lygerastia

[lygerastia]

2 and 43 for Lando please?

Says He Likes Crazy Girls

1K SPECIAL - Lando Norris x Reader

SULI: I love ruining them pretty sad boys😝 sub!lando and if you're asking why then you're probably new here🤨 ( you cannot convince me this man tops idk )

PROMPTS:

2. Putting a hand over their mouth to keep them quiet, 43. Caught in the act,

WARNINGS: sexual themes, getting caught

You knew it was a bad idea.

The storage room barely locked. The walls were paper-thin. And Lando? Lando couldn’t shut up even when he wasn’t pinned up against a shelf with your hand down the front of his fireproofs.

He was flushed already, back against the metal shelving, curls messy from your fingers, lips parted like he forgot how to breathe. His hands were gripping the hem of your shirt like he needed it to anchor himself. You barely touched him and he was already half gone for you.

“This is so—fuck—so dumb,” he whispered, grinning even as his head thunked softly against the wall behind him. “Someone could literally walk in—”

“You keep talking,” you interrupted, curling your fingers around his jaw, “and they will.”

He swallowed hard. That little moan caught at the back of his throat didn’t go unnoticed.

You kissed him rough, deliberate. One hand trailing under his shirt, nails dragging just enough to make him shiver. He gasped against your lips—loud. Too loud.

Your hand clamped over his mouth immediately, firm and sure.

“Quiet,” you hissed, nose brushing his cheek. “Unless you want to get caught.”

He whimpered under your hand. His eyes fluttered shut, his hips jolting forward without him meaning to. Pathetic.

“God, you like this,” you whispered, watching his reaction. “You’d let anyone walk in just to see what a mess you are for me, wouldn’t you?”

He nodded.

Shamelessly.

And you smiled—sweet, cruel, adoring all at once. “Good boy.”

Lando’s knees buckled slightly.

You didn’t stop—one hand over his mouth, the other dragging slowly down his chest, savoring how desperate he looked for more. His hands stayed planted where you told him to put them—pressed to the wall behind him, trembling just a little.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

You stilled.

Lando’s eyes shot open, wild and wide, breathing harsh into your palm. Your body was pressed flush against his. He shook his head slightly, trying to say something—too late.

The door creaked open.

Light poured in.

Oscar.

He stopped. Blinked. Stared.

Lando’s back arched slightly—caught between trying to move and trying not to fall apart.

Your hand was still over his mouth. His face was scarlet. Your entire body was pressed against him. The room smelled like heat and chaos.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose. “Are you kidding me.”

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. Mostly because he looked like if you took your hand away, he’d say something even worse.

You gave Oscar the calmest look in the world and said:

“Mate. Knock.”

Oscar looked like he was losing brain cells. “It’s a public fucking door!”

Oscar stared for another full beat. Then turned.

“I didn’t see that,” he muttered, slamming the door hard behind him.

Silence.

Lando looked at you like he was waiting to be punished—or kissed. Or both.

You slowly took your hand off his mouth. He let out the quietest whimper.

“…I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t even try it,” you interrupted, voice low. “You made a sound.”

His lip quirked. “You like when I make noises.”

You raised a brow.

He grinned. A little bratty. A lot shameless.

You kissed him again, this time slower. Meaner. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “But if anyone else catches us today, you’re not allowed to finish.”

Lando’s breath caught.

He was silent after that.

[lygerastia]

#good #i like hands too

Sigh, Oscar who doesnt choke you in public but will slide a hand to grip the nape of your neck to keep you close or as a silent sign for you to stop being a little shit UHGHHH

him leaning down with a simple

"Behave."

THE WAY I KUST JHFBWICHOWNXOC I NUST GASPED OUT LOUD HEA DIN MY HANDS. IM ELABORATING ON THIS WHEN I GET HOMEEEE FUCK U!!!!!!!! GOD PLEASE!!

okay i hope u like this. i need him so badly.

oh god. okay. oh god okay… im gonna say smth probably controversial (depending on who u are) but to ME. to ME!!!! oscar i dont think is much of a brat tamer. he doesn’t really get into that side of D/s often. keyword being often. you’ve dabbled in it, definitely. a little orgasm denial here, a little overstimulation there. you’ve switched a hundred times, played with titles in bed. oscar’s down for anything at least once, if i’m honest. but he doesn’t really have a thing for taming. stay with me here.

oscar is a patient man. it takes a lot to get him riled up. to get him to the point of snapping, putting his hands on you in public. but, when he does, it lands like slap. like thunder and lightning crackling around you everywhere. his hand is heavy, like a weight to remind you of who you are. more importantly, what you are.

he’s shy, for the most part. in public, the most you’ll get is a hand on the knee under dinner tables or gently intertwined fingers while you walk somewhere. he’s not a huge pda person, preferring to keep it to a minimum and save all of his love for when the two of you are alone.

but today, you’ve tested everything you knew oscar to be.

it’s some sort of dinner event. sponsors, alcohol, fancy outfits. the whole 9-yards. you both would rather be anywhere but there, but y’know. oscar does kinda have to show face if he wants to be employed. it’s literally in the job description.

oscar was busy talking with a few people, offering polite smiles and hearty laughter when the joke skewed just the right side of comical. and boy, did he look good. fitted suit, dress shirt done up all the way with a cute little bowtie. his pants were tailored perfectly around his thighs and his watch glittered under the lights. you had no idea what he was talking about. stocks, shareholdings. who gives a shit, you thought, eyes stuck on oscar. how could you care about anything except for how good he looks?

your mouth waters as he reaches up to ruffle his hair a bit, grown long and soft, just how you like it, lithe fingers flicking a long strand from his eyes. his hands. all thin fingers and knobby knuckles. they’re always so soft, despite the calluses on his palms. he’d just trimmed his nails that morning, too. you’d been begging him to let you do it.

suddenly, the open bar is a little more appealing than before…

you saunter over, passing oscar. he glances at you, a short, subtle check-in as if to ask, “you good?” you nod back, smiling and making the motion of taking a sip with your hand. he lets you go. on your way, you’re not at all subtle about how your hand grazes his ass, giggling when he jumps. who could blame you? it was just… there!

your drink is cool in your hand. some specialty cocktail the bartenders were making for the event. it was a shade of blue you couldn’t pronounce, but it went down easy as you sat back down at your table. oscar had made his way back, too, smiling fondly at you when you pressed to side once more.

“try this,” you coo, holding the drink out. he raises an eyebrow, but takes the drink at your insistence. his face screws up, nose wrinkling.

“that is so tart,” he grouches, making you giggle. the drink is set on the fancy, white table cloth, oscar’s hand find your knee under the table. he gives it a soft squeeze, loving. fond. you reach down to hold his hand, offering the same squeeze.

the event drones on as marketing executive after social media manager after shareholder sits next to oscar, talking his ear off. you grow bored.

thinking nothing of it, you lift your hand, catching a stray curl that’s fallen into oscar’s face. he startles, eyes glancing at you. you just smile, shrugging as you pull your hand away. “sorry. looked soft,” you tell him. the wife of the man he’d been talking to just laughs.

their conversation carries on, oscar doing his best to pay attention when you’ve now got your hand on his knee. it’s innocent at first. tentative, a grounding pressure. he smiles when you first rest your hand there, covering it with his own. it’s beneath the table cloth, he’s relaxed. there’s no harm done.

his shoulders hunch immediately when your hand slides up, just the slightest. your fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, gently. his eyes go just the slightest bit wide, imperceptible to everyone but, well, you. you knew him best. better than anyone in the room. the muscle under your fingertips tenses, a slow breath leaving through oscar’s nose.

giving him a few more teasing squeezes, you release his leg, sitting up a bit. a sip of your drink, a polite smile at the couple across from you. you’re as innocent as ever. no one would be none the wiser.

oscar’s eyes dart toward you when you shift. “all good?” he mumbles, voice a bit stiff. he cracks a bit on “all”, making you grin.

“‘m fine,” you breathe out, reaching for his hand, resting under the table on his leg. he was rubbing his palms against the material of his pants. you tsked, taking his hand and bringing it to kiss his knuckles. the couple cooed at the two of you, but you saw the flicker in oscar’s eyes.

as the couple dismissed themselves, smiling and offering soft, parting pleasantries, oscar turns to look at you.

“what are you up to?” his eyebrow raises, lips parted as he waits for an answer.

“nothing, osc. just enjoying the event,” you sigh, letting your eyes trail over the room. the gaudy curtains hanging from the ceiling, the obnoxiously orange inflatable in the corner, meant for taking photos with #ad in the caption.

he opens his mouth to say something when lando comes over, clapping his hand down on oscar’s shoulder. “oscar, boy!” he cheers, squeezing through the suit jacket. “alright, mate?”

oscar nearly jumped out of his skin, hand clutched to his chest. your eyes trail over it, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

“jesus christ, lan!” oscar laughs, shaking his head. “was good til you almost gave me a heart attack.”

their conversation fades in your ears, too busy tracing the lines of vein on the back of your boyfriend’s hand. imagining the way those deft fingers wrap around the neck of a trophy. how they look when he’s lifting weights. when he’s got them shoved in your—

“honey?”

you blink. once, then twice. you swallow, jaw clicking with it as your brain practically reboots itself. “sorry, did you say something?”

lando looks at you, amused, while oscar’s eyes widen, then narrow with faint recognition. he knows that look. the way your pupils are a little bit bigger, the way your lip is tucked away between your teeth. the way your eyebrows relax into this expression of want.

oscar’s voice is a little bit lower, words slowed down. “lando asked if you could check the name card next to you.”

you process the question, before you’re reaching for the small card. it’s a pretty cream color, with black calligraphy and golden embellishments. in thick ink, sure enough—“it’s got lando’s name on it,” you mutter, glancing up at the two. he smiles, easy as he sits next to you, letting go of a heavy breath.

“i tell ya, osc. these things never get any easier,” lando grumbles, leaning back in the chair. it creaks under the weight. “seven years and you’d think you’d be used to this shit by now, but no.” he waves his hands around, flapping them as he speaks.

and, of course, you take notice.

lando’s hands are like baseball gloves. he could probably palm a basketball, easy, you think. his palms are wide, fingers thick and long. completely different to oscar’s. oscar didn’t have small hands, not necessarily, but they certainly weren’t whatever bear paws lando norris was working with.

and oscar, your oscar, who knew you just as well as you knew him, caught the way your breath stuttered in your chest. he caught the way your mouth parted, just barely. your eyes followed his hands as they moved, explaining something that he’d had to cancel to be here tonight.

oscar’s hand lands on your thigh, heavy and grounding. at first, you don’t really think anything of it. really. it’s just oscar being affectionate. then, he squeezes. it isn’t hard. there’s no harshness to the way his fingers dig in, but it certainly does catch your attention.

and, oh. oh.

“lando,” you say, snapped out of whatever reverie you’d fallen into.

he quiets immediately, turning to glance at you. “mhm?”

“do you have to have custom gloves made?” his eyebrows furrow, visibly confused. he opens his mouth, trying to speak, but you cut him off. “it’s just—your hands. they’re huge. there’s no way the fit in a standard racing glove.”

you watch the flush that tinges his ears with some unbridled glee. he pinches the tip of his ear between his fingers, a clearly nervous tic. he’s flustered. oscar’s hand tightens around your thigh. you spread your legs just a bit, feeling a low, warm curl through your gut.

“i mean, they’re not that big?” lando’s voice pitches up, soft giggle leaving him. “are they? i don’t think my gloves are any different from oscar’s. are they?” he looks past you and at oscar. and, oh, the look on oscar’s face is more gratifying than flustering lando could ever be.

his jaw is set tight, biting down on his molars like it’ll keep him from doing anything crazy. his nails dig into your skin, despite how you’d clipped them earlier.

lando makes a motion with his hand, asking for oscar’s. “here. l-let’s see,” lando stutters, taking oscar’s hand. not the one that had been firmly pressed to your thigh, but his left one. they line their palms up, and there’s a very clear winner. lando’s fingers span nearly an entire knuckle past oscar’s, and his palm is wide and boxy, where oscar’s is thin and rectangular. that low curl in your gut twists.

“me next!” you say, sitting up. lando, confused, looks between the two of you before he does the same, lining your palms up. his hand practically dwarfs yours. your head spins, mouth dry. opening your mouth to say something else, you’re startled by that warm, heavy again. this time, it sits on your shoulder.

it starts there, fiddling with the strap of your dress, before it slides up, up, up, fingers tangling into your hair. he plays it off like he’s just being a loving, doting boyfriend, massaging your head a little.

for a moment, you think you’re in the clear, hand falling to your lap as lando, flustered and flushed turns to talk to someone else that has taken a seat at the table. he’s sipping his water, ears pink. pride would claw at you if not for the way oscar’s hand weighs down on the nape of your neck. it’s solid and hot. you squirm in your seat, able to feel his thumb against your heartbeat, pressing in just slightly. it makes you gasp.

“oscar—“ you start, but it’s cut off by a honeyed voice, thick and low, kissing your ear.

“behave.”

you’d crossed a line. pushed too far. you could feel it in the curl of his fingers on your tense muscle.

oscar was a patient man, a benevolent man. someone who didn’t get into jealousy and insecure feelings. he wasn’t possessive nor boastful. but that… seeing the way your eyes locked onto lando’s had been enough. seeing the way your fingers practically trembled against tan skin and ocean-wide palms? well… oscar couldn’t have that. he needed to remind you exactly who you were there with, bring you back from whatever little cloud you were on.

your breath hitches, eyelids fluttering closed, submissive under the weight of that palm.

and oscar? he knows he’ll have you exactly where he wants you when you get back to the apartment.

[lygerastia]

Could you possibly do a ‘Just the Tip’ but flipped… Oscar is a virgin and nervous to take that next step, but Reader (who’s on top) promises to only take the tip.

Just an inch - OP81 🔥

Masterlist

summary: oscar’s never done it before — not all the way. he’s nervous, tense, blushing like it’s the first time someone’s ever touched him. you tell him you’ll take it slow, promise to go easy, just the tip. but once you’re on top of him, hot and aching and desperate, you slide all the way down and wreck him completely.

warnings: oscar is a virgin, reader is more experienced, nervous!oscar, riding (f on m), “just the tip” lie, slow penetration, overstimulation, creampie, praise kink, cockwarming, begging, light power shift, soft dom/sub undertones, loss of virginity, emotional vulnerability, cuddly aftercare, oscar is SO gone

He was shaking. Not dramatically, not obvious, not cartoonish. But you could feel it under your palms, where your hands rested on his bare chest. The way his breath kept hitching. The way his fingers flexed against your hips like he didn’t know where to touch. How to start.

"Hey," you whispered, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. "You're okay."

Oscar nodded, pupils blown wide. “I know. I just-fuck. I’ve never-”

“I know,” you murmured. “You’ve told me. And I’m not gonna do anything you’re not ready for.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him the whole world. “I just want to feel you,” he admitted. “Just a little. Just… the tip?”

You smiled. “Just the tip,” you promised.

You reached down, wrapped one hand around him, and watched the way his jaw clenched. He was already so hard, flushed and throbbing against your palm. You stroked him slow, guiding him to your entrance, the head just barely brushing against you.

Oscar gasped. “Oh my God.”

“Breathe, baby,” you whispered.

You sank just an inch.

His whole body jerked. “Jesus-”

“Still good?”

He nodded furiously. “Don’t stop. Please. Just-slow.”

You gripped his shoulders. Braced yourself.

And then you dropped all the way down. One smooth, wet slide. Every single inch.

Oscar screamed. Not loud. Not rough. Just this sharp, wrecked little gasp as his back arched and his eyes rolled back.

“Holy shit,” he choked. “You said- you said-”

“I lied,” you whispered against his ear, breath hot and shaking. “You feel too good. I couldn’t help it.”

He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Hands clinging to your thighs like he didn’t know what planet he was on.

“Too much?” you asked, brushing hair from his forehead.

“No,” he gasped. “No, it’s-fuck, it’s perfect.”

You didn’t move. Not yet.

You let him breathe, let him adjust, let him feel the way your pussy fluttered around him, tight and soaking and wrapped around every single inch of his cock like it was made for him.

“I can’t-” he whispered. “I don’t think I can last.”

“That’s okay,” you murmured. “You don’t have to.”

He blinked up at you, flushed and sweaty and dazed. “I’m inside you.”

You laughed gently. “You are.”

“All the way?”

“Every inch.”

He groaned. “I wanna stay here forever.”

You kissed him, soft and slow. “You can.”

You rocked your hips once, tiny, slow, enough to make his eyes widen and his hands shoot to your waist like he needed to ground himself.

“Oh my God, I’m gonna come-”

“Already?”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be,” you whispered, riding him slow and deep. “You’re doing so well.”

His lips parted. His thighs tensed.

And then he exploded.

Hot. Sudden. Shuddering under you with a broken cry, buried so deep inside you there was no space left. You didn’t stop. You just kept rolling your hips, coaxing him through it, letting him whimper and shake and babble nonsense into your collarbone.

When he finally collapsed, breathing wrecked, heart pounding, you laid your body gently over his.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing your nose against his.

He nodded. Eyes glossy. “I didn’t know it would feel like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… you’re inside me.”

You smiled.

He kissed you slow, messy, tender.

“I wanna do it again.”

You grinned. “Next time, you’re fucking me.”

His cock twitched inside you.

[lygerastia]

Summary: Oscar’s girlfriend is starstruck over meeting Lando for the first time, the Aussie isn’t impressed in the slightest

oscar piastri x reader

w/c 1564

Oscar and Y/N had been together for so long that nothing surprised either of them anymore. In the past few years more than anything, Oscar’s life had gotten crazy and yet she adapted well to all of it. So much crazy stuff had happened during their relationship that she had sort of grown used to it. Every now and then she would attend a sporting gala or an award show– something normal people didn’t do. She was desensitised to it. Or so she thought. 

Being a fan of Formula 1 hadn’t come naturally to her. She learned to love it because it was what Oscar loved. For years he had sort of idolised a certain driver and she had heard so much about him that she started to rather enjoy watching him as well. Y/N didn’t realise just how much she had put him on a pedestal. Not until she met him for the first time. 

Obviously she was over the moon when Oscar told her he’d signed for McLaren, and would be teammates with the Lando Norris. It was exciting. For the first few months of them being partnered together, she didn’t have the chance to meet him. Her job and her degree kept her very busy. It wasn’t until Silverstone weekend that she was introduced to him in a manner that he would hold over Oscar’s head for years to come. 

Y/N had been to plenty of races in her life, but none compared to the size of a Formula 1 race. It was overwhelming, but knowing her boyfriend was part of it was thrilling. There were people here cheering his name. Who had travelled to see and support him. She was over the moon that people were finally starting to realise his greatness– even if McLaren had had a less than impressive start to the season. 

She was getting a tour of the McLaren garage for the first time. Oscar looked happy, truly, showing her around, showing off his car. Her heart soared for him. He was in his element. He was halfway through telling her about the new upgrades to his McLaren for the weekend when she interrupted. 

“That’s Lando Norris,” she whispered. 

Oscar nodded. “Yep. My teammate.” He must have seen them as he came into his side of the garage. His eyes fell on them and he smiled politely, in the way you did with new coworkers you were still unsure about. The pair were getting to know each other, but they hadn’t bonded as of yet. Lando started heading their way and Y/N positively freaked out. 

“He’s coming over here. Oh my god.” She turned to Oscar in sheer panic. “What do I do?”

The Aussie’s brow furrowed. Never had his girlfriend acted like this when meeting someone in the motorsport world. Why she was doing it now was a total mystery to him. “What do you mean? You act normal and say hello. He’s just a person.”

She was staring his way like he wasn’t real. “No, he’s–” There was a gasp and then suddenly she grabbed the material of his shirt in a rather tight fist. “He smiled at me.”

He had no idea what was happening. He knew his girlfriend rather enjoyed watching Lando drive, but he didn’t realise it was some sort of idolisation. Maybe she hadn’t noticed herself, not until the idea of meeting him was actually in front of her. She sort of needed to push this down though before he stopped in front of them or Oscar was never going to live this down. 

“Hey, man.” The 2 men shook hands, slight familiarity now displayed between them. Y/N knew better than anyone that sometimes it was hard to get Oscar out of his shell. Meeting new people wasn’t always his strong suit. Especially when the other was so extroverted. Slowly but surely though Lando was getting through to him. They were getting used to each other. She had no fears that they would be friends soon enough. “Excited for the weekend?”

Things felt more promising this weekend than they had all season. Whether it was because it was a home race with a warm crowd or that they finally had something good with their car, the whole garage was holding its breath. Their time would come, and it might be now. 

“Definitely. Seems like everybody’s chanting your name.” The amount of signs and shirts with Lando’s name and number was exceptional. Oscar could only dream. Australia had been welcoming but understandably they still favoured Danny. Maybe someday he could change their minds. 

Lando smiled. He had been a fan favourite for a few years, Silverstone of all places showcasing the most love. It never got any less surreal though. “You’ll get there.” The Brit was sure of that. Oscar was talented. 

The older man’s attention finally turned to Y/N who was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Hi, I’m Lando.” His hand extended to shake hers and she squeaked in response. He was looking at her, talking to her. Lando Norris, Formula 1 driver, was giving her attention. Upon hearing the noise she let out, he glanced at Oscar with a furrowed brow. Silently asking what was happening. He met a lot of starstruck fans, but not a lot of starstruck guests. 

Oscar rolled his eyes. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N. She’s a bit of a fan apparently.” 

The grin that split on his face was downright evil. He was enjoying this. It was definitely a first, having a fellow driver’s girlfriend fangirl over him. He was painfully smug. 

Y/N swatted her boyfriend’s arm for exposing her. Now she just looked like a crazy person. “Sorry, I just really like watching you drive. You’re so talented.” Her boyfriend felt like he was having some sort of outer body experience watching this interaction. This woman in front of him was nothing like the woman he knew. 

“I like her already.”

Her hand reached out and gripped Oscar’s arm, squeezing. She didn’t even realise she was doing it. “Not as much as she likes you apparently,” he mumbled. Neither of them heard him.

A call of Lando’s name from somewhere in the near distance was Oscar’s saviour. He had never been so glad to get rid of the man he once considered an inspiration. He had a strong feeling this moment was going to keep coming back. What were the odds of Lando letting go of this huge ego boost? “Well, duty calls. Was nice meeting you Y/N. If I win this weekend I’ll be sure to dedicate it to you.” He waved as he headed back to his side of the garage for a chat with his trainer. 

Her jaw dropped. “Did you hear that? He’s gonna dedicate his win to me.” There were almost literal stars in her eyes as she watched him go. Oscar didn’t think she had ever even looked at him like that. She was even twirling her hair around her finger like some crushing teenager. Lando briefly glanced back over his shoulder, saw she was still looking. He offered a wink and a smirk, one that sent all kinds of alarms off in Oscar’s brain. He had never felt a wave of jealousy like it. 

Before he knew what  he was doing, his arm came to wrap around her and his lips glued themselves to her temple. Normally he really wasn’t one for PDA. Right now it felt necessary. His teammate knew what he was doing and he couldn’t help but laugh. Who knew Oscar was the possessive type? Not even him until now. 

“He’s never won, don’t get your hopes up.”

There was some sharpness to his tone. It was easy to pick up on for someone that had known him for so long. “Are you jealous?” The grin on her face was wide, teasing. She couldn’t believe it. She had literally never seen him like this before. He scoffed. Though his cheeks betrayed him, burning a bright red. “Oh my god, you are. Oscar Piastri is jealous!”

“I am not jealous.”

“You totally are.” The woman was overjoyed. It hadn’t been her intention to make him so jealous, but she was loving it. He always cared more than he let on. 

He huffed. “Tell that to the heart eyes you were sending his way.”

It was easy to forget that Oscar was still just a 22 year old in his first serious relationship. Sure they’d been together a while and he was pretty accomplished in his chosen job field, but it didn’t mean they weren’t young and still figuring out life. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her heart doing flips in her chest. At first she kissed his cheek, then his nose and finally his lips. Melting into her was completely against his will. That was just the effect she had on him though. “I love you, you big baby, not Lando.”

And he knew it was true. 

No doubt the story of how Y/N had fangirled over Lando would be brought up when she and Oscar inevitably got married. In fact the Brit told the story at any given opportunity. No matter how much time had passed, it would still rile him up. Oscar was never going to let her get starstruck again.

