#What is the Difference Between a Vendor and a Merchant?

[merchantservices444]

What is the Difference Between a Vendor and a Merchant?

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART ONE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, death (minor characters), bits of gore, 141 are mean pirates, kidnapping

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

The village was tranquil as you stepped through it, bare feet threading through the soft grass, hands wrapped around the handle of a woven basket. It was peaceful, as it always was, without the souls of townsfolk to burden you. They didn’t dare bother you with the witness of elders around, keeping any torment to themselves until nightfall when the small vendor shops had closed up for the evening and the old folk returned to their homes.

You basked in the warm summer rays that shined down on you as you walked past the various shops. Really, they were far from any real shops, only showcasing simple merchant carts with limited supply for the village to gather, but it was a small village, and everything you needed was for mere survival. You weren’t a greedy woman, and you were plenty grateful.

Stepping up to one of the merchants, you offered a polite smile to the older woman sitting behind it, bowing your head in greeting.

“Hello, Mary,” you addressed, and she perked up from where she stood, occupied with counting together the sum of coins she’d earned throughout the day. She reflected her own smile to you, standing a bit taller. A wrinkled hand lifted to brush strands of her gray hair that had blown astray in the light breeze, revealing her radiance.

“Afternoon, dove,” she greeted in return. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Just need a few more herbs, is all,” you shrugged, shifting your eyes away from hers to pick around her cart. Mary always had plenty on hand, and usually snuck you a few extras when you weren’t looking.

“Ah, I see. Well, you know the routine, dove. Feel free to pick as many as you need,” she encouraged. You smiled graciously, collecting a small variety of herbs and plants to place in your basket.

It was a different decision every week, seeing as you often performed trial and error with them in the comfort of your home. Despite many in your village disagreeing with your efforts, you were attempting to learn more about medicines. The village was in desperate need of a proper healer, and a female one at that. The male in current practice was much too biased and reckless, though you were sure to get a mouthful if you were to express the concern.

So, you took it upon yourself. Living in the village rather than out on the mainland, it wasn’t a simple teaching. Resources and education were much more difficult to come by, and it wasn’t deemed necessary information for women to have. It was exactly the reason why you were seen as a bit of an enigmatic outcast to all – all except Mary, of course. Perhaps she simply pitied you.

“This will be all for me, Mary,” you declared, setting the basket on top of her cart. Reaching for the small pouch that rested comfortably on your hip, you dug through it, collecting a few bronze coins and setting them in the old woman’s frail hand.

Mary accepted, placing the coins in her own pouch and throwing you a kind smile. “You sure, dove? Nothing else I can do for you?”

“I’m sure,” you confirmed with a nod. “Still in the experimentation phase, I fear.”

“You’ll get there,” she assured, clasping one of your hands between both of hers and giving it an encouraging shake before releasing. “Perhaps I’ll come visit you one of these days. An old lady like myself could use a few tweaks.”

This elicited a light laugh from you, shaking your head as you grasped the basket. “You look as healthy as a babe, Mary. But yes, please do. You know my door is always open for you.”

The two of you said your sweet farewells before you set off down the grassy trail once again. You passed the other merchants, who didn’t welcome you with the same kindness Mary had, but didn’t scare you away with shrewdness either. It was a typical routine, at this point, for others to look down on you. A woman, unwilling to marry and bear children and instead, studying medicine. A true scandal, some might say.

The walk back to your home was done so without issue, but when your humble abode came into sight, tucked away on the farther side of the village for more private practice, the faces of recognizable men came into view. This was just as frequent as the judgeful side eyes you received, but much more inconvenient.

“Afternoon, dove,” one of the men greeted with a slimy smile, the nickname the village had given you slipping off of his tongue like rotted poison. Dove, a name of something so beautiful, given out of mere pettiness. You were free like a bird, yet you should’ve been confined to your cage. Something pretty to look at, but proving no use. “Never quite got back to me about my courtship.”

Right. You had ignored it on purpose. Though deemed as strange and grotesque by the townspeople, this particular man hadn’t quite gotten the hint. Lucius was his name, fitting, seeing as he was as close to the devil as they came. Conceited and boastful with no decency of leaving you be.

He was awfully determined in wanting to fix you, to make you the housewife everybody expected you to be, just like the other village women. It was common practice, seeing as women didn’t do much other than simply that. While some were quite content with that lifestyle, you sought out more. You didn’t want to be chained down to a simple man who had nothing but arrogance to offer, nor a man you weren’t in love with.

“Yes, that’s quite right,” you confirmed dryly, stepping up to your home. He blocked the doorway, barricading you from entering.

“It’s quite rude for a lady to reject,” he interjected, a devilish smile plastered on his face. You blinked up at him with a look of indifference. “I am only asking for an answer.”

“I believe I’ve told you no plenty of times,” you sighed, adjusting the basket on your hip. “I am simply not interested.”

He sucked his teeth together, glowering down at you from where he stood. It was clear he wasn’t pleased with the answer, but unfortunately for him, it was all he was going to get. You were solid with your decision, and god forbid you did change your mind on being a wife and mother, it would not be with him.

“Can’t change your mind at all, dove?” he asked in fake sweetness, reaching for your hand that wasn’t holding the basket. He took it in his grip, much too tight for your liking. “Perhaps I can help change it if you give me one night.”

You scowled at his underlying tone, pulling your hand from his grasp and resting it on the knob of your door. You pushed it open, stepping inside before turning to him. “Please do not humor me with such indications. I am not interested, nor will I change my mind.”

Abruptly closing the door on him, you settled inside of your home, breathing a low sigh of relief. You could hear his faint chuckles with the other men present, their footsteps soft against the grass as they took their leave. He never took things too far, such as forcing his way into your home or worse, forcing himself on you, but you feared that day may come the longer you rejected his advances.

You set your basket on your desk, slouching down in the old chair you’d spend days upon days occupied in. Your journal sat open with ink scattered on the pages in your scribbled handwriting, brief sketches drawn about of the varying herbs you worked tirelessly on. Above you, jars lined the shelves with fading labels, filled with makeshift medicines of all kinds.

With the village and its people now out of sight and out of mind, you resumed your studies with the fresh herbs, focusing on what your heart truly desired.

You don’t remember falling asleep. It had been hours of you with a pen in your hand, jotting down useful notes for your studies, and it was no surprise you had succumbed to exhaustion at the comfort of your desk. Your cot in the corner of the room was more a stranger than anything, but with the sight of moonlight still pouring in through your small windows, you debated on moving over to it so you could resume.

Standing from your desk, you rubbed the sleepiness crusting over your eyes, a yawn threatening to tug through your throat. Just as you began your short trek to your bed, a slight tinge of orange caught your eye, peeking in through your window. It was faint, barely knowledgeable.

Curiosity got the best of you, and through your hazy state, you tugged open the front door of your small cottage, daring to see what was outside. The orange grew brighter in view now that the door opening had allowed more light to pool in, and when you rubbed at your eyes once more, you recognized it as fire.

Fire, burning fiercely in the night, eating away at your village. The sounds of terrified screams and chaotic madness became abundantly clear when you stepped outside. It made your blood run cold. All hairs on your body stood straight in warning, beckoning you to return inside, to hide.

As much as you wanted to listen, the first thing to vacate your mind was Mary. In the brush of flames, you needed to know if she was alright, if she had gotten to safety before the angry fire had broken into her own home. Where most of the townsfolk treated you as a mere joke, Mary was the one who had given you kindness when needed.

Your feet moved in a rush to sprint towards the village, the grass damp from the midnight dew and sticking to your soles. The closer you came towards the heart of the village, the louder things grew. It was blood-curling, hearing booming voices bark various orders while others shouted in petrified fear. Mary’s house was on the other side of the village, and in an act of triumph, you aimed for it.

The heat of the flames became more apparent as you closed in on the town center. Townsfolk that you had grown with since a baby were in a frenzy, some bloodied, some weeping. They looked like they had gone through the pits of hell and crawled their way out, only to be inches away from being dragged back in again.

There was no explanation for why the men of your village were wearing the crimson color of fresh blood, or why some were laying in broken heaps on the ground. They were in agony, shrieking in deafening decibels. The healer in you wanted to stop everything you were doing to aid them, but the child in you wanted to reach Mary first.

You did what your heart wanted and ran for Mary.

Approaching her house, the flames had not yet approached. It wasn’t burned to ash, nor was it in shambles. Instead, one large man had Mary in their hold by each of her arms as she attempted to fight him off while another ransacked her home.

“Mary!” you shouted, helpless. The man’s head whipped in the direction of your voice, cruel eyes narrowing in on you. Mary joined him, fearful eyes catching yours.

The sight of the men was foreign to you, but you’d recognize heartless monsters such as them anywhere. They were mere stories shared between the village, often used to scare the children away from the sea for their own protection. The village was so small, nobody had ever worried about the stories happening to them.

Pirates. Cruel, greedy, malicious. Like dogs off a leash, bearing sharp teeth and frothing at the mouth. They raided innocent villages for their supply, leaving it in disarray once they got what they wanted. Sick bastards who deserved punishment, yet slipped away in the roaring waves of the sea before it could be handed to them.

“Let go of her,” you pleaded with the pirate, hands clasped together. You knew you couldn’t fight him off, even if you tried. Mary was just as powerless as you, and old age was starting to catch up to her. She was fragile, and with the way he was handling her, you feared she’d get harmed.

The mysterious pirate continued to stare at you with an unreadable expression. He grunted in annoyance, loosening his grip on Mary but not quite releasing. It did nothing to comfort you, and that feeling grew tenfold when the other pirate stepped out of Mary’s home, locking in on you.

“Grab tha’ one, will ye, Gaz?” the one holding Mary huffed, gesturing towards you with a nod of his head. The other, Gaz, nodded in return, sauntering up to you like death on wheels. You needed to run, to escape, but he was too quick. Before you knew it, Gaz’s arms had wrapped around your waist, hauling you over his shoulder like a doll.

Flailing in his embrace did nothing. His grip was firm, arm locked on to you impossibly tight, and the punches you threw to his back seemed almost comical to him.

“Find anythin’?” the other asked Gaz. Gaz shook his head, releasing a frustrated exhale.

As chaos ensued around you, the two men began dragging you and Mary along towards the heart of the village where you were moments ago. Gaz’s grip loosened on you, before he dropped you to the damp ground carelessly. You landed with a huff, soreness soaring through your back.

Looking around, you realized that many of the townsfolk were in the same condition. Lined up besides one another, pleading for their lives, weeping with ugly snot running from their noses. Mary was beside you, shaken but unharmed from the looks of it. She stared at you with heart wrenching fright, and you wished you could’ve told her things would be okay.

But they weren’t. The village was set ablaze, its people lined up like prisoners with a group of pirates looming over them like reapers prepared for death. The peace from this afternoon had vanished, and there would be no return. Things would be forever different, if they spared your lives.

Gaz and the other pirate stood side by side as they looked over the townsfolk. Another was beside them, face distorted by a ghastly mask that resembled a skull. It sent shivers down your spine. It was as if you truly were looking death in the eye.

A fourth pirate stepped forward, eyes that should’ve been considered kind instead staring down every last villager with heated observation. He was silent as he paced slowly, hands behind his back, the fire casting a doomful glow upon his face.

“My name is Captain Price,” he introduced. His voice was booming with authority. “If you do not wish to aid us, then we do not wish to aid you. The choice is yours.”

Sweat beaded your hairline from both the flames of fire scorching around you, and the anxiety that spiked inside of you. Your eyes locked in on the Captain, watching his every movement, noting the way he stood tall and proud, showcasing the true power he held. The villagers and you were helpless against him and his crew, and he was ensuring that it was obvious.

“We seek a medic. If you cannot provide that to us, then you are of no use to me,” he explained, pausing his pacing. He took in the sight of every grim face. Once he landed on you, you shivered, looking away in a panic. “I will ask you once. Who is your medic?”

Deafening silence filled the air apart from the flickering flames that threatened to consume us whole. Nobody dared to speak a word, nor did they look away from Price. It was as if time had stopped and everybody froze.

Price sniffed, glancing around the villagers. Though he seemed collected in his behavior, you could recognize the impatience from the way his lip twitched and his shoulders tensed.

“The Captain asked you lot a question,” Gaz sneered in defense. Price spared him a glance before returning focus. Still, nobody spoke for the next few moments.

It wasn’t until Price’s hand drifted to his waist, hand coming to rest on a handgun that the air shifted into one of unease. The sight of it made you sick to the stomach. Handguns were a specialty only the wealthy or military could acquire. They were rare and expensive, a luxury to some, but deadly. One click, and your soul was taken right from your body.

Price grasped the handgun, holding it in his hand as if it were a toy. He stepped up to the line of villagers, peering down at them like useless pigs. The sight of the gun had women quivering in fear, tears streaming down their rosy cheeks. The men were men no more, stripped away of their masculinity and replaced with little boys, unable to protect their kin and fulfill their duty as defenders.

