#they'd both have a smug smile on their face

[wendeeesaucy]

Prob people have talked about this before but I really like analyzing the little micro expressions and lines from Astarion. Specifically I wanted to talk about the line he has when he tries different lines to flirt with tav/durge.

So I got that scene during the tiefling party after already spending the night with him before. I'm guessing you can get that scene after the party if you're approval wasn't high enough to have been with him already but I'm going with my playthrough.

Personally, I like the flow of it better. Tav/durge has already established a sort of companions (barely friends) with benefits sort of situation with him and having this sort of banter seems to fit well. I think it's also one of those few early moments tav/durge is hinting that they know that he's one for manipulating and embellishing words in their relationship (like in an earlier scene where you could figure out that his smile is too perfect and that you shouldn't believe a word he says).

It's awareness, it's playfulness. Because tav/durge is explaining that they are in on this facade but still stringing themselves along, almost as if they're agreeing with this being an odd relationship of trysts and dalliances in an otherwise perilous adventure that they all have no idea if they'll make it out from.

That's how this flirty, teasing back and forth starts. You can keep up the 'yeah, haha, try harder because I'm not falling for it' options and that only motivates him to throw more ridiculously flowery lines.

Though ironically the one about 'it's as if the gods made you just to ruin me' is pretty accurate because tav/durge essentially ruins him/his plans especially for a spawn Astarion ending. But that's not the one I'm most interested in every time I watch this scene. It's the 'I love you' one.

Now, we are going with the idea that this banter since the beginning was all in good fun. Tav/durge knows what this is leading to, this is just banter to go along with the eventual yes that will surely follow to spend another night with him. While the first few flirting lines starting from 'here's my little treat' were a build up from the next, the last one seems oddly misplaced and a curve ball to me. We go from physical aspects to suddenly jumping to a less tangible and deeper way of expressing interest, love.

It doesn't help that we get this face to go along with it, which already is vastly different to the smirks and smug expressions we got seconds before.

Sure, you could argue that this was his way of throwing tav/durge off so they could stop being smug themselves at finding his flirty words ridiculous because he goes right back to being normal afterwards. But the thing about Astarion is that sometimes a lot of times he's bad at hiding his emotions. He lets words slip without thinking or a micro expression happens for just a split second but it's noticeably there especially on a second or third playthrough.

So to me, when I see this expression, I personally think this is a genuine face and a somewhat genuine answer.

Now you'd think I'm just falling for his manipulations but the reason I can't seem to shake that thought is because in his act 2 scene where he says 'no matter how much I'd like to' when he talks about how difficult it is being with someone and essentially caring about them deeply, we get this same expression.

It's literally the same expression, the same vulnerability except now we have more honesty and context to what it means. Tav/durge by now has learned to read him better and understand when he's being truthful. And not even just his face, his voice going softer in both scenes too!

So when we go back to that flirting lines scene, it really feels out of place and for good reason. I've heard people say it's him testing the waters and I personally think so too! He's gotten tav/durge in this place of teasing 'haha, all in good fun' mood and uses that to his advantage to throw them off by seeing how they'd react to him of all people saying I love you suddenly to them. Would they be disgusted? Tell him, yeah in his dreams? Or would they be shocked, because it sounded too good to be true? That they would like it to be true too?

It might also be his way of just blurting out a thought he's had for some time, especially if you've already spend the night with him before the party and gotten to know him a little better. By then, he's already seen tav/durge help him a few times and successfully done something as the party leader, making him question just who this person is to him. After all, he's had no choice but to acknowledge this person's existence because they are not another target that's bound to disappear like the others he's bedded before.

So when looking further into the scene, he's not only testing tav/durge on their reactions but also himself and how he personally feels about that statement. He probably wants to see how it sounds in reality, not as some random thought to be forgotten. And maybe, just maybe he could see himself believing that to be true.

He might not be in love with tav/durge to the degree that he does in act 2 but I'd argue he was def falling by then if he felt throwing that line into the open was necessary.

And when you end it off with the 'having fun, are you?' line and get him to say 'I am. It's hard not to with you' it really feels like you're getting a tiny bit closer to wedging yourself into his heart.

[juliamccartney]

the barbie&ken mugshot pictures but it's sandrine & silas

[rafecameronsslut4ever]

CASUAL — lando norris (smut, angst, nsfw)

pairing; fem!reader x lando norris summary: whatever you and lando have, it's anything but 'casual'. warnings: smut 18+, a LOT of angst, mdni, fingering, oral (f receiving), (situationship?) a/n: i lowkey want chappell roan's casual to be inserted into my brain and OMG this one is too sad

part 2 - casual

"nah, nah. the two of us... it's complicated, y'know? just a casual thing, honestly."

the words echoed in your mind on the flight from london, replaying as the seatbelt sign dinged off.

casual.

the word had always carried a negative connotation, but hearing him say it made you feel so much worse. it made you feel insignificant, as if the months that had passed meant nothing to him, while it had meant so much more to you.

you were anything but casual.

all those nights, the mornings after, the kisses, the rendezvouses. they meant something, didn't they? you thought they did, at least.

the way he'd look at you when the lights dimmed and his voice would turn soft. the way he'd kiss you as if it was what he was made to do.

he knew every inch of you. every freckle, every curve. he knew you better than he knew the tracks he raced on.

but, then again, lando norris was never known for being reliable.

he was young and wild and carefree, a bachelor to be envied by all. a party boy, a flirt, a ladies' man. he was charming and he knew it.

he was good at making people believe that they were special.

everyone loved him. the oh-so charming lando norris. the young driver who had a bright future ahead of him. he was bound to get whatever he wanted, right?

the first night he touched you, the two of you had come to an agreement—no attachment. he made it clear that he didn't have time for anything serious, but that he would love to have fun with you.

you, of course, had agreed to that.

in the beginning it was nothing. 'accidentally' crashing into each other at parties, accompanying the other into hotel rooms, and then disappearing as soon as the sun rose.

but do these 'no attachments' things ever work? it wasn't even a complete month before the two of you became more and more involved and realised you weren't just having fun.

as you exited the airplane, your heart clenched at the thought. the two of you had never actually said anything, but it was there, hanging in the air, almost suffocating you.

the first time you realised it wasn't just fun, you were in the passenger seat of his mclaren. he was on his knees, big blue eyes staring into yours as he flicked his tongue in you. you were so close, you had been for a while. he could tell. his eyes were locked onto yours, a glint of smugness in them. and then, with the tip of his finger, he brought you over the edge.

after you both came, he had crawled into the driver's seat and smiled at you. his lips glistened, his chin damp, and his hair sticking up in places.

"you look beautiful." he said, a hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"i think i like you." his voice was barely a whisper, and if you hadn't been staring right into his eyes you might've missed what he said.

"yeah, me too." your voice was breathless.

and that was the only time either of you'd ever said anything about it.

was it casual?

then, that one time when you had flown to his family home in the uk and met his parents. they'd welcomed you with open arms and treated you like one of their own, and lando's face had glowed with joy the whole time.

"i still can't believe that lando has such a pretty girlfriend." his mom had said to you, giggling as the two of you shared a bottle of wine.

"mom!" lando had whined from the other room. "can't you just shut up for once?"

"oh, hush! i'm just saying it as it is." she shrugged.

you had blushed furiously at her words, looking down at your feet as you took another sip of the expensive italian wine.

you had thought he would deny the 'girlfriend' title, or at least laugh it off, but he didn't. instead, he grinned like an idiot and you wondered if the wine had gone to his head.

"yeah, guess i got lucky." he'd muttered, and his mom had smiled, nodding knowingly.

when the day ended, you had fallen asleep curled up next to him, his body warmth enveloping you like a blanket.

now, your eyes stung as you walked through the airport, a million thoughts running through your mind.

you'd spent the rest of the week there and it was the best time you'd had in a while. he'd taken you on a day-trip to oxford, but the two of you ended up staying the night at some cottage. he'd held you closer, kissed you harder. you slept together as many times as you could.

fuck, you weren't just casual.

and the time the you woke up in each other's arms, his face buried in your hair, hands wrapped around your waist. he had asked you what your plans for the future were.

"get an apartment in monaco right next to yours so that i can stalk you everyday. binoculars and everything." you had joked.

"really? not gonna say you're going to marry me and have a billion kids and we're gonna grow old together?"

you'd looked up at him, eyebrows raised. and then the two of you had burst out laughing.

"what the fuck, lando. i'm not having a billion kids with you."

he just smirked in response.

or the time when the two of you vacationed in italy with his friends, and at the pier he had introduced you as his 'hotshot pr girl'.

"he's paying me a million dollars to pretend to be his girlfriend because he doesn't like being called a virgin."

"hey!" he'd laughed, nudging you.

"shut up, loser."

and then you'd pushed him into the water.

"i'm never talking to you again." he'd pouted.

"oh yeah, find someone else to have your billion kids with. my uterus will be happy."

or the countless times he would call you in the middle of the night and tell you about his new merch drop, and you'd whine about how it was 2 in the morning and you couldn't give a flying fuck.

and when you had just gotten off the phone with his sister, "flo is such a sweetheart, i love her."

"my sister talks to you more than she talks to me. you know she likes you better, right?" he'd mumbled, looking offended.

"what can i say, i'm such a charmer." you'd said in the most british accent you could muster, and he'd rolled his eyes and shoved your face away.

december came, and cisca invited you to celebrate christmas with them.

"if he doesn't ask you to be his girlfriend, promise me you'll tell him it's over." your best friend has said, looking at you sternly.

you had just sighed in response, shaking your head.

"i'm serious. you don't deserve someone like that. not if he doesn't think you're worth the commitment."

"you're right. i know. i'm just... i'm just scared. i like him so much. i don't know what to do."

the morning of christmas, you'd landed in london and gone straight to his place. he was all dressed up, and you'd almost cried at how gorgeous he looked.

"merry christmas, darling." he'd murmured, and you'd melted at his words. he welcomed you with a kiss, the way he always did.

the day was spent exchanging gifts with his family, watching christmas movies and cuddling under blankets.

his family adored you.

"i'm glad you're here." he said.

"where else would i be?"

"anywhere else."

you smiled at him, and he returned it with a cheshire cat one.

that night, the two of you had been invited to dinner with his parents, and halfway through the meal you'd excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

as you stood there washing your hands, you'd heard the door swing open, and the familiar figure appeared next to you, locking the door behind him.

"lando."

"yeah?"

"what are you doing?"

"i need to wash my hands." he'd shrugged.

you raised a brow at him, looking at him pointedly.

he shrugged again, taking a step towards you.

"you look too good in this dress, can't help it."

you rolled your eyes as he stepped closer to you, fingers about to grasp your waist before you told him to back off.

"what?"

"wash your hands first. didn't you come here to wash your hands? there's no way in hell i'm letting greasy salmon fingers touch me."

and then the two of you had laughed before his lips found yours lips. it felt so natural, the way your body reacted to his touch or the way your lips melted into his.

"lando, we shouldn't." you protested, neck arching as he pressed kisses everwhere.

"shut up." he grabbed your waist before pushing you against the counter, his lips crashing back into yours.

"what happened to your hands? i told you to wash them."

"fuck the hands."

"technically-"

"shut the fuck up." he groaned, dipping a finger between your thighs. "you're dripping. fucking hell."

pulling his fingers out, his knee pushed your thighs apart, spreading your legs apart.

you gasped, shifting your hands as you balanced yourself against the counter. his eyes locked in yours as his finger dragged across your core.

"fuck, baby, you're so pretty." he whispered, eyes digging into yours.

"lando, please."

"please what?" he asked as he slipped two fingers inside you.

your eyes squeezed shut, head leaning against the mirror behind you. "oh, fuck."

"i asked a question."

you were quick to answer, fisting his shirt as his fingers moved inside you. "please fuck me, oh my god."

he smirked before dropping to his knees, spreading your thighs and pressing his tongue onto your clit. you yelped at the sudden feeling of his mouth sucking at your clit; eyes rolling back.

his hands grabbed your legs, swinging them over his shoulder. hand sprawled over your stomach, pushing you back against the counter.

when his tongue curled into you, brushing that spot he never failed to miss, you couldn't help but let a loud moan escape you.

lando hushed you; tapping your thigh. “gotta be quiet baby,” lando said through heavy breaths before pushing his face back into you.

biting into your lip, your fingers ran through his curls, admiring the sight of his head moving between your thighs.

your moans filled the small bathroom, the sound like music to his ears.

"lando," your voice was shaky, breath hitching as he picked up the pace, his hands pushing your hips down.

he hummed in response, the vibration sending waves throughout your body.

"oh, god, lando. right there, right there. oh fuck."

and then your body was trembling, and you were gripping his hair, his tongue still moving.

you were seeing stars, vision going white as your legs quivered around his face.

"oh, god." you sighed, chest rising and falling as he pulled his fingers out, smirking up at you.

"c'mon baby, give me one more."

it wasn't casual.

now, walking through the terminal, dragging your suitcase behind you, the tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

maybe he said 'casual' just to tell his friends he was still a player. or maybe, he was referring to the fact that the two of you were just friends who hooked up sometimes.

but whatever he meant, it wasn't the truth.

both of you knew it.

casual wasn't the way he held you close during thunderstorms, wasn't the way he'd make sure coffee was the perfect temperature, wasn't the way he'd look at you as if the world stopped turning.

the way he'd stare into your eyes as the lights turned off, the way he'd press a kiss onto your temple, the way he'd say your name.

it wasn't casual.

[delespresso]

RERUN ━━ Fiyero x fem!reader

author's note; this took longer than expected, i'm sorry! but here we are <3

prompt; "Admit it you missed me." "I certainly missed kicking your ass, if that's what you mean." for Fiyero x Reader? (maybe they knew eachother as kids?)

summary; fiyero's arrival in shiz university had everyone in a frenzy, but especially a certain lady from winkie country

side notes; i'm using a surname for the reader this time but its not an oc, feel free to imagine your own name! (i just didn't wanna use y/n). never read the books, so if i say anything about the vinkus/ winkie country is purely from google searches and maybe even made up by myself idk 😭

━━ ☄. *. ⋆

The newspaper pretty much hit her in the face.

She'd been walking in the courtyard, intending to head back to her dorm to get ready for her classes after an early morning jog. But the newspaper that somehow flew from a stack on one of the tables quite literally smacked her in the face.

She grabbed it with a huff, about to throw it aside. Of course, until the headline of the latest report from The Shiz Gazette caught her eye.

Prince Fiyero Spotted at Shiz!

She read it over and over again. Looked at the picture they'd printed repeatedly. Then she tossed it onto the floor, quite literally stomping over it as she ran back to her dorm.

When was the last time she saw that stupid, handsome prince? They were both younger then. Their separation was mainly because he could never for the life of him keep himself in one school — there was always something he did that had him transferred to a new one.

She'd thought that now she was in Shiz, maybe they wouldn't meet again. After all, it was quite a prestigious school. Maybe his nonchalant, slacking attitude would have him rejected the moment they saw his name.

She was so wrong.

He was here. Fiyero Tigelaar was here. The Winkie Prince. The boy she grew up with. The boy who stole her butterfly clips for no other reason than to make her run in the rain to catch him. The bane of her existence.

She was sure the universe was conspiring against her. The second she'd changed into her uniform, she left her dorm. Admittedly, it wasn't the typical blues that everyone wore. She was one of the few with a different shade; greys and lighter blues instead. She intended to head straight for her first class— only to find a small crowd gathered outside.

That horse. Oh, she knew the horse. She recognised the bloody horse before she even saw the person.

When someone finally moved their head out of the way, she caught sight of Fiyero Tigelaar himself. He was by the directory board, figuring out the layout of the place. Galinda was there too, no doubt trying to offer some touring services. He turned his head, about to respond to the blonde girl — when his gaze drifted over the girl's shoulder and found a familiar face.

A smile immediately broke on his ridiculously handsome face, his hand raised for a wave. It was as if everyone's attention immediately snapped to her.

She sighed inwardly, her eyes narrowed. The slightest nod was all the acknowledgement she gave him before she turned and trudged off elsewhere, avoiding him at all costs.

She'd heard of his little escapade to the Ozdust Ballroom, bringing quite the group of students with him for a night out in town. Already he was rubbing off on everyone, influencing them into his bad habits.

