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heartlessvirgo · 4 months ago

Text

La Camisa Negra

Summary:

Still having no time for Javier's games, you can't help but think about him. But maybe he's thinking about you too?

Paring: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+MDNI, Swearing, Kissing, heavy petting, UNprotected sex, oral, creampie, drinking,

Word Count: 11K

Part 1 Masterlist

A/N: GUYs, I loved writing this and I hope you love reading it! Okay but Javier in this is so Juanes coded (iykyk) hehe... I got inspo for this from a Javi edit on tiktok and it was top tier, literal GOLD (@/ pascaledittzs). Anyways, requests are open.

Slamming your palm against the copier, you watch it shudder and whir as if the machine itself is mocking you. Another page spits out, this one just as black and unreadable as the last. You squint at it, hoping it’ll somehow make sense, but the jagged, ink-smeared lines mock your every attempt. You don’t even know what you’re doing wrong, and that drives you nuts. This should be easy—hell, you know how to fix a million other problems—but this damn machine? It's an unsolvable riddle.

This was the cherry on top of your already chaotic day. Meetings stacked one on top of the other, each more draining than the last, and paperwork—always the paperwork. You’ve got your own pile and Camilla’s to sort out since you volunteered like an idiot while she’s off vacationing somewhere. Now you’re just trying to catch up, pressing random buttons like you're hoping for a miracle, praying that maybe, just maybe, something will click.

It doesn’t. It never does.

“Dios, what a fucking nightmare,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the words bubble up from a place of pure exasperation. The copier grinds to a halt as you yank out the page, trying to straighten the creases. You shove it back into the tray, adjusting the paper once more, hoping—no, praying—that this time it will just work.

It’s stupid. You're smart, and you know this is all trivial, but still, here you are. So why does it feel like you’re failing at something so simple? Like you're watching your competence slip through your fingers, one black-and-white page at a time. And all you want to do is scream.

The click of footsteps approaching cuts through your irritation, and you don’t even need to turn to know it’s him. The unmistakable presence of Javier Peña fills the space behind you—calm, steady like he owns the damn air in the room. You brace yourself, but you don’t turn around. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging he's there yet.

A beat, then his voice, smooth and taunting. “Come here often?”

It’s playful. Cocky, even, but today? You’re just too damn tired for his brand of charm. You don’t even spare him a glance as you slam your hand against the copier again. It hums back to life with a mechanical growl.

“Yes, Peña, this is the copy room,” you reply flatly, not entertaining his game today.

There’s a silence, and you can feel his amusement. You roll your eyes, almost feeling his smirk widening behind you. He doesn’t get it. You’re not in the mood. There was just too much to do, and adding that would crumble everything.

He strolls in, his steps slow but purposeful, the sound of his polished shoes a steady rhythm against the linoleum floor. You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye—his shoulders relaxed, hands casually emerging from the pockets of his grey slacks. He always seems to move with that certainty, like everything around him is just part of his own personal stage.

“Have you tried not verbally and physically abusing it?” he asks, his voice low, the teasing edge unmistakable. He leans in over your shoulder, his breath brushing the nape of your neck, sending a light shiver up your spine you’d never admit to. His presence wraps around you like smoke—unavoidable, heavy with that clean, musky scent of his aftershave, a combination of woodsy spice and cigarettes, something undeniably him. You inhale sharply, against your better judgment, and the scent fills your lungs, settling in your chest.

Your brows raise. "Oh, I’m sorry—should I try sweet-talking it instead? Maybe buy it dinner first?" You push the buttons randomly now, feeling the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck like a hot, invisible touch.

"You’re right; maybe I should start asking it out to dinner. See how far that gets me." He chuckles dryly, not backing down.

You huff in frustration, turning your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He’s standing too close, too familiar, and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

“All you have to do is ask for my help, but if you're offering, I’m sure I could be persuaded to dinner too." his lips curl into that infuriating grin, the kind that always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin. Especially now, since you were dancing around the fact that you had slept with him. You had fallen for whatever lust-driven curse he had put you under. And you felt guilt deep inside you. You were disappointed in yourself for that as if you had lost some battle within yourself.

You don’t look at him; you focus back on the machine. “I don’t need your help, and I would never ask you to dinner,” you reply, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension between you into tiny pieces and tossing it away.

You can feel him hovering just a little too close again, his presence almost suffocating, and it makes your jaw clench. He’s doing it again—making this more than it should be, and it made your blood simmer under your skin. You’d been avoiding him, but no matter how hard you tried, it seemed like he was a hall away.

“Okay, I’ll see you in there for the meeting then?” He takes a step back, but the cockiness in his voice doesn’t falter. Your eyes involuntarily flit toward him as he moves. You catch a glimpse of his lopsided smile, his shoulders relaxed, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all week. Like he's completely unfazed by your cold shoulder.

“Or… maybe not?” he jokes, his voice dropping to a teasing octave like he's still trying to pull you into his little game.

Infuriating. You turn to face Javier with narrowed eyes, attempting to block out the way his soft eyes send a coursing warmth through you. He was…a knife in your side or something like that. Permanently embedding himself in deeper and deeper. You swallow at the thought, a sheen of sweat forming at the memory of him buried inside you. So deep, nestled in your velvety walls, his tongue, the bite on your shoulder you wear like a hot brand.

Jesus.

“I’ll figure this out; thank you, agent Peña,” you say, keeping your voice steady, determined to push past it. He laughs softly, the sound low and rich, and you almost wish you didn’t find it so... disarming. Like he could see the flicker of the memory brush past you, like he knew exactly what was going on in your mind. And that made you want to slap the smile from his face.

With a casual shrug, he steps back fully, his fingers brushing the doorframe as he turns. “Alright, princesa, I’ll let you handle your... business. But, hey—don’t say I didn’t offer.”

You watch him leave, probably on the prowl for his next victim. Your breath catches as he disappears out of sight. His annoying face playing in a loop in the back of your mind, lingering, haunting you.

Behind you, the copier hums to life, and when you turn, it finally prints correctly. Still, you wonder, how the hell did he manage to turn everything into a challenge? And why did you always want to take him on?

Javier hadn’t stopped working today. After the meeting, he planted himself at his desk, caught in a relentless loop of paperwork and classified reports, the kind where half the damn page was blacked out. The office hummed around him—phones ringing, agents bullshitting, the scrape of chairs against the floor—but it all faded into background noise, except for one thing.

The stare.

He could feel it. Unwavering. Pressing.

Javier releases a long exhale, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray, barely sparing a glance up. “Y’know, when I let you move your desk closer, I didn’t expect you to fall in love with me so quickly.” His voice is low, tired, laced with smoke.

Silence. Nothing but the faint scratch of a pen against paper.

That gets his attention. He lifts his gaze to find Murphy still watching him, head cocked slightly, brow raised in that infuriating way that meant he was enjoying whatever the hell this was. Like he knew something Javier didn’t, and that agitated him.

“Funny,” Murphy finally says, the corners of his mouth twitching like maybe he doesn’t actually think it’s funny.

Javier huffs, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. The smoke curls around him as he leans back in his chair, feigning indifference. But the silence stretches too long. Long enough for him to notice that Murphy isn’t just watching him—he’s studying him.

Javier exhales, slow. "Que?"

Murphy shrugs, looking around the office, still too damn amused for Javier’s liking. "Nothing. Just—haven’t seen you work this hard in a while."

Javier’s fingers pause on the edge of the file. He doesn’t look up. "Yeah, well. Some of us have jobs to do, criminals to catch."

Murphy snorts. "Right. The job." A pause. "Just funny, though. You haven’t asked who’s going for drinks tonight."

Javier finally glances up, slow, brown eyes shadowing. "Why the fuck would I care who’s going?"

Murphy leans back, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s settling in for the long game. "No reason." His smirk deepens. "Just thought you might like to know—she’ll be there."

A beat. A fraction too long. And Javier’s eyes flicker away, one might say nervously.

Javier keeps his expression unreadable, flipping another uselessly redacted page. "Good for her."

Murphy grins, shaking his head like he already knows, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "Sure, Peña. Keep the cool guy act; ladies love that. Until you get old.” He murmurs in the last part before standing.

“Where are you going?” Javier asks, mouth parting for his cigarette.

“Stretch my legs,” he says over his shoulder, but before he walks too far, he pivots. “Peña, if she ever gives you another chance, don’t be a dick and stand her up again.” With that, Murphy walks in the direction of your office.

—

A burst of laughter erupts from your painted lips, the sound more carefree than you’ve felt in days.

The bitter shot of tequila still dances on your lips as you swipe your tongue. A warmth blooms in your stomach, cutting through the haze of the workweek that refuses to entirely leave you.

The reddish hues of the neon lights in the bar flicker softly, casting a pinkish shadow on your skin. Isabel had invited you—nicely, of course—and while you had no intention of staying, the distraction was welcome.

You take a quick scan of the room, half focused on the chatter around you and half on not giggling to yourself in your drunk haze. The energy of the place buzzes in your veins, making you feel more alive than you have in a while. The tension in your neck seemed to melt and fade away with each drink.

But for you, it was just temporary. The tension was waiting for you on the other side, but you couldn’t think about that. Not about the promotion you were so close to you could almost taste it. No, tonight was sweet, like the agave in your drink, making your lips sticky.

“Another round?” Isabel asks, raising an eyebrow as she leans over the bar. You nod absently, your eyes drifting towards the back of the bar. Where it was less lit, and two men played darts. Squinting, you catch a glimpse of the familiar shapes of the two agents. And you knew that ass anywhere, a lean waist as your eyes travel up, and the black light-weight button-up straining over his shoulders.

“There you go,” the bartender places your drinks on the bar top, snapping your gaze from Javier’s backside.

With the straw between your teeth, you take a long sip, the alcohol wavering any sense of well…sense you have. The sense that tells you to walk away from his gravitational pull, to not meet his stare, and to not beg him to fuck you again. No, that would never happen again. You would not be another notch in his tight little belt.

But, the alcohol dulls that little voice in your mind, and you happen to wander over to that side of the bar. Drink still in hand, Isabel is hot on your heels.

“Ladies,” Murphy says courteously, avoiding the flash of cleavage Isabel flaunts. You couldn’t blame her; she was blessed in all aspects.

“What’s the score?” you ask, offering a smile to Murphy.

“Moppin’ the floor,” Javier replies for Steve, pulling his darts from the board with a smirk. The warm, deep hues of his brown eyes drifted along your body, like he was imagining you, how you were once naked against him. Or maybe that was just your drunk mind wandering.

“¿Ustedes quieren intentar? Mi amor, don’t be shy, shoot for me.” Javier leans down to utter softly in your ear over the music. His eyes flit to Isabel, but they quickly return to you. You watch him, waiting for him to drink her in, to rake down her body. To make her his next target if she hadn’t already been consumed by him. But he doesn’t.

You sink your teeth into your lip, brushing his warm, outstretched palm for the darts. Twisting the metal in your pinched fingertips, you squint one eye. You feel his presence behind you, just there, like one step back, and your ass would grind against him. But with three sets of eyes on you, you fend off the temptation to indulge in the thought.

The first two darts sail wide, both thudding harmlessly into the wall beyond the dartboard. The men laugh, of course—the rumble from Javier just behind you.

Javier’s voice rings out from behind you, low and gravelly, “Come on, you’re killing me, Cariño.”

You take the third dart, your focus sharpening for a split second. Then, just as you draw your arm back, you feel it—the faintest touch, just below your ribs. Javier's fingers skim over the fabric of your blouse, a deliberate graze that almost feels like it’s meant to get your attention, to rattle you. Or maybe to remind you. Shaking your head, you close one eye; you could play his game just as effortlessly.

Isabel’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her excitement echoing in your ear, “You got this!”

For a moment, time falters. The dart trembles in your swaying hand. You could make it. You could aim and hit the bullseye, make Javier grin that damn smug grin. But instead, you let your hand drop, just for a split second, and the dart veers wide.

“Oops,” you say sweetly, dropping your hand. You pout innocently when you turn to face the two men, shrugging. “I guess Murphy wins,” you add, cocking your head to the side.

“What is that, two times in a row now?” Murphy chuckles with a knowing smile, smacking Javier’s slumped arm.

“Hope you didn’t have money on that,” You look up at him, savoring the look of loss on his face. It made you feel so good, so powerful. That wretched pout and how he tries to smother it with his whiskey. He deserved the weight he had on his chest, and you were satisfied that it was you who caused it. God, you were sadistic.

“You just made me a hundred bucks richer,” Murphy smiles, bumping your shoulder with his.

You smirk, hooded eyes watching Javier wedge the missed darts from the wall. You liked this game, not the darts, but the way you made his life harder without even realizing it. You could do it in your sleep, and that sated something deep within your chest. Something that dripped and sank, hot in the pit of your core, and if you weren’t careful, it would trickle down your bare thighs.

You finish your drink and, without another thought, walk back to the bar with Isabel.

You weren’t completely unaware, contrary to what Javier had so confidently assumed that day at the market. No, you noticed things now. You paid more attention to details—like the polished black Chevy Camaro parked across the street from your apartment, which had been there for the last few days, its presence nearly invisible but too consistent to ignore. You noticed the second time you’d seen it when you were drawing your curtains closed.

It didn’t scream for attention—not the way some flashy, out-of-place car might—but it was the subtle way it would return that caught your eye. At first, you thought it was just another coincidence. People parked on this street all the time. But then there was the haze of smoke drifting out the window—a thin veil of it that curled into the cool night air.

Someone had been sitting there. Watching.

The car hadn’t been there when you left for your morning run. Or when you came back from the store, arms full of groceries, eyes scanning the street out of habit. By midday, the suspicion had eased, slipping into the background like white noise. You went about your routine and let yourself believe it was nothing.

But now—

Now, as the sun dipped below the skyline, stretching long shadows across the pavement, it was back. Same spot. The same low hum of an idling engine before ultimately being shut off.

As the sky deepens into a navy dusk, you lean closer to the mirror, smoothing the last touch of lipstick into place. A date. Your first since moving to Colombia. It wasn’t a big deal—not really—but still, there was something almost unfamiliar about the act of getting ready, about the anticipation curling in your stomach.

You’d met him at the bar. He had been polite and charming in a way that felt easy, with no ulterior motives lurking beneath his words. When he’d asked for your number, you gave it to him without thinking much about it. And when he called—actually called, not just some half-hearted approach at the copier—he wanted to take you somewhere nice. Dinner, conversation, drinks, simple enough.

You reach for your earrings, slipping the small gold hoops into place before running your fingers through your hair. Even though he had called to tell you he would pick you up at your apartment, you still worried. The last time you put this much thought into getting ready, you had been stood up. And you know, that leaves a lingering trace.

At the base of your stairs, you pause, adjusting the delicate strap of your heel. The street is quiet, void of passing cars like it usually is. But then—movement. A flicker of amber in the dark.

Your pulse kicks up, a slow, creeping awareness settling along your spine. The black car was back, and someone was currently watching. You squint, attempting to focus on the silhouette of what you assume is a man.

You swallow, trying to make out more— a relaxed slouch, one hand out as he smokes. Familiarity in the way he flicks the ash from his cigarette.

Recognition slams into you. Of fucking course.

A bitter laugh slips from your lips, the kind you can't hold back, and you tilt your head toward the sky, desperately searching for some shred of patience. But there’s nothing there. Only the sharp, relentless sting of annoyance.

The unease from earlier drains from your body, replaced by a heat that crawls up your neck and settles in your chest. The audacity. The sheer nerve of Javier, showing up at your home—of all places. But what else did you expect?

You clench your jaw, hands fisting at your sides, and with a steady, deliberate pace, you make your way across the street. Your heels clack sharply against the pavement with each step, the sound like a countdown echoing in your head. Your pulse quickens and you feel the rush of heat flooding your ears, the anger building with every stride.

Leaning down, you slam your hand against the car door. Javier doesn’t flinch; he just twists the cigarette that perches between his fingers, letting it fall to the street.

“First you stalk me, now you litter on my street?” you fume, searching for any cars passing by for your date. Who was going to be here any minute? You didn’t want him to catch you chewing Javier out, ripping him a new one right here in the street. “What are you doing here?” it comes from your chest.

Lazily rolling his head to the side, he looks anything but guilty. In fact, he seems pleased, and he is smug as he stretches a bit in his seat. His eyes trail along your body, getting his fill of whatever gratified him. It’s too dark to read his eyes, but you watch as they linger a bit too long on your painted lips.

“Just out for a drive,” he replies, shoulders lifting slightly.

“A drive? Your car isn’t even on.” You look inside his car, so close you can smell the leather of the seats. How it smells like him, and it’s clean, just as you expected.

“Well, you know me... always looking for an excuse to hang around.” He grins, his gaze flickering around your street like he owns the whole damn block. His hand casually drapes over the steering wheel.

“You cannot hang around here, Peña.” You lean in a little closer to the car window, and while you’re trying to focus on his words, you can’t ignore how your dress sits just a little too provocatively for comfort. The realization makes your heart skip a beat, but you shove the thought aside.

“Why? Got plans? And I thought we were done with the whole formal thing.” He frowns, tilting his head, an almost innocent look creeping over his face—but you know better. His voice is laced with something darker, some challenge hidden beneath the surface.