The gun was raised, threat building with every inch. The barrel pointed right at the horror-stricken face of the very man who intruded on your home earlier – Lucius. Gone was the cocky mockery of a man, replaced with a whimpering boy who feared death just as much as another. He was shaking, shoulders slouched in attempts to appear small.

“We will try this again,” Price demanded. The cold barrel pressed to the temple of Lucius’ head and you could do nothing but sit and watch, unsure of what to feel. Sure, he kept a sour taste in your mouth simply from being. But to wish death on him for being a hindrance was distasteful. “Who is your medic?”

Lucius wouldn’t possibly rat you out. He was a selfish man who took what he wanted, but surely, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that cruel.

The coward’s shaky hand lifted to point in your direction. It felt as if he were throwing a sharp dagger at you, the way he exposed the occupation you’d been so meticulously working hard towards.

Eyes shifted towards you, sending an ice cold burst through your veins. They were prodding, dissecting you from head to toe as if you were an experiment for them to test on. It was unsettling, sinking your heart down to the pits of your stomach.

“You’re the medic?” Price questioned. He hadn’t lowered his weapon, keeping it firm against Lucius’ skull, but his attention had shifted to you. His eyes weren’t warm and kind like they were shaped out to be, but rather cold, glossed over with hardened hostility.

“I–” You swallowed. “I am merely a medic in practice. I am not a professional, I do not know proper teachings–”

“Ghost,” he interrupted, whipping his head to look at the masked man. Ghost was a brute of a man, a shadow that would’ve been consumed by the night if not for the illuminating glow coming from the village in flames. “Take her so she can gather her things. She’s coming with us.”

Dread struck you right to the core. You wanted to beg for them to leave you be, to explain that you weren’t what they wanted. You didn’t want to be stripped from your home and tossed onto a ship with no clue of where your next destination was. These men were dangerous, seeping pure rancor and poisoning the very ground you laid on. Leaving with them was a death sentence.

Ghost said nothing, and even if he did, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it from the subtle weeping from villagers beside you. His strides were long as he approached you, and without warning, his rough hand grasped your elbow, hauling you to your feet. The force startled you, throwing you off balance but his grip was tight enough to keep you grounded.

As you were dragged away towards the direction of your home, you could hear an uproar of cries. Terror struck the village once more and you could do nothing but accept fate for what it was. You wanted to turn your head to see what was becoming of your people, but you were scared. Scared of what you may see, scared of what Ghost will do if you look.

You kept your gaze forward, legs moving quickly to match the heavy pace of Ghost, guiding the lion into your den.

Arriving at your home, you were hit with the realization that it would be the last time entering it. Your hard work would vanish, the space you made into your security blanket would be destroyed, burned to ash once the flames settled. It tore your heart to bits.

“Hurry up,” Ghost gruffed, his voice gravelly and hoarse. Just like Price, it was assertive, leaving no room for discussion.

You made haste to pack your essentials into a flimsy satchel. It wouldn’t be able to fit much, and you could only pray they would at least provide you with bare necessities on your voyage to hell. In your satchel went your journal, the cluttered jars of experimental medicines, your favorite quill, and a daring change of clothes. If Ghost thought you to remain alive long enough to have the opportunity to redress, he didn’t express it.

“That all?” he huffed, and when you nodded, he seized your arm again. “Let’s go.”

The sight of your home became a distant memory the farther you went from it. Already your body was pleading to go back, to curl up in bed and pretend that all of this was a sick dream. You regretted not making your cot of more use, sleeping in that damned wooden chair instead.

By the time you arrived back at the town center, it was like witnessing purgatory itself. Bloodshed with the bodies of your people laid across the ground like animals tossed aside. Useless and unworthy, that was how these pirates treated them. Though your people had never been kind to you, this was a fate you would never have wished upon them.

Their faces were unrecognizable as you took them in. Some burned, some beaten so bloody their faces had swelled into ugly monsters, some slain. The sight of the deceased made you want to vomit, bile piling in your throat and threatening to expel out.

Your eyes frantically searched for Mary, aching to know if they had given her mercy. She was a frail woman, withering with her age. She was innocent.

You couldn’t find her familiar face, and you weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or dreadful.

The three other pirates were standing around one another. They were unphased by the actions they had bestowed upon the village, as if it was another simple day. It unnerved you, rattling your bones with burrowing fear. When they noticed the return of you and their crewmate, they wasted no time in guiding you off to the small port in which their ship had been docked.

It was large, wood tainted with brown so dark it could’ve been black. It blended in with the abyss of the sea, which you realized was entirely the point. Unnoticed and concealed.

Ghost didn’t let go of you as he helped you on to the ship, nor did he release once your bare feet connected with the wood. It was just as restricting as before, causing a light pulse to form in your bicep where he held you.

“Take her to the chambers until we figure out the next step,” Price ordered Ghost, nodding his head in the direction of raggedy doors. You could only imagine what lies behind them, waiting for you.

Ghost grunted in response, tugging you with him and having you stumble on your own two feet. The wood was rough and sharp on your soles, slicing tiny splinters into your skin. Shoes weren’t needed in your village unless it was winter, and even then, the grass was always enough to consume them in warmth. Now, you were regretting not owning a pair.

“In you go,” Ghost uttered once he had the door pulled open, shoving you down a small flight of stairs towards the lower section of the ship. It was dingy and unlit, the only light seeping in being the moonlight from a tiny window.

Once inside, you recognized your new home as a cell. Barred and caged in, being tossed inside carelessly. There was nothing but a cot and a bucket to relieve yourself. It was completely empty and void of comfort.

Ghost shut the cell door, locking it with an annoyed grunt. You hadn’t even noticed him pull out the set of keys to open it for you, nor had you noticed when he locked you in. You watched as he thrusted the keys in his back pocket, the only evidence of its presence being the small glint of metal from the moon’s light.

“Wait!” you cried out when he turned to leave. You scrambled on the cell floor, hands wrapping around the cold bars. He paused his walk, throwing you a look of disinterest. “You can’t just leave me in here!”

Ghost snorted in what you dared to say amusement. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, princess. You’ll be of use soon enough.”

Ignoring your pleas, he stepped up the stairs and returned to the main deck, shutting the door and leaving you utterly alone. Silence filled the air apart from the calming waves of the sea, though it did nothing to soothe you. You were helpless, deprived of any form of escape.

You spent what felt like hours on the floor of your cell, weeping into your own hands, silently praying to a God to release you. When nobody came to your rescue, you knew it was far too late for a miracle. This would be your new life, your new home, for as long as they kept you alive.

Part of you wished they would’ve just killed you instead.

[xichilie]

HELLOOOOOOO GIESS WHO

Oh wait, I'm anonymous

Okay I'm the one who wanted to see Micahs design, absolutely hot BTW, so I saw the brant x fisalia reader fic, and wish to request a part 2, oh and a concept design of Y/N since she's a fisalia and they're pretty affordable just look at cantarella and Rosemary

and I love your art 😘

Tanks yous

Yes, I remember you. XD, and of course, I got multiple requests for a second part and i had time today. As for the concept art, I made one because yeah, you got me. I had this story with an oc in mind. XD I'll attach the picture at the end ♡

Brant x (fem)reader

A Flower Among Thorns (2)

Part1

Brant had been restless ever since that night.

The Fool’s Elysium bustled around him, music and laughter echoing off the cavern walls, but for once, he wasn’t reveling in the lively atmosphere. Instead, he sat at the edge of the stage, absently spinning a silver coin between his fingers, pink eyes unfocused.

Andreas leaned beside him, brow raised. “Alright, what’s got you looking all lovesick?”

Brant scoffed, slipping back into his usual bravado. “Lovesick? Please. I am merely… intrigued.”

Andreas wasn’t convinced. “Uh-huh. About what?”

Brant hesitated. He hadn’t told anyone about the girl who had found him, who had saved him. The one with the softest hands and a voice like a gentle melody. His angel. He didn’t even know her name, yet she had been haunting his thoughts ever since.

So, with a dramatic sigh, he leaned back. “A mysterious beauty healed me the other night. I woke up to the most enchanting creature Solaris-3 has ever seen. And yet, I know not her name, nor where to find her.”

Andreas snorted. “So, you’ve been sulking about a girl?”

“Not sulking. Longing. There’s a difference.”

Andreas rolled his eyes. “And let me guess, you’ve got no leads?”

Brant grinned, but there was an edge of frustration behind it. “Well, I know she smells like wildflowers, her hands are softer than silk, and her voice is sweeter than any ballad I’ve ever performed.”

“So… nothing useful.”

Brant huffed and stood up, dramatically flipping his coat. “Then I shall have to uncover the mystery myself.”

Brant spent the next few days asking around in Ragunna, trying to pick up any clue about his angel. But with no name, no description beyond “beautiful,” and only the memory of her kindness, it was harder than he expected.

At the bustling markets, he leaned against a vendor’s stall with his most charming smile. “Say, have you seen a girl who smells like wildflowers? Gentle hands? A voice like music?”

The vendor blinked. “Sir, that describes half the women in Ragunna.”

Brant groaned.

At a local tavern, he leaned over the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to know a lovely young woman who heals strangers in the dead of night, would you?”

The bartender laughed. “Son, if you’re looking for a healer, there’s a whole cathedral full of them.”

At the city gates, he approached a group of travelers. “Excuse me, have any of you encountered a heavenly being in human form? Delicate, kind, likely saving lives wherever she goes?”

One of the travelers side-eyed him. “...Are you drunk?”

Brant threw his hands up. “Not yet, but I might be soon!”

No matter where he searched, he found nothing. No one seemed to know her, or if they did, they weren’t saying. And Brant? He was getting frustrated.

Had he dreamed her up? Had she been a figment of his pain and exhaustion?

No. She was real.

And he was going to find her.

Even if it took forever.

Brant sat slouched on a worn stone bench in the heart of Ragunna, exhaling a long, theatrical sigh as he stared up at the evening sky. The city around him pulsed with life—merchants hawking their wares, distant music drifting from a tavern, the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages against the cobblestone. And yet, none of it reached him.

His mind was elsewhere.

On her.

It had been days, and no matter how many streets he wandered, how many people he asked—no one seemed to know who she was.

Which was frustrating, really. How could someone so bright, so kind, so full of life leave behind no trace at all?

Brant let out another heavy sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Am I cursed?" he muttered to himself.

"Not cursed," a voice chimed from beside him, smooth and amused. "Just terribly, terribly unlucky."

Brant blinked and turned his head, only to see Carlotta settling onto the bench beside him. Her white hair cascaded over one shoulder, her soft pink attire flowing like silk. Every movement, every breath she took was measured, elegant. She had the air of someone who could read a room in seconds and bend it to her will if she so pleased.

"Well, well," Brant mused, smirking despite his troubles. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to sweep me off my feet?"

Carlotta gave him a pointed look. "You looked like a man on the verge of another tragic monologue. I simply couldn't resist."

Brant exhaled through his nose, glancing back at the city. "I suppose I have been a bit… broody lately."

"A bit?" she teased.

He huffed a laugh. "Fine. A lot."

Carlotta studied him for a moment before tilting her head. "You're searching for someone, aren't you?"

Brant's smirk faltered.

She always was too perceptive for her own good.

After a beat, he nodded. "Yeah. A girl. She—" He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "She found me when I was wounded. Helped me. And I haven't been able to get her out of my head since."

Carlotta's expression shifted slightly—an unreadable flicker of thought passing through her eyes. Then, after a pause, she sighed.

Brant immediately picked up on it. He narrowed his pink eyes. "You know something."

Carlotta smiled, amused. "I might."

Brant straightened. "Then tell me!"

She hummed in thought, then leaned forward slightly. "You said she healed you?"

He nodded.

"Then instead of asking the streets," Carlotta mused, "why not ask a healer?"

Brant blinked. "…Huh."

"A brilliant thought, I know," she said dryly, shaking her head. "There is one person who comes to mind—Rosemary. She runs an apothecary not far from here. If anyone would know about mystery healers, it would be her."

Brant sat with that information for a moment. Then, suddenly, he shot to his feet. "Carlotta, you absolute angel."

She smiled, satisfied. "I do try."

Without another word, Brant spun on his heel and hurried off into the streets, new hope sparking in his chest.

Maybe—just maybe—he was finally on the right path.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Brant stepped into Rosemary’s Apothecary, the warm, earthy scent of dried herbs and rare botanicals wrapping around him. The shop was meticulously organized, with shelves lined with glass bottles, labeled neatly in careful script. Bundles of flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, casting delicate shadows under the soft glow of lanterns.

Behind the counter stood Rosemary.