[lygerastia]

Reader is obsessed with Oscar’s neck - the thickness of it, the way he’s always adjusting the neckline of his fireproofs, the way he sometimes strokes his own throat in interviews and he’s thinking.

She decides that his neck would look even prettier covered in bite marks and hickeys. Oscar tries to resist, saying that he has media the next day, but she just absolutely goes to town on him, making sure everyone can see that he’s taken.

Mark you mine - OP81 🔥

Masterlist

summary: you've always had a thing for his neck — the way he touches it absentmindedly, the way it stretches under his fireproofs, the way it begs to be bitten. oscar says he has media in the morning. you say he should've thought of that before he let you straddle him.

warnings: neck/bite kink, marking, hickeys, possessive!reader, whiny!oscar, public consequences, hickeys before media, oral fixation, teasing, light dom/sub energy, soft begging, visible claiming, f1 grid reactions

You can't stop staring at his neck. It's become a problem. A fixation. An itch under your skin every time you see him on-screen, his hand lazily dragging across his throat as he thinks through an answer. The edge of his fireproofs dipping just enough to show skin. The way he stretches after a session, collar tugged down, throat glistening with sweat.

He's perfect. But that neck? That neck is filthy. And he doesn't even know it.

Not yet. You wait until he's lying on the hotel bed in nothing but his boxers and a McLaren shirt, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, hair still damp from the shower. Clean. Warm. Unbothered.

He doesn't look up when you straddle him. "What are you-"

Your mouth finds his throat instantly. A long, slow drag of your tongue against the side of his neck before you sink your teeth in and bite.

He gasps. "Fuck- babe, I-"

You ignore him. Suck hard. Press your lips down until the skin is flushed and bruising.

He twitches under you. "Media day's tomorrow," he pants. "They're gonna see-"

"Exactly," you whisper.

You kiss lower. Then suck again. Harder this time.

He whines. "Please, not where the cameras—"

"Oh, you mean right here?" You bite just above the collarbone, the spot you know peeks out when his fireproofs shift during interviews.

He arches up into your mouth like he doesn't even mean to. "Baby," he moans, "they're gonna see."

You lick over the fresh mark. Smirk against his skin. "Good."

You leave hickeys all down his throat. Big, dark ones. Some still sticky with spit. Others purple and spreading fast. By the time you're done, his chest is rising and falling like he just ran a lap. His neck looks like it's been mauled. Your lipstick is smudged on his jaw. And he's hard, so fucking hard, under you.

"I can't go out like this," he groans. "Everyone's gonna know."

You tilt his chin up. Look him straight in the eye. "That's the point."

He swallows hard. "You're evil."

You kiss him sweetly on the lips. "I'm yours."

He groans again. Then pulls you back down. 

The next morning is chaos.

You watch from the corner of the paddock as Oscar walks into media with his hoodie tugged up as high as it'll go. He's trying to hide them, the bruises, the bite marks, the proof that someone got a little too greedy the night before.

But it's no use. A little tilt of his head and you can see the red marks spreading up the side of his neck like blooming flowers. A cameraman zooms in. A PR girl stifles a laugh.

George notices first. Snorts. Elbows Lando. "Jesus, mate. You get attacked by a vacuum?"

Oscar glares at them, pulling the collar up again. "Shut up."

Charles walks past, glancing once, then twice. Smirks. "You okay, Oscar? You look... possessed."

He doesn't answer.

Max catches on mid-interview. Stares at the marks. Raises a brow. "Bit much for a Thursday," he mutters.

Oscar mutters something back that sounds like she's insane, but he's blushing like he liked it.

And you? You sit back in your chair, sunglasses on, a smug little grin on your lips. Because the whole world knows now. Oscar Piastri is taken. And you've marked every inch of him that 

[lygerastia]

driver diaries : collection #4 when you ask them to cum inside

models : CL16, CS55, MV1, LN4, OP81

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availability : dating ( all drivers )

designer's comments : so. you may wonder why I ask the masses for their opinion when I do my own thing anyway? Cause open defiance is my kink. My requests for this series AND generally are open. so stop by if you want ;)

Charles Leclerc 16 Tender. Breathless. Slightly stunned by how much he needs it.

Charles had you on the hotel couch, lights dim, hands all over you like he was afraid you’d disappear. 

You’d come straight from a sponsor event – he hadn’t bothered to even changed out of his black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, chest open at the collar. 

You were already half-undressed, knees over his thighs, his hands sliding under your top. He was supposed to be patient. Gentle. But that only lasted until you whispered, “You can fuck me, you know.” 

That’s when his restraint cracked. 

And now he was panting above you, hands gripping your hips like an anchor as he thrust into you slow and deep, voice broken, wrecked. 

“Tu me rends fou, bébé…”  You drive me crazy, baby. 

The couch cushions shifted beneath you with every push of his hips. He kept brushing your hair away from your face, as if he needed to see your eyes while he fucked you like this - no distractions. No walls. Just Charles looking like he’d never wanted anything more in his entire life. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, low and hoarse. ��You feel so good.” 

He was buried raw inside you. Thick. Warm. So deep it made your legs twitch every time he rolled his hips just right. 

You could feel every part of him. Every desperate inch. 

And he couldn’t stop looking. 

Couldn’t stop groaning softly every time you clenched around him. 

He dipped his head, kissed your collarbone, breath trembling. 

“I don’t want to stop-” he whispered, voice cracking a little. “But I’m so close already.” 

You smiled, running your hand through his curls. “Then don’t stop.” 

He looked up - flushed, wide-eyed, like he hadn’t expected that. 

You kissed the corner of his mouth. 

“Finish inside me.” 

Charles froze. 

His breathing hitched. 

“You-” He blinked. “Quoi?” 

“I want you to come inside me,” you said again, soft but clear, brushing your lips against his. “Don’t pull out. Please.” 

The moan that left his throat was more like a whimper. 

Then he kissed you like he needed to feel every part of you at once. 

“Putain,” he swore into your mouth. “Tu vas me tuer…” 

His thrusts got faster. Sloppier. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, fingertips pressing into your skin, his entire body stuttering toward the edge. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “I want to feel it.” 

That’s when he broke. 

He buried himself fully, holding your hips in place, and let go with a guttural moan - so soft, so desperate, so intimate. 

You felt him pulse inside you, warm and thick, the heat flooding your body as he came. 

His voice was all breath, all praise.  “Oui oui oui… comme ça… oh mon dieu…” 

He collapsed against your chest, still inside you, shivering slightly. His nose brushed your neck; lips parted against your shoulder. 

He didn’t speak right away. 

Didn’t have to. 

His hands slid along your sides, slow, almost trembling. 

Then he kissed the centre of your chest. Your jaw. Your cheek. 

And finally, your lips. 

When he pulled back, eyes still half-lidded, voice gone low, he murmured: 

“Next time… let me say it first.” 

You tilted your head. “Say what?” 

He smiled. 

“That I want to be the only one who ever finishes in you.” 

Carlos Sainz 55 Possessive. Gritty. Emotional control slipping.

It started slow. 

You weren’t rushing. Neither of you ever did when you had the privacy, the time, the stillness. The kind of nights where Carlos kept the lights dim, fingers lazy as he kissed along the inside of your thigh. His voice low. His gaze intense. 

He’d already made you come once with his mouth - face buried in you, groaning every time your legs trembled around his shoulders. Then, fingers. Just two, fucking you open slow, making you gasp and buck until you were practically panting his name. 

And now he was above you - thick cock hard in his fist, tip flushed and already slick with precum as he stroked himself between your legs. 

"Estás tan jodidamente bonita,” he murmured. You're so fucking pretty. 

“Then stop teasing,” you whispered, breathless. 

He smirked, hand steady. “You want me inside?” 

You nodded, lips parted. He turned to rip open a condom, until you grabbed his bicep, squeezing. 

“Bare?” he asked, voice gone rough, eyes wide as he looked back at you. 

Your stomach flipped. You knew that tone. That edge. 

You nodded again. “Yes.” 

Carlos exhaled, nostrils flaring slightly. But he didn’t argue. He just pressed his tip against your entrance and slowly eased in - every inch stretching you open, heat blooming low in your belly as your nails gripped the sheets. 

The moan he let out when he bottomed out was low and ragged and real. 

“Fucking hell…” 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, needing more of him. He was thick, heavy, the stretch just this side of overwhelming. 

He didn’t move right away. 

Just leaned forward, kissed your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. 

“You always feel this good for me,” he said, voice almost reverent. 

You clenched around him. 

Carlos groaned. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.” 

"Maybe I don't want you to." 

That got his attention. 

His head lifted. Eyes locked with yours. 

"¿Qué?" he asked, voice lower. A little strained. 

You looked up at him, feeling the rush of heat rise to your cheeks-but you didn’t back down. 

“I want you to finish inside me.” 

Carlos didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. 

Just breathed. 

Then he swore under his breath-“Joder”-and started moving. 

Deep, slow thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs. Every roll of his hips filled you completely, thick and hot, the friction making your whole-body arch beneath him. 

“Say it again,” he growled, fucking you harder now. 

“I want you to come inside me, Carlos.” 

His head dropped to your shoulder. He bit down lightly, groaning into your skin. 

“Estás loca… You’re trying to kill me.” 

You moaned, wrapping your arms around his back, nails digging into muscle. His pace picked up - sharp now, relentless. The bed creaked beneath you. Your name left his lips like a curse. 

“You like knowing I’ll be the only one that’s ever done this to you?” he gasped. “That I’ll be the only one to come inside you like this?” 

“Yes-fuck-yes-” 

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, blooming outward in waves, your back arching, mouth open as you came around him with a sharp cry. 

Carlos wasn’t far behind. 

You felt his rhythm break, his thrusts stutter. 

He groaned low, rough, needy. 

Then buried himself deep one last time. 

And came inside you. 

You felt the warmth flood you. Felt his body shake from it, his arms locked tight around your waist like he needed to hold on while he poured every drop into you. 

“Dámelo…” he whispered, breath gone. “Dámelo todo, mi vida…” 

You didn’t let him go. 

Not even when he stilled inside you, panting against your neck. 

Not when he kissed your shoulder like an apology and a prayer all in one. 

Not when he finally pulled back just enough to watch it leak from you, that soft, sinful look on his face like he could see the moment burned into his memory forever. 

He pressed his fingers gently to your inner thigh, then your hips. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly, still inside you. Still pressed close. 

You nodded. 

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Because next time… I want you on top. And I want to feel you clench around me when I fill you again.” 

You were already smiling. 

Already wrecked. 

And already wondering how soon “next time” could be. 

Max Verstappen 1 Unhinged. Growling. Pure fucking instinct.

You knew the second you said it; Max was going to lose his mind. 

He already had you on your back, one of your thighs thrown over his shoulder, the other pinned down by his palm as he fucked into you deep and fast, growling your name like it was the only word he still remembered. 

His skin was slick with sweat, chain dangling over his throat. His eyes never left your face - locked on your fucked-out expression like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he grunted. “Look at you-already cockdrunk.” 

You whined, head falling back. “You fuck me like this and expect me not to be?” 

He smirked. Brief. Sharp. 

Then you said it, 

“Come inside me.” 

His whole body stopped. 

Like a full-body glitch. Breath caught. Muscles frozen mid-thrust. 

“…What?” 

You bit your lip, lifted your hips into his. 

“I want to feel it. Don’t pull out.” 

Max growled. 

There was no other word for it. Just a deep, animal sound torn from his chest. 

Then he dropped your thigh from his shoulder, shoved both your legs up, and folded your knees against your chest - locking you down, fucking deeper, pounding you into the mattress with a pace that made the headboard slam the wall. 

“Say it again,” he gritted through his teeth. 

“Finish inside me, Max.” 

His hand wrapped around your throat - not tight, just enough to feel it - and he stared down at you with wild eyes. 

“Fucking hell. You want me to come in you? Want me dripping out of you all night?” 

“Yes,” you gasped, nails clawing at his back. “Please-please, I need it-” 

“You’re not walking tomorrow.” 

He wrecked you after that. 

Not romantic. Not gentle. Just relentless, brutal thrusts and filthy muttering in your ear. 

“This pussy’s mine- fuck- look at you, begging for it-so desperate-” 

You were trembling, tears bubbling on your lashes from the overstimulation, the pressure, the stretch. 

He didn’t let up. You came first, screaming into his shoulder, clenching around him so tight he swore in Dutch, hips stuttering. 

And then he snapped. 

Max slammed in once, twice, and then let out a broken, breathless groan as he emptied himself inside you - cock twitching deep as he spilled into you with full-body shudders. 

“Fuck- fuck -yes -take it- take all of it-” 

He didn’t move right away. 

Just stayed there. Breathing hard. Forehead against yours. 

You felt him pulse with the aftershocks, felt the mess spreading between your legs already. 

And you whispered, dazed, “You really didn’t pull out.” 

Max chuckled-low, dangerous. 

“Too fucking late now.” 

A minute later, he pulled back slightly, spreading your legs with both hands to look. 

To watch it leak out of you. 

He stared at it, jaw tight. 

Then he used two fingers to push it back in, slow and possessive. 

“I meant what I said,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to yours. 

“You’re not walking tomorrow.” 

Lando Norris 4 Messy. Whiny. Loses his mind when you ask for it.

You were already close. So was he. 

It had been building from the second he got back from media duties - tension thick, eyes dark, voice low. He’d barely touched dinner. Barely touched you. Just kissed you once, slow and heavy, then pulled you into his lap and whispered, 

“Been thinking about this all day.” 

Now? You were underneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, hands fisted in his curls as he fucked you deep and slow - dragging every thrust out like he wanted to ruin you with it. 

Lando’s mouth was open against your throat, breath hot, his voice pure wreckage, 

“Feel so good-so tight-fuck, you take me so well, babe-” 

You were dizzy, aching, soaking wet - and he hadn’t even sped up yet. Just this perfect, devastating pressure. So deep you felt him in your stomach. 

“Lando-” you moaned. 

“I know, I know,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” 

His voice was high. Breathless. Full of need. 

You pulled him closer, your lips brushing his ear. 

And then you whispered, 

“Come inside me.” 

Lando froze. 

Dead still. Balls deep. 

You felt him twitch inside you, like your words short-circuited his entire brain. 

“Wait-what?” he said, voice cracked. 

“I want you to come inside me,” you repeated, slower. “Please.” 

He let out the most pathetic little groan. 

“Fuck-don’t say that. I’m not gonna last-” 

“You don’t have to.” 

That’s when he snapped. 

He buried his face in your neck and thrust hard - deep, fast, chasing it now, no rhythm, no patience. 

His hands gripped your hips like he was holding on for dear life. 

“Oh my god-fuck-I’m gonna- babe, I’m gonna-” 

“Do it,” you gasped. “Please, Lando-” 

He moaned your name, high and broken, and slammed into you one final time. 

Then he came inside you. 

Warm. Messy. Full-body shudder. 

His whole body tensed, mouth open, eyebrows scrunched in complete disbelief as he emptied himself deep inside you, panting like he’d just finished a 90-minute quali lap. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “Holy fuck- I came inside you-” 

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing, smiling, kissing his flushed cheek. 

“I told you to,” you whispered. 

Lando pulled back just enough to look - saw the mess between your legs, the slick mix already starting to spill out, his cock still twitching from the aftershocks. 

He groaned again. 

Then grinned. 

“Jesus Christ… I’ve peaked.” 

Oscar Piastri 81 Silent. Intense. Ruined.

Oscar had always been good at holding back. 

Even when you were grinding against him on the couch, all breathy moans and slick skin, he was in control - one hand on your jaw, the other pressing down on your lower belly as he moved inside you with calculated precision. 

“Relax,” he whispered, voice low and quiet against your neck. “I’ve got you.” 

You loved that about him. The way he never raised his voice. The way he knew your body better than anyone. Every drag of his cock was deliberate. Controlled. He didn’t chase pleasure - he delivered it. 

And tonight? 

He was deep. 

So, so deep. 

Slow strokes that reached the end of you, hips slotted flush to yours, pelvis brushing your clit every time he rolled his hips forward. 

His hand was laced with yours behind your back. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you open, grounded. 

“Oscar,” you whimpered. 

“Yeah?” 

“Faster.” 

He didn’t obey. Just chuckled, soft and cruel. 

“You sure?” he murmured. “You already look so close.” 

“I want it.” 

He tilted his head, brown eyes dark and steady. 

“You want me to fuck you properly?” 

You nodded, already breathless. 

He did. 

Harder. Deeper. Just enough to make the sofa springs creak once. 

Your thighs shook. 

“That’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on your face. “So fucking tight around me, baby.” 

And just as your second orgasm built - tight and coiling - you gasped it, 

“Finish inside me.” 

Oscar stilled. 

Eyes narrowing. Chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Say that again.” 

You tangled your fingers into his curls, tugging. “I want you to come inside me.” 

He exhaled, shaky and hard. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re serious.” 

You nodded. 

He kissed you once. Then twice. Slow, like he was trying to memorize you. 

And then? 

He fucked you like he meant it. 

Oscar wasn’t loud. He didn’t groan or curse or talk you through it like the others might. He just moved - deep, sharp thrusts that left you gasping, thighs trembling. 

The only sound was skin slapping and you're whimpering. 

And then- 

He slammed in one final time and stayed there. 

Pressed deep. Eyes on you. And came. 

Hard. 

His entire body tensed - cock twitching as he emptied inside you, lips parting but no sound escaping, like he was too overwhelmed to even speak. 

Just quiet, heavy breathing as he filled you. 

Your legs shook around his waist. His hand came up to your cheek. 

Still inside. 

Still full. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, finally. “I’ve never done that before.” 

You smiled, dazed. “Me neither.” 

Oscar leaned in, kissed your cheekbone, your nose. 

“Hope you know,” he said, “I’m going to be thinking about this every time I see you walk tomorrow.” 

You laughed. 

But the way he looked at you knew that he meant every word. 

[lygerastia]

this one’s for you, babe! ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, tooth-rotting fluff. established relationship, piastri siblings cameo!!!, oscar is a loser (affectionately). ꔮ commentary box: there’s something i have to be writing instead of this, but i’ve opted to procrastinate productively. there’s already like a dozen tweets about this, but. we ball. enjoy this little drabble of our favorite loser/loverboy 🍊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Babe, this one’s for you.”

That’s the line. The cursed prelude. The verbal equivalent of knocking over a salt shaker and refusing to throw it over your shoulder.

You’re leaning against a barricade by the paddock, sunglasses on, arms crossed, fully braced for the impending disaster. There’s a camera crew lingering nearby. A branded football sits in front of Oscar, who’s doing that thing with his shoulders—a little roll, a tiny shake—like he thinks swagger is a warm-up. Lando stands off to the side, already giggling.

He knows how this ends. You know how this ends.

Oscar takes a step back, eyes the goal. And then, with all the self-assured grace of a golden retriever at a chess match, he kicks.

The ball soars. High. Too high. It clears the goal entirely and smacks the side of a hospitality tent with a sound that echoes.

Lando folds instantly, bent double with laughter. “That one’s for who, mate?”

Oscar stares after the ball, hands on hips. The very picture of a man trying to style out failure with dignity. Which is impressive, considering he just overshot the net by what could only be measured in bus lengths.

You raise a single eyebrow over your shades. “I feel so honored,” you call out. 

He points a finger at you, mock-stern. “That was a warm-up.”

“Sure it was.”

Here’s the thing: this isn’t new.

You’ve seen this movie. It has sequels. A whole franchise.

There was the time he tried to serve in beach volleyball, yelled the same cursed phrase, and launched the ball directly into a stranger’s mojito. The time he attempted a trick shot in pool, declared it was for you, and managed to ricochet the cue ball off three sides of the table and straight into his own shin.

There’s the karaoke incident, too. “This one’s for you, babe,” he had said, confidently selecting a power ballad two octaves above his range. He made it three lines in before his voice cracked like a haunted door and he started laughing too hard to finish. You still have the video. He lives in fear of it.

Oscar jogs over now, slightly pink-faced but trying to act like he isn’t two teasing comments away from sulking. Lando’s still wheezing behind him.

“I slipped,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“On what?” you tease. “Delusion?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it’s all for show. You know the truth. He could hit the perfect shot—textbook form, stunning execution—and it still wouldn’t mean as much as making you laugh. He’d trip over his own ego just to see you smile. He’s not actually trying to impress you. He’s trying to entertain you.

And he is.

Tragically. Consistently. Impressively.

He hooks a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you close enough for a forehead bump. “Next one’s going in,” he promises. 

“I believe in you,” you say, even though you absolutely do not.

But that’s not the point. The point is that he tries. That he grins like he’s invincible until physics tells him otherwise. That he turns every botched attempt into another inside joke, another story to retell when the season ends and the world slows down.

“Hey,” he huffs, nose brushing yours. “Still proud of me?”

You pretend to think, just to make him squirm. Then you kiss his cheek and whisper, “Always.”

He lights up like he scored anyway. Lando, unhelpfully, shouts, “Maybe dedicate the next one to your mechanic, see if that changes your luck!”

Oscar flips him off without looking. You laugh. He grins wider.

You already know what he’ll say before he turns back toward the ball, legs braced, ridiculous confidence intact. “This one’s for you, babe.” 

He misses a second time. 

You should’ve known the chaos wouldn’t end with one rogue football.

Then again, you’re dating Oscar Piastri. Chaos is less of an occasional guest and more of a live-in roommate who drinks all the oat milk and never refills the Brita.

The transition is seamless: one minute, you’re dodging Lando’s post-barbecue puns. The next, you’re in a sunny backyard in Melbourne, surrounded by rose bushes, folding chairs, and three women who share Oscar’s nose, his eyebrows, and his absolute inability to do anything halfway.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae are a trio straight out of an Austen novel if Austen novels included mimosas and a group chat titled oz’s life choices (questionable). You’re holding a cup of lemonade that someone handed you out of politeness and mild fear, while Oscar stands several feet away, lining up what appears to be a croquet shot. He does it with the solemnity of a man about to launch a rocket into orbit.

He glances over his shoulder. Winks. “For you, babe.”

Hattie audibly groans. Edie buries her face in her hands. Mae mutters, “Christ, he said the line.”

You barely have time to brace.

The mallet swings. The ball sails.

Directly into a flowerbed.

“Incredible,” Hattie declares, clapping once like it’s a Broadway flop. “Is he aiming for symbolic failure now?”

Mae yells, “Mum’s gonna kill you! Those were her prize roses!”

Oscar lifts both hands in a grand shrug, as if to say, Was it me? Can we ever truly know anything?

You want to laugh—you almost do—but there’s a strange thrum under your ribs. A quiet beat of doubt, soft and silly but persistent.

What if it's you?

You don’t usually believe in jinxes, but the track record is damning. Every time he says it—this one’s for you—something goes horribly, comically wrong. Like the universe is actively penalizing him for being besotted in public.

You’re still stewing in that thought when Hattie plops down beside you, stealing half your lemonade without asking. “Hey,” she says, tone gentler now.

You pull on a smile. “Hey.”

She gestures vaguely toward Oscar, who’s currently inspecting the croquet ball as if it might have been tampered with. “You’re spiraling, aren’t you?” she accuses. 

A laugh almost escapes you. Damn the Piastris and their perceptiveness. “A little,” you admit. 

Edie joins, draping her arm over the back of your chair. “You’re not the curse, love. Oscar’s just been dramatic since birth. The man got kicked out of ballet at age six for excessive flair.”

“He curtsied after every jump,” Mae chimes in, emerging from the bush with a ruined rose and no remorse. “And once bowed to a pigeon that flew into his scooter path.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension in your chest.

Hattie squeezes your arm. “He’s always been a mess. You’re just the audience he wants to impress.”

It helps. More than you want to admit. Enough that you start teasing him again, casually ruthless, when he tries to re-line the shot with disastrous optimism.

Later, after the sisters have retreated indoors with threats of blackmail via group chat, Oscar sidles up beside you like a teenager approaching his crush. He takes one look at your expression before grimacing. “They told you, didn’t they?”

You sip your drink, eyes on the horizon. “About ballet? Or the pigeon? Or the part where you once cried watching a butter commercial?”

He groans. “All of it, then.”

You turn to face him. He’s flushed, slightly winded from chasing the ball into a bush, and possibly still emotionally recovering from Mae calling him a ‘walking rom-com montage.’

