#battle spirits saga

[prozdvoices]

playing a new card game against a seasoned player

This video is sponsored by Battle Spirits Saga

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Battle Spirits Saga - Late-Working Fairy by Davide Luca

[antoniettap1303]

Rkgk: Mai enchantix 💖🧚🏻‍♀️

[battlespiritsunlimited]

Battle Spirits Dan the red solider  

[caelichythcat]

the most emotionally open concession speech in gaming

[total-cards]

If you're in need of cards to flesh out your collection, then look no further! We stock single cards from a range of trading card games, even some lesser known such as Battle Spirits Saga and Shadowverse Evolve! Check them out on our site!

[miko-yamazaki]

2023年10/27発売のバンダイ様海外版TCG［Battle Spirits Saga］第3弾ブースター”[BSS03] AQUATIC INVADERS"にて「Mermaid Princess Lirica」のイラスト担当させて頂きました。よろしくお願い致します🐟

[shunliveshere]

Uploaded a new video to my YouTube channel. Just a highlight from a previous stream.

[lilithsaga]

Been busy fighting malevolent spirits here in hell. 🤺

Guess who won? 😈

[blossombriefs]

Chateau | NSFW Vegeta OneShot [18+]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love how loud you are, Y/N, fuck!”

“K-keep going!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lxndonorris]

teasing touches - Max Verstappen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max nods, his smile widening.

"Always."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It feels so damn good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mhmmm, so good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Max," you gasp breathlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You look incredible," you reply honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is both thrilling and intimate to witness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max giggles; the sound boyish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," you whisper back.

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

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

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

"I'm counting on it."

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

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

His eyes follow your movements; his gaze curious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[prozdvoices]

learning all the steps in a card game

This video is sponsored by Battle Spirits Saga

[dootznbootz]

LOVED the Vengeance saga, hated Calypso's song I'm sorry

**is being creepy and obsessive over a man who's clearly in distress and doesn't like her, as well as she ACTIVELY keeps him on her island for SEVEN YEARS against his will** "W-Well my love is just too much for you"

I get she didn't rape him in EPIC, but she was still terrible towards him and washing down to "her love was just too much for him" is a bit iffy to me :((

Honestly? I think "I'm Not Sorry For Loving You" is actually fantastic in showing HOW Manipulative and selfish she is.

She's doing a "Woe is me" with her loneliness, she is still somewhat putting the "blame" on Odysseus with her "My love being too much for you, sorry that you can't handle it", when it's straight up not taking no for an answer, she even constantly speaks over Odysseus. Yeah, she's "not sorry".

Even with her beautiful voice, (wonderful job Barbara Wangui!) and sweet melody, it's like she IS supposed to be this "perfect paradise, song, goddess, etc."

What really bothers me is Epic Odysseus' "I love you...Just not in the way you want me to".

I think there either needs to be more apprehension in his voice when he says that. Maybe even in Calypso's tangent, he realizes "oh shit, she's making the island do shit. oh think quick to calm her down." and then having to say "Not in the way you want me to." to still make it clear that he's leaving.

I hope we get an explanation from Jay for his wording here? Because while Odysseus did appreciate Calypso helping him heal and recover from being at sea without food and water for a while AND most likely injuries in general, like...He Never loved her.

In some ways, I almost wish we got a bit more of the Odyssey for his answer. As Calypso, basically mocks Penelope and "why do you wanna go back to her? She will age and I won't. this place is perfect. I am perfect."

And then Odysseus being like "...You're an immortal goddess, ofc, she can't compare to you. She will age and go old. But I will stop at nothing to get back home. I've already been through so much shit, if it means going home, I can go through more."

[...] But if you only knew, down deep, what pains you’d stay right here, preside in our house with me and be immortal. Much as you long to see your wife, the one you pine for all your days … and yet I just might claim to be nothing less than she, neither in face nor figure. Hardly right, is it, for mortal woman to rival immortal goddess? How, in build? in beauty?” “Ah great goddess,” worldly Odysseus answered, “don’t be angry with me, please. All that you say is true, how well I know. Look at my wise Penelope. She falls far short of you, your beauty, stature. She is mortal after all and you, you never age or die … Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days— to travel home and see the dawn of my return. And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea, I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure. Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now in the waves and wars. Add this to the total— bring the trial on!”