She was a woman of quiet elegance—long, light purple hair, her features sharp but not unkind. Unlike the extravagant attire associated with the Fisalia Family, she wore a simple, well-tailored white-grey apothecary coat, the only adornment a fine silver embroidery along the cuffs. Her violet eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked up to meet his as she finished measuring out a fine blue powder, tapping it neatly into a small paper pouch.

Corking the glass vial beside her, she finally addressed him.

"Welcome to Rosemary’s Apothecary, where your perfect potion awaits. What do you need,?"

Her tone was steady, polite, yet held an edge of knowing. It wasn’t the first time Brant had walked through those doors, and she always greeted him the same way.

Brant let out an exaggerated sigh, draping himself over the counter as if utterly exhausted. "Ah, dear Rosemary, must we be so formal? No warmth? No 'Brant, you seem troubled, do you require a remedy for your aching heart?'"

She merely blinked at him. "Do you require a remedy for your aching heart?"

He grinned. "Not a potion, no. But I do require something only you can provide."

She didn’t react, merely set the pouch aside. "If it’s information, I deal in medicine, not rumors."

Brant smirked. "Ah, but this is not a rumor. It is a tale of fate! Destiny! The kind that inspires sonnets and songs for generations to come!"

Rosemary simply waited.

Brant exhaled, straightening slightly. "I'm looking for someone. A healer."

That made her pause, if only briefly. She tilted her head slightly, considering his words. "There are many healers in Ragunna."

"True," Brant admitted, before his smirk softened into something almost wistful. "But only one like this."

He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the memory of that night. The gentle hands, the soft glow of magic, the way she had looked at him—not with fear, nor judgment, but kindness.

"She has long, light purple hair," he began, voice unusually soft. "Like moonlight spun into silk. Her eyes… warm, like the deepest amethyst, the kind that draws you in, makes you forget yourself."

Rosemary’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.

Brant, too caught up in his own memory, missed it.

"And her voice," he continued, exhaling a breathless laugh. "Soft, like a lullaby. Gentle, calming. Like she could soothe even the most troubled soul."

His smirk returned, albeit fonder. "Which, of course, explains why she saved me. A lost Fool in need of salvation—"

"Was she alone?"

Brant blinked.

Rosemary was still watching him, but there was something… careful about the way she asked.

Brant thought back, tilting his head. "Yeah. No one else was there."

A quiet sigh escaped her. Not one of relief, but of trouble.

Brant caught it instantly, straightening. "Oh-ho? What was that? You know something."

Rosemary hesitated. It was the first time she had ever seemed uncertain about what to say.

Then, finally, she met his gaze directly.

"Forget about her."

Brant froze.

The lighthearted air between them vanished in an instant.

He had expected teasing, maybe some cryptic remark, but not… this.

His brows furrowed slightly. "…Why?"

Rosemary’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden counter, her expression unreadable. "If she was alone, then she was somewhere she should not have been. And if you truly do not know who she is…" she paused, voice measured, "then it’s better that you forget."

Brant’s stomach twisted.

That didn’t sit right with him.

Not one bit.

_______________________________________

[lairofsentinel]

Mourning with the Crows

Warning: I apologise in advance for my bitterness that sometimes spills into the text like the Blight when it comes to the murder of the Lore and tone that Veilguard has done to the DA world.

I've not seen this quest on YouTube or anywhere, so probably it's the only "extra" content you can have for Lucanis, and curiously is the only time where we can ASK HIM about something personal [his opinion on a topic that is not boring coffee or killing].

As it is obvious, it can only be triggered when you let Treviso be blighted.

Before this event, you have to do 3 quests that are the same one copy-pasted three times: go find X, they have became darkspwan, so you have to kill them. This is the fate of 3 crows we interacted with a bit more if you save Treviso: Heir, the crow-trainer [I laugh so much with this character, she can't be less crow at all, what they did to the lore?]; Fletcher, the faction vendor; and Chance Candide, an Orlesian Crow [yes, Orlesian... I'm dying, what's this?!] who gives you some quests about an affair between a Venatori and a Crow if you saved Treviso [and he is totally fine with a Crow abandoning the Crows for love... I'm mourning with the Crows too, for the Crows, for the whole lore]

Anyway, we go to the memorial that has an imposing statue of a Crow, as usual a nice touch of Antivan dramatics, probably the only thing they preserved about the lore.

Teia and Viago are there, and we see them remember the three Crows that we had to kill because they were too far blighted.

No matter what option you pick, Lucanis appears out of the blue with a very sceptical tone:

We are informed [implicitly] here that Lucanis certainly had no friends, just few acquaintances among the crows and local merchants and, of course, cafe workers. Still he wanted to return to that level of familiarity once he recovered his life from the Ossuary, despite the irreversible changes in him.

And here, only here, for FIRST TIME in the whole game, you can ask him something personal, something that makes him a bit more than just coffee jokes and assassin stuff: Do you believe in anything? The most ambitious, brutal question [for dav parameters, of course] we have in this game which has denied us not only the social conflicts of Thedas [and Tevinter in particular!] but also the religious ones. Of course, his answer is as bland as the game in general on these topics: He basically is an atheist, that due to an excess of pain and suffering, "wants to believe" that there is something else hearing people's cries. It's a strange argument to make, since suffering may reinforce the atheist vision of characters, but maybe this small bit of hope he wants to grab was inspired by his own situation in the Ossuary: maybe he found in Rook's action the answers to his pleas for the nightmare of the Ossuary to stop. And maybe he is hoping that after all this pain on Treviso, somehow, some power can help them to heal the city, as his pain was stopped with the presence of Rook in his life. Wishful thinking, Neve would say.

Still, the whole tone of this scene gives a constant atheist vibe to him: he knows there is too much suffering in the world for a big power not to act and help, so maybe, the natural conclusion is that there is no such power at all.

At the end of the scene we have the option to toast for 3 different concepts, each of them "attached" to each of the Crows in the screen: The memory of the dead, to Viago; The future, to Teia, and Vengeance, of course, to Lucanis.

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Chapter 8: In the Quiet of His Mischief

dividers by: @sister-lucifer

art by zeiru on youtube

The silence between them was louder than any words they could have spoken. It had been days since their argument, and though neither Y/N nor Telemachus stormed away in anger, a chasm had formed between them. They moved around each other like ships avoiding collision—careful, distant. She buried herself in her duties, overseeing trade routes, meeting with fishermen, ensuring Ithaca's affairs ran smoothly. Telemachus, meanwhile, threw himself into training, his strikes against the straw dummies carrying a weight neither of them acknowledged.

Penelope noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she said nothing, merely watching them with that quiet wisdom she wore so well.

And Y/N let it be. Let the distance settle between her and her brother, convincing herself it was better this way.

The docks were always alive with movement, but today, Y/N barely saw the traders and sailors bustling around her. Her mind was caught in an endless loop of plans and logistics: how many ships were still at sea, how much grain they had to spare, which merchants needed appeasing to keep Ithaca’s economy steady. It was easier this way, drowning in responsibility, in the mundane and the necessary.

She had just finalized a deal with a group of traders from Pylos when she heard a familiar voice. Casual, amused. Too knowing.

“You know, for someone with Poseidon's favor, you spend an awful lot of time looking miserable by the sea.”

Y/N stiffened before turning. There he was. The traveler—at least, that was what she had always assumed he was. She had seen him before, more times than she could count, lingering at the market, blending into the crowds. Always watching, always grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

And there it was, the unmistakable glint of gold in his fingers. A coin, one she recognized instantly, because it was hers. Had been hers. She had lost it months ago—or so she had thought.

“I should have known it was you.” Her voice was flat, unimpressed. “Give it back.”

The man only smirked, flipping the coin effortlessly. “Finders keepers, princess.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “And what do you want in return?”

He tilted his head, considering. “A day.”

She frowned. “A day?”

“With you.” He slipped the coin into his palm, making it vanish like a trick of the light. “You need a break.”

Y/N scoffed. “I don’t have time for that.”

“Then make time.” He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Or are you afraid you might enjoy yourself?”

There was something infuriatingly confident about him, something that made her want to refuse purely on principle. But there was also something else—a pull, an inexplicable curiosity. And deep down, a quiet exhaustion she wasn’t ready to name.

“…Fine,” she muttered, already regretting it. “But you’re giving that coin back.”

The man only laughed. “If you can win it.”

The day unfurled like a song she had long forgotten.

He led her through Ithaca’s winding streets, weaving through crowds, stirring mischief at every turn. They disrupted a dice game at the market, laughing as disgruntled gamblers cursed their interference. They swiped honeyed figs from an unattended stall, sprinting away before the vendor could protest. He moved like the wind—swift, untouchable, impossible to pin down. And somehow, she found herself keeping up.

But there was something different about this day, something that even Y/N couldn’t ignore. The sky was cloudless, and the air, warm and soft, seemed to carry a strange sense of peace. As the day wore on, she started to feel lighter, less burdened by the weight of her responsibilities. For the first time in ages, she wasn’t the captain, the princess, the protector. She was just… Y/N.

They paused at the cliffs overlooking the sea, the waves stretching endlessly beneath them. Y/N caught her breath, heart still pounding from their antics. For the first time in weeks—perhaps months—she felt weightless.

Her companion watched her with something unreadable in his gaze. “There she is.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The real you.” He leaned against a sun-warmed rock, tossing the coin lazily. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to have fun.”

Y/N looked away, towards the horizon. “Duty comes first.”

“Duty is important.” He didn’t mock her. For once, his voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. “But it shouldn’t be everything.”

She sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

A chuckle. “Wouldn’t I?”

She turned back to him, studying him properly. He was familiar, more familiar than he had any right to be. And yet, she knew nothing about him. Not his name, not where he came from. Nothing.

“Who are you?” she asked at last.

His grin returned, teasing, effortless. “A friend.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“And yet,” he flipped the coin between his fingers, “it’s the one you get.”

For a moment, his tone softened, his fingers no longer twisting the coin with his usual, restless energy. The mischief was gone, replaced by something quieter, more subtle. He stepped closer to her, the warmth of the sun behind him casting a soft light that seemed to catch the edges of his features, making them seem somehow less sharp, more human.

"I didn’t mean to add to the weight you’re already carrying,” he said, his voice softening. “I know it’s not easy... I just wanted to remind you that you don’t have to bear it all alone. There’s more to life than the burden you’re used to.”

Y/N blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in his demeanor. He wasn’t the playful trickster anymore, the charming stranger who toyed with her at every turn. He was… just someone who seemed to understand, even if he wasn’t supposed to.

“I—” She stopped herself, unsure of what to say. His words had caught her off guard. She had forgotten what it felt like to just exist without the constant pressure of duty. She had forgotten what it felt like to have someone care, even if just for a moment.

“I know,” he continued, his gaze softening further, “I can’t understand everything. But you don’t have to carry all of this on your own, Y/N.”

Her name on his lips—said so simply, so sincerely—felt like a weight lifting off her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how much she had needed to hear it, how much she had needed someone to notice the cracks she was trying so hard to hide.

She swallowed hard, the wall she had built around herself beginning to crack.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled then, but it wasn’t the usual teasing grin. It was warm, genuine, almost tender. He placed his hand briefly on her shoulder, a soft touch, before stepping back, the mischief returning to his eyes as if nothing had changed.

“Don’t thank me yet,”v he teased, tossing the coin in the air again, catching it with practiced ease. “You still haven’t won it back.”

But this time, it wasn’t the playful jab that made her smile. It was the unexpected kindness, the gentleness that had slipped through the cracks of his usual mask.

When Y/N returned home that evening, the shift was subtle, but Penelope noticed. A lighter step, a fleeting smile, a warmth that had been absent for too long. She said nothing, only met Y/N’s gaze and offered the smallest nod.

But elsewhere, beyond mortal eyes, two figures stood locked in quiet dispute.

One idly flipped a coin between his fingers—the same coin he’d taken from Y/N long ago.

“You overstep,” Apollo’s voice was sharp, irritation barely concealed beneath his calm tone.

Hermes, unfazed, tilted his head. “And you hesitate,” he replied, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Shall we see who wins?”

The air between them thickened with unspoken tension.

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiff with barely contained arrogance. “You know, Hermes, you can’t charm your way out of everything. Some things require more than tricks.”

Hermes chuckled, his grin widening. “Oh? And what would you suggest, Apollo? That I be more like you? Stand tall, show no weakness, and keep all those secrets locked away under that shiny exterior?”

Apollo’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening. “I have no time for your games, unlike some of us.”

Hermes raised an eyebrow, still casually flicking the coin between his fingers, each movement deliberate. He leaned in, his grin turning sharper, teasing. “Tell me, Apollo, how’s your last relationship going? No more broken hearts left in your wake, I assume?”

The jab hit its mark, and for a moment, Apollo’s cool exterior faltered. His gaze flickered, betraying something—resentment, regret—before he masked it again.

His eyes darkened, a dangerous flicker in them. “Careful, Hermes.”