You offer a half-smile. “It’s not me, right?” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “Like, have I cursed you by being with you?” 

He stills. Then, he gently takes the cup from your hand, sets it aside, and reaches for your fingers like they’re the last steady thing in a very wobbly world.

“Babe,” he says, entirely sincere for once, “if you think for a second that you’re the reason I trip over my own feet, or miss goals, or accidentally decapitate a garden gnome with a frisbee, you’re giving yourself way too much credit.”

Your eye roll aborts when you realize there’s some Attempt to Comfort in his words. “That was oddly romantic,” you say wryly. 

He leans in. Kisses your forehead. “You’re not the curse,” he says against the crown of your head. “You’re the prize.”

From inside, you hear one of his sisters gag. Probably Mae.

It makes you laugh. And that makes Oscar smile. 

And you know, with a warm, ridiculous certainty, that he’ll absolutely say it again the next time.

It turns out, Oscar takes public theatrics very seriously.

You'd think the croquet incident, complete with airborne mallet shame and a rose bush eulogy, would’ve scratched the itch. But no. That was merely rehearsal.

Because the next time he says it, he says it on live television.

You’re in the McLaren garage, pretending not to be a ball of nerves wrapped in fire-retardant denim. There’s the usual hum of mechanics and telemetry and a dozen people pretending this isn’t their Roman Empire. The broadcast plays overhead, mostly background noise. Until it isn’t.

Because Oscar—sweet, mildly unhinged Oscar—is actively waving down a camera.

He’s standing in full race suit, helmet under one arm, expression one part cheeky and two parts wait for it. The moment the camera zooms in like the universe had conspired to indulge him, he mouths it.

You see it. Clear as sky, sharp as sin.

This one’s for you, babe.

The world might need a second to register. The broadcasters are scrambling to interpret it, probably scrambling to subtitle. 

But you? You’ve kissed that mouth enough times to know every vowel, every curve. You know exactly what he said.

And oh, you are horrified. And hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Of course he would do that. Of course he would take your whispered insecurities and lob them into the stratosphere, daring the universe to do its worst. Of course he’d drag your inside joke into the spotlight just to prove that it’s not cursed, not broken, not unlucky.

You duck your head. Cover your face with your hands. Feel your heart tap-dancing somewhere near your ears.

The race starts. Oscar drives like he’s been possessed by something divine and deeply caffeinated. Every corner is poetry. Every overtake is vengeance. He roars through the grid like this is personal. 

You stop breathing somewhere around Lap 43. By Lap 57, you’re leaning so far over the pit wall you’re basically a wind sock. When he crosses the finish line in P1, the garage erupts. Mechanics cheer. Engineers high-five.

Oscar finds you after the podium, still in his race suit, smelling like victory and sweat and audacity. There’s confetti in his hair and his smile is unfair, too bright, too much.

“Did you see?” he asks, already grinning like he knows.

You don’t answer.

You just kiss him. Hard. The kind of kiss that answers everything. That thanks him for the chaos and the clarity. That forgives him for being a lunatic with a platform and a plan.

You pull back to wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you back like you’re better than any trophy on the grid.

Oscar may not be good at a lot of things outside of racing.

But he’s stupidly, spectacularly good at loving you. ⛐

[lygerastia]

✧ anakin skywalker x f!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — anakin misses you while on a mission so he secretly holo-calls you late at night .

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — mostly fluff !

𝐀/𝐍 — i LOVE clone wars ani (especially him in ahsoka) like ugh give him to me 🙏

The war never sleeps. There’s always another planet, another battle, another casualty report waiting by dawn. But even with all that, even with the galaxy on fire around him, Anakin Skywalker always finds time to call you. And when I say always, it’s always.

Even if it’s just for a few minutes, even if the signal is weak (which happens pretty often) and the transmission flickers every few seconds. Even if he had to lie about where he’s going just to sneak off and dial the frequency only you know. He’d always make time for you.

The blue light of your holoprojector flickers to life just past midnight. You were already in bed. You sit up in the bed the moment you hear the soft buzz, you don’t even need to look to know it’s him. No one else contacts you this late at night.

There he is. Flickering. Tired. And yet, looking absolutely gorgeous.

“Hello love,” he says, voice horse from shouting over comms all day. His eyes drink you in immediately, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. You’d always make him feel better, even if it was just a little. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as you sit up straighter. “Did you sleep at all?” you muttered softly.

Anakin gives you a half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re on Vulpter right now. Got caught in a rainstorm mid-ambush. Half the camp is knee-deep in mud, and the 501st is too wired to rest. I thought I’d use the downtime for something… better.”

You gave him a small smile, your heart aching at the sight of your husband. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” he admits, with a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “But when I see you, it’s better. It always is.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just take him in, messy curls falling over his forehead, a cut just beneath his jaw he hasn’t treated yet, the faint outline of his armor still half-worn. The war has aged him. It’s there in the quiet slump of his shoulders, in the way his eyes linger in you like you’re the only real thing left.

“I hate this,” he says suddenly, eyes lowering. “Being away from you. Pretending like you’re just… no one. I miss you.”

You swallow hard. “You never have to pretend with me. You know I miss you too,” you spoke softly.

He nods, jaw tight. “I try to call whenever I can,” he says. “Even if it’s just to hear the sound of your voice. Sometimes I even replay old messages before a mission. I know I shouldn’t. Attachment, Jedi Code, blah blah blah-“ He pauses. Then looks at you again, softer this time. “I’d rather be human with you than a Jedi without you.”

Your breath catches, because he never says things like that. Not unless he’s falling apart. Your heart ached for him.

“Come home soon,” you whisper.

“I will, my love” he says, and he means it, even if he doesn’t know how. “And when I do, I’m not leaving again. I’ll put in for time away, I don’t care what the Council says. We’ll disappear. Just for a little while.”

You smiled sadly. You’ve had this conversation before. You’ll have it again.

For now, this is enough.

“Promise me something?” you asked. “Anything.” He said.

“Promise me you’ll be careful. And take care of yourself.”

He leans closer to the projection, like he wishes he could just crawl through it and press his forehead to yours.

“I promise. And you… promise me you’ll wait?” he asked, above a whisper.

You couldn’t help but smile a bit at his words, “I always do. Always will.”

He grins, tired but boyish, your Ani, underneath all the battle scars and war-worn armor.

“I love you,” he says. Soft, quiet and sacred. “I love you too,” you whisper back, clutching the blanket tighter.

The transmission crackles. He’s being called. You both hear it.

He doesn’t end the call right away. He holds your gaze, like maybe if he stares long enough, he won’t have to leave.

Eventually, he does. The light fades. You’re alone in the dark again, but it still feels like he’s there.

divider creds: @enchanthings

[lygerastia]

THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL (THE LOSER HAS TO FALL)

PAIRING: oscar piastri x f!reader DESCRIPTION: angry sex with oscar because silverstone 25 was the biggest display of emotion from him that we've ever seen. that's it:) WARNINGS: smut mdni, unprotected!p in v, mentions of his penalty, oscar might usually seem sweet but he's actually a little slut for you A/N: ok but if you weren't at least a little bit turned on by how annoyed this man was post race then watch it again because what?!?

You had never seen him like this, not even close.

The sky over Silverstone was still heavy with the scent of rubber and rain as the final chequered flag dropped. The grandstands shook with thunderous applause, British fans rising to their feet for Lando’s win.

But you only had eyes for one man.

And he wasn't even celebrating.

You stood behind the barriers with his sister, your hands clasped together so tight that your knuckles were turning white. You watched as he took off his helmet, carelessly placing it on the side before offering his teammate his congratulations with the most half-hearted smile you had ever seen him wear. You could see it in the way he moved, tight, almost mechanical. Every motion screamed rage wrapped thinly in discipline.

He wore the same expression on the podium, barely glancing at the trophy presented to him. Anyone that knew him could see that he was seething underneath it all, his face painting a thousand pictures. The set of his jaw, the way he barely glanced at Lando, the stiffness in his shoulders even while holding the bottle of champagne. He clapped when he was supposed to, gave into the photo opportunities that they wanted. But the moment the celebrations ended, you saw it:

The thousand-yard stare.

Ten seconds.

That’s all it took to rip the win out of his hands and shove it into his teammates. A ten-second penalty under the safety car, albeit one he didn’t really deserve, and it was all gone. He had driven perfectly. And now he was standing in second place for the world to see, trying not to lose his mind in front of a hundred cameras and half a million fans.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until the celebrations ended and the began drivers to walk off the stage.

You knew his schedule. Podium, then a short refresh before heading straight to the media pen.

Unless you caught up to him first.

—

You spotted him just as he rounded a corner in the motorhome, stepping out in front of him before he could disappear any further into the hallway.

“Osc,” you called out, gently.

He didn’t stop walking.

“Oscar.”

Still nothing.

You reached out and caught his wrist, not roughly but just enough to stop him. His eyes flicked to you instantly, and for the briefest second you swore you saw it — all of it. The barely-contained rage, the hurt he hadn’t said out loud, the heat bubbling just under the surface waiting for somewhere to go.

“What?” he said flatly.

You stared at him. He looked wired. He looked like he hadn’t come down from the adrenaline, like his body was still going at two hundred miles an hour and he didn't know how to stop. His hair were damp and curling around his ears, his fireproofs half-zipped, the podium cap lopsided from where he’d pushed it back.

“I just wanted to check in on you before you went into the media circus,” you said, dropping his hand now that his attention was on you.

“I’m fine.”

You blinked.

Bullshit.

“No, you’re not.”

His jaw twitched. “What do you want me to say? That I’m fucking furious? That I want to put my fist through a wall? That I’ve never wanted to walk off a podium in my life until today?”

He stepped closer. The crowd noise behind you felt a million miles away. The anger in his eyes didn’t scare you, because you knew that it wasn’t aimed at you, like blunt force with nowhere to land. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with it, with himself, with this.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” you said, quietly. “I just need you to stop before you go out there and say something you regret.”

His breath hitched. He blinked once, hard. Then looked away. His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted something to grab. Or hit. Or hold onto before he lost control.

“Just—fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I need to get out of here. I can’t fucking breathe.”

You nodded. “Go, I'm right behind you.”

—

He didn’t say a word to you as he walked. Didn’t look back at you. Didn’t slow down.

He just moved, long, purposeful strides through the motorhome, shoulders squared like he was still fighting off the weight of the last fifty-two laps.

People tried to stop him, their hands outstretched, a few pats on the back.

Great drive, mate!

Podium again, what a race!

You and Lando, that was—

He didn’t respond, offering a nod as he ushered past.

You followed in his wake, trying to smile at the people that he dismissed so passively. You knew that none of them would take it personally, but the look of surprise on their faces told you enough.

The moment the door to his driver room shut behind you both, the sound of celebration disappeared so suddenly it made the atmosphere between you tense.

Oscar stood in the middle of the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He ripped the podium cap off his head and threw it hard, like it disgusted him to still be wearing it. It hit the sofa and bounced to the floor.

You watched him from the doorway.

“I know what you're going to say,” he said, voice low and restrained, like he was swallowing every word he wanted to yell. “I don't want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” you replied softly.

Finally, he turned. His eyes met yours for the first time since entering the room and they stayed. No emotion but the unfiltered frustration, bleeding out from behind the restraint.

And then, with barely any warning, he walked toward you. Every step heavy, deliberate. You didn’t dare move.

When he reached you, he didn’t kiss you. He just pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. His hands came to your hips, fingers curling in the fabric of your clothes like he needed something to hold on to.

“I should’ve fucking won.”

You nodded, taking his face into your hands. “I know.”

You felt his jaw clench, his grip on you tightening. He wasn’t really looking at you anymore but just past you, over your shoulder, into the space behind your head like he didn’t trust himself to meet your eyes.

“You need to take a second,” you whispered.

“I’ve had enough seconds,” he said, almost growling through gritted teeth. “Ten too many, apparently.”

His breath caught, just barely. Then his mouth crashed down onto yours, taking your breath instead.

There was no patience in it. Just teeth, heat, and pressure. His mouth slanted against yours, needing to feel something other than failure. His hands were already tugging at your clothes, needing to feel your bare skin, quickly.

When your shirt came off, he didn’t look down. He just pushed you back until you hit the wall, his hips pressing into yours. You felt the tension radiating off him, untamed compared to his usual calm, his wet mouth trailing down your jaw.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” he muttered, voice rough against your neck.

“I know.”

“I’m still so fucking furious.”

“You really think standing here, talking, is gonna fix it?”

His throat made a low, rumbling sound and he kissed you again, messier this time, one hand braced above your head and the other sliding down the curve of your back.

“I need you quiet,” he panted. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded frantically, already fighting the urge to whimper.

“Good.”

His hand slipped between you, his fingers dragging across your waistband finding the button and undoing it fast. He didn’t bother undressing you completely, he didn’t need to; he just pushed your trousers and underwear down to your knees, then backed off just long enough to tug his own fireproofs down and free his aching cock.

As he closed in on you, his palm came to your face, tilting your head just slightly so your mouth was close to his again. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, and he just looked at you for a second— really looked.

And then he pushed into you all at once, keeping his eyes trained on yours the entire time. You choked on a breath, hands clawing at his shoulders.

He held still, forehead pressed to yours, letting you adjust. Barely.

And then he began to move, every thrust purposeful, like he was trying to bury the race in you — the mistake, the penalty, the interviews, the humiliation.

Your back hit the door with a thud in rhythm with his hips. You could barely control yourself, nails dragging down his back as he hissed at the contact.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, twisting your nipple in between his fingers. Not possessive, but needy. “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Oscar, please—”

He cursed under his breath and snapped his hips harder, hitting a new angle that was making you see stars. You swore your knees would buckle any second.

His hand slid to your throat, just holding it as he kissed you again, swallowing the broken sound that escaped your mouth.

“This—” he slammed into you sharply, “—this is mine. They can take whatever they want, but they're not taking this from me.”

You whimpered again, well aware that you were getting loud but you couldn't stop.

Your body was on fire, every nerve tingling. It was deliciously rough, never cruel. His hips meeting yours at a brutal pace, teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure.

When your hand slid down between you, he caught your wrist just before your fingers reached the place you needed him the most.

“Don't,” he muttered, voice harsh, almost ragged.

You blinked at him, breathless, frustration coursing through your veins, but he didn’t let go. He brought your wrist up, pinned it against the wall beside your head, and moved his hips with more force. The angle shifted again, deeper this time, and your mouth dropped open with a quiet gasp.

“Is my cock not good enough for you?” he said, quieter now, his mouth right next to your ear. “It fucking will be.”

You weren’t sure if you were being promised or threatened, but you liked it.

He kept up the pace, grunting as he fucked you in earnest, dragging you closer and closer to the precipice until your whole body was shaking against him.

Your free hand struggled for grip on his shoulder, his breath hot on your neck, intensifying everything ten fold. His grip on your wrist was unrelenting no matter how much you pushed against it.

“You’re gonna cum like this,” he said confidently, biting and pulling at your earlobe.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. You just nodded, helpless, head falling back against the wall as your body started to spiral.

“I can feel it,” he growled, hips slamming upward, his pace sloppy and all over the place now, chasing his own high at the same time as yours. “Need to feel you cum on my cock.”

He was right. Every part of you was strung so tight it felt like your bones were vibrating.

Then he reached between you anyway, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit, not gentle at all.

You shattered.

You were blinded by euphoria, a hard, earth -quaking orgasm that stole the air from your lungs, made your whole body clench around his thick cock still thrusting inside you, made your legs shake where they were wrapped tightly around his waist.

You cried out, his name falling from your lips over and over as he swore under his breath, covering your mouth with his hand.

“Shit. Fuck—fuck—”

He drove into you once, twice, then exploded deep inside your cunt, feeling his cock pulse as he painted your insides with his cum. His hand hit the wall beside your head, holding himself upright, the other still bracing your wrist as he panted against your throat.

You stayed like that for a second— the only sound in the room your breath and his, still ragged, still uneven. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you felt the tremor still running through his body. Though you didn't know if that was actually your own trembling.

He didn’t say anything.

He winced as he pulled out, glancing at you as he dragged a towel from the side unit and wiped quickly at his face and neck, then passed it to you without a word. He stepped back and tugged his fireproofs back up with unsteady fingers.

You stayed put leaning against the wall, not having the courage to see if your legs worked just yet.

He grabbed the cap he’d thrown earlier and stood there, hands on his hips as he turned to look at you.

“I have to go,” he muttered, adjusting the cap like it would hide his disheveledness. It didn't.

You nodded.

At the door, he paused for a second. His hand hovered at the handle. Then he glanced back at you, eyes darker now. There was something different about him. Still taut, but less... volatile, like he’d finally burned through whatever was sitting under his skin.

His mouth opened, his breathing still faster than usual. You thought he might say something.

But he just offered you a nod and a tight-lipped something, before turning and leaving you half undressed, the evidence of his actions still dripping down your thighs.

click here for my other works !¡

tags <3 @piastrislocss @dolcecherub

[lygerastia]

2. Complicated (John Marston)

You've been in a relationship with John for God knows how long, enjoying a lustful (and romantic) love that not many from the camp knew of. Of course, this meant keeping it a secret from Abigail too. The problem is, John never cut it completely with Abigail. Can you pretend for much longer or will Marston finally make a choice between you two?

Warnings: cheating, strong language, NSFW, slight!violence. 

Words: 3.371

READ IT ON AO3

***

"Ah—hah. Mmm…"

Midnight. With everyone asleep, it was the perfect time for illicit behavior. Who hides in the bushes? No one in the camp could guess. After a successful day of robbing and partying, the last thing on the gang's mind was what happened after they all fell asleep. Everyone in the camp came together to celebrate, drinking all their sorrows away and singing their hearts out. Happy. Complete—for a brief moment. They didn't care about each other's secrets. For now, it was oddly quiet—

Except —

"AH!"

"Keep it down, girl."

"I—I can't, John…"

The answer to the question is simple: hiding a few feet away from the camp, into the forest, were John Marston and you. An outlaw and a drifter who found refuge among other people like her, running from an otherwise cruel fate. Here, you found yourselves irresistibly drawn to one another behind everyone's backs. It started innocently enough, as friends who teased one another constantly. The secretive looks between the two of you, done in secret (or so you thought), were full of meaning. The attraction was there, and one day, you took it too far. Being drunk was not an excuse, but the fact that you were sent alone on a mission, far away from the others, was the perfect opportunity to let desires loose. It started with a kiss, sex—

And more sex—

"You like to call my name, don't you?" The rugged dark-haired man whispered in your ear, making you shiver. "But you have to keep quiet, baby. You don't want them fellas to hear your sweet voice, now do you?"

You didn't, but at the same time, it had a certain appeal. How many times have you told John to come out clean to everyone? Most of them weren't stupid and gave you two looks varying from amusement to disapproval. Even Mrs. Grimshaw took you aside once to scold you; as if any of this was your fault. When you joined the gang, your first plan wasn't to bed the available men, especially not one with a child. It just happened naturally. Can't someone fall in love, no matter what? But people judged anyway, especially when a man was with a kid by another woman who wanted more out of the father: a more active role in the child's life.

Still, that didn't stop you from pursuing this forbidden romance further. Right now, it didn't stop your drunk minds from finding each other, rutting like animals in the shadows. Him deep into you, grunting into your ear while you bit your lip harshly in order not to let loose the profanities that usually came out of your mouth. It was too good to let go, even if you felt guilty whenever you made eye contact with Abigail; she could smell the unfaithfulness, the stench of another woman trying to take what was hers to begin with. To make matters worse, Jack seemed to love you, and it didn't take him long to call you endearing names that melted your heart.

'That's unfair!'  you sometimes wanted to cry; because they all knew John and Abigail—they weren't gonna work together. They fought too much, too often, and John, although he adored little Jack, wasn't very interested in having a family. He was there for them both and would always help them, but there was nothing there. Or so John told you countless times when you got so frustrated by the situation that you demanded him to  choose.

'In due time, I'm still trying to piece my life back together,'  he usually told you, sweetening his words with a kiss and an embrace. You were putty in his hands, and you couldn't tell him 'no.' You were in love, and he  did  say that he'll choose you in the end. 'There's  some things me and Abigail need to figure out first.'

But months passed before anything happened in this direction; and you were getting tired of the gossip behind your back. Abigail was somewhat hostile towards you, making you cry every time she insulted you. Little barbs here and there about how you cook or ride a horse that seems playful at first; but you knew better. You told John all this, but he did nothing about it. He said to ignore her since he'll talk with her, but he never did. So, all you did was avoid contact; and, at the same time, stayed away from John. You guys were too obvious. Maybe it was time for something different.

However, you couldn't deny him altogether. You needed him like air. You accepted his embrace, his loving kisses—and the way he knew where to touch you. You loved this man, oh so much, and it was a pity he was making you suffer so much.

"Ah—I'm close, John," you whisper, feeling his cock hit the right spot rhythmically. He always knew how to fuck you, so it was no wonder he made you orgasm so quickly. He enjoyed hearing you like it, too; he usually got more into it when you yelled his name. Told him how well he   fucked  you—and that you wanted  more.

"Shit, woman," he grunted as he picked up the pace, faster and more erratic. Your moans were honey to his ears, and you felt the pleasure riding up your spine, closer and closer, until—

"Dammit."  

You curse in unison, both coming at the same time. John quickly pulled out, spreading his semen all over your bareback. You accepted it like a good girl, just like he wanted you to be. Obedient, yet rebellious enough to make him interested. It was a game you played that was satisfying for both.

"That was good," John mutters, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt. You were still too stunned and dizzy to move, resting your hands on the tree trunk. It took you a few seconds to recover from feeling so damn dirty, but when you were done, the cum dry, you simply pulled down your long skirt. When you (rarely) went on a mission, you adopted the pants, but you preferred to entice John somehow when in camp.

It worked 99% of the time.

"I'm glad you liked it," you breathed out dreamily, turning to face him. This handsome man you wanted just for yourself, with his scars and long, greasy black hair—what was there not to love? Still, tonight was not the night for forgiveness. A wave of melancholy washed over you as you examined him, wearing that foolish grin of his.

"No kiss today, hun?" he asks, stepping a little closer to you, seductively grabbing your chin. His eyes—and drunkenness—promised a round two later; but from your point of view, there will be no seconds. You were tired, deep despair settling in your bones. You loved this man to death; there wasn't anything you'd not do to keep him safe—but you felt as if he wouldn't do the same to you. Why should she pursue such a relationship if the feeling is not mutual? There were decent men out there, even if Sadie did not believe that. Only her husband was decent—but you wanted a decent husband too. Was that too much to ask for? Was it just that foolish of a dream?

It seemed so. A long time ago, your mother taught you never to fall in love. But you did it anyway, and it wasn't working out the way you wanted to. You wanted to cry about your miserable fate, to be second in one's choice, but you were strong enough not to do that. Not in front of John.

“Hey, [name]?” John inquires softly, tilting your head up so you could look at him. You keep his gaze, now slightly more sober and worried. For a moment, it fools you into thinking he cared for you, but you knew that wasn't true. "You ok?"

You shrugged, the cold of the night seeping through your skin, "Just tired is all."

"Did Mrs. Grimshaw put you to work again?"

"Nah, it's not that." Was this the right time to tell him that—that it might as well be over? "I'm just tired of...of   us."  

"Wh—What?" he stumbled upon his words, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You'll go back to her, won't you?" you accuse, without remorse and being mean about it. You still respected him for who he was, regardless of his awkward way of treating the two women in his life. Abigail wasn't faring any better in this battle, and it made it even worse that she had a child with the man she loved. And you knew how hard it must be for John himself to make this decision; this whole situation got  complicated  because of HIM.

And still, you couldn't blame him. You were an outsider, after all.

"It's complicated, sweetheart," he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You accepted the gesture, but a part of you wanted to rebel, to push him away from you. "You know I have to take care of Jack and—"

"I know, John, but it doesn't make it easier." Unfortunately, tears started rolling down your cheeks, invisible to John's eye. "When I think that you're there with her, touching her, kissing her, doing all these things you do with me—" you shake your head and can't go on.

"I'm going to fix this, I promise. You just have to be more patient."

An incredulous laugh escaped your lips, almost sarcastically. "You promised before, John, and nothing changed."

"What's gotten into you tonight?"

