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blossombriefs · 10 months ago

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Chateau | NSFW Vegeta OneShot [18+]

AN: I honestly couldn’t help myself. I had to write about my favourite DB boi. I’ve been planning one for a little while so I hope you all enjoy it! Summary: The gang all go on vacation together after the events of the Buu saga, however, there is more on Vegeta's mind than meets the eye. Title namesake: 'Chateau' by Blackbear Content: Sexual and mature content. Vegeta and Bulma are not together and Trunks doesn’t exist. The reader is related to Chi-Chi. Praise kink. Oral sex. Teasing. Mentions of a breeding kink. Vegeta is a cocky mf, I kinda made him a lil down bad during the confession. Word count: 2.7K

After taking on Majin Buu, the gang all decided it was time to take a huge vacation together before trying to find some normality. Mr Satan had booked and paid for everyone to go to a beachfront villa. Your sister Chi-Chi had invited you along with her family; her husband Goku and their two kids. You packed your suitcase with everything you'd need; bikinis, sunscreen, water bottles, towels. You were ready to spend time with your friends and loved ones.

On arrival, everyone seemed over the moon to be there, all apart from one. Sulking behind the group carrying his bags was Vegeta. You couldn’t help but notice the tension that was radiating from the proud prince. Determined to lift his spirits, you hung behind the group and approached him with a warm smile.

“Hey Vegeta,” you greeted him. Out of genuine concern and with a tilt of your head, you continued “What’s the matter?”

“Oh great, Kakarot’s insufferable bride’s equally as insufferable sister.” He said with an eye roll. When he glanced at you, you clocked his expression softening slightly. He grumbled, “It’s nothing that concerns you, woman,”

Refusing to be thrown off by his brash tone, you persisted. “Come on, Vegeta, we’re all here to relax and have fun.”

He hesitated for a moment, seemingly caught off guard by your display of persistence. After a heavy sigh, he muttered, “Fine. I suppose you’re right. But I don’t see the point in all this frivolity.”

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles ease ever so slightly at the touch. “Sometimes we all just need a break from the chaos, the training, the battles. Let’s just make the most of this time together.”

Vegeta glanced down at your hand on his arm, accidentally letting his expression softed further. He didn't pull away, instead, he found himself oddly comforted by your touch.

"Fine," he muttered, this time with a little less hostility. "But don't expect me to participate in any ridiculous beach games or play happy families with Kakarot's kids."

You chuckled, a sound that caught Vegeta and even yourself a little off guard. "Fair enough. Just promise me you'll try to enjoy yourself, even if it's just a little bit."

Vegeta's response was a grunt, but there was a flicker of acceptance in his eye. With that, you two joined up with everyone in the villa. It was a gorgeous place to call home for a few weeks. The wooden walls and wall-height glass windows overlooked the sea and the beach. Chi-Chi ran through the room plans. Goku and her, of course, took the biggest bedroom in the villa. Gohan and Videl were downstairs in another large bedroom. Goten had his own room near his parents which was the smallest. You were in your own room in the back corner of the uppermost floor next door to Vegeta's room. You leaned down to pick up your bags to start heading upstairs however were met with a shoulder nudging you out of the way. You looked over to see Vegeta leading the way. "Let me get these."

Days passed by in a blur of sunshine, laughter and relaxation. You spent time relaxing with your sister and niece-in-law on the beach while Goku, Gohan and Goten played in the roaring, crisp waves. Gradually, you even saw Vegeta come around to the idea of a vacation. He maintained his aloof demeanour, often preferring solitary walks on the beach or continuing to train behind everyone's backs in the villa's gym. However, there were a few moments when you caught him watching everyone with a hint of longing in his eyes. On this particular occasion, you heard the sliding door click open from the villa. You turned around to see him sporting just a dark blue pair of swimming shorts and a pair of black flip-flops. You hoped your sunglasses hid your eyes as you found yourself drawn to his perfectly chiselled body, toned legs and muscular arms. Sweat dripped down him in the blistering sun as it was clear he had finished another gym session. You let out a flustered sigh as he stretched, looking out in Goku's direction as he made his way down the beach.

"Y/N!" you heard a screech from beside you. You turned your head as your eyes met Chi-Chi's. She held a glare but quickly started to laugh hysterically.

"W-what!?" you responded, shuffling back awkwardly on your towel.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" she answered, "Older sister's intuition tells me that you're eyeing up Vegeta!"

"I am not!" you argued back. Chi-Chi only persisted in making a mockery of you. You rolled your eyes as you tried to play off your sister's teasing, but deep down, you couldn't deny the truth behind her words. There was something about Vegeta that drew you in, something beyond his tough exterior and gruff demeanour. You wanted to break that hard exterior.

As the days passed you found yourself spending more and more time with Vegeta. You started accompanying him to the gym or on his beachside walks. You both were simply enjoying each other's company in the villa. Despite his initial reluctance, he seemed to appreciate having someone to confide in, someone he could talk to about the heavy weight of his past and the struggles that he had faced.

On the sixth night of the vacation, the two of you found yourselves sitting side by side on the beach once again, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon in a blaze of fiery tones that reflected off the clear waters below. The gentle sound of the waves filled the air, a soothing backdrop to the tension that crackled between you.

You sat flushed to one another, you accepted in your head that you didn't think Vegeta would want to be any closer. His eyes fixated forward as you broke the silence, "It's beautiful isn't it."

Vegeta tore his gaze away from the horizon, turning to look at you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. "Yes, you could say that... but I don't think it's the most beautiful thing on this beach."

You tilted your head, blinking a little in surprise. You felt your heart skip a beat, "Vegeta..."

He reached out his hand to brush against yours in a tentative gesture. "You know I'm not good with emotions, woman. I've been trying to deny it, push anything I feel aside," he confessed, his voice rough with emotions. "But I feel like I have to be honest with you. I don't find you annoying. I-"

Your breath caught in the back of your throat at his confession, your mind reeling with a whirlwind of emotions. You hadn't dared entertain the idea that Vegeta could ever feel the same way that you did. His vulnerability lit a fire in your chest, he lay his heart bare before you. Without hesitation, you leaned in closer as your lips met his. A spark ignited between the pair of you. He didn't deny your kiss, gripping your wrist as his lips matched yours. When you eventually pulled back, you were breathless and craved more. In the moment all you could see was Vegeta and all Vegeta could see was you. Nothing else mattered except the two of you embracing under the starlit sky. The world was slowly drawn into focus, and the sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore filled the air. You gazed deeply into Vegeta's eyes, seeing his vulnerability there took your breath away.

"I didn't expect this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Me neither," you confessed as a smile tugged the corners of your lips. You let your fingers trace his knuckles as you looked up and into his dark eyes, "I want you Vegeta."