The words were low, a warning, but Hermes only seemed to lean in closer, savoring the tension like a game. “What’s the matter? Don’t like the reminder? I’m sure all your lovers had the best of times, didn’t they? But I suppose I can’t blame them. You’re quite the catch... until they learn your secrets.”

Apollo’s jaw clenched, and he took a step forward, but Hermes’ grin never faltered.

“Don’t forget,” Hermes murmured, his voice dropping to a more dangerous tone, “I know how to play this game too. You might be the sun, but I don’t have to bend to your light.”

Apollo’s smile curled into something sharp and cold. “Keep playing your games, Hermes. We’ll see who gets burned in the end.”

For a long moment, their eyes locked, the simmering rivalry barely contained. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Hermes tossed the coin into the air.

“You might be right, Apollo,” Hermes said, his smile widening again. “But I think I’m the one who’s winning.”

AN: hi- surprise. hermes girlies, this is for you. this has been rotting in my notes now, i was going to publish it along with 1 other chapter and 1 interlude, but those two are causing me trouble. i keep editing it over and over again, i can't find myself being satisfied with any of the drafts i written. enjoy this for now— dw apollo stans, you'll have your chapter soon

[saiintvalentiine]

star-bright

Summary: Parrot is a lesser dragon who's looking for a wishing star to turn himself into a true dragon.

Notes: this is. hm. kinda weird even for me i think. if you've read requiescat, this premise is actually familiar to you, and you'll realize immediately how this is gonna end. unedited and hastily written to get it out of my system. divider.

Word count: 1,406

1 am

There's a clean impact crater in the field about three yards all around. There's a clear drag line through the grass heading north, where skyscrapers shine and the city coughs up smoke. It tapers off, but it's not hard to imagine that such a sight would be tempting to a falling wish.

Parrot has a wish to cash in, and stardust is easy to track.

2 am

Cities around here never sleep. It's part of Parrot's problem. He can't protect everything he wants, everyone he wants when he's this weak in a world this wide. Smoke billows out of the corners of his mouth, unthinking, unhappy, wings inert and senses dampened.

This wishing star is what will let him become what he was always meant to become.

He's been waiting to see one fall. They look like shooting stars, and there are plenty of those around, but a dragon can tell the difference. Even to a lesser one like him, they look brighter, tempting, more promising than the average star.

The trail this star has left behind is bright, sweet, lilac-tinted and sparkling. It weaves in and out of bars and tourist traps, between the bustling crowds and haggling merchants. Parrot is following, but just barely. It's trying to hide.

It knows its time is limited and is trying to extend it. How unfortunate for it that Parrot is the one who's going to find it.

3 am

The wishing star is eating a hot dog. Parrot is stunned when he finally catches up to it and it's at a hotdog stand. He honestly—

“ ‘s really good,” the star praises, smiling at the vendor.

“Can't believe you've never had a hotdog,” the vendor says wistfully.

“Crazy huh?”

The star finishes its meal, wiping its hands on a napkin. Its hair is dark with thin streaks of white, eyes violet and charming, and its skin deathly pale. It looks just like the old texts describe them— ethereal, impossible to look away from, delicious.

“There's a cart down that way that sells kebabs. You tell ‘em Vic sent ya, they'll make you my favorite.”

The star bounces up, brightens, and says, “I will! Thank you!”

“You have a safe night now,” the vendor calls out as the star walks off with a wave.

Parrot goes to follow, only to get his arm grabbed by the vendor.

“What's your problem?” Parrot snaps, shrugging out of his grip, the star getting further and further away.

“You leave that boy alone you fuckin’ pest, y’hear me?”

Parrot is— what the actual hell? He stares at the vendor, too baffled to respond for a moment.

“Don't think I didn't see you standin’ there leering,” the vendor continues. “It’s creeps like you makin’ this place impossible to live in. Fuck off.”

Oh god, this guy thinks Parrot is creeping on the star.

“I'm not doing anything wrong,” Parrot sputters out, stepping back and bumping into a passer-by. “I'm— I'm leaving!”

“Good riddance!”

Parrot scrambles off, flustered. He holds off on following the star’s trail until he's far out of the vendor’s sight.

4 am

It takes a little while longer, and Parrot spends way too long red in the face about it, but he eventually catches up to the wishing star again. This time, it's at a bar, which Parrot is deeply annoyed by. It's loud and smelly in here, but the irritated smoke that rises from his nose blends in with the eight people he sees smoking in here, so it's not all bad.

The star looks too sweet sitting at the bar. It's wearing a soft grey sweater and black slacks, with mismatched black and white boots. Despite that, the bartender is pouring it a drink with a big grin.

“This one has Midori in it,” she says over the music.

“Midori,” the star echoes. “Sounds delicious.”

“Oh it is!”

The star drinks from a cup with bright green liquid in it, and suddenly Parrot wonders how it's paying for this. Do stars descend with cash on hand? He's contemplating this as he edges closer and closer, shoulders being brushed here and there by other patrons. Someone brushes behind the star, and it turns at the resulting hasty apology. Parrot can tell the second it spots him in the corner of its vision— a hitched breath and a heavy hand slapping a wad of bills on the bartop are all Parrot gets before the star runs. It weaves so easily between people, like it's wafer thin, and the bartender yells after it. Parrot darts after it, tries to snatch its arm but fails as it bursts out of the bar and into the street.

Fine. If it wants to do this the hard way, Parrot isn't afraid of some hard work.

5 am

The goddamn star is still running and Parrot is running out of time. Wishing star luck piles up around it as it tries to escape, as it crashes into the arms of a wolf hybrid and a cat hybrid who accidentally block Parrot’s path, then it’s whisked a few feet away by a strange suit-wearing enderman when they trip into each other, then a different cat hybrid falls onto Parrot in a series of convoluted accidents that are only possible in fiction— at least Parrot thought they were only possible in fiction.

It doesn’t matter. Luck won’t be enough. Parrot will guarantee that.

6 am

Parrot finally catches the star. It’s racing back to the field it fell into, maybe trying to make it to the woods opposite of the city in an attempt to lose track of Parrot. But he’s sick of this game and he has to make this wish before dawn if he’s going to become who he was always meant to be, and that’s what pushes him to finally tackle the star down. Felled, it tries to scramble away, but Parrot catches its wrists between his talons and pins its squirming body down.

“Let go of me,” the star wheezes, ring-adorned fingers spasming wildly. “Let go of me!”

“Not until I get my wish,” Parrot snaps, breathing heavy, voice shot. He squeezes his hands and the star makes a choked noise.

“No, no no no, I’ll die if you do that, I’ll die!”

“I know that.”

“And you’re okay with that?!”

The star squirms, turning on its side to look up at Parrot. Its face is streaked with sweat and tears and dirt, but no blood; Parrot is sure these things don’t have mortal blood to bleed anyway, but he’s a little surprised it didn’t hurt itself on the way down. It just looks dirty now. Soiled.

“Fulfilling a wish costs the blood of the lamb.”

It tries again to wrench away from Parrot, but it won’t be able to get free. What Parrot wants is too much, too wide—

“I have a name, I’m a person,” the star begs. “I’m Wifies, I like— I like the color purple, I like Midori— at least, I think I do, I need more time, I could—”

“You are a wishing star, you aren’t a person! This is the point, getting caught and dying to a wish is the point of your existence!”

“Says who!” Wifies head drops down, voice wavering and wet. “Says who, the lesser dragons who use us? Of course you all think that’s all we’re good for! That’s what keeps you as lesser. If you can’t take it with your own hands, you’ll steal it from us.”

Wifies is heaving, pearlescent in the moonlight, and Parrot hates him.

“I have tried everything!” Parrot can’t control the way his voice rises, the way his mouth gets hot, the way his useless wings twitch on his back. “Everything to become better!”

“And you’ll kill me for it, because you’re a failure!”

“I wish,” Parrot is seeing red, he’s got to be precise with this, has to ignore the shuddering sobs beneath him. “I wish to become a true dragon.”

7 am

Parrot greets the dawn alone, no body, no heat, nothing beneath him.

He sits on his knees alone as the stars in the sky taper away to the sunlight. His wings unfurl to their full length, healthy and heavy, and he feels the potency in his throat, not just heat but flame flicking, flicking, flicking away in his gut. There isn’t even residue on his hands left.

Parrot greets the dawn alone.

[the-reader-insert-gazette]

Figure It Out - F!Reader x Kaedehara Kazuha

Featured Column - Genshin Impact

Kazuha can’t pinpoint when he started looking at Reader differently. But now, the thought of turning away feels impossible.

✒️ Word Count: 1527

He knew her sharp wit, the way she spoke without hesitation, the way her voice cut through the din of the Alcor’s crew like the clean slice of a blade. He knew how she handled herself in a fight—practical, efficient, with no wasted movement. He knew she preferred her tea bitter, that she had a habit of rolling her sleeves up to her elbows even in the dead of winter, and that she was always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs just to shut the others up.

But somewhere along the way, something had shifted.

Kazuha couldn’t pinpoint when it had started.

Only that now, he couldn’t stop noticing.

It wasn’t an extraordinary day. The Alcor was docked in Liyue Harbor, the crew unloading cargo while Beidou argued with a merchant about their latest trade. It was the usual chaos.

[Name] was perched on a wooden crate, arms crossed, watching the ordeal with something between amusement and exasperation. “Five minutes before she threatens to throw him overboard,” she muttered.

Kazuha, leaning against the mast beside her, let out a quiet chuckle. “You underestimate her patience.”

[Name] snorted. “I’ve seen her drag people out of a tavern by their collars for less.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes drifting to the harbor beyond, where the afternoon sun glowed against the waves. The wind carried the scent of the sea, warm and salty.

And then, without thinking, he glanced back at her.

She was still watching Beidou, but the light caught in her hair, turning the strands gold at the edges. Her profile was relaxed, sharp in places where the sun cast shadows, soft in others where it didn’t.

She wasn’t doing anything. Just existing.

And yet, for some reason, Kazuha felt his breath catch.

His mind stumbled over itself, trying to place the feeling, but it was frustratingly out of reach—like trying to catch mist in his hands.

It was nothing new, her being here, her talking to him. But something about this moment lodged itself deep in his chest, unfamiliar and warm.

When had that started happening?

Kazuha blinked, looking away as if she might somehow notice what had just unraveled inside him.

But of course, she didn’t. She just kept talking.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to your cloud-watching or whatever it is you do,” she said, stretching her arms overhead before hopping off the crate. “I’ve got errands to run before we set sail again.”

Kazuha cleared his throat lightly, forcing himself to focus. “Do you need company?”

[Name] shot him a glance, amused. “You volunteering?”

He hesitated. He wasn’t sure why.

But then, as if his body had decided before his mind could catch up, he nodded.

[Name] huffed a quiet laugh. “Suit yourself.”

Kazuha had followed [Name] into town before. This wasn’t new.

And yet, somehow, this time felt different.

He walked beside her as they navigated the busy streets of Liyue Harbor, the sea breeze mixing with the scent of fresh-baked pastries and spices from merchant stalls. The sounds of bargaining and laughter filled the air, familiar and constant.

[Name] moved through the marketplace with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before, haggling down prices with little effort. Kazuha watched as she bartered with a fishmonger, her voice level, arms crossed, entirely unimpressed.

“That’s robbery,” she scoffed, jerking a thumb toward the stall beside them. “He’s selling the same cut for six mora less.”

The vendor, a stout man with calloused hands, let out a good-natured chuckle. “Aye, but mine’s fresher.”

[Name] arched a brow. “And yet, somehow, it’s still overpriced.”

Kazuha fought back a smile as the back-and-forth continued, watching the way her expression shifted so naturally—sharp, confident, unwavering. She didn’t demand attention, she commanded it.

And yet, there was something about her that had always been effortless.

He didn’t know why he had never thought about it before.

Why now was different.

The fishmonger finally sighed, waving a hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll take four mora off, but that’s my final offer.”

[Name] clicked her tongue. “Five.”

The man groaned. “Woman, you drive a harder bargain than Beidou.”

[Name] smirked. “You should see me when I’m actually trying.”

The deal was struck. She handed over the mora and turned to Kazuha, lifting the wrapped fish slightly. “See? You just have to know how to talk to people.”

Kazuha tilted his head, amused. “I’ve always found silence to be just as effective.”

[Name] clicked her tongue, adjusting the bag on her hip as they kept walking. “Yeah, well, I don’t have the luxury of improving poetry and hoping people feel like giving me a discount.”

Kazuha chuckled, watching as she scanned the next stall, already setting her sights on a vendor selling spices.

And then, without thinking, he asked, “Do you do this every time we dock here?”

[Name] shrugged. “Someone has to.”

He considered that for a moment. “And if you didn’t?”

She blinked, giving him a sidelong glance. “What?”

“If you weren’t here. If you didn’t come to this market, argue over fish prices, talk merchants into lowering their costs. What would you be doing instead?”

