#its really just names more often than not

[ilovemybettafish]

“Learning to draw is really a matter of learning to see – to see correctly – and that means a good deal more than merely looking with the eye.” - Kimon Nicolaides

These are all great resources, but I think it should be said that no one NEEDS classes or books to learn art. Those things can certainly help, and can expand the set of “tools” you have to draw from while creating. Understanding the rules of human proportions, for example, is very useful. But none of it is required or essential.

The most important thing for an artist is the ability to look at something and see it for every detail: its texture, the interplay of shadows and light, the way perspective can distort appearance, the basic shapes that create the complex object in front of you. Those things can be taught, but you can pick them up just as well by just taking time to look — REALLY LOOK — at the things around you.

Choose one thing to focus on, whether that’s an apple, a lamp, a bench, your own hand. It doesn’t matter what. But choose something and just study it. Take in every detail. And then try to replicate what you see.

You can do the same thing with other art that you admire. If you like manga and want to be a manga artist, look at a lot of manga and take time to notice the details of that style that attract you. Then sit down and try to make your own.

It won’t be perfect at first. You might not be happy with it at first. But the better you become at observing what’s around you in the real world, the easier it becomes to see what is missing from your own art to make it more realistic. And eventually, you develop a style of what is and isn’t important to you to include, what is and isn’t important to you to focus on.

I will say, I’ve known a ton of artists, many of them with successful professional careers in the arts. And, in my experience, the ones who went to a four year college and got a degree for art are often the most talentless. They’re too used to caring about the “rules,” and often don’t have the passion and self discipline needed to make it as a professional creative. They care more about the fact that they have a degree than about building their portfolios, and they think having that piece of paper with their name on it makes them an authority on art.

None of us are authorities on art. Art is the most subjective thing in the world. The best artists I’ve known are the people who have spent years upon years sketching in the margins of their notebooks, letting their own passion and curiosity fuel their exploration of different techniques and mediums. People who have spent years of their free time creating things they love and adding those things to a portfolio.

These are the kinds of artists I know who have their work in museums, who are creative leads in top of the industry gaming studios, or who are successful illustrators. Most of them have no degree at all, or maybe a 1-2 year certificate. You don’t need money to be an artist.

Can't afford art school?

After seeing post like this 👇

And this gem 👇

As well as countless of others from the AI generator community. Just talking about how "inaccessible art" is, I decided why not show how wrong these guys are while also helping anyone who actually wants to learn.

Here is the first one ART TEACHERS! There are plenty online and in places like youtube.

📺Here is my list:

Proko (Free)

Marc Brunet (Free but he does have other classes for a cheap price. Use to work for Blizzard)

Aaron Rutten (free)

BoroCG (free)

Jesse J. Jones (free, talks about animating)

Jesus Conde (free)

Mohammed Agbadi (free, he gives some advice in some videos and talks about art)

Ross Draws (free, he does have other classes for a good price)

SamDoesArts (free, gives good advice and critiques)

Drawfee Show (free, they do give some good advice and great inspiration)

The Art of Aaron Blaise ( useful tips for digital art and animation. Was an animator for Disney)

Bobby Chiu ( useful tips and interviews with artist who are in the industry or making a living as artist)

Second part BOOKS, I have collected some books that have helped me and might help others.

��Here is my list:

The "how to draw manga" series produced by Graphic-sha. These are for manga artist but they give great advice and information.

"Creating characters with personality" by Tom Bancroft. A great book that can help not just people who draw cartoons but also realistic ones. As it helps you with facial ques and how to make a character interesting.

"Albinus on anatomy" by Robert Beverly Hale and Terence Coyle. Great book to help someone learn basic anatomy.

"Artistic Anatomy" by Dr. Paul Richer and Robert Beverly Hale. A good book if you want to go further in-depth with anatomy.

"Directing the story" by Francis Glebas. A good book if you want to Story board or make comics.

"Animal Anatomy for Artists" by Eliot Goldfinger. A good book for if you want to draw animals or creatures.

"Constructive Anatomy: with almost 500 illustrations" by George B. Bridgman. A great book to help you block out shadows in your figures and see them in a more 3 diamantine way.

"Dynamic Anatomy: Revised and expand" by Burne Hogarth. A book that shows how to block out shapes and easily understand what you are looking out. When it comes to human subjects.

"An Atlas of animal anatomy for artist" by W. Ellenberger and H. Dittrich and H. Baum. This is another good one for people who want to draw animals or creatures.

Etherington Brothers, they make books and have a free blog with art tips.

As for Supplies, I recommend starting out cheap, buying Pencils and art paper at dollar tree or 5 below. For digital art, I recommend not starting with a screen art drawing tablet as they are more expensive.

For the Best art Tablet I recommend either Xp-pen, Bamboo or Huion. Some can range from about 40$ to the thousands.

💻As for art programs here is a list of Free to pay.

Clip Studio paint ( you can choose to pay once or sub and get updates)

Procreate ( pay once for $9.99)

Blender (for 3D modules/sculpting, ect Free)

PaintTool SAI (pay but has a 31 day free trail)

Krita (Free)

mypaint (free)

FireAlpaca (free)

Libresprite (free, for pixel art)

Those are the ones I can recall.

So do with this information as you will but as you can tell there are ways to learn how to become an artist, without breaking the bank. The only thing that might be stopping YOU from using any of these things, is YOU.

I have made time to learn to draw and many artist have too. Either in-between working two jobs or taking care of your family and a job or regular school and chores. YOU just have to take the time or use some time management, it really doesn't take long to practice for like an hour or less. YOU also don't have to do it every day, just once or three times a week is fine.

Hope this was helpful and have a great day.

[one-green-frog]

Family Knows Best

Platonic Yandere Batfam x male reader

(I couldnt really find a good gif)

The signs had been obvious. Almost too obvious. But here you were, trapped within the walls of Wayne Manor, surrounded by a family whose love for you was more intense, more consuming, than anything you had ever known. The strangest part? You didn’t mind.

Maybe you should be scared. Maybe you should be fighting to leave. But, really, wasn’t this what you had always wanted? A place where people actually cared about you? Where they loved you unconditional?

It all started with a simple visit.

Damian Wayne had walked into your small pet clinic one late afternoon, accompanied by a boy his age. In his hands, Damian held a tiny duckling, its fluffy yellow body trembling against his hands.

"It was alone," he had said, his voice sharp but carefully controlled. "I suspect its mother is dead. What are the chances of its survival?"

The look in his eyes told you just how deeply he cared and how scared he was for it's survival. He was young, but his concern for the creature in his hands was genuine. You reassured him that with the right care, the duckling would grow strong. You even offered him advice on raising it, though, deep down, you had wanted to keep it for yourself. Unfortunately, due to the lack of space you opted for another option. This boy, Damian Wayne, had probably enough space for the duckling, not to mention the resources he had and most importantly, the heart to care for something so small.

What you didn’t realize then was that your kindness had sealed your fate.

In the weeks that followed, the Waynes began appearing in your life in a frequency that couldn't be coincidence. First, it was Jason Todd, walking into your clinic to ask for advice for a "stray" cat he "found", you later realized that the cat was already part of the family for years. Then Dick Grayson, whose excuses were flimsier—he had seen a stray dog outside and thought he should check if you had seen it, then he lingered in your waiting room, babbling on and on about the most random things. Tim Drake came next, standing awkwardly in your doorway as he asked for information on exotic pets, his eyes scanning every inch of your tiny clinic as though analyzing everything about you.

It felt... odd. Wayne money didn’t typically find its way into the rougher parts of Gotham, yet here they were, weaving themselves into your routine, your space, your life.

Then the flowers started arriving.

Every morning, a fresh bouquet sat at your doorstep—rare, expensive arrangements that made it clear this wasn’t some random act of kindness. No name. No note. Just a silent reminder that someone was watching. At first you thought it was an accident, but the bouquets continued to show up, it made it obvious they were meant for you.

You told yourself you should be creeped out. But no one had ever sent you flowers before. No one had ever gone out of their way to make you feel special. No one would be bothered if you took them into your flimsy apartment. No one would complain and the flowers made your apartment kinder, nicer and just lovelier to wake up to

Then, one evening, Bruce Wayne walked into your clinic.

It was different from the others. The moment he stepped inside, the air in the room shifted. He didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. He moved with an easy confidence, his deep blue eyes fixed solely on you. His usual playboy smile on his lips that could melt anyone, and yet here he was, looking at you as if you were royalty.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his voice smooth, warm.

You were frozen in place. The billionaire, the man Gotham worshipped, was standing in your dingy little clinic, smiling at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

That was the beginning of the end.

He returned often. Sometimes he brought gifts, small, thoughtful things that showed he had been paying attention. A book you mentioned wanting to read. A coat after he “noticed” the thin fabric of your usual one. Every gesture was perfectly calculated, yet felt so natural, so effortless, that you found yourself leaning into his presence without a second thought. He came by at the same time everyday and you found yourself watching the clock closely, heart speeding up whenever it was almost time for his visit.

When he invited you to dinner at Wayne Manor, it felt inevitable.

And when he suggested you stay the night after a few glasses of wine? That, too, felt natural. It was late, Gotham is dangerous, not to mention that you didn't want to bother the nice butler.

When you woke the next morning, disoriented but warm beneath the heavy silk sheets, Bruce was already there, waiting with a tray of breakfast. His smile was soft but filled with something deeper, something darker.

“I’m so glad you’re here", he said with the same sweet voice.

Something was wrong. You knew something was wrong. The prince of Gotham not only invited you to dinner, let you stay the night and now he is in the room with a tray of breakfast? It was simply to weird to be true. But he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and for the first time in your life, you felt seen. You felt like you belonged on this place

So you stayed.

And stayed.

Days bled into weeks. You told yourself you could leave if you wanted to. That nothing was keeping you here. No one really forced you to stay. And yet... you couldn’t leave, it was like a higher force told you that you were right where you belonged, where you were cared for and loved. And then there was the family, so warm, so eager to keep you close. You weren’t a prisoner. Not really.

You were theirs.