He nodded as he leaned in, again claiming your lips as his. His hand sat comfortably on the side of your neck, his fingers tracing your jaw as he slipped his tongue gently into your mouth. You moaned softly, again matching his movements as your tongue swirled against his. Your hands raced through his dark hair, tugging it with your fingers as his moans matched yours. As he pulled away again, you fluttered your lashes with an innocent smile, "My room or yours?"

Without hesitation, Vegeta gripped your hand tightly as he marched back into the villa past everyone in the living room who were gathered to watch TV over dinner. Chi-Chi shot you a glance with a wink accompanying it and you could hear Goku question it as you reached the top of the stairs. "What was that about Chi-Chi?"

Vegeta shoved the door to his room open with his free hand, instantly closing it over once you were inside as he forced you against it. His warm breath greets your neck followed by his lips. Your moans were gentle, your hands gripped to his shoulders. He tugged gently at your skin with his fangs, revelling in the sounds coming from your lips. He grunted, "You do things to me, woman."

"Not as much as you do to me..." you whisper, pressing a playful kiss against his cheek. "My prince..."

Hearing that only got him more riled up. You could feel his hard cock push against your thigh through his shorts. He needed you now. Jumping up in his arms, he kept you held up by your thighs as you both continued making out. Vegeta directed you to the bed, throwing you down harshly as he pulled his tank top over his wide shoulders, dropping it on the floor. "Maybe if you're a good girl, your prince will reward you."

"Don't play coy. I've seen you eyeing me like a piece of meat this entire vacation. You've been begging for me to fuck you." You shook your head with a gentle bite of your lip, drawing a chuckle from the Saiyan's lips. You could only look up hungrily at his body, a smirk plastering his face as he undid the string of his shorts, "I'd be lying if I wasn't doing the same. Why do you think I was hiding out in that gym? Seeing you in that swimwear set me off more than I'm willing to admit."

As his shorts fell, you caught a glimpse of his massive cock as it sprung against his stomach. It was long, girthy and solid hard, craving your touch. He outstretched his finger and beckoned you towards him, "I want you to take me in your mouth."

You were quick to oblige, slowly crawling to the edge of the bed as you gripped his hard length in your hand. Your fingers could barely make it around his shaft. You looked up at him, your touch clearly making him fold as you gently began to suck on his tip. His moan was loud this time, his hand gripping your hair tightly as you stroked him at the same time. His eyes immediately shut, his mouth hanging open as he let more moans escape his lips, "Fuck, ah! Good girl. Such a good girl!"

You allowed your mouth to travel further down his shaft, your wrist twisting as you kept your grip on him. He couldn’t help but mumble and moan as he was like putty in your hands. You slipped off the bed and onto your knees, continuing to look on as you pleasured Vegeta. Your tongue pressured on the base of his cock, and your little kitten licks around his tip making him louder, you did everything right for him. You could feel his dick twitch, he was ready to cum in your mouth, but with one swift motion, he pulled you back to your feet. “Fuck… your turn.”

You were caught by surprise as Vegeta lowered you back down onto the bed on your back, gripping your tiny shorts as he slid them down your thighs. His eyes focused on what was waiting for him. “You’re soaking… I’ve barely even touched you, woman.”

He grasped your shoulders, turning you with your back to his chest as his hand slid down your torso, tugging at your panties hard to drive a moan out of your lips as the fabric rubbed off everything sensitive. He smiled, clearly loving to toy with you. Eventually, your panties were off and on the floor along with the rest of your clothes. He couldn’t help but let his fingers explore further down towards your heat. He circled your clit with his thumb, purring at the sound of your moans escaping your mouth. The louder you were, the harder he’d go, he knew he was pleasing you and he loved every second of it. You stuttered, your brain turning to mush, “V-Vegeta… fuck… so good…”

“I love how loud you are, Y/N, fuck!”

“K-keep going!”

He allowed his fingers to drift down more, keeping his thumb on your clit as he slid two of his fingers inside you. Keeping himself at a steady rhythm, he penetrated you deeper and deeper as he had one set goal in his mind. He wanted you to cum.

It wouldn't take him long to achieve it. You let out a high moan as you found yourself releasing onto Vegeta’s hand. He smirked in a cocky manner as he ground himself to a halt. You looked at him, your eyes watering as you panted heavily. “Fuck… I've never…”

“Shh…” he hushed you, sliding his wet fingers into your mouth. Your eyes widened in surprise as you gently suckled on them. “Taste how good you are, c'mon. That's a good girl…”

The back and forth was hot, intense, and absolutely nothing short of mind-blowing. You both clearly had one goal in mind now. Vegeta pinned you to the mattress, removing your shirt before positioning himself with your ankles on his shoulders. Slowly but surely he slid inside you, the size of his huge, hard cock stretching against you as he slowly thrust in. You gazed up at him, his eyes drifting back into yours as he grunted loudly in pure bliss. You whimpered with each thrust, Vegeta refusing to hold back as he picked up the pace, each movement pushing him deeper inside you.

“You want me to cum inside you? Is that what you want?” his voice was higher, it was clear he was close. His hands squeezed your thighs tightly as he moved in closer. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist and basked in his loud callouts. Suddenly, he grabbed your face, his mouth just mere centimetres from yours as he repeated himself. “C’mon, tell me you want me to cum inside you.”

“Please Vegeta,” you begged, the roughness of his movements introducing you to a high you’d never felt before. “Please cum inside me.”

He smirked, letting a gasped laugh out as he buried his head into your chest. He was so close but so were you. You directed your nails to his shoulder blades, clawing in desperation as Vegeta left marks along your collarbone. The prince was whiny, you couldn’t help but love listening to him.

“I-I’m” you called out, his head snapped up as he gazed into your eyes. His hips snapped into you as fast as his body would allow him. You screamed out in pure pleasure, feeling a pure rush of adrenaline run through your body as Vegeta wasn’t far behind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He yelled, pushing himself in as deep as he possibly could, letting himself go inside you as he slowly ground to a halt. He collapsed beside you, breathing heavily with his arms folded over his chest. You snuggled your head into his shoulder, looking up as you couldn’t help but grin.

“We can’t let this be once only…” you whispered.

Vegeta nodded in agreement, his head sinking back into the pillow as he slid his arm around your warm, sweaty body.

“I’d take you as my mate… if you’d let me have you… I mean, I can’t see you saying no…”

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #anime #fanfic #dbz #vegeta x reader #dbz vegeta #prince vegeta #vegeta #vegeta dbs #vegeta dragon ball #Vegeta smut

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lxndonorris · 6 months ago

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teasing touches - Max Verstappen

Y/N x Max Verstappen Theme Smut part two of the max body worshipping saga x helping max gear up before the Dutch GP word count: 5840+ taglist: @game-set-canet EN: I needed to use this picture, so hot.