(Book 5, Fagles)

Puttng in Fitzgerald's too because I wike it :3

"[...] If you could see it all, before you go -All the adversity you face at sea- you would stay here, and guard this house, and be immortal- though you've wanted her forever, that bride for whom you pine each day. Can I be less desirable than she is? Less interesting? Less beautiful? Can mortals compare with goddesses in grace and form?" To this the strategist Odysseus answered: "My lady goddess, here is no cause for anger. My quiet Penelope-- how well I know--would seem a shade before your majesty, death and old age being unknown to you, while she must die. Yet, it is true, each day I long for home, long for the sight of my home. If any god has marked me out again for shipwreck, my tough heart can undergo it. What hardship have I not long since endured at sea, in battle! Let the trial come."

Even his usage of just simply defending Penelope by saying "My Wise Penelope" and how he's still saying "Yep! You are a goddess! Penelope is mortal... I'm still going home!"

This is something I find interesting with Epic Odysseus on Ogygia: After he speaks of Penelope the first few times in "Love in Paradise". He doesn't really talk about her on Ogygia again. Even at the ending of "Love in Paradise", when he's about to "close his eyes", he doesn't speak of Penelope or anything. Which is like, his one driving force for living at this point, in the Odyssey and the Musical. He's just wracked by grief, when it's mostly the fact that he's fucking TRAPPED and can't leave to go HOME.

It makes me wonder if for Epic Odysseus, he is trying to not mention Penelope as much to keep Calypso's anger at bay. Especially when you think of how in the source material, Calypso mocks Penelope and he has to carefully word things to not anger her as a goddess yet still make it clear that he will leave. He wants to leave and he doesn't care if there's more shit he has to deal with. He has to try.

Or maybe it's a spell of some sort. idk. Especially as we have Odysseus once more singing about Penelope and how much he longs for her once he's off Ogygia. Just a thought :P

I almost get this weird vibe that Epic is making Circe more of a "villain" than Calypso (which yes. Circe did coerce Odysseus in the Odyssey and was trying to in Epic. I literally wrote a whole essay about it.) But like, in comparison, Circe in Epic is not nearly as bad as Calypso in Epic. Same in the Odyssey. Like Circe DOES eventually become an "ally" after Odysseus begs her to let him leave, Calypso had to be FORCED to let him go. IN BOTH EPIC AND THE ODYSSEY.

idk. funky feelings :/

[themildestofwriters]

Alternatives to Six Hundred Strike (ported from reddit)

There's been a lot of controversy about the first half of Six Hundred Strike. I'll admit, I'm not a particular fan of how it went down, but this is no shade at the animator -- they did a really good job and I did like it as an animation. I just didn't like the narrative of Six Hundred Strike, the jet-pack, and the like. So, this post is probably one of many talking about alternative interpretations for how Six Hundred Strike could've gone.

Godly Assistance. This is the most common headcanon: Odysseus was aided by the gods in defeating Poseidon. Top pick is usually Ares, though I've heard that Hermes could've helped out, or Hades, or even most if not all of the gods during God Games.

Anyone could come up with a motivation to explain any number of gods helping Odysseus.

Ares, because he was promised bloodshed and he will have it, or... because he respected Athena's sacrifice.

Hermes, because he is always helping Odysseus out.

Zeus, because he felt bad about what he did to Athena and decided to make it up to her.

The other gods in God Games, because, golly, Athena got them invested.

Yada, yada. Honestly, depending on what other sources of aid anyone ascribes to Odysseus, he probably only needs one god on hand to help, especially if we're going with the more "human" interpretation of the gods.

Poseidon's Trident. This one I feel like is under-considered. Poseidon's trident is a symbol of power, and I'm not just talking about in Percy Jackson. It is a weapon forged by the cyclopes which he uses as a catalyst for many of his godly feats.

It wouldn't take much to have Poseidon's trident be an object of power in and of itself. And, if it is, that means if Odysseus gets that trident out of Poseidon's hand, he's taking away a source of Poseidon's power. Furthermore, you could even have Odysseus himself empowered upon wielding the trident, which, if he takes it *during* the battle itself, would better justify how he was able to defeat Poseidon.