Dick was the easiest to get attached to. He was light, warmth, and safety all wrapped into one human. Movie nights with him turned into deep conversations about life, love, and loss, his struggles with relationships, especially with his family since he works outside of Gotham. He would confide in you, let himself cry against your shoulder, and then whisper how much he needed you to stay, how no one had ever made him feel this way before. “You’re the only normal one here,” he would say, his fingers tight around your wrist. “You make everything feel right.”

Jason was different—quiet, intense, always hovering near but never too close. He would accompany you on walks through the gardens, listening more than speaking. When you talked about books, about the things that made you happy, memoriesfrom your childhoos, he would nod along, his face unreadable but always at peace. But you noticed the way he would subtly recommend books you might like, covering it under the guise of "a friend recommended it, but i haven't had the time to read it yet, why don't you give it a try", the way he perked up when you actually listened and bought the book and said you enjoyed it. He was quiet, but you could feel it—the way he held on to every word, the way his presence lingered long after he was gone. His action spoke of how much he looked up to you, a father-figure that he had a normal relationship with.

Tim was an enigma. He barely slept, barely ate, but he always seemed to be there. At dinner. During family time. During late-night kitchen visits where he would sit across from you, a coffee cup in hand, while you ate a bowl of cereal. He would ramble about theories, about mysteries in books he read, some "case" from a the series he watched and though you hardly understood half of it, you nodded along, letting him talk. He needed that. He needed you. A presence that didn't tell him to quiet down, didn't butt in to tell him he was a bit too paranoid.

And Damian? Damian clung to you. Always following you around, like a puppy. It started small—sitting beside you, leaning against you, watching you with sharp green eyes. Then came the possessiveness, the way he would glare at his brothers when they got too close, the way he fell asleep in your bed without asking. Not much time had passed before he called you brother

“I will not betray the honor of being by your side,” he had murmured one night, curled up against you. It was meant to be a statement, not a question.

And then there was Bruce Wayne. The man that looked at you as if you hung the stars. He cared for you like no other, always making sure you were alright. He spent most of his free time with you and he made sure you knew that he appreciated the way you brought the family together. Family time before you would often lead to fights, regret or just utter silence, but with you here, someone so ordinary in a special way the time spent together was peacful. Even Alfred the butler always smiled at you.

At this point you couldn't leave, be it because of you or because of the family that would made sure you wouldn’t.

They weren’t going to let you go. You were part of their family, their brother and son, the light of the manor.

And worse?

You didn’t want to leave.

Because no one had ever loved you like this before. No one had ever looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world. It was sick, it was wrong, it was obsessive.

But it was also love.

And maybe that was enough.

Being a part of this family was probably the one thing in your life that felt right.

DC has a grip on my life rn, so feel free to request something. But other than that, i hope you all have a great day :)

[redsugarx]

青白之魅 5: Clothes & Accessories

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

This is the actual hanfu post of the hanfu series on this hanfu account! So if you’re here for HANFU and specifically HANFU this is it >:)))) We’re gonna get deep into the relics & archaeology with this one!

L: Cui Qing'er set, R: Bai Suzhen set, both Cloud9 Hanfu

So before we start. This bitch was supposed to be a four-piece set. However, my dumbass (and Yulan’s dumbass I guess) forgot about the pibo ;-; So it literally just doesn’t appear in the shoot and We Will Not Speak Of It. It still looks pretty great! Just completely slipped our minds amidst the chaos x-x

Anyway: each of these are (SUPPOSED to be) a four-piece set. The four pieces are 大袖褶衣/da4 xiu4 xi2 yi1/large-sleeved top，九破裙/jiu3 po4 qun2/nine-panel skirt，腰封/yao1 feng1/wide sash，and 披帛/pi1 bo2/shawl. The sash & shawl are smaller accessory pieces, so the main two pieces are the top and the skirt, each of which have six months of planning and design: they are completely custom printed and custom patterned, the culmination of months of research. I will be focusing on these two pieces in this post (I’ll go over the last two briefly at the end, they’re just not as interesting). 

Background: Northern Dynasty (386–589 ish)

Background for these sets: Both of these sets are referenced from the南北朝/nan2 bei3 chao2/Northern & Southern Dynasty, with more emphasis on the northern part. This was a very tumultuous time period that often gets looped in with the 魏晉/魏晋/wei4 jin4/Wei & Jin dynasties for a combination time period known as 魏晉南北朝. 

This means two major things in the context of hanfu research: 1) there’s a lot of very fast-paced exchange of culture and evanescent fashion trends going on, and 2) there are very few well-preserved textile relics to work off of. As a result, the sources for Northern & Southern Dynasty clothing often bounce off of chronologically adjacent Wei/Jin relics (sometimes Han, from before). This also means that physical garment relics that we usually depend on to learn about the patterning/construction of hanfu from that time period have to be supplemented with figurines and carvings from the time, so we can see what they were supposed to look like. There’s a lot of educated guesswork involved in recreating these garments.

Most types of hanfu have direct garment relics that their patterns are recreated/resized from. The strictest hanfu enthusiasts—called 形制黨/形制党/xing2 zhi4 dang3/‘form party’—only recognize hanfu that are constructed identically to an archaeological source, because a physical reference is the only way to ensure that the construction is ‘correct’ or would have been commonplace at the time. All other kinds of hanfu are considered hanyuansu or modified, hanfu-influences versions of clothing. I used to be stricter about this too, but I realized after several years researching hanfu that when you get really deep into it, the lines become really blurry. So if you’d like to be stricter about it, feel free to consider this set hanyuansu! But because a lot of historical research went into it, and I personally think it's very very likely that these constructions existed, I feel confident in calling it hanfu rather than guzhuang or ‘costume.’

大袖褶衣

The construction of this top is primarily based off of two archaeological relics from the Northern Dynasty: a sleeve piece and a 褶衣 (!注: 褶 is pronounced xi2 in this phrase) relic. There is very little material out there on the sleeve piece, but the xiyi is very famous and was restored by the China Silk Museum.

褶衣/xi2 yi1/Xiyi

绞缬绢衣, 中国丝绸博物馆/China Silk Museum

This is the xiyi. Its full technical name is the 絞纈絹衣/绞缬绢衣/jiao3 xie2 juan4 yi1/'twisted knot silk top,' but it's known colloquially as the 褶衣. Right now it's in the China Silk Museum's collection of artifacts.

It was originally excavated by the Gansu Institute of Archaeology from 甘肅花海畢家灘26號墓/甘肃花海毕家滩26号墓/gan1 su1 hua1 hai3 bi4 jia1 tan1 26 hao4 mu4/'Gansu province Huahai Bijiatan grave site #26,' which was discovered in May 2002. The burial site belonged to a woman who died in the year 377CE. Almost all clothing artifacts from the 魏晉南北朝 period that have been referenced in hanfu today came from this woman's tomb.

It used to look like this before it was restored by the China Silk Museum. You can read the restoration report here.

There's a whollllleeeeee textile analysis complete with microscope fiber images that I could go through here, but I'll save it for another post since my design doesn't have anything to do with the fabric of this piece, just the structure.

Now, I only used the torso portion of the Xiyi, since I used a different sleeve shape, so I won't be going over the Xiyi's sleeves either. The torso looks like this:

Fairly simple structure! It obeys all the general rules of hanfu construction. There are a few features to note though.

The back of the neck is very wide. Most open-front hanfu garments have a small gap at the top of the neckline. This garment, however, has a particularly wide gap.

There are no vents. I know it's not visible in the flat picture, but there are no side slits/vents, which is one of the main features distinguishing this piece from similar parallel-collar tops from the Song/Tang dynasties (usually known as 褙子/bei4 zi0/Beizi). This makes sense: vents are necessary for longer garments so that your hips don't get trapped, but for shorter garments they're not needed. This xiyi is 72cm long, which is still considered short.

There is no 'lan' piece. Modern convention dictates that a top with a lan piece be called a 襦/ru2 (again, modern convention in the hanfu community!!! This is not necessarily historically true). Since this top doesn't have one, it's not considered a Ru, earning its own name as the xiyi.

The root of the sleeve is narrow compared to the rest of the body. It's only about 1/3 the length of the torso.

Finally and most importantly, it's not a cross-collar garment, but the lapels aren't parallel either. Instead, they slope down diagonally from that wide-set neck and meet at a point at the bottom. There's a tiny portion that overlaps, but if you look closely you'll notice that it's actually only the trim that overlaps—if you took off the trim, the torso pieces would meet at the same point.

Keep these in mind as we move on.

錦緣綾大袖/锦缘绫大袖/jin3 yuan2 ling2 da4 xiu4/'Brocade Trim Silk Large Sleeve'

idek where I got this image, sorry

I spent a full three days scouring the internet for metadata on this thing (until I got hit with a 24-hour migraine and had to stop ;-;). It's a sleeve piece from the Northern & Southern Dynasties called the 錦緣綾大袖. Unfortunately, there is very very very little information out there about it.

From what I could find, this is because 1) it isn't a archaeological artifact excavated post-revolution (which is almost all the ones that are usually referenced), it was an heirloom and doesn't have very good digital records, and 2) it is allegedly in Japan, and I don't know Japanese so I'm not very good at finding information in Japanese. Do not quote me on either of those points; they could very well be misinformed, but I wasn't able to find anything else.

According to 大唐女儿行/大唐女兒行/da4 tang2 nv3 er2 xing2, a book by 左丘萌 (Zuo Qiumeng) and 末春 (Mo Chun) published by Tsinghua University Press, this sleeve piece is in the Nara Shosoin Repository's southern warehouse collection, and was shown during the 58th annual Shosoin Repository Exhibit.

However, I looked up the records of the artifacts shown during the 58th annual exhibit and this artifact is not on the showing list, and I went through three separate databases of Shosoin relics and found nothing, so I have my doubts about the accuracy of this citation. Most of the Shosoin's stuff is from the Tang Dynasty anyway.

So all I have is this picture, which has been passed around the hanfu community for ages. Fortunately, that's basically enough: 90% of hanfu sleeve pieces are constructed the same way, just in different shapes. So probably if you unfolded it, it'd look like this:

This shape is called 窄臂大袖/zhai3 bi4 da4 xiu4/'narrow bicep large sleeve,' because, well, it's narrow at the bicep but wide at the sleeve opening. This differs from later-dynasty wide sleeves, which do increase in width as you get closer to the cuff, but start out fairly large as well. The shape is backed up by a boatload of figurines from the Northern & Southern Dynasties.