The morning sun filters through the windows of Max's motorhome, casting a soft glow across the space. It is Friday, the beginning of another race weekend—the first race weekend after the summer break—and the excitement for the Dutch Grand Prix buzzes in the air like a distant hum. As the early hours of the day unfold, the motorhome is quiet, save for the low murmurs from outside as the paddock begins to wake.

You move silently through the space, your gaze drifting to a small table against the wall. Max's racing suit lies neatly across it, the familiar deep blue fabric of his Red Bull Racing uniform standing out against the white nomex beside it. The orange boots, resting below, look ready to carry him into yet another battle on the track.

Reaching out, you let your fingers graze the surface of the suit, savoring the texture. The fabric is smooth yet rugged, designed to endure the harsh demands of racing. You can feel the strength in the material, the resilience that mirrors Max's own unyielding spirit. A smile touches your lips as you continue to trace the contours of the suit, feeling a sense of pride swell within you.

This is more than just clothing; it is armor for the warrior you love.

Your eyes shift from the suit to Max, who stands a few feet away, his back turned to you. He is on the phone, deep in conversation about the upcoming race. His Red Bull cap shades his face, but you can see the focused intensity in his posture.

He wears a tight Red Bull shirt that clings to his muscular frame, paired with dark jeans that perfectly accentuate his lean physique.

The sight of him never fails to make your heart race.

With a quiet breath, you step closer to him, your movements soft and deliberate. As you approach, you see the way his muscles shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way his shoulders tense slightly as he speaks into the phone. His presence is magnetic, drawing you in with a pull you are unable to resist.

Your fingers are itching to touch him, to feel the warmth and firmness of his body under your hands. Max seems to sense you before you even make contact, his back straightening ever so slightly, the conversation on the phone trailing off as he becomes aware of your presence.

You reach out, your fingertips brushing against his back, feeling the strength and power beneath his shirt. His muscles are firm, responsive, and as your hand lingers, you feel a subtle shift, as if he is leaning into your touch.

"Yeah, I'll get changed into my racing suit now," Max says into the phone, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone.

He hangs up the phone without another word, turning to face you with a smirk that sends a thrill down your spine.

"Why don't you help me with this?" He suggests, his voice a mix of playfulness and anticipation.

You raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips. The thought of helping him with his gear, feeling his muscles under your fingers as he suits up is undeniably enticing.

"Of course," you smirk, stepping closer, your fingers grazing the tight fabric of his shirt as you prepare to help him.

The process of helping Max into his racing suit has become more than just a routine; it has evolved into a cherished ritual—one you both enjoy so much. Every race weekend you can attend, this ritual is a moment of intimacy and connection, a time when the world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.

Your hands find their way to his chest, resting against the hard planes of muscle beneath the smooth fabric of his shirt. You feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, a rhythm that matches your own.

Slowly, you let your fingers trace the outline of his collarbone before moving down his shoulders, feeling the powerful structure that makes him such a formidable driver.

Max's eyes soften as your touch roams over his body, his smirk transforming into a smile that makes your own lips curve in response. You move your hand down his arms, feeling the strength in his biceps, the tension in his forearms.

Every inch of him feels like a testament to the hours of training, the discipline, and the relentless drive that brought him to the pinnacle of motorsport.

He stands still, allowing you to explore him with your hands, his gaze never leaving yours. You feel the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second.

With a gentle motion, you reach up and take his cap, lifting it from his head and placing it on the table beside his racing suit. His hair, usually hidden beneath the cap, is tousled and slightly damp from the morning air. You can't help but run your fingers through it, enjoying the way it feels against your skin.

"Ready?" You ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max nods, his smile widening.

"Always."

Your fingers, still tingling from the contact with his cap, move instinctively toward his face, the next step in your unspoken dance.

You reach up and caress his cheek, your thumb brushing along his jawline. The rough texture of his stubble sends a shiver down your spine, a tactile reminder of the raw masculinity that Max exudes.

His eyes, so often filled with the intense focus of a champion, soften as they gaze down at you, reflecting the affection and warmth that you rarely have the chance to indulge in during the chaotic race weekends.

Your fingers trace the lines of his face slowly, as though memorizing every detail. From his jaw to the curve of his chin, you savor the sensation of his skin under your touch.

There is a certain vulnerability in this quiet moment, a side of Max that is yours alone to witness.

As your hand moves down his neck, you feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady and strong. You let your fingers slide over the tendons, feeling the tension that always seems to linger in his muscles, even when he is at rest.

His body is a machine finely tuned for racing, always ready to spring into action, yet here, with you, he allows himself to relax, if only just a little.

You continue your exploration, your hands moving down to his broad shoulders. His muscles tense instinctively under your touch, responding to the gentle pressure of your fingertips. You knead the tight muscles, feeling the power that lies just beneath the surface. Max's shoulders are a map of strength and endurance, built from years of training, racing, and pushing the limits.

With a soft smile, you let your hands drift lower, over the swell of his biceps, down to his forearms. The tension there eases slightly as you stroke his arms, feeling the corded muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Every touch, every caress, is met with a response from his body.

As your hands roam over Max's chest, feeling the warmth of his body through the tight fabric of his Red Bull shirt, you can sense the shift in his demeanor.

His muscles, firm and defined under your touch, seem to respond immediately, tensing slightly as your fingers trace the contours of his chest.

You press a little harder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, and in response, he leans into you, his body pressing against yours as if seeking more.

"God, that feels so good." Max murmurs, his voice low and husky, the words almost a groan.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if savoring the sensation, and you can't help but smile at the way he is melting into your touch. It is such a stark contrast to the fierce, composed persona he shows to the world. Here, in the privacy of his motorhome, he can let go, let himself be vulnerable.

Encouraged by his reaction, you let your hands wander lower, sliding down from his chest to his abdomen, feeling the tautness of his muscles as they tense under your fingertips.

His breath hitches slightly, a soft sound that only makes you want to explore further. Your fingers dance along the waistband of his jeans, brushing lightly over the hard planes of his stomach before moving lower still.

As you reach the front of the jeans, your palm presses gently against his crotch, feeling the heat radiate from him even through the fabric.

Max shudders, a full-body tremor that seems to start at the base of his spine and travel up to his shoulders, his entire body reacting to the contact. A low, throaty growl escapes his lips, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

His reaction is intoxicating, and you can't resist pushing the boundaries a little further.

Your hand slides along his thigh, feeling the strength there, the way his muscles tense under the lightest touch. You squeee gently, your fingers digging into the firm flesh, and Max's growl deepens, his body pressing closer to yours, as if he can't get enough.

"Don't stop," he whispers, his voice rough and breathless, as if every word cost him an immense effort. His hands find their way to your waist, gripping you with a desperate kind of need, his fingers digging into your sides as he leans heavily against you.

"It feels so damn good."