“This isn’t about me right now; why are you out here?” You glance around, heart racing as you hope your date won’t appear like some magic trick just when you need him least. Javier notices your distraction, his lips curling ever so slightly.

"Why, you worried I’ll ruin your date?" His smirk grows, eyes glinting with that trademark cocky charm. "Maybe I just like the view... you sure you want me to leave?"

You ignore him, mouth agape, with all the things, all the anger you could unleash.

“You’re stalking me; yes, I want you to leave.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a look. “Not stalking. I like to think of it as... preemptive protection. You never know who might be watching, right?”

“Yes, you’re the only one watching. Have you been watching me through my window?” A shiver runs through you, the thought of him watching you through your sheer curtains making you burn. With anger, with annoyance, with need. For what? You didn’t want to find out, especially right before your date.

The visible blush on your skin intrigues Javier, making him shift in his seat, leaning forward to get closer. “Why? You like that?” He licks his lips, nose nearly brushing yours.

Seeing the headlights of a car rolling up in your peripheral, you shoot up.

“No, and you better be gone by the time I get back. I mean it, Javier.” You say sternly, fixing your purse on your shoulder. Something flickers across his face, frustration and annoyance as he watches you walk away. Your hips sway, your dress hugging your curves almost too perfectly.

Javier can feel the sharp blade of agony twist inside him as he watches you smile at your date—who doesn’t even bother to get out and open your door for you. He shakes his head, hoping you don’t fool yourself into thinking that man could actually satisfy you. Not like he could. The thought curls around in his mind like the smoke of his millionth cigarette tonight.

As he sits in your wake, he ponders the thought of leaving, weighing it like a dangerous game. Yet, he’s drawn to stay. The vexation in your voice veils a deeper meaning. You wanted him to stay.

So, he’s drawn to stay when every instinct in him tells him to go—to pull away. To find some whore to fuck in the darkness of the night. And it’s not like he didn’t try. Javier had tried to hold on to whatever piece of pride he had left—like taking a random woman home—yet all he could do was imagine your body as she took him in her mouth, right there in his car. It was embarrassing how quick he came with your pretty face flickering behind his eyes.

This one-sided push and pull was going to be the death of Javier Peña, no matter how much he denied it. And yet, here he was—again—in front of your apartment. Feigning indifference, as if he were simply staking out, making sure no one came to your door.

Lighting another cigarette, Javier stayed where he was, ignoring every sign that told him to leave.

—

You force a sweet smile as your date rambles on, his voice a dull hum in the background.

“You know,” he starts, clearly pleased with himself, “the stock market’s been all over the place lately. I’ve been telling my clients to diversify, but you really gotta be patient with the long-term investments. They say the next big boom is in tech, but you never know. You just gotta trust the process, you know?” He pauses, clearly expecting a response. You just nod.

He talks about his job—endlessly—utterly oblivious to the piece of cilantro wedged between his teeth. You don’t have the heart to tell him, so instead, you focus on his eyes, pretending to listen intently. Every time you open your mouth to speak, he dives back into the same tired stories, and you fall silent again, interjecting only when absolutely necessary, just enough to keep the illusion intact.

“Honestly, I think women just don’t understand how hard it is to keep up with the market. Like, it’s all about numbers, right?” Oh, the cilantro has moved to his front tooth. “I’ve always heard that a woman’s intuition doesn’t really work when it comes to finances. It's more of a man’s game.” You sigh, finishing your wine.

Hours later, after an entire night of that, he drops you off in front of your apartment, obviously wanting to be invited in. You accept the kiss to your cheek with a smile that’s more out of habit than anything else. He promises to call—though, honestly, you’re already hoping he doesn’t.

It’s no surprise to see Javier’s car still parked exactly where you last saw it. In fact, after tonight, you almost feel relief. A part of you had hoped your date would go well, that maybe you could finally sleep with someone else. Someone else, so the last person you fucked wouldn’t be Javier. So you could erase the taste of him lingering in your mouth. But another part of you wanted to see Javier’s car, wanted the comfort of knowing that—despite everything—he was still there. That he had stubbornly ignored your request.

And that part was right.

Your date speeds off before you even reach the door, another reason you won’t be picking up his calls. A few glasses of wine down, and just when you thought you were going to sleep with him—before the cilantro—now you’re left with nothing but a wasted buzz.

But Javier? You’re betting he’s still watching. Maybe, just maybe, a fucked-up part of you wanted the date to go sour just so you could turn right around and get a taste of what was familiar. The thought makes you bristle—yet it’s undeniably there, lodged somewhere between the flicker of your annoyance and the heat in your chest.

In fact, you spent the entire date prying Javier from your mind, like some kind of compulsive itch you couldn’t scratch. The more you tried, the more you realized no one else would ever measure up. Not to the way he made you feel, not to the way his presence dug under your skin, pulling you closer even when you were desperate to keep your distance.

It was his touch, his taste, the way he made you want to lose control.

You take your time, letting your heels click against the pavement as you walk toward your door, making sure to swing your hips with each step. You pull your hair to one side, exposing the soft curve of your neck, and just as you do, your gaze flicks down toward Javier's car. You don’t need to look up to know that his eyes are on you, and the thought of him there—waiting, watching—has your pulse quickening.

You want him to see this. To feel it, to want you like you did in your wine-drunk state. You let your fingers brush against the door handle, pausing just long enough to make sure your movements are deliberate, drawing his attention. You’re baiting him now.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Your apartment is quiet, and the lamps offer a soft glow to the room. It wasn’t anything crazy, but you took pride in how everything tied together. Splashes of warm colors and soft fabrics. Tossing your purse onto the couch, you move toward the kitchen, your thoughts racing.

The sharp, electrifying knot in your chest vibrates as the anticipation lingers. You didn’t know if Javier would bite, but you want him to. You move to the kitchen, uncorking a red wine and pouring a generous glass. You swirl the liquid as you contemplate how long you’ll wait.

As you take a slow sip, you hear it—soft, barely audible at first. A rap against your door, tentative, almost as if he’s unsure whether to interrupt the stillness of your home.

Your heart stutters, a brief flutter of uncertainty creeping in. You hesitate, the glass halfway to your lips, wondering if you imagined it. But then it comes again—quicker this time, more insistent. Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, and without another thought, you set it down.

Still in your dress and heels, you swing the door open—Javier leans against the doorframe, chest rising and falling as he’d just sprinted up the stairs like he’d spent too long hesitating before finally giving in. His black cotton shirt clings to him, shifting with every thundering breath, and the way it stretches across his broad frame only adds to the raw, restless energy rolling off him.

He looks pained. Frustrated. But undeniably himself.

His hair is a tangled mess, like he’s been raking his fingers through it in thought, and his brows are pulled tight, casting a shadow over his dark eyes. There’s something in them—something unreadable, something dangerous—but all you can focus on is how damn good he looks standing there, undone in a way you’ve never seen before.

The familiar scent of him—smoke, musk, something distinctly Javier—wraps around you before he even speaks. And just like that, the space between you feels charged, like an invisible thread has tightened, pulling you toward the unknown.

“Bad date?” is all he says as he saunters in without a verbal invitation. What was the point? Your eyes had done all the talking.

You wanted to agree—to curse the date for even happening, to erase the memory of it, to crawl back to Javier and let him make it better. The words press against your tongue, but you bite them back. Instead, you roll your eyes, shut the door, and twist the lock with a deliberate click.

Behind you, he doesn’t move. Not right away. He lingers in the quiet, soaking in the air between you, before finally stepping further inside. The leather couch groans as he sinks into it, his legs spreading like he owns the place, like he belongs here.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

“Something to drink?” you ask, already walking to the kitchen and reaching into the fridge before he can answer. The cold air rushes over your skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat licking at your neck.

With the glass of wine in your hand, you watch him over the rim, your fingers tracing the edge absently. His beer sits untouched in front of him, but it’s the way he watches you—eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes—that makes the space between you feel smaller. The pulse between your thighs grows stronger, sharper, and undeniable, radiating outward with each sip, each glance. Your skin feels too tight, too aware of the heat rising in your chest.

"So?" he asks, his voice low, almost casual, but there's an edge to it, something you can’t quite place.

"So?" you mimic, a smirk tugging at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Instead, your gaze locks with Javier's, daring him to say more, to do something, to break the silence that thickens the air around you both.

“So, how’d that amazing date go?” He tilts his head slightly, his smirk deepening. His eyes run over you with a knowing glint, like he’s already figured it all out. “You wouldn’t be back so soon if it went well, right, Cariño?”

“It was…interesting.” You chew your cheek, eyes flickering to the space between you and him as if searching for something to say. A retort, a jab, anything to cut through the silence and throw him off balance. But the words feel like they're just out of reach, slipping between your fingers like smoke.

As you set the glass down on the coffee table, a quiet resignation settles over you. The game you’ve been playing isn’t as easy as you thought.

Without thinking, without even trying to explain it to yourself, you shift, crawling across the couch with slow, deliberate movements. The moment you settle on Javier's lap, your ass resting against his thighs, the world narrows to just the two of you. His body relaxes beneath you, rough hands crawling up your smooth thighs.

“Yeah?” Javier asks, voice smug with a rasp like you’d proven him right. And that makes your open thighs quiver with anticipation. That he is here, nestled between them, rough denim grazing your clothed pussy. The fabric of your panties so thin he could practically feel how slick you were, the hotness seeping through his jeans.

You nod, lashes lowering as you glance down at him. Your voice is quieter now, barely above a murmur. “You already knew, so why ask?”

Javier exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes. “Just wanted to hear it out loud, cariño.” His voice is rough, gravel scraping against silk, each word drawn out like he’s savoring them.

“And? Are you satisfied with my answer?” you press, searching his handsome face. The wine in your blood made him look more flushed, cheeks in high color, like overripe plums.

"Not sure yet," His hands slide upward, heat bleeding through the fabric as he cups your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you notice. The silk of your bunched-up dress is soft under his fingers.

"Might need to hear it again. Tell me what he did wrong." Then—blunt fingernails dig in, sharp enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you wonder if he’s holding you there or keeping himself from pulling you closer.

So you do it for him, grinding forward to press your pussy into his growing erection. You look at him innocently, your hands finding the searing skin of his neck, fingers splaying into his hair.

“You want to know?” You ask, and he tilts his head to one side, fingers guiding you across his erection again. The seam of his jeans drags against your clit, the rough pleasure parting your lips.

“Tell me, and I’ll make it better, mi amor.” With one hand, he brushes the hair from your shoulder, dark eyes under darker brows, watching you closely.

It’s unsettling the way you feel so exposed under his gaze as it wraps around you as if he’s savoring every slight twitch, every wet gasp from your lips. Like he’s memorizing, retaining you in his mind, and he takes his time. You can’t shake the feeling that he knows you in a way you’ve never been known, that every shift in your posture is being felt by him before it even happens.

"Made me feel stupid. Talked about stuff like I couldn’t keep up," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as Javier's touch—so constant, so sure—guides you and rocks you against his cock. “Ordered for me without asking, a fuckin’ salad.” A broken laugh escapes you, the sound sharp and brittle, only for it to be quickly swallowed as Javier leans in. His breath brushes against your skin, hot and sudden, before his lips press against your throat.

The kiss sends a tremor through you.

"Pobre cabrón, pensó que te conocía." His lips brush your pulse, his words almost a whisper against your skin. “No sabe que te gusta esto, ¿verdad?" He doesn't know you like this, does he?

With a sharp suck, he marks your neck, coaxing an answer from you. “Didn’t listen to me all night, then asked to come inside.” You almost don’t tell him, but the way he exhales, a soft huff of disbelief, is enough to satisfy you—like he can't believe the nerve.

His hands pull you upward with a force that leaves your breath catching in your throat. The heat of his palms sears through the thin fabric of your dress, sending a ripple of electricity through your skin. There’s no hesitation in his touch—just pure, controlled intention. In one motion, he flips you over, sending you sprawling onto the couch beneath him. The cool leather of the cushions meets your back as you replace his seat on the sofa. Javier drops to his knees on the floor between your legs, his eyes flicking to the damp lace. The material sticks to your pussy, clinging to your lips, giving him the perfect view. His hands are still on you, fingers pressing into the softness of your thighs.

“Would you have let him in? Let him fuck you?” he asks, eyes darting up the valley of your body to your face. Your dress bunches at your waist, your white lace panties exposed to the cool air.

“Fuck no,” you reply quickly and observe as he weighs your answer. He seems content because he tilts his head and kisses the tender skin of your inner thighs.

"Good," he mumbles against your flesh, his teeth dragging just enough to make you shiver. The black silk is weightless, almost liquid against your skin, but still, it does nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Spread your legs—wider,” He urges, and you comply, spreading yourself further. You shudder when you feel his rough fingers peel your underwear to the side, his arched nose nudging against your lips, inhaling deeply.

“So good—” Javier interrupts himself by lapping his tongue against your center, dragging the slick up to your clit. He swipes the tip of his tongue, hand splaying across your stomach. “Always thinking ‘bout your pussy,” he tilts his head up, lips glistening with your slick. You gasp, the thrill of being on display to him so fully igniting something deep within you.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, each pulse a steady drumbeat of something dark and electric. He kneels before you, a man who has never known devotion yet looks as if he's offering a prayer. But there is no holiness in the way he stares up at you—only something raw, something that burns your body.

“Want you to come before I fuck you, can you do that for me?” Javier says gruffly. You feel his fingers glide through your folds, spreading you before sinking into his knuckle. You watch as his eyes droop shut, the vulgar sounds of him eating your pussy filling the living room.

“I-I don’t know if I can,” Your breath hitches as he devours you, each flick of his tongue sending shockwaves through your body. You liked being in control but didn’t like being told what to do. But with him on his knees, ravaging you like his last meal, you lose that fight in you.

“You can hermosa,” Your soft sighs and breathless gasps only encourage him further. His tongue rolls over your sensitive clit, dragging it into his mouth as he sucks softly.

A low, primal groan rumbles from Javier’s chest as you grip his fingers, feeling the rhythm of his fingers pushing deeper. The way he loses himself in you, every inch of him savoring the sensation, sends a rush of heat through your body. No man has ever made you feel this alive, this good—and the tight, unbearable tension pooling in your pelvis only builds.

Your heart pounds wildly; its rhythm is the only thing you can grasp as the world blurs around you. Each breath is a struggle, drawn deep into your lungs, as pleasure floods you like sunlight. You arch, drawn toward Javier as if the very act of surrender is as natural as breath. Your back lifts from the couch, delicate and almost weightless, as though you're being drawn into something timeless, something beyond yourself.

"Fuck, I’m gonna—” The words spill from your lips, breaking into a whimper as pleasure coils tight, snapping. Stars flicker behind your eyes, bursting like firecrackers with every curl of his fingers inside you.

Javier’s mouth remains relentless, lips and tongue a force that pulls you deeper. The sounds are wet, guttural—impossibly obscene, filling the air with a heat that mirrors the feeling inside you.

Your hands fist in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but it only makes him groan against you—like he wants you to use him, to come apart beneath his mouth.

Your thighs attempt to snap shut, trembling from the aftershocks, but Javier’s grip is iron. He presses them back down, keeping you spread for him. Your walls flutter around his thick fingers, milking them as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe, drinking you in.

“Javier,” you whine, pure, intoxicating sultry laced in your tone. You wanted him, needed him inside you. It felt like a line was drawn, and you felt like you were going to die if you didn’t get him. He comes up for air, lips swollen as he runs his tongue along them. His eyes glisten, making them seem lighter, but they are hooded nonetheless as he slips his fingers out.

His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, and he drags them down your legs, flinging them someplace.

Javier makes you feel like a goddess—like something worshipped, something craved. And maybe that’s why you could never get enough of him. Why he lingered in your dreams, why a small, wicked part of you hoped your date would crumble into disappointment—so you could have this instead.

Him. Here.

Between your thighs, his body pressed against yours, his breath warm, ragged with need. His cock straining painfully against his jeans as his fingers work at his belt, desperate, shaking with restraint. There’s no time to move, no time to think—just urgency, the kind that consumes, that steals breath and reason. The sharp clink of his belt echoes in the quiet, a sound so simple yet electric.

Then, with a groan, he pushes off his knees, rising from the floor, his hands never leaving you. He gathers you effortlessly, pulling you with him, pressing you down onto his lap as he falls onto the couch.

“Condom?” His voice is low, hushed with an almost palpable urgency, eyes dashing up to meet yours as though he’s already losing patience. Before you can answer, he’s closing the space between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that feels like he’s trying to steal the very breath from your lungs.

His lips are heated, a sharp contrast to the cool air between you, and you taste it—the tang of your own arousal mingling with his tongue, so, so sweet.

“I’m on birth control,” you murmur, breathless, your words swallowed by the hunger of another kiss. It’s all you offer, a quiet surrender, hoping it’s enough to make him crave you even more.

The thought of him inside you—all of him—suddenly consumes you. You don’t care about anything else, not the risks or the consequences. You only know the pulse between your legs and the intense craving. You don’t understand what’s happening or why you need him this way, but it feels like an urgent need to let go.