This can be alluded to without being stated in the animation. All we need is a look of "oh shit" panic on Poseidon's face when he's disarmed. It would give us enough information to know that losing his trident is a big deal -- and it can be foreshadowed in the Circe Saga if Odysseus disarms Circe's wand / staff in Done For.

Spirit of the Dead. Someone mentioned that Odysseus has his choir back up during Six Hundred Strike, and it wouldn't be that hard to assume that Poseidon summoned the spirits of the dead to torment and drown Odysseus.

"But the dead are Hades' domain!" Yeah, but they're also the dead who died at sea -- or at the hands Poseidon's own son. Polites and the six others who died at the hands of the Polyphemus. The five hundred and fifty who died at sea. Though it was Zeus' lightning bolt, you could argue that Eurylochus and the rest of Odysseus' crew still died at sea. And I'm sure we all know that Odysseus' mother drowned herself at sea, too.

About the only person who didn't die at sea was Elpenor, but, considering Odysseus' mother is there, he was easily replaced. Honestly, just makes the tragedy of Elpenor even funnier. Bloke didn't even get to invited to the fight.

Anyway, how does this help Odysseus? Well, what if whatever spell Poseidon was using to conjure and enthrall those who died at sea was, in part, broken by Odysseus opening the wind bag? Or, following my discussion of the trident, what if Odysseus disarming Poseidon broke the spell? Or, what if Odysseus wielding the trident himself broke the spell? As much as some might hate Odysseus, everyone would hate Poseidon more. It would take no convincing for them all to turn their wrath upon Poseidon.

The Wind Bag. Who knows? Maybe there was something more to the Wind Bag than just holding the storms of Poseidon inside. Regardless, opening the Wind Bag could've served Odysseus more than just serving as a jet pack (which, by the by, could still be a thing, just... maybe he's clutching onto it, instead of wearing it upon his back?). If the opening of the Wind Bag was surprising enough, and Ruthlessness showed that it could be, it very well could've distracted or even discombobulated Poseidon enough for Odysseus to act.

In Conclusion. In my platonic ideal of Six Hundred Strike, it would be all these elements that came in clutch, one after the other, that ultimately helped Odysseus defeat Poseidon. Ares would give him his second wind, which lets Odysseus get the second wind bag, and using the second wind bag (and the strength Ares gave him) he would've disarmed Poseidon. Then, wielding the power of the trident, he and the six hundred spirits at his command would've just beaten the shit out of Poseidon. And all of this segues nicely into Odysseus stabbing the shit out of Poseidon.

[battlespiritsunlimited]

Battle Spirits  Lolo’s day off

[moineauz]

A ticket for The Brighter Side Of Spring

Dan Feng x gn!Reader (platonic if you may 🙏)

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ THE HOUSE OF MUSICA PRESENTS... 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐌 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐎𝐍 ノ𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — dan feng !

synopsis: friends that lead back to each other, again and again in other words: you form an unlikely friendship

side comments: fun fact i've never written for dan feng before so please give me grace! I'm glad to get this out of my drafts hehe

extra: fluff & subtle angst, high cloud quintet is mentioned, gn reader, platonic word count: 1,860

The lives of long-life species possessed their own elusive nature. It humoured you how an adolescent could be your mother. Or how an adult remained blithe and buoyant despite taking as many breaths as your bygone ancestors who wandered distant stars.

You were similar to a weed dwelling between the crevices of the Xianzhou Lofu: an unassuming and unpretentious merchant who cracked dull rocks until its sheltered gemstones glistened in the Xianzhou's morning light. A lifestyle grown and bred into the tangled veins of your arm.

When streets cleared and day melted into the sober tunes of the night: you ran your hands on the walls of Xianzhou buildings and allowed yourself to hum or succumb to the dreaded sensations of stillness. Perhaps becoming a branch for birds to sit on briefly before departing anew, never lingering longer than they desire.

There was no loneliness like there's, no stillness too void or cramp. Hence, despite all your years of solitary travel, the toils of the universe never prepared you for the inner liberality of companionship and the ardour that washed against your bare feet: a tide that clings onto the shore. Sand tucked between your toes in remembrance.