The sheer intensity of his need, the way his body trembles under your hands are electrifying. And as you stroke him through his jeans, feeling the way he responds to every touch, every caress, you can't help but feel a surge of pride, knowing that you can affect him like this.

You lean in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whisper, "You like that?" Your voice is soft, teasing, but there is a deeper edge to it, a hint of the desire that is building within you as well.

Max nods, his breath hot against your neck as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder. "You have no idea," he mutters, his voice muffled but still filled with that same raw, primal need.

His hips buck slightly against your hand, seeking more friction, more contact, and you oblige, your fingers pressing more firmly against the bulge in his jeans.

He shivers again, his whole body shuddering with the intensity of his arousal, and the sound that ecsapes him is somewhere between a growl and a moan.

The raw, visceral reaction is like music to your ears, and you smirk at the way he is coming undone beneath your touch.

You continue to stroke him, your hand moving in slow, deliberate circles over his crotch, feeling the heat and hardness grow with each passing second.

His breathing grows more ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

"We need to get you ready, Max," you whisper soothingly, your lips brushing against his temple as you try to calm him.

He lets out a shaky breath, his head nodding slightly against your shoulder, but his hands don't release their grip on you. "I know," he mutters, his voice thick with need. "But it's so hard..."

You chuckle softly. "I can tell," you tease gently, your hand slipping down to brush over the bulge in his jeans one last time. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that resonates through his entire body.

Reluctantly, you pull back, giving him some space to breathe, to regain control. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of desire and frustration, and his chest heaves with the effort of restraining himself. But there is also a glimmer of determination in his gaze—the fierce competitor that you know so well.

"Come on," you say softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. "Let's get you into your suit."

Max nods, swallowing hard as he tries to steady his breathing.

"Yeah," he agrees, his voice still rough around the edges. "Yeah, you're right."

Taking a step toward him, you place a hand on his chest again, his shirt damp with sweat, the fabric clinging to his skin, and you feel the heat radiating off of him in waves.

You smirk up at him, letting your hands move lower, slipping under the hem of his shirt. With a careful, deliberate motion, you begin to lift the fabric, revealing the sculpted muscles of his torso.

Max raises his arms slightly, helping you as you pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside, leaving his upper body bare before you.

For a moment, you simply look at him, your eyes tracing the lines of his chest and abdomen. His physique is nothing short of phenomenal; every muscle defined and toned to perfection. The sight of him like this, exposed and vulnerable in your private space, takes your breath away.

You can't resist the urge to touch him again, your hands moving to encompass his chest.

You feel the hard, sinewy strength beneath his skin, the warmth of his body seeping into your palms. Spreading your fingers wide, you explore the expanse of his chest and feel the contours of his pectorals, the tautness of his skin.

Max lets out another soft growl, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you, his body responding to your touch in ways that speak volumes.

Slowly, your hands travel lower, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his abs. His muscles tense again under your touch, his abdomen tightening reflexively.

You feel the power in his core—the strength that allows him to control a Formula 1 car with such precision and finesse. As your fingers trace the lines of his abs, you feel his breath hitch slightly, his body reacting to the intimate contact.

"Do you like that?" You tease, and Max just lets out a low, rumbling growl.

You let your hands linger there for a moment, stroking the taut muscles of his chest, feeling the way they contract and relax with each breath he takes.

The sensation of his skin, warm and slightly damp, sends a surge of desire through you. Feeling the heat building between you—a tension that is as familiar as it is exciting—you bite your lower lip.

Your hands move lower still, grazing the waistband of his jeans. The fabric is rough under your fingers, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin. You feel the heat of his body still radiating through the denim, a warmth that is both comforting and tantalizing.

As you allow your fingers to slip just beneath the waistband, feeling the taut line of his hip bones, Max inhales sharply, his body responding to the touch.

The air between you seems to thicken with anticipation again, the unspoken desire hanging heavy in the small space of the motorhome. You feel the tension in his jeans, the heat building there, a testament to the effect your ritual has on him.

Max's eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, a silent communication passing between you.

His body is a mix of relaxation and coiled energy, ready to spring into action at any moment, yet he remains still, letting you explore him, letting you control the pace of your intimate dance.

You press your palm flat against his abdomen, feeling the hard muscles beneath, before letting your hand drift lower, teasing the edge of his jeans.

The tension in his body is palpable now—a tightness that mirrors the growing heat between you. His reaction to your touch is intoxicating, igniting a spark deep inside your belly—a fire that burns just for him.

Max's breath grows heavier, his chest rising and falling with more urgency. The energy between you crackles, electric and charged with anticipation. His muscles quiver under your hands, the tension building as your touch grows more deliberate, more insitent.

You feel the heat pooling in his jeans—the evidence of his desire pressed against the fabric.

"Mhmmm, so good."

He lets out a low growl, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your hands. It is a primal sound that speaks of the intensity of his need—the desire that is now barely contained.

Your fingers tremble slightly as they move to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning them with deliberate slowness. You feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches when the fabric loosens around his waist.

The sound of the zipper sliding down seems to echo through the room.

Max's eyes darken with desire, but there is a playful glint in them as well. He smirks down at you, a hint of mischief in his gaze as he takes control of the situation.

With a slow, teasing motion, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and begins to push them down. The denim slides over his hips, revealing more of his toned body inch by agonizing inch.

He is taking his time, drawing out the moment, and you are unable to tear your eyes away.

As the jeans pool around his ankles, Max steps out of them with practiced ease, slipping his shoes off in the same fluid motion.

Now standing before you in nothing but his black boxer briefs, he looks even more confident, more powerful than before. The air all around you thickens, with the teasing dance you are engaged in only heightens the tension.

Your gaze travels slowly down his body, taking in every detail—the defined muscles of his chest, the sculpted abs that lead down to the waistband of his underwear—where a hint of arousal is becoming increasingly evident.

He stands tall, exuding raw masculinity that makes your pulse race; the lines of his body sharp and defined under the soft lighting of the motorhome.

His skin, warm and slightly flushed, catches the soft morning light that filters through the window. Without a word, Max's hand moves slowly to his chest. His fingers trace over his firm pecs, stroking the hard lines of muscle that ripple beneath his skin. His other hand slides down to his waistband, resting just above the bulge in his boxers.

"Max," you gasp breathlessly.

You reach out, unable to resist the urge to touch him, your fingers brushing against the taut skin of his abdomen. His muscles twitch slightly under your touch, the subtle reaction sending a thrill through you.

Your fingers trail lower, follwing the line of his waistband, tracing the edge of his bxoers with a light touch.

"We are not done yet." Swallowing hard, you manage to pull away.

You step back, and walk over to the table, grabbing the nomex underwear that lies neatly folded beside his racing suit.