"I'm tired of waiting." You grabbed his face, making him look at you. "I want you. And I want you only to be mine. But you—" you let him go, just like the hope of ever being his. "You want the best of both worlds, John Marston, but you can't have it. It's me—or her."

When he doesn't respond, at a loss, you push past him, "I'm done."

John doesn't try to stop you, and you go to your tent, away from his prying eyes. You go and cry yourself to sleep, heartbroken. Tomorrow will be a better day, hopefully, one that will answer all your questions. It will give you an answer to what you should do and how you should handle this better. You gave John all you had—now it was his turn to repay the favor.

**

You barely got a cup of warm coffee in your hand when someone yelled out your name. You almost dropped the hot beverage as you turned to face the one that called you. It was none other than Abigail, and your heart leaped involuntarily. The woman was  fuming.  What did you do, aside from fucking his lover last night while she was sleeping? You panic, thinking that this was it; the charade was over.

And indeed it was.

"You!  Whore !" Abigail snarls, coming up to your face and pushing you slightly. "Why are you sleeping with my man?"

You managed to spat out a bit weakly, "I am not—"

"Yes, you are!" she was attracting everyone's attention, and your cheeks flamed red.  Where was John? Why wasn't he here to stop this nonsense? " John told me everything last night. How you seduced him from his child and me! Do you have any soul? How could you do that?"

"He came to me!" you protested, although it wasn't entirely the truth. You both came unto each other. That didn't change the fact that you ruined somebody's life. Which you felt guilty about, for sure, but it was John's choice as much as yours.

"Don't you lie, harlot!"

Abigail grabbed your wrist and held it tight. You struggled a little bit trying to escape, but she wasn't letting you go.

"Stop it!"

"Stay away from 'im, you hear?" she shakes you like a doll. "He's going to choose my son and me, and you can't come in between! Find someone else to—to   fornicate  with."

"Let me go!"  

She does, and you rub your wrist, wincing. The anger was boiling inside you, but you didn't want to lash out. It wasn't fair to feel this way, but you did want to protect your man anyway, even if he was guilty of double-crossing.

But—

"Stay AWAY!"

"It's not my fault he chose me, Abigail," you say before you can stop yourself. You wanted to take the words back, but you were angry and hurt, and you were tired of this shit. You wanted to get back at her—and you did, judging by her expression.

"You bitch!"

Abigail's palm connected harshly with your cheek, making your head jerk to the side. You stood there, amazed, until you saw her move in again; this time, with a punch. Before you could protect yourself from the incoming harm, someone—Mrs. Grimshaw—caught Abigail's hair and pulled her back. She yelped, but you couldn't see anything anymore. A body blocked you from harm: Arthur Morgan.

"Y'all right, Miss [name]?" he whispered in his gruff voice, and you nodded, seething. How you wanted to scratch Abigail's face off for doing this to you—your blood was boiling, and you wanted to fight her. But the shame and bitterness were stronger. Tears stung your eyes; why was this happening to you?

You wanted to run away.

"What did you do that for?" Mrs. Grimshaw yelled in the background.

"She stole John! Everybody knows it!"

"Have you ever thought that maybe it was your man that went wrong here?" Abigail says nothing. "I don't want no fighting here."

"But—"

"Go back to your son and stop embarrassing yourself." You heard footsteps, and you almost sighed in relief; until you saw Mrs. Grimshaw coming to you, thunder and lightning. "And you—put your head in order. You only cause trouble. Next time I won't be so forgiving."

You could only nod in shame, tears spilling down your cheeks—again. You felt like running away from here, from these people you called family. All you did was fuck things up, but you still wanted to stay here. There was nowhere else to go.

"C'mon," Arthur takes you gently by the shoulder and guides you farther from the camp, away from prying eyes. "Let's get you outta here." You don't go far, just down by the river's bank, sitting on a log carefully placed there. It was relatively secluded, as much as it could be, but at least no one was going to bother them. You both sit down on the log, and you cry without caring that Arthur was there. The man lights a cigarette and smokes in silence—not asking any questions. You like that about Arthur. Always there for everyone yet acting like he doesn't care. But he did.

He always did.

"What should I do, Mr. Morgan?" you ask, sniffling. "I love John, but he…" You shrug, helpless. "It's like he doesn't care. He hurts both of us, yet he chooses neither. I don't know what to do anymore, and I—I can't take it."

Arthur shakes his head as if he's helpless. In this situation, what could he do?

"Well, all I know Marston's an idiot for doing this. I'd punch his scarred face in if I see 'im." You can't help but laugh at that; Arthur was such a sweetie. Why didn't you fall for him? It would've been so easy—he had other things to worry about, he would've never played you like a fiddle.

"Yeah, but it is wrong that I still love him?"

Arthur shrugs, "Love—I'm no expert. It's complicated to understand. But if this hurts you, you should stop." That made you sad, but you listened to him anyway. "There's nothing shameful in letting go. You can love someone from afar. I know I do."

"Oh, Arthur," you sigh. "I wish I'd loved you."

That makes the man laugh, and you along with him. You were friends, but sometimes, maybe Arthur was a way better pick. Slowly, the grumpy cowboy puts an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer to his body. You rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes for a few seconds to let your tears dry. It was peaceful—and the sting in your cheek didn't hurt as much. Abigail's words were getting further away from your mind; why should you listen to that woman? Your love for John was strong; it can surpass everything. So, why should you care?

"[name]!"

It didn't surprise you to hear John's voice calling your name. You had faith that he would come to get you. No matter if it was bad or good news, you straightened up, backing away slightly from Arthur. You weren't ashamed to show affection to another man, especially not Arthur. If John gets jealous, realizes how easily he could lose her to others, maybe things will change. All for the better.

"What are you doing here?" the man asks, clearing his throat awkwardly. He was probably trying to decide what the hell was going on here, but you were going to offer no comfort. "Are you ok? I heard what happened—"

"And now you came to what?" Arthur, having kept quiet until now, stood up from his spot and faced the other man. They measured each other, each trying to protect a woman they held dear. You stood, not daring to intervene. Not because you couldn't, but because John needed to understand one thing clearly: he could quickly lose you.

"I came to—" But John stopped, almost at a loss for words. You waited with bated breath for his answer; he wasn't going to choose you. He straightened, lifting his chin to gaze at Arthur without being afraid of a punch, "I came to take her back."

You could breathe again, a veil lifting from your head and clearing everything. Arthur continued to stare at his partner, glaring—then backing down. Not because he was afraid, but because he saw something he liked in Marston's eyes. But then he approached John's face, shoving a finger to his nose, threatening. "If you don't take care of her, you'd better not show your face in this camp again. And I don't care how long you've been with us."

Turning away from the man, he took one long glance at you, seeing if you were alright. You nodded, grateful for his intervention. He truly was a good friend. He grabs the back of your head and brings it closer to your lips. You see, in the corner of your eyes, John starts to move, but he needn't be afraid. Arthur kissed you on the forehead—a slight caress that held his parental affection. You appreciated it and watched him go away, leaving you and John alone.

Silence. You looked into his eyes while he stared back into yours, afraid to make the first move. But you were patient. You weren't going to bridge the path between you—your door was already open. John has to take the last leap towards a complete relationship. And he did. Took the first step towards you, not warily, but surely. He grabs your hand and slowly places kisses on them, reverently.

“I’m sorry, [name]. Sorry for keeping you waiting. And sorry for—" he caresses your bruised cheek with a calloused palm. "—for Abigail. I shouldn't have let her go this far."

You lean into the touch, closing your eyes. Finally, you felt at peace. Finally, you had him. You won. While it was a bittersweet victory, it made you happy. Abigail will hate you even more now, and Jack—what will happen to him? You don't want to come between them. You never will. But you and John—that was another story.

"It's ok," you whisper back. "We can start over."

His hands cup your face lovingly; his gaze melted your heart. You could feel the love there, the regret of pushing you away. But you didn't care. He wasn't going to push you away anymore. And he promised that with a long and passionate kiss.

A kiss that promised forever.

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

1. Introduction (Takamaki Ann)

You're a model that just got the best gig: working with the famous Ann Takamaki! You didn't know what to expect; certainly not love at first sight. And she might be interested in you too.

Warnings: none

Chapters: 1 [completed] 

Words: 1536

READ IT ON AO3

***

You step on the set as confident as you could. Never mind that your nerves were high, your heart beating fast in your chest, palms sweaty. This was your first model job, and you were afraid you’re going to screw things up—despite all the training you went through to get here. It has been a painful and frustrating journey, but finally, you’ve been accepted in the big leagues. Today, you had a photoshoot with a   huge  fan favorite, so the stakes were high. One wrong move and you’ll be the laugh of everyone. You didnțt want to give a wrong impression to your coworker, the famous blonde superstar. You knew  of  her, even followed her on social media (she didn’t follow back). She looked gorgeous in the pictures, some showing delicious skin and others putting her in an innocent light. You could understand why she had a cult worshipping her; she was a natural at modeling.

You usually don’t care what people think, but you care what your partner will feel when she meets you. Which should happen soon if you decided to move out of the way. People were starting to stare at you, standing secluded in front of the exit.

You took a deep breath—

“[name]!” the voice scared the hell out of you, and you were embarrassed that you jumped a little at that. You turned towards the person that called you and then let out a sigh of relief. It was your manager, Tanaka-san, even if she looked rather annoyed. “I told you not to be late!”

“I’m sorry, I—” you steady your nerves; Tanaka-san was your friend, and she  liked  you. It said a lot judging by the fact that she disliked everyone else. But she seems interested in you as a person. She’s not here just for the money. “I wanted to calm down before the big meet.” You put on your best charming smile, which earned a huff from the fussy old lady.

She crossed her arms over her chest, “Alright. Let’s say I forgive you—”

“Thank you, Mi—”

“But—” she stops you with a hand; never use her real name when others are around, “—you have to get it together. We rehearsed this before.” Tanaka-san put her hands on your shoulder, squeezing them motherly. Her gaze softened. If someone saw her, they might say she was possessed. But this was your  real  manager. And you were grateful for having her here. “You can do this.”

You nod, “Yeah. Let’s go.”

She quickly adopts her professional persona again and signals for you to follow her. You walk with her into the set, where people are flocking around  someone.   You assumed it was your beautiful partner. The scene today was a beach:   go figure.   Of course, they wanted to show off your colleague’s body  again —what leeches. Then again, this meant that you had to be exposed too. You wished that your first job would be more professional, but what can you do? Just endure and move on. Something better will surely come sooner or later, especially if you do a good job.

Tanaka-san doesn’t hesitate to push through the crowd, packing elbows left and right. You follow her, muttering apologies with a smile. You finally reach the one you were trying to meet, and for a few precious moments, time seemed to stop.

Because you’ve never seen anything like her before. She was gorgeous in pictures, but she was even more rapturing in real life. Your heart seized, and your breath halted, staring at her beauty. That long and wavy blonde hair, so natural and unusual in Japan. That flawless face with perfect skin, those lips painted with an innocent rose tint, and those eyes… You could get lost in them for an eternity. As bright and blue as the summer ocean. You barely even gave attention to her body, which was a favorite among her fans; but you could see why everyone was going crazy. She was slender and curved in all the right places, her long legs so enticing. She was just  perfect , the proportions just right.

Simply enchanting.

“Close your mouth, you fool,” Tanaka-san chastises you with a whisper, and you wake up from your reverie. This was no good; if you got this distracted by her, you wouldn’t be able to get  anywhere.  You won’t be considered a professional, and that was a big no-no. ‘Focus, [name]!’ you shook your head just as Tanaka-san opened her mouth, “Excuse me!” Everyone turned around to watch her, even the blonde beauty. You tried to hide behind your agent, afraid to say or do something wrong in front of your partner. But Tanaka-san was sharp; she elbowed you hard in the stomach, and you took the cue to come up with a huge smile (and hopefully charming) on your face.

“Hello, everyone,” you say in your most persuasive voice, just like Tanaka taught you. It was always good to be polite and friendly.

“This is [name], here to be your model,” the old woman says, smiling widely. Another agent, a male this time, approached Tanaka and shook her head respectfully. A surge of pride went through you, knowing that your agent was talented and respected in the modeling world.

“Welcome, welcome,” the other agent shook both of your hands, bowing. “It’s so good to meet you. Here,” he invited you over, “let me introduce you to our star.”

This is it.   Despite yourself, you gulp nervously. This was the moment that will change your life. The male agent guides you towards your partner, and,   finally , your eyes meet. A spark went through your body, and you saw on her face that she felt it too. The undeniable attraction was there, and it caused butterflies in your stomach, the old cliche syndrome.

And she—

“This is Takamaki Ann,” her agent introduces her.

Then, just the two of you were left. Neither seemed to make a move; a surprised expression painted on her face. Her pink lips parted as she checked you out, just like you did earlier. You felt your cheeks redden at the attention, but you also wanted to show her the best in you. She was already splendid and you—you were magnificent in your own way, but compared to her, you paled. Ann—her name  oh, so sweet  —was like the sun.

“I—” she finally moves to speak, but it was unbecoming to let her do it first.

You jumped in eagerly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Takamaki-san.” Thoughts ran inside your head about what you should do now. Should you take her hand and shake it or not? The decision was made by the blonde herself, taking the first step in meeting you halfway. She was also unsure whether to shake your hand or not, but the temptation was irresistible. She extended her hand at the same time you did, and your palms met. Hers was warm and smooth, yours cold and sweaty. But, at that moment, it did not matter. You’ve connected, and it was a wonderful experience.

Ann smiles brightly, cheeks tinting pink, “Likewise. It’s nice to meet you, [name].” She let go of your hand, and you felt longing. You did not doubt in your mind that Ann was your soulmate, but it embarrassed you to think that. You felt like you were exaggerating, but this was something you’ve never felt before.

You sigh dreamily, “Looking forward to working with you.”

The blonde model wants to say so much more, her blue eyes sparkling with an unknown sentiment; you felt your heart leaping in joy. “I am sure we’re going to have a lot of fun!” she adds, giggling cutely while twirling a strand of her hair flirtatiously. But before you can go ahead and say something stupid (like ask her out all of a sudden), someone else captures her attention. She turns around, but not before she waves at you, a gesture that  promised  a lot.

After she was gone, you stared after her like a fool; but you knew for sure that you were done. Irreversibly, you were  in love.

**

After so much time, she was your  introduction  to everything. And you were glad that she was there for the ride. Your first secret kiss behind the stage, when the emotions before a big show got too high. Your first time in your new apartment after you moved together. Ann stayed by your side no matter what—and you wouldn’t trade her for anyone else.

“I love you,” she whispers on your lips, and you laugh sweetly. You embrace her tightly, picking her up and twirling her around. Years have passed since you first met—and now, at the peak of your careers, you both felt happy. She giggled happily and, as you put her down, the blonde girl kissed you passionately. You’ve been through a lot, through adventures, but you overcame everything. As you stared into her blue eyes, you knew you made the right decision in asking her out.

It has been a cliche, the idea of soulmates, but it worked out in the end. So you leaned into her, your heart singing:

“Love you too.”

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

12. Dead Wrong (Connor Kenway

Connor works at a bakery alongside his flirtatious colleague, Ezio. There, he meets the most beautiful girl in his life: you. And he might think there is something mutual between you two.

Warnings: none

Chapters: 1 [complete]

Words: 1705

READ IT ON AO3

***

“There she is again!” a not-so-subtle squeak escapes the gentle giant as he panics.

Ezio—his Italian coworker—rolls his eyes and doesn’t even bother to lift his gaze from the dough he was kneading. Connor, having dropped the rag from his hands when his stare landed on a familiar female figure, recomposes himself by grabbing his partner’s shoulder. The Italian does not appreciate being interrupted and shaken like a tree; he pulls a face, hands sticky as he throws them in the air. Connor releases him when Ezio starts attacking his face with dough in an attempt to make him go away.

“Oh, she’s staring…” Connor mutters, wringing his hands nervously.

In this situation, he couldn’t focus on work anymore. Luckily for him, it was almost the end of his shift and the boss wasn’t around to yell at him for doing something else besides cleaning. He was almost ready anyway. Today, he hurried with all of his tasks just so he can be ready for the encounter.

The woman behind the glass outside looks inside, deep in thought. She seems to be looking for something—and Connor has a very good idea that she wasn’t here to window shop for sweets.

She was here to shop for him.

He squeaks in surprise when her eyes make eye contact with him and she smiles affectionately. His heart leaps, pulse quickening—and he fights hard to control his blush. He wants to hide but at the same time, he wants her to see him, to give her a signal.

What he was most bitter about was his reaction; he acted ridiculous when it came to having crushes.

The Italian notices and stops what he’s doing. “Amico, what’s wrong with you?” Ezio finally sighs, knowing that the giant boy won’t stop fidgeting until someone talks to him.

And it was understandable—Ezio is the Cassanova here. He pulls all the moves to capture beautiful girls’ hearts, so it was logical that his junior will come to him for advice. And who was her to refuse him when he had love troubles?

Connor turns to him, pointing at the girl outside. “She’s back! Every day, at the same hour, she passes the shop.”

Ezio glances at her while washing his hands. “She’s pretty. You made a good choice, Connor.” This was high praise coming from the older man. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”

“I—” he stops, gulping. “Well, that’s—that’s not the problem.” The Italian man waits for Connor to continue. “She’s the one that should approach me!”

Ezio’s eyebrow shoots upwards, “In what universe?”

Crossing his arms defensively, Connor explains, “She’s the one that comes in and—and eyes me as if I am a piece of candy.”

Ezio scoffs, “Do you mind it?”

Connor’s cheeks color, averting his gaze. “No,” he mutters.

“Maybe she’s shy.”

“I am the shy one here,” Connor plays with his apron, looking over the colorful sweets in the window. “Man, she’s so beautiful…”

The girl is still there, staring at a specific point, still thinking if she should take action or not. In this moment, Connor wishes she’d just be courageous enough to take her shot and enter the bakery. He’s here waiting; surely she could see how interested he was. There was no way she didn’t pick up the signs. He just wished she’d come inside, buy something, and he’ll take it from there. He knew what to say, something along the lines of: ‘You come here often, cutie?’

He mentally cringed; Ezio was rubbing off on him in the wrong way. It worked for the Italian, but it surely didn’t suit Connor. Ezio was charming while the other man was just awkward. Maybe what the kids would call ‘cringe’. His mother always said he was a sweetheart and that that’s going to make the girls flocking to him.

Sometimes he thinks that his mother was a good liar. Or he was just horribly oblivious.

Meanwhile, the Italian was assessing the situation with an expert eye, gazing from the boy to the girl. And then—it all clicked. What was going on was just a big misunderstanding. It didn’t make it any less funny—that’s why he started to chuckle. Connor looked at him, slightly annoyed that he wasn’t taking him seriously enough. He knew he was being ridiculous, but still—

When Ezio started laughing, it was even worse.

“What is it?” he finally asks, huffing indignantly.

“This is precious!” the Italian continues to guffaw at Connor’s predicament, getting louder and louder. “You are dead wrong, my friend.” Ezio pats the baker on the shoulders, making him more and more annoyed.

Suddenly, Connor pushes him away, growling, “Alright, alright, you made your point.” Ezio wipes a few tears off the corner of his eyes, then struggles to catch his breath. “Now tell me, why am I wrong?”

“You do realize—” another bout of chuckles, fueling Connor’s impatience. “—that you can’t see inside, right?”

Connor blinked, taking a few seconds to process this information.

“The windows—you can only see the displays. Not inside.”

“...”

Connor’s mouth opened wide as it finally clicked.

“No way.”

His face reddened like a tomato and he couldn’t help but cover his ashamed face with his hands.

“Do you get it now?”

“Why did you let me make a fool of myself?”

“I just realized, my friend.” Ezio put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, reassuringly. “Look at it this way: at least she doesn’t know.”

Connor groaned, wanting to just melt on the spot and vanish. How could he be such a fool? It was so obvious; the owner even explained that to him on his first day. But did he pay attention? No—he was probably too excited he got the job to actually listen. That was Connor for you; always thinking ahead and wanting to become a chef as soon as possible. His mother needed the money, and he wanted to make her proud.

This encounter between him and the girl has been imaginary. Connor dived into this delusion head-first and now he was suffering the consequences. He got a crush—just like that—and it proved to be useless.

A wave of dejection hit him. The only solution is to go to her by himself. Like Ezio suggested in the first place.

“Cheer up!” Ezio tried again—but Connor only wanted to go home and drown in some chips. A few more minutes and he’ll go back home. The entrance bell suddenly chimed, but Connor was too down to answer. Ezio sympathized and took over. “Hello and welcome to— Oh .” The Italian man stopped and looked at the person he was serving: the one and only her.

“Ciao, bella. ”

He knew she was off-limits, so he nudged Connor in the ribs to catch his attention. Connor still didn’t lift his head, but sighed. “Can you take—”

“My coworker, CONNOR , here will take care of you, I have to go into the back room for a second!” Before Connor could stop him and figure out the words, Ezio was gone out the back. The boy, annoyed and sad at the same time, knew he had no choice but to serve.

What the hell?

He stood at the counter, finally lifting his gaze to greet the customer.

“How may I—” he stopped, gasping. He couldn’t believe his luck; one minute he was in the pits of despair, the other on the heights of happiness. But he recovers quickly when he sees her shy smile, eyes glittering, and cheeks red. She was toying with a strand of her hair, twirling it between her fingers. Was she as shy as he was? Oh Lord, was he actually right? Did she come here to see him?

Connor clears his throat, tries to make this work, “How may I help you?”

“Well, uhh, can I have a piece of that cake?” she points to the display, at the blue and white cake that was a hit with their shop.

“You want the cake.” Connor can’t help himself; it slips out before he could control it, only making her cock her head to the side, confused. “Of course, right away.” The big huggable boy makes himself busy, taking out a box and cutting a generous size of the cake the beautiful girl wanted. Her eyes were following his movements with interest and, even if it made him nervous, he did his best to make it look as pretty as her. He even topped the box with a red ribbon; if Connor had Ezio’s level of flirtatiousness, he’d shove a card with his number underneath.

But he wasn’t that smooth. All he could do was pine for her and wait for a miracle.

“That would be 7$,” he tells her and she hands him her card. “Alright.” He processes the payment and hands her card back; that’s when he notices a business card hidden underneath. His heart seizes and he blushes to his ears as he sees a name and a phone number written on it. NO WAY! Connor glances at her and sees her smiling brightly.

The only words she says to him as he hands her the cake box in a haze are these: “I’ll be waiting.”

And then, before Connor can say anything to her back, she’s gone, probably embarrassed. He’s standing there dumbfounded, staring at the card and at the name etched on it in beautiful calligraphy. Damn, even her name was pleasant. He repeats it under his breath, like a mantra. Will he have the courage to call her and ask her out on a date? Maybe it was a prank or she was standing in for another person.

He shakes his head; overthinking was not going to do any good.

“So, amico , how did it go?” Ezio comes from behind as if he didn’t just ditch his friend. He peers past his shoulder at the card in his hand and lets out a whistle. “Nice job! You’d better call her.”

Connor turned to look at him and, with a deadpan expression, said: “I want you to teach me everything you know about dates.”

Ezio’s grin was huge and mischievous.

“With pleasure.”

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

3. Making History - Ezio Auditore

It's time for you to join the Brotherhood with your first kill, hoping to impress your master, Ezio Auditore.

Warnings: slight!violence; rape attempt. 

Chapters: 1 [complete]

Words: 5,799

READ IT ON AO3.

***

She lands without a sound, perfectly. A wave of pride engulfs her, but she knows she shouldn’t dwell on that. Days and weeks and months of arduous training—all culminated at this moment. 

The time has come for her to prove her worth; and take her place in the Brotherhood. Prowling the rooftops, blending with the shadows, she approaches her target: a middle-aged wine trader that used his money to take advantage of young women. He was the lowest kind of filth, a degenerate that needed to be eliminated off the Earth. It was hard to witness his atrocities, but the Master said she had to watch, to remember later why she was doing this. To leave regrets behind as she took his life—was she even capable of murder? 

Today, she’ll find out. 

Even if she excels at combat, stalking, and all it means to be an assassin, she won’t ever be accepted if she doesn’t wet her blade. The initiation was cruel, but she was ready for this. One could say she was born for it, but she might say they’re wrong. The frail girl from before that watched Templars trample her family in cold blood—merely a pawn in their path to greatness—died on that night. Like a phoenix, she was reborn into a merciless and cold-blooded creature, with only a shred of kindness reserved for those who mattered. 

