#Italian restaurant trattoria | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joemama-2 · 9 months ago

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somethin' sweet

synopsis: you own a five-star renowned restaurant that is extremely hard to get into. business is great, the customers love it. everything is as perfect as can be. that is until a harsh food critic leaves you a bad review. you're stuck with a dilemma, let this one review overcome you. or.....fuck him so he can change it. tags: smut, sort of public sex, vaginal penetration, oral, gojo is kind of mean and annoying, praise, degradation, doggy, missionary, cunnilingus, dividers by @cafekitsune word count: 6370

The one time you’re not here, the one time you actually listen to everyone’s complaints about taking time to yourself because you overwork way too much. The one time you use your PTO to vacation to Bali for a week,

A distinguished critic visits your restaurant.

You stare down at the screen in your hands, having not at all prepared for this news to be brought on you as soon as you enter. Its words stare back at you, taunting you almost. You’re half tempted to throw it across the kitchen, but that would be another expense added to your list of supplies you needed to buy for the upcoming month.

“What day did he come?” you ask as your pointer finger scrolls the screen, reading more of the nasty review that was left.

“A Saturday. None of us even knew he was coming.” Mayra, your head sous chef, replies. The rest of the staff stands around. Some in nervousness, anticipation, and even anger at the predicament. “We sat him on the top. Even made sure he had the whole floor to himself.”

The top floor, strictly reserved for distinguished guests who waited on your month long reservation list, or for those who would simply buy it out for the night. Your top floor is constantly raved about in the media, sometimes for its lavishness and other times in jealousy. Long story short, the top floor is for the best of the best.

And they gave him that.

But it seems he didn’t care for that at all.

“If you’re in the mood for a culinary adventure that feels more like a misadventure, look no further than Lovely Haven, the so-called “fusion” restaurant that blends American comfort food with Italian classics. Unfortunately, the only thing they seem to have fused successfully is disappointment and confusion. The result is a dismal failure that feels like a cruel joke on the palate, this is what happens when culinary confusion collides with utter mediocrity.

Let’s start with the decor—an odd mix of rustic Italian charm and the kind of neon signs you'd find in a questionable diner. It’s as if someone couldn’t decide whether to create a romantic trattoria or a roadside burger joint. The atmosphere is confusing, much like the menu.”

You scoff as you read this part to yourself. The decor? The decor was one of the things almost every customer raved about. Its bright lights mixed with sleek and stainless furniture was the epitome of success. Going as far as bugging your interior designer for days, even weeks on end, to get it down to the T.

Secondly, mediocre? How dare he? You’ve been in the culinary arts for over two decades now, and so has your staff. You were very nitpicky and quite a perfectionist when assembling your employees for your place of solace. Your 5-star Michelin restaurant, yes, 5-star. It only took two years to achieve that goal, which placed you as the quickest growing restaurant in your area. And he’s treating it like you’re nothing but a simple Applebee’s or Chili’s.

The balls on this man.

“Now, onto the menu—a dizzying array of choices that reads like a desperate attempt at creativity gone horribly awry. The lasagna burger is a prime example of this misguided ambition. It arrives as a soggy monstrosity, with layers of pasta and a sad, overcooked beef patty that would make even the most forgiving diner weep. It’s a culinary abomination, devoid of flavor and entirely forgettable.

Then there are the “famous” Alfredo fries, which manage to be both an insult to fries and Alfredo sauce. The dish is an affront to all things Italian and American, featuring limp, greasy fries drowning in a thick, tasteless goo that resembles some sort of industrial paste. It’s a disgrace, and I genuinely questioned whether anyone in the kitchen had ever tasted actual food before.”

By this point, your grip has tightened on the Ipad, jaw clenching and brows furrowing. This man, he really, really was an asshole. Disrespecting your hard-working kitchen staff was a low blow that you took personally. “How long did it take to get his food out to him?”

“Twenty minutes, Y/N.” Luke, one of the managers, replies. “I timed it and made sure it was prepared before the other guests who were dining.”

So not only was he being treated like a princess, but the other customers, who probably got there before him, received their food after he was served. All for the sake of him not reviewing your restaurant’s “unkempt timeliness”.

You continue to read the last few paragraphs while your stomach twists and turns.

“Service, predictably, matched the culinary catastrophe. Our server was inattentive and seemed more interested in their phone than in providing any semblance of hospitality. Drinks took an eternity to arrive—warm, naturally, because why would you expect cold beverages at a restaurant?

Dessert? Oh, you mean the “Tiramisu Sundae”? It’s a ghastly creation that defies logic, featuring layers of sad, mushy sponge cake drowned in what could only be described as a failed attempt at chocolate syrup. The entire dish is an insult to the beloved Italian classic, tasting more like a punishment than a treat.

In conclusion, Lovely Haven is not just a failure; it’s a disgrace to the culinary arts. If you value your taste buds and your sanity, steer clear of this pitiful excuse for a restaurant. Save your money and your appetite for a place that actually understands food. You deserve better.”

The silence that follows is harsh, awaiting a potential outburst from you. You lift your head and swivel around to glare at the group around you. “Who served him?”

Hesitance replies back, some of your staff looking down as though the ground seems more interesting than your death glare. It isn’t until you ask the question again, in a firmer tone, does Mayra respond. “Susan.”

Jesus christ.

As if things couldn’t be worse, who’s bright idea was it to decide that the slacking employee serves your distinguished guest. The one person who has been trying your presence since she was hired. “Where is—”

You’re disrupted by the kitchen door opening, the problem herself walking through with earbuds in and of course, scrolling on her phone. As she looks up and sees the numerous amount of eyes on her, her steps falter. Confusion sparks through her expression, but as soon as you step forward, it begins to click.

“You’re thirty minutes late, I put you on opening because you said you couldn’t close anymore.” You don’t even have it in you to lighten your tone, eyes narrowed and voice clipped in annoyance, frustration. “Your performance has been lacking for months now, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Ever the brat she is, her arms cross. “I’m a busy college student, I have other priorities and things on my mind unlike the rest of you.”

“And I understand that,” you snap back.”But there is a difference between having other priorities and simply not caring. You don’t listen, you show up late, and you’re using your phone while you’re on the floor. Do you understand how extremely disrespectful that is?”

A moment of silence passes as she seems to formulate what to say in her mind. “I jus—”

“You’re fired.” you cut her off. “Your last check will be deposited within 24 hours, do not come back and if you do, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Luke and Mayra, along with your other manager, Ren, sit next to you in your office. Computer screen displayed in front of you four while your fingers type away. Mayra glances at your focused expression before back at the screen. “Do you really think he’ll reply back? Critics don’t usually come to review a place for a second time, especially one they strongly advised against.”

“I don’t care,” you murmur, eyes not straying from the email you’re drafting out. “Out of the seven years we’ve been operating, we haven’t had a single bad review. And now, this entitled ass thinks just because he gets paid to eat and critic, he can ruin our reputation.”

Ren sighs, hand lifted to his forehead. “Y/N, it’s okay. One bad review doesn’t and won’t define us.”

“Besides, he’s known for being harsh, he does this to everyone,” Luke adds on.

“Even more of a reason for me to do this. I will not allow him to openly disrespect our hard work and dedication like this.”

The three around you give one another a knowing look, right before you click send on the email.

“Hello, Mr. Gojo.

My name is Y/N L/N, I’m the owner of Lovely Haven, a place you recently reviewed. After reading your honest review, I am extremely upset and apologetic for the food and service you received that day. That is not at all what we strive for, and again, I sincerely apologize.

If you would accept, I would like to set up a second visit for you. We are closed on this coming Friday, due to the holiday, but I’d love to personally serve you myself and answer any and all questions you may have regarding Lovely Haven and its history.

Please respond back as soon as you have a moment. Thank you again.

Kindly,

Y/N L/N”

“Hello, Ms. LN,

I appreciate you reaching out to me. I’ll come around 8am on Friday. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Gojo Satoru”

You;ve spent the better half of the past two hours setting up and making sure everything is perfect. You’ll be damned if you have a rerun of last time, especially on your watch. Your staff insisted you don’t handle this alone, urging for at least two cooks to be present. But you refused.

Lovely Haven is your business and creation, your heart. So in a way, you feel as if it’s your job as the owner to make this all right. If anyone can serve this man, it’s you.

You’re dressed formally, hair up (in case he tries to complain about hair in his food). Wearing a simple black dress, modest enough as it reaches your knees. It’s tight, but not too tight. You’re wearing small black heels to match, gold jewelry complimenting the attire.

The clock inches towards 8 and you, for some reason, find yourself feeling oddly nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation or anxiousness for a second try. Your stomach curls, almost like you’re a lovestruck high schooler seeing her crush in the hallways. Sweaty handles fiddle together in front of you while your eyes dart from the watch on your wrist and the glass front doors.

Either this man had a penchant for being late, or you somehow mixed your days up and he’s not coming today. Dramatically, you check your phone and let out a sigh of relief when you see it’s Friday. Okay, good. Then he’s really just late.

Well, not exactly late. But he said he’d get here at 8, it’s 7:57. Usually people don’t get to places at the time they said, because if he came at 8 exactly, that is late. You should always show up at least five minutes before your estimated arrival time, at least that’s how you thought.

No, that’s how most normal, responsible adults thought.

Maybe he’s not normal. Can’t be if he gave you a one star and brutal review. He’s probably just trying to be different from the rest. And you hate people like that. Shitting on something that is actually good, whether it be a show or movie, simply because everyone else says it's good. And the fact that he’s known for his low reviews is even more infuriating.

There’s no way every place he visits is below three stars. It has to be his taste buds, they’re probably—

“Good morning.”

You snap your head up, completely lost in thought that you didn’t even notice, let alone hear the dreadful man walk in. Already not off to a good start. A smile finds its way on your face, hand held out, to which he shakes. “Good morning, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gojo. I’m Y/N.”

He nods, a small smile reciprocated back. “I figured.”

Is it just you or did he tone sound almost condescending? And that smile on his face seems like he’s the type to think he knows it all.

Nope, don’t do that.

Pulling your hand away after what seems like a longer than usual handshake, you step aside and motion towards the array of tables. “Well, why don’t I show you to your table?”

“Yeah, why don’t you?” he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks, raising a thin, white eyebrow as if to silently urge you to start walking. You hold back an eye twitch, turning around and walking to the area you set up specifically for him.

He’s following behind you as you walk, the heels of your shoes softy clanking against the ceramic tile. As you glance back, you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes quickly raise up to meet yours. Like he was—

“I apologize for not being around last time, I was on vacation.” you say, cutting off your own train of thought that you won’t entertain.

“Ah, no worries. Where did you go?” His pace matches your own now, walking side by side as his arm barely brushes against your bare skin. “Somewhere nice?”

You chuckle lightly and nod. “Yes, I went to Bali. It was quite lovely. The people were very welcoming and the food was absolutely delicious.”

A hum. “Better than this place, I hope.”

That comment. God, that comment. And the fact that he’s hiding it behind his sickeningly sweet smile, a tilt to his voice like he’s joking but not actually joking. You’ll pray for the former. “I can assure you, Mr. Gojo, both residences of food are exquisite.”

You two get to the square table prepared for him. A crisp, white linen tablecloth across the surface, that creates a clean and elegant contrast that elevated the rustic charm. At the center, a simple yet striking centerpiece emerged—a small terracotta pot filled with fresh basil and rosemary, their vibrant green leaves offering a delightful aroma that whispered of Italian kitchens.

Polished silverware gleamed in the soft light, laid out neatly on either side, ready for the culinary delights to come. An elegant, crystal wine glass on the side. Cloth napkins, folded into intricate designs, rested atop his plate. The dual flickering candles in small glass holders cast a warm glow over the table, creating an intimate atmosphere that you hoped would help catch his eye.

Finally, a menu card that displayed the special dishes you had prepared just for him. You took the time out of your day to make this specifically for today, crafting your menu for a man who probably didn’t think twice about it was not on your 2024 bingo card.

He takes his seat as you stand in front of him, placing the menu closer to his reach. “Here we have a variety of our best sellers and limited editions. Just for you, Mr. Gojo.” Your smile gets a little harder to keep up as he lazily sits back in his seat, scanning the menu with his sharp, blue eyes.

“Interesting,” he observes, even flipping it over. He glances back up at you. “The stuffed arancini, is that good?”

