ᝰ.ᐟ niccolò govender rossi x fem! reader
the bass downstairs isn’t just sound anymore. it’s a physical weight, a slow, relentless thud that travels through the cold marble floors and straight into your bone marrow, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. it makes everything feel slightly off-beat, like your body is no longer entirely your own, surrendered to the rhythm of a room you don’t even want to be in. it’s just another meaningless parioli party, built on pure gloss and hollow chests. prosecco sweats in thin-stemmed glasses, heavy designer perfume hangs too sweet and suffocating in the overheated air, and the smoke curls in artificial cherry spirals that cling to your hair, your clothes, the very back of your throat.
everyone here is beautifully tragic. everyone is entirely bored. everyone is playing the same exhausting game of pretending not to care while dying to be perceived.
you can’t stand another second of it.
you slip out between the crushing bodies and the laughter that rings hollow, pushing through the heavy glass doors like a diver finally surfacing from a suffocating depth.
the night hits you all at once.
cold. soaked. violently alive.
the rain falls hard enough to sting, a cleansing downpour that turns the roman pavement into a sprawling sheet of black glass. the ancient city reflects itself in broken, jagged pieces under your boots. streaks of bleeding neon, blurred golden headlights, an atmosphere that feels restless and entirely electric. you tilt your head back, inhaling deeply, and for the first time all evening, the oxygen actually reaches your lungs. the air finally feels like it belongs to you.
you linger just beneath the edge of the awning, your jacket turning damp anyway, your cold fingers searching your pocket for a lighter out of habit rather than actual need.
a low, aggressive tremor in the pavement.
its deep, guttural hum cuts through the white noise of the rain not by sheer volume, but by its pure, undeniable presence. it’s a sound that is restrained but deeply expensive, a dark, mechanical purr that doesn’t ask for attention because it naturally commands it.
the matte black porsche 911 glides up the curved driveway, its dark surface drinking in the ambient light instead of reflecting it. the heavy rain slides over its sleek curves in clean, quick lines. it moves at a crawl, almost lazily, but there’s a distinct, undeniable intention in it. something quiet and predatory in the way it closes the distance between you and the rest of the world.
the headlights wash over you for a fraction of a second – a blinding, brilliant white – and then they die out.
the tinted passenger window lowers with a smooth mechanical hum.
niccolò is leaning across the center console. his arm is draped loosely over the leather, his long fingers relaxed like he’s never held a single ounce of tension a day in his life. his light brown hair is damp from the weather, noticeably darker at the roots, pushed back carelessly but already falling stubbornly forward into his eyes. a single, heavy drop of rain traces a path from his temple, running down the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw before disappearing silently beneath the collar of his jacket.
his eyes lock onto yours immediately.
there is no trademark smirk tonight. no sharp mockery. no arrogance. no rehearsed parioli performance.
just a heavy, unblinking focus.
“dai, sali,” he says. his voice is a rough, low timber, quiet enough that you feel the vibration of it in your chest more than you actually hear it over the storm. “unless trying to catch pneumonia is your new aesthetic.”
you hesitate, but it’s brief, entirely instinctive, and already fading into the wet pavement.
you’ve always kept him at a calculated distance. close enough to stay in his orbit, far enough away not to get burned by the friction. niccolò govender rossi is the exact kind of mistake people make on purpose, just to have a secret to regret in private.
you glance over your shoulder at the villa – the blinding light, the bleeding noise, the suffocating heat – then back out at the endless rain.
you pull the heavy door open and slip into the low, bucket seat.
the shift in reality is immediate.
the outside world is severed completely, cleanly cut away like a heavy vault door closing on a chaos you hadn’t fully realized was draining you dry. inside the cabin, everything is muted, dangerously contained. the violent downpour becomes a steady, muffled rhythm against the metal roof, softer now, plunging the space into a sudden, deep intimacy.
the air is warmer. thicker. hard to breathe in a completely different way.
it smells intoxicating. a heavy, sensory blend of raw, expensive leather worn in just enough to hold onto memories. the lingering ghost of cigarette smoke, permanent and deep. and underneath it all, the undeniable scent of him, something woody, and clean, with a sharp, biting edge of bergamot that hooks itself right at the base of your throat.