On that night, she lost everything. If it weren’t for the Master stopping them on time, she would’ve joined her family and never know life’s pleasures. Her only regret is not getting to her little sister in time—he deserved more. He deserved better.

So she promised herself that she’s going to do better. Save others selflessly; vengeance meant nothing to her. No one needed to share her fate. Yet none were as lucky as her.

No more unnecessary killings, no more tears.  Only hers. 

She takes a deep breath, all of these thoughts swirling in her head to encourage herself. Master told her it would be hard the first time, but it will get easier the more she does it. It was a sad thought, that this has to be a constant. But her fate has been sealed the moment she stepped into the chamber and swore fealty to the cause.

We work in the dark to serve the light…

The young woman was only prolonging the inevitable. The target was getting closer to her hiding spot, in the dark shadows of an abandoned alley. After days of studying, of following, of pretending she was something she wasn’t, she learned this man’s schedule. She knew his habits by heart, knew what kind of girls she liked, how he tortured them, how much of a filth he can be. The man was a big fan of girls like her, dreamers. It wasn’t hard to get him drunk and spill out his secrets—the groping was the hardest part to bear with. Back then, she felt no remorse when imagining the blade at his throat, cutting it from ear to ear. But she stayed her hand—it will only endanger the Brotherhood to act recklessly. 

So she sated her thirst by waiting. 

“You’re a very nice signorina, aren’t you?” the man pinches the flesh of the girl he charmed tonight. It made the assassin’s stomach turn. The girl giggles, a bit unsure. The assassin knew she was only doing this for money; there was no love between the two. She pitied her, but she was used to this cruel and unfair reality, where the rich thrive and the poor die. “Why don’t we…?” The man’s smile vanishes, throwing a commanding look at his three bodyguards. Business as usual, it meant. The assassin knew the men would turn around and pretend not to hear the poor girl’s scream as the man did as he pleased. Not this time. 

The wine vendor guides the girl in the assassin’s alley, as predicted. It was a favorite spot of his, close to the bar he frequented: a bar he owned. What will happen to it after his death? She knew he had a family and a boy that would inherit riches. Afterward, she’ll keep an eye on him; there’s no need for another leech. Her actions, she knew well, will only inspire hate, but such is life if you want freedom and justice.

She can bear that cross.

The target is getting closer, hands all over the girl’s body. At first, she’s playing along—but the vendor is not playing nicely. He takes what he wants by force and, soon enough, her clothes are torn off her. The girl screams and tries to run away, but he grabs her wrists, and violently slaps her face. The girl’s knees crumble underneath her and she’s falling, blood dripping from split lips. 

The man only laughs at this, eyes gleaming greedily as he stares at her helpless form. 

“You’re mine now.” 

He licks his lips and undoes his belt, dropping his pants. The girl groans on the ground, dazed. But when she sees the shriveled member dangling in her face, ready to pounce, she screams and tries to crawl away. She forgets he has an iron grip on her wrist and it hurts her.

“Yes, yes! Struggle more!” 

The guards don’t flinch and deter all curious gazes. At this moment, the assassin had enough. She had her doubts, staying there in the shadows and watching: was she capable of this? Did this man deserve to die and leave a young boy without a father? 

However, she could also see that there was no redemption in this man. He will never change; he’ll continue to profit off of young women, no matter what. His time has come and, silent as a cat, she stands up and steps towards the two struggling figures. The vendor was now getting annoyed with the girl’s refusal, spittle falling out of his mouth as he told her to stop. The assassin had to admit she was putting on quite a fight; but she stopped as she spotted the assassin behind the man’s back. Her eyes widened in surprise—then taken over with a new kind of fear. 

How must the assassin look to her? 

Her face was half-hidden by the white cowl, but she could still see the coldness in her eyes—the dangerous gleam that attracted her Master’s attention. With a flick of the wrist, she activates the blade and, before the woman could scream once again, she plunges it deep into the man’s neck. 

Blood started spurting from the wound, landing on the girl’s face. The vendor’s hand lets her go and she scrambles away, backing up a wall, shivering. Staring at what was happening in front of her, as the assassin gently lays the man down—no matter how much he didn’t deserve it. The man struggles to form words as he chokes on his own blood, looking up at his killer. She holds his gaze, a silent angel of death, unrelenting. With this killing, something in her truly broke and she couldn’t wait to tell her Master that she was ready for whatever came next. Her heart was with the Brotherhood, now until her demise. These monsters didn’t deserve to live—and she was the reaper that will cull them. 

Carefully, still holding the gaze, watching the man’s life seep out of him, too slowly, she brings out the feather. A ridiculous thing, in her opinion, but sacred to the rest. She won’t question the creed now. Like a lover’s caress, she dips the feather in his blood—it quickly stains as the man’s eyes glazed over, close to death’s door.

“We—We only…” he breathes out, struggling. He’s watching something else now, far above her reach. She listens to his last plea. “...want...order.” 

With that, his hand that was about to grip the assassin’s collar falls to the ground. Mission complete: the target has been eliminated. A cruel smile adorns her lips, basking in the glory her fist death brought—a mistake, as the girl, forgotten, starts screaming.

“Murderer!!” 

A hint of annoyance graces the assassin’s features as she stands up, glaring at the girl. Where was her 'thank you' for saving her? Things would’ve ended much worse for her if it weren’t for the assassin; but Master warned her not to seek approval. Sometimes, she won’t get any gratification for her deeds. As an assassin, she must live away from all this. She must be above it. So, instead of shushing her up, the assassin smiles like a mother scolding her child. 

Of course, the guards hear and turn around, arms ready, shouting. Their master was dead at the feet of a figure clad in white, identity shielded. They could only see two eyes glinting dangerously and a cruel grin, whispering: 

“Requiescat in pace.” 

**

Only five of the eight assassins that set out this night came back: and she was one of them. 

Getting out of that predicament wasn’t hard; she was a natural at climbing buildings and vanishing out of sight. It wasn’t long before she left the alarms behind her, enjoying the crisp air of the night. Only when she stopped she realized her heart was beating fast—with adrenaline or fear, she didn’t know. But the deed was done and she felt nothing. Staring at the dried blood on her fingers, she remembered the feeling of the act, as the pulse weakened. 

Somehow, it made her sad. Shaking her head, she made sure no one was following her before arriving at the Brotherhood headquarters, where her teachers were anxiously (and solemnly) waiting for her. She didn’t expect to be met with applause from her fellow assassins, but she enjoyed their happiness. She lived another day—and there’s one less stain in the world. As she received pats on the back, she also received the bad news: three new novices didn’t make it and got caught. They won’t be seen again. Her heart ached at that, but she couldn’t help but feel glad that she made it. She was initiated now. 

And she didn’t plan on leaving.

After the tumult died down, she finally gets a respite as the others prepare for the celebration party. She wasn’t sure she was in the mood for such an occasion, but her nerves were still alert and she needed to relax. As the crowd dispersed, moving onto another novice like her, she finally caught the eye of her beloved Master: 

Ezio Auditore da Firenze. 

She dislikes the way her heart seizes at his sight, her admiration turned into something more over the course of her training. She didn’t plan on it, but he was young and handsome, and she still believed in love. It was wrong of her, she knew it very well. He was her teacher, a few years older than her, and her savior. At the same time, he was her captor, stealing her heart with a flirtatious grin and a cheesy pick-up line. The assassin heard his story from the other novices, about how his family was hung, down to his little brother. They shared a similar path that only brought them closer until it was too late to turn back. He chose vengeance—and she mercy. 

If only they weren’t in this deadly situation…

There was no time for romance in the Brotherhood; his actions told as much. Or was she misinterpreting? She wanted to believe there was more to it than the innocent remarks, the gentle touches, the sultry whispers. 

“Ezio? He’s a damn womanizer,” Claudia, his sister, confessed to you one day. “Don’t fall for his honeyed words.” 

It only sowed doubt in her heart. She was nothing special. Other beautiful donnas could attract his attention.

Yet, for now, she delighted in his warm gaze, pride in that cocky smile of his. Her body was enveloped in a hotness that crossed from head to toe. Ezio had that kind of effect on her, as if he could undress her with just one look—probably without him even wanting to. The brown-haired man exuded potency and it only made her desire him more. 

She tore her gaze from him, cheeks flushed and embarrassed. This was not the time for these thoughts—and it was only souring her mood. She should be happy she could finally fight by his side, as equals. Hopefully, he’d want her to join him on important life or death missions where she’ll prove herself worthy of his attention, if she hadn’t until now. Straightening her back, the young assassin joined the others in the revelry, knowing she couldn’t approach him right now. Maybe later he’ll come to congratulate her. 

She hoped for it. 

** 

It was good to loosen up and discard her assassin robes; at least, for now. With warm mead in her cup, held between her cold hands, she sat at a table with a few of her peers, discussing their kills. It was getting rather tiresome by now and hearing the gruesome details wasn’t her cup of tea. She tried to lighten the mood with a bit of goofiness, but it didn’t stick. The smell of bloodshed was intoxicating everyone—aside from the alcohol in the room, of course. A ballad was sung in the background and she swayed to it, staring at her cup. 

Ezio didn’t come once by her table. She figured it was just because he couldn’t show any signs he preferred her over the others. It was only fair—but it still hurt. All she could do was drown her sorrows with cup after cup, until she could see double. Almost, anyway; the world was a blur. It didn’t help that alcohol made her slightly aroused, so looking at Ezio was getting harder by the minute. 

“Cazo,” she breathes under her breath, knowing she needs air or she will lose it. “I’ll be right back,” she says to no one in particular, but one of the novices nods before resuming the conversation. With wobbly steps, she found the stairs that went up and up, winding and winding. It was all confusing but, somehow, she ended up on the roof: the place for the leap of faith. The young girl didn’t get to do it yet and now, inebriated, had half in mind to jump. Test her might against the odds and prove—prove what? She didn’t know, her mind was blurry. At least the morning air, still not dawn yet, but close, sobered her up a bit. She took a deep inhale, closing her eyes—up above felt good. 

Then a crazy thought popped into her head: wasn’t she ready for the big leap? She didn't need someone to hold her hand while she was doing this. At least, not after the first time. Opening her eyes, she stares at the wooden beam, scratched with memories and so many assassin feet. Putting on a brave face, she prepared herself for this step—and it doesn’t take her long to get up the ledge. Slowly, she walks down the beam, balancing perfectly over the chasm. Daring to take a peek, she sees the tiny stack of hay on the pavement, not looking very safe. Her heart rate picks up, but she’s more intrigued than scared. After all, what did she have to lose? 

If things went wrong, she’d miss Ezio’s smile the most. Probably the only thing keeping her here, on Earth—and the cause she was serving. The problem was her Master will never love her back. Didn’t she hear he had a sweetheart back in Firenze? Of course he did—guys like him never stay single unless they expressly want it. 

She stops in her steps, the wind ruffling her tresses. It felt nice, but her good mood is soured by the bittersweet feelings she was holding inside. Dio, she hated when she drank too much—she drowns in her sentiments and can’t swim back to the surface. Soon enough, tears start streaming down her face, tasting bitter, and it only frustrates her. 

Stupid love. Idiotic her. Damn Ezio. 

She wipes her face, but the tears won’t stop. Before she loses patience and courage, she takes another step on the beam, till the edge, creaking dangerously. An eagle squeaks somewhere above her, drawing circles—she felt reassured by that. One more—she looks down, the Earth titling, but she has no reason to care. She had to do this—just believe. 

Inhale—

“Cara mia!” 

The woman almost jumps out of her skin and loses balance at the sound of a distressed voice. She could recognize that low timbre anywhere—and the last thought as she was falling was that he was the last person she wanted to see. If she fell and missed, he’d lose a precious pupil; how stupid she was for ever thinking of doing this without his help! 

At least—

But Ezio has quick reflexes and he catches her before she plunges to her death, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her back to the safety—of his arms—of the ledge. Her arms automatically wrap around his body, enjoying the sensation of his warmth enveloping her. She inhales his crisp musk, losing her mind over it. For a few seconds, Ezio returns the embrace, holding her so tight he might crush some bones. It was rare of him to show affection—if it really was the case—so the young apprentice was taken by surprise. 

Still—was it just the alcohol or did he call her his sweet? 

It all ends abruptly, though, as he pulls away from her, anger blazing in those amber-colored eyes. “What were you thinking?” Before the girl could answer, he notices her glassy eyes and the tear streaks. He softens up—after all, it was rare for him to get mad nowadays. In his youth, he was a vengeful spirit, seeking out his family’s killers. 

But now, “What happened, bella?” 

Again with the pet names. What was going on with him? Was he as intoxicated as her? Peering into his lovely gaze, she could see he was as sober as he could be. She didn’t see him with a glass yet—although she avoided looking at her master too long. 

She tried to steady her heart as she smiled sheepishly, hiding her expression, “Alcohol and I don’t mix, unfortunately.” 

“Come down before you hurt yourself, alright?” he guides her by the hand, back to safety, and she sits down on a random crate. The adrenaline left her and she was coming back to reality—but she was more aware of his proximity than ever, as he sat down next to her on that small piece of box. His knee was touching hers and she felt jittery sparks. Still, she pushed the thought away and focused on his words—or more, on the way he carefully took her hand in his. 

“Why did you do that?” he asks, calmer now. His voice was soothing and it only made her want to cry some more. It just wasn’t fair. 

“All assassins need to do the leap of faith, no? I was trying it out.” She shrugs her shoulders as if she tried to avoid a direct answer: that the reason for this was him. 

Ezio is rubbing circles in her palm with his finger, sending shivers down her spine. “Then why the tears?” 

“It was the wind.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Master, I—” 

“Call me Ezio from now on.” He grins, the moon highlighting the scar on his lips. He has taken off his hood, but not his white robe. His brown hair tied in a ponytail added to his charm, as always. It was rare to see him uncovered, and so she admired him closely without shame. He noticed her interest and his eyes took a flirtatious shape, leaning in. But it lasts only a moment before he goes on, “Do you regret killing that man?”

She shakes her head, vehemently, “No.” 

“Then?”

“The alcohol—it makes me emotional, that’s all.” She realizes she’s too close to falling into his trap—taking advantage of an inebriated woman was exactly the first move of a womanizer. She wants to get away from him, to remain master and student forever. There was no need for heartbreak, there was no need to pretend there was something going on when it wasn’t the truth. 

Still, she doesn’t move a muscle, preferring to stay there and enjoy the moment. How little she could. 

He chuckles—a beautiful sound to her ears. She feels her heart melting and turns her head to the side so he doesn’t notice her blush. 

“It’s good to see other sides of you, bella,” he whispers, softly. “I’m proud of you.”

“...Grazie.” 

Silence followed, a pause to let tears dry and unspoken words be said. His presence was comforting, as always, but she disengaged her hand from his. That was too much for her—and it only gave her unwanted ideas. Either way, it was nice to hear that he cared. The only thing he made concrete is their positions in this relationship: so close yet so far away. In some situations, there were boundaries that couldn’t be crossed.

As they were sitting there in peace, dawn emerged, painting the dark sky with strokes of orange and pink. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up with glee. “It’s beautiful!” 

The young woman was aware, in the back of his mind, that her words were the perfect set up for a pick-up line. Ezio didn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity to say something cheesy, a huge grin on his face as if he was going to say the most intelligent thing in the world. 

“Not as beautiful as you, tessoro.” 

Her old self would’ve swooned at the prospect of a wealthy young man being interested in her silly person. But she’s not the person from a few years ago, when all she could think of was giggling with the other girls and dreaming about poems from secret admirers. Those were happier times, when everyone was alive and there was never killing involved. 

But the new one, the ruthless assassin of the night that was just anointed, didn’t take kindly to pointless romance. She stood up, a whirlwind of fury and shame, glaring down at her master—the person of her affection. The woman wanted no more than his empty promises to be real, for him to love her as she did. The looks they shared weren’t just a bunch of lies. Maybe Ezio was eating her up whenever they locked gazes and there was a twinkle of softness in the smile he offered her. He wasn’t cocky like when he flirted with other donnas that came in his path. Those women were only a means to get to vital information—so there was no point in getting jealous.

Even if Ezio glanced back at her whenever he was getting too close to a lady; that gesture she never missed. 

She could only wonder: what was the point? 

Ezio Auditore is looking up at her with surprise in his amber eyes. He saw her angry before, at her inability to progress or understand the proper techniques. The young man found it rather endearing to see her cheeks puff like a squirrel. It was one of the many things he admired and loved about her—the girl who went through hell and came back a demon. 

“Don’t say words that you don’t mean, Auditore—I mean, Master!” 

“Cara—” 

“There you go again! I am not one of your courtesans, Ezio, to flirt and toy with!” She was pouring her soul into the words, mixed with hurt and longing. “We both know we are abnormal, we—” They’ve stepped the boundaries when they’ve leaned towards another for a kiss, then rudely interrupted before it was too late. They’ve stepped boundaries when they shared intimacies and let innocent gestures turn to something more serious. The tears are back again in her eyes—she hated how weak alcohol made her. 

“If you are not serious about it, then—” 

“Hey, you’re not even letting me speak!” Ezio stood up now, taking a step towards her. He wasn’t pissed off, but genuinely surprised by her outburst. “I thought you understood!” 

The young woman’s heart was screaming, so she obstinately raised her chin in defiance. What was there to understand? 

“That I am a fool?” Ezio takes another step, towering over her; but she doesn’t wait for another fake embrace. In an act of madness, she climbs the ledge again and, without even thinking about it, she jumps. 

In mid-air, she spreads her arms to the side, on instinct. She feels the current rush her, but she is still falling like a dead weight towards the ground. She doesn’t even want to watch, if she was going to hit the mark or not. She trusted her destiny, she trusted the creed, she trusted her master, and she believed she was an eagle like all the rest. 

No one was going to miss her anyway. Her family is waiting—

But her guardian angel is watching in the form of Ezio Auditore; she’s not yet aware but he followed her. She wasn’t going to let her do something stupid, so he jumped and rushed to her rescue. She might’ve passed an important test today, but leap of faiths weren’t to be taken lightly. What if she did this all by herself—what if he weren’t there to save her? Ezio didn’t want to think about that as he took her in his arms, holding her tight to his chest. He rolls so she falls on top of him; he notices she’s closing her eyes tight, a small smile on her face. 

They fall into the pile of hay with a soft thud, just like Ezio predicted. He had a sixth sense for this and he never missed. But the young man, most of all, felt fear. 

The new assassin pops her head out of the haystack, breathing out in excitement. She hops out of it, laughing maniacally. 

“That was fan—”

“Fanculo! Sei una stupida bella ragazza!” She was interrupted by Ezio’s loud and angry voice as he rose from the hay. The lone drunks prowling the streets scattered away, scared of the outburst. She only watches him like a scolded student, remembering the times she failed to impress him. The man grabs her shoulders, peering down at her. There was an unspeakable sentiment in his eyes, varying from anger, fear, and relief. A mix of all of them that made her cheeks go red from shame. She felt completely stupid by her actions—and she swears she’s going to atone for her sins. 

“I apolo—” 

“A cosa cazzo stavi pensando?” he goes on, his Italian accent thick and choked from too much excitement. She keeps her mouth shut, lets him vent out and awaits her punishment. However, he had other plans in mind, his calloused hands moving up to rest on her cheeks. He tilts her head up and they gaze into each other’s eyes, like two forgotten lovers. “Idiota.”

“Si,” she acknowledges.

“Don’t—” and he dips low, capturing her soft lips with his. It takes her a few seconds to wake up to reality, but he’s parting by the time she comes to her senses. “—do—” Again, he’s kissing her, slower, making her aware of the feel. She overcomes the shock and gets swept off her feet by the intensity of his feelings. “—that—” She’s ready for him now, leaning in to meet him halfway, pouring her heart out. This was a turning point in their relationship and they both knew it. “—again, bella.”

Ezio calmed down, resting his forehead on hers, gazing deeply. She sighs in content, never wanting for this moment to end or prove to be a dream. 

“Ezio.” It’s the only thing she can say, feeling weak in the knees. She was glad he was holding her, rubbing her thumb over her skin. “I won’t, I won’t. Promise.” 

He looks at her for a lie, but sees none. Instead of kissing her again, he hugs her, petting her hair and inhaling her scent. 

“I thought—fool that I am—that I lost you.” These words, said in a soft tone, warmed her. She hugged him as tight as she could, closing her eyes and enjoying the way his body felt underneath the clothes. “I tried not to worry about you; I know you can handle yourself, I’ve seen you, but—” he takes a shuddering breath, his emotions raw on his face. “—I’ve lost so much, cara.” He loosens his grip on her again, planting another needy kiss on her ripe mouth, one she gladly returns. For a few precious moments, they get lost in the feeling. His beard was scratching her skin, but she didn’t mind because this was all she ever wanted. 

“I don’t want to lose you too,” he explains, defeated. “And, trust me, I am not pulling this out of my ass.” His amber eyes were mesmerizing, drawing her into his madness. He tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear, “I’ve come to admire your cunning, your bravery, and your determination.”

“Ezio…” she wants to believe this was right, but this was wrong. The reasonable part of her needed reassurance. “We are not allowed. What will the others say? You are my—my master.” She was getting nervous and fidgety. For now, nothing Ezio could do would calm her. He let her go on, express everything. “I could never—compare with—” She took a deep breath. “The point is, we can’t go on, whatever this is.” 

As a response, he laughs lightly. “You worry too much.” She pouts, but he goes on, “I thought about this too, but I am sure of what I am feeling.” Ezio takes her hands and brings them to his mouth, caressing them lightly. In her eyes, he looked so beautiful, with his eyes closed and long lashes, a few strands of hair falling over his face. He opens them, amber eyes sparkling in the upcoming light. “You are my equal now. We serve the same purpose. I don’t see you as a simple pupil—I couldn’t overlook such a beautiful lady like yourself.”

She rolls her eyes, “Stop.” 

“I am serious. Is it wrong for me to want more out of us?” Those puppy eyes only melted her resolve, just like he wanted to. “I’ve set my eyes on you a long time ago, but you never fell for my attempts. It...baffled me. You had me intrigued. All this time, you had me around your finger, not the opposite.” 

The woman can’t help but laugh at that, “I don’t believe it!” 

“You had more power than you think.” Suddenly, he turns sheepish, for the first time, unsure. “Cazo, this is not the way I planned the confession.” 

“It’s still romantic,” she added helpfully, trying to make him feel better. 

It worked as he grins cockily. “I’m glad I still have charm, bellissima.” He leans over, brushing their lips together like feathers. Ezio breathes on her mouth, seductively, “My eyes are only for you, no matter how impossible it sounds. We’re not so different, you and I.” 

“How do you know I feel the same way, Auditore?” she whispers back, already caught in his web. This was the last step that got her tangled—and she had no plans on escaping. She was a big fool and maybe she’ll cry later, but she shouldn’t regret it. 

There was nothing left to lose. 

“Are you joking?” Ezio laughs, slowly pushing her against a nearby wall. It felt cold under the thin fabric of her clothes and she shuddered. The brown-haired man seemed to like that. “I can see it in the way your body and mind bend to my will. How your breath stops for a second at my sight—” his teeth lightly graze her earlobe and, indeed, her breath hitched in her throat. “—and you can’t take your eyes off me.” 

“Same goes to you.” She retorts, not backing down now. 

“Ovviamente.” 

He’s practically purring by now, hands itching to roam all over her. Instead, he calms down and begs you, “Can’t you just give us a chance?” 

Her palms cup his face, rubbing his short stubble, pretending to think about it. She takes on the sexiest tone she could muster without feeling too embarrassed by it, and responds, “I’d like to take it slow…” Ezio distracts her how he knows best: by planting butterfly kisses over her neck. It was hard to think about anything else while he was lavishing her with his attention. 

“Anything for you, dolcezza. As long as you’re mine.” 

Morning was upon them—she could hear people waking up in their houses, ready for another day. In that instant she was aware of that, she noticed how tired she felt; sleep must come after such an eventful day. At the same time, Ezio seemed wide awake and ready to take advantage of this newly established relationship. His kisses were turning more than innocent—and she was melting like butter under his touch. 

“Shall we move this elsewhere?” he asks, eager to possess her whole being. 

“Take it slow, remember?” 

