𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑛 𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑦 (𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒)
▎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?”
“Now it is,” you murmured.