Putting It Together

Okay, we've got a sleeve reference, and we've got a torso reference, and they both existed at the same time. That's... all of the parts we need to make a whole top! Here is the approximate franken-hanfu chimera we have put together:

But how likely is it that this combination existed?

Pretty likely, actually, if we look at some corroborating evidence. Here is an article about 袴褶装/ku4 xi2 zhuang1 by the National Museum of China. 袴褶装 is a type of outfit (in the sense that t-shirt-and-jeans is a type of outfit) often worn by Northern & Southern Dynasty figurines. 袴 is the archaic form of 褲/裤 which means pants. 褶 refers to the 褶衣 from the previous section. 袴褶装 is the combination of these two garments in an outfit.

According to the article, 袴褶装 was a clothing trend that originated in the north, where nomadic tribes who were often on horseback (some still are today!) preferred to wear pants and shorter tops for convenience. This later got adopted by the Central Plains people, and the pants and sleeves got wider and wider—so it's very conceivable that a xiyi with wider sleeves than this relic existed.

Here are some figurine pictures from all over China:

L: 陶文吏俑，北齐，徐州博物馆，1985？徐州狮子山北朝墓出土 (Ceramic Statue of Civil Official, Northern Qi, Xuzhou Museum, excavated 1985？from the Lion Mountain site in Xuzhou, Jiangsu)

C: 侍从陶俑，北魏，中国国家博物馆，1965年河南省洛阳市元邵墓出土 (Ceramic Statue of Attendant, Northern Wei, National Museum of China, excavated 1965 from the Yuanshao site in Luoyang, Henan)

R: 陶彩绘男俑，北魏，故宫博物院 (Colored Ceramic Statue of a Man, Northern Wei, China National Palace Museum)

So! I think that this combination is more than plausible. Take a look at these ones:

L: 陶女俑，东晋，中国国家博物馆，1955年���苏南京出土 (Ceramic Statue of a Woman, Northern Wei, National Museum of China, excavated 1955 from Nanjing, Jiangsu)

R: 彩绘陶女立俑，北朝，徐州博物徐州馆，茅村内华北朝墓出土 (Colored Ceramic Statue of Standing Woman, Northern Dynasty, Xuzhou Museum，excavated from Mao town site in Xuzhou)

Notice how the wide-set collar allows a little bit of the inside clothing (camisole? Undershirt? Who knows) to peek out at the chest. Keep that in mind when we circle back around to the whole outfit at the end :)

Materials & Details

The fabric used for these tops is called 百合緞/bai3 he2 duan4/‘lily satin’ in Chinese, but a lot of colloquial fabric names don’t transfer well between languages. It’s a sheer polyester fabric that’s somewhere between satin and organza. I’ve heard similar fabrics referred to as crystal organza. It has a very pretty liquid-like shimmer to it on the right side, which I felt was good for representing our ethereal water-bending snake spirits.

I went through dozens of fabrics trying to find the right texture that was available in the green-blue color needed for Xiaoqing, but fabrics of this kind often only come in macaron pastel colors. The targeted color was very specific—too green and it would no longer be 青, too blue and it wouldn’t match Dragun’s coloring. In the end, I had the color’s CMYK code custom printed onto white base fabric, then sent it off to be cut & sewn (by hanfu tailor workshop in Nanjing).

There is also trim sewn onto the collar (出芽/chu1 ya2) and sleeve cuffs, which is made from a beautiful red damask with cloud patterns woven into it. This pattern is a Ming Dynasty cloud pattern called the 四合如意雲紋.

These embroidered sleeves are one of the most costly parts of the set.

I drew the embroidery pattern by hand on a raster file over the course of a few weeks (I use a tablet + Clip Studio Paint pro), then worked with an embroidery workshop in Quanzhou to digitize it.

In the process of embroidering Xiaoqing's top, the fabric got snagged in the machine, and ripped a hole in the front of the right sleeve, which was very sad. There wasn't enough time to remake the whole thing before the shoot.

We rescued it by undoing the seam, chopping a portion of the sleeve off, and re-sewing it back together, resulting in a narrower sleeve opening than the white top (thank you workshop in Xuzhou!!!). The difference barely shows up on camera because it was so wide in the first place.

九破後褶裙

This is the garment that has the most guesswork associated with it, so it's the one that's least plausible to have existed, because I guessed a lot of it and pieced together a lot of sources to make it happen.

I was originally inspired by 玩泥巴的豆角 (user 'String Bean Playing with Mud') on Weibo. She's an incredibly talented historical costume enthusiast who's been the first to recreate tons of rarely-made hanfu pieces in addition to historical clothing from Korea, Vietnam, Japan, Europe, and recently Mongolia. She's also done handcrafted textiles, shoes, and other accessories. If you can read Chinese I highly recommend going through her posts but be careful because if you're like me you'll get sucked in and then neglect your homework for like a week.

This is a post that I saw back in 2023. She points out a kind of skirt often seen in Northern Dynasty figurines that has narrow pleats in the back but not in the front:

太原北齐东安王娄睿墓单螺髻侍女俑（505，508）/ Northern Qi Taiyuan Dong'an Wang Lourui Burial Site（artifact 505, 508)

She posits that there are two likely possibilities for the construction of this skirt: the 破裙/po4 qun2/'broken skirt' structure or the 百迭裙/bai3 die2 qun2/hundred-layer skirt structure (more on that later). Her recreation is structured closer to the Song Dynasty baidiequn skirt structure, with the reasoning that it would be easier to modify into a poqun later if an excavation ever came out confirming that it was a poqun, but it would be much harder to turn a poqun back into a baidiequn.

玩泥巴的豆角's image, linework of figurines with pleated-back skirts

For various reasons, one of which being that I'm not claiming this to be historically immaculate, I wanted to explore the possibility of a poqun structure. In addition, I actually do think that this pleated-back skirt is more likely to be a poqun than a Song baidiequn.

My understanding is that the baidiequn structure, which is essentially a long rectangle with pleats on it that gets wrapped around your waist, only got trendy in the Song Dynasty. There's a report of a few rectangular pleated skirts from the Tang Dynasty Famensi site (Shing Mueller, Center for Sinology, University of Munich) as well, but not much before that, and the pleats are very wide compared to a baidiequn.

Poqun, however, have been around since at least the Warring States period. We know this because of the several excavated artifacts from the Warring States Period, the Han Dynasty, the Jin Dynasty, and the Tang Dynasty. (The Warring States Period is wayyyyy before the Northern Dynasty.) Since time only moves in one direction, I think it makes more sense to assume that an older cut of clothing still existed in a time period after there's evidence that it existed, rather than before.

What's a poqun anyway? I like to describe it as Ye Olde Circle Skirt (sector skirt if you want to be pedantic about it). It's a way to make the flared circle skirt pattern happen at a time when your fabric is only 74cm wide: you cut out a bunch of trapezoids, sew them together, and end up with this sunburst shape. Trim the hem and you've got what's essentially a partial circle skirt.

L: 江陵馬山楚墓深黄絹單裙（N-17-3), 中國古代服飾研究 p. 92, 沈從文 / Jiangling Mashan Chu Kingdom burial site dark yellow unlined skirt (N-17-3), Research in Ancient Chinese Fashion p. 92, Shen Congwen

R: 長沙馬王堆漢墓單裙，中國古代服飾研究 p. 159，沈從文 / Changsha Mawangdui Han burial site unlined skirt, Research in Ancient Chinese Fashion p. 159, Shen Congwen

The two complete poqun skirts excavated before the Northern Dynasty are a four-panel underskirt from 馬王堆漢墓/马王堆汉墓/ma3 wang2 dui1 han4 mu4/Mawangdui Han Dynasty burial site in Changsha, and an eight-panel skirt from 江陵馬山楚墓/江陵马山楚墓/jiang1 ling2 ma3 shan1 chu3 mu4/Jiangling Mashan Kingdom of Chu burial site. Later Tang Dynasty artifacts also show poqun with 12, 16, even 32 panels, often alternating colors. You'll notice that most of these are even-numbered, because the trapezoids are made by splitting a rectangular piece of fabric into two pieces with a diagonal line, like this:

So why is my design nine panels?

Here's my reasoning: First, I knew I wanted to stay around 8 panels, which seems like a reasonable number based on artifacts at the time (chronologically 8, 4, 6, 6, 12).

The 9th piece was inserted because of how pleating works. If you want full parallel knife pleats without messing with the symmetry, the fabric has to be rectangular. So one of my pieces has to be a rectangle, and it has to be in the middle. If I want the number of panels on each side of this rectangle to be the same (for symmetry), there's going to have to be an odd number of panels.

Now let's decide what's going on on either side of this pleated rectangle. Say we've inserted the rectangle in the middle of a uniform 8-panel poqun, which was my original intention. That means we get 4 panels on each side of the rectangle:

Traditionally, the panels are always right trapezoids. But now there's a problem: the legs of these two adjacent trapezoids are not the same length, so the curvature on each side of the rectangle is different.

What if we turn the trapezoids on one side around, so that it's symmetrical? Well, now we have another problem: the different parts of the skirt are different lengths.

All right, so the problem is that the legs of the trapezoids are different lengths. Easy fix: use isosceles trapezoids instead.*

*Worried about fabric waste? Don't be! What do you get when you chop an isosceles trapezoid in half! Two right trapezoids. You can still use the same technique :) I just didn't for this skirt.

Lastly, mostly to make it easier to do math, and since I've already bastardized the traditional poqun cut anyway, I made the last two panels rectangles (these will overlap with each other when the skirt is put on). This is to make it so that the number of rectangles and the number of trapezoids are both divisible by 3 (makes it easier to adjust calculations based on peoples' measurements).

This is the final structure of the skirt body:

What about the skirt head? One of the reference images on the Weibo post clearly showed thick shoulder straps on a chest-high skirt style. This is the style that op recreated. Most people consider chest-high skirts a marker of the Tang Dynasty, but skirt bands were migrating locations way before then.