He snorts, rolling his eyes. In a few swift motions, he has her pinned on the wall with her arms above her head—she couldn’t escape. Before she could protest, they are both locked in an intense make-out session, with tongue and nothing to inhibit them. They’re kissing passionately, hungrily, like two feral creatures just discovering each other. It holds everything they wanted to say, the pent-up frustration and innate desire. It sends tingles down her spine and lust in his body. He doesn’t want to take it slow—not one bit—but he understands her reluctance.

All he needs to do is persuade her he meant every word. 

“I can’t take it slow,” he says when they take a short break. Her mind is spinning as he’s kissing her again with intensity. “But I’ll make a sacrifice.” 

He stops, leaving her breathless and panting, wanting for more. Ezio could see it in her eyes—a reflection of his own want. How bad did he want to ravage his pupil and make her beg for more…

He shudders just from thinking about it. “Together, we are making history, bella.” 

“Fine…” she says, sweat running down her skin and into unexplored territories. He couldn’t help but focus on a drop, mesmerized by the movement. “Just—” she was surrendering and this vulnerability endeared him. “—take good care of me, alright?” 

He smirks, “Of course.”

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

15. Seeking Solace [Geralt of Rivia]

Once upon a time, Geralt had a lover he could come home too. Now, he remembers them fondly.

Warnings: angst.

Chapters: 1 [complete] 

Words: 1,666

READ IT ON AO3. 

***

Tired.

Tired of running. Tired of searching. Tired of fighting. The witcher—scourge of society—finally exhausted his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to, trained as he was to be neutral. To don’t take things at heart. To not get attached. To not care—to not feel anything. Mercy. Anger.

Love.

The witcher is not as he is supposed—raised—to be. So what? He can break stereotypes as long as he still kills monsters. He can ignore japes and insults like he usually does while still not blaming them for the prejudice. He can be just and have a heart while slashing his sword back and forth, killing without remorse. As long as he fills the void inside his heart. So long as he feeds the gnawing hole that wants to make his life meaningful...

A long time ago, he would’ve been more than happy to be on the road. To go from place to place, searching for jobs—and searching for a part of him that was missing. He wanted to escape the Wild Hunt, Yennefer’s possessiveness, Triss and her lies, Dandelion’s songs, or reunite with the only person he’d tolerate any time of the day: Ciri. The witcher doesn’t know anymore; he saved the world, in the end. And along the way, on this life-threatening adventure, he found something else worth fighting for. A figure he had to leave at some point because he had to save them from the monsters that were hunting him. He was in a race against time.

But he was done now. He could go back to a ‘normal’ life, relax—put a break on the world and enjoy a moment of respite. The witcher wanted to hide, close his eyes, and simply forget everyone else existed. He hurries, spurring Roach to exhaustion, for once pleading his mare to forgive him. Lots of oats will await her when he’s done, the witcher promises. Desperation in his mind, his features showing nothing, his heart is racing—as quickly as the wind. He doesn’t stop to eat, to drink, to check out the crimes that are probably happening around him.

He has only a name in mind, repeating it like a prayer. The white-haired male wishes they are fine—no harm done. But in this cruel world, he knows that anything is possible. That his life has always turned to the worst when he was the happiest. He can arrive in the city and found them dead. He can find them captured—or they simply don’t love him any longer.

The possibilities make him shudder with fright; he wants to stop the torrent of thoughts, but they plague him like a curse.

He gallops like the wind—

In the end (feels too late), he sees the outskirts of the city. The witcher curses those guards at the gate, feels relief when he’s finally through. He follows familiar roads, cutting corners, passing people—he spots their house, finally. Jumping down, he hastily ties Roach and doesn’t wait to knock on the door. Comes in like a storm, startling them.

He never dreamed of seeing them again.

“Geralt!” His name on their lips is like a soothing balm. “You scared me!”

But there’s a loving smile on their lips. And, as he falls into their warm embrace, he knows he’s in the right place.

The witcher doesn’t hesitate to kiss their hair, inhaling the fruity scent he surely missed. Despite it all, his heart doesn’t calm until he looks into their eyes, absorbing every feeling reflected there. When they whisper his name gently, he can’t help but attack those lips with his, hunger in his actions. He missed them, more than anything. His body also missed them—and it shows. They know so, giving him a hungry lascivious look through thick eyelashes. Geralt accepts to be led by the hand toward the bedroom, still smelling of their combined natural scents. It turned him on even more, remembering the perfect times the two of them had together.

They purr, “Missed me?” as if they didn’t know. As if they weren’t feeling his eagerness pressed against their leg.

When he’s done, after hours and hours of love-making, it’s already late in the evening. His lover is exhausted, curled up to his side, an arm around his own body. Geralt embraces them, holding them tight, inhaling his scent on them, so reassuring. It’s still arousing, their musk—but they’re already fast asleep, chest rising slowly.

He closes his eyes, finally at ease. His nerves could get a rest and he can forget about the suffering he went through. He’s warm, he’s comfortable—nothing could pry them from his loving arms. He even feels like he can finally sleep. He welcomes the feeling, glad to be able to let his body rest. The witcher doesn’t know when he drifts into slumber, but he soon wakes from their soft kisses on his rough cheeks. His eyes flutter open—and meets their shining bright eyes and sleepy smile.

“Morning already?” he grumbles, stretching his back like a cat. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

They open their mouth, their lips move, and he expects to feel their soft, warm voice to ring in his ears. He hears nothing in return. Maybe they were just playing a joke on him. A trick. But, as he gazes at them, he notices there’s something wrong: their features...

It’s not like he remembers. Not the soft lips or skin, not the eyes, now turning violent. A coldness creeps up his spine—the wind. He doesn’t remember opening the windows. However, he knows better than this: a slithering realization slowly dawns on him. And the witcher’s heart breaks again—for the millionth time.

“No,” he mouths, voice lost in the torrent of the storm that’s happening all around him all of a sudden. He can’t hear their reply, that smile still on their face. But their facial features are distorted, shaping into something else—he doesn’t remember them being this way. However, despite all his confusion and fright, he remembers the person who was now standing in his lover’s bed, long, dark hair spilling over the fluffy pillow.

Another familiar voice...

Yennefer. Was he plaguing his dreams again? Before they’re gone, before he’s going to lose them again, he calls out, desperate.

“Come back.” He’s unsure, though, whether it’s Yennefer’s voice or his.

Their eyes turn a shade of violet—and he doesn’t want to forget. But, no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t find their face again.

“Come, Geralt...”

He felt himself slipping, everything turning dark around him. The witcher was waking up. He doesn’t want to—reality is too disappointing, and he doesn’t want to face the truth. The truth that his lover was long gone, the result of an unhappy accident. It was his fault. And he can’t forget. He doesn’t want to say ‘I love you’ to a shadow, but he mouths them anyway.

Words have a strong power.

For a second, they’re back to their normal self, the huge bright smile he adored reminding him of better times. He read their lips, whispering the same vows. His heart fills with warmth again—he just wants to succumb to the feeling, to get lost in their embrace.

“Geralt!”

  With a gasp, he opens his eyes, meeting pretty violet ones. Once upon a time, he would’ve loved to see those eyes every day he woke up. Once upon a time, he loved the sorceress. Maybe he still does now—he promised her that, whether she believed it or not. Sometimes, the witcher thinks she knows. Even if he doesn’t like it and told her so a thousand times, she still reads his mind. And, whether or not he thinks about it, their name will inevitably pop up. Yennefer says nothing about it.

Should he be grateful? Right now—no. He was angry she woke him up. Pulled him out from his sweet dream. He wanted to get lost. Nothing else mattered.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says defensively, trying to sound angry when she was startled by his reaction. He doesn’t respond, growling as he stands up. Yennefer seated herself away from his reach, frowning as if it was his fault.

He says nothing, avoiding her gaze, bitter about it all. He feeds the fire, aware of the night and swamp sounds around them, the whinnying of restless horses. On the road again, as usual—the only thing he ever wanted was settling down in the house of his dreams.

With his lover. With Yennefer.

Why did it matter what he wanted? Destiny is always fucking with him.

“You were hurting, Geralt.” Yennefer tries to explain herself, filling in his sulky silence. “Tossing in the sleep. Crying out.” She sounded hurt.

“Do you think I'd let you do that for the whole night?”

Geralt doesn’t respond. She goes on, losing hope. “You seek solace in dreams, Geralt. Don’t hope.” Yennefer casts her eyes downwards, sadness lingering in her features—a thing that he misses entirely.

“They’re long gone.”

The witcher knows that better than anyone. His love got lost because of him—and he feels guilty about it every day. Even if his feelings got dulled to numb pain, he swore he’ll never forget the face of the person who once made him happy. The one he’d promise his future and couldn’t fulfill it. He’ll never forgive himself.

Geralt, witcher with feelings, is tired. But he’ll go on—it's what they’d want to.

“Geralt...” he feels Yennefer’s warm palm on his shoulder and, this time, he doesn’t push her away. He needs consolation, even if it’s with another person. He turns around, capturing her soft lips with his, hungry, hoping the sorceress wasn’t reading his thoughts, for once. He’ll hurt her—because, even if he doesn’t say it, he can deceive himself that he’s kissing someone else.

The witcher still dreams—and will continue to do so. It’s inevitable.

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

emotional jinx (Nero) - Part 4

Summary:  You are Nero’s childhood friend who disappeared on him one day, leaving him heartbroken and confused: and straight into Kyrie’s arms.

Now, you have returned–and the demon hunter’s world turns around as he remembers his forgotten feelings for you. But he’s with Kyrie and… What will he do? And what will you do when Nero believes you like Dante?

Warnings: none

Chapters: 4 / 4 [Completed] 

READ IT ON AO3.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

**

It’s been weeks since you’ve kissed Nero. And gosh you fucking missed him.

Things returned to normal: you lied to Dante about what really happened but, judging by his look, he knew better. In fact, it seemed like everyone knew what was going on between you two. But Nero and you acted as if nothing was wrong. Like you’ve reconciled as friends and he was sad because of Kyrie (which was still true, but he also had you now and it made things better). You were partners again and kicked demon ass constantly—actually, you worked even better now that you were a couple. And, well, you couldn’t keep your hands off of him whenever you found yourselves alone. He didn’t mention any rule against you two touching; and it wasn’t as if he said ‘no’. He held your hand tightly as if he didn’t want to let you go. He rubbed his thumb over your palm, comforting, trying to memorize something he has lost (and oh how many times you’ve held hands when you were kids). He was extra cute when he was staring at you longingly, most of the time his gaze lingering on your lips—you wanted to kiss him as much as he did. The first one—that fleeting breeze of a kiss—felt wonderful and new and old at the same time. It was a shame he only got a glimpse of the passion lingering inside you with that kiss...

You had to show him how much he meant to you. 

That time will come soon. For now, you were content with spending more time with him and enjoying his presence. It was all you could ask for. You didn’t want any prying eyes spying on you when you wanted to hold his hand. And the japes about how good you looked together when you rested your head on his shoulder were getting rather old. It was annoying and embarrassing—you didn’t want Kyrie to hear that he already found happiness alongside you. Either she finds out from you and Nero, or she doesn't find out at all. You didn’t want any kind of unwanted attention; you just wanted to enjoy this newfound love and uncover Nero’s secrets. He was a lovable person, romantic at heart, taking care of you just like you knew he would. He was careful and he was holding you in high regard, as if you were a glass doll he was afraid to touch.

But you could see it in his eyes: he craved you. It’s safe to say you did too.

“We’re here,” you tell him as soon as you spot the van in the distance. “Time to let go.”

“And if I don’t want to?” he purrs, teasing you by hovering above your lips—a giant shit-eating grin adorning his features.

You raised an eyebrow, “Are you ready for that?”

The young demon hunter cutely pouts, like a kicked puppy. He obviously wanted to show you to the world, to hold and kiss you without hiding. But Kyrie’s ghostly unresponsiveness lingered between you two and you didn’t want to do anything without her approval. Or, at least, to know that it was ok for her. It won’t ever be, but...

“...Well, I want you, [name].” In more ways than another.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly, then in the next moment, you let him go. You had to act like there was nothing wrong. “Come.”

You try to ignore the disappointment in his expression as you turned around and started walking toward the van. Nero followed you soon after, keeping a distance. You acted like friends again, though the smiles you had told otherwise. However, as you got closer, you noticed the group gathered outside the van. Everyone was there and, before you could question the reason why, you saw Kyrie in the middle.

Your heart stilled, and you felt Nero freeze alongside you. What was she doing here?  You risked a glance at Nero, who only had his eyes glued on the redhead.

“Nero—what do we do?” you whisper to him, willing your body to keep on moving. Nero doesn’t follow and you tug him by the arm, a bit forcefully due to your nerves.

“Why are you lagging there, slowpokes?” Dante waves a hand in the air. “You have a guest.”

An uninvited yet late guest.

“Nero—” you were beginning to panic. You weren’t ready for this. Not right now. You needed him. 

Instead, he finally finds his balls and interlaces his fingers with yours.

“This is it.”

You gasp softly at his action. He’s smiling a bit forcefully, but he’s sure of himself. He’s going to do this: for you, for himself. For lost and newfound love, for your kisses and smile. You knew it.  This was it.

**

“I want to talk to you,” Kyrie says, making eye contact with you.

“Huh? Uhh—” you weren’t sure what to say. It was out of your area of expertise and you had no idea how to react.  “Su-Sure, all three of us—”

“I only want to talk to you, [name].” The redhead is smiling so brightly, it was as if she wanted to talk to you about her grandma’s cake recipe. “With Nero—” she casts him a fleeting glance, “—I know what he thinks.”

“Kyrie—” Nero wants to say something, pleading Kyrie with his eyes (she doesn’t need another apology, but he’ll still do it until he’ll stop feeling sorry about it).

“Nero, please?” she gently touches Nero’s cheeks, her feelings pouring out of her then and there. It was too much for you to handle, so you look away.

Why did you ever let yourself get between them?

“I’m not upset,” Kyrie goes on, when it’s clearly not. But she seemed—fine. As much as someone in this situation can be. “I just have something to tell [name].” She focuses back on you and you flinch as if she slapped you. Get a hold of yourself, [name], she’s not going to murder you. “It won’t take long.”

“Come on, kid,” Dante slings an arm around Nero and starts walking away. “Let’s take a walk.” Trish gives you an encouraging smile as they're all walking away—wasn't very comforting. You only wanted to run away from all of this. Why should you talk to Kyrie? There was nothing (a lot) to be said. Panicking, you sought help—then you catch Nero’s gaze. His beautiful blue eyes stare at you lovingly, and he slightly nods.

You can do this. For us.

And yes—you can do this. For us.

You take a deep breath, “Shall we go inside?”

“I won’t take much of your time, [name].” But she nonetheless follows your lead and enters the van. You plop yourself on the couch and she gently sits on the edge of it, as if she wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. Which she most likely did.

“So...” you start, feeling awkward. However, Nero’s expression and loving gaze kept you determined and courageous to see this through.

“I don’t hate you, [name],” she starts. “I never did—and I never will.” Her smile is reassuring and you feel your body relieving itself of the tension. “You’re my friend, even if—even if Nero always came in between.” Ok, here is where it goes downhill. “I am not blaming anyone for this,” she hangs her head as if ashamed. “Maybe I’ve been selfish about it...”

“NO!” you cry, hand on heart. “I—I was the selfish one...I stole Nero from you. I honestly didn’t mean for it to happen—I-I-I was fine with you two being together even if—even if he never answered to my feelings.” You pleaded her with your eyes, wanting her to understand that she wasn’t at fault: it was all you. “Kyrie, if you still want him back, I—”

“I don’t want him back, [name],” she grabs your hand in comfort. “He made his decision. And it’d be unfair to him to—to force him.” She was right. The demon hunter chose this. He could’ve ignored his burning feelings for you and pretend all was a lie. He didn’t, though: he chose you. “I know Nero loves you. I saw it every day when he knew I wasn’t looking. Sometimes, he’d get quiet and fall into thought, as if he was trying to remember something. Or, maybe, he was trying not to forget.” Her voice dips low, “I think he was trying to keep your memory alive...”

You feel bad for letting your heart skip a beat: that sounded so romantic.

“He’d always tell me it was nothing when I asked him if anything was wrong. But I knew—” she lifts her eyes, looking at you. “I knew it was about you. And I stole him from you.”

“You did not—”

“I did. Back then. When you left. I was aware that you two—had something special going on. My sin was pretending I didn’t.”

“Huh?”

Kyrie blushes to her ears, as if she was ashamed of what she has done in the past. “I knew you liked each other. Neither of you probably noticed, but—when Nero came to me, I didn’t care. I took him for myself.”

“Oh.” It all made sense now. And, somehow, you couldn’t blame her at all. “I see…”

“Sometimes, I even imagined you wouldn’t come back,” she whispers in a low voice. “That was wrong of me. And I’m sorry.”

She was on the verge of crying and you grabbed her hands, squeezing. “No—Kyrie, you don’t need to cry! Please, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. We were kids, we—” you take a deep breath. “Nero was in love with you, whether he also had feelings for me or not. That much is true. You did nothing wrong.”

“But—”

“No, stop,” you firmly tell her. “I don’t blame you or Nero for what happened. I’m glad you two were together. And—And I’m sorry for doing this to you.”

“[name], Nero was never meant for me.” It broke your heart to hear her so sad. You wanted to turn back time, to fix this, to never fall for Nero and let them be free in love. Were you allowed to be selfish? You didn’t want to—the guilt and shame were eating at you. But—

“Can you forgive me, Kyrie?”

She smiles brightly, “I already did.” It feels as if a weight lifted off your heart with just that one sentence. You smile back, kind of unsure, kind of happy. “Can you?”

“Yeah. But—”

“I want Nero to be happy, [name]. He won’t be with me.”

“Maybe…”

“Shut up,” she playfully flicks your forehead. “It’s for the best. And I don’t regret it. You have my blessing,” she giggles. “You don’t have to hide anymore.” You look to the side, embarrassed. “And if you need embarrassing stories about Nero, you know where to come!”

“Now that I want to hear.” You two share a laugh and you feel like a butterfly, fleeing with joy. Your head is in the clouds and you want to run to Nero and kiss him straight on the lips.

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

**

Nero. Nero. NERO. “Nero!”

Your heart is soaring with joy and love and all the positive feelings in the world. You’re running, frantically attempting to determine Nero’s whereabouts. He was nowhere and you hated it—until you caught a whiff of him. You speed up, through the streets and pushing people that got in your way, until you somehow arrive in front of the true Devil May Cry. How did that happen? It felt like magic. You’ve rarely been here, preferring to crash into Nico’s van (and stay with Nero, of course). It was an interesting place, though, filled with cool stuff Dante collected over the years. A bit rundown, but…

Oh well. There he was: Nero. He was sitting on the steps alongside Dante and the group. They were all chatting and joking, but when they noticed you, they stopped and grinned in your direction. Except for Nero, who was a bit worried, unsure of what to expect. When he saw your grin, his expression turns around: a smile from ear to ear. His eyes lit up and he jumps up, ready to embrace you. You pick up the pace, eager to reach your lover. When you’re close, he opens his arms and you jump into them. He catches you easily, snaking his arms around your waist as you grab his neck for support. You bury your nose into his jacket, while he inhales the scent of your hair.

“Everything alright?” he whispers, but he already knows the answer.

“Yeah, yeah—don’t worry.”

He puts you down, gazing into your eyes like you were his everything (which you probably were).  “So—”

“Ok, lovebirds, this is all romantic and stuff, but I don’t want to hear it,” Dante clears his throat, annoyed, yet with a smile on his face.

“Now I—” Nico sighs, conflicting emotions across her face. “Now I don’t what to feel about all this...”

Fair enough—she’s Kyrie’s friend more than you were. Maybe that’s why she acted like that before, trying to warn her about your intentions (even if you weren’t planning on doing anything). Well, life goes on—and it’s not happy for everyone. You can forgive yourselves and get used to the changes. You apologized and you got a (reluctant) approval, but it was still better than nothing.

“You’ll get used to it,” Trish says sassily, hands on her hips. Was she an 'avid' supporter of you and Nero? Seemed like it. 

“I’m sorry—”

“You’ve got nothing to be ‘sorry’ about,” Dante stops you. “It’s just the way things are.” You look at the older demon hunter with new eyes—but he doesn’t let you get used to his softer side. He grins sexily and almost wiggles his eyebrows at you two as he opens his mouth, suggestively, “Well, gang, seems like we have to go.”

“What? Why?” Nico is thoroughly confused, while Lady and Trish nod like two protective mothers. They knew what was up—and you didn’t want to think that he was referring to... You glanced at your demon hunter and you notice the way he was avoiding your gaze, embarrassed. His cheeks were red and he was pursing his mouth in a way that told you he knew what this was about. No—no way...

“Enjoy the house, kiddies,” Dante shouts, laughing joyously, grabbing Nico by the arm and dragging her away (despite her protests). “Don’t break too much stuff or you’ll pay!”

Your eyes widen, staring from Dante to Nero. What was this all about? Why was Dante giving you the whole Devil May Cry? This was insane! And they weren’t all expecting to...

No.

They were gone out of sight before you could call after them and tell them that this wasn’t exactly what you wanted. But it was too late, so it was just you and Nero now, standing embraced in front of the building like two fools.

You pout at him, “What’s that all about?”

“Uhh...”

“You’re not getting in my pants that easily, Nero.” A big fat lie.

“That’s not what—” he was getting flustered and it was adorable. At least that part of him never changed. He shrugs, helpless, “I don’t know, I figured that—We’d spend some time alone, after—” He’s pleading you with his puppy eyes, “I was just trying to do something nice, I—” he sees your half-amused expression and loses it, “Don’t judge me, ok?!”

You roll your eyes, taking his hand in yours, “Well, whatever—since we’re already here...” you drawl on, trying to be as suggestive as possible (without being too aggressive). He says nothing as you pull him behind you, opening the doors to the Devil May Cry and entering the premises. You don’t have time to examine your surroundings (and enjoy the things Dante had), and your mind is certainly not focused on exploring Dante’s lair right now. You glance back at Nero meaningfully, and he’s looking back at you. You don’t know where you’re guiding him, but you’re up the stairs and next thing you know, you open a door. It’s dark inside but, through the only window in the room, come the last sun rays. They fell on Dante’s sad little bed. You stop next to it, staring at Nero; and, ever so slowly, you take off his jacket. It falls to the floor—he takes off yours, while you struggle with his shirt. When he’s done with you, he lifts his arms, allowing you to take it off. It goes on like this, your shirt, then his shoes, then yours, then his pants, then yours. When you are out of items to disrobe (save for your underwear), you study each other, as if it was uncharted territory. It wasn’t: you’ve done this all before, stripping naked and sleeping in a bed together. But you were innocent back then, and you’ve seen it all before. Yet, Nero has a lot more scars than before, fading, but still noticeable. You wondered how he saw you: as before? Different? With flaws? Too slim? Too chubby?

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, taking you by the waist and planting a sweet and much-needed kiss on your mouth. You eagerly respond, pouring all you had for him, finally free from the guilt. You kiss him as if the world ends tomorrow and you have no time to tell him how much you love him. He kisses you back as if he’s afraid of letting himself go, passionate, loving, needy, pressing. It makes you chuckle and he smiles back into the kiss, holding you ever so close. You remain without air and part, panting softly while looking at each other under a new light.

“Should we...?” you nod at the bed, feeling like a teenager. Giddy. In love. He looks positively amused and embarrassed, but he doesn’t say ‘no’. He remembers that day too, when he wanted to experiment and kiss you to see how your lips tasted like. A curiosity he never satisfied until now.

You tasted like the best food he ever had.

It was wrong of him to think of you as food, but his brain wasn’t really thinking straight right now, with you in your underwear in front of him. You matured in all the right places, you were delicious-looking—and he couldn’t wait to touch you thoroughly, to explore every inch of your skin. His fingers were tingling and he ached to touch you again, to kiss you slowly, hard, rough, sweet—in every way. He wants to find out what you like so he can please you as best as he can. He wants to know your secrets, to make new memories...

You two jump into the bed, on the side, facing each other. Your arms and hands find familiar bodies, snaking around each other and bringing your bodies close together. You stare into each other’s eyes, gazing deep—you felt your cheeks flush from the intensity of it.

God, he was so beautiful. Shame for the hair, though, even if you got used to it.