Fiyero had been in Shiz for a week now, and she'd successfully avoided him. But of course her peace and quiet couldn't last forever. In the back shelves of the library, as she skimmed through the book bindings to find a history book — she was loudly interrupted.

“Lady Yarrow.”

She nearly dropped a book with a gasp, startled by the sudden intrusion. Then she was quick to hush the person, spinning on her heels to see Fiyero's smug expression.

“This is a library,” she pointed out.

“Really? It was introduced to me as the ‘bookplace’,” he hummed, looking around as if it was a new discovery.

She rolled her eyes, inhaling deeply to prevent herself from yelling at him like she used to back when they were in Winkie Country.

“Library,” she repeated. “And you're meant to be quiet.”

Fiyero grinned, knowing she was getting ticked off already.

“And is this ever-present tension a new development? Or have I forgotten how easy you are to rile up?” he teased.

The young girl he knew was always sensitive, took everything to heart. They weren't necessarily best of friends but they weren't enemies either — or so he believed.

“Why are you here?” she deflected with ease as she turned back to searching for her book.

“I wanted to read.”

“Ha!”

“Shh, its a library,” he exclaimed in a mock whisper, repeating her earlier words as she shot him an exasperated glare.

“Why are you in Shiz?” she asked instead, moving on from the topic.

“Transferred from Royal Winkie.”

“Kicked out, I believe is the right term.”

“Oh so you have been keeping up with me?” he exclaimed, a bit of a giddy grin on his face as tailed her through the shelves.

When she didn't respond, he just skipped his way until he was in front of her. He walked backwards as she moved forward, still looking through the titles.

“I haven't. But you know our parents,” she grumbled.

“Admit it, princess, you missed me,” he teased, poking at her shoulder.

She swatted his hand away, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. He was still as insufferable as ever.

“I certainly missed kicking your ass, if that's what you mean.”

Fiyero chuckled at that, but he persisted anyway. He just kept shadowing her through the library, pestering her with random teases or jokes even until she was leaving. Even then he followed her.

She just couldn't seem to shake him even if she tried.

“Princess,” he drawled, knowing full well how much she hated when he called her that.

He couldn't help it though — getting on her nerves was his hobby. Not to mention, he hasn't seen her in years.

She ignored him though, continuing to walk through the halls and towards the garden instead. Fiyero knew she was stubborn, but so was he.

“Ignoring me won't make me go away,” he pointed out.

“Throwing a log at you might.”

His laugh was awfully gleeful for someone who just got threatened. When she settled at one of the tables in the garden, she noticed he wasn't directly with her anymore.

Just as she thought she was free of his torment, there was a daffodil suddenly in front of her face. She looked at the hand holding the yellow flower, following it up to see his cheeky and smug face. In a smooth motion, he slid the flower in her hair as an extra accessory.

"You know, I think I'll enjoy wearing you down," he said, before giving her his signature smile and walking away.

Fiyero Tigelaar made it his life mission to bother her at all times from that day onward — letting history repeat itself, as always.

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[emeritusemeritus]

Hi! I love your writings! I’m obsessed with jealous fred weasley so if you could write a one shot with whatever you’d like :)))

(If you hate just ignore pls lol)

Hi love! Thank you so much, this has been a lot of fun to write. I’ve been sat watching Goblet of Fire, took one look at Fred in this scene and knew it just had to be long hair Freddie because it makes me feral. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: bit of swearing, mild sexual references. Fred gets jealous and a little possessive. Talks of marriage. Sorry McLaggen I needed a villain.

Word count: 1k

A cold heart and a warm jumper

Jealousy wasn't something Fred Weasley ever felt.

He knew his family weren't rich, that they'd never have the best of anything or anything new in abundance and so from a young age, he'd made peace with it and learned not to envy others. Being one of seven kids and most importantly a twin in a family that was already stretched both financially and emotionally, he'd had to learn to share, virtually from the day he was born. He'd shared clothes, toys, his room, practically his entire life with George, even a uterus and placenta, though he didn't care to think about that.

But now, watching Cormac McLaggen leering over the one thing in his life that he absolutely refused to share, he felt the unfamiliar rise of the green eyed monster throughout his entire body.

Godric he hated that slimy little prick. With his stupid blonde curls and the smug little smile that Fred really wanted to slap off his face right now, regardless of his rich daddy and any consequences that would inevitably follow.

The common room was a blaze with celebration, Harry’s victory in joint first place of the first task had been wildly celebrated by each and every Gryffindor and even Ron had joined in after being such a miserable git for a month. But even with the chaos and jubilant celebration around him, as well as a decent profit they’d made on taking the bets during the task, Fred was not in the mood for a party.

Despite it being the end of November, Fred’s striped jumper and beige overcoat suddenly felt like they were suffocating him as he stared at the corner where McLaggen leaned suggestively ogling his girlfriend, reaching out to touch her arm and shifting ever closer to where she stood. He was getting hotter by the second, burning up with anger and jealousy as he looked in disgust at the slimy sod. Who did he think he was to be stood so close to Fred’s girl? They’d been together years, it was hardly like nobody knew that she was his.

But then he heard your girlish giggle and his blood seemed to run cold. You were openly laughing with him, playing with a strand of your hair and making no move to shut down his advances.

He’d had enough and was just ready to march over and make Cormac choke down a puking pastille when he watched you take off your coat, throwing it over the chair behind you and taking a step back to avoid Cormac’s over familiar hands as they reached out for you again. Fred’s heart pounded as he looked at what you were wearing so proudly, his quidditch jumper with his surname displayed right across the back. He remembered now how you’d complained of being cold just before you left to view the task and he’d nipped up to his dorm to retrieve a warm jumper for you. He knew it wasn’t the nicest sweater, there was a hole in the left armpit that had been stitched back together with a completely different coloured thread and a great big pull in the fabric on the right sleeve but you’d worn it with pride. Your face had lit up when he held it out to you and you’d tried to sneakily smell it with a cute smile before you threw it over your head, tying up your hair so you could show off his surname now displayed across your back.

Watching you now, he realised how wrong he’d been. You were inching away from McLaggen, body turned away and looking for any sign of escape, the fingers in your hair a simple mechanism to block him from reaching out to you.

Fred was on his feet in seconds, almost trampling a load of first years who were sat in the pathway as he stalked over to where you were standing, his eyes fixed upon the letters across your back.

“Weasley,” he whispers in your ear as a greeting, immediately stepping behind you and placing his hand on the curve of your bum. You jump slightly at the sudden intrusion but recover quickly as you realise it’s him behind you. Fred watched as a smirk blossomed across your face as you realised, pressing your hips back just slightly as a form of acknowledgment, backing up into his hand which he squeezed, getting a good grip of your bum.

“This looks very good on you,” he whispers again into your ear, bending down just enough so that only you could hear how deep and breathy his voice had become. He reaches out with his left hand to glide it over your hip to your waist, tugging on the fabric of the jumper just enough that you’d understand exactly what he meant.

“The jumper or the name?” You smirk, earning another squeeze of your bum for your cheekiness, both of you openly ignoring McLaggen who is still trying to talk to you.

“Both,” Fred smirks, the tip of his nose catching on your hair, his lips moving dangerously closely to the smooth skin of your neck.

“If you don’t mind McLaggen, me and the Mrs have business to attend to,” Fred says suddenly, not even looking at Cormac who briefly considers if he does mind or not, mouth opening as if he is about to protest.

Fred doesn’t even give him a chance and simply throws his right arm around your shoulders and pulls you away with a shit eating grin on his face. His hand slips back towards your bum as you’re walking away, his hand slipping into your jeans pocket as he pulls you close to him, asserting his place. He can’t help but smirk as he directs you towards the stairs to the dorms, knowing that Cormac is still watching the pair of you and he takes a sick pleasure in knowing the last thing McLaggen will see of you tonight is Fred’s hand in your jeans as he takes you to his dorm; with his surname plastered in large letters across your back. The same surname that will be yours in just a couple of years, if Fred gets his way.

Maybe he should invite Cormac to the wedding.

[reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeko]

You'll be fine, just be nice and beg (pt.2)

So, I wanted to give a bit more of a scenario type thing rather that just basic how they'd act- this was the best I came up with on 2 hours of sleep sorry if it sucks <3

I promise there are a LARGE Handful of TWST boys that would make you beg for anything. All smug and shi and they get away with it cause they’re pretty😒

Trey likes being a bitch about it too.

He just made some new treat, you were over, and you were STARING. Just waiting for him to get the hint and offer you one.

He'll act nice and polite and then he's giving the most devious glance in your direction.

"Hm? Need something?"

Bitch ass-

"Oh You want one?" He's turning to look at you, raised brow as he holds one just i n c h e s from your lips. "Say please, and Beg."

He's waiting, oh and don't even try to reach for it or bite it from his hand till you do what he says, hes pulling his hand away and tisking like he's dissapointed in you 😞

And once you give in, he's smirking and snickering as he lets you have the treat.

"There you go, wasn't that hard was it?"

Jade honestly finds it entertaining.

you're at the Mostro Lounge's bar with Jade, just watching him clean up and try some new drink recipes.

He makes one that looks really good in your opinion, So you ask if you can taste it, simple yes or no right?

No. Becasue why would Jade ever make something simple.

"Oh?" He looks at you and smirks, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Surely if you want it so badly, you'll beg for it, yes?" His smirk goes back to his usual smile.

You wanna punch him in the fucking face. But you know you'd get your shit rocked. So you dont :(

Eventually you just say fuck it and give in.

SHIT EATING ASS GRIN. "Oh im sorry I didn't quite hear you, could you repeat that?"

He makes you do it two more times before chuckling and sliding you the drink.

It had mushrooms in it :(

Lila takes every chance he can get to make you beg him for something.

"Oh humor this old bat wont you?"

Your both in his dorm, up late playing Sevens knows what, and Lilia has a bottle of soda next to him.

You ask him to hand you the drink, not looking away from the screen.

He smirks, draping himself over you and giggling. "Beg"

"Lils are you serious-" "Yes now beg or dehydrate."

You pause the game just to stare at the old fae batting his lashes at you.

WIth a sigh you give in, and he lights up.

"Again, You sound simply adorable kufufufufu!"

He hands you the soda just as you're about to smack him.

It was slightly flat, and he constantly replicates the way you begged randomly to piss you off.

Can you tell Jade pisses me off😭

[v6quewrlds]

what was meeting the parents for the first time like for both joe and wifey?

love this series btw 🤎

thank you so much babe! that's so sweet of you <3

she met joe's parents pretty early on in their relationship. if my mental timeline is correct, she would've met them completely by accident. like joe was in the middle of the preseason, so he was suffering from major football brain.

they hadn't seen each other in a few weeks. between the preseason and her residency, they were starved for some face-to-face time together. she was so starved, she decides the four-hour drive down to cincinnati wasn't really that bad.

even if she has to settle for a handful of hours together ,mainly spent sleeping, at least she'd be sleeping in his bed, in his arms, and waking up to his touch, kisses, and love before she'd make the four-hour drive back to cleveland. so she texts joe in the morning before she goes into the hospital, packs an overnight bag just in case.

joe, suffering from horrible football brain, sees her proposition on his way into the facility and immediately responds, "please do. i need to see you." and that's that.

what joe didn't take the time to consider, however, was the fact that his parents would be stopping by to see him as well. they had some business to attend to in cincinnati on joe's behalf. their permanent guest room was waiting for them, so of course, they'd be staying the night at his.

she's mildly confused by the car she doesn't recognize in joe's driveway, but shrugs it off, assuming it's a teammate stopping by late at night. joe has responsibilities as a leader, she rationalizes, so one of his guys losing track of time talking plays, concerns, and strategy doesn't bother her.

except it's not one of his guys, it's robin and jimmy burrow in their son's kitchen listening to his review of where the team is at going into the last game of the preseason. wifey has a key, so she lets herself in and almost cries when they turn around and see her.

it goes well, really well. robin fixes her a plate to eat, doting on her immediately, "oh, you poor thing getting here so late after a long day." jimmy is all smiles, taking shots at joe's football brain, and asking wifey about herself, assuring her that they've heard so many good things about her and have been looking forward to meeting her.

joe is smug because of course he is. even when they curl up together in his bed, wifey still upset with him not remembering the very important detail of his parents staying with him, joe's all, "i told you so" and "at least that part's over?"

as for joe meeting wifey's parents. he got a proper heads up. her sister and her family were coming back to the states for a week and she decided it was a good time to bring joe along to meet everyone all at once. he was not amused with this idea but after being reminded of how he ambushed her with his parents, he sucked it up with a begrudging smile.

wifey's family in general is very impressive. her entire family drips with success and pride, and the realization that he'll have to officially meet them kind of drives joe to the brink of insanity. especially with his knowledge that her father is generally not a fan of the nfl or football as a sport.

he secretly studies up on her family, maybe even stalks their facebook pages late at night when he can't sleep because he's crawling in his skin. on the way over to her parents' house, he all but forces her to quiz him.

"what's my mom's favorite show?"

"dynasty. too easy, next."

and he's so cocky in the car. he's feeling good, and she can see that, thinks it's so attractive that he's taken this much time to study up on her family and learn all their preferences and what they do. he's got an oversized bouquet of flowers for her mom, a bottle of her dad's favorite rum, chocolates for her sister, a signed jersey from ja'marr for her brother-in-law, and stuffed animals for her niece and nephew.

then they cross the threshold of her childhood home, and he switches. it's not obvious to her family, in fact, they don't even pick up on it. but she does. she recognizes joe cool in action. he's studied well, cracks little jokes, indulges the kids, but she sees right through him.

she sees the way his adam's apple bobs, the restlessness of his knee, the way he nervously swipes his tongue over his lips. she doesn't comment on it, doesn't make a big deal out of it but she tries her best to ease him. places a hand over his heart, tells him he's doing such a great job, stills his knee when it starts bouncing, and looks at him with those eyes that make him breathe just a little lighter.

when he asks her how he did, she holds his worried face in her hands and kisses him so softly, so gently, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

[iamquiantrelle]

PLAYING FOR KEEPS (chapter 4)──────iamquaintrelle

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc

⌗ tags : @hopefulromantic1 @vile-harlot @perfecttrashface @queenshikongo3 @sinflowersugar @hotfudgeslug @muglermami @julescpu @greyishbach @certifiedlesbianbaddie @trinitoldyouso @greedyjudge2 @peyiswriting @127hydrangeas @rosiesdior @invertedempress @kj77 @pinkcatcus @thepointlessideas @thee-eldestandonly @szariahwroteit

⌗ summary : jules is focused on himself — no girlfriend, no drama — but now he seems to have both after pictures of him having fun at a friend's house party shows up in tabloids, and now fashion houses are calling for him? and his agent wants him to keep up this charade? ♡ masterlist. (✨💕)

The problem with going viral for being kissed senseless by Barcelona's star defender was that everyone had an opinion about it. Three days later, and Mila's DMs were still a mess of thirst tweets and relationship analysis.

"Someone made a 20-minute video breaking down our body language," she texted Jules between clients.

"Only 20 minutes? They missed some details."

She ignored that, just like she was ignoring the way her lips still remembered exactly how his felt. The internet had turned their kiss into a whole phenomenon - edits, analysis threads, frame-by-frame breakdowns of her dazed expression. Even her coworkers at Louis Vuitton wouldn't shut up about it.

"Mila?" Her assistant appeared with more appointment requests. "There's a waiting list now. Everyone wants the Jules Koundé's girlfriend experience."

The Jules Koundé's girlfriend experience. Like she was some kind of luxury service now. Though technically, that's exactly what she was - just ask Bruno and his engagement spreadsheets.

"Your lips are famous now," another text from Jules. He'd attached a tweet analyzing their kiss in slow motion. "Very impressive stats."

LV's Meanest Stylist: I'm blocking you.

Jules (Da Boo): No you're not.

She wasn't. But she did have three meetings with fashion houses about potential collaborations. Turned out being kissed senseless on live TV was good for business.

Her phone buzzed with another notification. Someone had matched her dizzy expression to the heart eyes emoji. The internet really needed to get a life.

Philippe hadn't said a word about the kiss. Just kept walking past her section with that pinched look, like she'd personally offended his entire ancestry by going viral.