“Delicious, sir.”

“Okay,” he looks back down at the menu. “Then I’ll get the Buffalo Cauliflower Bites for an appetizer, plus the Bruschetta Trio. Oh, and to drink, I want one of your craft mocktails.”

So he asks for your opinion, and doesn’t even order it. “Of course, Mr. Gojo.” You don’t write it down, having already committed his order to memory, due to years in the food industry. “I’ll get started on that right now.”

With one more smile, you turn around and head to the kitchen. As soon as the doors close, your face hardens with irritation. Walking around to grab the appropriate ingredients, grumbling to yourself curses. Sure you’ll make his food and smile at him, doesn't mean you won’t be a brat about it behind closed doors.

The minutes Gojo spends alone, he’s meticulously counting them down. Eyebrow raised as he eyes the kitchen doors and the arms of the small clock. Leg crossed over the other with his arm resting on top of the back of his chair that he;s currently tipping back and forth with the stability of his foot.

After about three minutes, you greet him with his mocktail, setting it down. “Here you go, sir.”

“Finally, I almost died of thirst, you know?” He huffs a small chuckle and he sips from the straw. You want to grimace as he swishes the liquid around his mouth, head tilting in dramatics. He’s acting like it’s mouthwash or something. As he swallows, you do your best not to focus on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

What do you think you’re doing? Checking him out right now, seriously?

“How is it?” Your voice raises a tad, either in nervousness or a way to calm your suddenly rapid beating heart.

“Not too bad, a little sour for me.” He comments, tongue coming out to lick across his bottom lip. “What’s in it?”

“Basil lemonade and berry spritz, Mr. Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrects you, eyes rolling while his hand waves around dismissively. “Stop calling me ‘sir’ and all that, makes me feel old. Besides, this is supposed to feel comfortable isn’t it? Don’t force yourself with the formalities.”

Well, that’s a small breath of relief. You simply nod. “Of course, Satoru. Then you may call me Y/N.”

“Was already gonna do that.”

“Right.”

A small pause follows, hands awkwardly fiddling behind his back. You didn’t even realize it before, but the way he stares feels really invading. Especially with how bright his eyes are, you’re starting to feel naked under his gaze. Like he can sense it, he grins boyishly. “The appetizers?”

You nod again, quicker this time, clearing your throat. “Yes, coming right up.”

And once more, you leave him be while you finish up his food. The bruschetta trio, a classic tomato and basil, roasted red pepper and feta, with wild mushroom and truffle oil topping, served on toasted artisan bread. This dish is loved among your regulars.

And the buffalo cauliflower bites which are spicy, crispy cauliflower tossed in buffalo sauce, served with a side of creamy blue cheese dressing. Perfect for customers with a higher spice tolerance, craving that explosive taste in their mouths.

Holding the two white, glass plates with ease, the doors push open by your back as you walk back over to him. “Bruschetta and the cauliflower, Satoru.”

He doesn’t waste time in taking small, careful bites of each platter. Humming in thought as he does this. It takes a couple minutes before he speaks, using the cloth to wipe at the corner of his mouth. “The mushroom is quite bland, the bread is too hard. And the blue cheese doesn’t go well with the bites.”

Each word is like a punch to your gut. He’s really just finding every little thing to pick at, isn’t he? Lips pursing, your eyebrows raise in faux consideration. “I see, I can remove the dressing for you, and I’ll serve you a softer piece of bread.”

Your hands reach out to take them away, just as his moves into frame. Your fingertips brush against the back of his hand. “No need to take them away, just stating facts.” His smile never seems to leave and each growing second, you feel more and more tempted to wipe it off his face. He gently pushes your hands away, interlacing his fingers together. “Do you expect replacements to suddenly wipe my memory clean? Why should I have to rely on you giving me a replica of what I ordered, when the original piece should’ve met my expectations?”

A little caught off guard by his sudden questioning, you gulp and clear your throat. “Well, if something is not up to par for my guests, it is my duty to replace that with something that is.”

“Sure, but I’m asking why it wasn’t perfect the first time.” He leisurely sips from his mocktail.

A small, but forced laugh leaves your lips. “We do try our best every single time, Satoru. Being perfect has proved hard when everyone has different tastes.”

“So you just give out generic food and hope for the best?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

Your brows begin to furrow at his nonchalance, lip barely quirking down into a frown. “I’m sorry, but our food is not generic. We serve with love and dedication.”

“Love,” he repeats in a mocking tone, picking at the bites with his fork. “This was made with love?”

He’s really getting on your nerves now. “Yes, it was. If you do not like it then I can remake—”

“I’ll take the balsamic glazed chicken,” he cuts you off. “With the alfredo fries. You’re talking about remakes, right? Then make those fries good this time. Thanks.”

You can’t help but stare down at him, the nerve he has is beyond rude. His demanding nature contrasts with your helping one. But, you stay resolute in your politeness, mumbling a small ‘of course’ before disappearing back into the kitchen.

It’s a disaster, truly.

A hard, long, infuriatingly annoying disaster.

Every platter crafted with delicacy and carefulness, he sets aside with calmness. Claiming how the littlest of little things was wrong or how it tasted bad. He even makes a couple snide comments about where you learned to cook from and they should be ashamed.

No matter what, however, he conceals his comments with those stupid laughs you’ve started to despise.

Like it’s funny to him how much you’re failing to please him.

Sweat threatens to trickle down your forehead, using a spare towel to dab at your face. Your hair has started to become a tad unkempt, having to constantly push stray pieces of hair out your face and even grabbing at your hair in frustration. This is probably your own fault for setting this all up, but never did you imagine it would turn out like this.

His table is filled with a variety of plates and dishes stacked unceremoniously on top of each other to make room for the next one.

Throughout it all, he watches your struggle in silent amusement. Everytime you turn around to stomp back into the kitchen, he gets a clear, nice view of the way the fabric of your dress tugs around your ass, legs sleek with whatever lotion you decided to put on.

Your perfume fills his nostrils as you come back to him, to which he feels more and more motivated to bring you down and just stuff his face into the crook of your neck. Or the middle of your plump thighs that have just been calling out to him like a siren.

Satoru would like to think he’s a man of self control, but you’re really pushing him, and you’re not even trying.

He’s being purposeful with his actions just to keep this entire visit long. Just so he can keep checking you out and biting his lip as he inhales your scent. Just so he can have the ample amount of time to force down the boner he has from under the table.

And well, because he’s really, really looking forward to dessert.

You breathe out a heavy breath, one of exhaustion as you present him with yet another platter. He laughs to himself as he takes a bite.

“Meh, too soggy.”

That’s it. “I’ve given you everything on the menu.”

“Oh, have you?” His head tilts innocently.

Your teeth grit. “Yes, I have.”

“Well, that’s a bummer. You really shouldn’t have had such a limited variation.”

“It’s not lim–”

“Dessert, right? That usually comes after the main course.”

“......yes. What would you like?” You’re forcing your words out by now, hands twitching as they threaten to grip his pretty throat.

Wait, pretty?

Jesus christ, can you stop thinking that right now?

“Hmmmm, let’s see here.” As his eyes scan over the desserts listed on the menu, a frown, or a pout, makes way onto his lips. You close your eyes for a second, counting from one to ten and back. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“I have to say,” he lowly whistles. “none of this looks very….appealing.” As he looks back up at you, there’s a small glint in his expression. One that almost causes you to shiver, for some reason.

Is he playing with you now?

“Nothing?” You ask, arms crossing over your chest. “All of that is what guests order the most.”

“Well, I’m not some regular schmegular guest, now am I?” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s standing, one hand stuffed into his pocket while the other meekly points to you. “So, what do you say? You gonna give me something I actually want?”

A small huff escapes from your lips, now longer having the strength to hold back your irritation. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh cmon, don’t give me that.”

“Give you what?”

“That.” He juts his chin in the direction of your scowl. “Do you usually frown at your customers?”

“I frown at men who take my kindness for granted,” is your response, eyes narrowing. “Also, you have been nitpicking every single thing I’ve given you. You’ve been extremely rude about it.”

“Rude? Is honesty rude now? I thought you wanted my honesty.”

“There’s a stark difference between the two.”

“Really?” He leans closer, face teetering on the line of too close as his point finger just barely skims across your forearm. “Mind enlightening me?”

Your breath almost hitches, skin feeling all too warm. You peek down at his finger before back to his face, heart beating faster than normal. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He counters.

“Like you’re trying to flirt with me.”

He barks out a laugh. “Trying? No honey, I am. Why, do you like it?”

“No, I don’t like being flirted with by rude and random men.” You reply, tilting your chin up. “Especially you, sir.”

His grin widens. “Cute. But you know what I don’t like?” As he steps closer, you’re forced to step back. “No dessert.”

His finger travels up your arm, your shoulder, then stops at your jawline, head tilting as his breath fans your cheek. “So, what else can I eat?”

This is stupid. So stupid. Dangerous. Idiotic. Out of character. Anything that means bad.

Is this really all for a good review by some asshat who takes joy out of making people's lives harder? Or are you actually enjoying it?

You feel disgusted at the situation, angered and infuriated that you’ve fallen into his trap. You want to curse out to whatever gods that may be watching and demand why you couldn’t hold back.

Either way, you’re not the only one who couldn’t hold back.

Your breath hitches, a broken string of whines leaving you as the flat of his tongue runs through your slippery folds. His hands on your thighs keep you grounded in place atop the table, because your hips keep twitching up in need of more friction.

You can’t even see his face as it’s so far buried into your wet pussy, practically stuffing his face with it. But god do you feel him. The tips of his hair tickle your inner thighs. His low moan reverberates through you, making you shiver and tingle with excitement.

“A—ahh….!” Your hand finds a place on his hair, pulling as your head tilts back with another moan. “F—fuck…”

His lips smile against your skin, pulling away for a second to look up at your blissed out expression. His face is coated in your juices and you haven’t even came yet. “Pretty good, might be the best thing I’ve had today.”

As he goes back to ravishing you, his tongue slips into your aching hole. Which causes your back to arch up, a higher pitched whine leaving you. “Tad salty, very sweet.”

His comments feel degrading almost. But with the way your thighs threaten to close around his head, pushing his face closer to your cunt, he has a feeling you like it.

It’s electrifying and confusing at the same time. You’ve never been one with hookup culture, you’re not a virgin either but this is on a totally different level. Here you are, letting him tongue fuck you in the middle of the empty restaurant in which you were supposed to be serving him.

Technically you are still serving him.

He urges your hips closer to the edge of the table, spitting harshly against you as he delves back into giving you the best eat of your life.

His tongue alternates between your hole and clit, giving both equal attention while his fingers knead the plush skin of your smooth thighs. Your toes curl in your heels and you feel so close.

You can practically taste it on your tongue, not even mindful anymore of the noises that you’re making. Too engrossed in the utter bliss of the way his mouth sucks and licks at your folds.

You don’t even know you’ve finished until he’s come back up, licking away your release that’s plastered to his pale skin. Left panting and staring up at the dangling lights that feel blinding.

What brings you back down to Earth is the soft clanking of metal. Your head whips down just as he’s unbuckling his pants, eyes blown wide. “W-what are you doing?”

He simply looks at you, shrugging with nonchalance as his belt comes undone, button and zipper next. “Gonna fuck your pussy, what else?”

You scramble to sit up, but he’s faster. Holding your legs open, leaning his face closer. “What? Don’t wanna?”

“I—I shouldn’t. I mean, we shouldn’t.”

“Pfft, why not?”

“Because this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“But it has,” he tugs his slacks down, giving you full view of the raging boner nestled under his black boxers. His hand reaches to give himself a few strokes. “Haven’t been this hard in a long time.”

You feel your release ooze down onto the tablecloth, hole feeling empty as it clenches around air. All you can do is watch him jerk himself, gulping as you lick your lips. “This is….really wrong.”

Yet it feels so right.

His lips touch the side of your neck, kissing and sucking a small mark into your skin. You tilt your head for him, arm coming up to hold around his neck. Chest heaving up and down. “I’ll fuck you good, I promise.”

Your eyes are instantly drawn down to his leaking cock as he pulls it out. Long and thin veins decorating the length with pre-cum leaking out the head. Trimmed with a small white bush of pubic hair at his base. It looks pretty.