You knew every corridor and tucked away street on the Xianzhou. You knew where the birds came to nurse their young in the spring. You knew where the cheapest tea house was, and you knew where the High Cloud Quintet enjoyed a glass together.

You have observed them. Learned their jokes and playful banter that emerged beneath each victorious battle and spar. You learned who speaks in silence and who blossoms when they wrap their fingers around the hilt of their sword.

Soon, you began to stifle your laughter when the wisps of their jokes reached your ears. Forever wondering who would ever win against Sword Champion Jingliu.

It became a subconscious habit to journey astray from your usual path to pay an unasked tribute to the spirited group of five. Their affable smiles drew tender circles around your heart and gave you the charm of luck. It was a foreign sensation and a craving to observe their lives out of naive curiosity.

If your life as a merchant was a display of various colours blended together, then the lives of the High Cloud Quintet were shape and form, a glowing spark atop the canvas of your indefinite indecision and vagueness. They were magnetic and undeniable, the focus or subject. They brought definition- meaning- to the strange painting of your mundane and quiet life.

It was a pause from the familiar: a fraction of time in which genuine excitement would wrestle with your spent soul and win every time. It was like watching a saga of friends- not soldiers or comrades- you believed would never depart.

There was a peculiar warmth in watching that.

It was one similarly dull afternoon that day; the clouds dancing in puffs and the occasional starskiff racing across the horizon, leaving trails of circular patterns in the sky. Business resumed and paused like a video; breathing and exhaling before grazing against the sky in limbo.

Various stones were on display that day, begging to remain on your stand a minute longer. Other trinkets seemed to accept their tedious fate; the cycle trudging onwards.

At that moment, under the gaze of an autumn breeze, you received a different customer.

Despite aimlessly gazing into the throng for half an hour, you did not notice his figure gliding towards your stand, or how the throng parted like a sea in his presence: similar to the myths you've overheard amongst fruit stands and scholars. You failed to notice the sway of his dignified sleeves and the slight ruffle of his collar against his placid skin. Even the distinct ornament- his earring- was another passing colour in the blurry field of many.

"Is there any item you would suggest?"

His voice is low and taut: the kind that orders the tides to turn and the rivers to bend. It startles you despite hearing it month after month, like a song whose lyrics brush against the walls of your mind. His expression is plain yet the streak of red found by the corners of his eyes creates an inexplicable contrast.

High Elder Dan Feng stood before your stand; washing over you like the fickle image of the moon on the water.

"Well..." you hesitated, searching for your words while attempting to recover from your initial daze, "If you're looking for something pleasing to the eyes then I suggest this." You gingerly lift a glimmering stone to light, its shifting hues bewitching.

Dan Feng nods as he does to the Sword Artisan- Yingxing- when indicating for him to continue. Yet, his expression displays indifference. Hence, your finger twitched and an inkling of irritation shoots through your body. Nevertheless, you bite the insides of your cheeks and maintain the facade: he was another customer amongst the thousands of others. His face and words will fade away with memory and time.

'Don't think of him any differently', you urged yourself.

"Not all treasures have to be that of stone," you muse, switching that mask of your voice into one of rehearsed enthusiasm, "This here is a unique construction of coral from various oceans across star systems," you bring the piece forward, "An abstract piece of art retaining the stories of thousands of seas."

Dan Feng's eyes trace over the ridges of the coral and the colour it illuminates. He seems interested- you note- ease gradually returning to your body.

No matter how often you bid the group of five a silent hello, you had only peeled the outer layers. Thus, the position and prowess they possessed still struck you down. Especially Dan Feng's.

It occurred to you- in all of your raw naiveness- that despite the laughter which rumbled alive in your chest and the genuine fondness you shared for the group, they were still living legends and you a mere merchant.

Dan Feng gazes up from the coral and back to you. "What would you purchase?

"Me?" you reply perplexed. You occasionally received that question. However, you learned customers inquired out of courtesy. The people of the Xianzhou Lofu possessed their own preferences, hence, your insights ultimately held no merit.