"Your 2PM canceled," her assistant said. "But Chanel called again."

Her phone lit up with Jules' face. FaceTime. At work. The audacity.

"Miss me that much?" she answered, keeping her voice low.

"Just checking if you've recovered from my kiss yet." He was clearly at training, that smug post-workout glow all over his face.

"Please. I've had better."

"The fourteen million views of your dazed expression say otherwise."

"Don't you have balls to kick?"

"Taking a water break to harass my fake girlfriend."

A client approached her section, probably another footballer's wife wanting the "Jules Koundé's girlfriend look." They'd been coming in waves since the kiss.

"Some of us have actual work to do," she told Jules. "Go sweat or something."

"You like when I sweat."

She hung up on him. The client was already pulling out her phone, probably to show Mila screenshots of her own outfits. This was her life now - styling people to look like her while they gushed about her "romantic moment" with Jules.

Her phone buzzed with his text: "dinner in Paris this weekend?"

LV's Meanest Stylist: Don't you have a match?

Jules (Da Boo): After. I know a place.

LV's Meanest Stylist: Will this end like last time, when you attacked my face?

Jules (Da Boo): Attacked? That's not what your expression said.

The client was still hovering, phone ready. Mila put on her professional smile, already planning how to tell this woman that no, she couldn't reconstruct an LV bag exactly like the one from the match.

Her assistant appeared with more messages. Three other fashion houses wanted meetings. Bruno had sent another email about their "compelling narrative." And Jules...

Jules (Da Boo): I'll behave this time. Promise.

LV's Meanest Stylist: Lies.

Jules (Da Boo): Only one way to find out.

"I want something like what you wore to the match," another client said, like Mila hadn't heard that fifty times this week. "The reconstructed piece?"

"That was a one-of-a-kind design." Mila pulled out something from the new collection instead. "But this has similar elements."

Her assistant appeared with more messages. Some influencer wanted to collaborate. Three more WAGs had booked appointments.

"Mila?" Philippe's voice cut through the chaos. "A word?"

She followed him to his office, already bored of whatever he was about to say. The space reeked of his terrible cologne and poor management decisions.

"Corporate is... still very pleased with the attention you're bringing to the brand."

"But?"

"But we need to maintain certain standards." He straightened his already straight tie. "Your reconstructed pieces—"

"Are bringing in more clients than our regular collection."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" She examined her nails. "The waiting list? The sales numbers? The social media engagement?"

He had that look again - the one that said he hated that she was right but couldn't actually say it. "Just... maintain professionalism and easy on the reconstructed pieces."

"Will do."

Back at her station, three more clients were waiting. All wanting that "Mila look." All probably going to leave with regular collection pieces because her reconstructed designs weren't for sale, unfortunately.

Her phone buzzed with another email from Chanel. Maybe it was time to consider other options. After all, how many more times could she hear "I want what Jules Koundé's girlfriend is wearing" before losing it?

"Your 4PM is here," her assistant said. "And Fendi called."

Of course they did. Everyone was calling lately. Everyone wanted a piece of the girl who got kissed senseless at Camp Nou.

She pulled out another regular collection piece for her next client. At least the commission checks were fat.

By closing time, Mila had dealt with twelve clients wanting her "match day look," five more asking about her reconstructed pieces, and three trying to get intel about Jules. Her feet hurt from the heels she definitely didn't need to wear, and her fake smile muscles were cramping. She'd gotten three more emails from fashion houses during her last appointment.

The Metro was packed with the usual evening crowd when Mila's phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Jules had tagged her in a story - a photo from his 100th match celebration, her looking surprisingly put together for someone who'd just been kissed stupid in front of 90,000 people.

His caption was simple: "merci d'être venue même avec ton emploi du temps chargé ❤️"

The blogs got hold of it within minutes. Screenshot, reposted, analyzed: "he understands she has a real job 😭" "boyfriend of the year respecting his girl's career" "girl quit LV and be a WAG already" "finally a footballer who gets that some of us work 9-5" "why she still working tho? jules got MONEY money"

Her DMs were flooding: "Queen behavior keeping your job" "You're too good for retail anyway" "Just be a full time WAG please" "Love that you're still working"

She switched to her finsta where she'd been stalking job openings at other fashion houses. The train lurched between stations. More notifications. Someone had made an edit of all Jules' supportive comments about her job. The internet was really out here acting like basic respect was revolutionary.

Her phone buzzed with an email from another headhunter. These people moved fast. One viral kiss and suddenly everyone wanted to poach Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist.

A new comment caught her eye: "imagine having jules koundé bragging about you working retail"

Mila smiled to herself. If they only knew what she was actually planning.

*******************************************************

Vogue's Paris headquarters looked exactly like every fashion girl's dream and nightmare combined. All white walls and glass offices, perfectly curated corner displays that probably cost more than Mila's annual salary. She'd worn her latest reconstruction - an LV trench that corporate definitely hadn't approved, remixed into something that made the receptionist actually look up from her iPad.

The fashion archives were housed in the building's east wing, temperature controlled and organized with the kind of precision that made Mila's closet reorganization of Jules' space look amateur. Decades of couture history lined the walls in glass cases, each piece tagged with details about its significance, its moment, its impact.

"We're thinking of shooting you with some of these pieces," the features editor said, gesturing to a row of iconic designs. "Mix your reconstructed work with archived luxury. Tell the story of fashion's evolution."

The photography team was already setting up in the main studio - all exposed brick and massive windows that caught the morning light just right. Three different mood boards showed possible concepts: "Reconstruction Revolution," "Modern Luxury," "Fashion's New Guard." They'd really gone all in on this whole narrative.

Mila's phone buzzed in her bag - probably Jules with another comment about her "Vogue era" or Bruno with more notes about their social media strategy. But right now she was focused on the rack of archived pieces they'd pulled for her. Real pieces of fashion history that she'd be wearing, mixing with her own reconstructed designs.

Everyone had an opinion about how to present Jules Koundé's girlfriend turned fashion's newest disruptor. Like they hadn't all ignored her portfolio before that McDonald's photo went viral.

"We want to capture your authentic vision," the interviewer said, notebook ready. "How you're changing luxury fashion's relationship with sustainability and social media."

Mila smiled her professional smile, the one that usually preceded her most brutal fashion critiques. They had no idea what she was actually planning.

First day off in weeks and Mila was sitting in Vogue's studio, draped in archived Dior watching as they positioned her reconstructed LV pieces around the photo setup.

Her phone buzzed as she was getting her makeup done.

Jules (Da Boo): Saw you made it to your fashion bible shoot

LV's Meanest Stylist: Shouldn't you be focused on training?

Jules (Da Boo): Multitasking. Also Bruno kept his promise - check your email

The email was from Chanel's creative director. Apparently, Bruno's connections went deeper than just football. Mila scrolled through the email, smiling widely at collaborations and a very interesting paragraph about starting her own line.

The photographer moved her to the setup, something with dramatic lighting while Mila thought about Chanel's offer. Three outfit changes later, her phone lit up again.

Jules (Da Boo): You're giving editorial

LV's Meanest Stylist: Did Bruno share the raw shots with you?

Jules (Da Boo): Maybe. Blame the social media team. They're obsessed

The interviewer had questions about her reconstruction process, her design philosophy. Mila gave them enough to be interesting without revealing too much about the plans taking shape in her head.

Between shots, she checked her email again. Bruno had actually come through - connections and introductions that could make those plans reality. Maybe all this fake dating chaos was worth it.

"killing it btw," Jules texted. "very high fashion"

LV's Meanest Stylist: Don't you have actual balls to kick?

Jules (Da Boo): Rude. I'm being supportive

The photographer wanted one final shot with her latest reconstructed piece. Something about capturing the future of luxury fashion.

****************************************************

A day later, Mila was back in her section at Louis Vuitton, watching another WAG struggle to describe exactly what she wanted. "You know, like that thing you wore to Jules' match? But maybe in a different color?"

Because apparently, everyone thought reconstructed designer pieces were just regular custom orders now.

Her feet were screaming in her Louboutins - six straight hours of clients who all wanted a piece of Jules Koundé's girlfriend's aesthetic.

The Chanel offer sat bold and unanswered in her email, right next to messages from Fendi and Balenciaga.

Between appointments, she caught herself sketching new designs on receipt paper. Ideas that had nothing to do with LV's aesthetic, pieces that would never make it past corporate approval. She'd come to Paris dreaming of designing for luxury houses, but now she was stuck selling other people's visions while her own designs got more attention than the actual collection.

The store's security had to turn away two different paparazzi already. Her coworkers kept "accidentally" walking past her station, hoping to catch some drama for their group chat.

The lunch rush was winding down when a delivery guy appeared at her station. Every head in the department turned - nothing interesting ever happened in their section except Mila's daily drama lately. Marie from accessories actually dropped a display trying to get a better look.

She signed for the package and escaped to her back office, ignoring the obvious stares and whispers. Her assistant was already fielding questions about whether it was from Jules.

Inside was a business registration application - all crisp pages and official letterhead, practically screaming 'take the leap.' The Coco Chanel biography was a first edition, because of course it was. Trust Jules to be extra about everything.

His note was written on thick cream cardstock, his annoyingly male yet somehow perfect handwriting:

"She was scared too. But she built an empire anyway. Your turn."

Mila stared at the package contents spread across her desk. The application form that could change everything. The biography of a woman who'd revolutionized fashion. The note that somehow made it all feel possible.

That man really had some nerve. Sending her life-changing packages at work like it was nothing. Acting like he just casually picked up first editions of fashion bibles. Writing notes that made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with career decisions.

Her fingers traced over his handwriting. This wasn't just about a kiss at a football match anymore. This wasn't even about their fake relationship or Bruno's social media numbers. This was Jules actually seeing her - not the LV sales associate, not his pretend girlfriend, but Mila Lawrence: designer, visionary, empire builder in waiting.

Mila barely made it out of the store before calling Jules. Her hands were shaking slightly, nails already bitten down.

"So you got my package," he answered, way too smug.

"Am I crazy for even considering this?"

"Starting your own brand or calling me first about it?"

She found a bench, dropping onto it. "Both. Either. I don't know."

"Come to Barcelona for the match then. Clear your head."

"What? I have a job, Jules."

"But you can call out though, right?" The way he said it was too knowing.

She could. Philippe would have an aneurysm, but corporate was so far up her ass lately they'd probably approve anything.

"What's in it for me?"

"Another kiss."

"That is not what I want, Jules." Now he was getting on her nerves.

"You know you want to kiss me again." He said it like a fact, like gravity or her need to reorganize his closet.

She sighed because damn him, he was right. That kiss from his last match was still living rent-free in her head. Her rotation guys weren't answering her texts, her vibrator was getting a workout, and now Jules was—

"About what you said..."

"I say a lot of things."

"The thing about..."

"About?"

"You know?" she tried for coy.

"Speak plainly, chérie." Using her own words against her, the bastard.

"Huge BDE. True or false?" The words came out more aggressive than intended.

"Wow... only took two gifts huh?"

"Shut up or I'll block you."

"You don't mean that."

"I do." She didn't.

"How about you get your pretty ass to Barcelona and find out. Let me know when you land."

Then he hung up. Actually hung up on her.

"Bastard!" she screeched, earning concerned looks from passersby. But she didn't mean it. He was playing her at her own game and worse - she liked it. Damn him and that kiss and his sweet note and everything else.

Fine. She was going to Barcelona. But if he thought he was getting in her panties that easily, he had another thing coming.

Mila stared at her phone for a full minute before pulling up her airline app. First class to Barcelona was practically empty - apparently not many people flew out a day before a match. She booked it before she could talk herself out of it.

Her fingers hovered over corporate's number. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially when permission meant dealing with Philippe's face. She drafted a quick email about a "family emergency" instead. Let them connect the dots when they saw her at Camp Nou.

A crowd moved around her bench, probably wondering why Jules Koundé's girlfriend was having a crisis in public. Her phone lit up with his text: "booked your usual room at my place"

LV's Meanest Stylist: bold of you to assume I'm staying with you again.

Jules (Da Boo): you're right. plenty of hotels in Barcelona

She knew what he was doing. Another minute passed before she replied: "The guest room better be exactly how I left it."

Jules (Da Boo): wouldn't dare move anything. too scared of your organizational wrath

That made her smile despite herself. Her phone buzzed with confirmation emails - match tickets (VIP section, obviously), even a car service from the airport. Boy was efficient when he wanted to be.

Jules (Da Boo): your career crisis looks good on you btw

LV's Meanest Stylist: I'm blocking you for real this time.

Jules (Da Boo): no you're not. see you tomorrow chérie 😘

She really needed to stop letting him have the last word. But first, she had a suitcase to pack and a career-changing decision to avoid thinking about.

Walking back into Louis Vuitton felt different now. Mila had a flight confirmation in her email and career-changing documents in her office. Her coworkers were still hovering, probably hoping for details about the mystery package.

"Three more WAGs called for appointments," her assistant said, already sensing something was up.

"Reschedule everything for next week." Mila headed to her office, mind already on what to wear to the match. "Family emergency."

"Does this emergency involve Barcelona?"

"Don't start."

She spent the rest of her shift between clients, mentally cataloging which pieces to pack. The internet would analyze every outfit choice, especially after that kiss at the last match. Her phone kept lighting up with texts from Jules, each one more smug than the last.

Jules (Da Boo): bring that black reconstructed piece

Jules (Da Boo): the one corporate hates

Jules (Da Boo): make philippe cry

She left early, citing her "emergency." Philippe's face when she handed in her leave notice almost made the whole trip worth it already. The way he tried not to react when she mentioned "family issues in Barcelona" - priceless.

Her apartment was a mess of clothing and half-finished pieces. The registration forms from Jules sat on her coffee table like a challenge. But first: what exactly does one pack for a weekend of career crisis and complicated fake relationship dynamics?

Her phone buzzed again.

Jules (Da Boo): don't overthink the packing

LV's Meanest Stylist: stop being creepy.

Jules (Da Boo): just saying. you look good in anything

Mila stared at her reconstructed pieces hanging on the rack. Everyone would expect another LV remix, another statement about sustainable luxury. Her Instagram followers were probably already wondering what she'd create for this match.

"Fuck it," she muttered, turning to her designer section instead. The Prada mini dress she'd been saving for something special caught her eye. Clean lines, no reconstruction needed. Next to it, that Miu Miu set she'd grabbed during Fashion Week - the one that made her legs look illegal.

Let them analyze that. Jules Koundé's girlfriend showing up in straight-off-the-runway pieces instead of her signature reconstructions. The fashion blogs would lose their minds trying to decode the meaning.

Her phone lit up.

Jules (Da Boo): packed yet?

LV's Meanest Stylist: working on it.

Jules (Da Boo): need help choosing outfits?

LV's Meanest Stylist: you just want previews.

Jules (Da Boo): guilty

She pulled out more pieces - all pristine designer, not a reconstruction in sight.

"You're going to have opinions about my outfit choice," she texted. "These aren't reconstructed."

Three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally: "intriguing"

She smiled to herself, adding heels to her suitcase. Sometimes the best way to play the game was to change the rules entirely.

The car had barely stopped at Jules' house before Mila was out and ready to fight. "Real Madrid? El Clásico? Were you planning to mention the small detail about playing your biggest rival?"

He leaned against his doorframe, watching her roll her designer suitcase up his driveway.

"The amount of DMs I got asking if I was ready for El Clásico...." She brushed past him to go into the foyer. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to find out from random Instagram comments? Your fake girlfriend had to Google what El Clásico even meant."

He just stood there, watching her with that amused look while she dropped her luggage.

"Ja'Mila." The use of her full name didn't even slow her down.

She was on a roll. "And then I had to pretend I knew all along because what kind of girlfriend doesn't know when her man is playing against—"

His mouth caught hers mid-sentence. When he pulled back, she blinked at him.

"What the fuck?"

"Shut up sometimes."

"Did you just tell me to shut—"

He kissed her again, longer this time, and whatever she was about to say disappeared somewhere between his lips and the hand that curved around her waist.

"Hungry?" he asked when they broke apart.

She managed a nod, brain still recalibrating.

"Good. I got us some paella."