Javier pulls away just enough to give you space, but the trace of concern in his eyes doesn’t escape you. It’s a brief moment, a fleeting hesitation. Still, you see it—his brow furrows, lips tight with something softer than his usual cocky grin.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was playing the part of a gentleman—though you know damn well he’s anything but.

“Yes,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, “I’m clean, it’s okay if you don’t—”

You’re cut off before the last syllable can escape, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that leaves no room for hesitation. His kiss is firm, demanding, swallowing your words.

“Say the word, cariño. You lead, I follow.” Javier says into your mouth.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts beneath you, movements hurried. He pulls his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free, the heated skin of it brushing against his stomach with a slap between you.

Javier can feel the tremble of his hands—faint but undeniable. At first, he wonders if it’s you or him. He feels something stirring in him, something foreign. It’s not fear, but something—something urgent, primal. Desperation, temptation, a potent mix of longing and restraint. It tugs at him, a force he hasn’t felt before.

He’s never been this reckless. Never this in the moment where he couldn’t think straight. Enough to where he would slip into your warm pussy and take you like that. Javier was always careful, contrary to popular belief. Wrapped it up tight, tested, and tested again. Always keeping a record of women as if they were transactions, just to be safe. He couldn’t remember all of them, but one thing was sure, he never fucked without a condom.

But you.

You, above him, looking down at him with those daring eyes. Grabbing the hem of your dress and pulling it over your head. His eyes drink you in, the curve of your supple breasts and the arch in your spine. Telling him to take you raw, with nothing left to hold his sanity in check.

It’s a gift you have given him. A dangerous, treacherous gift. He feels it settle deep in his sternum, making his heart race and his pulse throb with a hunger he’s not sure how to satisfy. He’s never wanted anyone like this—needed them, with a rawness that cuts deep.

You feel the fat head of his cock press against your soaked lips, the tight stretch creating a gasp from your chest. His fingers dig into your fleshy hips, guiding you but letting you do as you please.

“Such a tight pussy,” Javier says with a huff and rests back on the couch, your hands resting on his shoulders as you sink further down onto his length. His gaze drifts lower, eyes heavy with desire, flicking between your faces and the space between you. The subtle shift of your body as you sink deeper until you're flush against him, fully seated.

Javier couldn’t describe the feeling of you, only that he knew it like a second home now. Your walls engulf him, drenching the soft curls at the base of his cock. His brows pinch together as you rock, lifting yourself and sinking back down. You were warmer inside than he remembered, softer.

“Fuck... feels so damn good, Hermosa. Never... never felt it like this before.” Javier’s head falls back against the couch, his breath ragged, and his words slip out like a confession. His chest rises with every inhale, muscles taut beneath his black shirt that has been pulled to expose his stomach.

“Feels so full, Javi,” You exhale slowly, letting his name slip from your lips—his nickname—like a spark that lights the hunger in his eyes.

Javier’s mouth parts, jaw slack, as you fuck yourself. Using him for your own pleasure.

“So goddamn sexy, Hermosa.” He leans forward, capturing your perky tit into his mouth, sucking as you bounce. He could feel the friction of your walls on his sensitive cock that was no doubt already weeping with precum. His teeth sink down on your nipple, tugging on the nub before pulling away.

He tried to think of anything—anything—to keep himself from coming too soon. But the way you’re wrapped around him, so tight, it almost feels like a vice—swallowing him whole. His breath hitches, and he fights it, fighting the urge to lose control as the pressure builds, unbearable, delicious. Every inch of you clenching around him is a sweet, aching burn he’s not sure he can withstand.

“Can you hear yourself, cariño? How wet you are?” You whine when you feel the pad of his thumb swiping small circles, coaxing you further into the pressure that was building. “Wish you could see this, it's fucking beautiful.” You wish you could, how his perfect cock was splitting you in two.

“I’m so close, Javi,” you whisper, your voice low, strained.

“Already?” He tilts his head, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, his breath shallow. “I make you come this fast? Don’t think he could. I know he couldn’t.”

You lean in, your lips brushing his, tasting the sharp, familiar salt of his mouth. His mustache scratches your tongue, rough against the softness of your mouth—intimate, gritty, a reminder of how close you are, how much you’ve already given in.

“So beautiful on me, cariño,” The hand clamped tight on your hip refuses to loosen, a bruising grip that keeps you exactly where he wants you. The other weaves into your hair, fingers curling at your scalp as he tilts your head up—commanding, insistent. “Wanna see your face when you come. Mírame.” —Look at me. His voice is rough and thick with something that makes your stomach coil tight.

Your gaze locks onto his—warm honey drowning in dark, decadent chocolate. Intense. Unrelenting. Beautiful in a way that almost hurts. His fingers flex in your hair, holding you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every damn second of this.

You take what you want, grinding down until your thighs ache, until the burn spreads through your limbs like fire licking at dry earth. There’s something almost cruel in it—the way you use him, the way you make him suffer beneath you. It’s punishment wrapped in pleasure, a slow torment you draw out just to watch him come undone. His release lingers just out of reach, and you like it that way. You want him teetering on the edge, aching, needing—wanting.

Your mouth falls open, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as the pleasure builds, curling around your spine, pooling low in your belly. It’s too much, too good, the air between you feverish. Damp with breath and heat, and when your eyes meet Javier's, something shifts. There—in the way his fingers tighten at your hips, the way his gaze clings to yours, yearning. Something is there, though it must be the light. Your movements slow, forcing you to feel the way his body trembles beneath you. Attachment. That’s what it looks like.

But before you can make sense of it, before you can decide what it means, it vanishes. Snuffed out the second Javi's lips collide with yours, swallowing your breath, his moan vibrating through the heat of your mouth. Like he’d seen you see him for who he was, and that was someone vulnerable.

Your brows pinch together, a sharp inhale swallowed by his lips as he bites into yours, drawing out something wrecked, something involuntary. The orgasm takes you by surprise—sweeps through you like a fever, rippling from the inside out as your walls clench tight around his thick, uncut cock. It knocks the rhythm from your body and leaves you shuddering, unraveling in waves that roll through you, consuming you.

“Goddamn,” Javier breathes against your mouth, the heat of it searing, feeling the way you choke his length. He grits his teeth, hips jerking up, fucking you through it, refusing to let you drift from him even for a second. His fingers—blunt, desperate—dig into the flesh of your ass, dragging you down onto him like he’s determined to make sure you feel every pulse of him buried inside.

Breathless, panting against your ear, Javier’s voice is wrecked when he finally speaks. “Where do you want me to—” His words catch, thick with desperation, like he’s teetering on the edge of something that could ruin him.

“Inside,” you moan—cry—whimper—you’re not sure which, only that you need it, need him. Your voice is hoarse, drenched in the remnants of your pleasure, your walls still fluttering around him, pulling him deeper, as if your body already knows the answer he was too afraid to assume.

Javier had never come inside a woman before—but fuck, he didn’t care if you lied about the birth control. Didn’t care if this was reckless, if it was madness. All he knew was that you were something he wanted—not just in the chase, not just in conquest.

You burned with something untamed, a wildfire he had no intention of snuffing out. No, he wanted to feed it, to bend it to him, to shape it around his hands. He wanted to control you, break you open in ways only he could. And in this feverish, lust-drunk moment, he didn’t care if that was dangerous territory. If that made him want something…domestic. He was desperate—so fucking desperate.

Javier chokes on his breath, his hands gripping your hips with enough force to carve. The scrape of his nails against your skin sends a sharp thrill through you, and for a moment, the pain feels like possession. Another mark from him, another claim—like a fucking trophy in this twisted game you both play.

“Fuck… fuck...” His grumbled curses fall from his lips, his breath ragged, and his head drops forward, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against your breasts like a desperate weight.

Inside you, he pulses so deep it’s almost painful. He gives you all he has, each desperate thrust pulling something from you. And for some reason, it’s that very surrender that makes it feel almost pathetic—like he’s losing himself in this more than you have.

"Can you feel it? Can you feel me come inside you?" His voice is murmured, breath brushing over the curve of your breast as his mouth devours your tender nipple. His lips are hot, sucking in soft laps, and there's no shame in his words. No restraint. He’s drunk on you, on the feel of you, on the way your body swallows him whole.

He doesn't care that it makes him sound weak, not with the way he can already feel his come seeping out of you, coating the base of him. You can feel it too, the wetness, the slickness, the proof of him spilling into you.

“Yes, I can,” you whisper back, your voice rasping. Javi's forehead lifts from your skin, his gaze tilting heavenward as his chest heaves. His nostrils flare, his eyes fluttering shut as if the act of breathing is too much. You lean in, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss, his mouth the delicate hue of ripe peaches.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a half-smile, something so boyish, so unlike the man you’ve come to know. A flicker of something you can’t quite place stirs in your chest—a feeling like a weight plummeting through your ribs. No, you remind yourself, eyes narrowing. You were never supposed to want him to feel anything more than the rush of adrenaline and raw chemistry that burned between you both. But now? The burn was turning cold, or maybe it was a flame that had turned blue.

You must be out of your damn mind thinking you could tame someone like him. Who the hell do you think you are? That’s precisely what you’ve been avoiding all along—attachment. The kind of thing that turns into a chain weighs you down and leaves you tethered to a man who never meant to stay.

You swipe your fingers through his damp hair, the sweat slicking against your skin. The words slip out before you can stop them, their clumsiness cutting through the tension in the air.

“We have to fuck other people, Javier.”

A joke, a lie, or maybe a desperate plea to sever the invisible thread already wrapping too tight around your chest. You know it’s reckless, a stupid overstep to assume—but if you’re feeling like this already, you can’t keep going. No. Not like this. Not with him.

Javier’s hands settle at your hips, gripping tight, pulling you in, his soft cock still buried inside you.

“Why would I want to share you?” His voice is low, almost a growl, as he murmurs. The question hangs in the air, but the soft tension in his words makes it impossible to tell if he’s teasing or serious.

You can feel the slickness between you, dripping down onto his thighs.

“Funny,” you say, your breath hitching as you squirm against him, trying to free yourself though his strength is overwhelming. Your thighs are slick now, his skin hot beneath you. “You’re gonna get bored of this,” you say, but even you can hear the playful doubt in your voice, your mouth tasting like lies.

He chuckles softly, a dark sound that vibrates through you. “I’m literally still inside you, Cariño,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his tone. The words sink into you, making your pulse race even faster.

You can’t stop the blush that blooms across your skin, a rush of heat that creeps up your neck and paints your face. “Well…” you breathe, words faltering.

Javier’s gaze lingers, feeling more intimate than the sex, like his eyes are peeling away the layers you’ve carefully constructed, exposing the parts of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. He sees you, which is unfortunate for you, and the sharpness of his attention makes your pulse stutter. You’ve always been good at hiding your truths, but with him, you’re not sure you can.

“Is this fun for you?” His voice is rough around the edges as if he's searching for something from you. His brown eyes stay fixed with yours, but there’s a flicker of something beneath the surface. Hesitation? Fear? Or maybe it's just the steady flow of the after-sex—the chemical rush that always makes you say things.

You pull back slightly, shifting, and his soft cock slips out of you, resting on his stomach. But you don’t move from his lap. Not yet.

He watches you tentatively, the faintest curve of his lips pulling up at the corners. “Then that’s all that matters to me.” The words come so quickly, but they hit you like a sharp breath. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But something about this—about the way he says it so casually—feels like a game he plays with everyone else. How many times has he used that line before? You cock your head slightly, torn between wanting to trust him and feeling that bitter, familiar pull of doubt.

“Right,” you say skeptically.

You watch him closely, waiting, and the seconds stretch between you. And then, like he's reading your thoughts, he says, "I won’t get bored." His voice is so casual, but there's an edge to it now, an implication behind the words you can’t ignore. What was he getting at?

“I was joking, Javier,” you play it off, though his words bounce around in your head. He didn’t mean it, did he?

"I know." He huffs, almost annoyed by your amusement. "You can relax, though, if you're worried about me and other women, don't. Never been unprotected…" Javier didn’t know why he kept speaking; he only knew that every word felt wrong.

“I think you made that pretty clear,” you reply.

"Yeah, well, I don’t usually have to explain myself." His voice is rough, a little more tense now. There's a pause, clearly frustrated with his own words.

Javier knew he couldn’t be with another woman if he tried, and God knows he’s tried. He despises that he sounds like a broken record, the same song playing nonstop. Javier doesn't even understand it himself—this thing he’s offering you, this tangled, messy piece of him.

Your breath hitches as his gaze sharpens, and it feels like he's weighing you, searching for something beneath your hard exterior. And then, his voice is softer—hesitant, vulnerable, as if he's scrambling to offer more, to entice you.

“But if you wanted to do this more, we could be... singular… together?” He says it with dark brows furrowed, but his eyes soften, his tone catching somewhere between playful and... desperate?

“Singular? Like just us?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow and leaning back slightly. He looks confused, more than you, and you’re not sure what to think of it.

“I could, just to be safe, if that’s something?” You feel a tremor pass through him, the subtle twitch of his fingers on your bare thighs. He was lying through his teeth, and he knew it; there were no other women.

"Oh?" you say, lips curling into a teasing smirk despite the pit in your stomach.

But then, you hear yourself challenging him: “And what about me? What if I wanted to sleep with other men?” You’re testing him, pushing him to see how far he’ll bend before he snaps. Before he takes back everything he just said. You didn’t want other men; you wanted Javier.

Javier swallows hard, his gaze flicking to the side, momentarily losing its focus. For a beat, he seems genuinely torn—his brows furrowing, lips pressed together in a thin line like he's struggling to hold it together. He couldn’t read you, not entirely, but he sensed it—the quiet understanding that he’d somehow ruined it. His mind races as if fevered because this wasn’t him. He was never this undone, this lost in a moment.

“If that’s what you wanted.” The words come out quietly, almost too faint. You catch the hint of a pout forming like it physically pains him to say it.

A strange, gnawing feeling settles in your chest. What are you doing? Why are you pushing him away when all he’s offering is… everything?

He watches you closely, his lips curling into a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “And for the record, if you’re into dinners,” he adds, his voice low like he’s tasting every word, “I wouldn’t stand you up again. Not this time.”

You bite your lip and look away, trying to hold onto your control.

"I don’t know if you could handle being that loyal, Peña.” The words slip out, but underneath them, you know the truth. You want to give in. Every part of you is telling you to take what he’s offering. But all you could give was an elusive answer, too afraid to say yes, too enamored with him to say no. “But sure, if that’s your offer, I’ll think about it."

Your eyes narrow, and without warning, you climb off his lap, the cool air hitting your skin as you search for your dress. You slide it on, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you watch him tug his jeans back on, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

You shake your head, unable to suppress a dry laugh. Exclusive? The thought of you two being anything more than this, than this constant game, is almost laughable. He really did have a way of making you question everything, even the parts of you you thought were untouchable.

“So, are you going back to watching my house again?” you ask, voice light, trying to bury whatever it was that had just been said between you two.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours, and the cocky grin is back, but there's something deeper, something heavier. “Think I’d have a better view from inside…” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze trails over you with more intent now. “Your house, that is.”

You pause, and for a brief moment, you're not sure whether to laugh or turn away. But you don’t do either. Instead, you raise an eyebrow, almost daring Javier to keep pushing.

"Don’t hold your breath, Peña." You turn away, knowing this game is far from over. But for Javier, it had already ended—there was no more chase, no more play. He wasn’t hunting anymore; he was caught. And worse, he didn’t care. Javier would take whatever piece of you you were willing to give, whole or shattered.

Because after everything—the cartel, the blood, the ghosts that never left—Javier Peña could no longer face danger. Not when you were the most dangerous thing of all.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #papi pedro #pedro x reader #tumblr fyp #new writer #pedropascal #javier pena smut #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena imagine #javier pena x you #javier pena narcos

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coco-loco-nut · 8 months ago

Text

Barnstormer

pairing: charles x reader

summary: charles can’t help but to fall for your small town charm

a/n: so @vitalverstappen and I have been grinding on this prompt for a while (i sent the jumble of ideas to V.V. after this being in my drafts for a few months). read the sister story linked at the end!

masterlist requests open

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Once again, you are in your home country to race, only this time it’s in Austin. You spent the break on your family’s ranch back in Montana, riding your horse and reconnecting with nature. You always joked that you are the racing version of Hannah Montana.

“Y/n, it must be nice to be back home. You certainly look the part,” Laura starts your interview with F1TV.

“Ah, well Austin is much different than Montana. Two different types of cowboy, I’d say,” you are dressed like you just came from the stable. Boots, jeans, hoodie, hair in a braid, and your hat. A quick look says you aren’t a driver.

“How so?”

“Well, they like the spice down here much more, and I’d say that we are much more equipped to deal with snow. One thing I do know is that we both love a good rodeo,” you feel your hat be removed from you head as you speak. Turning to your left, you see Charles put it on his head.

“Yee haw, little lady,” Charles does what might be the worst Texas accent you’ve ever heard.

“Charles Leclerc, you did not just grab my cap by the brim. I don’t think you know what you just did,” you take your hat back, by grabbing the crown - you aren’t an animal, holding it at your side as to not make fans think anything of it.

“Well, I’ll let you sort that out,” Laura turns to the camera. “Stay tuned for an exclusive interview with Y/n and Liam Lawson as we discuss being rookies, Lightning McQueen, and more,” Laura says, letting the camera cut away.

