."

You shrugged. "He’s old enough to be my nonno. What’s there to think?"

But even as you said it, something lingered—the way his eyes had lingered on the piano in the corner of the sala as they passed, the faint curiosity in his voice when he mentioned their music.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Dinner came and went. Papa told stories about the dig site; Mamma asked Toto careful questions about Vienna. You stayed mostly quiet, picking at rice, stealing glances across the table.

Then, near the end of the meal, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Toto appeared in the doorway, hair slightly mussed from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked less formal now, more human.

"Buonasera," he said, almost sheepish. "I hope I’m not too late."

Mamma beamed. "Never too late. Sit, sit. There’s plenty."

He took the empty chair beside you. Close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—something clean, woody—and the warmth radiating from his arm as he reached for the bread.

"Grazie," he murmured to Mamma, then turned slightly toward Y/N. "I heard the piano earlier. Schubert?"

You blinked. "Impromptu in G-flat. You know it?"

"I used to play. Badly." A self-deprecating smile. "But I remember that one."

For the first time that day, you felt a small spark of interest. Maybe there was more to him than paperwork and precision.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The next morning dawned bright and mercilessly hot. Marcus and Venice arrived on their bicycles just after breakfast, insisting on tennis at the old clay court behind the church. You grabbed your racket, grateful for the distraction.

Toto, surprisingly, joined them.

"I haven’t played in years," he warned as they walked down the dusty path, "but I’ll try not to embarrass myself."

He didn’t. He moved with surprising grace for a man his age—long strides, quick reflexes. Venice, always competitive, laughed and teased him in broken English. By the third set, sweat darkened his shirt, and he was grinning like a boy.

When the match ended—Venice and Toto victorious—you watched from the bench, toweling off your face.

Venice said something in a low voice. Toto laughed, bent, and brushed a quick, casual kiss against her cheek in thanks. Friendly. Continental. Nothing more.

But something sharp twisted in your chest anyway.

Jealousy—sudden, irrational, humiliating.