Max takes the pants from your hands, but he doesn't pull them on right away. Instead, he lets them dangle from his fingers for a moment, his gaze locked on yours, teasing, daring you to react.

As he begins to slip into his nomex gear, you see the way his body responds to the snug fit of the fireproof undergarments. Max sighes contentedly, the sound a low rumble that you feel more than hear. It is a sound that speaks of comfort, of satisfaction, as the fabric hugs his body in all the right places.

You both know how much he enjoys the way his clothes fit—tight enough to accentuate every muscle, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The fabric clings to him perfectly, outlining his powerful frame and showing off his physique he worked so hard to maintain. From the broad expanse of his chest to the defined lines of his abs, down to the powerful muscles in his thighs, everything about him looks flawless.

There is something undeniably captivating about seeing him like this—so strong, so confident, yet with a softness that is reserved only for these private moments.

He is clearly enjoying the effect he is having on you, his own arousal on display as he pulls the pants up over his hips, the snug fit accentuating the defined lines of his legs and growing bulge at his crotch.

As he adjusts the fabric around his torso, you notice how his hands linger, stroking over his chest and down his sides.

It's clear that he enjoys the way the nomex feels against his skin, how it wraps around him like a second layer. His touch is deliberate, almost reverent, as he lets his fingers glide over the material, tracing the lines of his own body.

Max's eyes flick up to meet yours, a playful glint in them as he catches you watching. He continues to run his hands over his chest and stomach, the fabric stretching slightly under his touch.

"It feels good," he murmurs, his voice a little huskier than usual.

The motion is slow, almost lazy, as if he is savoring the sensation of the tight material against his skin.

There is a hint of teasing in his tone, but also a truth that you know well. He enjoys this—the feel of fabric, the way it highlights every contour of his body, and the way you look at him when he wears it.

Your breath hitches slightly as you watch him, completely entranced by the way he moves. There is something incredibly intimate about the moment, something that goes beyond just helping him to get dressed.

It's the way his eyes never leave yours, in the subtle way his body reacts to his own touch, and the quiet, contented sighs that escape his lips as he strokes himself through the fabric.

You take a step closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you. Your fingers itch to join his, to feel the warmth of his skin through the tight material, to trace the same lines he is tracing now. But you hold back, knowing that this is a moment he is enjoying, and you want to savor every second of it.

Max's hands continue their slow exploration, one drifting down over his abs and the other following the curve of his chest. His muscles tense slightly under his own touch, a visible reaction that makes your heart race.

He knows exactly what he's doing—knows the effect it has on you—and he is also enjoying every second of it.

Finally, he lets out a deep, contented breath and looks at you with a smirk that is both playful and full of something deeper.

"You like it?" he asks, his voice low and intimate, the words hanging in the air between you.

You smile, your own voice soft and full of admiration.

"You look incredible," you reply honestly.

There is no other way to describe it. Seeing him like this—so comfortable in his own skin, so at ease with who he is—is something that takes your breath away every time.

Max's smirk widens, and he takes a step closer, closing the distance between you.

Nodding, you turn back to the table where his racing suit lies neatly folded. But as you pick it up, you take one last glance at him, at the way the nomex hugs his body so tightly.

"I'm glad you think so," he says, his tone a mix of pride and affection. He reaches out, his hand brushing against your arm, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "But I think it's time for the suit," he adds with a wink, reminding you that the ritual isn't quite over yet.

As Max takes the racing suit from your hands, there is a palpable shift in the air.

The moment he begins to slip into it, you can see the familiar sense of satisfaction wash over him.

The suit, like the nomex before it, seems to mold itself to his body, accentuating every muscle, every line. It's as if the suit is an extension of him, a part of his identity that he missed during the long summer break.

He sighs contentedly as he pulls the suit up his legs, the material sliding smoothly over his thighs. The sound of his exhale is deep, resonant, carrying with it a sense of relief and pleasure.

This is where he belongs—in his racing gear, ready to conquer the track.

The suit hugs his body perfectly, clinging to his powerful legs and hips, before he lets the upper half hang loosely around his waist, exposing his chest still encased in the tight, white nomex.

Max looks incredible; the suit only enhances his natural strength and presence. The sight of him like this—half-dressed, his upper body on full display—is enough to make your heart race.

"God, I missed this," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice full of a deep-seated longing that he carried throughout the break.

You see how much he enjoys being back in his gear. His eyes close briefly as he runs a hand over his chest, fingers brushing against the nomex as if still savoring the feel of it against his skin.

His hand lingers on his chest, and you can see the way his body responds, how his excitement is becoming increasingly difficult to hide.

The tightness of the nomex and the racing suit do nothing to conceal the growing evidence of his arousal, a clear sign of just how much he is enjoying this moment.

You can't help but let your eyes trace the lines of his body, from the hard planes of his chest down to the visible bulge in his suit. The anticipation of the race, coupled with the excitement of being back in his gear, has clearly stirred something within him.

It is both thrilling and intimate to witness.

Max's gaze meets yours, his eyes dark with a mix of excitement and something more primal. There is a smirk playing on his lips, a hint of playful arrogance that makes your stomach flip. He knows exactly how good he looks, how much his appearance affects you. And he is enjoying it so much.

"I can tell you missed it," you tease gently, your voice tinged with affection and desire. You let your hand glide over his chest, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric, the way his muscles tense firmly under your touch. "You're practically vibrating with excitement."

He chucles softly, a low, throaty sound that makes your pulse quicken.

You step closer, your heart pounding as you reach out to finally touch him again.

Your fingers brush lightly over his chest, feeling the subtle tremor of anticipation in his muscles. He tenses even more under your touch, his breath hitching as you trace the lines of his chest, moving slowly, teasingly, relishing in the way his body is reacting.

"You really love this, don't you?`" Max teases, his voice so rough and low.

"More than you know," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper as you step even closer, pressing your body against his.

Your hands move to the racing suit, ready to help him into the upper half. You grab the sleeves and guide his arms into them, one at a time, feeling the muscles in his arms flex as he slides them into place.

The tight fabric stretches over his chest and shoulders, highlighting the powerful physique that lies beneath.

Once he is fully in the suit, Max lets out a deep, contented moan, his eyes closing for a moment as he savors the feeling.

"It feels so good," he confesses, the raw satisfaction in his voice sending a thrill through you.

Still, you can't resist asking him for more.

"Flex for me," you say, your tone playful yet demanding.

Max grins, lifting his arms and flexing his muscles, the fabric of the suit straining to contain the bulging strength beneath.

You watch, mesmerized, as the words "Gives you Wings" stretch along the length of his arms.

Your fingers trace the letters slowly, feeling the raised texture of the stitching beneath the fabric. Max growls softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight to your core.

You lean in closer, steadying yourself against his firm frame as he lowers his arms. Your fingers trail down his torso, finding the spot just above his waistline where his name is embroidered in bold letters.