The paella was spread across his kitchen island like a food blogger's dream. Jules had actually put effort into this - proper serving dishes, wine already breathing, the kind of setup that said he'd been planning this since before her flight landed.

"You cook now?" Mila dropped into a seat, still slightly off-balance from those kisses.

"Found this new spot in Barceloneta. The owner's grandmother makes the paella."

"Pulling out all the stops."

"Like you pulling out Prada instead of reconstructed pieces."

She ignored that, already serving herself. "We're going to talk about you attacking my face twice in five minutes?"

"We could." He poured her wine. "Or you could tell me why you packed only designer labels."

The wine was perfectly chilled because of course, it was. "You're creepy."

"I like to say observant." He watched her take a bite. "Like how you're pretending those kisses didn't affect you."

"They didn't."

"Lie better."

She pointed her fork at him. "Focus on your match prep."

"I am very focused." His eyes hadn't left her face. "On several things."

"Your focusing needs focus." Mila reached for more paella. "The whole city's talking about El Clásico and you're here playing house."

"Playing house involves more kissing."

"Everything involves more kissing with you lately."

"I like kissing, I'm French after all." He leans back in his chair.

"Not so much to have you getting distracted before the biggest match of the season."

"Who says I'm distracted?"

"Your hand's still on my knee." He didn't move it. "About that BDE you're so proud of..." She shifted in her seat but didn't move his hand. "You'll have to work harder to prove it."

"That might change our fake relationship status."

"It won't." She met his eyes over her wine glass. "I don't date men, remember? This is still just business. With benefits, maybe."

His thumb traced circles on her knee while he considered that. "Sleep in my bed tonight."

"Hard pass."

"What if I win tomorrow?"

"We'll see." She didn't move his hand though. That was probably saying something. "You should get some rest," Mila said, finally moving his hand off her knee. "Big match tomorrow."

"Could rest better with company."

"Could rest worse too." She stood, gathering their plates. "I'm not your good luck charm."

"No?" He watched her move around his kitchen like she belonged there. "The stats say otherwise. Two matches with you there, two wins."

"Correlation isn't causation."

"Big words for someone who had to Google El Clásico."

She threw a napkin at him. "I'm going to my room."

"My room's closer."

"Your game's in fourteen hours."

"Plenty of time."

She paused at the doorway. "Win tomorrow. Then maybe we'll talk about correlation and causation."

"Is that a promise?"

"That's a maybe." But the way she looked at him before disappearing upstairs definitely wasn't a no.

Jules stared at the empty doorway. This fake relationship was getting complicated.

*************************************

Mila laid out her match day outfit - that Miu Miu set that definitely wasn't chosen to torture Jules. Her phone lit up with his text: "sure you don't want company?"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: Focus on Real Madrid instead of what's under this robe.

Jules (Da Boo): so there IS something under the robe

She left him on read, but caught herself smiling at the phone like an idiot. A notification popped up - someone had leaked tomorrow's starting lineup. El Clásico was trending worldwide. Her mentions were flooded with predictions and questions about what she'd wear, whether she'd be in the family section again. Meanwhile, she was in Jules' guest room, pretending she wasn't thinking about his hand on her knee or those kisses that were definitely not part of their fake relationship contract.

She pulled up her email instead. Three more messages from fashion houses. Two collaboration offers. The Chanel contract still sitting bold and unanswered. All these opportunities, and she was here in Barcelona letting a footballer with good hands distract her from career decisions.

Down the hall, Jules was definitely not thinking about what was under her robe. He had game footage to review, tactics to study. Real Madrid's defensive patterns were spread across his iPad, but his phone kept lighting up with her Instagram story - just her shoes for tomorrow lined up perfectly, but somehow even that was distracting.

"you're supposed to be sleeping," she texted.

Jules (Da Boo): you're supposed to be in my room

LV’s Meanest Stylist: win tomorrow first

Jules (Da Boo): that a promise?

She left him on read again. They both knew what that meant.

His phone buzzed with messages from teammates - someone had spotted Mila at the airport, news was already spreading that she'd flown in for El Clásico. The pressure was already massive, but now he had another reason to win. Not that he'd admit that to anyone, especially not to her.

The house settled into quiet, just the space of a hallway between them. Tomorrow was El Clásico, but somehow that wasn't the most complicated part of either of their nights. Mila stared at her ceiling, definitely not thinking about crossing that hallway. Jules reviewed match footage, definitely not listening for footsteps that might cross it.

Her last text of the night: "good luck tomorrow. don't fuck it up."

His reply: "planning to score in more ways than one."

She left that on read too. But they both slept smiling.

Mila slipped into the Miu Miu set with a precision that would make a surgeon jealous. The skirt hit at exactly the right length to be both classy and distracting. The top was structured but still showed enough skin to make a point. Her heels - not too high, but high enough to make a statement. Everything calculated for maximum impact, not a single piece of reconstructed LV in sight.

Her makeup was editorial but subtle - the kind of look that said "I didn't try but I still woke up like this." Hair in loose waves that would photograph well from any angle. The internet would analyze every detail before kickoff.

The car Jules sent was black, sleek, definitely overpriced. The driver had a Barcelona jersey ready for her - another note from Jules: "Just in case you change your mind about team colors."

"Not a chance," she muttered, but packed it in her bag anyway.

The streets around Camp Nou were absolute chaos - a sea of Barcelona colors moving toward the stadium. Police redirected traffic, fans sang club anthems, street vendors hawked counterfeit merchandise. El Clásico wasn't just a match; it was an event.

Camp Nou itself was a fortress of noise. The VIP entrance had extra security, photographers lining the walkway like she was attending the Met Gala instead of a football match. Flashes went off the moment she stepped out of the car. Jules Koundé's girlfriend had arrived for El Clásico.

"This way, Miss Lawrence," an escort guided her through the madness. "Your seat is reserved in the family section."

The concourse was packed with fans in Barcelona colors, chanting songs she didn't understand but could feel in her chest. Television crews darted between VIPs, looking for pre-match interviews. Three different reporters tried to catch her attention. She ignored them all, following her escort deeper into the stadium.

Her phone was already blowing up with notifications - photos of her arrival were spreading faster than she could scroll. The fashion blogs had caught sight of the Miu Miu set, and the freak out was starting:

"MILA IN MIU MIU NOT RECONSTRUCTED LV??"

"the SERVE"

"is she leaving louis???"

"jules better keep his eyes on the ball with THAT outfit"

"fashion statement or career move??"

The stadium was a cathedral of noise, 99,000 fans packed together in a sea of blue and red, with pockets of white where Real Madrid supporters clustered. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, fans stomping and singing, flags waving in every section. The smell of beer and excitement hung in the air.

Her escort showed her to a prime seat in the family section, surrounded by players' partners and families. "Jules requested this specific spot."

Of course he did. From here she could see straight to where the teams would emerge, the most visible seat possible. Cameras would definitely find her here during the broadcast.

The roar when the teams emerged for warm-ups was deafening. Barcelona in their iconic colors, Real Madrid in pristine white. Rivalries didn't get bigger than this.

When Barcelona took the field, Jules' eyes found her immediately. He actually missed a step when he spotted the Miu Miu set, almost tripping over a training cone. Worth every euro of that outfit.

The match itself was electric. Every touch was contested, every pass met with either groans or cheers. The roar when Barcelona scored their first goal - a beautiful team move finished by Lewandowski - nearly took the roof off. Jules was everywhere on the pitch, defending like a man possessed, starting attacks, constantly in motion. His tackle on Vinícius Júnior had the crowd chanting his name.

By halftime, Barcelona was up 2-0, and Mila was checking Instagram to find her outfit had spawned multiple fashion blog analyses and at least three "get the look" articles. Even Vogue had posted about her "strategic style pivot" away from reconstructed pieces.

Second half, Barcelona put Real Madrid out of their misery. Two more goals, bringing it to 4-0. Complete dominance. Jules assisted the third with a perfect long pass, then helped set up the fourth with a crunching tackle that won possession. The stadium was going insane, and Mila found herself actually jumping up for the goals, swept up in the collective euphoria.

Her phone was absolutely exploding with notifications, but all she was watching was Jules on the pitch, commanding his area like he owned it. The final whistle brought chaos - good chaos, victory chaos. And somewhere in her mind, she remembered her maybe-promise from last night. The one about what might happen if Barcelona won.

*****************************

The family area was absolute chaos after a 4-0 win in El Clásico. Players' families, team staff, and VIPs packed the space, everyone riding the high of destroying their biggest rivals. Mila tried to look unbothered, like she attended matches like this all the time, like her heart wasn't racing as she waited for Jules to appear.

When he finally did - fresh from the shower, locs still damp, wearing team-issued matchday suit that somehow didn't look tragic - he spotted her immediately. His eyes fixed on the Miu Miu set, exactly as she'd planned.

"Trying to make me lose focus with that outfit?" He reached her, glancing down at the very deliberate hemline.

"Clearly didn't work. Four goals."

"Could've been five if you'd gone with Prada."

Before she could respond, he pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that definitely wasn't just for the cameras. His hand curved around her waist, fingers splayed against the fabric.

"Ayy, conseguir una habitación!" Lamine shouted from across the space, grinning at them.

Jules broke the kiss just long enough to push his teammate away. "Ocúpate de tus asuntos."

The photographers were going crazy, cameras clicking like insects. But what they didn't expect was Mila grabbing Jules' collar and pulling him back for another kiss. That definitely wasn't in the fake relationship handbook.

When they finally broke apart, his lips brushed her ear. "Remember what I said about scoring in more ways than one?"

"We'll see." But they both knew her answer was already changing.

**********************************

The drive back to Jules' place was quiet, but not the comfortable kind. The kind of quiet that had weight to it, that filled the car with everything they weren't saying.

Jules drove with one hand on the wheel, his other arm resting on the center console, fingers drumming lightly to whatever was playing through the car's speakers. Those hands that had just commanded a match against Real Madrid, that had curved around her waist in front of cameras, were now just casually existing a few inches from her thigh.

Mila wasn't one to give it up easily - never had been. Men usually had to work for it, prove they were worth the effort. But watching Jules navigate Barcelona traffic, his profile outlined by passing streetlights, locs falling perfectly despite post-match celebrations, she was reconsidering her usual standards.

"You're staring," he said, voice low with that French accent that somehow got stronger when they were alone. His eyes stayed on the road, but his mouth curved into a knowing smile.

"You're delusional."

"If you say so." He licked his bottom lip, and she absolutely didn't track the movement. "But your outfit says otherwise."

"My outfit says I have excellent taste."

"That too." His hand shifted from the console to the gear stick, knuckles flexing as he downshifted. "Bruno's going to love the engagement numbers from today."

"Is that what you're thinking about right now? Engagement numbers?"

"Not exactly." His voice had that edge to it, the one she'd been hearing more lately.

Jules had changed since they started this arrangement. Gotten bolder, more direct. He'd always had that quiet confidence, but now it was focused on her. Like he'd figured something out that she was still catching up to.

Mila glanced out the window, pretending to be fascinated by Barcelona at night. But really she was thinking about that maybe-promise from last night, and how tonight felt less like maybe and more like inevitable.

"Bruno wants us to do a couple's interview next week," Jules said, breaking the charged silence. "Something about 'humanizing the relationship.'"

"He thinks we need humanizing?"

"After that kiss at the stadium? We need cooling down, not humanizing."

Mila rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. "Getting cocky after one win?"

"Four-nil against Madrid isn't just 'one win.'" His thumb tapped against the steering wheel. "Kind of like how that wasn't just 'one kiss.'"

"It was for the cameras."

"The second one wasn't."

She turned to look at him properly. The streetlights caught his profile, highlighting the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. "Maybe I was just maintaining our cover."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you're not as unaffected as you pretend to be."

"Pretty full of yourself for someone who's still technically in a fake relationship."

His laugh was low, genuine. "The best kind of relationship. All the benefits, none of the drama."

"You think there are benefits coming your way tonight?"

"I think," he slowed the car as they approached his neighborhood, "that you wore that Miu Miu set for a reason. And it wasn't just to break the internet."

"Maybe I'm branching out from reconstructed pieces."

"Maybe you're done reconstructing other things and ready to build something new."

The double meaning wasn't lost on her. Between the Chanel offer, her own potential brand, and whatever was happening with them - everything was shifting.

Jules pulled into his driveway, killing the engine. For a moment, they just sat there in the dark car, the weight of possibility hanging between them.

He turned to face her. "You're not getting it so easily, you know?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less, to be honest."

"Mmhmm." She studied his face, the sincerity there.

"I'm serious, Mila."

"So am I."

"We should go inside," Jules said, but didn't move to get out of the car.

"Probably."

"Unless you want to give my neighbors a show."

"Don't flatter yourself." But her eyes dropped to his mouth. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"Yet being the important word."

"Maybe I just came for the four-nil win."

"Maybe. Or maybe you came for something else."

"Very sure of yourself." She tilted her head, studying him. "Four goals really went to your head."

"Not just my head." His smile was dangerous.

"I'm not that easy."

"I'm not looking for easy." His fingers tapped the steering wheel. "Easy is boring."

"And I'm not?"

"You're a lot of things, Mila." His voice dropped lower. "Boring isn't one of them."

She reached for the door handle. "We should go inside before this gets..."

"Gets what?"

"You know what." She stepped out of the car, the night air breaking some of the tension.

Jules followed, catching up to her at the front door. "Afraid of what might happen?"

"Please. Afraid isn't in my vocabulary."

"What is in your vocabulary then?"

"Patience." She brushed past him into the house. "Something you should learn."

His laugh followed her inside. The door closed behind them with a definitive click.

"I'm just saying, if you think one match win means you've somehow earned—" Mila was in full analytical mode, already cataloging reasons why this was complicated, why they should think this through, why the fake relationship boundaries existed.

"Shut up." Jules wasn't asking. His jaw was set, that same focused intensity he'd had on the pitch now directed entirely at her. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth, impatience visible in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Jules—" But the rest of whatever she was going to say disappeared against his mouth.

This wasn't like the stadium kiss. This wasn't for cameras or Bruno's engagement numbers. This was Jules backing her against his entryway wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other curving around her waist. His locs brushed against her cheek, still smelling faintly of his post-match shower products. She caught the lingering scent of his cologne, something expensive that probably cost more than her monthly Metro pass.

His lips were still soft, contrasting with the slight stubble that scratched against her skin. Every point of contact between them seemed to generate heat - his chest against hers, his hand at her waist, his mouth moving with a precision that matched his on-field control.

"I'm not that easy," she mumbled against his lips, even as her hands were already working at his suit jacket.

"I know." He shrugged out of the jacket, letting it drop somewhere behind them. Not that either of them was looking. His eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide with something more than just victory adrenaline. A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that had rarely ever appeared in his Instagram posts.

In one smooth motion that definitely confirmed his athletic credentials, he lifted her, hands gripping her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. His fingers flexed against the Miu Miu fabric, leaving tiny wrinkles that would've horrified her in any other context.

"That's nice," she managed, when they broke for air. His breathing was slightly uneven, chest rising and falling against hers. A bead of sweat formed at his temple despite the cool air in the house.

"And it's only gonna get nicer." The confidence in his voice should've been annoying. It wasn't. His accent had deepened, words coming out slower, more deliberate. He licked his bottom lip, a quick, unconscious gesture that her eyes tracked despite her best intentions.

She rolled her eyes but didn't protest when he carried her to the couch, laying her down with more care than she expected. The leather was cool against her bare legs, contrasting with the heat of Jules hovering above her. A clock ticked somewhere in the house, marking time in a world that suddenly seemed very far away.

Jules braced himself above her, arms creating a cage on either side of her head. His locs fell forward, brushing against her cheeks like a curtain separating them from the rest of the world. A slight tremor ran through his muscles, the only sign that this was affecting him as much as it was her.

"Still maintaining our cover?" His voice was rough around the edges, like he'd forgotten how to use it properly.

"Shut up." Mila used his own line against him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His laugh was low, barely more than an exhale against her skin. One of his hands moved to trace her jawline, thumb brushing over her lower lip with a gentleness that belied the intensity in his eyes. The touch left a trail of heat, like he was marking a path he intended to follow.