He huffs out a breathy laugh, titling your face up to him, lips meeting. His lips are soft and plush, melting into it. He keeps his hand on your nape so he can deepen the kiss, tongue invading your mouth like a snake.

Spit dribbles down the corners of your mouths. All the while he’s teasing your entrance with his cock.

“Ngh!” You pull away, face scrunching and mouth agape.

“Mm, like that?” His tip runs up and down your slit, smearing his pre into your folds and around them. The sight is lewd. “So wet, just from my tongue too. How many guys make you finish from just eating you out?”

Out of all the times he tries for a conversation, does right now have to be one? “N-none…”

He hums. “So I’m the only one? I like that.”

He finds your hole, just barely pushing in. Your nails claw at his shoulders, whimpering into his ear. “S-shit, just wait a second…”

“For what?” His voice is husky, brows pinched together. The warmth from your cunt practically enveloping him whole.

You croak out something unintelligible. For a few seconds, you two stay frozen like this. But that’s cut short as he slowly begins to slide deeper. “Shit, stop squeezin’ me.” He grunts.

All you can offer is a weak “I’m not” before being cut off by a breathy moan, one he replicates with you. He moves in deeper and deeper, until he’s finally buried to the hilt in your warm pussy. It’s big, bigger than you’ve ever taken. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

His fingers dig into your hips while your nails into his shoulders.

Practically feeling his cock twitch within you, you have to hold back squeezing around him even more. But it just feels too good not to. It makes you feel full.

As he begins to move, he’s whispering dirty praises into your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Who knew you had such good pussy.”

“Look at you, sucking me in like a good little whore, huh?”

“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had.”

Each word he emphasizes with a quicker thrust. The silverware clanks around you, some even falling to the ground. The table creaks and the cloth crumples up. “W-wait….slow…ngh!”

“No slow,’ he patronizingly laughs, his gaze darkened as he looks at you. “Going fast, you’re gonna take it too. ‘Cause you’re a desperate little thing, aren't you?”

You whine out, biting down hard on your lip you’re surprised you’re not drawing blood yet. He takes this as an invitation to devour your mouth once more. The kiss is harder this time, more sloppy. Seems sloppy is his thing.

Before you know it, he manhandles you to flip over, ass high in the air while his hand forces your back down into an arch. “Just like that. Stay still and I’ll let you cum again.”

With this new position, he’s able to hit spots you didn’t even know were there. All you have to hold on is the cloth of the table, balling them into your fists while he mercilessly pounds into your pussy from the back. His balls hit your clit in a repetitive motion that damn near causes you to see stars.

Noises and mumble words fall out your mouth like water, the side of your face being pushed down into the hard surface. His hand twirls and tangles in your hair before giving it a hard tug back.

“Mngh!”

With one hand on your hip and the other in your hair, it gives him all the reigns to perfectly fuck your squelching hole, pace unforgiving. And what’s he doing the whole time? Laughing. That asshole is laughing.

Either at your state or the fact that you fit so perfectly snug around his cock like a ring.

It’s like he’s moving on autopilot, just one thing on his mind. Fucking you like your his fleshlight he keeps in his room. “Maybe I should’ve come here sooner—fuck—could’ve had this pussy all to myself even sooner.”

He groans, head tilting back as a familiar sensation bubbles in his stomach. “Ah, god…fuck.”

“D-dont cum!” You half-heartedly shout, body trembling in preparation for your second release of the day.

“Hah?” he huffs out. “You tell a guy who’s fucking a pretty pussy he can’t come? You’re crazy.”

“Ah….hah…!” You mewl out, squeezing around him.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering. A warm feeling erupts deep within your cunt, causing you to whine. It makes your whole body feel as if it’s on fire, thighs shaking. Your cum mixes with his own, dripping down the backs of your thighs in a disgusting manner. You’re left panting for air

He spends a good time watching it all happen, and as he pulls out, seeing your hole twitch and tremor around air almost starts to make him hard again. He leans over, hot air hitting the shell of your ear, his voice low and husky. “Up for more?”

Monday, 9am.

Incoming message from

Mayra:

Check your email, forwarded you something.

You groan tiredly, fingers fiddling with the bright screen of your phone. Clicking on the wrong app a couple times before opening your Gmail. You press on the email from Mayra, an attached link.

The link leads you to a familiar site, embarrassment painting your features as you read.

“After a rather lackluster first experience at 'Lovely Haven,' I was pleasantly surprised by my second visit. Walking into the restaurant felt like stepping into a cozy embrace, with the ambiance perfectly set to spark a little magic. The soft music and intimate lighting created an atmosphere that made everything feel just a little more exciting.

Let’s talk about the food. I started with the savory starter, which was a perfect balance of flavors. Each bite was a tantalizing tease that had me eagerly anticipating what was to come. Then came the main course, which was cooked to perfection and bursting with flavor. It had just the right amount of kick, leaving me wanting more and more.

I decided to try their special dessert this time, and let me tell you, it was absolutely divine. Each bite was a burst of flavors, rich and decadent, just how I like it. The way it melted on my tongue was nothing short of a culinary revelation. I might have lingered a little too long over that dish—can you blame me? It was like savoring a sweet secret that just kept getting better.

But let’s not forget about the service. The owner was not only charming but also incredibly attentive. There was a delightful chemistry between us that made the evening even more enjoyable. She made sure I was well taken care of, adding that special touch that turned a simple meal into something unforgettable.

If you’re looking for a place that offers more than just food—something that tantalizes the senses and leaves you feeling revitalized—I highly recommend giving 'Lovely Haven' a try. Just be prepared for some delicious surprises that might have you coming back for seconds (or thirds!). I certainly will!"

a/n: first smut piece kind of. if there's typos, pls overlook them, i was very tired and in heat. sorry if it's not very slhow burn :( but i hope you all enjoyed. thank you smmm <3

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #jjk smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen #x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #jjk gojo

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oldsoul007 · 4 months ago

Text

somewhere in northern italy

older!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: A summer in the heart of Tuscany rekindles an unexpected connection between y/n, a spirited traveler with Italian roots, and Joel, an enigmatic older man from her past, as love blooms amidst sunlit vineyards, secret ambitions, and the allure of second chances.

a/n: I miss summer, reader speaks Italian, Joel’s business man, this is all fluff, kissing

joel miller masterlist

There was something about summers in Italy that made me feel like I was living in a dream. Maybe it was the slow mornings spent sipping cappuccinos in the sun or the way the golden light bathed everything in warmth. Or maybe it was just the way life felt simpler here, quieter, like I could finally breathe.

Nonna always said I belonged here more than anywhere else. “Sei come me, y/n. Il tuo cuore è italiano.” You’re like me, y/n. Your heart is Italian.

Maybe she was right.

It was another warm evening when I saw him.

I had just left the market, a bag of peaches cradled in my arms, when I caught sight of someone who looked so entirely out of place that I almost didn’t believe it.

Joel Miller.

For a second, I thought I was imagining things.

He didn’t belong here. Not in the way the locals did, with their easy smiles and the familiarity in their movements. He stood apart—too refined, too polished. His clothes were simple—dark slacks, a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up—but they fit him too well, like they had been made just for him. And then there was the watch. Sleek. Understated. Expensive.

But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he carried himself. Relaxed, but deliberate. Like a man used to being in control.

I should have kept walking.

But then he looked up, and our eyes met.

Something in my chest tightened.

His brow creased slightly, and he glanced at his phone before looking back at the buildings around him.

I slowed. “Ti sei perso?”

Joel’s head snapped toward me, his gaze sharp before recognition flickered across his face. Then came the smirk—slow and knowing.

“Well, hell,” he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

He exhaled a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Somethin’ like that.”

I shifted the bag in my arms, studying him. “What are you doing in Tuscany?”

His smirk didn’t fade, but something about his expression changed, like he was waiting to see how I’d react to whatever he said next.

“Work.”

Interesting. Joel looked like a man who worked with his hands, but he didn’t carry himself like a businessman either. Not the kind who sat behind a desk all day, at least.

“What kind of work?” I pressed.

A pause. “Business.”

Vague. Purposefully so.

I hummed, but let it go—for now.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Didn’t expect an interrogation when I stopped to ask for directions.”

I smiled. “Fine. Where are you trying to go?”

He glanced at his phone, then back at me. “Some restaurant—uh, Trattoria del Sole?” His pronunciation was terrible.

I laughed. “You mean this Trattoria del Sole?” I turned and pointed to the restaurant just across the piazza.

Joel followed my gaze, then exhaled another quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Well, hell.”

I bit my lip to hide my smile. “Guess you were lost.”

Joel looked at me for a long moment, like he was still trying to piece together how, out of all places, I was standing in front of him.

“You always spend your summers here?” he asked.

“Yes and no,” I said, adjusting the bag in my arms. “My grandmother lives here. I grew up coming to visit.”

He nodded, considering.

Then, after a beat, “Join me for dinner.”

It wasn’t a question.

I studied him, weighing the offer.

Joel had always been like this—straightforward, sure of himself. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly, but he wasn’t the kind of man who expected to be told no.

I liked that. But I liked keeping him on his toes more.

I raised an eyebrow. “You always invite old acquaintances to dinner?”

Joel smirked, slow and lazy. “Only the ones who used to babysit my kid.”

A laugh bubbled up in my throat. “That was a long time ago.”

His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Still happened.”

I exhaled, shifting the bag of peaches in my arms. “Alright,” I said finally. “But only because I’m curious.”

“About what?”

I stepped past him, toward the restaurant, glancing back just enough to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes.

“About you.”

And just like that, dinner became the start of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

The restaurant was warm and intimate, the kind of place where locals lingered over wine and spoke in hushed, easy tones. Golden candlelight flickered against the stone walls, and the scent of garlic and fresh basil filled the air.

Joel sat across from me, one arm draped over the back of his chair, fingers lightly tapping against the wood. He looked at ease, but I could tell he was studying me, the way I moved, the way I spoke. Like he was trying to figure me out.

I let him wonder.

The waiter approached, speaking to me in rapid Italian. “Acqua naturale o frizzante?”

I glanced at Joel. He looked completely lost.

Biting back a smile, I turned back to the waiter. “Naturale, grazie.” Then, I glanced at Joel again. “Still need a translator?”

He smirked. “Workin’ on it.”

I hummed. “You should work faster.”

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Somethin’ tells me you like havin’ the upper hand.”

I tilted my head. “Maybe.”

The waiter returned with the water, and we placed our orders—well, I did. Joel simply glanced at me and said, “Order for me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You trust me with that?”

His lips twitched. “Reckon I do.”

Interesting.

I ordered us both pasta—something simple, fresh, the kind of meal that let the ingredients speak for themselves. When the waiter left, I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand.

“So, Joel,” I said, tasting his name on my tongue, watching the way his expression flickered when I said it. “What kind of business brings you to Italy?”

His gaze held mine for a beat, unreadable. Then, he exhaled, leaning back. “Investments.”

I considered him. “Not exactly a vacation, then.”

“Not exactly.”

I twirled the stem of my wine glass between my fingers. “You don’t stay in one place long, do you?”

Joel’s jaw ticked slightly. “Depends on the place.”

Something in his tone made my stomach flip.

Outside, the night had deepened, the piazza quieter now, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlamps.

Joel walked beside me as I led him through the winding streets. His pace was slow, deliberate, like he was in no rush to leave.

I stopped at a small bridge overlooking the canal, leaning against the stone railing. He stood beside me, close but not touching.

“You enjoyed yourself,” I said, watching the water ripple below.

He smirked. “That obvious?”

I turned to face him. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does things he doesn’t enjoy.”

Joel exhaled, his gaze drifting over my face, pausing just briefly at my lips before meeting my eyes again.

“You’d be right,” he murmured.

I should go.

But then his fingers grazed my wrist, settling lightly against my skin. Not pulling, not demanding. Just… there.

I could have stepped away.

But I didn’t.

I should have walked away sooner.

That was the smart thing to do—leave before I got too comfortable, before the pull between us became something I couldn’t ignore.

But when Joel’s fingers grazed my wrist, lingering just enough to make my breath hitch, I knew I was already in trouble.

Still, I smiled softly and pulled away. “Goodnight, Joel.”

He didn’t stop me. Didn’t try to convince me to stay.

But as I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me, the weight of his presence still thick in the warm summer air.

And for the first time in a long time, I left someone behind and actually wished I hadn’t.

—

I didn’t expect to see him again.