河南洛阳朱仓北朝墓，新浪河南 / Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan Northern Dynasty Burial Site, Sina Henan

In 2022, a stone bedframe (artifact M260) from the Northern Dynasty was excavated in Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan. It was carved all over with unusually clear reliefs. One part of it depicted court ladies:

河南洛阳朱仓北朝墓，新华网 / Zhucangcun, Luoyang, Henan Northern Dynasty Burial Site, Xinhua News Network

As you can see, a very wide skirt head is clearly worn and tied over the chest. So let's tack a wide skirt head and some ribbons onto this thing. And because nobody has time to deal with chest high skirts falling down, a pair of adjustable shoulder straps. I wanted them to be adjustable so mine are very thin, but the existence of shoulder straps in general is supported by wall art and figurines, especially in combination with this back-pleated skirt.

Shitty brainstorming pen & paper sketches by me

That's the whole skirt! Congratulations.

After a shit ton of geometry and working with hanfu patternmakers from Fujian to CAD the design out digitally, each of these panels were printed directionally with a custom gradient onto satin, laser-cut (by fabric workshop in Shaoxing), and sewn together (by hanfu tailor workshop in Yangzhou) :) This process took approximately 5 months.

腰封 & 披帛

I am unbelievably tired after writing all that and also I'm at tumblr's image limit so I will just put these pictures here so you can admire the pretty embroidery on the pretty fabric.

A yaofeng is a wide waist sash or 'corset belt' style thing. A pibo or peizi is a long piece of flowy fabric that acts as a shawl that women carry on their shoulders or elbows. The pibo didn't make it onto the set, but the yaofeng did. Its design is not that interesting (it's an extremely wide hexagon with ribbons sticking out of it to tie on your waist) so I will just let you use your eyes.

-

If you made it this far without your eyes bleeding you're doing better than me! This is the most technical part of the series—not much artsy symbolism going on but a lot of hanfu archaeology work. I am again very tired after writing this and am not sure if some of it is incomprehensible, but feel free to send me asks and stuff about it :) Only one post left to wrap it all together!

1 Introduction & Presentation // 2 Background & Influences // 3 Hair & Makeup // 4 Set Design // 5 Clothes & Accessories // 6 Conclusion

[barbwritesstuff]

This might turn into an essay because I truly could write an essay about this, but I was replaying Blood Moon for the infinite+1 time and the decision to make Alek's job be a janitor has SO much to it that I love and adore, the contrast of him being the highest status and most respected member but also never really enforcing that (e.g. letting Sergi call him by his name instead of Alpha) showing that he's a practical leader - a leader who is there because he takes care of people rather than being in the position for power or vanity, and then him taking a job that is low status and a thankless and often unpleasant job, but one which is extremely important to the community, a community that would likely not recognise what an important role he's playing in their wellbeing and how that can also play as a metaphor for the wider theme of the role werewolves play in the city over the course of the storyyy <3 <3 <3 idek how much of if was intentional because there's SO much but at its core it speaks to the fact that you truly GET the genre

I really wanted my werewolves to feel like people. They're not monsters, they're janitors, wait staff, and post workers. They're parents, cousins, uncles, and grandmas.

Normal, working class, people. The sort that would move into a low income area of the city, enrol their kids in school, and pick up odd jobs to make ends meet.

I also just really liked the idea of the alpha being this kind, nice janitor guy. Like, he's cool. He's the guy you see catching the bus late at night. He'll share his sandwich with you if you're hungry, knows some corny jokes, and has his kids' photos in his wallet.

And he's the alpha of the local werewolf pack, not that you'd ever know that.

Also, perhaps more thematically, making the werewolves so human and so normal really meant I could ham up the vampires. I leant more into the horror with them, made them more alien.

I like werewolves and vampires as thematic opposites. They're each other's narrative foil. And so, by making the werewolves regular people who seem like scary monsters, it makes sense to make vampires scary monsters who seem like regular people.

The werewolves are the big, loud family that moved in next door. The vampires are the powers that be, the rich, the powerful, the established of the city, and they're much more dangerous than the newcomers could ever be.

Of course, Erin May is the exception. The young vampire that's there to show vampires don't start out monstrous, they were once normal people too. It's time and hunger that warps them.

[cloversnstrawberries]

oc intro post ! ! parental!platonic yandere!supervillian

! requests open !

warnings; vague depictions of violence, implied violence against children/youth (reader), slight mentions of gore, body horror(?), and medical horror, yandere behavior, kidnapping, and there may be more i'm forgetting :( if so, please let me know!!

additional notes; hello everynyan, here is my first OC, Malpractice!! very creative name, i know, but i thought it fit (and also it's funny to me) :D i'm not quite sure what format to do for these introductions, but i'm sure as I make more i'll get better at them :) please leave suggestions for any parts/additions you'd like for these intros!!

! ! introduction blurb & moodboard below the cut ! !

Malpractice is known as one of the most destructive and hard-to-deal with villain in all of history, having appeared around the 1930s and refusing to go away since. Malpractices comes and he goes, but he always seems to return eventually, whether that be in three months, or 20 years. He is like an illness that never truly goes away. Remission is possible, but the possibility for it to resurface at any moment is a very real, impending threat.

With abilities ranging from mind control, disease manipulation, pseudo-necromancy, and enhanced senses, speed, and strength; no one hero could ever hope to face Malpractice head on alone. Not even a group of them could ever hope to entirely defeat Malpractice,

Malpractice was a charismatic, slippery asshole-- he'd never really been caught before, but he's sure as hell caught others before. While he isn't known for doing this often, if he wants something bad enough, he'll take his time to set a well thought out trap to catch whatever-- or whoever-- it was he sought.

And when he saw you, so young but so very battered-- left to deal with an (albeit low level, but still dangerous in its own right) threat because your mentor/partner, prioritized a personal goings-on instead of staying by your side.

He'd seen as the so called hero went off the side, leaving you to fight the threat alone-- as you desperately called for their help, only to realize that they'd left without a word; beckoned by the person on the phone.

And it must've been so strange, to feel a little tug on his heart as he witnessed your reaction. Not quite angry, but rather... disappointed, but accepting. Like this was a regular, expected occurrence. Like you were blaming yourself for holding your mentor to a higher standard than this.

By then, Malpractice had decided that you deserved better. He could provide you with that-- besides, in his eyes, even if you were just on the cusp of adulthood-- you were still a child.

My, the industry sure had gone downhill from his time, hadn't it? When he'd been a doctor helping the superpowered individuals, working under the agency, though in it's infancy at the time, had taught him that children were to be nowhere near the career.

Sidekicks were not children, they were simply other superpowered individuals who along, did not do very well; but fit well with a more powerful hero, creating a dynamic duo.

You and your mentor couldn't couldn't be more different, both personality and ability wise. Really, what was he supposed to do, not spring a 'surprise adoption' on you?

Obviously, you're only fighting it because you don't feel worthy of love. That's the only reason, not that you're afraid of him or anything!

[nightscythe]

dark sides of the primarchs' relationships

some of these are very dark (esp lorgar, angron, ferrus I guess) but I wanted to represent some of the less enjoyable themes in their relationships. some are kind of obvious, but I wanted to expand a little. again, it's how I write them, so you may not necessarily agree!!

18+ below the cut pls, it's sfw but some themes of death, obsession, etc, mostly pre-heresy

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the lion: struggles to interpret his feelings and often mistakes them as needs - namely, sexual need, but really any physical need. the heavy feeling in his heart because he hasn't seen you for weeks? must be because he had become used to your presence and his body must adapt to being without you. the burning in his chest when someone else dares to speak to you with a more suggestive tone? well, its not jealousy, it is his body telling him he needs you. overtime this would start to go, he would learn to interpret feelings in a more emotional way, but realistically he would need to care enough to want to try in the first place. he would always struggle though, turning every single one of his feelings about love into his duty. you're his responsibility, everyone else is a threat.

fulgrim: whilst it is obvious that his desire for perfection may have an impact on you, it has an equal burden on him. he always doubts himself, always taking a pessimistic view of both himself as a lover and to relationships as a whole. and your reassurance may never be enough, even if you do mean it and he seeks it out. he will always make each gift, each speech, each act of love bigger to meet his own desire to be better. and really? it can become more exhausting than anything. especially if he is always trying to prove himself and it sometimes starts to feel artificial. there would be a breaking point though where he finally realises to you, he is perfect, and there is nothing else he needs to do. but there is always that little, teeny doubt.

perty: trust issues will get to him more than anything. he'd need someone who has so much patience that it wears you down, but ultimately it would be worth it. the worst part is that he wouldn't often share how he feels, he keeps it to himself and sits brewing thoughts in his own head that you may just be like everyone else and not truly care. he'd keep it from you, never uttering a word, silently letting it all fester until it gets too much. and breaking down that wall he builds from his own thoughts would take a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of letting him work things out on his own. that's probably the biggest issue - he has a lot of time, something you may not as easily afford.

the khan: his idea of love is different. in a good way, maybe, but different to others. love for him is choice, and he will not restrict you to it. if you want to leave him, then go. if you want to spend a day without him, then do so. he'd really need someone who can deal with his laid back approach (or more so, his promotion of freedom above all other things) to love. that can be tough. his free spirit may just be too free to some people, and that's just what life is like. don't expect reassurance or speeches of his feelings, they are not happening. he's quick to make his decisions, his conclusions, and he's quick to temper. in the right conditions, this can make a storm. if anything ever goes bad.. good luck.

leman: it flips with him, very sudden, very easily. one day he's so enamoured, so utterly floored by everything you do that he's got massive heart eyes and following you around like a puppy. other times he's in his own world, following his own free spirit, that it can make you feel neglected. all of this just ends up causing more and more anxiety, unknowingly to him, and obviously to you. its all unintentional of course, he loves you so deeply. and his love itself? it's raw. he's so set on being stoic and strong but he is fragile too. he fears the worst, his emotions are never waste. everything he feels he shows directly to you. that can be overwhelming; all of this is overwhelming. especially when you could wake up one day and he's gone to do something without any warning, not evening thinking that you notice.