[Name] frowned, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This is just… what I do.”

Something about that answer made something settle in Kazuha’s chest.

Because he understood it.

That constant motion. That feeling of always having something to do, because stopping—because thinking too hard about what came after—wasn’t something either of them allowed themselves to do.

And suddenly, Kazuha wasn’t sure if he had followed her out of curiosity or if he had followed her because, in some small way, she was the only thing that made sense to him right now.

[Name] gave him a look. “What’s with you today?”

Kazuha exhaled, gaze flickering down toward the cobblestone path before meeting hers again.

“I suppose I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been watching you.”

[Name] blinked. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Kazuha laughed, shaking his head. “I meant�� I never noticed the way you move through these moments. How easily you fit into the flow of things.”

[Name] stared at him for a second longer before rolling her eyes. “Alright, poet.” She waved a dismissive hand. “If you’re just gonna get weird about it, you can carry the fish.”

She shoved the wrapped package into his hands before he could respond, already walking ahead.

Kazuha stared down at the bundle in his hands, lips quirking in amusement.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected her to say. Maybe something sharp, something deflective—something that would make it easier to ignore the way his thoughts had shifted lately.

But [Name] had always had a way of cutting through things, even when she didn’t mean to.

So instead of pushing, instead of trying to make sense of whatever this was, Kazuha simply adjusted his grip on the fish and followed after her.

They moved through the marketplace with ease, weaving through clusters of vendors and shoppers. [Name] didn’t slow her stride for him, but he never had trouble keeping up.

She had always walked like this—with purpose, like she belonged to every place she set foot in.

And Kazuha, for reasons he didn’t quite understand yet, couldn't keep his eyes off of her.

They finished the rest of the shopping without incident, though Kazuha ended up carrying most of it. Not because [Name] asked—she never asked—but because he kept taking things from her hands without a word, and she never fought him on it.

By the time they returned to the Alcor, the sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, streaks of gold and orange bleeding into the sky.

[Name] dumped her satchel onto a crate near the ship’s entrance, rolling her shoulders with a satisfied sigh. “Not bad. No outrageous prices, no fights, no getting chased out of stalls.”

Kazuha arched a brow. “Should I be concerned that those are your standards for a successful trip?”

She smirked. “I live a very exciting life.”

Kazuha chuckled, setting the bundle of goods beside hers. He didn’t step away immediately, though.

Instead, he hesitated.

It was small—almost imperceptible. A pause that lasted only a fraction too long.

But [Name] caught it.

She turned her head slightly, fixing him with a look. “What?”

Kazuha exhaled, watching the way the wind pulled at the strands of her hair, the way the fading sunlight softened the edges of her sharp features.

He could lie. Say it was nothing.

But Kazuha had never been one to waste words.

“…I think I see you differently than I used to,” he admitted.

[Name] blinked, expression unreadable. “…What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Kazuha huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know yet.”

[Name] studied him for a long moment, as if waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t—not because he didn’t want to, but because he was still trying to understand it himself.

And for once, she didn’t push.

She simply let out a slow breath, tilting her head slightly. “Figure it out, then.”

Kazuha smiled, small and knowing.

"Will do."

Editor's Note: Poetry is not my strong suit so yes, I avoided it in this, under the thought that his poet brain turns to mush around Reader.

[sooz-again]

This is too short for me to justify throwing on ao3, so have some shitty almost Jetko for Valentine's Day.

This is stupid. 

Jet knows that this is stupid, and still his feet carry him forward through the streets of the lower ring. Night has fallen and the streetlamps are on, but he is hardly the only one still out and about. Others hurrying home or guards out on patrol. Just an average night. 

It doesn’t feel average to Jet, though.

Why is hard to explain. It certainly doesn’t make any sense, and he isn’t one to put much stock into signs. He doesn’t do well with that, that there are just things magically falling into place in the universe around him, to give him gentle nudges in particular directions, to send him where he’s meant to be. No, that feels like some sort of wishy-washy spiritual nonsense that monks and airheaded girls would believe in. 

Not Jet. Jet has always relied on what he can see, what he can touch, what he can easily track and put two and two together. Not flippant things that make him feel a certain way.

And yet. 

And yet, today, he’s come across a tea merchant on the streets three times, and he’s mistaken a few different men for Lee. He could have sworn he heard Lee’s distinctive raspy voice at least once, and has spied a pair of dual blades on display in a shop window. All coincidences, sure, but Oma, the way his mind keeps going back to that guy from the ferry. 

Jet has kept tabs on him. Of course he has kept tabs on him; he’s had the feeling that Lee might come around, that he might change his mind about becoming a Freedom Fighter, and Jet needs to know what he was up to in that case. He’s given space, of course, hasn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times since the ferry; in the teashop once or twice, if Mushi greets him on the street. Give Lee space, is the idea. Give him space, and then let him come to him.

Except that has fallen to the wayside today. All those weird reminders of Lee, and then, when Jet cleverly and craftily swiped a small box of sweets from an unsuspecting vendor, he’d opened it up to find that it wasn’t a single pastry like he’d expected. No, inside this paper box– small enough to sit in the palm of his hand– were two yumil-gwa. 

Jet had paused in that moment, standing in an alley, back to the wall, staring down at the treats. He’d just wanted something sweet, something that felt special and decadent and meant for those with more money than he. He could enjoy those two sticky sweets, and on any other day, he would. 

This is stupid. This is the dumbest thing Jet could be doing; it’s something he would absolutely be teasing Longshot or Smellerbee for, if roles were reversed. 

But still. His feet carry him forward and straight to Lee’s flat. 

He could use the door, but Jet doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to run into Mushi, doesn’t want to have to explain himself. Spirits, he doesn’t want to have to explain himself to Lee. Is there even a way he could?

It’s stupid, Jet tells himself even as he scales the side of the building, digging his fingers deep into the gaps between the stones. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. 

But still. 

All those moments that made him think of Lee. Just happening to end up with two sweets instead of one. Even he can’t brush it all off as a coincidence. 

But when he reaches Lee’s window, open as it always is, Jet pauses for just a moment. This is stupid. He hasn’t spoken to Lee much. They’ve hardly seen each other. And now he’s coming up here with a small box of sweets to share?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But it feels even stupider to just leave now, to have climbed all the way up here, for absolutely no reason. He’s not going to climb in. He’s not going to go calling for him. But he has to do something. 

So, he does the only thing that makes sense to him: carefully, quietly, he puts the box of yumil-gwa on the window sill, and then makes his way back down the side of the building. Idiot. He’d wanted that treat. And now he’s left it on Lee’s window like some kind of deranged secret admirer. 

The only consolation is that Longshot and Smellerbee aren’t here to witness it. 

Feet back on solid ground, Jet looks back up to the window he’d been hovering outside of, and freezes. Looking back down at him is Lee. 

Stupid fucking idiot.

He’s not going to let Lee see him squirm. There is no good move here, but Jet does the best he can think of: he raises one arm up, offers a half-hearted wave, and then leaves. Deep in his chest, his heart is pounding, and his stomach twists as if he cares how Lee reacts, and it’s so….

Stupid.

[gxr25256]

Mercy in the Shadows - Sixshot x reader

🌵 If there are any mistakes, please forgive me.

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

The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.

Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.

Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.

Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.

Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.

But then, his optics landed on "you."

It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.

A human.

The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.

He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.

He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.

There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.

He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.

This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.

He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.

Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.

Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.

An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.

The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”

The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.

“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.

Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.

The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”

The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.

It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.

And yet, he didn’t.

“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.

Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.

"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.

Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.

With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.

The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”

Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.

Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.

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

[burntsecrets]

Market Mischief

Pairing: Zuko x Katara Word Count: 820 Prompt: For Zutara Week 2024 | Day 6: Sweet @zutaraweek Warnings: Mild language, lighthearted teasing, humor, food-related themes, playful banter, minor romantic undertones

The marketplace buzzed with activity as vendors hawked their wares, carts rattled, and children darted through the throngs like mischievous sparrows. Katara weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, her arms laden with an assortment of ingredients for dinner. Zuko followed behind, his expression tight as he kept glancing over his shoulder, as though expecting a surprise ambush from a cabbage merchant.

“I still don’t get why we’re here,” he muttered, adjusting the hood of his cloak to better conceal his face. “We could’ve just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Katara interrupted, shooting him a pointed glare over her shoulder. “If you think I’m letting you ‘firebend’ our dinner together, you’ve lost your mind.”

Zuko grumbled something under his breath, but his steps quickened to keep up with her. “I’m not bad at cooking.”

“You burned rice.”

“It was one time.”

“And toast.”

“It was...extra crispy.”

“And that pot of tea.”

“Okay, fine!” He threw his hands up. “But it’s not like you’re perfect either. You made soup that was so salty Sokka said he could see through time.”

Katara froze mid-step and spun to face him, a saccharine smile that promised retribution spreading across her face. “Oh, really? That’s how you want to play this?”

Zuko immediately backpedaled. “I’m just saying—”

“I’ll show you ‘just saying,’” she quipped, grabbing a bright red fruit from a nearby stand and shoving it into his hands. “Here. Let’s see if you can even pick a decent lychee.”

He stared at the fruit like it was a bomb about to go off. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“Too mushy. Try again.” She crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised.

Zuko frowned, muttering something suspiciously like, “It’s just fruit,” before exchanging the lychee for another. Katara didn’t even bother inspecting it before shaking her head.

“Still wrong.”

“Are you making this up?” His voice pitched slightly, somewhere between incredulous and irritated.

“Are you seriously questioning my superior market skills?” Katara smirked, taking the fruit from him and swapping it for one from a different pile. “This one’s ripe.”

Zuko squinted at her. “How do you even know that?”

She tapped the side of her head. “Water Tribe instincts.”

“Oh, so now it’s instincts?”

Katara turned on her heel, heading toward the next stall, but Zuko caught the faintest grin tugging at her lips. He scowled, speeding up to walk beside her again. “Fine. Since you’re so good at this, what’s next?”

She didn’t answer, distracted by a stand overflowing with delicate jars of candy. The vendor—a cheerful, round-faced woman—beamed at them as they approached. “Looking for something sweet, young lady?”

Katara nodded politely, her eyes scanning the colorful array. “Just browsing.”

Zuko, however, narrowed his eyes at the jars like they owed him money. “Isn’t this kind of a waste?”

“Excuse me?” Katara looked up sharply.

“I mean,” Zuko said, flailing slightly under her glare, “we’re here for dinner ingredients. Why bother with candy?”

“Why bother with candy?” Katara repeated, her tone somewhere between disbelief and the ominous calm before a tidal wave.

The vendor wisely stepped aside.

“Let me tell you something, Sparky.” Katara plucked a jar off the shelf, full of little sugar flowers, and held it under his nose. “Candy is joy in edible form. It’s a reward after a hard day. It’s the perfect combination of ‘I deserve this’ and ‘Don’t judge me.’ And you, Prince Pessimism, could use some joy in your life.”

Zuko blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his lips twitched, threatening to curve upward. “So…you’re saying I need to eat candy to be less miserable?”

“Exactly!” She thrust the jar into his hands. “Consider it therapy.”

He snorted, a sound so uncharacteristic Katara almost dropped the bag of rice she was holding. “Fine,” he said, unscrewing the jar and popping a sugar flower into his mouth. His expression immediately shifted to one of wide-eyed horror. “This is…this is…”

“Sweet?” Katara offered, biting back a laugh.

“No,” he croaked, clutching his throat dramatically. “This is…too much.” He doubled over, mock-gagging. “I’m dying.”

Katara finally let her laugh burst free, the sound ringing out above the chatter of the marketplace. “You’re such a baby. It’s sugar, Zuko.”

“It’s poison,” he deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth twitched again.

Katara grabbed a flower from the jar and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm. Delicious. Guess I’ll have to finish the whole jar myself.”

Zuko straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Not if I get to it first.” He swiped another candy, tossing it into his mouth with a smirk.

And just like that, the competition began. By the time they left the marketplace, the jar was empty, Katara was triumphantly clutching the last flower, and Zuko—now suspiciously energized—kept insisting he wasn’t going to help clean up the “disaster kitchen.”

“Sweet, huh?” he said, nudging her with his elbow as they headed back toward camp.

Katara rolled her eyes but smiled. “Yeah. Sweet.”

[simbouquet]

TS3: Nicer Vendors + Ask Animation Edits

This mod requires Lazy Duchess' Mono Patcher Library to work properly!

This is a combo of two quick and dirty mods I made to solve some animation-related annoyances I had for a while. It contains a fix for vendors playing negative animations when Sims purchase from a register and adjusts the Ask animations to make these interactions quicker. 💬

Nicer Vendors

Ever since I started playing TS3, I was confused by the animations used for the Buy Items interaction on registers; it uses the same animations as the "Neutral" outcome of the Ask interactions, where the Sims have vaguely negative reactions to the interaction being performed.