“seatbelt,” he murmurs, his tone low and authoritative, his hand already shifting effortlessly into gear.
you pull the stiff strap tightly across your chest, the metallic click echoing loudly, a final sound in the quiet cabin.
the second it locks, his foot presses down.
the car surges forward, not with sudden recklessness, but with a brutal, decisive power. the heavy g-force presses you deep into the stiff leather seat, your breath catching sharply in your chest as the wide rear tires briefly lose grip on the slick asphalt, before aggressively finding traction and launching you into the dark. the force isn’t messy or chaotic, it’s controlled. terrifyingly controlled. he drives like he’s trying to outrun whatever is rotting inside his own head, knowing exactly how far he can push the absolute limit before something shatters.
rome unfolds around you in violent, bleeding streaks of light and shadow. the ancient buildings blur into one another, liquid gold dissolving into ink-black nights, the reflections of streetlamps shattering like glass across the wet streets. the windshield gathers heavy rain faster than the blades can fully erase it, leaving the entire city slightly distorted, like a fever dream you’re entirely unwilling to wake from.
you don’t look away from him.
his hands rest easily on the alcantara wheel, his grip loose but brutally exact. there is a subtle, fluid flex in his wrist with every sharp turn. the rhythmic flash of the passing streetlights carves his profile into striking fragments. the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the tight line of his mouth, the dark, heavy shadow of his lashes against his skin. his expression is stripped down to the studs, reduced to something much quieter, something raw that doesn’t belong to crowded vip booths or careless, empty laughter.
this version of him feels dangerous. it feels incredibly real.
a low, hypnotic bassline hums quietly through the high-end speakers, a rhythm that is felt in the blood rather than heard, a steady pulse that threads perfectly through the purr of the engine, syncing flawlessly with the adrenaline hammering in your veins.
he glances at you from the corner of his eye.
it’s quick. measuring. completely piercing.
he sees that you’re not gripping the door handle. you’re not bracing for impact. you’re not asking him to slow down.
something in the tight line of his mouth shifts, a microscopic softening that looks like approval.
he pushes the throttle even harder.
the dense, claustrophobic city thins out behind you, quickly replaced by the wide, winding roads of the gianicolo that climb and curve dangerously, slick as ice with the rain. dark trees blur past in heavy, black strokes. the engine growls deeper as he downshifts, the exhaust letting out a series of aggressive, crackling pops that echo sharply against the wet stone walls before dissolving into the open night air.
then, he pulls off into a secluded, hidden overlook. he kills the headlights, and finally, the engine.
stillness drops into the cabin, sudden and suffocatingly heavy.
the rain reclaims the silence, drumming aggressively against the roof, streaking the dark glass in uneven, chaotic lines. far below you, the sprawling city of rome stretches wide and beautifully distant, glowing in scattered, breathing clusters of light, soft, pulsing gold against the pitch black, looking like something half-remembered and untouched.
inside the car, the entire atmosphere shifts.
the cabin is slowly cooling down, but the air between the two of you remains stiflingly hot. your shared warmth lingers, trapped, contained in the tiny space. the edges of the windows begin to fog up, a thin, white haze creeping inward, slowly erasing the outside world until only this exists.
niccolò moves slightly, the rich leather whispering under his weight. he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a crumpled pack of marlboros. with a practiced, lazy ease, he taps a single cigarette free.
for a suspended second, the bright flare of the flame illuminates his face entirely, his greyish-blue eyes are noticeably darker than usual, heavy, focused intently on a thought he hasn’t dared to say out loud.
he inhales slowly, the cherry burning a bright, angry red in the shadows.
he exhales even slower, a thick, silver cloud of smoke that curls softly, deliberately into the tight space between you.
without a single word, he offers it to you.
your cold fingers brush against his warm ones, it’s barely more than a tiny graze, but it lands sharp, precise, like a live wire placed exactly where it would do the most damage. your skin violently registers the heat of him a fraction of a second too late, your nerves holding onto the phantom burn long after he pulls his hand away.
you bring the filter to your lips, inhaling the harsh smoke, tasting the heat of the cherry and the faint, addictive taste of him that lingers on the paper. when you exhale, you tilt your head back against the headrest, letting the smoke drift lazily toward the windshield, watching it dissolve seamlessly into the gathering fog.
his voice is much quieter now. rougher, fraying at the edges, stripped of all its usual armor.
“should i have?” you ask, turning your head slowly to pass the cigarette back to him.
he watches you as he takes it from your fingers, his dark gaze entirely steady. it’s an unfiltered, heavy look that feels almost invasive, peeling back layers you thought you had securely locked away.