“Sorry we couldn’t get more of an interview, I gotta explain cowboy culture to Charles,” you cringe, pulling the Ferrari boys away. Charles listens as you ramble about how it’s rude to touch a hat, then straw versus felt and why despite it being past labor day you are wearing straw, and finally that his act of taking your hat could be seen as a sign of flirting. You reach the Alpine home and quickly dart inside.

“Mate, I don’t think she got it,” Carlos shakes his head as Charles groans.

“I’ve been trying all season, she just isn’t getting it,” Charles whines, sure you will never pick up on his flirting.

That night you take the boys to a bar just outside Austin that some friends back home recommended, they said it was where a lot of rodeo cowboys go. It does not disappoint, the neon offsetting the wood with Tim McGraw crooning on the speakers. You practically run to the bar to order your favorite cheap beer.

“Some of my friends said this is the best bar in town,” you yell over the music.

“Logan? He was your childhood best friend right?” Franco says, hoping that he got it right.

“Logan? No, although he is my friend. You really don’t know how far Montana is from here and Miami, huh,” you swig your beer before narrowing your eyes at the Argentinian. “Are you even old enough to be here? How did you get in?”

“Franco is 21, barely, but he is,” Alex says, a little put off by the place. Most of them did try to fit in, but everyone in the bar can tell they are tourists based off them wearing felt hats when it’s blistering hot outside.

“Oh, they have a bull,” your eyes light up as you quickly make your way to the mechanical animal. You don’t care if it’s embarrassing for you or the guys, you want to see them fall off.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Max asks, wary of the old machine.

“Sure, that’s what makes it fun. Why don’t you go first?” Your eyes challenge Max as a small crowd watches on, interested at the goings of your group.

“I, uh,” it doesn’t take you more than a second to realize that the boys are scared. You square your shoulders, finishing off your beer.

“Alright, but you’re missing out, it’s mighty fun,” you shrug, taking your hat off and setting it upside down on a table beside the operator. You hand him cash as you step onto the worn blue mats, eyeing up your worn, red competitor.

“Don’t you think this is a bad idea? I don’t want to explain to the team how you got hurt,” Pierre’s panic is evident even as the guys pull out their phones to film.

“Yeah no, I learned from the best. My hometown best friend is a champion rider,” you expertly mount the mechanical bull, unphased as it starts bucking. You hang on much longer than the boys would’ve, and when you feel yourself be about to get thrown off, you dismount with a flourish.

The guys are speechless beyond cheering for you as you put your hat on, heading back to the bar for another beer. Men tip their caps to you and you blush, a little overwhelmed by the attention.

Charles knows enough to know that you put on a show and have the interest of even more guys now. It doesn’t help that your boots and shorts show off your legs just right, and the tee you chose fits perfectly. Your hat adds a layer of mystery as it helps hide your eyes, but not your beautifully curled hair.

You don’t do much the rest of the night other than drink the guys into a hole, get violently drunk, and stand on a table singing Dolly Parton.

You pull up to the paddock the next day wearing a college football jersey, the school you’ve supported since you were a young kid.

“Texas or Georgia?” someone yells at you and you can’t help but step back in disgust.

“Neither, I’d rather die,” you yell back, despite not having a team in the SEC.

“How are you alive and still manage to look good,” Franco groans, walking beside you.

“Sheer will, and a bit of my mama’s secret recipe,” you grin.

“How does he do it?” Charles asks Max, watching Franco effortlessly flirt with you, even though Franco doesn’t realize he’s flirting.

“No idea. Have you talked to Mick, he’s pretty close with her. Maybe he has an idea,” Max shrugs.

“Mick? Like Mick Schumacher?”

“Yeah, they karted together. You could also just talk to her,” Max suggests, pushing his friend in your direction.

“So you are actually a cowgirl?” Charles asks you once Franco drops back to yap with Max.

“Yeah, my parents have a working ranch. I help out when I can, since they helped find people to house and train me throughout my career,” you smile.

“That’s so cool. You have your own horse too, right?”

“Yeah, do you want to see him? He’s a feral mustang that we domesticated, I’m thinking of breeding him with a quarter horse soon,” you pull up photos as Charles tries to understand everything you said.

“What a pretty rider,” Charles hopes you might pick up on an obvious flirt.

“Thanks,” the compliment barely registers in your mind.

“Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime,”

“Oh, I was going to have Mick, Pierre, and Logan come up after Brazil. You should come too, hopefully we will beat the snow. There’s already been some, but if you bundle up you will be fine,” your smile melts Charles’s brain.

“Snow? Already?” Charles can’t imagine it, it hasn’t even been Halloween.

“Oh yeah, nothing like a warm cider and a fireplace though,” Charles can hear your accent come through.

“So are they dating?” Franco asks, observing how close you and Charles are standing.

“No.”

“But he likes her?”

“Yes.”

“And she likes him?”

“Hard to say,” Max shrugs.

“I am so confused,” Franco stares at you and Charles, it’s obvious you both like each other.

“Me too,” Carlos agrees, having come to retrieve Charles when he overheard Franco’s conversation with Max.

“Y/n is a smart woman, but she certainly cannot pick up on flirting,” Max shakes his head, walking off.

Charles did join you at your ranch before Las Vegas, with strict orders from his trainer on how to keep up with his training. Charles wasn’t expecting a whole complex of barns and houses. You could almost call it an operation.

They were all shoved in the back of your pickup, luggage safe on the bed of the truck, as you and a ranch hand chat in the front of the car.

“You boys are lucky there’s room in the main house during your stay,” the ranch hand had joked. Because the group arrived so late, it’s straight to bed for everyone. Everyone except you.

Charles is restless, and despite his better judgment, gets out of bed for a change of scenery. He walks into the living room, looking at family photos, school yearbook photos, and pictures of your races. Some of your first trophies are proudly displayed above the fireplace, as well as a picture from your first time in the points in F1. He takes in everything, it’s clear how proud your parents are of you.

Charles finds you on the porch, with a steaming mug and quilt thrown over your legs. You are staring at the sky, not really paying attention. He’s freezing, wearing more layers than you, but he sits beside you anyway. You hand him a spare quilt, which he thanks you for.

“It’s nice, to slow down out here, the open skies and quiet,” you break the calm silence.

“It seems busy around here,”

“You have to be. It’s a hard business, no days off. I’m lucky that we are a larger ranch and my family can afford things like my career. Most of my friends stay and work full time, some work for us now. The guys out there are just going in for the night to the bunk houses, they will be up at dawn ready to work,” you explain. Charles was right in that this is a business, and a large one.

“Makes me feel bad that we are here on a break then,” Charles rubs the back of his neck.

“Don’t be. Plenty of ranches book out guest houses for tourism, it’s good income. Plus, you are here as my guest. The town will love to meet new people,” you reassure him, reaching to pat his hand.

“So, I guess you really don’t know every city that we visit?” Charles grins. None of the drivers ever bothered to look up where you are from, so they joke that you know Miami, Austin, and Las Vegas like they are your home town. However, they’ve been taking it more seriously as of late.

“No,” you whisper, a hint of a smile on your face as you watch the snow fall. You find yourself tucked under Charles’ arm before you bid him goodnight, going to bed.

You are up early, eating breakfast with your family.

“What’s your plan for the day?” your mother asks as you help clear the table.

“I think a trail ride then go into town, I don’t want to impose too much, but I��ll probably show them around,” you say, thinking of a schedule.

“Why don’t you do a late lunch in town? I have some things for you to pick up,” you agree with her idea.

“Go ahead, Mama, I’ll clean up,” you say, knowing there is administrative work to do.

The boys meander down about an hour later as you are finishing baking a bread you started yesterday.

“Morning boys,” you wipe your hands as they stand cluelessly in the kitchen. “Take a seat, I’ll whip you up something quick,” you motion to the kitchen table as you head to the fridge.

“Do you need help?” Logan asks, but your look quickly tells him to shut up.

“Coffee’s in the pot if you want some, milk in the fridge, food will be ready in a few minutes,” you wave the offer off.

“What’s your plan for today?” Mick asks, quickly taking to the coffee.

“I’ll take you on a trail ride and tour around some of the ranch, then we will go into town and grab lunch. After dinner we can go to the bar if it isn’t too bad out,” you look out the window, most of the snow has melted off already, but you can never be too careful. The boys quickly eat what you serve them and you take them out to the barn.

“Need help?” Charles asks as you blanket and saddle four horses, one he recognizes as yours. It’s impressive, watching you easily sling the heavy saddles on.

“Hold these, stand still,” you hand him the reigns, making sure he is in a safe position.

“Are you wearing chaps?” Mick notices the tan leather covering your jeans.

“Yes, and you all should too. You will thank me later when the wind isn’t biting at your legs. We should have some extras, hang on,” you grab a few pairs and tell the boys how to wear them.

“This is quite fashionable, I should’ve worn them in Austin,” Charles twists his legs, looking at the western wear. You just shake your head and continue getting the saddles ready.

“This is weirder than I thought,” Logan says, a little uncomfortable in the gear as you help him mount the horse.

“Sit up straighter, and widen your legs a little,” you fix his feet as you speak, adjusting the saddle and stirrups. You help each of them mount the horses you saddled before mounting your own horse.

You start with the tour before the trail ride, and the boys are feeling a little sore from the trotting as they dismount.

“I’m impressed your hat stayed on,” Mick says as he feels his muscles ache.

“That’s the point of a proper fitting hat. You can tell your trainers you had your workout for the day. Come on,” you make them follow you to the truck. As you get into town, you get stopped every other minute, being asked how you are and who your friends are. The boys look around the small store as you pick up your mother’s order.

“You and your boyfriend make quite the handsome couple,” the clerk, a church friend of your mother, says. She observes your startled face and smiles. “The one with brown hair, he seems very protective of you,” you look at Charles and catch his eye, causing both of you to look away with a blush.

“We aren’t dating, he’s a friend that I race with. They all are,” you deny, but you can’t help but wonder why your heart skipped a beat at the accusation.

“Sure honey, but you should see the way that boy looks at you,” you take the package, mind spinning.

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” your voice is quieter as she pats your hand.

“You take care now, don’t forget about your roots when you become a big star,”

“I’ll dedicate my first win to you all,” you smile, taking a step away from the old oak counter.

“Good girl. Watch out on the roads tonight,”

“Yes, Ma’am,” when you approach the guys you notice how you and Charles naturally gravitate towards each other, but you are quick to distract yourself before you think too much about it.

“Everything alright?” Mick asks, poking your head. You swat away his hand as he goes to poke you again. Logan and Charles are trailing you, talking about something that you couldn’t care less about.

“Yeah, just thinking about something the shop owner said,”

“That Charles likes you?” Mick says, you huff and walk a little faster.

“He doesn’t though, Mickie. We are just friends, he’s never even flirted with me. Besides, I don’t even like him like that, and I would NEVER date someone on the grid,” lies, well mostly. The grid part is pretty true, that’s a mess you don’t wasn’t to touch. Mick can read you like a book, he’s your best friend and basically your brother. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you into a side hug as you walk.

“He flirts with you endlessly, you are just too blind to see it. Meine Liebe, he is so in love with you that he would crash someone out for you,” Mick looks at you, watching the gears in your brain turn.

“Well, if he is flirting with me that much, he really needs to step up his game,” you look at the sky, then to Mick.

“It’s a shame you are basically my brother, why can’t we date?” you groan, Mick loudly laughs.

“Alpine would hate that, can’t have two of their drivers dating,” Mick lowers his arm, poking your side.

“They are separating us, but our love shall prevail,” you carry on, enjoying the antics.

“Even Mick flirts with her easier than me,” Charles groans, looking at Logan for backup.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but they are literally the definition of siblings separated at birth. They joke like that all the time, he’s just her best friend,” Logan shakes his head.

“So there’s a chance?”

“Not with your flirting,” Logan pats Charles’s shoulder as they approach your truck.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, there is a storm coming,” you turn the key in the ignition, watching the boys get in the truck. Logan calls shotgun, leaving Charles and Mick in the back.

“Who let dying cats sing?” Mick teases you and Logan as you sing along with a country song, earning him the bird from both of you.

“Alright boys, wash up and then be down here for dinner. We won’t wait for you,” you say as you park the truck. Charles grabs the package for you, carrying it inside.

“I’ll take that, son,” your dad grabs the package from Charles as you walk through the door. “Y/n,” you follow his beacon, leaving the boys alone.

“Well, I will see you all in a bit,” Mick heads to his room, it’s obvious that he’s visited before.

Much to Charles’s dismay, he makes no progress on the flirting end for the rest of the week. When you get to Las Vegas, you are swept up in media and team duties. Charles sees more of Pierre than he does of you that weekend. He does notice when you post on Instagram.

instagram

y/username brought the boys home with me, still wouldn’t call them cowboys

mickschumacher to be fair, Logan and I fit in pretty well, Charles though…

charlesleclerc hey!

y/username charlie… you still don’t know how to wear a hat correctly

alpinef1team we 🫶 our cowgirl (and Cowboy Mick)

mercedesamgf1 our* Cowboy Mick 🤠

scuderiaferrari it’s okay Charles, even if you aren’t a cowboy, we still love you (Mick was ours first, back off)

charlesleclerc hey! you are supposed to be on my side

mickschumacher love the support guys 💙🩵❤️

user29 the shared admin parenting 😭

y/username charlie, it’s okay, not everyone is cowboy material

user aww, she brought Logan with her. best former grid friendship

user4 so we are ignoring the part where she got them all to wear chaps?

logansargeant you hear that mick? i’m better than you

mickschumacher impossible, i’m literally her best friend

y/username and they looked wonderful in them 🥰 (i love you two equally)

user2 poor charles, always forgotten even if they weren’t friends until recently

charlesleclerc best cowgirl and teacher in Montana ❤️

y/username only Montana? i’m wounded, you’re uninvited from the next trip

Mick hung around, pulling double duty for Mercedes and Alpine. He watched the race from the Mercedes garage, a tense place to be during the race. The Mercedes team qualified poorly in Q3, leaving them in the midfield. Logan accompanied him, an odd sight for most fans.

You had qualified well, with you and Pierre in P6 and P7 respectively. A crash up front took out Max and Lando, leaving the two of you in a battle with Oscar, Charles, and Carlos. A late safety car and a well timed undercut allowed you to move into P2, fighting for the win with Pierre right behind you. With five laps left to go, you find luck on your side once more. Oscar locked up, giving you just enough room to overtake him. When you cross the line five laps later, you feel tears running down your face.

“We did it, holy shit! Great work team, I’m so proud of you guys. This win is for the huge support network I have back home - I told you I’d dedicate my first win to you, and it’s for this team who has struggled and fought to be in the position to win races again,” you say on the radio as you take your cool down lap, waving to fans as you drive past.

The feeling of standing on top of your car is like nothing else, the crowd electric with you first win, a home win.

Pierre pulls into P3, quickly hoping out to embrace you, rubbing your helmet.

“We did it! You are amazing!” Pierre cheers.

“Finally a podium for us,” you agree, joining Pierre in heading to the barricades to celebrate with the team.

Charles makes his way to where you are putting on your team hat and sipping water a few minutes later.

“Welcome to the home win club,” he hugs you, wishing he was on the podium too.

“Thanks, Charlie. Sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed,” you smile but tears start to flow out of your eyes again. This is likely the only win you will ever get, and you know that.

“Amour,” his voice is soft and sympathetic as he wipes the tears off your cheeks. “You deserve every bit of this win, you drove so well,” he reassures you as you nod, sniffing the tears away.

“Interview time, champ,” Pierre grabs you, pulling you towards Guenther. He quickly shoots Charles a look that says he’s talking about this later. Pierre is protective of his teammate, and he isn’t scared to rip into his childhood friend if needed. You watch Pierre speak, then Oscar, before it’s your turn. They wait for you, not wanting to leave you vulnerable to the media.

“Y/n, first off, congratulations on a monumental win. How are you feeling?” Guenther asks, his voice jovial. He watched you grow as a driver in the Ferrari program, so he feels a bit proud.

“Overwhelmed, mainly,” you laugh, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. “I, uh, carry the legacy of many women before me, those who drove, served as test and reserve drivers, and affiliated drivers. I really hope this win made them proud and make the girls driving in lower formulas know they can succeed here too,” you say, still breathing a bit heavier.

“That was one heck of a drive, how were you able to take the win?”

“A lot of luck, and confidence. I knew that I had to take some risks, especially on that overtake and defending the last few laps. I’m glad that Max and Lando are okay, those collisions aren’t fun,”

“One more question and then I will let you get your trophy. How will you take this confidence into the last two races?”

“Just keeping the energy up with the whole team. They’ve worked hard to get Pierre and I on the podium, and it’s nice to see it pay off, especially at my home race. You never really know when you will get to the podium, so I think we will just cherish this and hope the points keep coming,” you say, relieved to be done with interviews for now.

“Thank you, congratulations again,” Guenther says, letting you go. You give a wave and disappear to where Pierre and Oscar await.

“An all Alpine podium,” Mick teases, waiting around the bend for you.

“Former, but I guess it counts,” Oscar smiles as you launch yourself at your best friend.