You trace the letters with the tip of your finger, feeling the muscles beneath tense in response to your touch. Your hand moves lower still, brushing over the bulge that formed inside the suit, teasing him with a light, deliberate caress.

A deep moan escapes his lips, his body reacting with a shudder of pleasure.

"I'm so hard," he murmurs and leans in, his breath warm against your lips as he captures your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. The sensation is overwhelming—a surge of desire that leaves you breathless, your mind spinning with the intensity of it all.

His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, his fingers dig into your skin with possessive urgency. Max kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fervor that matches the heat between you.

You feel his need—the way his body presses against yours, the tension in his muscles as he tries to hold back.

But you are not done teasing him yet; you pull back slightly, breaking the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips.

"You'll have to wait," you say, your voice a soft, teasing purr. "Training is about to start."

Max lets out a frustrated groan, his hands still holding you close as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"I know," he mutters, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

You lean back slightly, giving him a playful look as you nod toward his shoes.

"Go on," you urge him, "put your shoes on."

But before he can move, you reach out and pinch his nipple through the tight fabric of the nomex. He gasps, his body jerking in response, a mixture of surprise and pleasure flashing across his face.

"You're a little too excited," you tease, your voice light.

Max giggles; the sound boyish.

"Can you blame me?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach inside his suit, letting your hand slide down over the smooth fabric of the nomex until you find his length. A little dampness spread there; he enjoyed it so much.

You smirk, looking up at him as you give him a light squeeze.

"You're so naughty," you murmur, your voice dripping with playful reproach.

"And you love it," he teases back, his voice a low growl.

Max reaches for his shoes then, a resigned smile on his lips as he sits down on the sofa to put them on. But even as he moves, his eyes never leave yours, watching you closely with a look that tells you it's not over yet.

Once he is done, you can't resist the urge to push things a little further.

You saunter over to him, a playful smile on your lips, as you sit down on his lap, straddling him with ease. His hands immediately find your hips, holding you firmly in place as you place your hand on his chest, teasing him with light, delicate touches.

Your fingers slip inside the suit, tracing over the nomex beneath, feeling the hard plains of his chest again.

Max lets out another deep growl that rumbles in his chest, and you feel his heat pressing against you through the fabric of the suit.

You let your fingers trail down to the zipper of his suit, teasing the metal tab with a light touch as you look up at him through your lashes.

Max's hands tighten on your waist, his eyes lock on yours with a look of pure, unfiltered need.

"You're killing me," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself back.

With a satisfied smile, you slowly pull the zipper up, closing the suit around his body.

But Max isn't ready to let you go just yet. He holds you close by the waist, his grip firm but gentle, not wanting to lose the connection between you.

As you shift slightly in his lap, feeling his length press against you, Max giggles, the sound a mix of amusement and frustration.

"I'm so hard," he confesses, his voice a low, rough whisper, "and a little wet."

You lean in closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, savoring the way he responds, his body tensing beneath you.

"I know," you whisper back.

Max sighs, his hands sliding up your back as he holds you close.

"You're going to pay for this later," he teases, his voice light and filled with mischief.

You grin, leaning back slightly to look into his eyes.

"I'm counting on it."

Max takes a deep breath as you finally get up from the sofa, and his hands find their way to your waist again, pulling you into a possessive hug.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his boy through the suit, before you let them linger on the Red Bull logo emblazoned across his chest.

His eyes follow your movements; his gaze curious.

"Come on now," you say softly, your voice laced with both fondness and the gentle insistence that it is time to get moving. You motion toward the cap resting on the table, the final piece of his race-day outfit.

Max gives you a playful look as he turns to retrieve the cap. As he does, you take the opportunity to drink in the sight of him once more, your eyes roaming over his body, taking in every detail.

He looks fantastic, the racing suit flattering his physique perfectly, hugging his body in all the right places. The fabric clings to his broad shoulders, his strong chest, tapering down to his narrow waist, and the way it stretches over his thighs is almost too much to bear.

When he bends down slightly to pick up the cap, you stare at his ass, the suit leaving little to the imagination.

Max knows you are watching, and a small smirk plays on his lips as he straightens up, cap in hand. The confidence he exudes is palpable.

Max puts the cap on, adjusting it with a casual flick of his fingers before turning to face you. The smirk on his face grew, and his eyes filled with that playful, teasing energy that simmered between you all morning.

He runs a hand across his chest, down over his toned stomach, and further down still, grabbing his length through the suit, giving it a quick, teasing squeeze before stroking his thighs.

Max licks his lips absentmidnedly, his gaze locked onto your, and you know, he is thinking the same thing you are—that if there was more time, you would be right back where you started, with you slowly undressing him all over again.

The two of you know that it is time to head to the garage, however.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 smut

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sunstone-smiles · 15 days ago

Text

There Are Other Ways to Put On a Brave Face

Author’s note: Wooo!!! My first EPIC: The Musical fic! And my first fic of 2025! I was inspired by the rest of the fandom and their wonderful fics, so I wanted to add on with one of my own! I feel like Circe and Odysseus would be friends after the events of the Circe saga since he poured his heart out to her about being away from home and she assisted him on his journey. Plus, they share some things in common about being a leader. I hope you enjoy!

Series: EPIC: The Musical

Characters: Odysseus and Circe (when they’re friends Lol)

Word count: 3,015

Summary: Odysseus is about to meet his crew, but Circe sees that he has a low-spirited appearance that could drag anyone’s mood down. She doesn’t want him to leave unless he puts on a brave face!

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Odysseus and his crew know firsthand how powerful of a sorceress Circe can be. But, after a tense battle and a little negotiation and sympathy, Odysseus is fortunate to have earned her trust as an ally. Especially since the next step in his journey is towards the dreaded Underworld, it’s reassuring to know that he doesn’t have to add Circe’s name to his ever growing list of enemies that he has, somehow, gained over the course of his journey.

Circe, with her long hair hanging at her back and tied with ribbons, stands over her desk and swipes a quill across a long sheet of parchment. Odysseus waits patiently and silently in the middle of her room, staring down at the rug and leaning back and forth on his heels. The sorceress adds a few more strokes of ink and a refined scribble or two across the page before laying the quill to the side.

“There. Done,” she proudly states. With a twirl of her finger, the parchment rises from the desk. It rolls up neatly into a bundle and a red ribbon materializes around to wrap it. The now tied parchment drifts into Circe’s palm. She turns around, walks over, and presents it to Odysseus.

“Here you are. A map with instructions to the Underworld. Keep it safe.” She hands the map to the king. He clutches it tightly.

“Thank you again for your help, Circe. And thank you for returning my men back to humans,” his voice is grateful. “How can I repay you?”

Circe shakes her head. “You don’t need to repay me. I only ask that you get back home safe. Allow your love to prevail that you so desperately miss.”