Outside, Barcelona was still celebrating the El Clásico victory. Car horns and distant chanting filtered through the windows, a soundtrack to whatever was happening on this couch. But inside, the only sounds were their breathing and the rustle of fabric as her fingers worked at his shirt buttons.

Jules watched her face as she undid each button, his expression a mixture of amusement and something darker. A vein pulsed at his temple. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that didn't quite match the measured control he usually displayed.

"Having trouble?" he asked when she fumbled with a particularly stubborn button.

"Your shirt's defective." But her voice lacked its usual sharpness, softened by the heat building between them.

"Maybe your hands are just shaky."

"My hands are perfect." To prove it, she flattened her palm against his now-exposed chest, feeling his heartbeat jumping under her touch.

The smirk that spread across his face was infuriating. And irresistible. She pulled him down to wipe it off with her mouth, surprised at her own eagerness. His response was immediate - one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding up her thigh, pushing the Miu Miu skirt higher.

Whatever line separated their fake relationship from something real was blurring with every touch. The boundaries they'd established in contracts and meetings with Bruno were dissolving under hands that suddenly couldn't get enough of each other.

If either of them was having second thoughts, they weren't voicing them. Not when Jules was trailing kisses down her neck, not when Mila was pushing his shirt off his shoulders, not when the cool leather of the couch was warming beneath them.

Jules' lips traced a slow, searing path down her throat, his breath warm against her skin, his pace unhurried—like he had all the time in the world to unravel her. His locs tickled her collarbone as he lingered there, lips and tongue mapping out sensitive spots she hadn’t even realized existed.

Mila told herself she wasn’t shivering. That she wasn’t already caving to the way he touched her, the way he kissed her like he was committing her to memory. She refused to acknowledge the way her stomach clenched when his teeth scraped lightly against her pulse point, a pleased hum vibrating from his throat when she tensed beneath him.

His hands were steady as they skimmed down her sides, palms pressing into her curves with just enough pressure to make her suck in a sharp breath. When his fingers hooked into the hem of her top, she should’ve stopped him—should’ve reminded him that this wasn’t real, that they had an image to maintain, that letting him take this any further would be reckless.

She did none of those things.

Instead, she arched slightly, letting him pull the fabric up and over her head. Jules sat back just enough to take her in, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as his gaze raked over her skin. His hands smoothed over her stomach, slow and reverent, before sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over lace.

"Fuck," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You look good like this, ma belle."

Mila bit back the instinct to roll her eyes, to deflect with a sharp remark. But her mind was clouded, hazy from the heat of his touch, from the way he was looking at her—like he wanted to ruin her in the best way possible.

She let out a breathless laugh. "You say that like you didn’t already know."

Jules grinned, cocky and self-assured, before ducking down, brushing his lips over the swell of her breast. "Knew it," he murmured, nipping lightly at the lace-covered peak. "But now I get to confirm it."

The sharp jolt of sensation sent a shudder rippling through her, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Still convinced I'm bad at this?" Jules murmured, voice thick with amusement, lips trailing down, lower and lower.

Mila scowled, even as her breath hitched. "You’re tolerable at best."

He huffed a laugh against her skin before dragging his tongue over the sensitive spot below her ribs, making her stomach clench. "Liar," he whispered.

His hands gripped her thighs, thumbs stroking the soft skin there before he shifted, pushing her skirt higher until it was bunched at her waist. Mila barely had time to process the shift before he dipped his head lower, mouthing at the inside of her thigh, sucking at the tender skin just hard enough to leave a mark.

Her entire body jerked, heat coiling low in her stomach as his fingers pressed firmer against her skin. "Jules....."

"Shh, bébé," he cooed, his lips brushing against her thigh with every syllable. "Still so tense. Thought you were relaxed by now."

Mila was far from relaxed—her entire body was wound tight, her breath uneven, her grip on his shoulders bordering on desperate. She should’ve stopped this before it got this far, should’ve kept him at a safe distance.

But with his mouth pressing against her, teasing, coaxing, with his hands spreading her thighs wider like he had every right to, she realized something.

She didn’t want to stop.

Jules’ hands gripped her thighs, strong and steady, thumbs pressing into her skin like he wanted to brand himself there. Mila knew she should definitely stop this—should remind him that this was all for show, that whatever they were doing here, like this, went far beyond the carefully curated illusion they were supposed to be maintaining.

But then his fingers curled under the lace of her panties, dragging the fabric down at an agonizing pace, his lips following the path of the waistband as he peeled it away. A slow, deliberate kiss pressed to the jut of her hipbone, then lower, lower—so close to where she needed him, yet infuriatingly just shy of it.

Mila’s breath stuttered.

Jules smirked against her skin, clearly enjoying the way her body betrayed her better judgment. "Still think I’m just tolerable?" His voice was thick with amusement, but there was something else beneath it too—something darker, possessive.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to.

His chuckle was low, vibrating against her inner thigh. "That’s what I thought."

And then—finally—he kissed her where she was aching for him most.

Mila’s back arched, her fingers twisting into the couch cushions, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp. Jules didn’t hesitate, didn’t tease her with the restraint he’d shown before. No, he kissed her like he’d been waiting for this just as long as she had, like he wanted to unravel her piece by piece.

His tongue was hot and insistent, flicking over her with a precision that shouldn’t have surprised her—of course he was good at this. Of course he had to prove her wrong in the most devastating way possible.

She bit down on her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing just how good it was.

Jules hummed against her, the vibration sending a shiver through her body. His hands slid up her thighs, palms flattening against her hips, holding her in place even as she instinctively tried to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"You take it so well," he murmured between kisses, voice thick with approval. "Look at you."

Mila wasn’t looking at anything—her eyes were squeezed shut, her breathing uneven, her body betraying her with every twitch, every stifled moan.

Jules wasn’t having that.

One hand left her hip, dragging up her torso, fingers ghosting over the lace of her bra before he tugged the fabric down just enough to expose her. He groaned, low and appreciative, before his thumb brushed over her hardened nipple.

Mila gasped.

"That’s better," Jules murmured, his voice edged with satisfaction. "Let me hear you, bébé. I want to know how good I’m making you feel."

Her pride clashed with the molten heat pooling in her stomach, but Jules wasn’t letting up. His tongue pressed firm and slow against her, his fingers pinching at her nipple just enough to make her breath hitch.

She cracked.

"Jules—fuck—"

His smirk was almost audible. "There she is."

Mila barely had a moment to process the smugness in his tone before he redoubled his efforts, alternating between licking and sucking her clitoris.

The sudden buzz of Jules’ phone in his pocket was an unwelcome intrusion, but he ignored it, his focus entirely on Mila. The device vibrated again, insistent this time, and he let out a deep groan—half frustration, half amusement—before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh.

Mila’s fingers tangled in his locs, tugging slightly. "If it’s Bruno, I’m going to kill him."

Jules chuckled, the sound warm against her skin. "You’d have to get in line."

But the ringing didn’t stop. With an exaggerated sigh, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging himself away from her with evident reluctance. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the phone, barely glancing at the screen before answering.

The voice on the other end was sharp, irritated. "Je te déteste, putain."

Mila’s brows furrowed in confusion, but Jules only smirked, his gaze locked onto hers as he responded in French. "Aurél, je suis occupé, là."

"Putain, 4-0. C'est quoi ce bordel, mec?"

Jules ran a hand through his locs, his expression one of pure exasperation. He kept his eyes on Mila, watching her reaction as he delivered his response with casual bluntness: "Je mange une chatte. Rappelle-moi plus tard."

Mila gasped, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "Jules!"

On the other end of the line, Aurélien sucked his teeth, the irritation in his voice giving way to something more resigned. "Putain... toujours va te faire foutre, toi et le FC Barcelone."

The line went dead.

Jules smirked, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a lazy flick of his wrist before settling back between Mila’s thighs.

"Now," he murmured, pressing a teasing kiss to the inside of her knee, "where was I?"

And just like that, his mouth was on her again, as if he hadn’t just said something utterly filthy to one of his closest friends. As if he hadn’t just left her a flustered, overheated mess on his couch.

Mila barely had time to gather her thoughts before the pleasure crashed over her again, dragging her under. Her back arched, her fingers dug into the leather of the couch, and her thighs quivered around his head as the orgasm crashed over her in sharp, toe-curling waves. Jules didn’t stop, didn’t let up—not even when she tried to twist away, overwhelmed. He kept his mouth on her, prolonging her pleasure until she was gasping, trembling beneath him.

"Jules," her voice cracked, her body too sensitive, too overstimulated, but he only hummed against her, placing one last, smug kiss against her clit before finally pulling away.

Mila barely had time to catch her breath before she saw him rise to his feet. Her dazed eyes followed the way he reached for his belt, undoing it with unhurried ease. He slid his pants down, leaving only the stretch of his boxer briefs between her and the very obvious outline of his arousal.

She swallowed.

His dick strained against the fabric, a wet spot darkening the front where his tip had been leaking. He pulled them down next, stepping out of them, letting her see everything.

Her mouth parted slightly.

It was big—thick, heavy, glistening at the tip. No false bravado, no exaggeration. Just a truth laid bare.

Mila exhaled sharply. "I guess you weren’t lying then."

Jules smirked. "Gros BDE," he said, as if she needed the reminder.

She would’ve rolled her eyes, but he was already leaning over her, already sliding her skirt down in one smooth motion. Then he was nudging her legs further apart, settling between them as he dipped down to kiss her.

It was slow—so slow it was maddening.

His lips moved against hers in deliberate, teasing drags, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with deep, lazy strokes. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like he enjoyed the taste of her, like he wanted her to feel every shift, every slide, every wet, messy press of his lips against hers.

Their tongues tangled, the kiss turning hot and slick, saliva gathering at the corner of her mouth as Jules sucked at her lower lip, nipped at it, licked into her mouth again with an obscene sort of patience. The kind that made heat coil low in her stomach all over again.

She was so wrapped up in the way he was kissing her that she barely registered his hand moving above her, reaching toward the side table. A moment later, she heard the telltale crinkle of foil.

Her eyes flickered open just in time to see Jules bring a condom to his mouth, biting the edge of the wrapper to tear it open. His locs fell forward, shielding his face and the lower half of hers, making the moment feel strangely intimate despite the casualness in his movements.

Mila arched a brow. "I’m waiting."

The corners of his lips perked up in amusement. "You’re so fucking annoying," he muttered, rolling the condom down his length.

She smirked, opening her mouth to fire back, but the second she felt the head of his dick pressing against her entrance, her words disintegrated into a moan.

Jules’ grin was damn near predatory. "Yeah… only needed some dick to shut you up, hmm?"

Mila barely had time to glare before he snapped his hips forward, burying himself inside her in one deep, smooth stroke.

Her nails dug into his back as he stretched her open, filled her so perfectly that her body clenched around him, heat pooling in her belly. And then he started moving.

His pace was brutal from the start, his thrusts deep and sharp, knocking the air from her lungs. Every roll of his hips sent pleasure lancing through her spine, her body arching into him, chasing the sensation.

Jules watched her beneath heavy lids, his expression dark with satisfaction. "Feel good, bébé?"

Mila couldn’t answer. Not when he was fucking her like this. Not when he was hitting deep, dragging his dick along her walls at an angle that made her legs tremble.

Her only response was a desperate moan, and Jules grinned. "Yeah, that’s what I thought." Then he thrust harder, and Mila swore she saw stars.

Jules fucked like a man with something to prove.

His pace was merciless, his thrusts deep and unrelenting, each one knocking a sharp gasp from Mila’s lips no matter how hard she tried to swallow them down. His hands were everywhere—gripping her hips, smoothing up her waist, pressing down on her stomach like he wanted to feel himself inside her. And fuck, she did feel him. Every thick, stretching inch of him filling her up, dragging against her walls in a way that made her toes curl.

Still, she tried to fight it.

Tried to school her face into something indifferent, tried to bite back the moans that threatened to spill from her lips. It was just sex. Good sex, sure, but just sex.

Except it wasn’t just good. It was wreck-her-entire-life good.

"Don’t fight it," Jules muttered, his voice low and smug against the shell of her ear. "I can feel you clenching around me."

Mila’s nails dug into his shoulders, but he just grinned, dragging his lips down her jaw, sucking at the sensitive spot beneath her ear before murmuring, "You’re mine right now, bébé." His hips snapped forward, harder this time, sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine. "All mine."

She nearly choked on a whimper.

No. No, she wasn’t. This wasn’t that.

But her body betrayed her, tightening around him, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper.

Jules groaned, dark and pleased. "Merde, you feel so fucking good." His rhythm faltered for half a second before he picked it back up, pounding into her with renewed purpose. "Taking me so well, bébé. So fucking tight."

Mila clenched her jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction of—

Oh, fuck.

The orgasm hit her so hard she nearly blacked out.

It started deep in her core, winding tight before unraveling all at once, leaving her body trembling beneath him. Her breath hitched, back arching, legs locking around his waist as she came—actually came—on his dick.

No man had done that to her in years.

Would she ever tell him? Fuck no. The guy had enough ego as it was.

Jules felt it, though. Felt the way she pulsed around him, the way her walls fluttered and clenched so tight he nearly lost himself right then and there. His eyes darkened with something dangerously close to pride.

"Yeah…" he groaned, his pace stuttering. "That’s it, chérie—fuck—give it to me."

A few more erratic thrusts and then he was gone, buried deep inside her as he came with a low, guttural moan, his body tensing before melting against hers.

Their panting filled the space between them.

Jules was the first to move, tilting his head down, brushing his lips against hers—soft, slow, the exact opposite of the way he’d just ruined her.

Mila, still recovering, mustered the last bit of her energy to mutter, "Fuck you, Jules."

His answering grin was infuriating. "Promise?" He shifted, still inside her, his voice dipping into something downright sinful. "Give me five minutes, and I’m ready to go again."

Mila swatted at his arm, scowling.

Jules just laughed, and fuck, she hated the way it made her chest tighten.

Maybe there were some benefits to this fake relationship after all.

..........tbd

[peachycocaine]

Sugar coated

Pairings: cuck!lee myungi + thanos x fem!reader

I put the reqs aside for this one im sorryy :< ngl this popped up in my head then i saw a similiar fic so it gave me motivation to write this!! I'll be working on the reqs shortly though so stay tuned :3

Tw: threesome, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, language, nsfw. 18+ mdni (also reader got an abortion in this fic) not proof read don't come for me

You had walked into this hell hole due to some heavy debts you couldn't afford to pay, if your life wasn't shit before it's shit now. It kept getting worse, first you woke up in some fuckass green tracksuit with a number on it, in some random place with hundreds of other people, then you had to play kids games where they actually shot people dead and then, the cherry on top, your ex, the reason you were in here, was here too. He made you buy some shady ass coin, got you pregnant and in debt then left you to fend for yourself. You despised him, he was dead to you. Seeing his face made your blood boil, but at the same time you couldn't help but pray he'd make it out safe after every game. He didn't notice you at first but when he did, he started acting all concerned for you as if he didn't do this to you in the first place. You always gave him the cold shoulder every time he approached you. Things weren't good for him here either, he ran into some of his viewers and they claimed he got them in debt by promoting that coin. Well it was partially their fault too, for being gullible idiots and taking the huge gamble. They'd get into a quarrel every now and then, you'd just watch from a distance. After the game mingle, myung gi approached you saying he wanted to start over once you both got out of this place. At first you thought he'd finally got his shit together and was thinking logically until he brought up some other crypto scam. You should've known he didn't care about you, he only cared for the money. You pushed past him and stomped away and he just followed you, trying to reason with you. To your dismay, some people were observing the two of you closely. The purple haired man had his arm draped around min su's shoulder, blabbering out some bullshit before his lap dog interrupted.