dorn: he's cold. he's so cold that it burns. or... is that the raging fire inside just reaching through the cracks? words mean nothing to him, and it can be difficult to truly know where you stand. he would never say he loves you, he would make you feel like he didn't ever need you, but should you ever leave? he'd tear the imperium down brick by brick until he had you back with him. it's unknowing to him. a duty. an unspoken loyalty. he doesn't believe in anything being temporary, so you're with him for life now. even if he never says it. and its the fact it's just actions, ones which may not mean anything to you, that makes it so hard. the door he gifted you with a heavy duty lock may be strange to you, but you did tell him you were worried about someone breaking in...

curze: does not feel he can be loved. he thinks he deserves it, but he never thinks anyone would dare. he thinks any affection shown to his is out of selfish fear and the second an opportunity presents itself, that love and affection would be gone. so he worries. he worries you are just like everyone else. makes assumptions, accusations, tells you that he thinks you're lying. probably because in the past he felt he should be loved and forced it out of people. he never once stops to think that maybe you lay beside him, you hold his hand, you take care of him, because you want to. it doesn't make sense to him, not without proof, or time, or anything to support your case. he'd get it eventually, he'd stop spending nights awake convinced you'll leave him when you sleep peacefully beside him with no intention of going.

sanguinius: his foresight is a burden, knowing what will happen to him means his guards are up. he would always be devoted, and he would carry the burden of fate to know he had shown you love in a way that mattered. but the sleepless nights would come, knowing the heartbreak would follow. especially at first, he'd try so hard, he'd want to protect others, you, from the fallout of fate. he'd never wanted you to see him in a way as more than a guardian, protector even, but it was inevitable. especially being who he is. and he would keep it to himself, and it would eat him up inside. he'd want to give you an easier way out, a ending where his death was the lesser of two evils, but he could never bring himself to leave. not before fate forced his hand.

ferrus: he has to make you better. you though fulgrim was obsessed with perfection? imagine that, but reversed, and intensified by a thousand. ferrus can make you better. he can make you stronger, he can make you everything you ever wanted. and over time, as he improves you, makes you need to know that he's impressed with you, it changes you. he's unrelenting. and it's not that he doesn't love you. oh, he loves you so so much. but there's a part of him that thinks his encouragement, his desire for your perfection, it helps you. together you can be the perfect couple, but not because of beauty or looks. then it feels like you're a project to him, little more than a toy for him to work on each and every day. and he'd let you go. he'd give you the choice, be free of him, but you'd hesitate. could you ever really be without him again?

angron: he only knows war. pain. death. love is so... small to him. he doesn't understand how to be gentle, how to replicate the love some of his brothers will. but he doesn't want to hurt you, either. and it shows. he will not hurt you, he will not make you feel pain, but he would die for you. and would you die for him? well. if you wouldn't, he would make you. love for him is a reflection of the strongest emotions he feels. the words he associates with it are different. violence. he'd kill anyone who stood between you. desperation. it's a feeling he can't describe as anything other than need. consuming. it grinds on him, wears him down, until he treats it the exact same way as everything else he feels. you're his, and you will become a part of him, whether you want to or not.

rob: it should be easy to him, but its not, and that makes him feel worse. he's not stupid, he can process love and emotion. yet... why does it feel so hard? he always feels like he is doing something wrong, always expression too little in case he reveals too much, whilst always trying to make up for something he fumbled already. its a vicious cycle. the reality of the situation is he's torn in every direction, he's needed by so many people, that he doesn't have time for love. yet he would fight to the very end of time to show it to you. and it exhausts him to no end. he'd just need a little patience, he'd very much enjoy if instead of something require brain or body power, he could just rest with you in his arms, enjoy the peace, but when that's every single evening, it could become a little hard

morty: he carries around a lot of anger and it's not always easy to hide. like a bitter old woman who sneers at kids for stepping on her lawn, but deep down she has a heart bigger than anyone - she just doesn't like it when he things are messed up. probably a bad analogy. the smallest things annoy him and he's got a quick temper. he constantly has to remind himself to check his own feelings, assess if he's reacting appropriately, then actually respond. so sometimes, it can feel artificial, like it's a brave face he puts on, and eventually you'll just want to know the real him. and you can, but it may not be as easily heard or understood. with time he would get better, he'd balance his emotions with your help, but until then it may never feel 100% real.

magnus: the poor guy, he just doesn't think (how obvious, I know). his actions are well intended but the way he comes across is a mixed bag. you're proud of something you've done or learned and in the spirit of sharing your achievement he does it in one try... or he tells you a more advance version of a spell with the intention of helping you but... it just comes across as him belittling you. like you were never good enough for him, that he is so so much better than you and his standard is so far above you. in reality, he's just happy, he's sharing those things because he thinks it will help you. he's worried that he's not good enough for you. he feels like he has to prove himself, to show you just everything he's capable of, elevate the two of you, together. aww :(

horus: he knows about his charisma. like a beacon that sits on his head and forces everyone to like him. and that makes him question the reality of everyone around him. are you nice to him because he's Horus, or because you want to be nice to him? are you kissing him because he's Horus, or because you want to kiss him? it's a guessing game that he is losing. he truly believes that those closest to him do not care, and overtime he has developed trust issues beyond saving. he'd never show it though, but inside everything can feel like a lie. he'd have a way to work it out though - he's not stupid - but his way is long and extended, tests and games which may not be appreciated, and it may feel like you need to prove to him why you care about him. was your love not enough? it was. but he just needed to know it wasn't manufactured by that damn beacon.

lorgar: love... its something different for him. it's not love. it's reverence. you become everything to him, his faith, his truth, his gospel. you become divine to him in every way, perfection incarnate, holy as the gods around him. and for that reason, it is all written in fate for him. you are meant to be with him, you are meant to stand by his side. he would build temples in your name, he would burn planets to the ground if it meant you were happy. he would destroy worlds to bring you what you wanted. but, if you are unhappy with that? if you do not accept his love and devotion? that's heresy. that's denying the truth. and escaping him, it can only come through death. his one is quite dark, i'm very sorry about that. unless you like it, then happy to help.

vulkan: he wouldn't have many faults, aside from obvious primarch things, but I think he's full of worry. not insecurity, but concern, always worried about you, always thinking he may hurt you, worried that the feats he puts himself through may have an unnecessary effect on you. he knows that he puts himself in danger but he can't stop himself, he know your concern that maybe just one time, he won't come back - but he will still test the limits anyway. he'd never show you every part of him, afraid it may just be too much for you, and though he's never hiding anything sinister, he'd always be hiding something. and you know it. and he'd smile, assuring you its nothing. it's literally just something like he's never tried kissing you in a certain way in case he hurts you. or he was wounded fatally again but he's okay. probably better if he just tells you... but secrets in the name of happiness, I guess.

corax: sometimes he goes, for days. for weeks, months even. some may even question whether you've just made it up in your own head. it's not that he doesn't care, or he doesn't love you, but... he got lost in his own head. what he needed to do. and it doesn't help that when you are together, he's cold, he's reserved, and its like you've never even met before sometimes. he can handle all of this, he's secure in his feelings and is loyal to you beyond anyone else, but can you? it's not that he would abandon you, or betray you, but when you've waited for him to come him for months and there's still no sign of him, your thoughts may start to go somewhere less pleasant. you can ask him to stop, but it's never permanent, even when he's fully opened to you emotionally - he'd unintentionally fill you with doubt.

alpharius: oh its a bit of a mindfuck. one loves you, one doesn't. one whispers sweetly in your ear, one just whispers. one touches your shoulder and catches the tips of his fingers on the curve of your neck, the other one just touches your shoulder. it's little things. barely noticeable at first. something the everyday person would have just shrugged off. but after time, you do notice. that's not Alpharius. and it makes you mad. to think he sent someone else in his place? he had to, and you'd never understand, but he hates it as much as you. do you know how badly he wants it to be him that is with you each day? how insulting it is to know that he was sharing you? it drives him to the brink of insanity. it's truly the worst feeling in the world. but there's nothing you can do about it, and you'll have to live with knowing that maybe the man next to you isn't the alpharius you love.

˗ˏˋ 𓅰 ˎˊ˗

[voidangxls]

ˋ°•*⁀➷ A Letter? ʚ♡ɞ

╰┈➤ a part of my valentines special!

pairings(s)- harry potter x reader

Summary- One late night an owl appears at your window with a letter, but the letter has no name?

category- fluff

warnings- kissing, 2 uses of y/n, not proofread

word count: 2646

masterlist; valentines special; harry potter masterlist

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You couldn’t sleep. You had been lying awake in your bed for a while now and you simply just couldn’t sleep.

The time was only moving further and you have tried everything to help you fall asleep. You’ve tried counting sheep, reading, drinking warm milk, exercising to hopefully wear yourself out but none of it worked.

So here you were lying on your bed and looking up at the ceiling. While you were doing this you couldn’t help but think of a certain someone, Harry Potter.

Yes everyone in Hogwarts thought about him because he was the legend ‘the boy who lived’ but you weren’t thinking of him in vengeance or jealousy, you weren’t thinking of him in admiration. Not just the admiration you held for your favorite singer or your favorite writer but the kind of admiration you held for a friend or someone who was more than just a friend.

Although Harry wasn’t really what you would consider even a friend, the two of you have had plenty of conversations and shared smiles from across the great hall and you guys were even partners in Potions class this year. So the two of you were friendly and talked quite often but you guys never hung out outside of class aside from the silent smiles from across the room or the secret glances you would give him when you thought he wasn’t looking. Little did you know he was doing the same as you.

Breaking you out of your thoughts you hear a tap on your window. Jumping out of bed in fear you look over and relax when you come face to face with a white owl. With furrowed eyebrows you let out a breath and stand up from your bed, opening the window so you could read the owl. “what are you here?” you whisper to the animal as if it would respond, you reach your hand up and gently touch the top of its head and that was when you noticed a note clutched in its mouth.

Your nose scrunches slightly in confusion and the white owl drops the note onto the desk seated at your window then flies away. Your eyes follow the bird retreating form and once its out of eyesight you look down at the letter on your desk.

With a confused expression your hand reaches out and pulls the letter into your hands, tracing the seal of the closed letter with your finger. You didn’t understand why you would be getting letters at this hour and in your bedroom, all letters for students were given in the dining hall during school hours.