Odysseus nods, glancing back down at the carpet as he’s reminded of those he lacks by his side. His wife and son. Penelope and Telemachus.

The captain lifts up his head as much as he can with the images of home pushing down on him. His eyes make contact with Circe’s, though his gaze is fragile and a step out of reality.

“I will do my best.” His eyes drop to the floor as he turns to leave; his head angles towards his feet. Circe’s expression shifts to concern as she watches his shoulders hunch like a bolder was wedged between his shoulder blades, and every step he takes is like crushing his own, already low spirit.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Circe speaks up. She catches up with him. “Now where do you think you’re going?”

Odysseus lifts a brow towards her. “Back to my crew?” his eyes glance to the doorway like it was obvious.

“Not like that you’re not!” She snatches the map from his hands and spins before placing it on a nearby table.

“What?” Odysseus stands there bewildered.

“Look at you! All hunched over and slouched,” she taps his shoulder with the back of her hand. “You haven’t even been to the Underworld, but you’re acting like you’ve already sailed to hell and back!”

“Well, you’re not too far off…” Odysseus shifts his gaze to the side.

Circe sighs with strained air. “Regardless… A captain should be the face of their crew. Put on a brave face! Stand strong!” The sorceress demonstrates by straightening her posture. She begins posing the king like a doll, “So shoulders back, chin up, chest out, and let me see a smile!” She steps in front of him and points to her own cheeks that are holding a smile.

Odysseus’s head tilts towards the comfort of the ground. “It’s hard to do so when everyone has already been through so much.”

Circe’s concerned, almost motherly look returns on her face, although this time with a twinge of heartbreak as the captain’s words strike true. Circe gently lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand,” she says softly. Odysseus’s pained eyes meet hers. “But I bet your crew feels the same way. That’s why they need someone, more than ever, to put on a brave face and guide them.”

Odysseus pulls his eyes from Circe’s.

When Circe felt like his crew were strangers, she did what she thought was necessary to protect her nymphs, the ones she cares for as if they were her daughters. She was stabbed in the back once before when kindness made her heart vulnerable, and in turn, a scar of cautiousness formed in the wound. Odysseus doesn’t blame her. Her cautiousness came from fear, and fear, like lightning and water, creates a chain reaction that courses through waves of people unless the two elements are ever prevented from touching. Circe, standing tall and like a warrior to her nymphs in the face of any unknown visitors, is that barrier.

Odysseus finally nods. “You make a fair point…” he says, allowing Circe’s words to take effect. He lifts up his head to face her with a little more strength than before. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Good!” Circe steps in front of him like a captain who is about to give orders (or like Athena who is about to go over a lesson). She positions him again as she speaks, “Now roll back those shoulders, look straight ahead, flatten out that spine…” She pauses and Odysseus remains still so he doesn’t mess with her progress. Circe scans the king from head to toe to check her work. “And while we’re at it, let’s straighten out your stance,” Circe grabs Odysseus’s sides. Suddenly Odysseus yelps and scrambles away as fast as he can, nearly tripping in the process. He whips around, hugging his arms close to his torso.

“Circe! A little warning next–”

“What was that?” the sorceress cuts him off.

Odysseus clears his throat and his posture shoots up like a tree that sprouted from the ground. His eyes are a bit wider, more alert, than they were before. “Nothing– It was nothing,” he says with his eyes darting to the side to avoid any eye contact whatsoever. “Just an old battle wound that I got from Troy.”

“Odysseus, please. I can see right through your lies,” she says as a matter of fact. “It wasn’t nothing. A battle wound wouldn’t make you jump away like that with a faint hint of a smile,” she leans forward with a subtle curl to her lips, like a lioness closing in on prey.

Odysseus grumbles, trying to stand his ground. “Okay, fine! It just…” he trails off as the confidence leaves him and the butterflies surface in his stomach.

Circe smirks, “Go on.”

Odysseus glares back at her, his fire as an impenetrable leader bursting through. “It just tickled! Okay? There!” He crosses his arms like a child who was forced to comply.

“Oh, is that all?” Circe shrugs and she strides up to him. Odysseus watches her movements like a hawk as she approaches by his side.

“Well, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Circe says.

Odysseus loosens his battle-ready stance, taken by surprise by her response. “Well, good,” he stands up straight, like the interaction never occurred. His eyes dart to the side, “Okay then–”

Circe continues, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about because you should be happy. Happy because now I know a way to get you to smile.” She leans forward on her toes with her hands behind her back and that same mischievous curl to her lips. Odysseus gulps and steps backwards, further into the room. Circe takes a step forward and reveals her fingers that are slowly wiggling in the air.

“Circe, you can’t be serious,” the captain's voice remains calm, but his wide eyes that are unwavering from the sorceress reveal his frantic thoughts.

Circe takes another step forward, as poised as ever. “I’m as serious as Poseidon is to get his revenge on you.”

“Wow, okay. Harsh,” the king says with a bit of sass, but he immediately regrets getting distracted when Circe suddenly charges at him. Odysseus, with panicked yelp, turns on his heels and runs.

Circe quickly closes the gap thanks to her head start. The captain rushes to the other side of the room, ready to make a tight turn before crashing into the pink cushioned sofa, but he feels a sharp tug at his cloak. He spins around to yank the fabric from Circe’s hand, only to be startled by the fact that Circe was right on his heels. He flaps his arms as he loses his balance, toppling backwards onto the sofa and wedging himself near the arm of the chair. Circe waltzes up to the opposite side of the couch and hovers over the captain with a grin.

Odysseus regains his bearings and sees Circe standing above him. Wasting no time, he scrambles to vault himself over the arm of the couch, but Circe lunges forward, catches his leg, then yanks him towards her as she takes a seat beside him. Clawing at the cushions, Odysseus flips onto his back and presses his spine against the arm of the couch.

“Circe–!” is all he can exclaim before a shout escapes from his lips when Circe’s hands strike and scratch at his sides before he could set up his defenses. A wave of giggles immediately follow, spilling from the king as he curls forward and digs his heels into the cushions.

“My goodness, Odysseus. I’m barely even touching you, yet you’re already giggling up a storm that even Poseidon would be jealous about. Are you really this ticklish?” Circe asks with a smile that won’t leave her face.

“Nohoho! I’m nohohot!” Odysseus shakes his head, trying to contain his reactions to uphold at least some sense of his dignity, though failing miserably.

The sorceress lets out a long sigh. “Lying to me again, I see. For once, can’t you tell the truth?”

“Fihihihine! Yohohou’re tickling me! Now get ohohoff mehehehe!” he playfully snaps back. He kicks his leg at Circe. Circe dodges and looks appalled at his attempt.