"Dude, check that out." Nam gyu said with a grin on his face. "What're they on about?" Thanos watched closely. "They're definitely a thing, he got time to snag up some gig in this place while we're in debt because of him" nam gyu chuckled while elbowing thanos' shoulder. Thanos watched you walk away from myung gi, a plan brewing in his head. Later that day, when it was meal time, myun gi went to take a leak and thanos followed behind shortly. He walked up to myun gi with his arms crossed and a shit eating grin. "So. A little birdie told me that you copped yourself a bitch in here, a pretty one at that" his grin grew wider. Myung gi's expression faltered for a short second, "i dont know what youre talking about" he avoided his gaze and shoved past him. Thanos didn't let him get off the hook that easily and grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. "If she ain't your bitch then you wouldn't mind me making her mine would you?" Myung gi scoffed "leave her out of this, she doesn't have anything to do with this" myung gi responded defensively, narrowing his eyes. Thanos chuckled "nah man, whats yours is mine, especially after that stupid stunt you pulled on me. Until you pay me back my shit, you my slave" he tapped myung gi's head with two of his fingers. Myung gi's jaw tensed "and what the fuck does she have to do with this? Are you implying something?" He said through gritted teeth, thanos pushed his lower lip forward, thinking for a moment. "Maybe i am, how about this. You let me have a round with your girl and i'll leave you alone" a smug smile tugged at his lips. Myung gi clenched his fist and sighed, he was contemplating. After thinking it through he nodded. "We got a deal, come over to my bunk when it's lights out." He mumbled in defeat, thanos smirked "right decision man" he bumped myung gi's arm with his fist playfully before walking away.

You went over to myung gi's bunk after the lights went off, wondering why he had told you to meet him after lights off. You stood beside his bunk, gently tapping his shoulder. He got a bit startled before sitting up to face you. "Oh hey.." he mumbled. You raised your eyebrow at his strange behaviour "what is it? Why'd you call me over?" you were getting suspicious now, he was fiddling with his fingers and avoiding your gaze. He cleared his throat, finally speaking. "So.. i need you to listen to me, i know i should've asked you beforehand but.. i've made a deal with someone that involves you.." his voice trailed off as he pressed his lips together, trying to form his next sentence. "And..?" You looked at him expectantly. "And like, i need you to fuck a guy okay?!" He snapped before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. Your eyes widened, his words hit you in the face like a slap. "What?! Have you gone crazy? Do you think im some object you could sell and fucking buy like those stupid crypto coins?" You said in disbelief. You knew your ex was an asshole but you never expected him to go this far. "Look, please, i need you to do this. Think about me for a moment, he said he'd stop bothering me about the money if i let him have his way with you" myung gi pleaded and you just glared at him. "Well hell, think about yourself! I'm not trading my body for you!" you snapped before turning on your heel to leave, just as you turned around you were met with thanos' chest. You instantly looked up to see thanos grinning at you, the red light making his expression visible. "Woah woah woah senõrita, what's all this fuss about?" He chuckled as he took a step closer to you and you took a step back. "W-who are you..?" Your voice came out timid and small. Myung gi slapped a hand over his forehead "he's the guy i made the deal with." He muttered under his breath. Thanos tilted his head, his cocky grin grew wider. "That's right, so do your best, girl." You looked back at myung gi then him. You'd be lying if you said he wasn't jaw droppingly good looking. You swallowed the lump in your throat. "I don't even know who you are! Why would i sleep with y-" you were cut off as thanos covered your mouth with his hand. "Quiet, slut. Don'tcha see people are sleeping?" His face inched closer to yours. Myung gi watched all this unfold before him, his stomach churned as he watched thanos treat you so poorly. Thanos peeled his hand off your mouth, now muffling your protests with his own mouth. His lips came crashing onto yours, taking you in a deep, rough kiss. You wanted to push him off but something in you made you kiss him back.

Thanos dipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring it as his teeth clashed into yours. Myung gi held his head in his hands, looking down at the fabric of his blanket as muffled noises and kissing sounds resonated in his ears. Thanos pulled away, a string of saliva connecting your tongues. You panted and he smirked. "On the bed." He demanded and you did as you were told. You crawled onto myung gi's bed and myung gi instantly looked up at you and thanos. "What the fuck? Don't tell me you're gonna fuck on my bed!" He shot thanos a glare. Thanos simply chuckled "yes we are, and you're going to watch us." He smirked viciously as myung gi's eyes widened. Myung gi was sitting against his pillow and you sat on the other end of the bed, facing him. Thanos sat behind you, his hands exploring your body. You leaned into his touch, pressing your back against his chest as he groped your tits through the fabric of your tracksuit. Your breath became ragged as he gave your breast a particularly harsh squeeze. "How's it feel watching your girl getting felt up by 'nother man huh?" Thanos snickered at the way myung gi stared daggers at him.

Myung gi watched shamefully as thanos continued touching and groping you. The lewd noises and expressions you made had myung gi clenching his jaw, a glint of envy flashing through his eyes. Thanos kept direct eye contact with myung gi as he slipped his hand inside your pants, giving your clit deep strokes. Your body tensed and your back arched, you let out soft moans as thanos rubbed your pussy lazily. "I'm feelin' a bit nice today, how bout we share her, hm?" Thanos said as he slapped your pussy making you yelp. Myung gi muttered something under his breath before grabbing you by the throat and pressing his lips onto yours. Thanos cooed from behind continuing his movements on your clit. If someone beside you were to wake up, they'd see the sinful sight of you sandwiched between two guys. You moaned into myung gi's mouth as thanos fastened his pace on your sensitive bud. You could feel the tent in his pant grinding against your ass. Myung gi sucked on your tongue as he grabbed your hand and guided it towards his bulge. He rubbed his clothed erection against your soft palm as thanos grinded his against your ass. You felt so dirty for getting so fucking wet.

Myung gi pulled away, panting as he eagerly pulled his pants down. Thanos saw this and smirked, removing his hand from your pussy making you whine. Thanos followed after myung gi, pulling down his track pants just enough to let his cock free. "What you waiting for, girl? Strip for us" you obliged, taking off your shirt and pants. Thanos positioned you on all fours, already dragging his heavy head up and down your soaked slit. Myung gi tapped the tip of his cock on your lips, signaling you to open your mouth. You circled his tip with your tongue before licking a stripe through his slit, gaining a groan from him. "Bet her mouth feels good" thanos mumbled as he began pushing in slowly. His fat cock stretched out your walls making your toes curl. Before you could make a noise, myung gi shoved his dick into your mouth, the sudden intrusion making you gag around his cock. Thanos bottomed out in one swift thrust, if myung gi's cock wasn't shoved down your throat right now, you would've been screaming. Thanos didn't bother giving you time to adjust as his hips started moving. He grabbed your plushy hips to hold you in place and started ramming his dick into you without mercy. You choked and moaned around myung gi's cock as he fucked your face. His hands tangled in your hair as he thrusted into your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin. Getting used by two guys like this was something you should've been ashamed of but god did it turn you on. Feeling thanos' tip nudge your cervix repeatedly while your mouth was full of cock was an undeniably good experience. You grabbed myung gi's thighs to keep balance as he kept fucking your mouth. Grunts, groans, moans and squelching noises filled the air, you were concerned that someone would wake up to see you getting used like a cheap whore. "Fuck.. your mouth feels so fucking good, you're being so good for us" thanos groaned behind you as he felt your pussy clench around his cock due to myung gi's words. "You like getting used like a cum sock don't you, slut? You love getting stuffed with 2 cocks, shit, you're such a filthy girl" thanos kept snapping his hips against yours and myung gi kept using your warm mouth. Myung gi's thrusts stuttered as he was nearing his release, after a few sloppy thrusts his hot seed came pouring down your throat. He looked down at you, admiring how pretty you looked with your nose burried in his pubes, teary eyes, drool dripping down your chin and plump lips wrapped around his cock. "Swallow, baby." His expression softened slightly as he pulled out. You swallowed his cum before he swiped his thumb over your lips.

You yelped as thanos pulled you flush against his body by your hair, his pace getting more ruthless. He held up your limp body as he kept rutting into you, watching you whine and moan. "Dude shut her up, she'll wake people up with her dirty moans" he sounded out of breath, he felt just as good as you did. Myung gi kissed you in order to supress your moans, his hand crept up to your boob, squeezing it gently. He pulled away and planted a soft kiss to your forehead. "Keep quiet baby, you don't want people to know you're getting used like this do you?" He smiled at you ever so sweetly when you nodded and tried your best to keep quiet. Thanos' hips suddenly stuttered as he was nearing his release. His breathing got heavier as his thrusts got sloppier. "I'm gonna fill her slutty pussy up with my cum and you're gonna watch me do it, mg coin." Thanos smirked behind you before burying his cock deep inside you and releasing his warm thick seed. Your eyes widened and so did myung gi's, you couldn't afford to get pregnant and go through abortion, again. Thanos let go of you and you fell forward but myungi caught you. "The fuck? Did you just nut in her?" Myung gi scowled. "Yes, yes i did" thanos chuckled as he pulled his pants up. "You had a hefty amount to pay anyway"

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | carnage⌟

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The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall. 

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred—only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

A/N: ooof! 8.0k words, lordy... but i must admit, it's getting easier for me to write/picture fight scenes instead of just summarizing them in a sentence lololo;  anywho as you guys can tell by the spammed updates, i really love greek mythology lolo; who's your favorite god/goddess? mine would have to be Aphrodite; for her to be the most beautiful to ever exist, she really does get envious whenever someone even breathes the word 'pretty' in another person direction 😩---i stan a messy queen

[shanastoryteller]

happy halloween, shana :-) i love all your stuff and would like to prompt you for something based on house md if you've seen it

a continuation of 1

Cameron and Chase take the jobs he set up for them and Cuddy thinks she's pulling one over him instead of doing exactly what he wanted her to do and House is so smug about the whole thing that he has to avoid Wilson just to keep from being made from that alone.

"Is there are reason you're pretending like you don't know we still work there or do you just like fucking around with Cuddy and Wilson?" Cameron asks, glaring as he takes another of her fries but not smacking his hand away.

"It's both," Chase answers for him, the same smile that had been hovering around the corner of his lips ever since House told him about the position in surgery. It's annoying, but he figures it'll drop eventually. "Although what the reason is eludes me."

He shrugs, contemplating Chase's plate but he's not quite so desperate that he'll pilfer from a salad. "People keep underestimating me. You'd think they'd stop that eventually."

"You set them up," she says. "You do it on purpose."

"Lots of people do lots of things on purpose," he says. "It's not my fault that they keep falling for them."

She's silent as he takes two more fries, then she says, "You know, having you actually explain your motives doesn't make them make any more sense than before."

"Think about how Wilson feels," he says.

They both make faces at that and he takes a long sip from his beer just to hide his grin.

[childrenofcain-if]

Imagine C catching Mc and D making out on the couch of their dorm's common room 👀 I'm positively certain they'd ban D from ever inviting Mc ever again

the evening started simply enough. you and D were lounging on the couch in the common room, tucked away in a quiet corner. it was late, and C had gone out to the library, leaving the space to the two of you.

D was sprawled across the couch, somehow managing to look comfortable and slightly smug, like they were already reading the thoughts drifting around in your head. you’d been talking about nothing, really—college, summer break plans, dumb stuff—but with D, even the simplest things could become something flirtratious. they had this way of smiling with a slight quirk at the corner of their mouth, or of letting their fingers trace idle patterns on your arm that made your heart do a little flip.

it didn’t take long before D closed the distance between you, inch by inch, their fingers finding your hand, then your shoulder, moving slowly as if testing the waters. their gray gaze was both daring and playful, a glint in their eye that practically dared you to look away. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. instead, you felt your cheeks flush as they leaned in, catching your lips in a soft, warm kiss that seemed to ignite everything inside you.

the kiss deepened, growing from soft to heated, and soon D was leaning more into you, their hands roaming your back, your waist, drawing you closer, and you barely registered how your jacket had slipped off, how D’s t-shirt was now on the floor, until you were both half-leaning, half-sprawled against each other. the only sounds were your shared breaths and the soft rustling of fabric as the world faded, leaving just the warmth of their touch and the spark that crackled between you.

suddenly, the door to the common room swung open with an abrupt, almost dramatic force, and there was C, standing in the doorway. they blinked, eyes widening as they took in the scene. C went rigid, looking as though they’d stumbled upon you two smoking weed. their mouth opened, then closed, and for a split second, they looked like they might just turn on their heel and walk out.

“oh my fucking god,” C stammered, their cheeks flushing an almost comedic shade of red. “what the hell are you two doing?”

you and D snapped apart, sitting up in a rush, and it took all your willpower not to laugh, though your face was burning with embarrassment.

“C!” you managed to squeak, desperately adjusting your shirt. “it’s, um, not what it looks like?”

“really?” C replied, raising an eyebrow as they folded their arms, a familiar, indignant edge in their tone. “because it sure looks like this was headed somewhere.”

D, ever the unbothered one, gave a casual shrug, smirking just a bit as they ran a hand through their messy hair. “don’t get all dramatic, C. we were just hanging out.”

“hanging out?” C shot back, looking equal parts horrified and disbelieving. “is that what we’re calling the fact that you two were practically dry humping each other while being half-naked?”

D chuckled, clearly enjoying C’s dismay, leaning back into the couch with a look that said they weren’t about to apologize. “well, it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. you’re the one who barged in.”

“this is my suite too, you know,” C muttered, rubbing their temples as if they were trying to will themselves to calm down. “plus, this is the common room, not your personal love nest.”

“it’s late,” D pointed out, undeterred. “who was going to walk in here at this hour?”

“me,” C replied, still glaring. “i was going to walk in. unless their—” they pointed at you, “—tongue down your throat made you get amnesia or something.”

you tried to hold back a laugh, mumbling, “C, it’s not like we planned for this to happen when you walked in…”

C threw their hands up, clearly done. “obviously! but do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to erase this…this image from my mind?”

D leaned forward, resting their chin on their hand with a nonchalant grin. “think of it as expanding your puritan horizons.”

C gave them a look that could kill. “you have two seconds to get off that goddamn couch before i officially ban you from bringing anyone into this room ever again.”

“alright, alright, we’re up.” D held up their hands in mock surrender, but there was a glimmer of amusement in their eyes as they glanced at you. “guess we’ve officially been cockblocked.”

“i didn’t expect anything else, honestly,” you replied, throwing D a wry smile.

C shook their head, clearly still flustered. “i swear, you two, if you’re going to do this sort of thing, just do it in D’s room.”

D’s grin widened as they draped an arm over your shoulder, still shirtless, only making C roll their eyes at their unabashed nature. “oh, don’t worry. we’ll make sure of not being in your line of sight the next time.”

C looked like they were about to explode, taking a deep, steadying breath as they pointed toward the door. “out. both of you. now. get some cold air or get each other off somewhere else before i lose what little patience i have left.”

with an exaggerated sigh, D quickly got dressed and stood up, giving you a wink as they reached for your hand. “guess our night’s over.”

as the two of you made your way to the door, C muttered something under their breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you were pretty sure you heard the words “unbelievable” and “absolutely shameless.” just as you reached the door, C called out, one last note of warning in their voice.

“and don’t even think about bringing that…” C gestured vaguely, as if searching for a word, “energy back here again when you come back, D. or so help me…”

D threw a grin over their shoulder, giving C a cheerful thumbs-up. “got it, boss. we’ll keep our ‘energy’ under control next time.”

“good night,” C snapped, practically pushing you both out the door, the exasperation plain in every line of their face.

as soon as the door shut behind you, you burst into laughter, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. D joined in, their laughter warm and genuine, a little spark of mischief dancing in their eyes. they gave your hand a squeeze, leaning in close with a smirk that told you they were ready to continue where you left off.

“next time,” they murmured, voice low and soft, “we’ll make sure to choose a place C’s snobby ass can’t interrupt us.”

you couldn’t help but smile, feeling the last of your embarrassment fade as you walked together down the hall, the warmth of D’s hand in yours, the quiet thrill of the evening lingering long after the laughter had faded.

[exhaslo]

Over-Time Ch19 (END)

(CEO!Miguel x Shy/Clumsy!Reader)

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4,Ch5, Ch6, Ch7, Ch8, Ch9, Ch10, Ch11, Ch12, Ch13, Ch14, Ch15, Ch16, Ch17, Ch18

Warning: MINORS DNI, SMUT, sexual thoughts, slow-burn, mentions of sex, bullying, cussing, fluff, touch starved

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

"Due to the evidence provided, we can confirm that this contract is null and void. My client would also like to inform Miss Dana that the intended nature of this action will not be easily dismissed. He wishes to press charges for emotional distress, breaking and entering and several other charges that were committed during the time of this ongoing investigation."