Tuscany was big enough for two people to never cross paths twice, but small enough that fate sometimes had other plans.

It was three days later when I spotted him again, standing near a vineyard just outside of town, speaking with a man I recognized as one of the local winemakers. His sleeves were rolled up again, exposing strong forearms, and his brows were furrowed as he listened, nodding at whatever was being said.

I should have kept walking.

But something made me stop.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else.

I stepped closer, tilting my head with a smirk. “You still lost?”

Joel turned, his expression shifting from mild surprise to something softer, something unreadable.

“Well, if I was, reckon you’d enjoy that too much,” he said, that slow drawl making me bite back a smile.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “You’re fun to mess with.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

The winemaker excused himself, leaving us alone.

Joel watched me, that same way he had the night we met—like he was still trying to figure me out.

“You stickin’ around long?” I asked, arms folding over my chest.

“For a little while,” he said.

A beat of silence stretched between us. The midday sun was high, casting long shadows over the vineyard.

Then, I made a decision.

“You’ve only seen the surface of Tuscany,” I said. “The tourist spots. The places people write about in guidebooks.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “And you know better?”

I smirked. “I know the good places.”

His lips twitched. “That so?”

I took a step back, tilting my head toward the narrow road leading away from the vineyard. “Come on, Mister Miller. Let me show you the real Tuscany.”

Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly—like he couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this—but he followed.

And just like that, our summer began.

—

I didn’t give him the tourist tour.

I took him through the narrow alleys tourists never found, past crumbling walls where wildflowers spilled from cracks in the stone. We ducked into the tiny bakery run by Signora Valli, where Joel nodded politely as she scolded me for staying away too long.

“She likes you,” Joel said when we stepped back into the sun.

“That was her being nice,” I said, breaking off a piece of warm cornetto and handing it to him.

He chewed thoughtfully. “So, what’s she say when she’s mean?”

I grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

We wandered down to the olive groves, where the cicadas hummed and the sun turned the leaves silver-green. I showed him where the best figs grew, and when I pointed to the twisted old tree near the stone wall, Joel surprised me by stepping forward and tugging a ripe fig from a low branch.

“Didn’t think you’d climb a tree,” I said as he handed it to me.

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. Got you to do all the hard work.”

I shot him a glare and bit into the fig, sweet juice dripping down my wrist. His eyes followed the movement, dark and intent. I didn’t wipe it away.

By late afternoon, we ended up at the old stone bridge overlooking the vineyards. I leaned against the warm stone, watching the distant figures move between the vines. Joel stood beside me, arms crossed, gaze on the horizon.

“You really spend every summer here?” he asked after a while.

“Every one I can.” I smiled faintly. “Nonna likes having me around. Says I keep her young.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Don’t reckon she needs help with that. She looks like she runs the place.”

“She does,” I said, grinning. “The whole village’s scared of her.”

He smirked but didn’t respond. The breeze tugged at the hair curling against his temple, and I caught myself staring.

I glanced away. “What about you? You’re supposed to be working, aren’t you?”

His jaw shifted. “Yeah.”

“That convincing?”

He shot me a sidelong glance. “No.”

I waited, but he didn’t offer more. I should’ve been annoyed, but it was hard to be when he stood there like that—solid and unyielding, like the bridge itself.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rosemary and cypress. I rubbed my thumb along the stone. “So, is Tuscany what you expected?”

Joel’s eyes flicked to mine. “Didn’t expect Tuscany.”

The air thickened between us. His gaze didn’t waver.

I felt it again—that pull, familiar now but no less disorienting. Like standing at the edge of a step you didn’t know was there.

I opened my mouth to deflect with a joke, but Joel shifted closer, his arm brushing mine. The warmth of it sank through the fabric of my dress, solid and steady.

The sun dipped lower over the vineyards, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and pink. We sat on the low stone wall at the edge of the hill, our legs dangling over the side. The breeze carried the scent of wild thyme and warm earth, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.

Joel stretched his legs out in front of him, his boots scuffed against the old stones. His hand rested beside mine on the wall—close but not touching this time. The warmth of it still lingered from when he’d held it earlier. I couldn’t quite decide if I missed it or if I was relieved he’d let go.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, “did you ever think you’d run into me here?”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew. Tuscany ain’t exactly down the road from Austin.”

I smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. You never know where Texas will follow you.”

He grinned, and the sight of it hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this—relaxed, amused. It made him look younger. Less weighed down.

“you ever miss it in summer?” he asked after a beat.

“Texas?” I considered, tilting my face toward the sun. “Sometimes.”

“Like what?”

I tapped my fingers against the stone. “Summer storms,” I said after a moment. “The ones that roll in out of nowhere. The smell of rain on hot pavement. And barbecue. God, I miss barbecue.” I sighed dramatically, and Joel chuckled. “What about you?”

His eyes softened. “Yeah. Miss the little stuff. Mornin’s on the porch with a cup of coffee. That first cold snap in October when the air actually feels different. And the stars.” He exhaled. “Stars here are nice, but…ain’t the same.”

“Yeah,” I agreed softly. “Not like home.”

The word slipped out before I thought about it. My cheeks warmed, but Joel didn’t say anything. He just nodded, like he knew exactly what I meant.

The cicadas buzzed louder in the trees.

He didn’t press me for more. Joel was good at that—giving me space to say what I needed without pushing.

Instead, he reached down and picked up a stray pebble, rolling it between his fingers. “Sarah still talks about you, y’know.”

That surprised me. My chest tightened. “She does?”

Joel smiled faintly. “Yeah. Told me the other day she still remembers when you made her those chocolate chip pancakes with the smiley faces.”

I laughed, the memory sharp and clear. “I did that every time I babysat her. She used to insist on extra chocolate chips for the eyes.”

“She still does.” His voice was soft. “You were good to her.”

“She was easy to be good to.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. His thumb traced the edge of the pebble, eyes distant. I wondered if he was thinking about Sarah, or maybe her mom, or maybe something else entirely.

“I remember when you first showed up to babysit,” he said eventually. “You were what—twenty?”

“Barely.” I smiled wryly. “And nervous as hell. Your daughter had more confidence than I did.”

“She liked you right away.” His mouth curved slightly. “Kept askin’ when you were comin’ back.”

My chest warmed. “She was always the sweetest.”

Joel nodded, but his expression turned more thoughtful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, though. In Italy, I mean.”

I arched a brow. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Back then, you were always talkin’ about Texas like you never wanted to leave.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah, well. Life has a way of surprising you.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to mine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It does.”

The weight of his gaze settled over me, heavy and warm. My pulse stuttered. I wanted to look away, but something held me there, locked in place.

The sun dipped lower. The cicadas hummed. And Joel Miller, the man I never expected to see outside of Texas, sat beside me like he’d always belonged here.

I cleared my throat, breaking the moment. “Anyway,” I said, forcing a teasing lilt into my voice. “How does it feel to have a Texan showing you around Italy?”

Joel chuckled, the tension easing just slightly. “Humblin’,” he said, straight-faced.

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

He turned his head to look at me again. “Nah. I mean it.”

My smile faltered. “Why?”

Joel shifted slightly on the stone wall, his shoulder brushing mine. “’Cause I know how much you love this place,” he said after a beat. “And you don’t share it with just anyone.”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. He wasn’t wrong.

But the realization that he knew that—that he saw me like that—hit harder than I was ready for.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled faintly and bumped my shoulder against his. “Don’t get a big head, Miller. I’m just making sure you don’t embarrass Texas while you’re here.”

His eyes twinkled. “Too late.”

I laughed, and the tension shifted. But later, when we walked back down the hill toward the village, Joel let his hand brush mine again.

This time, I didn’t pull away.

—

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the villa and everything it touched. The heat of the day was starting to settle in, the warm air wrapping around us as I walked barefoot toward the pool. The sound of the water was calming, a gentle lapping as it caught the sun’s reflection, sparkling with every movement.

Joel was already in the pool, his figure cutting through the water with ease. He had his arms resting on the side, looking up at me as I approached. His eyes twinkled with that easy smile he wore so often, but there was something different about his expression today—something a little more intent.

I didn’t hesitate, peeling off my sundress and stepping into the water, the coolness of it a perfect relief from the heat. The water lapped against my skin, and I felt weightless, free. I swam toward Joel, the soft splash of my movements the only sound between us.

He reached out, taking my hand as I neared, his grip warm and firm, guiding me closer. “You look like you’re enjoying the summer,” he said, his voice low and steady, a slight teasing note beneath it.

I grinned, the warmth of the sun on my skin mixing with the coolness of the water. “I am,” I replied, letting my fingers brush against his. “It’s hard not to when you’re surrounded by this.”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto mine. There was a quiet moment, a small shift in the air between us. I could feel the pull, the way everything seemed to slow down when we were near each other, the way the world felt a little bit more alive in his presence.

I swam a little closer, not breaking eye contact, until I was standing just in front of him, the water lapping gently at our waists. My heart was beating faster now, not from the swim, but from the closeness between us. The tension that had been building in little moments over the past few weeks was palpable now, the air thick with it.

Joel’s hand gently cupped my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as if memorizing the feel of my skin. His touch sent a shiver down my spine, the connection between us undeniable. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, and before I could even think about it, his lips brushed softly against mine.

The kiss was slow, a gentle exploration of what had been building between us for days, weeks even. The water seemed to heighten everything—the way his lips moved against mine, the way his hand slid down to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as the world seemed to fade away.

My hands found their way to his shoulders, and as I leaned in deeper, the kiss became more intense, more desperate. His breath mingled with mine, and I could feel his heart beating just as fast as mine. Every moment felt electric, like the entire summer was being condensed into this one perfect second.

Joel pulled away slightly, his forehead resting against mine, his breath coming in short bursts. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice rough.

I smiled, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, savoring the feel of him, the warmth of his body against mine. “I think you do the same to me,” I whispered back.

There was something in his eyes, something vulnerable and open, as he looked at me. It was as if we both knew this moment was more than just a kiss, more than just a summer fling. The intensity was undeniable. But for now, there was no need to rush—everything felt right in this suspended moment.

We lingered there, our faces close, letting the soft splashes of the water and the warmth of the sun settle around us. He kissed me again, this time deeper, a kiss that spoke of longing, of something unspoken but understood between us.

I closed my eyes, leaning into him, feeling the pulse of the water around us as I pressed my body closer to his. The coolness of the pool mixed with the heat of our skin, creating a contrast that only made the moment more intoxicating.

For a moment, nothing else existed but the two of us, lost in the water, in the sun, in the quiet intimacy of the summer. It was a perfect kind of peace, the kind that wrapped itself around you and made you feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And as we pulled away once more, his hands resting on my waist, I knew—whatever happened when the summer ended, this moment, this connection, was something that would stay with me. Something that I would carry long after the warmth of the sun had faded.

—

The night was calm and peaceful, the kind of evening that made you feel like you could stay outside forever. My grandmother’s villa was perched on a small hill in Tuscany, and the view from the terrace was breathtaking—endless fields of green, the soft glow of street lamps below, and the distant hum of a town that was slowly quieting down for the night.

Joel and I sat across from each other at the dinner table, my grandmother beside us. The meal was simple but delicious—fresh pasta, roasted vegetables, and a glass of red wine that had already started to loosen our tongues.

Joel looked more relaxed tonight, his smile easy and natural. Every so often, his eyes would linger on me, but he didn’t say anything outright. We had danced around it—the unspoken pull between us—but neither of us was ready to admit what was happening. It was as if we were both waiting for something to tip the balance.

My grandmother, who was always a bit of an enigma, sat across from us, watching with an air of amusement. She didn’t press us with questions, but I knew she could tell something was different. She always knew.

“So,” she said casually, cutting a piece of chicken, her eyes flicking between the two of us. “Joel, I hear you’re enjoying your time here in Tuscany.”

Joel smiled, taking a sip of his wine. “I am. It’s… beautiful here.”

My grandmother nodded. “Ah, Tuscany. It’s magical. But the most magical part is the company.” She paused for a beat, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Especially when you find someone who makes you feel like you’re living in a dream.”

I nearly choked on my wine, coughing lightly as I caught her meaning. She had said it with such ease, but the double entendre was clear. I shot her a look, but she only winked at me, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

Joel raised an eyebrow, sensing something in the air, but didn’t press it. Instead, he turned to me with a grin. “I think she’s got a point, y/n. It is magical here. The whole experience.”