“most people do,” he murmurs, the words hanging heavy in the smoke-filled air.
you tilt your head, studying the shadowed lines of his face exactly the way he is studying yours. “i’m not most people, nico.”
this time, the corner of his mouth actually moves. it’s not quite a full smile, it’s something far more restrained, infinitely more private, and terribly beautiful.
he moves slowly enough that you feel every agonizing second of the transition.
the space tightens, the temperature spiking, becoming something highly charged and incredibly delicate all at once. the center console is still physically there, but it no longer feels like a barrier. the distance has evaporated.
his hand lifts from his lap.
your breath pauses in your chest without your permission.
he doesn’t touch you where you expect him to.
instead, his long fingers find the damp edge of your collar, adjusting the heavy fabric where it had twisted awkwardly against your skin during your escape. the movement is painstakingly careful, almost absent-minded, but far too deliberate to ignore.
his knuckles gently brush the bare, sensitive skin of your neck.
it is a silent question.
and it is infinitely more devastating than anything rough or certain.
he doesn’t pull his hand away. he lets it linger, his palm settling warmly just beneath your collarbone. his thumb comes to rest directly over your racing pulse, he isn’t pressing down, he’s just feeling.
counting the frantic beats.
knowing exactly what his proximity is doing to you. your heartbeat stutters against his skin anyway, betraying you entirely.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, leaning in so close that the physical space between you practically ceases to exist. you don’t just hear his voice. you feel it. his breath grazes your cheek, a warm, intoxicating wave carrying the scent of winter mint, heavy tobacco, and something distinctly, addictively his.
your voice is softer now, thinner, barely vibrating above a whisper.
niccolò’s heavy gaze drops down to your lips.
it stays there for a second too long, the silence in the car ringing with a deafening kind of want.
then his eyes lift, slower, heavier, dragging back up to meet yours like he’s forcing himself to choose not to rush something he knows he easily could devour.
there is a definitive line drawn between you now. thin, fragile, waiting to be snapped.
his thumb moves, tracing a slow, lazy, agonizing circle against your skin. it’s not quite a question. it’s not quite asking for permission. it’s an anchor in the dark.
outside, the cold rain keeps falling, a steady, insistent wall of water that seals the two of you inside this tiny, humid universe, completely detached from the hollow world you left behind.
inside, everything narrows down to this exact fraction of time.
his warm hand against your skin. the frantic flutter of your pulse under his thumb. the tiny, electric space between your mouths.
and the quiet, deafening understanding that neither of you has stepped back.
the cigarette burns down to the filter between your fingers before either of you speaks again.
his thumb still rests against your pulse, steady and unbothered, counting the frantic rhythm of your blood like he owns it. nico doesn’t look away. the smoke between you is a thin, grey shroud, catching the faint, fractured light of rome bleeding through the fogged glass.
“nico.” your voice comes out wrecked, barely a whisper, completely stripped of the clean, polite identity you wore at the party three hours ago.
“dimmi,” he murmurs. he doesn’t move his hand. he doesn’t give you an inch of space to breathe. the cabin has become a suffocating leather cocoon, the windows completely opaque with the humid heat of your bodies while the cold rain hammers the roof like a frantic, desperate pulse.
“if you’re going to kiss me, just do it. basta giocare.”
something fractures behind his greyish-blue eyes, the last thin layer of that manufactured parioli indifference he wears like armor. his hand slides from your collarbone to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in the damp hair at your nape. there is no gentle question now. he pulls you across the center console with a sudden, heavy finality, utterly ignoring the gear shift and the sharp metal boundaries between your seats.
his mouth crashes into yours.
it’s not soft. it’s a brutal confession.
his lips are demanding, hot, parting yours with a sharp certainty that makes your stomach drop. the taste of him floods your senses. bitter tobacco, cold mint, and the raw, heavy heat of his skin.
“merda,” he breathes against your lips, the word vibrating straight down your spine.
you grab the front of his jacket, heavy saint laurent leather, the kind of expensive bullshit his parents probably bought him to apologize for another broken promise. you don’t care. you haul him closer, twisting until the seatbelt cuts hard into your chest, a frustrated sound catching in your throat.
nico understands immediately. his hand drops, fumbling with a practiced, impatient jerk for the release. the buckle clicks loud in the quiet. the strap retracts with a sharp hiss, and suddenly there is nothing left to keep you back.