“I’m so proud, meine Liebe, and I know Dad is too,” he hugs you tightly. Mick lets you go a moment later, promising to see you after the podium.

The cooldown room is nice, you relax in the chair as Oscar and Pierre chatter, watching the race highlights.

“Nice defending, you were a brick wall against Charles,” you fist bump Pierre.

“Ready?” Oscar asks, dragging you out of your seat. Pierre is the first out and onto the podium. “Just breathe, this is your moment,” Oscar reminds you before stepping out. Before you know it you are being drenched in champagne.

“This is just the start of the celebrations, mon amie,” Pierre says, wrapping an arm around you as you head back to the motorhome.

“Drinks on me tonight,” you cheer, ready to shower off the champagne and get media over with.

You are one of the last to arrive at the club, mostly because your phone died and you had to wait on it to charge. However, that just means you had more time to pregame, and you did.

“Oscar!” you drunkenly cheer, wrapping your arms around the Aussie.

“When did you get here? Are you already drunk?” he asks, trying not to laugh.

“Mhmm,” you nod, “I drank with Logan,”

“Logan is here?!” Oscar looks around the room, trying to spot his friend.

“No, silly, he’s in Miami. He was on the phone, duh,” you walk towards the bar, ordering a round of shots for your friends and you. You don’t hesitate in downing it, ordering a drink to take with you back onto the floor.

“How much have you had to drink?” Franco asks, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady.

“Mmmm, five shots,” you giggle then poke his cheek, pushing his face a bit due to your sloppy motions. “You’re cute, just a babbyyy,”

“You are very pretty as well, how’d you know I have a thing for older women,” Franco flushes, the flirting coming out of nowhere. He honestly thought that you and Charles were dating, but he can’t help that he’s a natural flirt.

“Pierre! George!” you walk away before he can even process everything. You are off to do more shots, intending to get fucked up.

“You okay?” Max asks, quickly replacing you at Franco’s side.

“Y/n was just here, she’s an odd drunk, can she even drink that much?” Franco asks, very confused.

“She brought Tennessee moonshine to a race last year and she out drank Valtteri. I didn’t realize she’s been here,” Max looks around, searching for you.

“Whatever she drank earlier was strong then. Aren’t she and Charles dating? Why was she flirting with me?”

“Who knows,” Max shrugs, leaving Franco confused and alone as he spots you back at the bar in the VIP section the drivers reserved.

“You are cut off for now,” Max shakes his head as he stands beside you, taking the drink from your hand and keeping it for himself.

“Charlie! Tell Max to give me my drink back,” you pout, crossing your arms as you lean back against the bar, stumbling a little as your back hits the edge.

Charles’s eyes rake across you in concern as he quickly reaches out to steady you. He looks away at Max to get a silent read on the situation.

“Amour, how much have you had to drink? Didn’t you just get here?” Charles is more worried that you may have been drugged, no one acts like that after one drink.

“Five shots,” Charles watches you count on your fingers, holding up seven of them.

“And here?”

“Um, three shots and a drink. I just got here fourty minutes ago,” your words slur together as dizzying lights flash around the bar. The change in music tells everyone that Lando got behind the DJ booth.

“You are cut off for the hour, go dance some of it off then I will buy you a new drink,” Max says, winking at Charles. Before he can respond, you are dragging Charles onto the dance floor.

“You are a terrible flirt. You know who told me that you like me? Mickie,” you poke Charles’ chest as you dance close to him. Charles wraps his arms around your waist, keeping you close but providing support.

“It must’ve worked if you know now,” Charles leans down slightly, voice low against the pulsing music. You tilt your head up more, looking at him through hooded eyes, his body moving against yours as the bass builds up.

“No,” you say, lips centimeters away from brushing against his as the beat drops. “You need to work harder to earn me,” you slip out of his arms, going to find your aforementioned friend, leaving Charles alone and horny.

You find yourself back at the bar, no one there to stop you from drinking more. Well, that is until Mick shows up right before the bartender walks back over to you.

“Let’s celebrate the win, if you drink any more right now you will puke in 10 minutes,” Mick pulls you away, back to the other drivers. Fuck Charles, the bar is your one true love and Mick is denying you it.

“Here,” Lewis hands you a drink which you happily take. It’s just a mocktail, but you don’t know that.

“To our cowgirl and her first win!” Carlos toasts, cheers ringing out across your group. You catch Lando sneaking away back to the DJ booth, and you quickly follow.

“Lando, let me play a song,” you beg, and who is Lando to deny you after your first win? The grid gravitates towards the two of you as Lando helps you set yourself up.

“What are you playing?” Lando yells as you quickly pull up your song. Your devilish grin tells him everything as he helps you blend it into the song currently playing. The song slows as a low “tu tu tu tu” rings out, the lights turning in to focus on Max.

“Is this because I took away your drink?” Max yells, embarrassed and a little annoyed even though he thinks it’s funny. The rest of the guys are singing along, teasing Max. That’s the last thing you remember.

You wake up groggy on the couch of your hotel room, Mick in the bed. Based on the weird feeling in your mouth, you were puking before you fell asleep. Stumbling, you cross the room and crawl into bed beside Mick.

Mick wakes you up a few hours later, cup of coffee in hand.

“How much do you remember of last night?” he asks as you lightly groan, launching into your past memories.

You virtually sit down for a podcast later in the week to discuss your win.

“How does it feel going viral?” The one podcaster asks after you discussed your career and fighting in the midfield.

“Viral? Honestly, I’ve been so busy since the win that I haven’t been on social media,” you laugh, very confused.

“Gen Z has taken to you, you are all over TikTok and Twitter,”

“That’s wild, thanks Gen Z,” you smile, giving the camera a little salute.

“The after party seemed fun,”

“From what I remember, it was. It’s always a good time going out with the guys. Can I confess something?”

“Please do,” the podcaster says, eager for some gossip.

“I thought Franco was too young to be out with us. The first time he showed at the bar in Austin, I genuinely thought he was about to be thrown out,” you say, letting the conversation stay of that for a bit.

“So, a photo of you and Charles dancing at the club after your win went viral. We asked him about it and this is what he had to say,”

“Oh yeah, we’re dating, didn’t you know?” Charles says, looking quite serious, but you know it’s a joke, at least you think it is.

“Haha, yeah we are engaged, almost got married in Vegas. Didn’t you know?” you joke, stifling a laugh.

The podcast blew up and Alpine ate it up. The media team was quick to partner with Ferrari to do a couples challenge in the Alpine motorhome. You quickly leave once it’s done, escaping to your driver’s room. Charles follows you, sitting beside you as you take a deep breath.

“Sorry, it’s all a bit overwhelming. I am from a small town, I’m just not used to this type of attention,” you say and Charles holds your hands, providing comfort as electricity courses through you.

“You don’t have to be. Your fans think you are perfect, I think you are perfect,” Charles says, your eyes meeting his, searching for signs that he isn’t telling a lie.

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been in love with you forever. You are beautiful, and kind, and smart,” Charles trails off as his eyes flicker to your lips. His right hand finds itself moving from your hand to your cheek. He leans in, lips brushing yours as he hesitates - waiting for you to take action.

You tilt your head up, mind spinning as you take in his scent and the moment. You don’t waste another moment, pressing your lips to his. Charles tenderly pulls away after a minute, resting his forehead on yours.

“I didn’t lie in that interview, amour, you are my cowgirl,” he says softly, a hint of relief in his voice.

“Yours? Oh no, Charlie, you will have to work harder to win that,” your sly smile tells him that the challenge isn’t over yet as he leans in to kiss you again.

“My stubborn, stubborn cowgirl,”

Can’t get enough? Check out @vitalverstappen’s sister story ⬇️!

#f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc

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yearningagain · 11 months ago

Text

it's enough (to make a girl blush)

HIIII EVERYONE so you know that fic i was asking for a beta reader for?? well i found one!! and i'd like to present the first chapter of it's enough (to make a girl blush), my first SERIOUS fic that i 100% intend on finishing!!

i'd like to thank the amazing @kayleeofcamelot for being my lovely beta reader <3

also on AO3!

wc: 1.1k | rating: e (18+) | pairing: steddie | cw: none | tags: a/b/o, alpha eddie munson, omega steve harrington, modern au, baker steve, famous eddie, getting together, gay eddie, bi steve, soulmates/true mates/scent mates, side buckingham

part two | part three

--------------

"God, fuck- alpha, please ..." Steve begs, sat upon a man's toned, yet lean thigh, grinding and rutting against it as he chased his high. The man chuckled darkly, his hands coming to grip Steve's hips, tight enough that Steve knows there will be bruises, guiding him along roughly.

With barely open eyes, he managed to peek at the hands that would surely leave marks come morning. Dark tendrils of tattoos that stretched from the man’s second knuckle and up his arms. Fingertips calloused and dexterous, nails bitten and paint chipped, and almost every finger has more than two silver rings adorning it, save for his right hands ring finger. No, that finger holds only one ring. An aged, loved, golden band with three small red crystals set in a line.

Small gasps left Steve's lips, every roll of the omega’s hips pressed his cocklette deliciously against the fabric of the omega's thin shorts. Both pants had surely been ruined by the amount of slick that poured out of him, but he couldn't make himself feel bad about it, even if he tried. Something inside him, his omega , told him that the alpha was having just as much fun as he was.

"Ah- ‘M close, alpha..." Steve pants, head feeling pleasantly fuzzy. He could smell how his own scent had changed, the spiced apple scent turning into something heady and thick. Suddenly, he got hit with the most divine scent in the world. Campfire smoke and pine, a hint of petrichor and old books. Home- a whispered thought. It almost sent him over the edge.

Almost.

Then, all of a sudden, everything felt wrong . It was as if he was floating away from his body, his mind a balloon escaping a child's loose clutch. He couldn't smell the alpha, just his own scent turning sour and rotten. The cool sensation of the man's rings where they pressed into bare skin suddenly spread all over, no longer comforting, but as if ice water had engulfed him. Something nagged at him, though, in the back of his mind. Something like a spark, settling into the omega and igniting coals to keep him warm and happy.

And Steve opened his eyes.

—

Steve glared at himself in the mirror, bare in preparation for a shower. There were no marks, no evidence of anything happening. One more glance over his entire body confirmed that there was nothing left of the alpha. It was a simple wet dream. The only thing that kept him from dismissing the dream entirely was his strong disappointment when he woke up alone, and the low thrum of energy he could feel stemming from his inner omega. (And the slick-soaked sheets he'd have to deal with later.) If he focused hard enough, he could almost hear the whispering rumble of "Mate. Alpha. Mate. Alpha."

He shook himself from his stupor and hopped in the shower. What did it mean, this newfound warmth over someone he'd apparently made up in his mind? Was he really that lonely? No, of course not.

(Yes. He was.)

After turning over question after question in his mind only to come up blank, he sighed. He'd have to talk to Robin about this.

Reluctantly set in his decision, he got out of the shower and patted himself dry, threw his hair up in a towel, and put on a fresh pair of sweats. Throwing a glance at his alarm clock, it read 9:57 AM . Robin should be awake by now, hunched over their dinky coffee machine with her eyes still closed and dried drool on her chin.

It was Sunday, so Robin didn't have class and the bakery Steve worked at, Claudia's Cakes , was closed for the day. He figured he could take her out to lunch. Maybe the deli two doors down from the bakery? He had been having a craving for their Cubano recently.

Stepping out of his room and shuffling to the kitchen, Steve found Robin exactly like he thought, arms braced on the counter to pillow her resting head. The coffee machine gurgled away, the strong scent mingling with Robin’s earthy strawberry aroma.

"Morning, Robs."

A small groan is all he got in response. He chuckled softly and fetched the sugar and creamer, setting it on the counter next to his best friend's birds nest of bed head. Taking his place at their table, he opened up his phone to check his messages (mostly from Dustin talking about some band he found online). Soon, Robin slumped into the chair across from him, a mug of coffee placed in front of him as she sipped on her own. Now that she was actually awake, she looked at him with a curious expression.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Steve asked her.

She hummed, taking a calculating look. "No, nothing on your face. You just... you smell different. Not bad different! Just different, like instead of cinnamon apple cake, you smell like roasted apples. And honey? What's up with that?"

Steve is surprised she doesn't spill her coffee all over the place with how she flings her arms around, emphasizing her question with a pointed finger and finally slamming her mug down.

"I don't know, dude.” Another glare from her. "I really don't! Anyways, did you want to grab lunch at the deli today? My treat."

Sighing and giving him one last glare, she shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I’ve been meaning to stop by the record store, could we swing by on the way back?”

Steve threw a pointed glance to their overflowing record crate below their old record player, a housewarming gift from Robin’s mom. She huffed in response, crossing her arms and mumbled “I just want to look.”

Crimson painted her cheeks and she avoided his gaze, which was all Steve needed to know. He knew Robin had made a friend (or crush rather) in her music theory class at UIC, and she and Steve were basically some sort of cosmic twins, and he knew all of her tells. So when he asked if he’s finally going to meet her, she really shouldn’t be that surprised. She still looked up at him with wide eyes, dropping her arms to the table. Another pointed look from Steve and she relented, “She told me to stop in when I could because she wants to show me this really cool limited edition vinyl the store got in recently and she looked so pretty when she asked, Steve. She had these pigtails and she was wearing this eyeshadow that made her eyes pop and she was wearing the skirt I told you about, the one with the hearts? Yeah, that one! And her sweater was, like, four sizes too big and she looked tiny! Anyways, how could I possibly say no when she looks like that?! She batted her eyelashes at me, Steve. Don’t give me that look.”

The omega simply sighed, shook his head fondly, and stood up.

“Be ready in an hour, Buckley.”

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bonesvoid · 5 months ago

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we finish this together (masterlist)

── fluff ✿ angst ★ smut ♡

viktor x reader w/ transmasc!reader ✿ the birth of the celestial realm ♡ hey, that's not how you use a cane! ♡ behind the linen curtain ★ put that mouth to better use ♡ grinding against his brace ♡ reaffirmation - my vows to you ✿★ clean up on aisle 5 ♡ flesh & blood / metal & machine ★ hallowed be thy name ♡ a failed timeline ★ the tease & his dummy ♡ dumb little bunny ♡

jayce x reader loser!jayce antics ♡ a wolf in sheep's clothing* ♡ w/ transmac!reader ✿ t4t transmasc!jayce x transmasc!reader ✿ the girl next door ✿ sugar, spice, & everything nice (series) ✿★♡ 24yo loser engages in panty theft ♡ dumb little bunny ♡

jayvik x reader fight back ★ when swallows fly low (part 1 | part 2) ★♡ who's the pussy eating champion? ♡ sun and moon ✿ ugly sweater party ✿ sweet potatoes ✿ crystal clear ✿ risky business ♡ the noxian spy ★ dumb little bunny ♡ random hcs ✿

jayvik d&d au thoughts ✿★ 12 grapes before midnight ✿ black licorice ✿ dick measurements ♡ top/sub vs. bottom/dom ♡ college au thoughts ✿ halluncations ★ heathers au thoughts ★ single dads au thoughts ✿★ some things abt me ft. modern!jayvik ✿ fashion industry au thoughts ✿★

── rules. ── masterlist. ── yaps.

#hexb0nes pinned #arcane #league of legends #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #arcane jayvik #arcane viktor x reader #arcane jayce x reader #arcane jayvik x reader #gif banner by arcanegifs

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riverianepondsims · 1 year ago

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The Sims 4 to The Sims 3 - LittleDica Rise & Grind Coffeehouse Set

Quite some time ago, I mentioned that a café themed set was on the horizon - here it is now! ☕ Important info and download 💾 below:

About a year ago, I worked on several projects, but many things happened that prevented the release of them. This set was one of them - primarily, I make things for myself and my own use and post later. However, when it came to posting these, some items needed a little extra attention as I wanted them to look a little better, and I ended up adding more than I originally had. It's here now, so it all worked out in the end :) Some of you may have spotted some of these items in my Target set previews 🧐 bonus points to you. Most of LittleDica's sets are my absolute favorite from TS4, and I'm already working on more. Plan to see more of these and others soon! Here's what's included: Aroma Sensations Mural - Wall Deco Professionally Scribbled Chalk Drawing - Wall Deco Dracaena Lemon Lime Plant - Deco Splash of Coffee Mural - Wall Deco Artist's Café Mural - Wall Deco Napkin Holder - Deco Café Bar - Deco Surface with many slots Counter Straw Holder - Separated deco from café bar mesh Counter Menu Sign - Separated deco from café bar mesh Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Text) - Wall Light Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Round) - Wall Light Coffee Shop Wall Sign (Large Backlit) - Wall Light Preparation Station - Display/Miscellaneous Surface, has many deco slots for holding items Coffee Beans Bin - Floor Deco Coffee Bags Bin - Floor Deco Coffee Bean Silo - Deco Wall Menu Sign - Wall Deco Iced Drink Tumbler - Deco Coffee Machine Pods - Deco Coffee Mug - Deco Espresso Powder - Deco Corporate Window Stickers - Wall Deco Syrup Bottle - Deco Spice Shaker - Deco Reusable Hot Coffee Cup - Deco H&B Smooth Pro Blender - Functional food processor appliance Barista Professionista Coffee Grinder - Functional coffee machine appliance Functional EA Edit by Me - Separated Barista Bar - Fully functional version of the barista bar coffee machine without the counter. It is "floating" and does not require placement on a counter or surface. May want to use moveobjects and/or alt placement to place around objects and surfaces, but is very versatile and works just like the original! Dunkin' - Lot file, modified version of TKL4EVR's Great American Eateries Baskin-Robbins Lot. Around this time last year, Dunkin became my favorite go-to coffee, and mocha cold brew has got me through the rollercoaster of this last year! ☕️ I edited this lot for me, but figured I'd share. Place in: The Sims 3 > Library Collection File - collection file to find the items easy in build/buy mode. Place in: The Sims 3 > Collections > User 🔍 Search: You can search for riverianepondsims, LittleDica, or 2023 to locate the items conveniently using a catalog search mod.