I smiled, trying to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “Yes, it’s beautiful. But I think Nonna just likes to talk about love, even if it’s not quite the right time for that conversation,” I said with a teasing tone.

My grandmother gave a short, knowing laugh, then shifted in her seat. “Sì, y/n, parli troppo poco di amore,” she said in half Italian, half English. (Yes, y/n, you talk too little about love).

I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly what she meant, and shot Joel an apologetic look. “Ignore her,” I said, but there was no mistaking the glint of mischief in my grandmother’s gaze.

“Ah, love,” she continued, tapping her fingers on the edge of her wine glass. “It has a way of finding you when you least expect it, no?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “A volte più tardi, a volte più presto—sometimes later, sometimes earlier.”

Joel chuckled, taking it all in stride. “Sounds like good advice.”

“Wise words from a very wise woman,” he said, glancing at me with a playful smile.

My grandmother smirked but didn’t say anything more, letting the conversation flow naturally. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice the tension between us; she just wasn’t pushing it. She knew how to let things unfold at their own pace, and that’s what I admired about her.

The night passed by quietly, the air cooling as we continued our meal. My grandmother, despite her subtle jokes, was content to let us be. She didn’t need to say much to let us know that she saw what was happening between Joel and me. It was written all over us. But tonight, there was no pressure, no rushing—just the gentle, unspoken bond that had begun to form.

When we finished eating, my grandmother stood up, her hands smoothing down her dress. “Well, I think it’s time for me to get some rest. You two—” she glanced at us with a playful smile, “—don’t stay out too late. Va bene?” (Alright?)

I nodded, a soft laugh escaping me. “Va bene, Nonna.”

Joel stood as well, offering her a polite smile. “Thank you for the wonderful meal. It was delicious.”

“You are welcome, Joel,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Good night.”

As she disappeared into the house, I turned to Joel, my fingers instinctively brushing against his under the table. There was a comfortable silence now, a quiet tension that hummed between us but didn’t feel overwhelming.

“So,” I said, my voice a little quieter, “what did you think of her?”

Joel smiled, his gaze never leaving mine. “I like her. She’s… sharp. But she knows how to make you think.”

I chuckled softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

His smile softened, and he reached for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “She’s right, though, you know. About love, I mean.”

I raised an eyebrow, meeting his eyes. “How so?”

Joel leaned in just a little, the soft glow of the moonlight casting shadows on his face. “Sometimes later, sometimes earlier… maybe we don’t always get to decide when we find something worth holding on to.”

I swallowed, his words hanging in the air between us. It felt like the weight of everything unsaid, everything still untold, was starting to settle into something real.

“I think we’re both figuring that out,” I whispered, my hand still in his.

And for the rest of the evening, we didn’t need to say anything more. The quiet between us said everything that needed to be said.

—

The mornings after we got together were my favorite.

Italy had always been beautiful, always been magic—but now it was different. Warmer. Softer. Like the sun rose just for us, spilling gold across the hills and sneaking through the cracks in the wooden shutters of our small apartment. The air smelled like coffee and jasmine, and the sheets were tangled around us, skin against skin, heart against heart.

Joel wasn’t much of a morning person, but he never complained when I woke up first and ran my fingers along his jawline, tracing the scratch of his stubble. He’d just hum low in his throat, eyes still closed, and tighten his arm around my waist to pull me closer.

“You’re starin’,” he mumbled one morning, voice rough with sleep.

“You’re pretty when you sleep.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t lie to me this early.”

I laughed, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Okay. Handsome. Ruggedly handsome.”

His eyes cracked open then, dark and lazy, and he shifted just enough to roll me beneath him. The mattress dipped under his weight, and I grinned up at him as he braced himself with one arm beside my head.

“Better,” he said.

The mornings blurred into days spent wandering cobblestone streets and driving through the countryside with the windows down. The radio crackled with Italian ballads, and Joel tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as I translated the lyrics with a grin.

“She’s singing about her lover who promised her the moon and left her with nothing,” I said once, over-exaggerating the drama of it with a hand over my heart. “Ti ho amato fino alla fine! I loved you until the end!”

Joel smirked. “That so?”

“It’s very tragic.”

“Guess I better not leave you, then.”

My breath caught, and I turned toward the window, biting back a smile.

At sunset, we took our glasses of wine to the balcony and watched the sky bleed pink and orange over the rooftops. Joel leaned against the railing beside me, his arm brushing mine.

“Nonna used to sit out here every night,” I said softly. “Said the sky looked like a painting God left just for her.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t leave the horizon. “Smart woman.”

The silence stretched, comfortable and familiar, before he shifted closer. His hand found mine, warm and solid. I squeezed it and exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that settled in your chest like peace.

“Never thought I’d be here,” he said after a while.

“In Italy?”

Joel shook his head. “Here. With you.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Never thought it’d feel like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, voice quieter than I meant it to be.

His jaw flexed, eyes softening when he met my gaze. “Like I can breathe again.”

My throat tightened, and I stepped into his arms without a word. He held me there, against his chest, the world fading into nothing but the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

Later that night, after the city quieted and the moon rose, we danced barefoot in the kitchen while pasta boiled on the stove. The record player crackled in the corner with an old Italian love song, and Joel’s hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me in slow circles across the tile.

I sang along under my breath, the lyrics instinctive and familiar. Joel didn’t know the words, but he didn’t need to. His eyes never left mine.

“Sei il mio destino,” I whispered as the music slowed.

“You’re my destiny,” he repeated softly.

I smiled and kissed him, tasting wine and forever.

—

The beach was quiet, secluded, the kind of place only locals knew about. I had taken Joel there a few times now, and even though he pretended to be indifferent, I knew he loved it just as much as I did.

Today, he had stretched out on a towel beneath the shade of an olive tree, a book in his hands, looking as unbothered as ever.

I, however, had other plans.

Grinning to myself, I sauntered over, still damp from my last swim, droplets of water trailing down my skin. Joel didn’t even glance up as I hovered over him, too engrossed in whatever he was reading.

I huffed. “You’re really going to spend the afternoon reading instead of enjoying the water?”

He turned a page, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Ain’t stoppin’ you from enjoyin’ it.”

I narrowed my eyes before dropping down on top of him, effectively pinning him to the towel.

That got his attention.

His book tipped slightly as he peered down at me, an amused exhale escaping his lips. “You tryin’ to suffocate me?”

I smirked, resting my chin on my hands as I lay against his chest. “If that’s what it takes to get you in the water, then maybe.”

Joel sighed, but there was no real protest in it. His free hand found the small of my back, resting there like it belonged, his thumb grazing my skin absentmindedly.

“You’re trouble, you know that?”

I grinned. “You love it.”

He exhaled, shaking his head before looking back at his book. I watched as his eyes skimmed the words, waiting, waiting—then I reached up and snatched it right out of his hands.

“Y/n,” he warned, reaching for it, but I was faster.

I sat up, holding the book above my head. “The book or the water, Miller. Pick one.”

He squinted up at me, like he was actually considering his options.

I laughed. “Unbelievable.” Then, before he could argue, I bolted.

Joel let out a gruff damn it before chasing after me. I ran straight into the waves, squealing as the water hit my skin, my victory short-lived because in a matter of seconds, his hands were on me, lifting me right off my feet.

I yelped. “Joel, don’t you—”

Too late.

I was tossed into the sea with a splash, the cool water swallowing me whole.

When I resurfaced, gasping, hair plastered to my face, Joel was standing there, arms crossed, watching me with a smug expression.

“Happy now?” he drawled.

I lunged, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward me.

He stumbled, cursing as he splashed into the water, the smugness wiped clean from his face.

I burst into laughter.

Joel pushed his wet hair back, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else.”

I grinned, swimming closer. “You love it.”

This time, he didn’t argue.

Instead, he pulled me flush against him, the warmth of his body stark against the cool waves.

And when he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I had won this round after all.

—

The night was thick with summer heat, the air scented with lavender and salt from the distant sea. We had spent the evening wandering through the hills, ending up at my favorite hidden spot—a quiet overlook where the world stretched endlessly before us, rolling green and gold beneath the moonlight.

Joel stood beside me, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He had been quieter than usual tonight, but not in a way that made me uneasy. More like he was thinking about something, rolling it around in his mind, trying to decide whether or not to say it out loud.

I turned to him, smirking. “You’re thinking too hard.”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed on the view.

“That obvious?”

I nodded. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. But he still didn’t look at me.

That wouldn’t do.

So I stepped closer. Just enough that my shoulder brushed against his, just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“Joel.” My voice was softer now. “What is it?”

He hesitated. Then, finally, he turned to me.

And for the first time since I met him, he looked uncertain.

Something shifted between us then—something unspoken, something inevitable.

I swallowed, my pulse quickening.

I had never been nervous around him before.

But now, standing this close, his gaze fixed on mine, the weight of the moment settling between us like something fragile and delicate—I suddenly felt everything.

My breath hitched as he reached up, brushing his fingers against my jaw. It was the lightest touch, barely there, but it sent a shiver down my spine.

“You make it real hard not to fall for you,” he murmured.

My heart stopped.

Then, before I could overthink it, before I could talk myself out of it—I closed the distance.

Our lips met, soft and slow, hesitant for only a second before the hesitation disappeared entirely.

Joel exhaled against my mouth, his hands finding my waist, pulling me closer. I melted into him, my fingers tangling in his shirt, the warmth of him overwhelming, grounding.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was something deeper. Something dangerous.

Something that made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be just a summer after all.

—

The soft evening light spilled across the stone steps as we sat there, our glasses of wine nearly forgotten between us. The air was warm, with a cool breeze now and then that made the leaves rustle above our heads. The soft hum of life from the villa seemed distant, almost nonexistent in this quiet moment we were sharing.

Joel had been unusually quiet, his gaze often drifting to the horizon, his fingers lightly tapping against the glass. I knew what was on his mind. The conversation about the end of the summer hadn’t been the easiest one, and it lingered in the air between us like a weight neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

“I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens after,” Joel said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. His eyes were still distant, but his hand shifted toward mine, his fingers brushing over my skin, making my heart skip a beat.

I met his gaze, my throat tight. “Me too,” I said, swallowing the lump that had formed there. “It’s hard to imagine going back to my life without… this. Without you.”

He glanced down at our hands, which had somehow ended up intertwined, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a comforting, almost absent way. “It’s the same for me,” he murmured. “But… it’s not like this is the first time I’ve had to leave someone behind.”

I frowned, not fully understanding. “What do you mean?”

Joel sighed, shifting slightly on the steps to face me more directly. “I travel a lot for work,” he said, his voice low. “I’m never in one place for too long. Even when I’m home, it’s for a short time before I have to leave again.”

I blinked, surprised by the revelation. “I didn’t know that,” I admitted. “You never really talked about your job.”

“I know,” he said, and there was a slight hesitation in his voice. “I don’t talk much about it. It’s… complicated.” He gave a small shrug, almost like he didn’t want to elaborate further. “But… that’s why I try not to get attached to anyone. It’s easier this way. No long-term ties, no complications.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing what he was saying. “I get it,” I replied quietly. “You have your life, your responsibilities. But it still doesn’t make this easy.”

Joel met my eyes, his gaze softening. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s not like I’m going to forget about you, y/n. This summer—” He trailed off, his hand still resting on mine, his fingers gently tracing the lines of my palm in an almost hypnotic pattern. “What we have… it’s real. Even if it’s only for now.”

I shivered slightly from the way his fingers moved, the light touch making me feel like his hands were drawing on more than just my skin. He was tracing me, memorizing me. His fingers sketched over the curve of my wrist, down to the delicate curve of my elbow, as if he was drawing something in the air only he could see.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not good at… saying how I feel, at letting people in.”

I nodded, understanding that more than I wanted to. I wasn’t exactly good at it either. But something about the way he spoke, the way he touched me so gently, made it feel like he was letting me in, bit by bit.

“Maybe we don’t need to figure it all out right now,” I said softly, my free hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Maybe we can just… be here. Together.”

Joel looked at me with a tenderness that almost broke me. Then, his fingers moved to trace the line of my jaw, then down the side of my neck, his touch light, deliberate. His hand was warm against my skin, and his eyes followed the path of his fingertips, as though he were painting a picture of me in his mind.