As you were thinking that, you ran your fingers through his short hair; it felt nice. You sigh, content. “This feels...” you honestly had no words, but it had to be said. You’re back to the beginnings, where everything was innocent: you were young again, looking at Nero with curiosity. You breathe him in, exhale love, and your thoughts are a jumble.

What was he thinking about now? Was he oversensitive as you were?

“Familiar?” he completes your sentence, grinning cutely.

“Yeah, I think so,” you exhale. “Do—Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“What were you thinking about, back then?” You’re genuinely curious; you’ve wanted to know about this for a long time. It felt only right to ask.

“Heh, well,” he darts his eyes to the side, “things I shouldn’t say?”

You chuckle, “Seriously?”

“I was curious. Can you blame me?” “Nah. I look ravishing.”

“That you do.”

“So...” you trail off, feeling heat pooling inside your belly. Since you had one leg between his own, you could feel him slightly growing with each second, his eyes scanning your every nook and cranny. You slowly and deliberately rubbed that spot with your thigh, gently as to not hurt him. His eyes widen pleasantly, then cloud over with desire, a cocky smirk on that pretty mouth of his. “How you’ve been lately?”

He groans, a deep rumble in his throat. A bit of rolling eyes that show you how frustrating it was that you were playing innocent right now when it was obvious. Otherwise, why did you bring him here? Why did you act so hurt about him wanting to spend some time alone (honestly, he never intended to actually do something with you, but seems like you had other plans)? He didn’t mind, not one bit: he’s fantasized over this moment a long time ago, imagining how it would feel, picturing your reactions.

Nero had a feeling that reality would be better than his imagination.

“Hey, you ignoring me, Nero?”

“Ugh, shut up,” he growls, grabbing your face with his metal hand. It feels cool on your skin, but a welcomed feeling.  “You talk too much.” You do because you’re nervous about what was going to happen: but before you can voice that thought, he brings you in for a kiss. You quickly get lost into it, forgetting your nervousness and everything that might’ve changed your mind. After successfully distracting you, his hand runs down your neck, up to your shoulder, rubbing it a little while—as if trying to comfort you. You continue to indulge in the kiss, sparks flying as you open your mouth willingly to allow him access. He tests the waters a bit reluctantly, preferring to focus on your skin rather than anything else. You had no idea whether his arm had any sensors that made him feel the texture of your skin, but he seemed to enjoy himself as his fingers trailed downwards, over the curves of your hips. You shudder at the cold sensation, pulling your body closer to him, seeking his warmth. He chuckles, amused, and playfully pinches your hard nipples through your bra.

“Ah!” you gasp in his mouth, then pull away. “Nero!” but it sounds more like a moan than anything else.

“What?” He’s challenging you with his gaze—and, honestly, you are in the mood to take it. With one swift motion, taking him unguarded, you push him on his back, pinning his arms above his head as you jump on top of him. Nero lets out a huff of surprise, his lips partly opened: it just made him adorable as fuck. Yet you didn’t hope you’d maintain this position for long—he was stronger than you and he can easily topple you. He doesn’t do it, though, relaxing under your grip. But, fuck, he looked so vulnerable under you, arms raised, muscles beautifully straining, his chest and abs exposed for your enjoyment. You just wanted to lick them all, to touch them—but you felt as if he’d take advantage of you if you let his wrists loose.

Besides, you actually liked this predicament.

“Got you now, demon hunter,” you coo seductively, straddling his hips. Through the fabric of your underwear, you could see how hard he was. You bet he could feel how wet you were too. You lean over to him, inches apart from his lips. “What are you going to do?”

Cheeks flushed, he answers, vibrating with excitement, “Whatever you want to do.”

Having Nero under control was an interesting prospect; one that drove you mad with want. It had to be said, though, “Isn’t this hurting your fragile ego, Nero?”

Hey, maybe he was into some kinky shit.

“Babe, I’m enjoying this more than you can imagine,” he purrs, a spark in his eyes. You now just noticed the way he was panting, true to his words.

“Ah, so you like to be submissive?” you tease.

Nero scoffs, but the blush on his cheeks was a giveaway. “Just today.”

“Oh, yeah?” you smirk, starting to grind against him. He lets out a strangled moan, tossing his head back. You go on, grinding against his hard dick as if he was a pole. Nero doesn’t seem to dislike it, finally closing his eyes and letting you take the reigns. It was a hot view and you can’t help yourself: you also want to be touched. You let his arms go—and he immediately takes advantage of that. His hands rest on your hips; but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. His human hand cups your titty, but he’s not satisfied with that. He expertly unhooked your bra and you let it fall on the bed. He feels much better now that he was touching your nipples, skin to skin; and you don’t waste the opportunity to run your palms over his chest and muscles. They felt amazing.

“Nero...” you breathe out his name. You had to make sure that this process was not uncomfortable for you: rubbing against fabric was not the most pleasant thing in the world to do. However, Nero was clearly enjoying himself by the way he was tossing and turning his head. As if he’d never felt something this good in his life. You doubted it—but maybe he was acting this way because of you, a person he’d dreamed of all this time and never had the opportunity to do it. “Nero?”

He opens his eyes with an annoyed groan, staring at you with half-lidded eyes. He was panting harder now as you kept on moving, harder and faster.

“What?” he sounded strained, as if he was closer to his climax. Ha ha, no way, no?

“Do you like this?”

He pinches your nipple as a way to respond, earning a hiss. “Does it look like I don’t?”

“It feels like you’re enjoying this too much. You sure you can hold on?”

“I—” he breathes out, trying to decide if he was going to lie or not. “I won’t.”

His admission drives you insane and you finally kiss him, savagely. He answers weakly, focused on your private zones touching. You grab his hair, pulling his head back, and grind against him slowly—that was the last straw for him.

“Shit, SHIT!” he calls out, wrapping his arms around your body and crushing you to his chest. You feel his dick tensing and, judging by the way he was moaning and groaning in your ear, you knew he was cumming right then and there. You weren’t disappointed; in fact, you were glad he was this eager for you and that it was you who made him feel like this. After he was finished (he did come rather violently), his grip on you loosens and you straighten, watching him unfold. He was breathing erratically, pink on his cheeks and sweat glistening on his skin. He’s taking a few minutes to catch his wits because that.was.AMAZING. And if a bit of dry-humping felt this good, then how would fucking feel like?

The white-haired demon hunter finally opens his eyes and sees your amused expression for the first time: a stupid plastered grin on your swollen lips.

It dawns on him, finally, of what happened. “Fuck, this is embarrassing,” he says, hiding his face underneath his hands.

“Oh, no, no, no,” you giggle, prying his hands off of him. “Don’t worry about it, I enjoyed it. Very much.”

“You’re just saying that—” he pouts, disappointed in himself a little bit.

“Stop it, Nero, I’m really not.” You make him look at you. “We have plenty of time from now on, don’t we?”

He’s not entirely convinced, but he doesn’t protest as you kiss him romantically.

“Yeah...” he sighs. “I’m going to make it up to you.”

“I hope so,” you laugh.

Plenty of time to discover one another.  The world was your oyster.

And you were going to enjoy the hell out of it.

–

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

emotional jinx (Nero) - Part 3

Summary:  You are Nero’s childhood friend who disappeared on him one day, leaving him heartbroken and confused: and straight into Kyrie’s arms.

Now, you have returned–and the demon hunter’s world turns around as he remembers his forgotten feelings for you. But he’s with Kyrie and… What will he do? And what will you do when Nero believes you like Dante?

Warnings: none

Chapters: 3 / 4 [Completed] 

READ IT ON AO3.

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4. 

**

Things have changed; and you had no idea why.

No—you did. Ever since Nero found out that you ‘liked’ Dante, the younger demon hunter started ignoring you. Or, more like, stopped being personal with you. He still talked to you like nothing was wrong, but there wasn’t any warmth in his words. Whenever he was around you, he acted as if he wanted to be somewhere else entirely. It hurt. It was as if you were acquaintances and not childhood friends who went through a lot in the past. He wasn't acting like your partner lately—and you didn't even bother to partner with him after that. In fact, you did the opposite: you resorted to hanging out with Dante—just out of spite. You loved Nero's small scowls whenever he saw you two around, even if he had no right to. Sometimes he made rude remarks about you two getting a room, to which Dante responded by hugging or kissing you on the cheek (very sensual, might I add). That would leave Nero fuming. 

It was kind of annoying, but you pretended like nothing was wrong. If Nero wasn’t going to believe you, then fuck him. You enjoyed making him squirm. Everything that happened with Dante was casual, especially when Nero was not around. He's been missing lately; you didn't want to think about him spending time with Kyrie, but that's probably why he was gone all the time.  And was it just you, or was he sulky? 

You moved on. You didn't care: if he wasn't going to talk to you, then so be it. He's a big boy now, he can take care of himself and solve whatever problems he had. 

So here you are, after a long day’s work, chilling in (surprisingly) peace and quiet in the van, on the couch. No one’s there to bother you, everyone went about their business. The perfect time to get lost in thoughts and maybe sleep. You just wanted to close your eyes and—

“[name]!” So much for that.

You let out a long, dejected sigh, “What is it, Dante?” You shouted, cursing Dante for not leaving you alone on this fine day.

“Yo!” The brusque opening of the door startles you and you blush, angered that he made you jump. “Hah, did I scare you?”

“Fuck off, Dante. What do you want?” You resume your relaxed position, willing him away. 

“Well,” Dante closes the door and you hear his boots clomping on the floor, “I need you for something.” He sits down on the couch, at your feet. His fingers tentatively comb over your knees, but don’t go any further up.

“What? Not another prank of yours, please.”

“No, no, nothing like that—in fact, today I am serious.” That took you by surprise; that it rarely happened. Something was troubling him. You wondered what it was so you opened your eyes and stood up, giving him your full attention.

He deserved it—and you were genuinely curious about helping him.

“Wassup then, my mischievous demon hunter?” you ask, staring into his beautiful eyes. You started to feel slightly uncomfortable at the closeness between you two; but it’s nothing new. Being alone with him put you on the edge, even if Nero was not around. And about the topic of this serious discussion…

Nah. No way—

“It’s about Nero.”

Your heart instantly calmed down and you let out a suppressed sigh that you didn’t know you had inside. At least it’s not about you and Dante; but then anxiety crept up inside your heart, cold tendrils chilling your blood.

What was it with Nero?

Did something happen to him?

Was he hurt?

Missing?

All of these questions, Dante could read on your face, and he tried to reassure you with a smile.

“Nothing serious, promise,” he tells you. “It’s just—ugh, how the hell am I going to tell you this?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, frustrated. 

“With words?” you try to joke, but it comes out dry. What was going on here? He takes a deep breath, “Nero and Kyrie—” What about them? “—they broke up.”

The world comes tumbling down like thunder. You lose focus for a few seconds, your head spinning with shock and shame that the first thought that crossed your mind was: “I have a chance now!” That was horrible. You didn’t really mean it for them to break up. You wanted Nero to be happy, not miserable—and if Kyrie was his special one, then so be it. Hearing this piece of information baffled and upset you. Sure, Nero could’ve lied about how well he is doing in this relationship, but he was an honest person. He wouldn’t lie. So—

“Wha—” your throat feels dry, and you have to gulp to stabilize your voice. “What happened?”

Dante shrugs, “The kid won’t tell me. He was just mopey lately and then BAM! this pops out.” You noticed Nero was rather pissed off about something—or even slightly nostalgic. Maybe even sad, conflicted about something. You thought it was because of you and the fact that you were ignoring each other and obviously not working together. That was foolish—you were not that important and it’s not like he cared that much about you. You’ve been gone for a long time...

“I never noticed…” you say, heartbroken. You should’ve paid more attention to him and not act so butthurt. You could’ve helped him get past this, persuade him to not do it. He lost his mind, clearly. You could’ve done so much…

And yet you did nothing.

“Shit.”

Dante puts a comforting hand on your shoulder, but you don’t feel better. Nothing could make you feel better. Maybe just talking to Nero would, but did he really want that? To talk with you? How can you even approach such a subject? ‘Oh, hey, Nero, how are you and Kyrie lately?’ And then he’ll burst into tears because he was a crybaby when he was little. But he’s a grown man now—he’s different. You’re different and you can handle this, can’t you?   

“I want you to talk to him,” Dante seems to have the same idea. “You’re the closest to him. Maybe you can cheer him up.” He lowers his gaze, looking troubled. “I don’t know what to do.”

That warmed your heart, to be honest. “Never knew you cared so much about Nero, Dante.” Your laughter makes Dante’s cheeks go slightly pink, but he hides it well behind the white veil of hair. That was sweet of him. But you weren’t sure if you were the right choice for this; could you still cheer him up like you used to before? 

“I care about you all,” Dante interrupts your line of thought. You lift your head just in time to meet Dante’s lips on your forehead. It made you gasp in surprise—and your chest swelled with warmth. You closed your eyes and had a stupid smile on your face. Maybe this was all possible after all. “I just don’t show it.”

“Awww—”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill ya.”

“My lips are sealed,” you swear.

“Now go talk to Nero.”

With a deep sigh that gathers up your courage, you ask Dante where you can find the boy. He tells you he’s not far, chilling (as much as he could) on the roof of a nearby building. You were parked on the outskirts of the city, away from trouble. There were a few buildings around where Nero could’ve run—but still, it’s going to take some work.

Never mind; you’ll do this. For Nero’s sake.

Thanking Dante for warning you, you’re halfway to get out of the room when Dante calls after you: “Just don’t let him go this time.”

You don’t wait to ponder his words: and you don’t want to. He probably knows too much anyway, either by luck or he’s just very observant. But he’s right—you won’t let Nero alone anymore, no matter how much he hates you. He needs you, even if he won’t admit it. He always did; and you always needed him too. You loved him so damn much and he was a fool for being so blind. And you were a fool for letting him go before; you didn’t even hope to be his girlfriend or something—just for him to accept you again.

You’re out in the chilly air (you couldn’t really believe it was summer) and jump on a nearby building with ease. Looking back and forth, left and right, you try to decipher Nero’s silhouette in the dark, but you don’t spot him easily as you’re roaming. How far could he have gone? You have no idea—and just when you were about to move on, you catch a whiff of his smell. You follow it, heart rate increasing with each step. You jump onto another building and the scent is getting stronger: you’re on the right path. And, surely, you see his back as he’s sitting on the ledge, overseeing the city. You let out a huff, louder, in case he didn’t figure out you were here. This was it. You don’t hesitate as you carefully walk over, acting as if you weren’t losing your mind with worry over him. He looks so peaceful as he’s sitting there, soaking up the moon’s rays, dousing him in an ethereal light, the city glinting with yellow orbs like stars. It was a rather beautiful (and romantic) scenery, but you didn’t come here to admire the panorama.

You’re here for Nero.

He knows you’re there; of course he does. He turns his head halfway and you can see his chiseled profile. As perfect as ever and you catch your breath in your throat. But there is no time for fangirling over him. You’ve seen him a thousand times (and it never gets old) but no—focus on the task at hand, [name]. Nero says nothing as you slowly approach him, hands behind your back to appear nonchalant. You arrive by his side, his eyes trained on you curiously (yet almost predatory). You try not to shudder at the intensity in his gaze as you sit down next to him, as close as possible, without invading his privacy. He says nothing, returning his gaze to the moon, but you feel his warmth and sadness pouring out of him and your heart squeezes painfully. You want to help him be better, smile again; you should’ve been there for him when he needed you to be. Fuck that stupid prank: so what if he believed you liked Dante when it wasn’t true? You could’ve proved him wrong by never being with Dante. He was more like a (hot) father figure to you.

It didn’t matter now. You were here—and you had to make things right.

“Nero—”

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, abruptly. You don’t know why he’s so pissed off about, frowning and furrowing his brows. “You’re here to pity me.”

You shake your head, confused, “Why would I do that?”

“Everyone does. As if I got dumped.” There’s bitterness in his voice.

“Weren’t you?”

He snaps at you, “Do you really think Kyrie is capable of that? She loves me.” You say nothing. I love you too. Instead, you shrug and he goes on, answering your unsaid question. “I did it because I couldn’t lie to her anymore.”

That caught your attention. “Lie about what?”

But he doesn’t answer straight away and changes the subject, “How are you and Dante?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Really? Dante? He’s so stupid.

“Just—” he pleads you with his eyes, and you listen, “Just—answer the question.”

You sigh, shaking your head as if he’s a big baby (which he is) that didn’t understand when you told him the first time. “Nero, I told you it was just a stupid joke. Nico thought it was funny, but obviously it wasn’t.” You cross your arms, pouting. You haven’t forgiven Nico yet for lying, but lately, you’ve warmed up to her. The deed was done and you’re not one to hold grudges. “I can’t believe you all fell for it,” you felt like over-explaining yourself. But he wasn’t looking very happy with your response. “Dante is like a father to me. He’s attractive but—”

“Please, say no more,” he raises a hand to stop you, exasperated. “I don’t want to hear what you think about Dante.”

You playfully punch him in the arm, forgetting yourself for a few seconds. “Honestly—didn’t I hear you enough gushing about Kyrie? How does that make me feel?” You try to joke but the subject is too sour for Nero and he doesn’t respond. You sigh and add, just to reassure him, “I—I like someone else.”

That certainly caught his attention and he turns his head toward you so hard you were afraid it was going to pop. “What?” His eyes are wide with surprise and hurt and jealousy—and it hits you hard. “Who? When? How?” He was trying to find too much; and you weren’t sure you were in the mood to confess.

You twiddle with your thumbs, avoiding his inquisitive gaze. “I’m not going to tell you…”

“Why not? You’re my best friend! Do I have to remind—”

“We haven’t been acting like best friends lately…” you interrupt in a sad tone, a fleeting gaze in his direction. He shuts up and you feel bad. You chastise yourself: why were you making this harder than you need to? “Sorry, Nero. I didn’t mean to. But—” you inhale deeply, shaking, “—I’ll tell you who I like if…If you tell me why you broke up with Kyrie.”

He purses his lips, ponders the idea then, with sweaty palms and thundering heart, he feels ready. Well, as ready as a heartbroken man could be, after making the biggest decision of his life. He’s going to face you head-on, heart open, not lies. He left Kyrie to do this; he got nothing else to lose but you, if you’re going to reject him now.

No time to be afraid.

So many maybes, so many ifs…

He should just go for it. Nero shyly grabs your hand, interlacing your fingers with yours. You’re taken aback, but you don’t pull away, looking at him with questioning eyes—and fear. What was going on here? He doesn’t let on into anything, despite usually being open like a book. He hides from you, jaw set tight. He’s tense and he’s slightly squeezing your hand, nervously. This was nerve-wracking and you hate the tiny hope blooming into your chest.

You squeeze his hand back, encouragingly.

“Kyrie’s a good girl, she deserves better—but she’s not you.”

The words catch you unawares, but they’re soft and warms your heart. You relax and accept the meaning as if this was normal. You want to fly away to the moon with him in tow, to kiss him just then and there, to hug him and cry, tell him how much you loved him in return. But you suppress that suffocating affectionate feeling and wait for him to continue. It was kind of hard, though, fighting that smile off our face, the blush from your cheeks. You try to hide it behind your hand, though.

You squeeze him harder, giving him a sign that it was ok.

Nero can’t find his words, but he tries to. He has so much to say to you, he just doesn’t know where to start. It wasn’t as if his relationship with Kyrie was a lie; he really did care about her and he loved her in a different way than he did you. It has just been so easy for him to push you out of his mind when you left. He did it because he was hurt, he did it because he was young and curious and he was attracted to Kyrie. He did it because he never believed you’d like him back and he didn’t want to ruin your relationship. You were just kids—then all turned serious and you were gone and he was lost. When you came back, his whole world turned upside-down and feelings he thought he forgot came back, making him confused. He was in love with you again, like before. He got jealous over you liking Dante and, as much as he tried to deny it, he couldn’t. You were back in his life and he couldn’t lie to Kyrie anymore. He had to break it off—he did, explained everything and it was fine. As much as it could be in this situation. He hated himself for doing this to her, after everything they’ve been through. But it wasn’t fair—not for her, not for him, and not for you. He was risking it all here.

And he found his words.

“You weren’t supposed to come back. But you did—and I realized I never forgot you.” He’s getting emotional again, despite trying to hide it so badly.

You give him a helping hand, “You know who I love, Nero?”

The moment of truth—at least for him. He doesn’t know what you’re feeling, but you didn’t pull away until now so he has high hopes. Content with all of this, you rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes.

“You. It was always you.”

“Really?” He can’t believe it and his voice is quivering, but he’s happy. He puts an arm around your shoulder, bringing you even closer to him. “You’re not fucking with me, aren’t you?��

“I’d never.” You’re smiling like a fool. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear this.”

“Haven’t said anything, though.”

“You want to say this wasn’t a love confession from you, Nero?”

He shrugs, but then softly kisses your hair. “I don’t know. You tell me.” “I think it was. Stop trying to act all cocky,” you laugh.

“You like me cocky, don’t lie.”

You let out an ugly chuckle, “We haven’t got there yet, ass.”

It feels good to joke like this and it eases the tension between you two. You stay there, in silence, enjoying each other’s presence and thinking about what all this new information means for either of you. Will you take the next step and be together? But what about Kyrie? That would hurt her, won’t it? You can’t just act like assholes in front of her. But you oh-so-wanted to be together with him—finally.

“So, what now?” you have to ask.

“I still can’t get my head wrapped around this,” Nero answers. “All’s too fresh.”

“Yeah,” you admit. You didn’t want to feel guilty about being with Nero. “Do you think we should wait, figure things out?”

“I know what I want, it’s just—”

“I understand. Kyrie’s my friend too. I never meant it to end like this. My feelings for you—they were going to stay hidden.”

“You would have done that?”

“For you, yes. Anything to make you happy.”

Nero scoffs, “Cheesy.”

“Don’t underestimate my feelings,” you laugh.

“Never again.”

With that, you fall into silence again; but it was a comforting silence, one that spoke many words. You knew what you had to do: wait until you were ready to come out to the others that you were in a relationship. Because this what it was about, there’s no doubt. You two were together—what else was there? Whatever his decision, you’re going to accept it.

“Should we go back?” Nero asks after noticing you slightly shivering. He pulls you even closer to his hot body.

“Can I get a kiss if we do?” You ask, cheekily.

The young demon hunter flushes red in embarrassment and you’re glad you sneaked a peek at him. He looks so adorable, eyes bright, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked soft and—dare you say it out loud—in love? Ha ha. Nero—in love—with you. That’s a funny thought. It was so funny to you that you burst into soft laughter; a thing that startles him. He lets you go as you stand up, stretching. Your whole mood lifted—and you were glad that you made him happy too. Things were looking great (ok, but you were still feeling bad about Kyrie, hope she’ll forgive you two).

“I was just joking, Nero, don’t look at me like that.” The demon hunter looked lost—but you didn’t need a kiss from him to prove anything. His words and actions were enough. “Come on, let’s go.”

You turn around to go, expecting him to follow you. You hear him stand up—then your name coming out of his mouth. Before you could turn around on your own, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward him. You stumble into his arms, but he’s quick to react and lifts your chin. He meets you straight-on, a bit clumsy, a bit too forceful. But your lips were on his—and it was a kiss alright. It’s brief and you crave for more sweetness, but he doesn’t let you. He’s smirking as if he pulled the biggest prank on you—the cocky little shit. Yet that tiny blush on his cheeks was giving him away. Nero always was a nervous wreck when it came to romance, but it’s nice to see him so confident. 

“What—”

“It’s a promise, [name].”

There’s more where this came from. –

[masterlist]

[lygerastia]

emotional jinx (Nero) - Part 2

Summary:  You are Nero's childhood friend who disappeared on him one day, leaving him heartbroken and confused: and straight into Kyrie's arms.

Now, you have returned--and the demon hunter's world turns around as he remembers his forgotten feelings for you. But he's with Kyrie and... What will he do? And what will you do when Nero believes you like Dante?

Warnings: none

Chapters: 2 / 4 [Completed] 

READ IT ON AO3. 

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4.

**

“[name], pass me the sunscreen, please?” Nico, the one you got the closest to, says, extending her hand. Today was beach day—Dante (go figure) proposed that you relaxed for the day after weeks of fighting demons. It got tiring and everyone was cranky and on edge. Before an internal personality battle could ensue, this idea popped into Dante’s head. So here you guys were: the end of the world forgotten, your group just trying to enjoy a good sunny day.