This part of the mod contains a script that simply points these interactions to the "Friendly" state, which contains the more positive animations between the two Sims.

It should work on all registers across all EPs, including objects like the Seasons concessions stand, as well as certain Sims such as the special merchant from World Adventures and the tattoo artist from Ambitions. Let me know if I've missed something!

Ask Animation Edits

This is a jazz script replacement for the Ask animations. It adds more variety to the animations used both for the initiating Sim and the target Sim in the Friendly and Neutral states, so the positive and negative reactions are a little different every time.

The extra animations are generally shorter than the vanilla ones, so Sims actually spend less time performing these socials, which is always a good thing in my book because asking another person what they do for work shouldn’t take as long as it does in this game.

You may still see the vanilla animations happening from time to time, although they will be less likely.

Compatibility

The newest version of this mod is compatible with NRaas Consigner.

Ask Anim Edits will conflict with any other mod that replaces the social_askfor jazz script in JazzData.

Download: SFS / MTS / Patreon

21/11/2024: Nicer Vendors now requires Lazy Duchess's Mono Patcher Library. Added compatibility with NRaas Consigner.

07/02/2024: Sims now play the correct animations when running Buy Items directly from the Sim rather than from the register. - Adjusted animations for WA special merchant and AMB tattoo artist.

18/06/2023: Fixed interaction names not displaying properly.

15/06/2023: Initial release.

Credits & Thanks

Battery’s Script Mod Template Creator: Getting started with scripting quickly.

nraas: I used their Tunings code in my own script, which helped me inject the tuning of one interaction into another.

dnSpy: Peeking into the game’s files.

Visual Studio 2022: Writing the script.

Mono Patcher Library: Replacing game methods without having to clone interactions.

s3pe: Exporting/Importing resources, creating the package file.

Adobe Photoshop: Creating the preview image.

Thanks to @thesweetsimmer111 for helping me work out some issues with the jazz script!

Thanks to gamefreak130 for helping me replace some of the interactions!

Thanks to the lovely community at TS3 Creators Cave!

A Sim walked up to a concessions stand and he said to the man running the stand...!

[criticallyinneedofadar]

I'm so in love with your Elendil works :') A small request if possible. Elendil x Reader (romantic obvs) Elendil takes reader out on a late evening boat ride in Numenor Your fic makes Numenor feel so real so sort of inspired by this and this concept art of Numenor by night.

or Elendil and reader spend a day together in Numenor doing various things. Thank you❣️

I love fluffy Elendil so much. This was so much fun to write! Thank you for the ask!

Errands

The warm sun glows softly over Númenor, casting a golden hue on the bustling city streets. You fall into step beside Elendil, his presence grounding and steady, even as he greets nearly everyone who passes with a nod or a quick word. He doesn’t need to explain; you both know this is no ordinary day of errands.

“Well, you didn’t have to make it such a long list, you know,” you tease, nudging his arm as you follow him toward a small marketplace.

Elendil’s lips curve into a smile, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat. “I thought I was doing you a favor, keeping you in my company all day.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, you’re really doing me a favor, are you?”

He leans closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I promise you’ll be thoroughly entertained.”

It’s true. Elendil has a way of making even the most mundane tasks feel like an adventure. Together, you visit the cloth merchant, where he spends far too long debating fabric shades, leaning close to you as if to say he can’t possibly make this decision without your input. Then you stop at the spice vendor’s stall, where he bargains in his firm, commanding voice that leaves the vendor both pleased and slightly flustered.

He hands you a small pouch of spices when he’s done. “For you, my lady of impeccable taste.”

You laugh, holding the warm, fragrant pouch to your chest. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

By the time the sun dips lower, painting the city in hues of amber and crimson, Elendil’s errand list is finally complete. Or so you think. He leads you down to the docks, hand warm and familiar at your elbow.

“Elendil, what now?” you ask, sensing something in his tone—a hint of mystery that sends a thrill through you.

He guides you to a small boat, his fingers still on your arm, steady and reassuring. “I thought we might see the city from a different angle.”

With practiced grace, he helps you into the boat and then follows, pushing off into the water as twilight settles over Númenor. The gentle rocking of the boat and the sound of the water lapping at its sides have a calming effect, and you sigh as the day’s laughter and companionship linger between you in the silence.

As the boat drifts further from shore, Elendil lights a small lantern, casting a golden glow over both of you. In the dim light, his face is softer, his gaze unwavering as he looks at you, a flicker of something warmer than friendship in his eyes.

“Do you know how beautiful the city looks from here?” he murmurs, though his gaze remains locked on you.

Your cheeks warm, and you can’t help the smile that escapes. “I’d say the view right in front of me is even better.”

Elendil chuckles, reaching across to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers for just a moment too long, sending a tingle down your spine. “You always know just what to say,” he whispers, his voice filled with a warmth that makes you feel as if you’re the only one in the world.

As you look back over the water, the lights of the city begin to twinkle against the night sky, reflecting off the waves like stars. He points out different landmarks with a quiet reverence, sharing stories of the city that make you laugh and, sometimes, fall into a comfortable silence.

In one of those silences, Elendil’s hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He doesn’t speak, but his hand in yours says enough—a quiet promise, a tender comfort.

Eventually, he leans back, his eyes tracing the skyline before looking back at you. “Thank you for spending the day with me,” he says, and there’s a depth in his voice that pulls at your heart.

You turn toward him, catching the glimmer of the city lights reflected in his gaze. “You don’t need to thank me, Elendil. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

His expression softens, a gentle smile gracing his lips. Slowly, he brings your hand to his chest, right over his heart. “Then let’s stay a little longer.”

You stay there with him on the water, wrapped in the city lights, laughter, and all the little moments that tell you—without a doubt—he feels the same as you.

[greyjoy-girl]

Salt and Snow: Part XXII

Summary: After Balon Greyjoy's uprising fails, a young Theon Greyjoy is taken to Winterfell as a ward and hostage. Within the castle's looming stone walls, he meets Lord Stark's bastard daughter, a sharp-eyed girl who seems to look straight through him. As the years pass, their shared loneliness transforms their childhood rivalry into a complicated bond forged from shared loneliness and feelings of isolation. As tensions rise in Westeros, war breaks out and Theon is pulled between Pyke and Winterfell, testing the strength of their bond.

18+, minors DNI

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Snow! Reader

Warnings: PTSD (past rape/torture)

Length: 1.6k words

Notes: I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out!

Masterlist

PREVIOUS PART || NEXT PART

━─━────༺Part XXII༻────━─━

300 AC— Early Fall, Braavos

The streets are too bright.

Everything gleams. Dyed silks whipping in the wind, polished brass bells hanging from balconies, colored lanterns swinging from ropes overhead. The air smells like fried batter, smoke, and citrus crushed underfoot.

Theon doesn’t even know what the festival is for. No one had explained. The dockworkers just said the street would be packed and that was that.

He hadn’t wanted to come. He hates crowds. Hates feeling like other people can see him. But she had wanted to.

So he went.

She keeps close, hood down and hair braided in the way she’d learned from some merchant’s wife. She doesn’t smile, but her eyes move. Going from a musician playing the harp, to a juggler tossing knives in perfect arcs.

She smells like lye and wood ash, the scent stuck to her from her days doing laundry. Her hand, rough from her work, brushes his once when they pass to close to a street vendor. Neither one says anything.

A man brushes past her, tall, fair haired, too casual in the way he looks at nothing. She flinches. Theon notices. He doesn’t say anything but he steps a little closer.

She coughs once, quick and dry. He glances at her, but she brushes it off, wandering off in another direction to listen to a song.

A child tosses flowers from a rooftop, one of them hitting him square on the head. He jolts, reaches for a knife that isn’t there. She catches his sleeve, steadying him, before taking the soft yellow plant from his hair.

He breathes through it.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is.

He doesn’t want to be seen. But he follows her gaze from stall to stall, hoping it will keep him tethered.

He thinks, distractedly, about how easy it would be to disappear here.

One step into the crowd. One step into a canal. One step into a door that doesn’t lead back.

No one here would ask his name. No one would stop him.

But he’s not here alone. He watches her reach for a paper wrapped pastry, fumbling it as someone bumps her elbow.

She laughs. Just for a second. He can’t remember the last time he heard it.

Later, they sit against a stone wall near the edge of the festival, the water lapping at the canal wall beside them. She’s flushed from the heat and walking so long.

She sneezes once, rubbing her nose against her sleeve.

“You’re getting sick,” he says, before he can stop himself.

She shrugs. “Everyone is.”

He thinks of the flowers. The knives. The children with bare feet and red faces, smiling wide.

She doesn’t seem to regret coming.

Neither does he.

Still, when she leans against the wall and closes her eyes for a moment, he stands a little straighter beside her.

Just in case.

═══════════════

The shirt you’re working on won’t hold still.

The needle keeps slipping from your fingers. The light is too bright. Your eyes water without warning.

You’ve mended dozens of tunics like this, rough thread on salt-stiff linen, but this one swims every time you try and focus. The fishmonger’s wife notices before you do, watching you wobble on the stool, your shoulders sagging.

She’s been saying things to you all morning, none of which you understood. On better days, the trade tongue isn’t too hard to understand, but today is different. The words are too fast, too round, waves that roll over instead of breaking.

Eventually, you catch one thing clearly. “Go home.”

She doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. Maybe worried.

You manage a nod, maybe a thank you. The bench wobbles under you as you stand. The ground swirls the whole way back to the loft.

You meant to lie down on the mattress.

You don’t make it that far.

When you wake, the floor is cold and uneven beneath your shoulder. Your mouth tastes of copper. The light hurts.

Then, there’s a hand on your forehead, rough and gentle at one time.

“Theon?” you ask, voice raspy.

He’s crouched beside you, one hand against your skin, the other holding his glove. There’s sweat at his temple.

“You’re burning,” he says. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t—how long?”

You blink. You wouldn’t know. Time escaped you all morning.

He presses a cloth to your face. It smells like sea and vinegar. The sudden cold makes you flinch.

“You’re not answering me,” he says, louder and sharper. Not angry. Frightened.

You smile, or something like that.

Theon is still in there. You remember when you’d fallen in a frozen stream, too impatient to wait for someone to come with you. You’d nearly drowned, but he’d pulled you out. Calling you stupid, mad, but he’d carried you back to the hall anyways and left you with his cloak.

“I wasn’t drowning,” you murmur. “You thought I was.”

He looks confused.

“You left your cloak,” you say, voice slurring the words together. “You were soaking too, gave me your cloak.”

He freezes. You see the glimmer of recognition, quick and painful.

He doesn’t answer. You don’t need him to, not right now.

You close your eyes again, fever humming like insects in your skin.

Theon stays close.

That’s enough.

═══════════════

The fever’s made her restless, tossing, muttering, sweat cooling on her skin before being replaced by fresh heat. Theon doesn’t know what to do except watch, press a damp cloth to her face every few hours.

She’s muttering something again. All he catches is one word, “mint,” and he remembers. Old Nan, how she would brew peppermint leaves into tea for fevered head and weak stomachs. It was bitter, but it helped.

She’s still asleep when heslips out.

The streets are mostly empty this time of night, just a few dockhands moving crates and an occasional drunk singing, slurring songs into the cobblestone. Everything still smells like oil and smoke from the festival.

He finds an occupied stall, a woman bent over a basket of dried herbs and setting up for the day. He points to a handful of the greenest sprigs.

“Pepper… leaf?” he tries. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of the language, given how he avoids speaking to anyone. “For tea. Sick.”

She squints. Tilts her head.

He tries again, mimicking drinking, gesturing towards his stomach, then touching his forehead. “Sick,” he says, more urgently this time.

Somehow, she understands. Gives him the leaves after wrapping them in paper.

He hands a few coppers. Overpays. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t haggle.

He’s just glad he managed.

On the walk back, the wind picks up. He clutches the paper closer to his chest. The streets are still strange and unfamiliar, but he has something useful in his hands. Something that might help her. That feels like enough.

The loft is still when he returns. Just the sound of her breath, the occasional creak of the ceiling.

She’s taken up the whole matrress, arms thrown out, one leg tangled in the blanket, hair sticking to the sweat on her face.

She’s smiling.

Not a fever-dream grin, not manic. Soft. Something that used to be familiar.

The way she used to smile when she’d finished her embroidery, sat with her siblings, pretended not to be watching him and Robb in the yard.

He swallows hard.

Sets the parcel down by the stove, a half-full pot of water beside it. Ready to boil for when she wakes.

He doesn’t want to wake her, to touch her and ruin whatever peaceful dream she’s living in.

So he curls up on the floor beside the mattress. His shoulders ache against the hard stone, but he doesn’t move. It’s the closest he’s felt to peace in months.

═══════════════

You wake slowly.