- You can find all of my previous uploads conveniently by clicking “Navigation” on my blog and going to “Downloads” or visiting riverianepondsims downloads

My downloads will always be free, but if you would like to say thank you: Ko-fi ☕

💾 Download: SFS - Archive file ☕️🍩🥐

#ts3cc #ts3 cc finds #s3cc #ts3 #sims 3 cc #my cc #cc download #ts3 cc download

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moonstrider9904 · 6 months ago

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All good things start with coffee

Chapter 1 of Le Coeur

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Next chapter

Chapter summary: On an otherwise typical day, the owners of the Coffeewick can't help but notice an enforcer standing guard outside their coffee shop.

Tags/warnings: Steb x Original Female Character, other OCs are in the fic as well. Canon divergence, flirting, pining, crushes, teasing. Just a cute intro chapter.

Word count: 4.4k

On the corner of Alpine Road and Reverie Lane, on the northwestern quadrant of the intersection, there was a lovely building called The Coffeewick. It had been named by its owner long before she had even laid eyes on it, long before she—and her trusted business partner—turned it into the staple it became. Before them, the building that would go on to become the Coffeewick was already a catch. With its front facing south, it overlooked Bonan Plaza, one of Piltover city’s most renowned parks filled with trees bursting with life, benches to sit and enjoy life, fountains, even monuments to some of the City of Progress’ brightest minds. Shops, boutiques, even some apartment complexes were in the area, and before it became filled with life, the Coffeewick didn’t really fit into any of these categories. It was a little building that stood there, right on the corner, that could amount to anything.

When looking at the Coffeewick between its neighboring buildings, it certainly looked small. It had merely two stories—two apartments in the top story, each with one bedroom, a small kitchen and restroom and just enough room to make it the coziest home one could conceive. The roof of the Coffeewick wasn’t regularly used for anything other than the greenhouse, a valuable asset to those who lived in the little building, and in the remaining space of the rooftop where chairs and a table, and a series of warm fairy lights above the makeshift outdoor living room for the nights in which the Coffeewick’s two residents would decide to spend some time up there. The rooftop rarely saw the presence of outsiders.

But the ground level of the Coffeewick was the crown jewel, the dream that had been given hours of work and planning and love until it became a reality. It was a cute little coffee shop run by a human woman and a Yordle, both avidly passionate about their place in the world. The walls were a light cream color, creating a fitting canvas for the decor placed around it, mainly revolving around delicate green foliage and the same warm fairy lights wherever they could be placed, from the dark oak furniture to the edges where the walls met the ceiling, even flower pots dangling from the roof. Shelves were placed along the back wall where both owners kept a collection of their favorite cups, and at times, they added seasonal plants and decorations there as well.

These shelves, of course, ended where the counter began, the same place that originated the magic—and science—of the brewery. The counter was of the same dark oak as the shelves, tables, and chairs, contrasting with the floor that was a wood of a slightly lighter tone, balancing out the roof and delightfully bringing out the green plants and the lights, as though to emphasize the life that the Coffeewick had, that was breathed into it. The outer face of the counter was simple, with an intuitive sequence where a visitor would arrive, order, pay, and receive their heart’s desire.

But at the back, the main attraction was the coffee machine, designed and perfected by the owner herself throughout years of study, capable of brewing coffee in different volumes, temperatures, and consistencies, roasting and grinding beans, and it also contained an attaché for frothing milk. The machine itself took up almost half of the space along the back wall of the counter, after which there was an assortment of utensils, a small oven, a rack of syrups, sugars, and spices, followed by pastry racks, and finally a refrigerator. The logo of the Coffeewick was painted on the empty wall space above all the equipment, and above it was a hand-written menu on a chalkboard containing all the different beverages that were available for purchase as well as any pastries that would be available for the day. The menu had doodles of flowers and stars in any empty spaces, just for the sake of a little more magic.

The owner and head barista of the Coffeewick smiled gently as she poured steamed milk into a mug to create a piece of art with the drink she’d just brewed. A graduate of the prestigious Piltover Academy, Nea had dedicated years of study into the arts and sciences of coffee. What had started as a simple beverage to cope with long periods of school work evolved into the little thing that made life most enjoyable, and Nea harnessed her knowledge and dedication into designs, money saved, even the construction of the coffee maker that made all the beverages in the Coffeewick. While it was her dream and her vision, Nea hadn’t solidified the Coffeewick entirely on her own.

Nea’s partner, Blu, was a Yordle shorter than most and with the feisty spirit that was signature for her species. The little Yordle was well over a hundred years old, and she had seen many things in her time in the Yordle homeland known as Bandle City, from magical dreamscapes to portal catastrophes. A century of being a knitter and a tidal wave of adventures that followed made Blu long for seeing more around Runeterra, and when she parted for Piltover, she had nearly nothing to her name, and no hopes of amounting to anything in the near future. That had changed when she met Nea.

On that fairly typical day, while Nea focused on brewing the drinks that the customers were ordering, Blu exited the back room of the Coffeewick holding a tray of fresh pastries. She placed it on the pastry rack at the back of the counter and glanced over at Nea on the other side.

“This batch of Poro Cookies is the last one of the day,” Blu called.

With her concentration unbroken, Nea nodded in understanding at Blu’s statement. Making the appropriate twisting motions with her wrist as she poured the milk, Nea finished the foamy drawing of a swan on the surface of the drink she’d created—a traditional flat white made with a slightly darker roast than usual, one of her favorites. She called the customer’s name and set it on the round wooden surface at the edge of the counter where customers picked up their orders. Letting out a little exhale of satisfaction, she tucked a strand of her short black wavy hair behind her ear and moved onto the next order.

On her side of the counter, Blu tapped the knee of the young man who was working the cash register. Like all the additional employees of the Coffeewick, he was a student at the Academy in his last semester who worked there to earn some money and experience pre-graduation, a need for many like him whom the Coffeewick also wanted to help. Once he graduated and got a better job, he’d move on and let another student take his place, and so on. He, like the other part-timers, enjoyed working at the Coffeewick—it wasn’t just the peaceful ambience and delightful smell of coffee that made it shine, but the feeling of having a safety net that it emulated in him and his fellow Academy students was rivaled by only a few other initiatives in Piltover.

“You’re free to go,” Blu told him. “I’ll take over until Lily shows up.”

He looked down at Blu and smiled as he bent over and pulled a stool for her to climb on. “Thanks, I just need to talk to Nea and then I’m off.”

“Yup, take care,” Blu said as she got on top of the stool and was finally able to reach the cash register to keep the line going. “May I take your order?”

The next person in line was a lady who looked like she was in her sixties. She was well-dressed in black and white clothes that looked expensive, and she crowned her head with a black hat that had a large, poofy burgundy feather adorning it. The lady was expecting a human to take her order—you know, the same one she’d just seen behind the cash register—but instead, she was met with a little Yordle. Yordles weren’t all that common in Piltover, even if recent years had brought more of them to the city, so it was still a surprise for a Piltovan citizen to come across one. And this one in particular, with her blue fur and round brown eyes, her short brown hair in a bob cut, her round ears that poked from beneath the hair and her round little snout, knitted beige sweater and brown knit cowl, this little Yordle was just so round and fuzzy that it looked like a child’s teddy!

“Yes, I’ll have a… uh…” The lady trailed off, her eyes sparkling as her demure smile expanded into a grin from ear to ear. “I’m sorry, you’re just so cute!”

“Ma’am, this is a coffee shop,” Blu replied in a kindness-infused deadpan, as though her words were previously rehearsed. “If you wish to express appreciation for the staff’s cuteness, I suggest doing it in the form of a generous tip.” Blu gestured at the little jar next to the cash register machine and directed a bright smile at the lady.

“Of course, of course,” the lady said, pressing a hand to her cheek as the other one looked through her purse and pulled out a hefty coin, proceeding to add it to the jar. “Here you go, dear. Now, could I please have the toffee caramel cappuccino to go?”

“Yes, ma’am, and thank you for the tip,” Blu smiled and proceeded to charge the lady for her beverage. “Toffee caramel cappuccino to go!”

“Coming up,” Nea called from the other side of the counter as she was finishing up the next milk drink in the queue.

One more coffee was done and delivered, and it was time to go for the next. This next drink was a large dark brewed in the Moka method—that one always took longer to brew, so Nea set up the Moka to brew with the cup underneath it while working on the next one in parallel, a simple, straightforward latte. And as Nea divided her focus between the two drinks, she was able to see from the corner of her eyes that her cashier was approaching her timidly.

“Um… Miss Nea?” He said.

“What can I do for you, Donnie?” Nea responded, glancing over at him through her glasses before focusing on steaming milk again. “Your shift’s over, right?”

“Yes,” Donnie replied, feeling a tad less tense. “Listen, um… I was wondering, and I’m sorry for not asking sooner, but… finals are coming up, and I’ll need to buy a whole bunch of supplies for my projects. I need my paycheck early, maybe not even the whole check, just whatever’s appropriate for the days since my last one… could you maybe…?”

Keeping the cup of milk at a steady angle for it to continue steaming, Nea looked at Donnie again, her big brown eyes soft on him. “Oh, I remember finals seasons. The sooner you can get your supplies, the better. Stores run out quickly.”

“Yes, that’s what I fear,” Donnie sighed. “And now that I pay for all my food and I got the bright idea of adopting a dog—”

Nea let out a smooth, delicate laugh, stopping Donnie’s nervous rambling in its tracks.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t need to be afraid to ask me for things you need. The paychecks are in the backroom, just let me finish steaming this milk and I’ll go get it.”

Donnie directed a bright smile at Nea. “Thanks so much. You’re saving my life right now.”

“Not a problem,” Nea said, putting down the milk and quickly cleaning the steamer with a damp cloth and a second of blowing pure steam onto an empty cup. “Be right back.”

Having mastered the art of wandering around her coffee shop, Nea went to the back room for the paycheck and returned to see Donnie finishing up and delivering the drinks she left paused. She smiled at the sight—acts of kindness like that one would always live in her memory. She then walked up behind Donnie and handed him the envelope with his check, and the curve on her lips widened slightly.

“Thanks for covering those drinks,” Nea acknowledged. “Here’s your check, and if you need a raise, just let me know.”

“Thanks so much, Nea,” Donnie unconsciously gave a slight bow in her direction. “I don’t need the raise, I just really needed this to get all the stuff I need.”

“Alright, well, good luck with all your finals,” Nea smiled at him.

“Thanks!” Donnie cheerfully expressed his gratitude again, and he pranced his way out of the Coffeewick to leave Nea to continue her work.

Nea’s eyes lingered on Donnie as he made his way out, her mind temporarily wandering on a number of different things ranging from her own memories as an Academy student short on cash and the writing of a mental note to motivate Donnie—and the rest of the intern staff—more over the next few weeks. But just as Donnie’s figure was disappearing into the crowd of people outside, her gaze got caught in a blue uniform that shielded teal skin. It was a male enforcer whose profile faced Nea, and his posture was strictly straight, almost regal, with his fingers interlaced behind his back. The sight was fairly standard except for the obvious fact that this enforcer was a Vastaya, and the sound of Donnie walking out of the Coffeewick as well as his figure walking past the enforcer caused him to angle his body enough for him to fully face the Coffeewick’s entrance.

When he did, the enforcer's gaze traveled through the entrance of the Coffeewick and landed on Nea only for her to notice it was the most beautiful shade of aquamarine. With wide, brown eyes unable to hide their appeal at the most intricate details they were able to pick up on even in that second-long glance, from the gills above his jawline to the delicate fins that framed his eyes, and the way his angular features looked so incredibly soft, Nea stared back at him and felt her surroundings fade to white noise. Though as the door of the Coffeewick closed itself and cast a sheet of wood and glass between her and the enforcer, Nea noticed him turning around and regaining his post standing watch outside.

Even after Nea was no longer able to see that striking ocean gaze, she remained motionless as she replayed the image of it in her mind. Seconds passed her in her daze, forgetting the queue of orders and the smell of coffee that would, on any other day, be the thing to entrance her senses. Her stare stood focused on the blue uniform as if she could telepathically beckon him to turn around again, maybe inspire him to come inside and order a cup or two, but no such thing happened.

"Hey, head barista," Blu called from the cash register. "Get brewing!"

"Sorry!" Nea gave a hop, startled out of her daze, and she got back to brewing and filling orders as if nothing had distracted her in the first place.

Blu was just about to get off her stool with which she covered the cash register since Lily, another Coffeewick worker, had just arrived. As Blu was moving her stool over to the side, her gaze wandered over to Nea with an eyebrow raised, puzzled by her partner's sudden—and uncommon—lapsus.

"What was that about?" Blu asked Nea.

"Oh, nothing," Nea replied as she added whipped cream to the toffee caramel cappuccino she was finishing.

"Your cheeks are burning red," Blu deadpanned.

"Don't you have a tray of cookies to take out of the oven?" Nea glanced over at Blu.

"And now you're getting defensive, which means not even you understand whatever's got you in a pickle," Blu climbed onto a chair behind the counter. "You were looking outside, what happened?"

"Nothing," Nea said.

"A ghost from your past?" Blu teased. "An ex lover you left in the dead of the night?"

"No, and I've never done that," Nea answered as she delivered the beverage and headed toward the coffee machine to brew the next. In that time, Blu looked through the glass doors and windows over to the outside, and her Yordle eyes were able to catch irregular sights far quicker than others.

"Enforcers? Out here?" Blu wondered.

"Yeah," said Nea.

"Why?"

"I think I read in a newspaper somewhere that it's just a council initiative," Nea replied almost cautiously. "Just to keep people and businesses safe, etc, etc."

"So... if you're not a fugitive but you're nervous about an enforcer at our door-" Blu stopped herself and giggled. "Ooooh, I see. "

"No, you don't," Nea tried to dismiss.

"Poppycock," Blu laughed and stood on her paw toes, trying to get a look at the enforcer. "Woah, he's green!"

"Blu!" Nea scolded.

"Hey, come on, you just shouted the color of my fur," the Yordle teased and looked at the enforcer again with more attention. "What do you know? A Vastaya. Didn't know you were into that."

"Cut it out," Nea couldn't help but laugh, albeit nervously.

"Aww, you have a little crush," Blu smirked.

"Hey, I know that look in your eyes," Nea answered. "You may as well have little flames in them."

"Do you want me to go out there and tell him you like him?" Blu said with that same look of mischief in her teddy-like face.

"What I want is for you to get off my case," Nea frowned.

"No you don't, you love me," Blu crossed her arms and frowned back.

"Right now, I could think of a few other emotions I feel towards you," Nea smirked.

"You'd be lost without me," Blu challenged.

In response, Nea proceeded to do the mature, grown-up thing and stuck her tongue out at Blu. The Yordle instantly stuck her tongue out too in response and, after the two shared a laugh, Nea paused the drink she was brewing to help Blu off the chair.

"Fine, I'll go somewhere else and leave you to pine for your hot Vastaya enforcer man on your own," Blu laughed, looking back up at Nea over her shoulder. "Hey, here's an idea. You should totally make him a cup of coffee and take it to him, and be all girly and googly and all like 'thank you for your service' or something like that."

Nea straightened up, pausing in her tracks. "That's not a bad idea."

"What?" Blu's teasing became concern as she turned around and faced Nea fully. "Hey, I was kidding."

"No, you're right, that would be perfect!" Nea's face lit up with a smile. "Let me finish up these next couple of orders. Do you mind taking over the queue while I head out there?"

"You're serious," Blu stared blankly. "You're actually gonna do it."

"After these, it's just two lattes, one for here and one to go," Nea instructed. "It shouldn't take me any longer than that. What should I take him? Latte? Cappuccino? Flat white? Black coffee? Creamer on the side? Sugar?"

"Whatever Nea, just pick," Blu grunted as she pushed the chair over to the coffee machine, figuring she was gonna need the boost if she was to take over for Nea. Nea walked over to help with the chair and put Blu up on it again, earning her a frown from the Yordle. "I'd go with a Red Eye, maybe you'll scare him off for good."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," Nea grinned. "It was your idea."

"If this is your way of teaching me to shut up next time, it's working," Blu deadpanned.

"You don't mean that," Nea smirked. "You love me."

"And now I'm eating my words from earlier," Blu said. "Yippee."