“You’re so lazy, Nico, it’s right next to you.” You roll your eyes at her antics, a playful smile on your face. You still pass her the recipient after seeing her pouting.

“Thank youuuuu!” she sings in her thick accent, applying the cream on her arms.

A short laugh erupts from your lips, then you resume relaxing, putting your sunglasses back on your nose. It was the perfect cover that let you admire Nero from afar without looking like a stalker (even if it kinda was a pervert move). You weren’t doing anything bad: beautiful things were meant to be worshiped. And your childhood friend surely had a body that was intended to be praised. Six pack abs, nice muscles on his thighs and arms—a wonderful well-built back. Not to mention that sweet ass of his. All were waiting for you to drool over.

“Nero!”

Except that, he wasn’t yours. Kyrie was here. Just now, she was running toward him in her cute and simple costume that made every male turn their heads. She had a certain innocent charm and you could see her appeal. Nero was one lucky man. Meanwhile, you felt like you were trying too hard, with your over-the-top and revealing swimsuit. It left little to the imagination, unlike the other girls’ outfit. You thought you were over Nero, your feelings subsiding, especially after seeing him around his girlfriend. Seems like your mind still wanted to believe—to be admired by him. You pretended like you didn’t care, though; so you were unsure if it really had any effect. It didn’t work on Nero, but Dante was certainly interested. The older man made a perverted comment about your costume, which you ignored with a polite laugh. Dante’s presence…Well, you could say that he was rather attractive and his comments made you flush with confidence. Everyone liked to be complimented from time to time, and you were no different.

At least Dante noticed your efforts.

“Stop starin’ at Nero, that’s gross,” Nico scrunches her nose in mock disgust.

You blush a deep red, protesting, “No, I’m not!”

“He has a girlfriend. Hands off.”

“I’m his friend, Nico,” you roll your eyes. “Childhood friend, in fact. I know everything about Nero!” You weren’t going to admit that you’ve been indeed stalking him. No one needed to know about your crush. And, knowing Nico, she might spill it out to the wrong people.

“You were an item, then? Before?”

The mere thought of you and Nero being a couple opened up a badly stitched wound. You bristled, going defensive, “No—we’ve never…ahem, it wasn’t like that, honest.”

“Mmmhhhmmm,” Nico wasn’t convinced. “Tell that to someone who buys your bullshit.”

You frowned, pissed. “What makes you think that, then?”

“I’ve seen the way you two ogle at each other. Can’t lie to me!” The dark-haired female seemed very proud of herself for finding something out that wasn’t true. You just wanted to swat that victorious smirk off Nico’s face. She went on, “I don’t know what Kyrie is going to say about that when I tell—”

“Don’t you dare!” you snap, jumping on your feet with cat-like agility. Your nostrils flare with despair, glaring daggers at the smiling female. “Seriously, Nico,” you lowered your voice as to not attract attention, “there’s nothing going on between us.” You spread your arms, helpless. “Don’t tell—”

“Bla bla bla bla,” Nico mocks you, sticking out her tongue playfully. But you weren’t amused. “I’ll just go right now—”

“Nico!” you grab her shoulders, shaking her with vigor. When you saw her befuddled expression, you stopped, calming yourself down. You weren’t helping your situation by acting all crazy about it; don’t show anything was wrong and no one will care. “Kyrie already knows the truth. She’s been with us since forever and she knows we’ve never done things like this. So…”

“You could’ve hidden from her,” the woman continues on teasing you.

“Nico…” This was getting tiring.

“Alright, alright.” She conceded and you removed your hands with a sigh.

“Honestly—”

“SYKE!”

“Wha—”

Like a leopard, she leaped to her feet, pushed you out of her way, and darted toward the couple (who were minding their own business and acting all cutesy with each other). “NICO!” This time, you didn’t hide your anger; she had no right to meddle in your affairs, even if you considered her a friend. You started running after her at an impossible speed, the likes of which you were never capable of even when fighting demons. But you had to stop her—you might play it off as a stupid joke (since no one took the female seriously), but Nico wouldn’t let you live it down. “NICO! COME BACK!”

“HEY, NERO! DID YOU KNOW [NA—]”

Before she could say something incriminating, the air goes out of her as you tackle her to the ground. Nico falls faceplanting in the sand, with you on top. You struggle to keep her there while smiling as innocently as possible at your childhood friend (and his consort). “Hi, Nero! Don’t listen to what Nico—”

“Pfaaaaaaa!” Nico groans, lifting her head and spitting out sand. With fierce determination, she squirms underneath you until you lose your balance. She was very violent and her outburst took you by surprise. She manages to topple you, triumphant—but instead, you grab her in a grip-lock by the arms, wrestling her into submission. But she was a wild stallion, and her mouth couldn’t shut up. “DID YOU KNOW [NAAAAME] AHAHA, that tickles!”

Nero, sighing in frustration, runs a hand over his face, while Kyrie kindly giggles by his side.

“Will you two quit it before someone gets hurt?” he says, looking done.

“Get’er off me!” Nico shouts, extending a hand toward her partner. At the same time, you were pleading him not to listen with your eyes. Nero doesn’t look that convinced, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Nero, please!” Nico continued to plead.

“Just—Let her tell me. It can’t be that bad.” He shot you an apologetic look when he saw your venomously betrayed one. “C’mon, [name]. You said to not believe her, anyway. I believe you.”

Damn your easily excited heart and his kind words. You grimace.

“Ha ha, I win!” She immediately regrets it when she looked into your eyes and sees a death threat in them. She gulped, whimpering. “Um...”

Tell him and you die (metaphorically).

“She—She, uhh, l-l-likes…” Nero cocks his head to the side, crossing his arms over his chest: but curiosity was written all over his face. [name]’s grip on Nico tightened just a little bit. “SHELIKESDANTE!”

“…”

“:O”

“Oh my…”

“Say that again? Didn’t hear ya well, Nico.”

Nero was really curious about this; did he hear correctly? You like Dante? As in like-like? He hates the feeling that was stirring in him, a strange kind of jealousy in his chest. Meanwhile, you let go of Nico, face drained of color—yet darkening a dangerous shade of black. She was so dead.

“She—She—She uhh, likessss…ummmm…” Nico couldn’t continue, fearing her incoming demise.

But Kyrie heard her very well, “Dante? You like Dante?” The redhead chuckled amused yet extremely innocently. The prospect of romance entertained her and, honestly, you couldn’t be upset at her for spilling it out. You sighed, judging by Nero’s expression that he believed it completely and that you were fucked. Great—if Dante finds out this lie, he’ll make fun of you until your mind explodes.

You sigh, getting off Nico. The girl scrambles to her feet, stepping away from you, hands in the air, afraid. You let her off, dejected, shooting Nero a hurt look, “You said you won’t believe it…”

“I—I don’t!” he says, defensive. He did—you knew better.

“I don’t like Dante,” you say anyway. “Nico’s just joking.” You sound sadder than you wanted, more disappointed that Nero didn’t get jealous or something. But what the fuck did you expect? Kyrie was standing right next to him—did you really think he was going to betray some imaginary feelings while she was around? Silly [name]. Of course he wasn’t going to, even if he was rather transparent when it came to his feelings. You could read his emotions like a book; or used to, anyway. It’s been a while, no? Things have changed. It wasn’t as if he was going to be as easy to understand as before. You could see the loving way he gazed at the redhead; there was no place for you in his heart. You knew that.

You still hoped, though.

“Ok, ok,” Nero attempts a teasing smirk, grabbing Kyrie’s hand for comfort. A movement that doesn’t escape your eye. You try not to be disappointed. “Well, you’re in for a challenge. I’ve never seen Dante with a lady—and I’m not referring to Lady.”

Kyrie flashed him a confused look, “Didn’t you use to accompany him to strip clubs when—”

“Kyrie!”

You laughed dryly, “Busted, Nero. I know Dante’s a skank anyway,” you rolled your eyes. “Now—” you cracked your knuckles, “—excuse me, I’ve got something to take care of.”

You turned, bellowing, “NICO!”

The girl in question yelped. She tried to run away from you while you weren’t paying attention, but she wasn’t fast enough and you weren’t going to leave her live with her mistake. “GET READY, NICO!” With that threat, you started running toward her, using your fiercest battle cry to scare her off. It had the effect you intended and, with a squeal, Nico dashed away from you while all laughed.

The game was on.

**

After you dunked Nico into the sea a couple of times to make sure she got the message (never fuck with you again), you got tired. With a sigh, you tried to pay attention to the melting ice-cream in your hand, but you didn’t have an appetite. All of the joy disappeared when Nico opened her big mouth and lied. You could play it off as nothing, as if the girl had nothing better to do than make fun of you. But they would be suspicious now and would never look at you and Dante the same way. They’ll really think...

You sigh once again, taking a tentative lick at the sweet.

“Never knew ice-cream could make someone sad, but there’s a first time for everything.”

Of course: Dante.

The man of the hour coming at the right moment, as usual. He had no care in the world, lazily smirking in your direction as he leans on the table you were sitting at. You tried not to hold a grudge against him since he wasn’t at fault here. He was a ‘victim’, if you could ever call Dante innocent. He was far from a saint, a devil in disguise tempting you on the path of sin. If you were weak-willed, you probably would’ve fallen for him, for his sweet words. He talked as if he was always trying to charm the pants off of you (which he probably did), except when talking to Lady and Trish. They were old friends, you thought; or, at least, so it seemed. You weren’t aware of any past romance involvement between them.

But you’ve only been with them for a few weeks. You wouldn’t know.

“Hey, Dante,” you eyed him up and down, sort of liking what you saw. “Where’ve you been?” He has been missing the whole ‘party’, even if he has been the one to suggest it. Still, he was a sight, on par with Nero. You might even say they are related. Only a coincidence. Anyway, he was distracting in all the good ways, muscles and curves. He noticed you staring and his smirk grew larger, flexing his arms so you can get a better view. You laughed at that—he was ridiculously cute.

“Ya know, around.” You shot him a suspicious glance. Dante raised his arms in surrender, as if he had nothing up his sleeve, but you didn’t believe him one bit.

“What are you up to?”

Dante feigned hurt, but he was sneaky either way, “Nothing. What gave you that idea?”

“I hope you don’t plan on throwing water balloons at people again,” you roll your eyes, laughing at the ridiculousness of this suggestion. But Dante’s rather guilty and mischievous expression told you that he was gonna do just that. “Dante, NO.”

“Come oooooooon,” he whined, leaning over to you with his puppy eyes.

“I don’t think the girls would appreciate you throwing water balloons at them.”

“What if it’s balloons—with color?”

You sigh in frustration. “Dante, please—”

“You can’t stop me—”

“—you’ll get in trouble—”

“—so you just have to join me.”

“I won’t! Why did you tell me?”

“Cause I want you as—”

“—as your scapegoat—”

“—partner in crime. I want you as my partner.”

The use of that word, regardless of the context, reminded you of your problems. You shouldn’t be seen with Dante alone—who knows what people might think? There was no way you would help him pranks the guys; they’ll get revenge as soon as possible. If Dante wanted trouble, then he was welcome to do it to himself. Besides, you haven’t got beef with anyone except—

Nico!

She hasn't been punished enough.

Dante saw the fleeting smirk on your face and knew he got you hooked. Damn him for actually knowing how to pull your strings to get to agree.

“Dante, no, only Ni—”

But your words got lost when the ground started to shake. Both of you looked at one another, alert all of a sudden: this was not a normal earthquake. They knew better and it meant one thing.

A demon.

“Seems like we have to postpone your revenge for another time, birdie,” Dante says, putting his game-face on. You cringed at the pet-name he usually gave you (and many others, he just liked to alternate between them and come up with new ones every week)—they were uncalled for, even if no one ever called you that. No one really showed you excessive affection; not even Nero dared to call you in some way. Which only dampened your spirits—but you pushed the feeling away. This was not the time. “Here comes trouble.”

A deep rumble came from the sea and you both turned around to look at the source. At first, there was nothing. But with a terrifying groan (which left you two unimpressed, judging by the shit you’ve seen during your life), a figure—tall, menacing—started emerging from the waves. It kept on growing, reaching skyscraper height. Dante whistled in admiration, while you frowned at the people around you: they were gaping like fish at the incoming threat instead of running away. Who stops to look at whatever monstrosity will come out of the waters? You would believe they’d know better.

Anyway, the waters finally recede from the corpse of the demon and you get a good look at it. It had dark skin, the body was slender, skeletal: you could see the skin flapping in the wind around his ribs. Disgusting—but you were used to all the things that would’ve made anyone barf. Two red eyes, sunken into the skull, stared into nothingness, full of evil. You would’ve shuddered; but those long arms and sharpened claws didn’t scare you. Not anymore. The demon had no mouth, which made it uglier and horrific than anything. Many people started screaming and they grabbed their kids and started running—finally.

“That’s one ugly motherfucker,” Dante comments, then smirks at you. “Where’s your gear?”

“In the van,” you point at it, a few meters away. Great—you had to run to get there. But that was no problem. “You?”

“Uhh, I left my coat somewhere—” he scans around and sees it in Trish’s hands, who was dangling it over tentatively. She was very sassy, hand on her hip, a raised eyebrow; Dante smirked in return and, for the first time, you wondered if there was something going on between them. You wouldn’t have minded, not one bit—it will just save you from the rumors probably running behind your back. “Well, there’s my ride.” You chuckle, rolling your eyes.

“Trish is always your savior, huh?”

“Why, you jealous?” He likes teasing you—like usual.

Before you could respond (and, fuck, are you blushing?), the demon decides you ignored it enough. He bellows out a cry, one that creates a big wave of air, throwing everything in its path away. ‘There goes my brand-new towel’ you sigh, dejectedly. You just bought it with the little money you had—so it was a shame. You stand your ground though, shielding your eyes from the sand with your hand (while Dante stands in his chair, as if nothing could move him). You roll your eyes at his bravado, watching things fly by you and trying to dodge things that were getting too near you. No sweat; you just had to wait until the monster finished so you can start kicking ass then take names. It took a few seconds to notice that something sticky and cold was running down your fingers and hand (and probably has been since Dante came into the picture). You looked down at your empty cone and yell in distress:  

“Aw, fuck, my ice-cream!”

You were extremely disappointed; this was probably the only thing that you were excited about today (that, and Nero). It would’ve cheered you up, but you completely forgot about it, lost in your thoughts about your lover boy. Then there was Dante—you shot him a foul look, as if it was his fault you weren’t paying attention. He shrugs, showing off a rare honest smile, “I’ll but you another one as an apology, ok?” To prove his point, he ruffles your hair.

You sigh, but you’re pleased with his answer. You’ll hold onto his promise. “Yeah, kay, whatever.” You snatch a nearby towel that was flying around just then and wipe your hand. Lucky you. “I think we have a demon to destroy, huh?”

“I guess so,” Dante cracks his knuckles. “Ready?”

“Born that way, baby,” you respond, grinning widely.

“I like that.”

In unison, you two start to move, dashing with a start and trying to fight off the current to get back to the van. It’s not that easy but not as hard; obviously, Dante is doing way better than you. What a badass—you envied him for his demon blood and his not-giving-a-fuck attitude. That was one quality (and only quality) you admired in Dante. Maybe his hotness too—but ehh, Nero toppled him. And why the hell were you thinking of Nero again? Probably because you were worried. As you were running, your eyes kept on searching for the white-haired boy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, he was fine.

You didn’t have time to think about that anymore since you finally arrived at the van. You open the door going inside and grabbing your gear, while Dante disappears from your side, reaching Trish to take his coat and whatever he had stashed there. You took your favorite weapon, the guns, the slick katana, holstering them to the belt at your waist. You had no time to change from your bikini, but you had no problem with that. Fewer stains to clean afterward. Demon hunting was a messy job. Besides, you’d probably get rid of this costume after all this. When you were ready and prepped, you got out, jumping on top of the van to survey the situation. The demon decided to stop trying to blow you all away, and was watching something in the distance, toward the city, an unknown point of interest. Uh-oh—seems like he had other plans. But your gang is going to stop it right here, right now.

You were about to say something, when something incredible happened: the monster vanished. You blinked, confused as to where it disappeared, when you heard a hissing sound behind you. Turning, the demon was rapidly making its way toward the city, undisturbed by you guys. Incredible! What a rude demon, not even acknowledging you. Oh well—seems like it wanted you to give chase. And that’s what you were going to do. You spot your handsome boy and call out his name:

“Nero—”

“I’ll get Kyrie to safety,” he is not even listening to you, though. He’s holding the red-head by the waist, close to him. Kyrie clings to him, scared. Your heart sinks. He wants to go alone? He really could use a hand with this, he can’t— “[name], go with Dante.” Nero looks at you, awaiting your approval. You can’t believe it; he really was blowing you off to…to…He’s secretly eyeing Dante and you know what this is about. You wanted to yell at him to fuck off, that it was not true: but you keep quiet, not hiding the hurt in your eyes. It shames Nero, but he’s obstinate and looks away, mouth set in a straight line. “You guys can handle it, no?” he is paying more attention to Dante than you.

“No problem.” Dante nods. “You protect your lady.”

Ugh. You jump next to Dante, ignoring Nero, who picked Kyrie bridal style and started running away. You humphed: that was really uncalled for. But you had a job to do. And you were going to do it efficiently and clean like always.

You look at Dante—he was ready.

**

The demon got inside the city before you two reached him, despite riding Dante’s motorcycle. But you were there now, right behind it, and you got down off of it, somewhat missing the demon hunter’s scent. He insisted on this ride (you weren’t going to say ‘no’ in favor of running), saying that it was faster. ‘And that looks like an urgent business.’ You agreed and held onto Dante tight, racing the van holding Trish, Nico, and Lady.

“Look!” you point out at the demon, at the big red swollen spot on the nape of its neck. It shouted ‘weakness’ in bright lights.

Dante hums, takes his gun out and fires, on point. It doesn’t do much damage, but it certainly hurts the demon. Like a mosquito bite. Not wanting to be topped, you charge your gun and fire at the same spot. You like impressing people with your skills, and Dante whistles in response. However, your bullet attracted the demon’s attention. It hurt him. He lets out a groan, in pain, puts a hand over the blob, and slowly turns around. Those deep ruby eyes (more like holes) stop on the two of you, hatred and malice. It seemed to say ‘Don’t get in my way’, but of course you were going to get in the way.

“That certainly got his attention,” Dante laughs.

You shrugged, “Wasn’t that the point?”

“I like that you’re direct.” He winks.

“Think we can take it down before the others arrive?”

“Definitely,” he turns to you. “Can you keep up with me?”

“Puh-lease,” you roll your eyes.

The white-haired demon hunter doesn’t answer; instead, he takes out Rebellion. Likewise, you unsheathe your katana, taking a stance. You were both ready and, with a fleeting gaze at one another, you acquiesce to what you need to do. No words pass between you—it was like with Nero. You didn’t need to say anything, just think the same way. It was something you two had—that connection was special, you didn’t want anyone to intrude. Especially not Dante. But Nero fucked you over and screw it! You were disappointed Nero wasn’t here to see how the two of you were interacting (little did you know). Nero shouldn’t complain—and you had half in mind to let him be alone from now on. He clearly needed no partner. But hey, this was just your current bitterness talking. Nero would do something to win your affection again. It was weird, though: it looked like Nero was jealous.

No way.

So, after agreeing to (hopefully) the same thing, the demon starts attacking, thinking that you were easy targets. He uses one clawed hand to attack you, swooping down to swat you like a bug. It’s slow and you dodge to the side easily. It tries again with the other hand: still the same result, jumping off its arm and twirling. You don’t anticipate the demon shooting lasers out of its eyes, though. It almost zaps you, but you’re picked up from the air and into some strong arms. Dante saves you from harm and you pout, not liking the position you’re in. But what can you do? Getting killed? You wouldn’t forgive yourself for this mistake.

Luckily…

“Never took you for the damsel in distress,” Dante chuckles, dodging red lasers with ease. However, buildings and roads started exploding behind you. It was mayhem, loud sounds all over, deafening, but you didn’t even flinch as rubble flew around you, almost scraping your cheek, dust getting into your eyes. Ugh, you fucking hated this part of the fight. Why couldn’t demons be clean and nice and not make a mess out of things?

Finally, the laser runs out of steam, and Dante finds a place to stop, on a rooftop. He puts you down, but not before running his hand on your hips, cheekily. You squeak and glare at him, while he smiles cutely.

“Stop that,” you threaten, but you’re more bark than bite. Being appreciated by a man by his caliber wasn’t something that bad. “We need to focus.”

Dante raises his palms in surrender, “Hey, your outfit is really distracting.” The white-haired demon hunter winked, leaning closer to you, “Who are you trying to impress, huh? Is it me?” His tone of voice is alluring and you’re tempted to just tiptoe and kiss him. What would those velvet lips of his taste like?

You’ve always wondered that Nero’s would…

“I—” you want to say ‘no’, to deny it. Isn’t it time to move on from Nero? He’ll always be with Kyrie—those were your insecurities talking. You can’t forget Nero and so what if you’re a hopeless romantic at heart that can get no romance? Your luck will come; you’ll just have to hold on a bit more. Maybe Dante will be the one—for now, you put on a rather flirty, dare you say, smile, batting your eyelashes at him. “No—but I appreciate admirers.”

Dante likes that, judging by the spark in his eyes. He leans even more and you can smell his minty breath on your lips and there’s nothing stopping you from reaching out. You just need a push and he can be all yours, right here, right now. But there’s hesitation in you and he can sense that. You see the same hesitation in him, like he’s not ready—no, like he never considered this prospect in the first place. He was only flirting for fun, not because—the realization blows your mind and you’re relieved. But he goes on anyway, asking you:

“Hmm, then who has your heart, darling?”

You don’t get to answer—and you don’t want to. Telling Dante about Nero would be a huge mistake. Luckily (or not so), the demon starts attacking you two again, as if reminding you to pay attention to him (Hello, we’re fighting here?). This time, you go on separate ways, but there was no way you’re going to dilly-dally again. Honestly, you’ve wasted enough time. So, with a meaningful look at Dante, who somehow ended up on the other side of the street, you jump as high as you can, ending up on the demon’s shoulder. With a perfectly executed twirl and a well-placed target, you aimed at the weak spot and shot at it. It isn’t enough to do any real damage. Dante follows your lead, does the same thing: but you need to change your tactics.

“We have to bring him down, Dante!” you say as you two land down.

“Easy,” he dashes at the same time as you. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

You huff in agreement, focused on the task at hand. You go right between the demon’s legs, each of you slashing the Achille's heel. The monster hisses in pain and opens the mouth you didn’t think it had and yells. It’s a deranged sound and it makes your skin crawl, but you’re glad to see that it made the monster kneel. It falls on its fours, looking even grotesque now that it was down. You don’t waste time and you two jump on it, aiming your weapons at the weak spot. You hack and slash and Dante uses one of his fancy moves to give it the finishing blow. The red bubble bursts into a cloud of intoxicating smoke, a few drops of blood—acid—fly toward you but you dodge them before they can burn you, jumping off the body in case it exploded or something. Nothing of the sort happened, but you’re still a few feet clear of it, Dante grinning by your side.

“Good job, sweets,” he roughly puts a hand over your shoulder. “We make a good team.”

You laugh half-heartedly, thoughts back on Nero. You wish he was your partner again, to share this moment with him, not Dante. But he’s not here.

And maybe—maybe that’s fine.

Who are you lying to?

**

Nero sees all of it. From the beginning to the end. And he’s envious by the obvious chemistry between the two of you, how easy was for you two to understand each other. Was it the same with you and him? It makes him wonder and he’s definitely jealous—but he has no reason to. He’s just happy to see you, his childhood friend, after such a long time. He has always liked you—spending time with you. Precious memories he wouldn’t trade for the whole world. So of course he wanted to keep you for himself. But you—liking Dante.

It sounded impossible. It always seemed like you...admired him. Now—fuck, he was at a loss, he wasn’t sure you felt the same as you did all those years ago. But he had Kyrie, why was he thinking about you when—

‘You know the answer, Nero.’

He does. He never forgot about it.

Dante knows he’s there. When you’re not paying attention, he turns around and offers him a look that had only one message:

What are you going to do about it, kid, if it bothers you so much?

Nero had no clue.

–

[masterlist]