Taking one last glance out of the window and spotting nothing you look back down and begin to open the letter.

“ I know I am making it unknown of who I am but forgive me. I do not know why I have decided to do this tonight of all nights seeing as I have harbored these feelings towards you for a while now but here it is. You are the most beautiful, funny, smart and all around perfect person I have ever met and you bring a smile to my face anytime I see yours. I know that you are truly one of the best people I have ever had a pleasure in meeting even if we don’t know each other quite well though I do hope I can learn more someday. That is all for tonight but I surely hope I didn’t wake you, I know it is late and I deeply apologize. ”

sincerely :)

You didn’t know what to do, how to act, or what to think. Sure you have had people hit on your throughout your years of Hogwarts and sure nice things have been said about you but this felt different for some reason. This person seems to truly care for you, see the best in you and that shocks you to your core.

Clutching the letter into your hand you look back out the window one last time but once again come face to face with nothing but the night sky. You put the letter back into the envelope and stash it away in a drawer of your desk, away from the eyes of other people. You then head back to bed, hoping sleep would welcome you quickly.

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It was now the next day and you were in the dining hall for breakfast. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking of the letter you received last night, you went to sleep thinking about it and awoke thinking about it, you had gotten ready for the school day while thinking about it and you were most likely going to think about it for the rest of day.

But just like any other day your thoughts also wondered to a certain brunette at the Gryffindor table. In your mind your thoughts started to wonder, ‘what if Harry was the boy who sent you that letter?’

No. That was simply ridiculous! Harry Potter would never write something like that about you, you thought to yourself. What you had on him was just a simple and silly little crush, it would go away soon and you wouldn’t have to deal with it any longer, giving him longing looks without his knowledge.

Later that day it was now time for Potions class. You had just sat down at your desk when Harry, Hermione, and Ron walk in together. Harry of course takes his assigned seat with you while Hermione and Ron go to their assigned seats with each other.

The two of you look over at each other and share smiles. “How are you?” the both of you ask each other at the same time.

Both of you then let out your own laughs at the incident that just happened “so, how are you?” Harry asks you, seemingly genuinely interested

“Im quite alright, just tired. And you?” you respond truthfully. You were tired, you hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.

“I am good, thank you for asking” he responds. Harry then seems to sit up straighter and look at you in what you could only chalk up as concern. “did something keep you awake?” he asks worryingly

You open your potions book then look back at him “Not necessarily, I hadn’t been able to sleep all night but then something strange happened and I stayed awake a little while longer” you respond with a smile. Every time you spoke to Harry you couldn’t help the smile on your face.

“What weird thing happened?” he asks still as straight as a wall

you lean into him and speak quietly “I received a letter”

Harry looks at you although he doesn’t seem quite surprised “oh, thats strange. Did the letter keep you awake?” he stresses slightly

“No, it wasn’t just the letter it was also just a me thing” you respond with a light laugh. Your conversation is then interrupted when Snape heads to the front of the class, announcing that class was starting. Harry gives you a smile that you reciprocate then you both face Professor Snape, listening to the lesson at hand.

Once the class was over before you or Harry could even say goodbyes to each other, Ron and Hermione was dragging him out of the class. As he was being whisker away he turned around to you and waved goodbye. Before he could completely make it out of the classroom you lifted your hand and gently waved back at him, a small smile adoring your face.

You turn around and put your stuff back into your bag but that was when you notice another book that wasn’t yours laying on your desk. Throwing your bag into your shoulder you pick it up and notice that it was Harrys so you speed walk out of the classroom, hoping you could catch him to give him his book that he left.

When you left the classroom you were met with a hallway with no Harry Potter, you sigh and push his book into your bag. You would give it to him during Potions tomorrow.

Later that day you were sat at your desk. Classes were over for today, students have had dinner so you were in your room trying to get some studying in. You reach into your book bag and bring your books out, organizing them just the way you like for studying. When you grab onto Harrys book that he left you suddenly see a movement and a tap on your window, looking up you see the same owl as last night with once again a letter in hand.

You open your window and reach both of your hands out gently, one to grab the letter and the other to pet the bird. Once you grabbed the latter it leaned its head into you then flew away, a smile graces your face when you look down the latter then you close your window back.

Sitting back down in your seat you open the letter to see the same parchment and the same handwriting as last night.

“ once again I apologize if I had kept you awake last night with this letter, it was a random act of thought. Well I’ve always thought of you in that way just never actually thought I would do something about it if you understand what I am saying. I would just like to say today you looked as beautiful as you always do, every time I look at you I cant fight the smile that appears on my face so thank you for that. You can truly be a light in my difficult life and there is no way I could ever repay you for that. “

sincerely :)

You truly didn’t think the mystery persons words could get even better but they did. This was truly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to you and you were undoubtedly honored even if you didn’t know the one behind the letters. The fact that you could act as if some sort of light in someone’s life truly touched you.

You set the letter in front of you with a smile, forcing yourself to focus on your studying at the moment instead of the very lovely letter.

Opening a book you begin to skim through but quickly notice that it wasn’t yours, that must have been the one Harry left in potions. You go to close the book but then you notice something, the handwriting.

Your eyebrows furrow and you lean forward, inspecting the cursive writing on the page. Then a light bulb goes off in your head. No…it couldn’t. Could it?

Your other hand reaches forward and grabs the letter you received from the owl tonight and set it side by side with Harrys handwriting in his book.

They look identical.

They were exactly the same

There was no way that Harry Potter reciprocated your feelings for him but you also couldn’t ignore the obvious signs literally in front of you.

You take a deep breath and close Harrys book, putting it back into your bag. Forgetting about your studying, you then stash away the letter, putting it with the other one inside of your drawer. Leaning your head into your hands you lean against your desk and wonder how you were going to bring up the letters to Harry.

Taking a deep breath you decide on what you were going to do, tomorrow night you would confront Harry on these lovely notes he had written you.

You reach forward and grab a piece of parchment then a pencil and begin writing. Once you had come to completion with your letter you fold it into an envelope and send your owl off. Taking a deep you reach into your closet and begin changing your clothes.

Harrys pov:

I was the only one awake. Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all sleeping peacefully, some of them snoring.

I couldn’t sleep for some odd reason, I had just sent a second letter to y/n. If I had truly been the reason for her lack of sleep the night before I felt greatly bad, so I did make sure to apologize in the letter. I didn’t know when or if I was ever going to confess my feeling to her but doing this, writing letters to get the feelings out felt nice. Even though I was able to talk about her to Hermione and Ron it didn’t feel the same as the letters.

My thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on my window. I sit up out of bed and see an owl at my window, with a letter in its mouth. I look around at the guys, seeing then knocked out I get up out of bed and walk over to the window, opening it and greeting the owl. “Hello” I whisper, gently reaching up and grabbing the letter from its beak. Once the letter was in my hands the owl turns around and flies away.

I look down with a confused expression and begin opening the envelope. When I open it I am greeted by a letter with beautiful cursive writing.

“ your identity isn’t much of a secret anymore, I know who you are now. Thank you for the beautiful letters, meet me at the astronomy tower now. “

sincerely <3

I suddenly still once I have read the letter. She knows who I am, she knows it’s me and she wants to see me, she wants to see me right now at that. Was she going to tell me to leave her alone? was she going to tell me she feels the same? was this all some sick joke?

I carefully move around the room, changing my clothes and heading out of the room.

back to 3rd person pov:

You had been waiting in the Astronomy tower for around 5 minutes, while you waited for Harry to hopefully show up you stared out at the view. You then hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Turning around you back up as well, hoping that it was Harry coming up with stairs and no one else.

When you see Harrys form reach the top of the steps and enter the astronomy tower you step forward into the moonlight. “Harry” you speak aloud, greeting him

Harrys eyes snap towards you and his posture relaxes “y/n” he responds gently, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The two of you walk closer to eachcother and you were about to speak but Harry starts before you. “I am so sorry about the letters, I apologize for my feelings I will leave you alone”

The boys rant is cut off when you let out a laugh. “Harry, what are you talking about?” you giggle, taking another step closer

“uh, wha- um” Harry stutters, looking at you with a perplexed expression and wide eyes.

“I wrote you back because I feel the same” you tell him. A smile on your face and your eyebrows raised. Harrys shocked face arises another giggle out of you

“you feel the same?” Harry speaks quietly, his tone shocked and hopeful

The smile on your face doesn’t differ, still very prominent on your face “I do” you whisper, nodding your head slightly at the same time.

“wow” Harry whispers, a smile appearing on his face as he looks at you. He takes a step closer to you, one hand reaching up to touch the side of your face “is this okay?” he whispers, leaning forward

“yes” you whisper, leaning in and kissing him. Your lips meet in a gentle kiss, exactly what you would expect from Harry. The kiss was gentle and attentive, it was sweet and kind. It wasn’t rushed or forceful, it was just as you expected and it was just as you liked. The kiss was so him and you loved it.

a/n: I acc really liked writing this one!!

[basilone]

I wasn't about to let @blind-dates-fest pass me by, and I'm very excited to get to share this next piece! We're off to a racetrack in Wyoming this time, as we sneak a little peek at Gale Cleven's childhood... and get to know someone new!

It’s one of those slow business days. There’s no big race on today, even though it’s the weekend and there ought to be. It seems to Sally as though the whole of Wyoming is holding its breath for a little while. Waiting for next weekend, when the best horses and finest families will come out for a time on the track. That’s when the season really starts and the money begins to flow.

Well, at least, all of this is according to Mister Danvers from the ticketing booth. Sally doesn’t put a whole lot of stock in the opinion of a man who doesn’t know the difference between a cravat and a bow tie, especially not after he’d said Sally wouldn’t have to add any big numbers because hot dogs are cheap. But then Erica Post of the Post Winery had said the same, minus the snippy comment about Sally’s hot dogs, and so had Susan Rugatti, with the additional comment that Sally’s hair needs fixing.

There’s nothing wrong with her hair.

Sally puffs an exhale and swipes her unruly fringe off her forehead as she takes stock of her stand. Lunch rush has come and gone, insofar as one can call it a rush when it’s just fifteen people and three screaming kids, and the time of afternoon snacks isn’t quite reality yet. If she hurries just a little more than she is right now, she could finish that chapter on how to set broken bones and get a head’s start on next week’s studying.