Miguel had a smug grin on his face as he watched Dana's facial expressions. His lawyer was ripping into her and her lawyer. Finally, the payback that he had been waiting for.

"And if my client doesn't accept the terms?" Dana's lawyer dared ask. Miguel just resisted a chuckle,

"That would be quite a shame. I would imagine how the news would eat this up."

"They'd go after you and that little mouse too, hun." Dana snarled angrily. Miguel just smiled,

"But what would look worse? The CEO who just wanted to enjoy his time with his future wife, or the snake who tried to steal everything from him by fraud?"

Dana's lip scrunched up as she showed visible anger. Miguel just leaned back, enjoying the rest of the conversation between the two lawyers.

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

Typing away on your tablet, you were planning Miguel's schedule for the following month. Holidays were coming up and that meant a lot of vacation time, which was free time for you as well. You just had to think about what you were going to do.

"Hm, I wonder how long Miguel's meeting will be?" You muttered to yourself.

"Miss me already?" Miguel whispered against your ear as his arms snaked around your wasit.

"Ah! M-Miguel!" You squeaked, dropping your tablet. "H-How did the meeting go?"

"Perfect thanks to you,"

Your lips twitched into a smile as Miguel kept complimenting your clumsiness. You wrapped your arms around his neck as Miguel started to kiss you. His hands groping your ass as Miguel lifted you onto your desk.

"Miguel, what if someone-"

"You've been working for me how long? Who's going to come in here?" Miguel asked with a low chuckle as he started to undo your pants, "Gotta wear more skirts, (Y/N). You tease me like this."

"Hehe, because we shouldn't be doing this at wo-mhm~!" You moaned softly as Miguel's hands started to rub against your panties.

"I won't stop until I've fucked you in every corner of this building," Miguel nibbled against your ear as you squirmed against his hand.

"Hah~ Miguel, s-so mean!"

"GUESS WHO'S BACK-"

Both you and Miguel froze as the door was kicked opened by none other than Lyla. Immediately you hid behind Miguel as he just stood still in place. The silence growing louder by the second.

"I need another month."

"Granted."

Just like that, Lyla left.

Once the awkward silence died down, you couldn't help but laugh. Miguel followed suit, holding your body as the two of you shared a moment of humor.

"See? That's why we wait until we're alone at home," You snickered. Miguel raised a brow before his fingers started to move again,

"Oh? Calling my place home already?"

"Ah-" Your cheeks started to burn as you glanced away from Miguel.

"So adorable. I want it to be your home too. Our h-"

"OKAY! I HAVE TO ASK!" Lyla came bursting in once more, causing Miguel to remove his hands with a heavy sigh, "How long until you caved?!"

"Lyla, go back to your vacation." Miguel grumbled. Meanwhile, you fixed yourself behind him,

"H-Hello, Lyla."

"Hi, (Y/N). C'mon, a week? A month?"

"Why don't I fill you in after your vacation?" Miguel stressed once more, "We're celebrating here." Lyla raised a brow,

"Celebrating?"

"Yep! Miguel is free from Dana," You chirped, standing behind Miguel with a bright smile. Miguel wrapped his arm around your waist,

"(Y/N) here helped make it happen."

"Forreal?!" Lyla gasped loudly, "How?!"

"Ah-"

You looked towards the ground, avoiding eye contact as you recalled the recording. Do you say that you were recording the conversation? If so, then that would admit to Lyla that you and Miguel were with each other for a good while.

"Jesus, cut the silence will ya? I get it, you fucked, tell me the details about that bitch finally getting what she deserved!" Lyla grinned as she went to sit on the couch, "Wait...Is this couch safe?"

"No." Miguel said quickly with a smirk.

"Ugh, is any part of this office safe?" Lyla asked with a huff. Miguel pointed to a corner, "(Y/N), you need to control his dick. This whole building will be tainted."

"That was his plan," You whispered.

Once Lyla took her tiny seat, Miguel explained to her the details of what happened. Not everything, because Lyla didn't need nor want to know about how lovely dove the two of you were in your relationship.

Once Miguel finished, Lyla was all giddy in her seat. She stood with a small jump and grabbed her bags again,

"Finally! Now I won't have to worry about sinking my new nails into that bitch's tough skin. Anyway, thanks for another month vacation~ When I come back I expect my office to be so clean it sparkles!"

"We didn't touch your office," Miguel grumbled. Lyla gave him a look,

"I can't trust you."

"W-We really didn't! Promise!" You blurted out, embarrassed by the thought.

"Okay! Bye!"

Once Lyla left, Miguel let out a heavy sigh. He picked you up and plumped himself down on the couch. You giggled and pecked his lips, grabbing Miguel's attention.

"So, why Lyla comes back next month...what happens to me?" You asked. Miguel raised a brow as he pinned you against the couch,

"I can give you a few choices," He hummed, capturing your lips in a kiss, "I have one in mind."

"I can work in bookkeeping~" You chirped. Miguel undid your pants, grumbling softly,

"In your office then,"

"Hehe, not what you had in mind?"

"No, but we can make it work if that's what you want," Miguel hummed.

With a smile, you wrapped your arms around Miguel and pulled him in for a kiss. To think, the man you first bumped into during your interview would be the man of your dreams. Someone who treated you right and with care.

Ding

"Mhm, Mig..." You mumbled between kisses, "That's....your next appointment."

"Shit," Miguel cussed as he looked at you with pleading eyes, "Just a quickie then. I need to have a taste of you."

"Hehe, okay."

Miguel was late to that appointment.

--------

A few months later

"Hey, (Y/N)! How's the budget coming for the Spring Banquet?" Lyla asked as she entered your office.

"Ah! Going w-well. We should be able to get that singer we were talking about~"

"Forreal?!" Lyla gasped and jumped for joy, "Miguel better be careful before I snatch you up!"

"Too late," You laughed, showing your ring. Lyla gasped, holding your hand before dragging you into Miguel's office,

"YOU DIDN'T THINK TO INFORM ME?!"

"Of?" Miguel raised a brow and saw Lyla pointing towards your ring, "Ah, I knew you would get too involved. Don't worry, I already included you in wedding preparations."

"Damn straight you did!" Lyla grinned from ear to ear, "So when the lil one coming?"

Flinching at her words, you covered your face in embarrassment before running towards Miguel. Your fiancé could only chuckle as he sat you on his lap,

"Already on the way,"

"Hehe, I'll get the names started."

"No! Just-" Miguel sighed heavily, "Why don't you see the email I sent you instead?"

Lyla clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she left. Miguel wanted to sigh, but alas, he found his assistant quite humorous at times.

"I got us an appointment with the doctor for next week." Miguel hummed as he kissed your head, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, Miguel. It's just morning sickness, it's normal." You nuzzled against Miguel, "Even better with all the snacks you give me."

"Have to make sure that you are healthy, mi amor (my love)." Miguel cupped your cheek, kissing your tenderly, "I love you."

Melting into the kiss, you closed your eyes. Miguel was always so kind and caring to you. He was going to be your husband. The CEO of a powerful company, marrying a clumsy goofball like you. It felt like a fairy tale.

"I love you too,"

A fairy tale that you were more than happy to be in.

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Hope you enjoyed!!! Might be a minute until I post the next story!!! Might start my Grimmjow obsession again muahahahaha

Here's a sneak peak of my next Miguel story: Level Up

Puzzle Pieces (Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Fem!Reader)

Corruption (Villain!Miguel x F!Hero!Reader)

Masterlist

@timidquindim @decentsoupperson @ivkygirly @reader-1290 @daddyfroglegs @eepybunny0805 @ddreabea @iamperson12280 @migueloharasoulmate @tojishugetiddies @koko-1025 @hyeinwluv85s @daisy-artfield @migueloharastruelove @a-lil-whore @hcqwxrtss123 @the-pan-liquid @tojisfav @pochapo @bubblegumfanfictions @brighterthanlonelythoughts @ghstypaint @mangoslushcrush @synamonthy @scaleniusrm @moonspectorx @dorck26 @a060403 @lunablackcosplay @soraya-daydreams @lovefanfic1 @mymrsweirdnessshipperstuff-blog @pretty-pink-princesss @corpsebridenightamare @razertail18 @gachagator @droolingmuttt @miguelsfavwife @ryzguy06 @raideaters-blog @manishkaworld @keidilla @byjessicalotufo @pigeonmama @k3ythesapphic @acesangels @stealingyourturts @angel-xx-1 @amberbalcom14 @ofmenanduhhhwellmen @oscarissac2099 @keepghostly @zeyzeys-stuff @k3ythesapphic @nightingale1011 @uncle-eggy @safixiovi @flaps200 @dahehow @weirdothatwritess @gerblinradio @electronicchaoschaos @mafiaanomaly @keyisloved @unwrittenletter @reader4life @leenasgirl200 @oscarissac2099 @mari0-o @cinnamoro1l @leryg0 @hizzielover @resident-clown @girl-of-multi-fandoms @sana-408-blog

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Casey Novak x autistic fem!reader Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Graphic sex, oral, fingering, language, homophobia, homophobic slurs. Word count: 2,443 "Onions and relish!?" you observed, watching Casey scoop condiments onto a ballpark hot dog. Your face screwed up. "Gross."

"I've got highbrow taste," Casey retorted, glancing at yours. "And you shouldn't talk. Ketchup and mustard? Are you five?"

"It's a classic," you argued, both pushing your way through the crowded line of Yankees fans waiting for their own ballpark snacks.

You returned to your seats, up in the nosebleeds along with a scattering of other die-hard baseball fans, the humming of a summertime crowd and the buzzing of the lights wrapping around you like a blanket. You heard the crack of a bat, and both you and Casey froze, watching the field.

"Yes!" you yelled, pumping your fist in the air as your team–the Cardinals–drove in another run. "Fuckin' Redbirds!"

Normally, you'd be a lot more self-conscious about drawing attention to yourself in a crowd like this–almost exclusively Yankees fans, including your girlfriend. When the Yankees weren't playing the Cardinals, you wore some of Casey's Yankees gear and cheered them on with her. But the Cardinals? They'd been your family's team for generations. You'd grown up on Pujols and Molina and Wainwright, and you were nothing if not loyal. But in this crowd, you stood out amongst the black-and-white like a red thumb. Casey had looked embarrassed, and you'd worried for a moment that she really was bothered by your vocal support of the away team.

"Am I embarrassing you?" you'd asked.

"Yes."

"In a bad way?"

Casey looked at you and smiled at your serious expression. "No, honey. Like, embarrassing but it's endearing. Does that make sense?"

You thought about it for a moment. "I think so. You would tell me if I was bad embarrassing?"

"I would," she confirmed, patting your hand.

It was one of your favorite things about Casey that she was so patient when you misread or didn't understand social cues. She never made fun of you. She always explained, and she always reassured you when you were afraid you'd done something wrong.

But this time it was definitely Casey who had done something wrong. You watched her shove a bite of hot dog into her mouth, beautifully messy, as always when she wasn't at work.

"Your whole mouth is gonna taste like pickles for the rest of the night," you muttered, taking a bite of your own hot dog.

She looked at you, smirking. "And why are you so concerned about my mouth, huh?"

You blushed. "No reason..."

"Mmhm." She took another bite, smug, then grasped your chin, pulling you to her for a kiss. Her lips were salty with sweat, and she smelled like the ballpark dust and the leather of her glove. She was intoxicating, but then you always felt lightheaded when Casey kissed you. Something about the stadium lights and the summer heat just made you that much more dazed.

"That's fuckin' hot," you heard someone say behind you. You shrank and glanced back, Casey's hand squeezing yours protectively. Two men, unshaven, with beers to go with their beer bellies, leered at you from the row behind.

"Nobody asked you, asshole," Casey shot back, flipping him off. You avoided eye contact with them, trying to make yourself smaller. Having grown up in the south, you'd been in enough unsafe situations because of your sexuality that your go-to defense was to ignore and hide. Casey's was not. She was tall and strong, and she'd grown up with absolute confidence in who and what she was.

Your nostrils flared in disgust as one of the men licked his lips, raking his eyes up and down Casey's body.

"What's a hot piece like you doing with a dyke? You oughta let a real man take you for a spin."

Casey stood and pushed him–hard. The man reeled, sloshing his beer all over his front. "You better shut your fucking mouth or I'll shut it for you," she growled.

The man's arm shot out, grabbing Casey by the back of her head. He dug his fingers into her hair to pull her closer. "That's okay, honey," he said. "I like 'em feisty."

Any fear you had dissipated into white hot anger as you watched, as if in slow motion. You, however, were not stuck in slow motion. Without thinking, you lunged forward, grabbed the man's wrist, and wrenched it back until he squealed. You shoved Casey behind you.

"Get your fucking hands off her!" you spat, puffing yourself up as you stood between him and your girlfriend. Which, considering your diminutive height, probably didn't do a whole lot to deter him.

Your teeth clenched and your whole body buzzed with rage. It took a lot to make you angry, but you were spitting angry now. All you knew was that no one–no one–was going touch Casey on your watch.

The man laughed, knocking your cap off your head with a swipe of his finger. "And what are you gonna do about it, Tiny Tim? Or should I say Tiny Tina?"

Without warning and, for once, without considering the consequences, you slammed your first into his groin as hard as you could which, considering you played softball, was pretty damn hard. It was a perk of your height that you were at the optimal angle to punch someone in the dick.

The man doubled over, coughing, and spilled the rest of his beer. "Fuckin' dykes," he muttered. He motioned to his friend, cupping his balls, and they sidled off. Probably looking for another section to harass women in.

You let out a shaky breath and turned to face Casey, your heart beating rapidly as the adrenaline faded and the nerves returned.

"Are you okay?" you asked, frantically looking her over, placing a gentle hand at the back of her head where the man had grabbed her.

You hardly noticed Casey watching you, biting her lip. You were too concerned with making sure she was safe and unharmed. As you rambled, checking her hands and neck and hair and face for any signs of hurt, Casey stared.

Finally, she interrupted you. "Y/N."

You stopped and made yourself meet her eyes.

"I think we should go." She looked at you pointedly.

You face fell. "Oh, love. I'm so sorry. We can go home if it'll make you feel better."

"No, that's not why."

A look of confusion crossed your face.

"We should go home because we have things to do."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "I don't understand what you're saying, Casey."

She stepped closer, placing your hat back on your head and her arms on your shoulders. Her expression was self-satisfied as she leaned in, so close you could feel her breath, and whispered into your ear.

"Y/N," she breathed. "I need to do things. To you. Now."

"Oh," you said, the realization hitting you. "Oh my god. Okay."

You started gathering your things, then stopped and glanced at her. "From this? Really?"

"Y/N," she said, cheeks already flushed. "Don't make me wait. I'm gonna have a hard enough time making it home."

You tried to hide the mixture of shock and excitement on your face as you left the stadium, walking by the now abandoned concession stands and into the quiet parking lot.

"What's the alternative?" you asked her as you climbed into the driver's seat.

"What?"

"To making it home. You said you were gonna have a hard time making it home. But, like, where else would we–"

You were cut off by Casey's lips on yours, her breath hot and desperate as she grabbed your collar. She slid her tongue into your mouth, her teeth clacking against yours as she surged toward you, pushing for more.

When you separated, you both breathed heavily. Casey's face was flushed with lust. "If it were up to me," she said, leaning back in the seat. "I would've fucked you in the ballpark bathroom. I'd take you right here in the car. But I know that's not your style, so for the love of god..." Her eyes bored into you. "Drive."

Usually a slow driver, you made it back to Casey's apartment in record time. And, true to her word, Casey did have a hard time making it to the apartment, stopping at every chance she got–stoplights, outside the car door, in the elevator, the hallway–to kiss your neck, your mouth, undoing buttons of your Cardinals jersey as you went. Her hands slipped inside your shirt whenever you stopped for so much as a second.

When she finally got you into her bedroom, she was ravenous, tugging your clothes off and tossing them to the side with a singular focus. Her eyes were glazed and her face red as she struggled with your bra clasps.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, her fingers fumbling.

"Jesus, Casey," you said, reaching back to do them for her. "Calm down."

She groaned, letting her eyes rove over your now nude body, pushing you gently but forcefully on your back. She pecked you on the lips, then took your bottom lip between her teeth. You gasped, filled with both pain and pleasure. When she let you go, she was grinning.