Despite Blu's protests, she obliged and brewed the next couple of drinks in the queue while Nea finished up her current orders. As for what beverage she would deliver to the enforcer, she leaned back on her experience and went for the most balanced recipe for a latte she knew, one with good coffee flavor and creamy milk that added just the right amount of sweetness—perfect for nearly anyone who favored either the sweet or the bitter side of the craft. Nea was careful in her movements, deliberate in each part of the process from the milk steaming to the pouring of the espresso, and even if she was placing it in a disposable cup with a lid, she still made a delicate flower latte art with the foam on top—a heart probably would have been too obvious, but no small part of Nea wanted to make it that way. The flower seemed like a good option for now.

With the beverage done, she reached for a packet of sugar, a wooden mixer, and a couple napkins, Nea walked out from behind the counter and made her way across the Coffeewick, heading for the door. She stepped outside, relished in the chilly fresh air, and walked forward with her gaze set on the enforcer.

She stopped. It only dawned on her then that she didn't know what she was going to say, but on top of that, she was about to make a total fool of herself for all she knew. She'd had so much fun brewing the coffee and thinking about the perfect outcome that now that she was out there, part of her wanted to run and hide. He hadn't turned around yet—if she was quick, she could abort the plan and get away with it, have that latte herself. It was sure to be a good cup of coffee, she'd made it, after all. Nea became lost in her thoughts of how she could use a good latte right about now to regain a grip on reality, and at that moment, the enforcer felt her presence behind him and calmly turned around.

His aquamarine gaze nearly ended Nea. Up close, she was able to see much more of the detail in his physique. The fins that framed his eyes were paired with markings of a slightly lighter shade of green, and the inner corners of his eyelids as well as the sides of the bridge of his nose adopted a shade that more closely resembled human flesh. The helmet that he wore concealed his eyebrows and any other details above, but even under it, Nea could observe the shape of his ears pointing upward. In the sunlight, the golden details of his enforcer uniform appeared to be glowing in contrast with the rich blue color of the fabric, and aside from being motionless, Nea was now also rendered speechless in the presence of such beauty. Even if she wanted to appear cool and collected, she knew right then that she would miserably fail at any attempts to do so.

As he looked at her, his gaze appeared to soften, and the detail that dealt the final blow for Nea and made her weak in the knees was the way the fins around his eyes flickered, like a wave from inside to out, as his eyes widened slightly in attention. When he blinked, Nea noticed he had a second eyelid acting as a membrane that closed on a horizontal plane underneath his main eyelids—ust another thing that added to Nea's inability to speak—and he remained quiet, expectant of whatever she was about to do, until his gaze finally traveled over to the cup of coffee she was holding.

He met her gaze again. "Can I help you, miss?"

God, Nea thought to herself. Even his voice was irresistible, it was almost unfair. It was deep and rich, and when he spoke, he had a thick, elegant accent that made her yearn to hear him endlessly. Thoughts and insecurities rushed through her mind, things like how could someone that gorgeous still be single, or how could someone as beautiful as him pay attention to her, but she was surprised at herself for being able to put those intrusive thoughts aside and instead lifted the cup of coffee, showing it to him. As for what she would say—and she had reached a point where she really should say something—Nea opted to use the very words Blu had suggested in her earlier mischief.

"Thank you for your service," Nea said softly and offered the coffee to him.

His gaze softened even more, and slowly, he reached for the cup, almost hesitating to take it from her. He met her eyes again, and the hint of a smile curved her lips.

"It's not necessary," he uttered, his voice much softer than it had been before.

"Oh, I know, I just..." Nea trailed off, unable to stop smiling at him. "I wanted to."

Finally, he gave her a fuller smile. "Thank you."

Nea's smile grew as well to the point where she nearly giggled. When he took the coffee, Nea used her free hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, averting her gaze from him before meeting his eyes again. Lost for words again, Nea gave a little nod and turned around, walking back towards the Coffeewick until she eventually disappeared into it.

Inside, Nea remained for a second at the doorstep smiling at herself, and then she went back behind the counter where she was needed. There, Blu was just finishing up a couple of orders, and as soon as she laid eyes on Nea, the spunky grin returned.

"Well?" Blu said. "Did you crash and burn and stumble with your words?"

"No, I..." Nea smiled. "I actually think that went really well."

"What's his name?" Blu asked.

"Not a clue," Nea replied, her smile still firm in place.

Blu, in turn, facepalmed. "You're hopeless. Alright, I'm done here. Take over your coffee bar."

"He is so pretty," Nea pouted with a hand over her chest. "He is seriously so pretty I kind of want to cry."

"And yet you don't know his name," Blu mentioned.

"Yeah..." Nea's smile faded a bit. "I messed that up."

"I'll let it slide," Blu smirked. "People make dumb mistakes when they're in loooove."

"Oh, be quiet, you," Nea chuckled.

Blu walked off in the direction making indiscreet kissing noises the whole way until she disappeared into the kitchen. In the meantime, Nea got back to work and noticed the way her hands were trembling, but she figured she would still be able to make coffee even with a shaky hand and rosy cheeks.

Thanks so much for reading! Please reblog to help me get out there!

Next chapter ->

#so the pretty fish man longfic begins #i hope you guys like it because i'm having a balst with this and do NOT intend to stop #moonstrider writes #le coeur fanfic #steb arcane #arcane steb #arcane fic #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #steb fanfic #steb x oc #arcane oc #steb nation #oc x canon #arcane steb fanfic #arcane steb x oc

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unfgvien · 4 months ago

Text

unexpected encounters chapter one

pairing - Sophie x wanda x natasha

summary - Sophie, a young woman, finds herself in a romantic triangle with Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff. Despite their contrasting love philosophies, Sophie chooses Wanda, a decision that carries significant emotional weight, highlighting the strength of female relationships.

word count - 5.7k

masterlist | main masterlist

authors note

-> hello! welcome to the first chapter, yes I said FIRST chapter. omg I know is so long it took me ages to write. but this series is only 3 chapters long but they are long ass chapters.

-> these are also posted on my wattpad if you want to read them over there, all of my stories are posted on my wattpad for those who would rather use it.

The air hung thick with the aroma of roasted coffee beans and simmering spices, a heady mix that battled with the grittier scents of exhaust fumes and street food clinging to the autumn air. Rain slicked the pavements of Greenwich Village, reflecting the neon glow of a nearby bodega in shimmering streaks. Inside "The Daily Grind," the usual midday chaos reigned: the clatter of mugs, the low hum of conversation, the rhythmic whir of the espresso machine – a symphony of urban life. Sophie, hunched over a textbook, barely registered the noise. Midterms loomed, and organic chemistry was proving to be a formidable foe.

She’d chosen a corner table, hoping for a quiet sanctuary amidst the bustling café. But even here, the city’s frenetic energy pulsed, a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of her concentration. A stray lock of auburn hair fell across her face, distracting her from the intricate diagrams in her textbook. She pushed it back, sighing, only to find herself staring at a pair of piercing grey eyes across the small, round table.

The woman observing her was captivating. Her gaze was intense, yet somehow, reassuring. She was effortlessly elegant, dressed in a simple but impeccably tailored charcoal grey coat that seemed to absorb the cafe's vibrant energy. Her auburn hair, a shade darker than Sophie's own, was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, revealing sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. She looked… familiar.

Sophie racked her brain, trying to place her. She wasn't a regular at The Daily Grind; Sophie knew most of the faces. This woman exuded an aura of quiet power, a sense of controlled intensity that was both intriguing and slightly intimidating. Then, it hit her. The sharp angle of her jaw, the subtle way she moved – a feline grace hidden beneath a deceptively casual demeanor – it all clicked into place.

It was Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow. Sophie's heart hammered against her ribs. This couldn't be happening. The Black Widow, a woman shrouded in mystery, a legendary spy whose exploits filled the pages of countless articles and fueled countless fan theories, was sitting across from her, in a small, crowded coffee shop in Greenwich Village. It felt surreal, like a scene plucked from a fantastical daydream.

Natasha’s lips curved into a faint smile, a barely perceptible movement that sent a shiver down Sophie's spine. It wasn't a smile of amusement or malice, but something more complex – a flicker of recognition, perhaps? Or maybe just the polite acknowledgement of a shared space. Sophie couldn't be sure.

"You seem… surprised," Natasha said, her voice a low, melodious murmur that cut through the café’s ambient noise. It was even more captivating in person than Sophie had imagined – a silken whisper that held an undercurrent of steely strength.

Sophie felt her cheeks flush crimson. "I… I'm sorry," she stammered, fumbling with her textbook. "I… I didn't mean to stare." Natasha chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that sent another wave of warmth through Sophie. "Staring is a perfectly acceptable response to… unexpected encounters." She paused, her grey eyes twinkling.

"Unless you're planning on doing something… more dramatic?" Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. This was far beyond unexpected. It was mind-boggling. She, Sophie Miller, a college student drowning in organic chemistry, was having a conversation with the Black Widow. The sheer improbability of the situation was almost comical. Almost.

"No, no dramatic plans," Sophie managed to say, her voice still shaky. "I just… I'm a huge fan." Natasha leaned forward, her expression becoming more serious. "A fan, you say? Of my… work?" The way she phrased it hinted at something beyond the public persona. Something secret, something hidden beneath the layers of carefully constructed image.

Sophie nodded vigorously, still struggling to find her voice. "Of everything. The S.H.I.E.L.D. days, the Avengers, everything." She risked a glance at Natasha’s watch, a simple, elegant timepiece that seemed somehow out of place on such a powerful woman. She hoped that this wasn’t interrupting something important.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a slight amusement playing on her lips. "Well, that’s… flattering. Though I must admit, I prefer to remain anonymous in these situations.” She gestured vaguely around the café. "Public appearances, as you might imagine, are… less frequent for me these days."

“I understand completely,” Sophie responded, her voice finally regaining some of its composure. She was acutely aware that they were probably breaking some sort of highly classified protocol just by this conversation, however casual. “It’s just… surreal, meeting you here.”

Natasha smiled again, a warmer smile this time, and Sophie felt a sudden surge of boldness. She was so close to her idol, this legendary figure, and despite the evident secrecy surrounding her, there was something reassuring about her presence. It was captivating, a powerful pull that Sophie found almost impossible to resist.

"Surreal indeed," Natasha agreed, her eyes lingering on Sophie’s face for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a subtle shift in posture, she signaled the end of their conversation. "It was…pleasant. But I must be going." She slipped a small, folded piece of paper onto the table next to Sophie's textbook. "If you ever need…assistance, you know where to find me." And with that, she was gone, melting seamlessly into the bustling crowd, leaving Sophie breathless and holding a single piece of paper, a tangible link to a clandestine world she could scarcely comprehend.

The paper was unmarked, blank. But as Sophie looked down at her textbook, forgotten and abandoned beside the mysterious note, she knew that her life had just taken an unexpected turn. The city outside the cafe window seemed to hum with a new energy, a thrilling sense of possibility, the scent of coffee suddenly replaced by the lingering perfume of intrigue. Her midterm suddenly felt

insignificant, trivial – a minor detail in a life that had just collided with a world she had only ever dreamed of. The sounds of New York were different now, pulsing with the thrill of an encounter that promised to change everything.

Days blurred into a haze of lectures and frantic study sessions, the memory of her encounter with Natasha Romanoff a persistent hum beneath the surface of her daily routine. The unmarked piece of paper remained untouched, a silent promise tucked away in her backpack. The audacity of the whole thing still felt surreal, a dream she couldn’t quite shake. Then, a seemingly innocuous email arrived, a single line reading: "Meet me at the Whispering Pines." No name, no address, just the cryptic message.

Sophie’s heart pounded. Whispering Pines? She didn’t know anyone who would send such a message, yet the familiar, elegant script –undeniably Natasha’s – hinted at a continuation of their improbable encounter.

Armed with only the cryptic message and a gnawing sense of anticipation, she researched. Whispering Pines wasn’t a place; it was a sprawling, secluded estate nestled deep within the Catskill Mountains, a place seemingly plucked from a fairytale, miles from the concrete jungle of Manhattan. The only information available online was a single, blurry photograph, showcasing an ancient, gothic-style mansion shrouded in mist, an image that spoke of secrets and hidden histories.

The journey was long and arduous, the winding mountain roads twisting through a landscape of vibrant autumn foliage. As she approached the estate, a sense of unease settled over her, a growing awareness that this was no ordinary place.

The air felt different here, charged with an unseen energy, a palpable hum that vibrated beneath her skin. The mansion itself seemed to emanate a sense of ancient power, its imposing silhouette looming against the twilight sky, a silent sentinel guarding its secrets. There was no sign of life, no lights in the windows, just the imposing structure and the whispering wind rustling through the ancient pines that surrounded it.

Hesitantly, Sophie approached the imposing oak doors, their ironwork intricate and weathered. There was no doorbell, no visible way to announce her arrival. Just as she was about to turn back, the doors creaked open, revealing a figure shrouded in shadow. The figure stepped aside, beckoning her inside.

The interior was a stark contrast to the gloomy exterior. A warm, inviting light spilled from within, chasing away the shadows that clung to the walls. The air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke and something else… something floral, something magical. The mansion was a stunning blend of old-world charm and modern elegance, a symphony of rich textures and subtle details.

Tapestries adorned the walls, their intricate designs hinting at forgotten stories. Bookshelves lined the hallways, overflowing with ancient tomes bound in leather and adorned with intricate silver clasps. The entire place pulsed with an almost tangible sense of history. And then she saw her.

Wanda Maximoff sat by a crackling fireplace, her crimson cape draped around her like a comforting embrace. The firelight danced in her vibrant ruby-red eyes, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the subtle curve of her lips. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of quiet intensity that drew Sophie in. The aura around her was palpable, a swirling vortex of energy that seemed to both soothe and unsettle her at the same time.

Sophie’s throat felt tight, her voice caught in her throat. She had expected a cold, clinical environment, a reflection of Natasha’s guarded demeanor, but this was entirely different. It was intimate, personal, almost overwhelmingly welcoming. The contrast was sharp, a reflection of the stark differences between the two women. Where Natasha was sharp, precise, and controlled, Wanda radiated warmth, a comforting empathy that seemed to wrap around Sophie like a protective blanket.

“You came,” Wanda said, her voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate deep within Sophie’s soul. It wasn’t just a statement; it was an acknowledgment, a shared understanding of something unspoken, something profound. The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of centuries, of untold secrets and hidden magic.

Sophie nodded, still speechless, mesmerized by the intensity of Wanda’s gaze. The woman possessed a power that resonated on a level beyond the physical, an almost supernatural empathy that made Sophie feel seen, understood. It was profoundly comforting, a stark contrast to the controlled distance she’d sensed with Natasha.

Wanda gestured to a plush armchair beside the fireplace. “Please, sit. The journey must have been tiring.” As Sophie settled into the chair, the soft cushions sinking beneath her, Wanda rose and approached, her movements graceful and fluid. The crimson cape shimmered around her like a living flame, adding to the already powerful presence she exuded. There was no hint of the cold, calculated demeanor she’d read about in the countless articles and fan theories. This Wanda was different, more raw, more vulnerable.

“I… I don’t understand,” Sophie stammered, finally finding her voice. “How did you know to contact me?” Wanda smiled, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement of her lips. “Some things… are better left unexplained,” she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Let’s just say… that I have ways of knowing things.” Her gaze lingered on Sophie’s face for a long moment, an intense scrutiny that was both unsettling and strangely comforting.

The conversation that followed was a delicate dance of unspoken words and shared glances, a subtle exploration of a connection that seemed to transcend the boundaries of time and space. Wanda possessed an almost unsettling ability to read Sophie’s emotions, her thoughts, her unspoken desires. It was overwhelming, yet at the same time, intensely captivating. There was a profound sense of understanding between them, a deep, unspoken bond that defied explanation.

The hours melted away as they talked, the crackling fire providing a comforting backdrop to their conversation. They spoke of dreams and fears, of hopes and aspirations. Wanda spoke of her past, her struggles, her triumphs, revealing a vulnerability that completely shattered the image of the cold, detached sorceress projected by the media. She was flawed, complex, and intensely human, a stark

contrast to the seemingly flawless image that the world had crafted. Her empathy was profound, a soothing balm that eased Sophie's anxiety and uncertainty.

As the night deepened, the moonlight filtering through the tall windows, a new understanding settled between them. The bond they shared was profound, a connection built on mutual respect, trust, and a shared sense of understanding. It was a connection that felt ancient, mystical, and deeply meaningful.

Sophie found herself inexplicably drawn to Wanda's compassionate nature, her raw emotional honesty. It was a stark contrast to Natasha's guarded demeanor, her carefully constructed persona. Yet, in the heart of the Catskill Mountains, in a mansion that seemed to hum with ancient magic, Sophie found herself unexpectedly captivated, lost in the enchanting embrace of the Scarlet Witch.

As she prepared to depart, the weight of the coming choice pressed upon her—a choice that felt monumental, one that promised to reshape her life in ways she couldn’t yet fathom. The future lay before her, uncertain and yet exhilarating. And Sophie knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her soul, that her journey had only just begun.

The drive back to New York City felt longer than the journey to the Whispering Pines. The memory of Wanda’s warmth, the palpable magic that permeated the ancient mansion, clung to Sophie like a lingering scent. It was a stark contrast to the crisp, controlled world of Natasha Romanoff, a world Sophie was increasingly finding herself navigating alongside Wanda's mystical realm. The two women, so different, yet both so compelling, occupied separate spaces within her heart, creating a strange, exhilarating tension.