“I like that,” he said, voice thick with something deeper. “I like just being with you.”

His hand lingered on my neck, his thumb grazing the soft skin there before moving back to trace the curve of my collarbone. The intimacy of the gesture, the way he was touching me as if I was something precious, made my heart race.

“Does it ever scare you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “The idea that you won’t be here after the summer?”

Joel’s hand paused, his fingers resting lightly on my skin, and he met my gaze with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “It does,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t think we should let fear stop us from living the moments we have now.”

I swallowed, feeling that familiar ache deep in my chest. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” I whispered.

Joel’s gaze softened, and he leaned closer, his lips brushing the side of my cheek in a tender kiss. “We don’t have to say goodbye yet,” he murmured, his voice warm against my skin. “We still have time.”

I nodded, closing my eyes as his hand moved to cup my face, his thumb gently brushing over my lips. “I want to make the most of it,” I whispered, my breath shaky.

And there, under the fading light of the evening, we stayed close, letting the silence speak for us. Joel’s hand rested on my neck, his fingers slowly moving down again, tracing the lines of my body with an intimacy that felt so natural, so right, despite the uncertainty of what was to come. It was a language we spoke without words—one touch, one breath, one shared moment at a time.

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ouiouibaguettt · 1 month ago

Text

Amore e Pasta

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,7k of words! Sorry in advance for my italian lmao

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

The sea always smelled like memories.

Every summer, the coastal air carried that same blend of sun, salt, and the sharp scent of lemon trees. You'd grown up with that scent, with the hiss of olive oil in a hot pan, the laughter of families filling the cobblestone alleyways, and the soft buzz of cicadas under a golden sun.

This year, though, that air carried something else too—Alessia Russo.

She was here again. Just like every summer since you were kids. And just like every summer, your heart did that stupid little flip the second she stepped off the ferry with her duffel bag and impossibly soft smile.

She was still yours. Somehow. After all the years, the distance, the growing up.

Alessia Russo, half-English, half-Italian striker, and all heart — and somehow still in love with the local chef who used to burn pancakes at 10 years old but now ran the town's most adored trattoria.

This summer, though, was a bit different. She hadn’t come alone.

Behind her followed Beth Mead, Vivianne Miedema, Victoria Pelova, Leah Williamson, Lia Wälti, Steph Catley, and Kyra Cooney-Cross — all sweat-slicked and sun-kissed, dragging their suitcases down the stone road, muttering “it’s so hot” and “this is heaven” in alternating breaths.

Your mother was already hugging everyone at the gate. Her voice rang out: "Vai, Y/N! Vieni a salutare la tua fidanzata!" ("Go on, Y/N! Come say hi to your fiance!")

You blushed. Of course she had to say it like that. In front of literally every Arsenal player.

But Alessia just turned, wide smile, arms open. "Ciao, amore."

She still looked at you like she was sixteen and you’d just stolen her gelato and kissed her on the cheek to make up for it.

Later that night, your trattoria was alive with energy. The team sat at the long wooden table in the courtyard, passing around antipasti, sipping limoncello, dipping bread into your nonna’s recipe of olive oil and sea salt. You were in your element—commanding the kitchen with ease, every dish kissed with intention.

And every now and then, your eyes would flick to the table, where Alessia sat like she belonged there. Where she always had.

She caught your glance, holding it for just a second too long. Leah elbowed her, smirking. “God, you two are disgustingly in love,” she whispered. Alessia rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Yeah. I know.”

That night, as the stars settled above the ocean, you walked hand in hand through the sleepy streets of the village. The others were scattered—some back at their rented villa, others still nursing wine on your restaurant’s patio.

“You know,” Alessia said softly, her thumb brushing your knuckles, “I could stay here forever.”

“You say that every year,” you teased.

“I mean it this time.”

You stopped walking, turned to face her fully. Her hair was damp from the sea, her cheeks still pink from the sun, and her eyes—her eyes were home.

“I never stopped loving you, you know?” she whispered, her accent softening into something warm and familiar.

“I know,” you replied. “I didn’t either.”

She kissed you under the moonlight, in the middle of that cobblestone street, where the scent of lemon trees still lingered in the air.

You were hers. And she was yours. From gelato-stealing kids to grown women, with summer in your veins and love like wine — better with age.

The trattoria could survive without you for a few days.

At least that’s what your mamma promised — even if she made the Sign of the Cross when you handed over your apron and kissed her on the cheek. “Vai, vai,” she said with a smile. “Godersi la vita con la tua ragazza.” ("Go, go. Enjoy life with your girlfriend.")

And so you did.

You packed a small bag, threw a bottle of prosecco in the basket, and took Alessia by the hand like you always had — like you'd never stopped.

You drove out of town on that same winding road you used to take as teenagers, the one that curved along the cliffs and opened onto the hills of wildflowers and olive groves. Alessia sat in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash, sunglasses too big for her face, hair tied in a lazy bun.

She hummed to the radio, completely off-key, and you could barely keep your eyes on the road.

You reached the cottage by late morning — a family friend’s place, rarely used, hidden among vineyards and fig trees. No phone signal. No schedule. Just time. Just the two of you.

You cooked together that first afternoon — or tried to. Alessia burned the bruschetta and dropped a tomato between the stove and the counter.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, arms around her waist as you stood behind her, guiding her hands on the knife.

“You’re lucky I’m still hungry,” she shot back, bumping your hip with hers.

You kissed her temple.

Later, you ate under a trellis of grapevines, the dappled sunlight painting golden shapes on her bare shoulders. Wine stained your lips, but hers still tasted sweeter.

That night, with the windows open and the summer air still clinging to your skin, you lay tangled in the linen sheets, heartbeats slow, limbs bare.

Alessia leaned in, her voice hushed in the dark.

“Do you ever think about how lucky we are?”

You turned to her, brushing her cheek with the back of your fingers. “All the time.”

She smiled, then leaned closer — and kissed you like she meant it.

It was a slow kiss, not rushed, not desperate. A kiss that said I’m here. That said I never really left. A kiss that made your chest ache in the best way.

She pulled away, forehead resting on yours. “This. This is what I want. For good.”

You nodded, breath catching. “Then let’s make it forever.”

The next morning, she woke up to you standing on the balcony with a cup of espresso, the sun behind you, a sleepy smile on your face.

She joined you, arms slipping around your waist from behind.

“Chef Y/N,” she whispered into your neck, “I love you.”

You turned, kissed her softly, slowly.

“Ti amo, Alessia Russo.”

And in that moment, with nothing but cicadas and the scent of figs around you, it felt like the world had stopped just for you both.

The trattoria glowed that night.

Strung-up lights hung like fireflies above the stone courtyard, casting a soft golden haze over the worn wooden tables, the clay pots full of basil and lavender, and the red-checked tablecloths fluttering gently in the breeze. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh oregano floated through the air, wrapping around laughter and wine-fueled conversations like a familiar blanket.

And right at the heart of it all — the Arsenal girls.

Beth was already halfway through the bread basket. Viv was arguing (playfully) with Lia about the proper way to say “parmigiana.” Leah had stolen a bottle of limoncello from the kitchen. Victoria and Kyra were making a TikTok, much to Steph’s horror. It was loud, unfiltered, and undeniably warm.

Then you stepped out.

Apron tied tight around your waist, a clean dish towel slung over your shoulder, a teasing smirk already tugging at your lips. And the noise died just for a second — just long enough for Alessia’s eyes to find yours.

You’d been apart for less than a few hours, but it didn’t matter. The second she saw you, her smile softened. Her shoulders relaxed. Home.

“Buona serata, ladies,” you greeted, pen in hand. “Welcome back to my chaos.”

“Oh god,” Steph muttered, eyeing the menu. “I’ll take one of everything.”

“I’ll take the chef,” Alessia added, grinning as she leaned back in her chair.

You raised a brow. “That one’s not on the menu.”

“Pity,” she said, still holding your gaze.

You winked and started taking orders, scribbling down requests in a mix of Italian and English, throwing in little jokes and flourishes for the girls you now knew well. But when you reached Alessia, you just smiled softly, hand resting on her shoulder for a beat longer than necessary.

“Surprise me,” she whispered.

“Oh, I will,” you replied.

The dinner unfolded like something out of a dream. You moved between the kitchen and the tables like a well-rehearsed dance — plates of ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers, slow-cooked ragu, hand-rolled pasta, and flaky sea bass garnished with lemon slices passed from your hands to theirs.

And then dessert came.

Except, this time, it was different.

You stepped out of the kitchen carrying a single plate. On it, a delicate panna cotta with a drizzle of berry coulis. Nestled beside it — a small velvet box.

Alessia blinked, her fork halfway to her mouth. “What’s…?”

Beth gasped. Viv’s jaw dropped. Leah grabbed Kyra’s arm like they were watching a live proposal on TV.

You walked straight to Alessia, setting the plate down in front of her. No big speech. No microphone. Just you, her, and the twinkling lights above.

“Surprise,” you said quietly.

Alessia looked at the box. Then at you.

“You didn’t,” she breathed.

You just smiled. “You said this was what you wanted. For good. So… let’s make it forever.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand, then looked around at her teammates — all frozen in giddy anticipation, phones out, trying (and failing) to stay quiet.

Then she stood.

And she kissed you. Right there. In front of everyone. No hesitation. No filter. Just the kind of kiss that said yes a thousand different ways.

When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy, but her smile was unstoppable. “Of course it’s a yes, idiota.”

Cheers erupted. Wine glasses clinked. Beth was crying. Lia was crying. Even Viv looked emotional.

You slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. Just like everything else about you and Alessia Russo.

The trattoria had never been this loud after closing.

Chairs had been pulled into loose circles on the patio. String lights overhead danced with the breeze. Empty wine bottles lined the walls like trophies. Someone had found a speaker, and a mix of English pop and old Italian classics bounced between the stone walls and the laughter of half-drunk footballers.

The sign on the door said “Chiuso per Festa Privata” — Closed for a Private Party — but that felt like an understatement.

This was your engagement party.

And it was perfect.

Inside, your mamma and Alessia’s parents were laughing over espresso and biscotti. Outside, Beth Mead had taken over DJ duties, pairing Eros Ramazzotti with Spice Girls. Vivianne was holding court with Lia and Victoria over a tiramisu that somehow kept regenerating from the kitchen. Steph was trying to teach Kyra how to dance to Italian folk music, failing miserably.

And in the middle of it all — Alessia, barefoot on the tiles, a glass of prosecco in hand, wearing a soft red summer dress and the diamond ring you’d placed on her finger the night before.

She was glowing. Not just from the wine or the fairy lights — but from joy.

Real, warm, overwhelming joy.

You stepped behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist. She leaned into you like it was second nature — like it had always been.

“Are you happy?” you murmured into her hair.

She hummed. “I’m in Italy. I’m engaged to the love of my life. There’s cake. I’d say I’m more than happy.”

“Even with Beth playing a techno remix of ‘Volare’?”

She laughed, head tipping back against your shoulder. “Especially because of that.”

Later, your mamma insisted on a toast.

Everyone gathered around, some perched on countertops, others squeezed onto benches, wine glasses or espresso cups raised. You stood beside Alessia, your hand never leaving hers.

“She has burned pasta in my kitchen,” your mamma began in Italian, “but she has never failed to love you with her whole heart.”

Alessia blushed. You translated quickly as your mamma went on, her voice soft and proud.

“She is sunshine, and you are fire. She is wild, and you are steady. You’ve been each other’s since you were bambini. And now, you will be each other’s… per sempre.”

A soft chorus of “awwws” and a few sniffles followed. You and Alessia clinked glasses, kissed — and the party picked right back up.

As midnight approached, Beth shouted, “Speech! Speech!” while clinking a spoon against a Prosecco flute.

You stood on one of the tables (against your better judgment), pulling Alessia up with you. Arms wrapped around each other, shoes long gone, you looked out at the people who’d made your world feel so full.

“I don’t know how to say all of this,” you started. “But I’ll try.”

You turned to Alessia.

“You’ve known every version of me. The shy one who wouldn’t speak to you at eight. The mess of a teenager who used to sneak you leftover cannoli. The young adult who stayed up at night dreaming of what this — us — could be again.”

You paused, voice catching just a little.

“And now I get to call you mine. Forever. I can’t wait to cook with you. Laugh with you. Grow old with you. Maybe burn some pasta with you, too.”