Your eyes scan over the various array of stones and jewels, art pieces and items whose sole purpose was to be vain. It has occurred to you to withhold an item. However, if a peculiar item ever spoke to you, then the likelihood of it speaking to another was higher.

Dan Feng crossed his arms; awaiting your response to which you possessed none. His gaze was condemning and acute, like a spotlight that now landed on you.

Dan Feng then spoke, "You're a wandering merchant, yes?"

You nod tentatively, observing him trace his fingers over the arch of a wooden bowl.

"Then surely, amongst all the sights and treasures you've seen, there must be at least one you find pleasing?"

At that moment, it struck you how right he was.

High Elder Dan Feng seldom spoke unless necessary. He bewildered you with the ambiguity of his gestures and the implicit tenderness found at the tip of his spear. Dan Feng resembled a bird: no loneliness like there's, no stillness too void or cramp.

You take in the crisp afternoon air; running your thumb over the crevices of your hand as the words fall out of your mouth like a cool stream, "You're right. There is... one item in particular."

Dan Feng watches you: your hands moving under the stand. "I've been quite selfish," he hears your remark, the item coming out into the light, "It's rather small but special."

Dan Feng raises an eyebrow at the peculiar item nestled into the palms of your hands. Yet, he merely nods.

Then he's gone.

Dan Feng never intended to visit your stand that day.

Or the following months afterwards.

It becomes habitual: like an instinct that can't shake or an itch that can't be satisfied.

It opposed his very nature- Jingliu and Jing Yuan now teased him at every given chance.

"Oh? I suppose High Elder Dan Feng can have friends."

Soon, Dan Feng's presence wove into the seams of the everyday. The merchant district and the other merchants themselves no longer gaped or whispered.

Dan Feng weaved through the crowds, his legs taking him farther than his heart could ever reach: an odd enigma, an acquaintance found in the eye of a shared storm.

"What brings you here today High Elder?" you ask, a smile dancing on the corners of your lips, "I'm afraid I have nothing new in stock."

"Same as last week?" he conceded, his arms crossed over his chest, "A shame."

You scoff, resting your elbows on the stand's smooth surface. "Really? You never buy anything even if I have new items."

"Perhaps something has caught my eye," he replies indifferently, his eyes aimlessly examining the items before him.

"Oh? Please tell."

Dan Feng sighs, shaking his head, weary admits the beaming sun and cloudless sky.

"The denizens of abundance again?"

Dan Feng remains silent, observing the furrow in your eyebrows and the lines of fatigue littering your face. He recalls where your smile ends and starts like the line of the horizon. He knows where the pensive frown on your face dips like the sea churning away.

"You know what? Let's go somewhere."

"Pardon me?"

You chuckle, "You heard me, let go somewhere else." You promptly pack your stand, "We can go somewhere more... quiet."

Dan Feng's heart drops, he reaches for your hand, but, quickly retracts it. "Why?" he asks abruptly, the word escaping him.

"Why?" you remark bewildered.

Silence fills the gap between his words and yours. A lump forms in the back of your throat, weighing you down- reminiscent of times before.

"Well," you being pensive, eyes fixed onto the birds in the distance before focusing on Dan Feng, "That's what friends are for."

You were similar to a weed dwelling between the crevices of the Xianzhou Lofu: an unassuming and unpretentious merchant who opened your apartment door- bewildered and evidently dazed from a night's sleep- to a small box found at your doorstep. The box's shine is subtle and wise while it carries the scent of the sea: a promise unearthed from the rubble.

You crouch down, turning your head left and right before gingerly placing the small box in your hands. Careful not to disturb its tender tranquillity.

Gradually, you lift the lid as the Xianshou's rising sun pressed against its warmth against the cool surface of your cheek: humble like a prayer, bidding you a silent 'good morning'.

Your eyes widen as the object gazes at you, its surface smooth and velvet.

Then you see a note and a bag of Strale:

Don't give it back or sell it. I did buy it from you after all. Thus, it is yours now, you're not selfish for wanting your own treasures.

That's what friends are for.

— Dan Feng, your friend

You tuck the small wooden bird into your pocket, the letter firmly pressed against your beating heart.

masterlist.