“sali,” he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against your mouth. “vieni qui.”
he grips your hips hard enough to leave marks, pulling you cleanly over the console. you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, your head clearing the low roof by inches as the steering wheel presses blunt into your lower back. it’s cramped, slightly awkward, the mechanical edges of the car digging into your skin, but neither of you gives a single fuck. his hands are already under your shirt, palms hot and rough against your ribs, tracing the tense line of your spine until you gasp against his mouth.
“shh. zitta.” he mutters the command against your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right over your pulse point. “wanna hear you. but don’t say anything else.”
his hips roll up against yours, and the heavy, thick ridge of him presses hard through the denim of his jeans, finding the exact point of tension between your thighs. the friction makes your vision blur, the sheer, blunt weight of him a perfect ache through your clothes.
“cristo, nico,” you breathe, grinding down against him, the words slipping out heavy and honest.
“always like this with you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are blown completely dark, the pupils swallowing the greyish-blue until there’s only a thin, sharp ring of color left. “since you got in the car. since you looked at me like you knew exactly how this ends.”
his fingers slide to your waistband, working the button with a quick, careless efficiency. the sharp slide of the zipper cuts through the quiet, obscene and perfect.
you obey on instinct, rising on your knees in the tight space, and he drags your clothes down in one rough motion, leaving you bare against the coarse, cool denim of his jeans. the sudden contrast of the rough fabric against your skin makes you shudder, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
his gaze drops, dark and unblinking, mapping the heavy syntax of your body in the shadows. his fingers find you, sliding easily through the slick, unhidden heat of you, and a low, ragged groan tears from his chest.
“guardati,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something heavy and almost reverent as his thumb traces your clit in a slow, devastating circle. “all for me?”
“who the fuck else would it be for, nico?” you snap, but there’s no bite to it, the breath leaking out of you as he pushes two fingers inside, stretching you open with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your back arch, your head pressing into the leather roof.
he lets out a short, surprised laugh, the sound low in his chest, like you’ve managed to crack a hole through the thick wall he keeps around himself. “there you are. i was waiting for you to drop the parioli manners.”
“good. because i want you messy. i want you desperate.”
he isn’t wrong. you are riding his hand now, your hips moving in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm against his fingers while he watches you with that steady, consuming stare. the heel of his palm presses hard against your clit with every thrust of his fingers, you’re trembling against his chest, you can feel yourself getting closer, tension coiling low and tight—
“not yet,” he mutters, his jaw tightening as he deliberately pulls his hand back, leaving you cold and empty. you let out a small, breathless whine, a sound of pure frustration. “want to feel you on me. bare. want you to come on my cock”
the car is a furnace now, the windows completely blinded by the thick fog. nico’s hands move to his own belt, the metal clinking sharply as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
he’s thick. not just long, but thick, the kind of thickness that’s going to stretch you open, that you’re going to feel for days. the head is flushed deep pink, slick with pre-come. your mouth goes completely dry as he wraps his hand around himself, a single drop rolling over his knuckles.
“glovebox.” his voice is strained, jaw tight. “now.”
you twist around, fumbling blindly until your fingers close around the foil packet. when you turn back, he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your skin feel too tight, makes your cunt clench around nothing.
your fingers are shaking as you tear the foil, rolling the latex down over the hot, rigid length of him. his abdomen rolls, the muscles jumping under your touch, and the sight of him losing his grip, even just this much, makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“ready?” his hands return to your hips, his grip bruising, positioning you directly over him.
he doesn’t make you wait. doesn’t tease.
he pulls you down onto his cock in one long, slow thrust.
the stretch is immediate, blinding, so fucking thick that your mouth falls open on a silent scream. he fills you completely, every inch, until you swear you can feel him in your throat. your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through his jacket. nico lets out a low, guttural growl, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his body adjusts to the tight, pulsing heat of yours.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he swears against your skin, his words slurring slightly with the rush of it. “so tight... stay still a second. aspira.”
you stay still, trembling in his lap, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as his cock pulses inside you. the steering wheel is a dull ache against your spine, your thighs are already burning with the strain, but the sheer velocity of him inside you is the only thing that matters.
“move,” you whisper, your hands moving to his hair, pulling him back so you can see his face. “nico, please. i need you to fuck me.”
his fingers lock onto your hip bones, anchoring you.
he doesn’t start slow. doesn’t build up to anything. he fucks up into you like he’s trying to break something, hard and deep and relentless. the car rocks with every thrust. the suspension creaks. somewhere outside, the rain keeps falling, but inside all you can hear is the slap of skin, the wet sound of him driving into you, the filthy noises falling from your own mouth.