She kissed you before you could say more, the crowd cheering, glasses clinking, someone yelling “Ti amo!” from the back (probably Victoria).

That night, as the music faded and the stars settled over the hills, Alessia took your hand and whispered:

“Let’s never leave here.”

And you nodded, because for the first time in your life, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The trattoria was silent now.

The party had faded into memory — half-drunk wine glasses left on tables, confetti still caught between the cobblestones, the faintest scent of basil and lemon lingering in the morning air. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting golden streaks across the walls of the apartment above the restaurant, where the shutters were half open and the bedsheets were still warm with sleep.

Alessia stirred first.

Her hair was a soft mess across the pillow, her face still flushed with joy, her arm lazily draped across your bare waist. She blinked slowly, the world still quiet and hazy, and smiled before her eyes had even fully opened.

“Mmm,” she murmured, voice gravelly with sleep. “What time is it?”

You, lying beside her on your stomach, turned your head just enough to see the light spilling across the wooden floor.

“Early. Too early.”

She buried her face against your shoulder and sighed. “Let’s never get up again.”

You chuckled, rolling onto your side, your fingers tracing soft, sleepy lines across her ribs. “We have a trattoria to clean, remember?”

“Nope,” she replied, eyes still closed. “That’s a tomorrow problem.”

There was something so sacred about mornings like this — the kind where no alarms existed, where you could hear the birds waking up and the clink of a delivery truck down the road, but none of it reached you, not really.

Alessia opened her eyes fully now, locking into yours with a lazy grin.

“Hi, fiancée.”

You smirked. “Hi, future Mrs. Chef.”

She rolled her eyes, giggling, and then kissed you. Soft. Slow. Still tasting a little like prosecco and panna cotta. Her hand found your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye like she was memorizing the curve of your face all over again.

“I dreamt about you last night,” she whispered when she pulled back, her forehead against yours.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, voice still raspy.

“Mhm,” she said, kissing your jaw, “you were making pasta…”

You laughed, your body shaking gently beneath hers.

“Of course I was.”

“…in just an apron.”

You blinked. “Alessia!”

“What?” she said, all faux-innocence, kissing your shoulder now. “You looked very professional.”

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to playfully hit her with, but she caught your wrist midair and kissed your knuckles instead. Everything stilled again.

“Ti amo,” she whispered.

You didn’t rush the answer. You just looked at her, your everything, with a heart full of warmth and a future full of love, and replied:

“Ti amo anche io. Da sempre.”

I love you too. Always have.

Outside, the trattoria waited to be cleaned. The town slowly blinked awake. The world continued turning.

But in that quiet apartment, in your tangled bed of sun-drenched sheets and sleepy smiles, you and Alessia stayed exactly where you belonged:

Together.

Forever.

#woso fanfics #woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo #arsenalwfc x reader #arsenalwfc #awfc x reader #awfc

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jjkamochoso · 6 months ago

Text

Let’s Get This Bread

Fluff

Guido Mista x gn!reader

The Sex Pistols unexpectedly steal your food… chaos ensues!

Warnings: light cussing

It was a beautiful day in the warm Italian sun. The birds were chirping while people were chattering as they walked by. Naples was alive with an exciting buzz of energy that certain spring day and you were eager to make the most of it. You went on a stroll around your neighborhood, not having to go into work since it was your day off. Following your nose, your feet took you into the direction of a local trattoria; your stomach rumbled with hunger as you neared the eatery, delectable smells wafting from the building.

You were seated on the patio of the home style restaurant, not wanting to be out of the weather that was being oh so kind to you today. Carefully looking over the menu, you made your selection, thanking the waiter as you handed the paper back to him. You sipped your drink casually as you observed the patrons around you. The restaurant was busy but not crowded—perfect conditions for people watching. You turned your head to the left, watching a man pull the chair out for the lady he was there with, the woman beaming at him graciously.

They must be on a date, you thought, smiling to yourself. It was the perfect weather to fall in love or be out on the town with your significant other. Of course, you were not so lucky to be clutched in the grasps of love, but the plate of fresh-out-the-oven bread that was currently being placed in front of you had your heart beating wildly just the same. Your teeth sunk into the soft texture and you swore you died and went to heaven; today couldn’t get any better.

And then you saw him.

With your cheeks filled with bread and curiosity filling your mind, you had gone back to watching the diners around you when you suddenly made eye contact with a stranger. You tried to look away but his gaze was magnetic, holding your attention with his playful expression and extremely handsome face. After what felt like eternity, you broke away from the staring contest. You didn’t want to bother the man; it looked like he was in some sort of important business meeting with the way one of his colleagues slapped him on the back of his head and told him to pay attention. You moved your attention to the sky above the city street, opting to watch the clouds while you daydreamed about the mystery man. What you wouldn’t do to kiss those plush lips of his…

(You were a bit of a hopeless romantic).

You absentmindedly reached out your hand to grab another piece of bread. However, your fingers only found empty air. Bringing your eyes downward, you gasped.

Your bread was gone!

Furrowing your eyebrows, you thought hard. Did someone steal it while you were lost in your thoughts? No, you would’ve sensed someone walking past you. A bird, maybe? That would’ve been too noisy to not notice.

What happened to your food?

In an instant—a strange instant—you had your answer: you witnessed your last slices of bread floating away.

You rubbed your eyes, not believing what you were seeing. What was stealing your food? Insects? Was someone playing some sort of trick on you? You watched as it floated toward the group of men to your right and eventually fell onto the table in front of the man who you locked eyes with earlier. Confused but pissed off, you abruptly stood from your chair and stomped over.

“Excuse you!” you interrupted, conversation halting between the men. You paid them no mind, nostrils practically flaring as you thrusted a finger at the man in the crop top. “I don’t know how you did that, but that’s extremely rude! I want my bread back!”

His brown eyes met your angry ones.

“Huh?!” he asked, looking like he hadn’t a clue what you were talking about.

“The bread that just magically dropped in front of you,” you seethed, your finger now pointing at the slices, “that’s mine. It was taken from my table just now.”

“Bread?” he repeated. “What the hell are you talking about-”

He grunted in surprise as he saw the bread lying in front of him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he moaned, slapping a hand on his face in disappointment.

“Look, I don’t care how attractive you are, you can’t just take people’s bread, alright?” you said, hands on your hips.

He looked around before pointing at himself in shock. “Wait, me? You think I’m attractive?”

“You seriously need to control those things, Mista,” a man with long hair and purple lipstick said gruffly. You had no clue what he was talking about or what actually was going on but before you could question things further, a man in a white suit calmly addressed you from the other side of the table.

“Please excuse us for interrupting your meal. This one,” he slung his arm around the shoulders of a younger boy with black hair, “has been practicing his magic for the school’s talent show and must have mistakenly taken your food instead of the food here at the table. Our sincerest apologies.”

The man with the bob sent a reassuring smile your way while the boy gave you a huge grin and thumbs up. Did you believe them? Not in the slightest, but there was no other believable explanation.

You sighed. “Just… order me a new plate, would you? My last one was freshly baked, mind you, so I expect that again.”

“Of course. Again, please accept our sincerest apologies. Enjoy your meal,” the man in white told you. You nodded, bewildered at the whole ordeal, but not wanting to made a further fuss. You were about to walk back to your table when you caught a glance of the crop top-wearing man once again, this time looking at you with hearts in his eyes. You couldn’t help but let a chuckle slip past your lips.

“I hope to see you again under better circumstances, bread boy.”

“Me too, bread… babe,” he replied, a charming grin plastered on his face. You rolled your eyes and laughed, ecstatic to see your entree arriving as you took your seat back at your own table.

Throughout the rest of your meal, complete with another plate of hot bread, you tried not to think about the handsome stranger too much, knowing you’d probably never see him again. Naples was a huge city with people always coming and going; who’s to say he even lived there? You wiped your mouth with your napkin and watched as the mysterious group left. You and the man shared one last smile before he left for good, talking and laughing loudly with the younger boy. The restaurant was quieter without them—definitely not as lively. You wondered who they were and what they were up to. You could tell they had their secrets, which was apparent in the way they made up that ridiculous lie about magic and a talent show, but you honestly had no better answer for how your food was floating through the air.

Whatever, you thought, they ordered me more bread and nothing else happened. I should just laugh this off and forget all about them.

When your waiter came back, presumably with your bill, you went to pull your wallet out but he stopped you.

“The table that was over there paid for your meal,” he explained, “but the man in the red and blue told me to give you this.”

He handed you a piece of paper and walked away, clearing your dishes. A phone number was distinguishable, yet your eyes struggled to adjust to the other scrawled, messy letters. Eventually, you deciphered what was written.

Sorry again for earlier. You’re really hot and I’d love to take you out on a date.

Call me ;)

Mista (bread boy)

#guido mista x reader #mista x reader #jjba x reader #guido mista x reader fluff #guido mista x y/n #guido mista x you #guido mista fluff #guido mista #mista x you #mista x y/n #mista x reader fluff #mista fluff #jjba x you #jjba x reader fluff #jjba x y/n #jojos bizarre adventure x reader

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ladyxgaga · 5 months ago

Text

Joanne Trattoria Italian restaurant owned by Trump supporter Joseph Anthony Germanotta teases a LG7 listening party

@joannetrattoria: "Something very Gaga is coming and Joanne is ready. #LG7 is on its way and we know the perfect place for you to listen. Stay tuned for more details. Let the fame monster live on and ______ begin"

#Lady Gaga #Joanne Trattoria #gaga #lg7 #2025 #lg7 era #listening party #video #TW: Donald Trump #mayhem #mayhem era #ladygaga #mother monster #mothermonster

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j23r23 · 1 year ago

Text

Unfinished Business

Tangerine x Reader

The moon hung low over Rome, casting a silver glow on the ancient streets. The air was thick with the aroma of Italian cuisine wafting from nearby restaurants. It was a beautiful night, but for me, it was just another job.

Or so I thought.

I made my way through the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Trastevere, one of Rome's oldest and most charming neighborhoods. The pastel-colored buildings, adorned with ivy were illuminated by warm, golden streetlights and created a scene that felt almost timeless. The murmur of conversations in Italian floated through the air, interspersed with the occasional clink of glasses and bursts of laughter from the outdoor trattorias.

I was dressed in a beige canvas jacket over a loose white shirt, paired with dark jeans and my trusty Doc. Martens. A thin golden necklace adorned my neck, its sun pendant glinting in the moonlight. My dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and a pair of small, discreet earrings completed the look.

As I walked, I blended in seamlessly with the crowd of locals and tourists. Aware of my surroundings, I take in every detail. I checked my reflection in the glass of a nearby shop window. My eyes scanned the people behind me, looking out for anything unusual. I adjusted my jacket, feeling the comforting weight of my guns hidden underneath it.

Walking again I turn onto Via della Lungaretta, I could see the bell tower of the Basilica di Santa Maria in the distance. The basilica's facade, stood out even in the light of the evening. I had a rendezvous at a small café just a few steps away from the church.

The café, tucked in a quiet corner, was almost hidden from view by a canopy of wisteria. Its outdoor seating area was filled with round, wrought-iron tables, each adorned with a single candle flickering gently in the night breeze. I slipped into a seat at the far end, my back to the wall, giving me a clear view of the entrance and the street beyond.

I ordered an espresso the bitter aroma mingling with the smell of freshly baked bread and simmering tomato sauce. It was almost enough to make me forget why I was here.

Almost.

As I waited, I couldn't shake the feeling that this night, this job, was going to be different from any other.

I had been summoned last minute for an assignment, an urgent backup situation. The briefing was vague, a hurried phone call from a handler I hadn't heard from in years. The pay was enough to make me pack my gear without asking too many questions.

Little did I know, this job would take me down memory lane. The very streets I walked; were the same ones I had left behind years ago. Memories began to surface—another time, another life. A mission that ended sour, and bonds broken. The weight of those memories loomed over me as I glanced around the café.

Just as I was lost in my thoughts, my phone buzzed softly in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw a message from an unknown number. The screen illuminated with a new set of coordinates and a brief message: "Location changed."

The abandoned warehouse was a cavernous space, its corners swallowed by shadows. I stepped cautiously inside, the light filtering through cracked windows casting eerie shapes on the concrete floor. The sound of my boots echoing in the vast emptiness.