She exaggerates a huff. “Good, but we can do better. And we need to work on that attitude of yours! You just tried to kick me!” she adds a bit more pressure to her wiggling fingers at his sides.

Odysseus barks out another laugh and throws his head back in the middle of his giggling that’s growing louder. “Yohohohou tried to kill mehehehe!”

Circe rolls her eyes. “That was before we were allies. Now we are allies and you still just tried to kick me!” She repeats herself to the captain like siblings squabbling between each other. She scribbles her fingers a little higher towards his ribs. Odysseus wraps his arms tighter around his giggling torso and sinks further down the arm of the sofa. As he slides down, he paddles his legs in the air as if he was swimming.

“Ahahahand I’ll dohoho it again!” Odysseus sasses, following through with his claim with another kick at Circe. The sorceress catches his leg in the air. With another smirk, she flutters her fingers into the back of his knee, causing the captain to let out a screech of laughter as he tries to sit himself up and grab at Circe’s hands, only to tumble back down and remain in a giggling, squirmy heep in the cushions.

“Really? Well, you can’t do much kicking while your knees are being ticked, can you?” Circe teases, adding a few squeezes right above the top of his knee.

Odysseus, being the stubborn and witty leader that he is, refuses to stand down and instead decides to taunt her, “Yohohohou call thahahat tickling?!”

Circe scoffs as if she just heard the most offensive thing.

“Oho, that’s it!” she exclaims. She yanks Odysseus’s leg forward and his back to plops completely flat onto the cushions. She pounces a hand towards his stomach, then claws at his belly like her chimera playing with a ball of string. Odysseus shrieks and kicks out his legs as a reflex; his laughter nearly hits another octave as he tries to shove at Circe’s hands digging at his sensitive tummy.

“WAHAHAIT! CIRCEEEEEhehehehe! I’m sohohohorryyyy!” Odysseus finally caves in and drops the sassy act.

“Oh no, Odysseus. You had plenty of chances to cooperate! Sorry isn’t going to cut it now! You asked for this!” Circe declares with a stern tone but through a wide smile. She starts scribbling her hands around his torso, like she is trying to find a specific spot that holds buried treasure. “Now, where are you the most ticklish?” she asks not Odysseus, but out loud to herself.

Maneuvering around the king’s widely giggling frame, she crawls her hands over his ribs, pausing momentarily between some of his bones to test for larger giggles. When she moves her hands higher, the king absolutely squeals when a pair of her fingers graze across the upper half of his ribs that curve near his back. Odysseus quickly shoves her hand away.

Circe stops in her tracks, almost stunned by the reaction. Odysseus releases his backed up giggles before glancing up at Circe. His eyes widen and his laughter ceases from a gasp once he realizes what Circe discovered.

A devilish smirk grows on Circe’s face. “Well, that’s convenient,” her teasing words pair with her wicked expression.

Circe makes a move towards his ribs. Odysseus immediately wrestles her hands away and grabs her wrists.

“C-Circe! Hohold on! Dohohon’t!” Odysseus nervously giggles. Circe attempts another attack at his ribs. Odysseus re-grapples her hands and holds them away from him, keeping them both at a giggly standstill.

Circe chuckles at the game. “Looks like you’ve cornered yourself, Odysseus.” She leans forward and looms over him with a laughter-hungry smirk gracing her features. “If you make one wrong move, then you’re done for.”

Odysseus’s giggles already bubble over from the anticipation. Circe tugs and slips her hands from the captain’s grasp. Odysseus frantically slaps and shields away any of Circe’s tickle attempts like they were blades in the midst of a battle. She’s persistent, he’ll give her that.

“Circe! Wa—AHAIT!” he jolts forward when Circe finally digs into his ribs, finding just the right opening through his defenses. He throws his arms across his chest and boisterous laughter rumbles from his belly all the way into the room. Occasional high-pitched bounces of squeaks and squeals pair with his melody of hysterics. He rolls from side to side and tosses his head around, sometimes huddling his head up near his shoulder then giggling towards the ceiling. In the midst of her attack, Circe climbs her hands towards his underarms before quickly sliding them back down to his ribs, causing Odysseus to reel forward and a snort to emanate from the king.

“Huh. It seems I didn’t even have to turn you into a pig to hear you squeal and snort,” Circe quips, greatly amused by Odysseus’s reactions.

He would try to counter her remark, especially after she so rudely teased him like that, but in his immobilized state of laughter, where words want to come out as clusters of giggles, surrendering to the sorceress is the smarter move.

“Ohohokahahay!!! CIRCEHEHEHE! Mercy! Plehehehease!” Odysseus manages through his rush of laughter.

“All right, all right,” Circe yields and pulls away her hands while retaining a smile. Odysseus plops onto his back and coughs out his remaining giggles that he was nearly drowning in. He’s thankful that Circe doesn’t have Poseidon’s version of mercy.

The sorceress places her hands on her hips, staring down at the heep that is the captain. “So, when you leave this room, will you put on a brave face for your crew?”

Odysseus heaves himself up on his arms to sit up like he had just awoken from being knocked out. With his hair tousled about and his clothes all askew, he looks at Circe directly in the eyes, as sharp as an arrow landing in the center of its target.

“Yes.” The captain replies with a tone that means business. After he answers though, his face eases into a soft, lingering smile.

“Good,” Circe nods. “Now that’s the captain I remember when he first strided into my palace with unmatched confidence.”

Circe gracefully stands from the cushions as if she was lifted by a gust of air. Odysseus watches her walk past him before he swings his legs off the couch for his toes to touch the ground. He runs a hand through his hair, then stands so he can smooth out his clothes to tidy his appearance. When he looks up, Circe is in front of him, handing him the map to the Underworld. Odysseus takes it from her.

Circe provides him with another warm smile. “So then, let me see it. Let me see how you’ll stand tall when you meet with your crew.”

Odysseus releases a short breath of laughter. Even after all their roughhousing, she’s still not letting him off the hook about putting on a brave face just yet.

The captain straightens out his back, holds his head up high, widens his stance, and smiles. For good measure, he even places a hand on his hip.

“How’s this? Is this brave enough for you?” the captain says with his regular whip of sass.

“Ha, I could do without the attitude,” Circe responds. “But it��s much better,” her voice turns soft and caring. “Now go out there and be with your crew,” she nods to the door.

Odysseus bows. He’s, once more, appreciative of all the help the sorceress has provided him. “Thank you, Circe.”

He takes his leave from her room, eventually reaching the great halls of the palace where his men await. Some sit on benches, while others stand, but all look to Odysseus for guidance when he enters the room.

His crew greets him with smiles on their faces.

Because they see their captain adorning one too.

As Odysseus converses with his crew, he sees Circe off to the side, leaning her back on a pillar as she watches. She gives him a wink. Just one brave face, like a boulder thrown into the sea, is all it takes to create a ripple amongst the waves.

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