The following week was a blur of carefully constructed schedules and clandestine meetings. Sophie found herself leading a double life, a reality she hadn’t anticipated. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were dedicated to her mundane routine: lectures, study sessions at the library, the occasional coffee date with friends at her usual haunt, a small, cozy café near Washington Square Park.

These were the days she kept firmly rooted in her 'normal' life, the anchor that tethered her to a world devoid of magic and super-powered women. It was a world where she was just Sophie, an ordinary college student with extraordinary secrets.

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, however, were dedicated to Wanda. These were the days when Sophie ventured beyond the confines of her everyday life, traveling to places that felt both familiar and foreign. Wanda often met her in places that seemed pulled from a fairy tale.

One day it was a quiet forest in upstate New York, dappled sunlight filtering through ancient trees. Another day, it was a secluded mountain retreat overlooking a valley shrouded in mist, the air alive with the hum of unseen energies. These were places where magic felt tangible, where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blurred, where Sophie could fully embrace the extraordinary aspects of her life.

Maintaining this duality was more challenging than she'd initially imagined. The constant shifting between worlds – the mundane and the magical – created a strange dissonance, a feeling of being perpetually out of sync. The sharp contrast between Natasha's pragmatic world and Wanda's mystical realm was relentless. She

found herself constantly comparing the two women, their personalities, their approaches to life, and the unique bonds they had formed with her. Natasha's world was one of calculated moves, precise actions, and an unwavering focus on the mission.

There was a beauty in its efficiency, a certain elegance in her controlled demeanor. But it lacked the warmth, the intoxicating allure of Wanda's magical world. Wanda’s world, on the other hand, was chaotic, unpredictable, and emotionally charged. It was a world of swirling emotions, intense connections, and breathtaking displays of power. It was a world that both thrilled and terrified her.

Keeping her two lives separate was a tightrope walk. She learned to compartmentalize, to switch seamlessly between the roles she played. At the coffee shop, she was just Sophie, the diligent student, focused on her books and her studies.

There were moments of near-misses. Once, while studying at a small café near her apartment, a news report flashed across a nearby television screen, showcasing a blurry image of Wanda Maximoff at a charity event. Sophie’s heart pounded in her chest, a sudden surge of fear that her carefully constructed worlds were about to collide. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice her reaction. She swiftly changed the channel, her breath catching in her throat. These moments served as stark reminders of the precarious balance she was maintaining.

Evenings were the hardest. The silence in her small apartment, usually a comforting space, became a stage for internal conflict. She'd find herself agonizing over every word, every shared glance, every unspoken emotion.

Her thoughts would wander, drifting from Natasha's quiet intensity to Wanda's explosive energy. The two women occupied her mind like competing melodies, a symphony of emotions that played on repeat. She’d replay conversations, dissect the subtle nuances of their personalities, attempting to make sense of the bewildering complexity of her situation. Sleep often eluded her, replaced by a restless energy, a nagging uncertainty that gnawed at her peace of mind.

The weight of her secret was immense. She yearned to share her experiences with someone, to confide in a trusted friend, but the fear of disbelief or ridicule kept her silent. Her friends, her family—they were oblivious to the extraordinary reality that existed just

beyond the surface of her everyday life. This isolation, this constant need to maintain a façade, added to the pressure, intensifying the internal conflict that raged within her. The responsibility of protecting her secret, of navigating these two starkly different worlds, was immense. Yet, she found a strange sense of purpose in it, a strange excitement in the challenge.

One day, while wandering through Central Park, seeking a moment of peace away from the demands of her two lives, Sophie received a text message from Natasha. The message was simple, yet it sent a shiver down her spine: "Meet me at the old carousel." The old carousel was a place Sophie had loved as a child, a spot filled with fond memories. It was a place that held a piece of her past, a reminder of simpler times, before the extraordinary events of the past few weeks had turned her life upside down.

The fact that Natasha chose such a poignant location to meet spoke volumes. It suggested a degree of understanding, a subtle acknowledgment of her past, of the life Sophie had known before the arrival of magic and mystery in her life. The encounter at the carousel felt significant, laden with hidden meanings and unspoken intentions. This was Natasha's subtle challenge to her, to the balance she was struggling to maintain.

The meeting at the carousel was brief, almost clandestine. Natasha's expression was unreadable, her gaze piercing. She spoke little, her words precise, carefully chosen. The conversation revolved around the mundane—Sophie's studies, her upcoming exams, the autumnal changes in Central Park.

Yet, under the surface of their ordinary exchange lay a current of unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgment of the complicated nature of their relationship. Natasha’s subtle yet constant presence in Sophie’s life served as a reminder of a different kind of stability, one firmly grounded in reality, a stark contrast to the unpredictable magic of Wanda's world. As Sophie left, the lingering scent of Natasha's perfume seemed to clash with the echoes of Wanda's magic, intensifying the internal battle that raged within her.

The future felt increasingly uncertain, an unpredictable path fraught with difficult choices and unforeseen consequences. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Sophie felt a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom. She was living a life far beyond her wildest dreams, a life filled with extraordinary

challenges and extraordinary love. The journey was daunting, but she knew, with a growing sense of certainty, that she was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

The following weeks unfolded in a dizzying dance between two vastly different worlds. With Natasha, it was a quiet ballet of shared glances and unspoken understanding. Their meetings were often brief, snatched moments amidst the chaos of her double life.

A coffee at a secluded café downtown, a quick rendezvous in a quiet corner of the Met, a seemingly casual encounter in a bustling bookstore. These meetings felt like clandestine missions, small acts of rebellion against the overwhelming weight of her secret.

Natasha, ever the spy, seemed to understand the delicate balance Sophie was striving to maintain. Their conversations were peppered with wry humor, her sharp wit cutting through the tension, offering a much-needed dose of levity amidst the turmoil. There was a comfort in her presence, a quiet strength that anchored Sophie to the familiar reality she desperately needed. Natasha's world was one of controlled precision, a world where every move was calculated, every word weighed.

Yet, within the carefully constructed facade, there was a vulnerability, a depth that Sophie found herself increasingly drawn to. It was in these quiet moments, amidst the understated elegance of their encounters, that Sophie found solace, a sense of belonging in a world that was constantly shifting beneath her feet.

In stark contrast to Natasha's quiet intensity, Wanda's world was a vibrant kaleidoscope of magical energy. Their encounters felt less like meetings and more like spontaneous bursts of magic, unpredictable and thrilling. One day, they might find themselves amidst a bustling Parisian marketplace, the air thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and the murmur of a thousand voices.

The next, they could be soaring through the night sky, the stars twinkling like a thousand scattered diamonds, their laughter echoing through the silent expanse. Wanda’s powers were breathtaking, her empathy profound. She saw Sophie not as a secret to be kept, but as a soul to be cherished.

There was a fierce intensity in their connection, a magical current that ran between them, sparking with every touch, every shared glance. Wanda's love felt all-consuming, a warm embrace that offered a refuge from the chaos of her life. It was a love that both exhilarated and terrified

her, a love that stretched the boundaries of what Sophie thought possible. The contrast between Natasha's quiet confidence and Wanda's explosive magic created a constant internal tug-of-war, a struggle that was as exhilarating as it was exhausting.

One evening, during a particularly intense session of shared laughter and magic in Wanda’s secluded mountain retreat, Sophie found herself confiding in Wanda about her feelings for Natasha.

The confession hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. Wanda listened, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, gentle, filled with a quiet understanding that surprised Sophie. She didn't offer judgment or competition, but rather a compassionate empathy, a recognition of the complex emotions Sophie was experiencing.

"Love isn't always a straight line, Sophie," Wanda said, her gaze unwavering, "sometimes it’s a winding path, full of unexpected turns and unforeseen encounters." The sentiment resonated deeply with Sophie, offering a sense of acceptance and validation she hadn’t expected. It was a testament to Wanda’s understanding of the human heart, a recognition of the complexities that lay hidden beneath the surface of emotions.

In another instance, during a quiet lunch date with Natasha in a small, unassuming Italian restaurant, Sophie found herself opening up about her experiences with Wanda. Natasha listened, her expression betraying nothing, her silence a subtle form of acceptance. Her reaction wasn't what Sophie expected. It wasn't jealousy or anger, but a quiet curiosity, a measured understanding.

Natasha offered her own unique perspective, drawing parallels between the mystical world Wanda inhabited and the clandestine operations she was familiar with. There was an unexpected synergy in their seemingly disparate lives, a shared understanding of operating in the shadows, of balancing two different worlds.

Natasha's acceptance, while understated, was profoundly reassuring. It was a testament to the strength of their bond, an acknowledgment of the intricate tapestry of emotions that bound them together.

The contrast between their personalities became increasingly stark. Natasha's world was a world of precision and control, of calculated risks and carefully executed plans. Her actions were precise, her movements deliberate, her words carefully chosen. She was a master of her craft, a woman who operated with unwavering focus and exceptional skill. Her strength was tangible, her confidence unshakable. Yet, amidst this outward strength, there was a vulnerability, a depth of emotion that Sophie was only beginning to unravel. In contrast, Wanda’s world was one of unpredictable energy, a chaotic dance of magic and emotion.

Her power was raw, untamed, almost overwhelming. Her emotions were equally intense, surging with passion, empathy, and a profound capacity for love. There was a vulnerability in her openness, a fierce intensity in her affections that was both captivating and terrifying.

As Sophie navigated this complex love triangle, she began to realize that her feelings for both women weren't mutually exclusive. They weren't simply two competing options, but rather two different facets of her heart, two distinct expressions of love. Her feelings for Natasha were grounded in shared experiences, in quiet moments of understanding and mutual respect.

It was a love built on a foundation of trust and unwavering loyalty. Her love for Wanda, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of magical energy, a passionate connection that stretched the boundaries of reality. It was a love that was both exhilarating and terrifying, a love that was as chaotic as it was compelling. The contrast between these two types of love was both confusing and exhilarating, a testament to the complexities of the human heart.

The constant shifting between these two worlds began to take its toll. Sleep became elusive, her dreams a chaotic blend of magic and espionage, a reflection of the internal turmoil that raged within her.

The exhaustion was both physical and emotional, the pressure of maintaining her secret becoming increasingly difficult to bear. Yet, amidst the exhaustion, there was a sense of exhilaration, a strange joy in living a life so far beyond what she had ever imagined. She was walking a tightrope, balancing between two worlds, two loves, and yet, in some strange way, she felt more alive than ever before. The uncertainty of the future loomed, but the thrill of the present moment overpowered any fear.

One rainy afternoon, huddled in a small, cozy bookstore, Sophie found a worn copy of a collection of poetry by Pablo Neruda. A particular poem, about the duality of love and the complexities of the human heart, resonated deeply with her. The words seemed to mirror her own experiences, capturing the essence of her feelings for both Natasha and Wanda. It was a poem that acknowledged the beauty of contradictions, the possibility of loving more than one person at the same time, without compromising the authenticity of those feelings. It was a reminder that love isn't always a simple equation, but a complex tapestry of emotions, a delicate balance of passion and understanding, a journey filled with both joy and heartbreak.

In that moment, surrounded by the quiet whispers of turning pages, Sophie felt a sense of peace, a newfound acceptance of the unconventional path she had chosen. She was navigating uncharted territory, a world where magic and espionage intertwined, where love came in many forms, and where her heart belonged to more than just one. The journey would be challenging, the path unpredictable, but she was ready, armed with her courage and her love for two extraordinary women. The future remained unwritten, a vast canvas waiting to be filled with the strokes of her own experiences, a story unfolding one unpredictable moment at a time.

The decision loomed, a dark cloud hanging over the vibrant tapestry of her dual lives. It wasn't a question of choosing between two paths, but of severing one, of irrevocably altering the delicate balance she’d so painstakingly maintained. The weight of it pressed down on her, a physical burden that made even the simplest tasks feel monumental. Sleep offered no respite; her dreams were a chaotic blend of whispered secrets and magical explosions, a reflection of the tumultuous storm raging within her heart.

The place where she ultimately found herself grappling with this agonizing choice was unexpected—the abandoned HYDRA research facility in Siberia, a place steeped in the shadows of Natasha’s past and eerily resonant with Wanda’s origin story. Ironically, it was a location that symbolized both their shared history and the stark contrast between their worlds. The cold, sterile environment mirrored the icy chill that had settled in Sophie’s heart as the weight of her decision solidified.

The convergence of their paths there wasn't planned; it was a twist of fate, a cruel irony that forced the issue to a head. Natasha, on a clandestine mission to secure a vital piece of technology, had stumbled upon the facility, its ghostly silence punctuated only by the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky pipe. Wanda, sensing a disturbance in the magical energies that permeated the area – a ripple in the fabric of reality – had followed the trail, her intuition leading her to the same desolate location. The encounter was inevitable, a collision of two worlds that had previously existed in separate spheres.

And Sophie, caught in the crossfire of their intersecting destinies, found herself at the epicenter of this volatile convergence. Her presence there wasn't merely coincidental; it was a testament to the intricate web of connections she'd woven, a reflection of the precarious balance she’d been desperately trying to maintain.

The air crackled with tension, the silence punctuated only by the heavy breathing and the occasional creak of the dilapidated structure. Natasha, her eyes narrowed, stood poised, a weapon concealed beneath her coat, ever vigilant. Wanda, sensing the danger, subtly shielded Sophie, a protective barrier of magical energy enveloping them both. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken accusations, simmering with the potential for conflict.

Sophie found herself caught in the middle, the target of their unspoken rivalry, the collateral damage of a war neither of them had intended to wage.

The confrontation wasn't a dramatic explosion of anger or accusations; it was a slow, agonizing burn. It was in the subtle nuances of their interactions, the barely concealed tension in their gazes, the carefully chosen words, that the true depth of the conflict emerged. Natasha’s quiet intensity was a stark contrast to Wanda’s raw emotion; each woman battling for Sophie’s affections through subtle maneuvers and unspoken displays of power.

Sophie, her heart pounding, watched as the two women circled each other, each measuring the other’s strengths, their unspoken rivalry a tangible force in the frigid air. She felt the weight of their expectations, the pressure of their unspoken desires. She knew that her decision would not only impact her own life but would irrevocably change the course of their destinies.

The silence stretched, a torturous eternity, before Natasha finally spoke, her voice low and controlled, barely a whisper above the dripping water. "This isn't working, Sophie," she said, her words precise, her gaze unwavering. "We both know that."

The statement hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truth. Wanda remained silent, her eyes fixed on Sophie, searching for an answer that would never truly come. The unspoken understanding between Natasha and Wanda was palpable, a recognition of the impossible equation they had inadvertently created.

The choice felt as though it would rip her apart. To choose one was to lose the other, to betray a bond that had been forged in shared secrets and stolen moments. The thought of losing either woman sent a sharp pain through her heart, a visceral ache that threatened to overwhelm her.

She looked from one woman to the other, her heart aching with a pain so intense that it threatened to suffocate her. The faces of the two women, etched with a mixture of hope and apprehension, reflected her own inner turmoil. The decision was hers and hers alone, a burden she could not share, a weight she had to carry alone.

Finally, with a tremor in her voice, she spoke. "Wanda," she said, the word echoing in the vast emptiness of the abandoned facility. The choice hung in the air, a single syllable that shattered the fragile balance of their unspoken truce. Natasha's shoulders slumped, a subtle movement that spoke volumes about the unspoken disappointment she harbored. Wanda, however, reacted with a silent nod, her expression a complex mixture of triumph, apprehension, and a deep, abiding love.

The immediate aftermath wasn’t a dramatic display of emotion. There were no grand pronouncements, no tearful goodbyes. Instead, there was a quiet acceptance, a somber understanding that hung heavy in the air. Natasha’s farewell was a simple touch, a fleeting gesture of unspoken understanding that spoke of a shared history, a bond that would forever be etched in their memories. The silence that followed was profound, a testament to the weight of their unspoken goodbyes.

As Natasha turned to leave, disappearing into the shadows of the desolate facility, the weight of her decision settled upon Sophie. The relief was palpable, but it was laced with a profound sense of loss, a bittersweet ache that tugged at her heart. The choice had been made, the path chosen, but the journey ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. She stood with Wanda, the two of them silhouetted against the bleak Siberian landscape, the vast expanse mirroring the vastness of their uncertain future.

Their hands intertwined, a silent promise of a journey that would be filled with challenges and uncertainties, a testament to the extraordinary bond they now shared, a path that had been forged in a crucible of love and loss. The path forward was unclear, but their

commitment to navigating it together solidified, their love a beacon in the chilling Siberian night. The future remained unwritten, a blank page waiting to be filled with the complexities of their evolving relationship, a journey fueled by love, loss, and the enduring power of their connection. The adventure was only just beginning, and with Wanda at her side, Sophie felt a renewed sense of purpose and excitement, an eagerness to embrace the unforeseen encounters that lay ahead. The weight of her decision remained, a constant reminder of the paths not taken, but the warmth of Wanda’s hand in hers offered comfort and a promise of a future, however uncertain, they would face together. The journey had just begun.

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