The light pouring in through the shutters is cold and grey, it’s still early, maybe, or overcast. The mattress is too warm in some places and too cold in others. Your limbs are heavy, like someone filled them with sand. Your throat aches. Your mouth is dry.

A familiar feeling. Fever. You’ve had worse.

You try to sit up, but the ache in your lower back stops you. Instead, you let your eyes wander.

There’s a pot by the stove. Clean. Beside it, a paper parcel. The wind sneaking through the shutters carries the smell to you. Peppermint.

Your head turns.

He’s asleep on the floor beside the mattress, curled toward the wall, arms tucked close like he’s trying to take up less space. His back rises and falls with slow, steady breaths.

The effort it must have taken, finding the herb, asking for it, all wandering through dark streets with his bad legs and the quiet shame that clings to him like a second skin.

You don’t know when he slipped out. How long he was gone.

But you do know it was for you.

You stare at the water. It’s not hot yet. He must have meant to boil it when you woke up.

Your eyes drift back to him.

His face looks younger in sleep. Less guarded. More like the Theon before. But there’s a line between his brows that never goes away, even now. His hair is too long, falling over his face. There’s a patch at the temple where it’s growing back darker, black strands tangled among the white. The stubble along his jaw is uneven, like he’s stopped trying to keep it neat. His hands are folded under his cheek, what’s left of them. You can’t see the scars from here, but you know where they are.

You don’t wake him. He looks so still.

But for the first time in a long while, you think both of you might be capable of kindness, even if neither of you knows quite how to hold it yet.

═══════════════

PREVIOUS PART || NEXT PART

[pointycorgiears]

White Tiger

There's a white tiger plush toy that sits on Mihawk's headboard over his bed.

He's had it for over thirty years.

He was always the tough kid at Moro's dojo. He was always the one demonstrating or correcting for the less skilled students. He did not have toys. His old family never let him have any. So he thought he did not have time to play. He was above such childish things. Or so he loudly proclaimed to his peers.

He pretended not to be distracted by the cute and fluffy white tiger sitting in a toy cart at the market one day.

He acted like he was paying attention to his master as she had him read through their grocery list while they picked out items from the fruit seller, instead of glancing back to the tiger across the street every few seconds. Moro then hurried him on to the next vendor and he had to silently bid farewell to the toy.

He did not notice when Moro told him to go buy a sack of flour from down the alley while she discreetly went and purchased the tiger toy and stuffed it in her bag.

After another long and hard training session the next day, Mihawk lay exhausted in his bed. He felt something soft placed on his arm, and opened his eyes to a face full of stripes and string whiskers, and Moro smiling at him gently from his bedroom door.

He was always the tough kid, but that white tiger was cuddled and loved from that first night all the way into his early adult years.

Now here it sat on his headboard on Karai Bari, evacuated with the rest of Mihawk's most treasured things from Kuraigana. It had seen its fairshare of hardships throughout the years, but nothing serious enough that Perona couldn't patch up once she discovered the toy (she got caught snooping in his room). As a result, it looked almost exactly like it did on the day Mihawk first saw it.

The first time Talon saw it, Mihawk felt the sensation of looking in a mirror of time that was showing him his younger self. There was the starry sparkle of longing in the Seraphim's wide eyes. Mihawk allowed him to hold it, to play with it but only if Talon promised to exercise the utmost care while handling the old, delicate thing.

Talon played with the plush every night before bedtime, always careful, always with fondness in his eyes. It was obvious the child was keeping his promise. So Mihawk finally relented and one night, after a grueling training session, he asked Talon if he would want to keep the white tiger as his own.

"It's yours," Mihawk told him. "You can have it now."

There was a pondering look on Talon's face as the boy held the tiger in his hands. What he then said in response to the offering completely caught Mihawk off guard.

"No, it's okay, Dad. He's important to you."

Talon then set the tiger back in its resting spot on the headboard, and hugged Mihawk goodnight before going to his own room.

Mihawk stared at the tiger sitting above him for a long time before falling asleep.

A week went by with Mihawk occasionally offering Talon custody of the tiger toy between breaks or meals. Each time, the boy declined. He was still allowed to play with it at night before bed, but he always selflessly put it back in its place. Mihawk was beginning to accept that maybe there were just some aspects that were different between him and his little clone.

Until a merchant ship arrived one day to deliver supplies. Its next stop after Karai Bari was going to be an island with a large fishing village where many families and children made their home. So as Mihawk and Talon inspected the goods from the ship, a crate of toys happened to catch the Seraphim's eye.

Mihawk was busy checking off Cross Guild's supply list when Talon came running up to him, excitedly tugging on his coat.

"Dad! Look!"

Talon was holding up a lion plush to show him. It had golden fur with a fiery red mane, and stringy whiskers. The child's eyes were absolutely beaming, and for the second time, Mihawk felt he was looking in a mirror.

The lion was purchased on the side with some spare berry Mihawk had in his pocket. From that moment on, it did not leave Talon's side for the entirety of the day. It even sat at the dinnertable, where Buggy pretended to feed it vegetables, much to its distaste, and commented how it must be a cousin of Richie's. Talon laughed and giggled, and the smile on his face brought a warm happiness to Mihawk's heart.

He made Talon promise to care for the lion as much as he did the tiger, so that "one day, you may be able to give it to your own children."

"I will, Dad," Talon answered as they sat on Mihawk's bed, and he crossed his heart. Something he recently learned from Buggy. "Look! Now Stripes has a friend!"

Mihawk still planned on passing his own toy to the child someday, when it was time. For now though, he would enjoy playing a game of Lions and Tigers before bed every night.

[lullaebies]

Helaegon prompt: once Helaena told Aegon how she would love to visit the city and walk on the streets, try some street foods and cheap wines one day. So on her nameday Aegon took her for a city walk, he made sure she taste all the street foods and wines, after roaming the whole city they went to dragon pit, took their dragons and went for a ride. Then they had their first kiss, it was a full moon night, while kissing they both were on there dragons, before kissing they had some conversation like BRAIME where Aegon said something like "I've never kissed anyone on a dragon before" then Helaena said something like "I've never kissed anyone before" then they kissed

I know it might be kinda corny but the brainrot is so real that i can't help 🙈

did i stay up till five am to write this? yes. do i regret it? no. you asked for corny and i DELIVER! very soft cute helaegon is due. i had to make some concessions to make things make sense, but i stuck to most of the prompt <3 it's over 2k, so def my longest req so far!

The city is splayed before her in a way like never before.

Helaena follows Aegon through the twisting alleyways and the loud streets. The sun is setting with an unignorable glow down the road, the vivid orange rays warming up even the shadows of the buildings. She would have assumed that most people would start making their way to their homes now, but it seems as if the streets are only growing more crowded.

She doesn’t quite understand how Aegon manages to find his path between the people so easily, evading them and walking between them confidently and swiftly. He skips on nimble feet as if he’s mouse ready to sprint away. Don’t mention that to him, she thinks to herself. He didn’t like that one time she compared him to skipper butterfly, and those she thinks are quite pretty too.

The fact he complied with her wish to see the city on her nameday at all has her surprised; she doesn’t want to quite ruin it.

This is the first time she sees the different vendors that are offered. They ran past the fruit and vegetable markets when they went down Aegon’s High Hill, and her legs still feel giddy at the feeling of running down to the city’s horizon instead of only seeing it from afar, but now her mouth waters at the smell of the street food.

To her side she sees a man and lady together operating a moveable oven, sitting on a carriage. “Hot pies, hot pies!” the man shouts to the street, and she cannot help but laugh. She has never seen such a thing before.

Aegon looks back at her, already a few steps away. “What are you ogling there?” he yells towards her, as if they are both not doing something forbidden, in cloaks that hide who they are. Helaena snaps her head back, and rushes by his side. 

“They are making pies in an oven that moves,” she tells him, the smile not quite overwritten from her face. 

Aegon snorts. “They do,” he says. “But before your cheeks grow too warm at the sight, those do taste rather dusty.”

She pouts at him and his dismissive smirk. She almost thinks him more so lazy to not take her to try; a part of her thinks she should just scurry closer on her own, but then he takes her hand, and starts whirling her towards another stand, where another merchant stands.

“If you want nameday pastries we can go to the Street of Flour,” he says, when the sizzling of ham and sausage reaches her ears before the scent reaches her nose. “But you’d be better off trying something new on your nameday, sweet sister.” 

Aegon tosses the merchant a few silver coins, and with few words the man gives them not only meat but also mead. The meat is on skewers, each piece a different meat with some burnt tomatoes in between, and she looks at it sheepishly while her brother wolfs down his part of the meal easily. She follows his steps, and takes a daring bite.

The herbs used in the seasoning burn at her tongue, mouth falling open. Aegon laughs when he brings his hand to bring her jaw back to its place. “Wash it down,” he tells her, lifting up his cup of mead as a hint. Helaena licks her lips, and brings her cup up to look at it. The orange of the sunset spills into the beverage, in a way reflecting like thick honey in its glass. It doesn’t look bad.

She hums, and decidedly clanks her cup against his, giving a timid smile. Aegon seems receptive to implicit suggestion, grinning. He downs it as easily as he did his skewer, while she’s in for another surprise. There’s a mildness of honey to it, but more than all, the drink makes her throat feel fuzzy upon first sip.

Helaena finds that she doesn’t hate it. She takes another sip, and decides she even likes it. She asks for some more after she finishes.; Aegon ends up buying the cup off of the merchant, letting her walk with it further down the street.

When the sun decides it toiled enough for the day, and the darker night sets in, they stumble closer together. Aegon is surprised when she holds onto his arm, but the many people around them have her slightly unnerved, and there is clamour all around them. She feels slightly fuzzy, though all the same content.

There are celebrations all around them and the bards’ tunes are heard loudly from the taverns scattered around them. Street performers breathe fires and make puppets on a string dance, garnering audiences that erupted in laughter every once in a while.

They all look so happy.

Helaena looks up at Aegon. He shouts in excitement at some of the performers who dance with the fires at hand, his face at ease she finds nostalgic. His voice is gritty in a sense that is almost grating, and a part of her wants to take her revenge from before and bring his mouth to a close too, but ends up only grazing her fingers against his cheek.

His head turns to her in curiosity, and she watches him with her own interest plain on her face. Their impending wedding comes back to mind; her nerves wouldn’t allow her to think of it often, but her mind slips away to it easily now.

“Happy nameday, princess!” Sudden roars from the nearby tavern come along, and Helaena is spooked beyond belief, bending completely into Aegon’s chest. Her hood falls off and she looks around her; how would they know. Aegon keeps her firm from falling, and looks at her with his positively all-knowing grin once more. 

“Don’t frown,” he says, pinching her cheek with slight care. “They are celebrating in your name, you know.”

Helaena blinks at him, the purse of her lips still evident. “In my name?”

“They’ll take any reason to celebrate. For them we’re good enough as any,” he says, and raises playful eyebrows at her. “I thought you’d like that. When did you grow picky? You should celebrate with them.”

You look so happy, she thinks, and she isn’t sure what is this swelling feeling of piercing warmth that surges within her. Like a gap in her heart that only now became evident. She stabilises herself in his hands, too prideful to admit as much, but able to admit the facts. “I’m already celebrating with you.”

That makes him grow quiet, his grip on his arm growing looser, more cautious. Perhaps even alarmed. She feels stuck in time until another intervention outside comes forth.

“...Princess?” A goldcloak calls, slightly far ahead. Ser Luthor Largent, Helaena recalls; he’s the captain of the barracks in the Tower of the Hand. He squints his eyes at her as he draws closer. “Princess Helaena?”

Aegon takes one quick look at him, and grabs her wrist, and starts running. The hood of his cloak falls off too, and suddenly both of their silver locks are out in the air. Helaena grabs the skirts of her dress and starts to match his pace, and the sound of Ser Luthor’s armor clanking behind them as he tries to run after them is suddenly exciting.

He calls them, but Aegon laughs over the man’s yells, and so does she. When they finally lose him between the upwards twisted alleys, they are on Rhaenys’s hill, a long walk away from the beaten path back to the Keep. The chill on the night that is creeping upon them starts to be felt. Mother will surely know they’ve been gone now that a goldcloak recognized them. It would be wise to end the night here, sneak into the keep and feign innocence, but Helaena has her mind set on where she wants to go. 

The dragonpit.

“Where are you dragging me?” Aegon asks panting when she starts going up the hill, hand capturing his and forcing him to come along. He complies almost too easily.

“To celebrate my nameday,” she chuckles into the cold air.

She manages to convince the dragonkeepers to allow her to see Dreamfyre; for her nameday,after all. Dreamfyre also makes a compelling case, when she roars in agreement from the depths of pits. Aegon says hello to Sunfyre briefly, promising the golden dragon he’ll come to him in another morning, when the sun is up.