"Looks like our backup has arrived," Lemon's voice cut through the silence, tinged with his usual dry humor.

"About time," Tangerine muttered, his tone gruff and annoyed.

The moment I heard Tangerine's voice, my heart skipped a beat. Memories of our teenage years flashed before my eyes—times filled with reckless adventures, stolen goods, and countless nights in jail cells. We had been inseparable, the three of us, until everything fell apart.

We were in a seedy motel room, we had just returned from a grueling mission, one that pushed us to our limits and tested our resolve. But instead of celebrating our success, the atmosphere crackled with frustration and anger. Lemon had left to procure some essentials—food, clean clothes, and the like—leaving Tangerine and me alone, a situation that had become increasingly uncomfortable over the past few months.

I stood by the window, staring out at the neon-lit streets below, trying to gather my thoughts. Tangerine paced the room, his movements agitated, his jaw clenched in a way that signaled trouble brewing.

"You can't keep doing this," I finally spoke up, my voice low but edged with frustration.

"Doing what?" Tangerine snapped, stopping in his tracks to glare at me. "Trying to keep you alive? Making sure you don't get yourself killed because you're too damn reckless?"

His words hit like a slap across the face, igniting a fire within me. "I'm not a child, Tangerine! I can take care of myself. I don't need you constantly hovering over me, questioning every move I make!"

"You call this taking care of yourself?" Tangerine shot back, his voice rising. "You nearly got us both killed back there! If it weren't for Lemon and me cleaning up your mess—"

"You don't get to decide what risks I take," I shot back, my temper flaring. "We're supposed to be partners!"

His jaw tightened even more, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Partners? A partner thinks about the consequences!"

"Oh, and you do?" I interrupted, standing up to face him squarely. "You act like you're the only one who cares about the consequences. Well, newsflash, Tangerine, I've had enough of your lectures!"

He took a step towards me, his voice low and dangerous. "Maybe if you listened to me once in a while, we wouldn't be in this mess every damn time!"

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief.

The room seemed to shrink around us. We had faced danger together countless times, but this argument cut deeper than any knife or bullet.

"You're not the same person I used to know," Tangerine said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "You've changed, and not for the better."

His words struck a nerve. "I've changed? You just think of me as an annoyance," I said bitterly. "And the one that has changed is you! You've become controlling, possessive..."

"I'm trying to protect you!" he exploded, his fists clenching at his sides. "Don’t you get it?"

"You're smothering me," I replied, my voice raw with emotion. "I can't breathe with you watching my every move."

Tangerine looked away, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered finally, the admission hanging between us like a death sentence.

Tangerine's gaze snapped back to mine, disbelief and hurt warring in his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can't do this anymore," I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'm done, Tangerine. I can't, I..."

The silence that followed was deafening. Tangerine stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, conflicting emotions flickering over his face—anger, hurt.

"Fine," he said ultimately, his voice clipped and cold. "Go then!"

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. "What the hell are you doing here?" Tangerine's voice was sharp, filled with disbelief and anger.

I turned to face him, my eyes locking with his. "Got a call. Backup needed. Guess they didn't mention who it was."

Tangerine's jaw tightened. "We don't need you."

Before I could respond, Lemon stepped between us. "Oh, for crying out loud, can we save the drama for after the job? We're on the clock here."

I ignored Tangerine's sour demeanor and turned to Lemon, a genuine smile spreading across my face despite the tension. "Lemon!" I said, pulling him into a hug.

Lemon chuckled, returning the embrace, almost breaking my bones. "Hey darling. How are you doing?"

"Better, knowing I’m working with you." I admitted, glancing briefly at Tangerine, who was busy checking his weapon with a scowl.

Lemon sighed, shaking his head. "You two need to work this shit out after this."

Tangerine shot Lemon a glare, but I could sense his frustration. Lemon had always been perceptive, the one who could see through our tough exteriors to the complicated feelings underneath.

As we geared up for the mission, the tension between Tangerine and me simmered just beneath the surface. We moved with practiced efficiency, that came from years of working together, each of us slipping into our roles seamlessly. Despite our issues.

Between gearing up and going over procedures, Lemon found a chance to pull me aside. "You know, Tangerine hasn't been the same since you left," he said quietly, his voice tinged with concern.

I nodded, my gaze drifting towards where Tangerine was meticulously checking his equipment.

"He's not good at expressing it, but he missed you," Lemon continued, his tone earnest. "We both did."

Lemon placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Before I could respond, Tangerine called out, snapping at me. "How many times have you gotten yourself into trouble since you left us?"

"Not as much as you two, I bet," I shot back, unable to resist the jab.

Lemon chuckled, the sound echoing in the warehouse. "Touché."

"Speak for yourself," Tangerine muttered under his breath, though loud enough for all of us to hear.

Lemon laid out the blueprints of the building we were about to infiltrate, his finger tracing the paths we would take. While I was listening Lemon explain the plan, I checked my weapons, my movements precise and controlled.

"You still using that old piece?" Tangerine teased, nodding towards my gun.

"It gets the job done," I replied curtly, my focus unwavering. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

Lemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You two are unbelievable," he muttered, though there was a fondness in his voice that we couldn't miss.

As we finalized our plan, the tension in the warehouse shifted. This job was risky, the stakes high. The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, retrieve, and eliminate if necessary. But the emotional undercurrent between Tangerine and me was palpable, a distraction we couldn't afford.

"Alright, let's do this," Lemon said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet that settled over us.

With a nod, Tangerine took point, leading us towards the back entrance of the building. The night air turned darker as we moved, shadows melding with shadows, our steps silent.

I couldn't help but feel his scrutiny as we moved through the shadows. "You still relying on brute force for everything?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the comms.

I shot him a sideways glance, irritation creeping into my tone. "At least I don't shadow your every damn move like you do mine," I retorted, adjusting my gear with unnecessary force.

Lemon, sensing the escalating tension, sighed audibly. "Focus, both of you."

Tangerine rolled his eyes, but I could see annoyance in his expression. "You’re still as thickheaded as always," he jabbed, his voice laced with frustration.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to snap back. "And you waste too much time analyzing my every move."

Lemon glanced between us. "You two are like an old married couple," he muttered under his breath, though his words were loud enough for us to hear.

Tangerine and I shot Lemon a glare. "Shut up!" We both hiss.

With a reluctant nod from Tangerine, we pressed forward. The night air grew colder as we approached a courtyard, each step bringing us closer to the heart of the operation. Despite our differences, our training took over, and we moved with practiced efficiency.

As we reached the back entrance, Tangerine signaled for us to halt. He checked his watch, then glanced around the corner cautiously. "Two guards up ahead," he whispered, his tone sharp.

I nodded, my annoyance with him momentarily overshadowed by the need for precision. "I'll take the one on the left," I replied, already moving into position.

Tangerine shot me a skeptical look but didn't argue. "Fine. Just don't screw it up," he muttered.

I smirked, unable to resist the urge to tease him. "Careful, Tangerine. You don't want me to accidentally shoot you in the foot" I quipped, before focusing back on the task at hand.

Tangerine just glared at me with annoyance.

With a silent countdown from Lemon, he and I sprang into action. The guards were swiftly neutralized, our movements synchronized despite our bickering.

We moved as a unit, knowing each other's moves without needing to speak. The emotional walls we had built seemed to soften, if only for the duration of the operation.

As we breached the targeted room, the unexpected happened—a flurry of gunfire erupted from all sides. The air filled with the sharp cracks of bullets ricocheting off metal, and the acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy.

All three of us instinctively took cover. It was chaos, the plan unraveling. We moved swiftly, communicating in terse commands and covering each other's positions as we fought our way through the ambush.

"Cover me!" Tangerine shouted over the din of gunfire, his voice cutting through the chaos.

I nodded, providing suppressing fire as he maneuvered to flank the attackers. Bullets whizzed dangerously close, the adrenaline pumping through my veins heightening my senses. In the midst of the firefight, Tangerine and I found ourselves back-to-back, a position from countless missions past.

"On your left!" I shouted, spotting an approaching enemy.

Tangerine spun, his movements fluid and precise. With a series of controlled shots, he neutralized the threat without hesitation.

"Thanks," he muttered, the words barely audible over the continuing gunfire.

While Lemon retrieved the crucial files we needed from the secure server, Tangerine and I methodically cleared the warehouse floor by floor.

As we regrouped outside the warehouse, the agitation between us returned, like a storm cloud on the horizon. Our previous exchange of curt commands and coordinated movements had been efficient, but now we were back to our old ways.

"You were reckless," Tangerine yelled, stepping closer, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Reckless? I was doing my job," I countered, meeting his gaze defiantly. "I was covering your ass! If it wasn't for me, you'd be Swiss cheese by now," I retorted sharply, pushing my index finger against his chest.

Lemon, sensing the rising tension, attempted to intervene. "Hey, let's all take a breather here," he interjected calmly, trying to diffuse the escalating confrontation.

But Tangerine wasn't backing down. "Your "job" almost got us pinned down there," he insisted, his voice rising with each word.

I felt a surge of indignation. "And what would you have done differently, huh?" I shot back, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

"I would've followed the plan!" Tangerine snapped, his frustration palpable.

"The plan went out the window the moment we were ambushed!" I argued, my voice rising to match his intensity.

Tangerine turned away abruptly, pacing a few steps as he tried to rein in his temper. "You’re still the same!" he protested, his voice strained.

I took a deep breath, attempting to steady my own emotions. "But we made it out, didn't we?" I said, trying to reason with him.

Lemon's pointed look spoke volumes, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration. "You two need to sort this out. Now!"

Tangerine and I stood in the cool night air, as he finally broke the silence. "Why did you leave?"

I took a deep breath, the words heavy on my tongue. "Because you were driving me crazy. You wouldn't stop criticizing me, watching my every move."

He looked away, the pain in his eyes mirroring my own. "I was trying to protect you."

"From what?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "We were partners. I didn't need protecting. I needed you to trust me."

He met my gaze, his blue eyes filled with an intensity that took my breath away. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Because I—" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

Lemon's voice cut through the tension. "For the love of God, just say it already. You love her. It's been obvious for years."

Tangerine froze, his gaze locked on mine.

The world seemed to stand still in that moment. My heart raced, emotions swirling in a tumultuous whirlwind. A statement I had never expected, hung now between us.

"Lemon..." Tangerine started, his voice thick with emotion.

Lemon stepped forward, a knowing smile on his face. "I've known for years, Tangerine. You're not exactly subtle."

Tangerine shot him a glare, but there was gratitude in his eyes. "And you never said anything?"

Lemon shrugged. "It wasn't my place. But it's about time you two figured it out."

I turned back to Tangerine, my heart pounding. "I... I thought..." I stood there, comprehending what is happening.

Tangerine took a step closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper. "I do love you. More than I can put into words."

Relief washed over me, mingled with a surge of emotions I had kept buried for so long. "Then why..."

Tangerine reached out, gently cupping my face in his hands. "I was scared," he confessed, his voice raw with vulnerability. "Scared that if I admitted how I felt, it would jeopardize everything. Our partnership, our friendship..."

"Our sanity," Lemon chimed in, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Tangerine ignored him, his focus solely on me. "But tonight, seeing you again, after so long. I can't deny it anymore. I need you, not just as a partner, but as..."

"As something more," I finished for him, my voice trembling with emotion.

He nodded, his thumbs brushing lightly against my cheeks. "Yes. As something more."

Lemon cleared his throat, breaking the intimate moment with a smug grin on his face. "Well, now that we've got that settled, can we please get out of here before the authorities decide to crash your little make-up session?"

We chuckled softly, the air around us at ease now. Together, we made our way through the deserted streets of Rome.

As we walked, Tangerine reached out and intertwined his fingers with mine. It was a simple gesture. I reciprocated the act, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into my skin.

Lemon walked a few steps ahead, occasionally glancing back with a satisfied expression. "You know," he said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. It's about time you two got your act together."

Tangerine rolled his eyes but didn't let go of my hand. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the nudge, Lemon."

Lemon grinned. "Anytime. But seriously, keep it together, I can’t handle more drama."

Something i put together on a whim...

#tangerine x reader #tangerine #tangerine bullet train #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine 🍊#tangerine fic #bullet train tangerine #aaron taylor johnson #aarontaylorjohnson #tangerine fanfic #lemon and tangerine #lemon bullet train

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