"I'm gonna make you feel so..." She kissed your neck. "Fucking." Your collarbone. "Good." She lowered herself over you and pressed her mouth into yours, breathing you in, letting her tongue roam freely.

You moaned, arching your back. "Don't hold back on me now," she growled, leaving bite marks down your neck and across your chest. Usually quiet, you gave yourself permission to make some noise. After all, it drove Casey crazy.

"Fuck, Casey," you whined as she swirled her tongue across your nipples, first one and then the other, her hands pressing just above your hips. You writhed into her, squirming for more, your center already sopping wet.

"Tell me what you want," Casey said, trailing her tongue from your chest down to your stomach.

You struggled against her hands, pressing you into the bed. "Come on," you complained, nearly begging.

"Tell me," Casey said again, more forcefully, her fingers grazing over your clit.

You saw stars. "Fuck me."

Casey chuckled, her low voice vibrating against your already swollen clit. "That's my girl."

You gasped as she sucked your clit between her lips, swishing her tongue back and forth, back and forth. Her arms pinned your thighs in place, holding your writhing body tight. You heaved and moaned as you pushed Casey's head into your center. Her hair was soft and damp with sweat under your fingers, and you felt desperate for her as you chased your high.

She waited until you were nearly bursting, your breath hitching and your back arched against her, then pulled quickly away, wiping her mouth.

You gasped frantically. "What the fuck, Casey!?"

"Shh," she commanded, crawling back up your body and grabbing your chin. She straddled your hips, her own soaked center resting over yours.

"Casey, please," you begged, your eyes fluttering shut, the need of her flooding you.

"Don't close your eyes, honey. Look at me."

You huffed but opened your eyes, staring defiantly into hers, green and hungry and lustful.

She held your face still with one hand, then crept back down your body with the other. You let out a moan, squirming.

"Now arch your back for me," she said, the heel of her palm pressing hard into your clit.

Your body nearly exploded with the sensation, and you thrust into her with everything you had. You grabbed at Casey, pulling her into you, elated to know that she was using you, too, unable to put off her own pleasure any longer.

Your breath came faster and faster, your body jerking into Casey as Casey thrust toward you. You watched each other, both on the brink of losing control. Casey moaned, shutting her eyes briefly before squeezing your chin and staring at you.

"Now," she said.

And that one word was all it took. Your body shook against Casey's, your hips riding into her again and again, desperate for the friction as you moaned. She did the same, her nails digging into the skin at the top of your throat as she rode out her own orgasm. It felt like the two of you were hurtling across space, starbursts and supernovas and whole galaxies flashing inside you as you held onto one another. You quivered against her as the fireworks dissipated, spent and sweaty and heaving.

Casey grinned and planted kisses across your collarbone, counting. "One. Two. Three..."

You laughed and groaned. "Casey," you protested.

She'd discovered early on that, if she timed it right, she could make you come indefinitely. The only thing that stopped her was you getting overstimulated.

"Twenty-two," she finished and, once again, pressed the heel of her hand into your clit, harder and harder until she had you ready again, your hands grasping the bedsheets.

Your orgasm washed over you again, like a wave this time, pouring over you from head to toe.

Casey started in again, this time with her lips at the back of your knees. "One. Two..."

By the fifth round, you were nearly delirious, and Casey was salivating.

"Casey," you groaned, your body still pressing into her hand, almost against your will. "It's too much."

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, kissing you roughly. "Give me one more."

She continued grinding her hand into you, meshing her lips with yours, her tongue roving. Your breath caught and you moaned into her mouth, your orgasm taking you over one final, quaking time.

Casey cradled your head in the crook of her arm as you continued to shake, finally letting you relax.

"Thank you," she whispered, peppering your face with kisses.

You scrunched your nose. "For what? Letting you beat your record?"

"Well, that, too." She chuckled, deep and throaty, then brushed your sweaty bangs out of your face. "For protecting me. From that asshole."

You turned to her and tucked her hair behind her ear, running your thumb across her eyebrow.

"I would die before I let someone hurt you." Your voice was so quiet that, had anyone else been in the room, even they wouldn't have been able to hear. But you did. And Casey did.

She looked at you for a moment, then leaned down and kissed your forehead, hard and purposeful.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too."

You lost yourself in her arms for a bit as she ran a hand absentmindedly through your hair.

"We should go to more baseball games," Casey mused after a while.

You laughed. "Only if there's no relish involved."

"Deal."

[majinbangus]

I saw this on ig and all I can think about is how undeniably this is soap

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C_vTWFlMxuI/?igsh=MW84M2Z2NmJweWhrNA==

I beg you to write smth based on this video 🙏

loosely based on the video, but no horsies, sorry

It's cute that you think you're slick, but he's a sniper for a reason.

They're at a park, attending a ceremony for something, it's not really important, but Soap and Gaz's presence was 'required' because the host needed the two sergeants- among a few others- there. Lucky Ghost and Price got out of it under the excuse that they had other responsibilities they needed to attend to because of their higher ranks. Soap and Gaz knows that's bullshit. The two pulled strings so that they wouldn't have to be here.

Bastards.

"Fucking hell," Gaz groans, pulling at the collar of his dress uniform. "How long do we have to be here again?"

"Another hour." Soap rolls his eyes. "At least the dobber finally stopped talkin'."

"Think the captain would be upset if we came back early?" Gaz asks rhetorically. They both know they'd get in trouble if they skipped, even though it's just the reception now. He scans the crowd, lips curving up at the demographic. "Lots of civvies here."

A lot of women, is what he's really pointing out.

Soap smirks. "Oh, aye? Noticed that too, did you?"

"Hard not to." Gaz shares a similarly smug look. His eyes sweep over to the side of Soap. "Looks like you have an admirer."

He knows. Soap clocked you the instant you entered his peripheral vision. "Bonnie lass that's been trying to get a picture of me? Using her friend to get the shot?"

Gaz chuckles, confirming, "That's the one."

He grins. "Watch this."

Gaz hangs back as he quietly strolls up behind you, keeping his gait casual. Your friend suspects nothing, and you're still adorably ignorant. It's only when he's right behind you, does he look at the phone, winking, and give you a light tap to your mid back. The cutest little squeal slips out of you, nearly jumping in the air.

"What-?" You turn around and freeze when you see that it's him. A sheepish laugh escapes you. "Oh. Hi... Officer?"

"Sergeant John MacTavish." Soap offers a hand, a lopsided smile on his face. "You know, if you wanted a picture, you could have asked."

You take his hand with an embarrassed smile.

"Sorry, Sergeant, I uh... thought you were cute..?" As soon as the sentence leaves you, your hand tenses in his, and you do your best to avoid looking at him, finding the sky suddenly very interesting. Behind you, your friend facepalms. "I, I mean-"

"You like a man in uniform is what you're sayin'?" Soap gently tugs you a little closer, holding in a chuckle when you gasp, placing a palm on his chest.

You gulp, but don't remove your hand from his chest. "Uh... yes?"

"Are you askin' me or tellin' me?" Soap puts on his sergeant voice, the one that gets subordinates sweating.

It works with you, too, though he thinks you're sweating in a different way. "T-telling." You bite your lip and tack on, "Sergeant."

He likes how it sounds coming from you.

"Atta girl," Soap praises, relishing your shy squeak, and maneuvers you so you're facing your friend again. He throws an arm around your shoulder, tucking you close to his side. "Now how 'bout that picture?"

And if he and Gaz happen to leave early on a double date with you and your friend, well, it would be worth the trouble they get in with Price.

[lsunstreakerl]

Now I know you've mentioned fmf!rico not wanting to kiss max while he has blood on his face.. But what about max/rico vampire blood play for the kink prompt ? 🫣

see when I wrote this I thought it was short and then boom. 1.7k. idk where it all came from. anyways! rico POV, explicit.

pairings: rico verhoeven/max verstappen

relevant heads up: vampires, bloodplay, tiniest allusions to cumplay and also a singular daddy in passing. not even the kink, max is actually making fun of it.

Max is sprawled on the lounge in the living room, playing FIFA. Rico drops his keys near the door, briefly looking out the window. Their penthouse has been home for a few years now, and he enjoys watching the city sparkle below them, neon lights flickering on as the sun sets and the nightlife starts.

He makes his way into the living room, resting his hand in Max's hair. His mate twists up to look at him, perfectly innocent in appearance— he's wearing one of Rico's sweatshirts and a tiny pair of shorts, long legs on display, and Rico can see the gold chain of his necklace dipping low across his collarbones.

His lips are ruby red, and there's a flush to his cheeks, lashes fluttering sweetly up at Rico as he smiles.

"You took too long."

Rico rolls his eyes fondly, tipping Max's head up as he kisses him, feels the warmth of him against his mouth, the beat of fresh life running through his veins. Max goes easy— he always does when he's well fed, and Rico wouldn't want him any other way.

They'd had enough hardship when they were freshly turned, struggling to survive. He's much happier like this, coming home to his beautiful mate freshly sated, copper still sweet in his lips.

He licks into Max's mouth, tongue tracing the outline of his sharp fangs. It's easy enough to get a hand down and cup at Max through the shorts, and the gasp he gets against his mouth is well worth it.

He grins, thumbing over the head of his cock, precum already soaking through the thin material of Max's shorts.

Rico leans back slightly, smug as Max tries to follow him, watching his mate pout.

"You want to get to the bedroom? Or can I feed right here?"

Max tips his head back as he looks up at Rico, frowning.

"Here. You were too busy to feed with me earlier, so no sex for you."

Rico slowly drops to his knees next to the couch, carefully positioned between Max's legs. His grip is firm on his thighs when he tugs him closer, smirking up at him.

"You'll be begging for it here in a minute."

Max scowls at him, adorably annoyed— even if it's justified. Rico had missed their normal feeding, and Max takes it just as personally now as he did when they'd first gotten together.

"I won't even have to pause my FIFA match."

Rico doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. Max is bluffing, bitchy as he is, and Rico knows his mate both inside and out, and he knows the signs.

Max is still horny, because he doesn't like getting off without Rico anymore, even when he's riding the high of a feed.

Max also gets gorgeously desperate whenever Rico gets his mouth on him.

He pulls off Max's shorts, rolling his eyes at his attempt to pretend he's unaffected. His video game is still playing on the screen, but Rico leans forward, lightly stroking at his cock.

Max shivers, a small blurt of precum leaving the tip, and Rico knows he has him. His mate has a cute handful in comparison to his own— enough for Rico to easily fit in his mouth in one go.

His hips buck up as Rico takes him to the back of his throat, ankles flying to lock together behind his neck, and Rico grins, hearing the TV go suspiciously silent behind him.

A hand digs into his hair a moment later, and Max yanks him further onto his dick, legs flexing.

"Oh— do that again baby, c'mon—"

Rico moans around his cock, teeth scraping lightly as he draws back, lips brushing against the head of it as he looks up through his lashes. Max has his free hand shoved under the sweatshirt, playing with his nipples as his fingers curl tighter into his hair, tugging at his scalp.

He smirks.

"What, you don't want to call me anything else?"

Max scowls at him, pout prominent.

"I am not fucking calling you daddy, now get back on my—"

Rico cuts him off with a quick pinch to his thigh. He squirms under his hands and mouth, flush traveling across his body. He's fever hot, a result of overfeeding so that Rico can feed from him, but first...

There's a few advantages to having too much blood in the system.

Rico swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, taking it all the way to the base as he sucks. Max's moaning gets louder, fingers yanking uselessly at his hair, hips rocking into his mouth.

"Fuck— please, please, I'm so close—"

He brings his head back up and off, eyes locked with Max's as he lets a string of saliva drip onto the tip of his cock. His mate is bright pink, lips twisted into a pout as he tugs his hair again, legs pulling him closer.

"Rico, I'm so—"

"Pretty? Yes, I know."

There's a light smack to the side of his head, but he finds it difficult to take Max's glare seriously.

"Tell me how bad you want it, darling."

Max's pout deepens, legs frustratedly squeezing at Rico's head.

"I always want it, you feel so good when you're fucking me, and I'm so full baby, I drank so much of that blood just for you, it hurts—"

His eyes are wet with tears, although Rico knows better than to immediately assume they're genuine. He gets a weird fuzzy feeling at the edge of his senses, dulling his thoughts briefly. He just wants to listen to Max, to do what the beautiful man in front of him wants.

"I just want your dick in me, please—"

He laughs, shaking off the feeling as his hand moves to circle the base of Max's cock, pressing his thumb lightly into the head of it as Max's head drops back, long lines of his throat on display.

"The seduction trick is cute. I should edge you for that."

Max's lip curls, fangs on display as he snarls.

"Don't even think about it, put your fucking mouth back on me."

Rico dutifully takes him down to the base, because he loves his bratty mate, especially when he gets to tease him. Max gets riled up when he's overfed, a callback to the hot temper he'd had as a human.

It only takes a few more twists of his tongue before there's bitter cum in his mouth. He doesn't swallow, instead keeps it there as Max shivers against him, fingers finally relaxing in his hair.

It's easy enough to pull Max further down onto the couch, smirking at the startled yelp he gets as he climbs up, straddling his waist and prying his jaw open.

Max's eyes blow wide as he realizes, hips jerking pathetically when Rico kisses him, forcing the mess into his mouth.

He's whining underneath him, fingers clawing at Rico's sides as he breaks the kiss, scraping his fangs along the bottom of Max's plush bottom lip. The skin breaks easily, and he laps his tongue over the split, absentmindedly grinding his hips down.

Max makes a strangled noise, eyes dark when Rico looks at him.

"Just for you."

There's something tender in his voice, a peek at the vulnerability Rico doesn't usually see from him. An overfed vampire is a vulnerable one— Max is far more human like this than he is normally, and could be viewed as easy prey by any others.

That he feels safe enough if their home to allow it is a testament to the security of their space. That he does it at all is a testament to his love for Rico.

"Thank you darling."

He presses his mouth to the side of Max's throat, fangs teasing at the skin. His mate presses up against him, fingers snaking under his shirt to get a grip at his sides.

Rico slides one hand under Max's sweatshirt, tweaking a nipple as the other cups the back of his head, nails scratching lightly into the short hair.

Max shivers when his fangs break skin, tongue immediately lapping at the blood. His eyes drift shut, lost in the push-pull of drinking from him, cock heavy as he leisurely grinds into his hip.

He's toying with Max's chest as he takes long, slow drinks, and he can feel clever fingers worming their way past his waistband, Max's thumb brushing through the sticky mess of precum he's been steadily leaking since he got on his knees.

He moans into his skin, tongue lapping messily at his neck. There's blood dripping down his chin, and he's rocking his hips into Max's hand. His mate is squirming underneath him into a more comfortable position, but Rico doesn't realize until he hears his soft gasp what he's doing.

He's too blood drunk, unable to peel away from Max's neck, but he'd know that gasp anywhere— Max is fingering himself. His hips snap forward and he hears a soft laugh from above him.

"You're such a brute, baby. Just want to drink blood and get your cock in something... What would you do without me?"

The hand playing at his chest slides to his waist, and Rico effortlessly lifts his hips with one hand as Max scrabbles at his back.

The first press of Rico's cock against him has him rutting forward mindlessly, catching at the edge of his rim before sliding between his thighs. Max huffs impatiently at him, one hand gripping tight around his back.

"Don't fucking drop me."

Rico grunts, hitching Max's hips higher as his mate guides his cock inside of him. The wet clutch of heat has him moaning, breaking off from the drinking to simply pant against Max's neck, blood dripping past his collarbone.

Max whines, hips shifting as he takes Rico deeper inside of him before finally settling, full seated on his cock. Rico manages to pull back, pressing their lips together, copper tang bright in his mouth. He doesn't have words, too lost in the feeding and the tight heat around him, but he tries to convey his gratefulness in his messy press to Max's lips, licking into his mouth.

There's a quiet huff from Max before he's guiding Rico's head back to his neck.

"You can thank me after, baby. Finish feeding first— but I want to watch a movie when you're done, and get take out from the place around the corner I like, and oh—"

He breaks off as Rico makes a new incision, fresh blood spilling past his lips while he fucks into Max, clutching him tightly.

It becomes a hit of a haze, after that.