Aegon watches her prepare to get on Dreamfyre, however, leaning against a stone wall. “To think the first time I take you out of the Keep, you leave me drunk and abandoned,” he says half-heartedly. “Perhaps Mother would be as disappointed in you as she will be with me.”

Helaena shakes her head at him, a gummy smile on her face. “Not likely, I’d think,” she says, and comes to take him by the hand. “I told you, I am celebrating with you.”

“Huh?” he asks, and he doesn’t realize, until Dreamfyre heeds her wishes just as he heeded her too, and cranes her neck so they can both come atop her. It’s her turn to chuckle, when it dawns on him, and he mumbles like a child, unsure.

“Hel, we’re both rather drunk—”

“Dreamfyre’s big, she won’t let us fall,” Helaena answers simply. Aegon might be unsure, but that unsureness is odder than simple reservations. His eyes stuck on her apprehensive, but also waiting. She knows it; so she prompts him further. “Please.”

And he submits as she asks, as if he had never expected it at all.

The moon is round, full, and gleaming when they take off to the air, both strapped and secured to the saddle. Dreamfyre takes to the winds elegantly, with precise beats of her large wingspan lifting them gently. Aegon clings onto her; he was a dragonrider first, but never has he rode a dragon with someone else. He grips onto her firmly, like a lifeline when they take off. 

And underneath them, the city is shining with lanterns and torches alit all around, the hue of the dim moonlight giving washes over it to make it seem peaceful, from so high up. Before long, Dreamfyre settles into a pace, glistening for all to see and letting Helaena lean back against Aegon as she flies gently through the sky.

She turns her head back to Aegon, and meets his gaze that was already on her. “What?” she asks him.

Aegon licks his lips, but wills himself to speak. “I’ve just been thinking,” he starts, and a hint of a grin appears again. “I’ve never kissed someone on dragonback before.”

Helaena feels the weight of her heart sink and soar; for a moment she almost thinks Dreamfyre descended down. Aegon’s hold on her midsection feels tighter, the top of her head nuzzles at the crook of his neck before she lifts herself slightly, and looks back at him. Gently, she offers. “‘I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

Aegon chuckles at that, and she nearby wants to elbow him, but then his face is right by hers, and his nose is tickling against her own. She closes her eyes, and there’s plump pressure against her lips. She nearly laughs into it herself; how his naturally pouty and sullen lips felt prominent even in their kiss. It made her giddy, however.

For how sullen and pouty they could be, she can feel his lips draw a smile on hers. She kisses him back while he deepens the kiss, teaching her all stuff anew as he did when they were down below in the streets. 

I feel so happy.

They only break apart when Dreamfyre roars and breathes out her pale flames.It takes them both by surprise at first, but they both fall into giggles soon enough. Aegon slouches over her shoulder, trying to repress a wheeze.

“Happy nameday, Hel,” Aegon says, settling against her. 

She hopes they’ll get to celebrate as such in years to come, too.

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

How do you think cybertronian society would react (pre war) to ashlyn like unleashed on their planet, because personally I think that would be hilarious and also terrifying. Do I ask this mainly because the thought of young D-16 and either current story Ashlyn or pre story Ashlyn interacting is both terrifying and interesting? Yes.

Honestly, it could go so many different ways, *evil cackle*

Speaking of the new movie, is everybody else hyped? CAUSE I AM SO EXCITED! FINALLY, we are getting a fun animated Transformers film ヾ(*´ ∇ `)ﾉ

I saw that cross-eye megatron reference from Bumblebee, tfp anyone?

ᕕ(⌐■_■)ᕗ ♪♬

ehem, happy dance aside, here's what I think a Golden Age Ashlyn would have been like...

Presuming that she fell into this situation as a Human things get awkward very quickly. Organics aren't very well received on Cybertron nevermind how their products are luxury goods apparently

Running through the streets, ducking under vendor stalls, and darting between peds like a literal street rat, Ashlyn is very very confused on what the utter frag happened to her.

Unfortunately, as an organic alien lifeform, especially as one that is currently undiscovered, she is VERY distinctive. Her small size helps her a bit with sneaking, but eventually, it becomes common knowledge that a weird creature is hanging around. It doesn't help that her need for breathable air severely restricts potential roaming areas, and only a handful of stores/merchants carry edible food items.

Already making a name for herself as a pest... in a surprisingly literal sense.

When she's eventually spotted and caught by a Cybe with particularly good reflexes, Ash is forced to come up with something fast so she doesn't get squished. By now, you all know where her self-defense tendencies tend to point to.

On the plus side, the twerp survived. On the negative, he's going to need a new servo since the wiring that articulates his digits is beyond saving. Also, a small feral organic that goes for joints is apparently entertainment enough for these people. Welcome to the mini and illegal gladiator battles, Ashlyn! The unregulated leagues for those who can't afford to go watch the real thing.

Look at her go, gaining all the XP fighting alien bugs and other mini-bosses.

Of course, 3 things occurred during this time period. 1) Ashlyn is actually picking up on Neocybex and proving surprisingly adept at it. 2) She's starting to gain a legitimate reputation and doing Humans Are Space Orcs proud via creative/brutal takedowns of her opponents, and biological features that can be terrifying to an alien. 3) Someone in Iacon has quietly been looking for a creature resembling her specifications, but due to the fact that Ashlyn is in Kaon and an asset of an illegal fighting ring, she is unidentifiable.

Of course when Ashlyn finally gains enough of an affinity for Neocybex, (with a very thick kaon accent) she wants to wait to reveal her sentience until it's at a point where she can't be knocked off or ignored. That plan does not last. No.

Because Ashlyn Moore, covered in robot gore, looks up one day to see a very familiar outline.

"ɎØɄ"

D-16, for his part, is very confused as to why the little alien just looked at him and started chittering like a sparkling while shaking.

The crowd is in an uproar.

See humans do look very similar in structure to a basic Cybertronain model. Even more so when you compare it to a sparkling model which is squishy. eh, Unicron connection?

The point is, an unidentified, kinda sparkling-ish thing, that sounds like sparkling, has also just fulfilled one of the oldest Sparkling-Guardian rituals of choosing an adult to protect them. Look at ze adult, go to ze adult, don't let ze adult leave without you.

Ashlyn might not have had such... noble intentions when she launched herself at D-16 while rambling, but such is the beauty of cultural miscommunications. And dehydration and malnourishment. And an almost chronically activated stress response. You get situations like these!

"ɎØɄ!-гЅ₮₳₭Ɇ ₴Ø₥Ɇ ⱤɆ₴₱Ø₦₴��฿łⱠł₮Ɏ! …-₣Ɽ₳₲ł₦₲ ฿Ʉ₲₴ ł'VɆ ₭łⱠⱠɆĐ?"

Ashlyn is only half understandable in this state, but it's fine. D-16, and soon all of Kaon understands perfectly.

A scrappy deformed sparkling, likely originating from an unidentified hot spot, beat the odds and has chosen an ex-miner and soon full-time gladiator to be her sire/mentor. What a spark-warming story.

Oh yeah, and someone in Iacon is still hunting that human.

The end result would probably culminate in an overly suspicious Ashlyn accidentally causing a chain reaction that would lead to a Decepticon Orion Pax, a proper coup of the High Council, probably Emperor of Destruction Starscream, and Big Villian Shockwave. The Autobots would not exist. Does anyone want to try and theorize why?

D-16 would realize pretty quick that this tiny bundle of chaos isn't an actual sparkling, but it's an argument he'd use to keep her should any outside influences try and take Ashlyn away. Why? Because a highly intelligent and vicious mystery just dropped into his lap, and someone on the Council wants it really badly. That's more than enough of a justification.

Now, if only he could find out why the organic hates him so much... and why she's so valuable.

Now Ashlyn as a bot would be VERRRRRY different.

Same as the first, she pops up in Kaon (may or may not be a narrative reason for that (・ω<) )

Unlike the human version, the poor girl is caught almost immediately.

Turns out, stumbling around a foreign area, being unable to speak the language, and lacking identification doesn't get you the best treatment. Unfortunately, her more bestial-looking design doesn't help much either in a Functionist society.

Actually, the Enforcers processing her are pretty confused by it, the wings and taloned servos say Seeker, but the spines and fanged denta hint at something else completely... and the subject refuses, or is unable to, transform into an altmode...

Oh well, can't put it in a category, and then toss it out.

Flagging the weirdness for the bosses to deal with, the anomaly is sent to the mines, and a record containing her image and newly given designation is sent to the higher offices. YN-013 is soon forgotten.

Ashlyn, by the time she figures out written translations for Neocybex, finds the designation hilarious. Her fellow miners don't understand why she giggles when she introduces herself.

The mines are horrible, that much is undeniable, but at the same time, Ashlyn can't help but feel like it should be worse?

Her form proves adept at collecting energon, her claws far more efficient than the half-rusted pick-axe she's handed every day. The energon is easy to find too, almost like there's a sixth sense in her brain for where those shards are hiding.

She doesn't realize that the tunnels she's stationed in quickly gain a reputation for being more productive. That her peers end their days not quite as run down anymore. That miners switch shifts and bribe to be in the same branch of tunnels. She's quickly become an omen of good luck and temporary revival.

Ashlyn also doesn't realize that someone in Iacon is tearing through every rumor on Cyberton looking for her... or the organic her.

D-16 hears rumors about the newest unfortunate spark that's been sent to join them in the dark, but he doesn't believe it. Not until he sees it.

There is something about this individual that's different, maybe the stories are true. Solus reforged, perhaps? The missing Thirteenth? Or is this a new prime, come to save them and bring Cybertron back to its glory.

Ashlyn for her part is vibing collecting pretty rocks, and would prefer the future genocidal maniac to stay far away from her, please.

The not-yet-future-genocidal-maniac does not leave. Instead, he talks.

D-16 is actually the one that teaches her proper Neocybex, not the fragmented version she's been getting by with. In return, she tells him what the surface was like for the brief bit of time she was there.

Over time, the strange happenings around YA-013 are normalized and forgotten, but not by D-16. He knows she is not just some wild-forged thing that had the bad to stumble into the wrong city-state. He knows that she can't just be some bestial new-forged, because her optics are far too aware, too knowing. She hesitates, as though shuffling through information when she speaks. The alien babble she talks to herself in, while basic, is too natural to be anything but a primary language. Her smiles are sad even if the laughter is easy. She says things, and calls him Bucket Head, and Mega-arse.

She already knows who his favorite Prime is.

YN-013 never comments when he explains his plans to become a gladiator and gain his freedom. But he can feel the judgment. The resignation. Like she already knew. "Forget about me when you become one of the most famous bots to walk on Cybertron, yeah? Little old me will be nothing compared to the masses that'll scream your name."

YN-013 never talked about her own future, not in a way that sounds lasting. "I'd like to sightsee while I can. Never know when city walls will go tumbling down."

Megatronus doesn't forget her. Not in the Pits as he battles against foes and realizes how much healthier his frame is compared to his opponents, how much stronger, despite them all feeding off the same scraps. He doesn't forget as he meets an Archivist and hears all the snide jokes about his type being "boys in red and blue. Sweet nerds that take forever to commit to ending you."

Orion Pax, quickly becomes a close friend. Megatron never comments on his paint job. He's yet to see Pax exhibit anything but an agreeable and slightly excitable disposition... but he can't help but hold back even as he chides his own superstition.

"I don't think you'll have much luck in the friend department, Bucket. "

Why had he never gone back for her? Why had she never joined him in the arena?

"That's your origin story, D, and I'd hate to incinerate your undefeated record."

Megatron doesn't forget the stranger hidden in the mines. Not when he meets Orion's mentor, not when he stands before the Council, not as every veiled barb, sorrowful mutter, or hidden revelation comes true.

Even when he goes back for her and finds her gone, the Warlord never forgets the seer of the mines.

YN-013 had never realized, that just as D-16 had taught her a language, so too had she taught him hers. Every private word, every thoughtless exclamation, he remembered.

No, that unfortunate spark in the mines was not a wild-forged femme with bad luck. She was not a prime, remade, or replace. She was something different. A puzzle, a friend, an asset.

Lord Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, never forgot.

So how strange was it, to find a planet that spoke that same tongue?

The Autobots seek a relic and the Decepticons search for a seer. Optimus inherits a charge that can only be fulfilled through a missing person and Megatron wants closure to the fate and identity of someone he might've considered a friend.

Ashlyn struggles with guilt over choosing to not change the timeline and has been hiding on Earth since the last few centuries of the war. She's spawned more than a few stories in her wanderings, triggered some changes she never realized. A shifter who went rogue after a drunken conversation at a bar and never swore his loyalty. Bartering fuel with an Autobot vessel, allowing the Ark to avoid Decepticon Scouts and remain unharmed. A Prime who learned the truth about his predecessors early, and resolved to do more than simply restore his planet to what it used to be.

Ashlyn can't hide from the plot forever. War or not, things have changed, and now she's part of that story.