She could do all of that, even though Miss Audrey’s currently gliding over to her stand with all the air of the faux French aristocracy in her countenance. She’s guiding a young boy not older than ten or eleven by the shoulder. Leaning on the kid, actually, as though she’s quite concerned he’s going to bolt sooner rather than later.

“Good afternoon, Miss Audrey!”

“Sally, ma chérie,” booms the woman, heavily-lidded eyes sparkling with good humor, “you are like an angel’s appearance to me!”

Sally can’t help but laugh at such nonsense. Miss Audrey’s always complimentary like that, often making a whole lot of hubbub about something. She works with hats and hair and harlots, darling – Miss Audrey’s words, not Sally’s – and is to the Wyoming racetrack as the President is to the White House.

“You flatter me,” she says, smiling as the woman draws close to her stand. “How’re the girls? And business?”

“One and the same, one and the same,” waves Miss Audrey, rolling her eyes for good measure. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves for putting us up in that tent right there. I told Mister Barbieri that I can’t cut hair like that, and oh Sally what that awful man told me next cannot be repeated in polite company...”

“They’re expecting some gusts of wind to roll in on Wednesday. You’ll be out of your tent by next weekend, then,” winks Sally, knowing everyone on the track would help foil Mister Barbieri’s best-laid plans any day of the week even though he owns the place. One tent won’t be a match for that kind of determination. “You got any clients coming in today, Miss Audrey?”

“Sure do. Next week’s gonna be a big hubbub, but can’t complain about today neither. I told the little mister here that we’re always happy to see him, but he shouldn’t stick around too long this time.”

Sally gives the kid a quick once-over. “Good of you,” she says, taking in the boy’s small shuffle and his apparent refusal to so much as look at her. “He ain’t one of yours, I know that much”– it’s just Miss Audrey’s Lola who’s got a kid, and that one’s as dark as this one’s fair –“so who’s the kid, anyway?”

“I’m not a kid!” says the boy, before Miss Audrey can even open her mouth to answer for him. His rather fierce glare flashes up at her from beneath his tousled blond hair. “My name is Gale”– there’s demand in the emphasis, a don’t you dare call me otherwise lurking in his tone –“and I’m nine!”

Sally only just manages to hide the largest portion of her smile. “Nice to meet ya, Mister Gale,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she makes a show of studying him. Collar on a too-neat shirt tugged a little askew, trousers that have been patched up at least twice, some scrapes on his knuckles, and a pair of battered-looking shoes. “My name’s Sally,” she offers, “and I’m nineteen.”

The kid – Gale – nods at her with the tiniest incline of his head. He didn’t object to being called mister, which should not feel like a won battle as much as it does right now. It’s kid he’s got problems with, then, and Sally can hardly blame him for that.

“Gale hasn’t yet had lunch. Or breakfast.” Miss Audrey manages to make it sound like an everyday sort of thing to be told at three in the afternoon, even though her mouth does that funny little disapproving thing that Sally’s never quite been able to mimic. “We had no idea about that until Candy heard that belly rumble, lemme tell ya that!”

Hides hunger, thinks Sally, already busying her hands with a warm bun and a knife. Miss Audrey lets him sit with her girls. A quiet kid, then, if even hard-shelled Candy manages to look out for him. She’s seen the like of him before, usually lurking in a group of rowdier kids, eyes roving everywhere but mouth refusing to show weakness.

“What d’ya want on your hot dogs, Gale?” she asks, making a show of adding one very hot sausage to the bun. “I’m getting two for you and one for me. Mine’s gonna have a whole lot of mustard and some red onions. And you look like the kinda man who knows exactly what to put on his.”

She’s not sure if it’s her wink or the promise of food that’s got him stepping out of Miss Audrey’s shadow. “D’you have ketchup, Miss Sally?” he wonders, blue eyes going wide as she nods in reply. “A-And… uh… I want cheese on one of them.”

“So that’s one ketchup dog and one ketchup-and-cheese dog?” she checks, showing him exactly what she’s doing to make his food. “Yeah?” She laughs as his nod turns rather vigorous. “All right, Mister Gale, I’m gonna add the ketchup now and I’m gonna need you to tell me stop, okay?”

“Okay!”

“I’ll leave you both to it, Sal,” says Miss Audrey, patting a few crisp dollars into Sally’s apron’s pocket that Sally already knows better than to protest against. Her multi-ringed hand ruffles Gale’s hair as his first stop! rings out. “Enjoy your late lunch, and be good to Miss Sally.”

“Yes ma’am,” nods Gale, fingers already carefully rearranging his hair and smoothing its back while he leans over to see the ketchup progress on the second hot dog. “Stop! More cheese than ketchup, please,” he directs, sounding very sure of himself indeed. “They’re better with cheese.”

“D’you want cheese on both? You can, you know, it’s no trouble. Look,” she says, slightly overdoing it on the mustard for hers, “you can get as much as you want on these. Not a lot o’ people have been wanting cheese today, so you’re extra lucky!”

“Only if it’s no trouble…”

“None,” she smiles, putting more cheese than ketchup on both of his. “Now, c’mere, grab yourself a plate,” she directs, “and – oh, thank you!” She blinks in surprise as he holds another plate out to her. “That’s gonna make these onions a little easier to eat. They would’ve spilled all over my apron like yesterday otherwise!”

His you’re welcome, miss is rather soft-voiced. Almost shy, really, in comparison to some of the more loudly demanding nine-year-olds she’s seen out and about at the track. He’s got that look about him of someone who’s going to grow tall – all limbs and careful posture – even though he just sat down and made himself small as can be.

Sally brushes her apron and skirt down. Settles on the grass just outside her hot dog stand, next to her small pile of books and notes. Folds herself around her plate the same way Gale does – arm around it to shield it from view, hunched over the food just to be sure nobody takes it – and tucks into her own food with no small degree of relish.

“Oh, that’s the ticket,” she sighs, having only had a single coffee and an orange early this morning before she was almost late for her bus. She smiles as she peers up at the kid, who’s practically wolfing his food down. “You like ’em, Gale?”

His nod is accompanied by him licking his fingers clean and wiping them on his trousers. Sally finds she’s learning fast the longer she studies him. He’s somebody’s kid all right, because his clothes got patched up and he’s got manners some of the orphan kids don’t. Nobody objects to him spending time with Miss Audrey’s girls, even though Miss Audrey’s girls are scantily clad loudmouths who rake in more cash in two hours than Sally does in a week’s work.

“Does your daddy know how to find you?” she asks, deducing several things just from watching him polish his plate clean. “Is he expectin’ you at Miss Audrey’s?”

There it is. The small freeze. That little line to his shoulders that goes rigid and defensive all at once. “I know where to find him,” says Gale, biting the words out like the very syllables have their hackles raised at her. “It’s not time yet.”

“All right,” she agrees, setting her plate aside and leaning back a little. “You tell me when it’s time now. There’s a big clock out on th–”

“The pavilion.” His hands are a flurry of motion, dragging a chewed-on pencil and rather battered little notepad out of his shirt pocket. He doesn’t look at her. Flips the notepad open and sets his pencil to paper instead. “I been here before, you know.”

Sally almost winces at his tone. “All right, Buckaroo,” she sighs, propping her own book up on her knees, perfectly aware that she’s conceding defeat to a rather headstrong nine-year-old. She smiles as she catches his tiny grimace at the nickname. Gotcha, kid. “I’m here almost every day in summer. So are the hot dogs.”

She’s not surprised when he stays silent. Kids like him often do when something starts to sound too much like an invitation or expectation. It’s what she would’ve done, too, back in the time her mother was dreaming about winning big money instead of buying something to put on the dinner table.

Nine-year-old Sally would’ve killed for a hot dog.

“And your homework.”

Sally blinks away her furious stare at the differences between fibula and tibia. “Sorry,” she says, attempting to smile, “what was that?”

Gale’s half-moon smile flickers up at her. “Your homework, Miss. That’s here too.”

“So’s yours, by the look of that,” she nods, indicating his notes.

“It’s just some stuff.”

“Some stuff, huh? Me, I’m learning about bones.” Sally raises her book to show him, seeing how his arm has already come up to curl around his notepad to shield it from view. “See? I need to learn how to help fix them when they’re broken. So I need to learn what they look like when they’re normal, first.”

Gale peers at the pages more closely than she’d have imagined him to do. “That’s Latin.”

“A little! The bone names are like that,” she agrees, nodding, “and I think it makes them sound as important as they are. D’you know Latin?”

He shrugs. “Only if it’s got to do with calculating things. Like ad infinitum means that the operation is to be carried out endlessly.” His nose wrinkles a little at his explanation. “Infinity’s still really tricky, though, so I’m trying to work on limits rather than infinitesmals right now. I think infinity’s one of those things I’ll know once I’m as old as you.”

“Yeah?” Sally grins at him over the top of her book. “Are you going to be a scientist, then, Buckaroo?”

“No, I’m going to be a pilot! And they have to do loads of math!” He doesn’t grimace at the nickname this time. Scoots closer until he’s seated beside her, even, just so he can show her a sliver of his notepad that’s filled up with numbers and crude little graphs. “I’m practicin’ heaps of it.”

“Getting a good start!”

Gale nods vigorously. “I’m gonna be the bestest pilot ever, Miss Sally.”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees as his knee knocks against hers. “I’m gonna be a good nurse, too. It’s all in the work.”

“You’re gonna be the bestest.”

“Not if I don’t know the difference between a fibula and a tibia,” she snorts, tapping the page. “Just like you won’t be a pilot unless you know fancy things like trajectories and calculus. But we’re gonna learn all of that just fine out here.”

And may the good Lord please stop your daddy from clipping your wings before you got a chance to fly.

[double-u-qed]

10k words of sheer jazzprowl fluff. enjoy! ao3 link here. [which i recommend, seeing as none of my formatting transferred over here and i'm a tiny bit lazy]

Jazz doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous before; his fingers keep tracing over each other, rubbing patterns into the metal. He trails them along the plates, tugs on some of the exposed wiring — a habit his mentor scolded him for often, always redirecting his attention to something else in an effort to make him quit it. But none of his mentors are here right now, haven’t been for a long, long time, so his fingers stay picking and pulling.