“that’s it. take it. guardami while you take all of it.” his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again, working you in tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips. “wanna feel you come. wanna feel this tight little cunt squeeze my cock. come on, baby. give it to me.”
you look. his eyes are dark, focused entirely on the wreck you’re becoming in his lap.
“i know. facci vedere. come on.”
the orgasm hits you like the porsche’s acceleration, visceral, powerful, tearing through your chest before you can even brace for it. your vision goes white at the edges as your body clenches around him in tight, desperate waves, dragging a deep, fractured moan from his throat. you scream his name into the dark leather of the cabin, your fingers digging into his back.
he doesn’t stop. he fucks you right through the release, his pace getting sloppy, harder, his jaw locked as he drives himself deep into the tight, pulsing ruin of your orgasm.
“where—” his voice is ragged, thrusts getting sloppy. “where do you want—”
“inside,” you breathe against his ear, your teeth catching his earlobe. “nico, inside.”
he gives one last, deep thrust, burying himself entirely, and comes with a sound that is almost wounded, a low, broken sigh that leaves him completely empty. you feel the heavy, hot pulses of him inside you, his forehead dropping heavily against your collarbone, his chest heaving against yours as the world slowly stops spinning.
for a long moment, there’s nothing but breathing. ragged, desperate, slowly steadying. the rain softens against the roof. the windows are so fogged you can’t see anything outside.
you’re still in his lap. still full of him. still shaking from the cold that is slowly creeping back into the leather.
nico slowly lifts his head. his greyish-blue eyes find yours in the shadows, the dark adrenaline slowly draining from his face, leaving him looking incredibly tired. the intense, raw hunger is gone, replaced by the quiet, cold reality of who he is.
he doesn't trace your cheek. he doesn’t tell you it was beautiful.
instead, he reaches past your shoulder, his fingers searching the pocket of his door until they find a stray, crumpled napkin. he hands it to you without a word, his expression flattening out, the familiar, guarded look slipping back over his features like a closing shutter.
“tutto bene?” he asks quietly, his voice rough from the smoke and the effort.
“sì,” you murmur, shifting your weight.
the movement is clumsy as you pull yourself off him, the sticky reality of skin and latex separating in the dim light. you slide back into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your bare skin. the intimacy evaporates the second the physical connection breaks, replaced by the familiar, heavy silence of the middle of the night.
nico doesn’t look at you as he pulls his jeans back up, buttoning them with the same lazy, efficient movements he used before. he tears the condom off, disposes of it quietly, and rolls his shoulders back into his jacket. there is no lingering touch, no soft words to bridge the gap. it was an eviction of tension, nothing more.
he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the crumpled marlboros, and slides a cigarette between his lips. he doesn’t offer you one this time, he just lights it, the small orange glow carving his sharp profile out of the dark once again.
you pull your underwear and pants back up, adjusting your twisted shirt in the dark. your body feels heavy, spent, but your mind is clear for the first time all night. the suffocating weight of the party is gone, replaced by a quiet, clean numbness.
nico takes a long drag, his greyish-blue eyes staring straight through the fogged windshield, watching the blurred golden lights of rome below.
“vabbè,” he says quietly, exhaling a thick stream of smoke that hits the glass. “andiamo.”
he reaches forward and turns the key. the dashboard flickers back to life, casting that icy blue glow over his face, erasing the darkness entirely. he drops the porsche into gear, the engine letting out that familiar, low purr as he backs out of the overlook and turns the car back toward the winding, dark road down the mountain.
neither of you speaks on the drive back. you don’t hold hands over the console. the line between you is back, sharp and invisible, exactly where it belonged before the rain started. you had both needed to burn something down tonight, and you did.
tomorrow, the sun will wipe the rain from the roman streets, and the mask will be back on his face before the keys even leave the ignition. you’ll see him under the flashing lights of some other vip booth, looking right through you, both of you perfectly aware that the only thing left of tonight is a faint bruise on your hip and the heavy smell of tobacco clinging to your clothes.
hello niche community. i kinda hate this fic, but i spent 3 or 4 days on it so i just had to post and i really hope it doesnt flop. i havent written in a long time so my skills are definitely rusty (con-crit is VERY welcome) also im not italian and dont even study the language, so feel free to correct me if some words are wrong. ALSO NICO IS AGED UP!!
© 2026 @laerrebae — mimicking me is a fucking bore