He’s never been to Iacon before, despite it being the capital city-state — the head of operations, so to speak. Home of the Primacy and Senate. It’s a hodgepodge of culture, mechs from far and wide settling down, so you’d think a mech like Jazz would have been there before.

But nope — never been.

So why the hell was the Prime himself of all people requesting his presence?

It didn’t make any sense. Well, it did, but — Jazz was just your regular ol’ cultural investigator, nothing special. It was just a fancy, self-given title as well; a way of saying he went to many places and dabbled in the various cultures, researching them (word to be used lightly). He had to make shanix somehow, and the music by itself wasn’t cutting it; it only made sense then to make a career out of what he likes to do best. It paid enough to keep traveling, to keep experiencing a little bit of everything, and that was what mattered to Jazz most.

How Sentinel Prime of all mechs caught wind of him and his work, he hasn’t a clue. If anything, he would’ve assumed the Prime would hear about him from his skirting of the rules before anything related to his work. He hasn’t exactly crossed that line just yet, but he’s not ruling out the possibility, either. Point is, he had trouble believing it when the message found its way into his inbox.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find any sign of forgery or tampering with the letter. It definitely looked legit — enough that, well. Here he is: surrounded by a bunch of fancy city mechs not paying him a lick of attention, optics glued to their screens even as the train halts to a strut-breaking stop. All in all, it’s pretty typical, but Jazz can’t help the nervousness he feels all the same.

How was one meant to conduct themselves in front of the fragging Prime? Closest Jazz has ever gotten is a Senator or two, and even then, it was mostly in passing. He hasn’t the faintest clue as to proper Iaconian etiquette. A smooth, charismatic talker he may be, a mistake is a mistake and would still be all too easy to make.

Too bad he doesn’t have more time to agonize over it. The train eventually reaches its station, the doors opening and mechs beginning to shuffle in and out. It’s a hectic mess, really, all kinds of pushing and shoving happening simultaneously. Jazz is just thankful that he manages to make it out in one piece, squeezing between two doorwingers, a litany of apologies on his lips as he wiggles his luggage through the swarm.

After wandering around lost for longer than he’d like to admit, he does eventually find his hotel. It’s not too shabby, but definitely… gaudier than it has any right being. The berth has little hanging crystals attached to it, strips of silver lining the sides. Jazz can’t help wondering if it’s all a show for tourists; give them a little feel of what it’s like to be so close to the Big Building (name pending) where the Prime resides. The streets were lined with his image, after all.

Thankfully, Jazz didn’t bring too many things with him, making the unpacking process easy enough. Unfortunately for him, that also means he has nothing left to occupy himself with; nothing to keep his mind off the fact his presence is expected real soon — less than a joor, his HUD ever so helpfully supplies.

As limited as Jazz’s knowledge of Iacon is, he’s heard plenty of rumors about Sentinel Prime and the company he keeps close to. (All in hushed whispers, of course; it’d be considered heresy to so loudly denounce a mech chosen by Primus Himself).

Sentinel’s… vain. Lazy. The type to shirk his responsibilities onto someone else, most meetings being conducted by his Right Hand more often than not. From what he’s heard, Jazz feels sorry for the poor mech, even if he was constructed during Zeta’s time for the sole purpose of being an attendant. Can’t be easy being stuck to a mech that doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

Speaking of which… slag. The Prime’s personal attendant had plenty of rumors surrounding himself too, none of them too kind. He was apparently a real stickler for rules and regulation, no doubt a fault of his pre-programming. He was detail-oriented, a go-getter, the type where nothing escaped his notice. He operates in the limelight and shadows both, the true iron fist of the Primacy.

If the rumors are to be believed—and they often are to be in Jazz’s line of work—then he’ll more than likely be working closely with the Right Hand for… whatever it is they want Jazz doing.

He was seriously screwed, wasn’t he?

“Oookay, Jazz-Meister; you’ve got this. Nothin’ a little sweet-talking can’t get you out of. Hopefully. I’m sure it’s nothing that important. They’d have the dogs on your trail and at your door in seconds flat if it was like that. Probably.” Thinking on it, there was no telling whether or not they weren’t scoping out the area for him already. Unlikely, but Jazz has long since learned to trust his instincts at the first sign of trouble.

It’s just that — they haven’t detected anything. And it’d be rude, maybe even enough for a court-martial, to ignore the summons even more than he already has.

Whining some more to himself, spark set on a path of shaky, nervous revolutions — he sets off for the biggest building of them all.

It’s… no better than his hotel room, adorned in gold and the shiniest of metals, the archways crystalline. Reaches straight out to the sky, proud and — intimidating. Foreboding and imposing, and any other words to say that it was fragging distracting as all get out. Two larger-than-life statues of Sentinel himself sat in the courtyard, of which is fenced off and surrounded by guards no doubt armed to the nines.

Jazz swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, hands fluttering at his sides as he steels his resolve. They haven’t done anything, so surely that’s a good sign, right?

“’Morning,” he greets them, giving a nod. “I have an appointment with the Prime? Or one of his attendants, I’m not too sure, the letter didn’t specify.”

The guards stationed directly in front of the gate don’t move, but their optics do slide over to each other at the same time. Turning back to Jazz as one, they simultaneously ask, “Designation?”

Unnerved, Jazz stumbles over his words. “Uh, Jazz. Jazz of Staniz.”

“Designation acknowledged. Permission granted. An escort will be with you shortly; proceed.”

Thoroughly creeped out now, Jazz just flashes them a smile and pretty much scurries away, glad to be gone from their penetrating gaze.

True to fashion, the escort practically pops up out of nowhere, suddenly at his side and taking him by the elbow, leading him further into the—palace? It was practically a palace, all regal staircases and spacious rooms to host plenty of mechs in power. The front room alone was bigger than any place Jazz had ever stayed in, that was for sure.

“Wait here,” the small, red bot dragging him around says once they enter a conference-esque room. “Sentinel Prime himself will be here in a moment. In the meantime, do help yourself to any of the refreshments provided.” With that, they give a small bow before leaving.

“You call these refreshments?” Jazz asks no one in particular as he takes a seat. The treat in his hand is a spiky little thing, brittle and dusted with something he doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it sparkles and emits a soft glow. “How does a treat manage to be so flashy?”

Chucking it back into the bowl, Jazz leans back a bit, eyes roaming over the place. “Better yet, is everything just like that here?”

Somehow the place didn’t feel very lived in. It was personalized all right — you couldn’t take more than a few steps before running into various things with Sentinel’s image memorialized — yet somehow empty and devoid of life. Maybe that was just how rich mechs lived, with their big, fancy places.

Either way, it sure did make Jazz feel sorely out of place, shifting around awkwardly in his seat. Primus, was it ever quiet here. There was too much junk to make the noise echo, but the sound of his fingers tapping out a little diddy against the table still sliced right through the silence. Not in the good way, either, his fingers curling back into his hand after a mere klik or two of making noise. That left bouncing his left up and down and humming to himself, but even that got old soon enough.

The boredom was about to kill him when the door finally opened again, the mech of the hour and another strolling on through. Strange — Jazz would’ve expected more personnel to be by Sentinel’s side.

Ducking his head a bit to avoid Sentinel’s gaze as the larger mech seats himself across from him, Jazz’s attention is captured by the other mech that came in. He’s on the shorter side — still taller than Jazz, though. His posture belies his caste, all elegant and proud. His paints consist of white and black, his face covered by a full battle mask, and his doorwings fanned out behind him.

Now, Jazz may not be able to see much of the mech’s face, but he can make out the way the mech visibly hesitates for a moment when they make eye contact, doorwings going unnaturally still as he looks at Jazz. And he’s — glaring. He’s glaring, not just staring. His optics are furrowed, his hands suddenly being clasped together behind him as he stands by the door, turning his head to the side sharply, practically severing the contact.

Ah. The rumored personal attendant.

His behavior wasn’t too odd, then; Jazz was well aware of how he looked. His paint hadn’t been redone in a few orns, chipped and dulled all over. Public transit had never really been Jazz’s thing, deeming it a waste of good shanix, making both his modes rather susceptible to pieces of small debris scratching the surface.

Strangely though, Sentinel seems bothered by his Second’s hesitation, raising an optic ridge in his direction. He even eyes the mech up and down before rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff of air when his attendant failed to say anything. Huh.

Turning back to Jazz, the Prime is quiet for a moment. A long moment, actually. Too long. Uncomfortably long. Jazz just hopes his face isn’t giving away his building restlessness.

Sentinel places an elbow on the table, hand to his face as he finally says, “I’ll make this quick — I’m a very busy mech, after all. I need your expertise for the gala I’m hosting tonight. We’re attempting to establish better relations with one of our distant colonies; it’s said you know a thing or two about their customs. I’m sure you get where this is going.”

That — wasn’t quite what Jazz envisioned. He blinks. “I- yes? I think so?”

“Great!” The Prime gives the table a bit of a slap—Jazz can’t help his flinch—splaying his hands out as if to say problem solved. “Glad that’s been taken care of, I hate having to give long explanations. Always admirable, a mech that’s quick on the uptake. Now — you’re to remain here for the foreseeable joors until this whole thing is done with. Direct any of your questions to Prowl over there.”

That takes the other mech—Prowl—just as aback as it does Jazz. Only difference is the amount of exasperation the other manages to exude while somehow keeping his tone reasonably respectful. “You won’t be staying, Sir?”

Sentinel snorts. “Primus, no. You’re the one who recommended this mech to help us; you debrief him. I have a whole day spent agonizing over which of which looks better despite them being the exact same. This is why I hate galas so much.”

Unlike the Prime, Prowl doesn’t seem as keen on acting so lax and improper around an outsider. His words are carefully—and rather pointedly—chosen. “I’d hate to waste your time any further, then. Do take care, Sir; I’ll handle things from here.”

The Prime just raises his hand in a rather dismissive way of parting, the mech continuing to grumble to himself as he exits the room.

If Jazz was a lesser mech, he’s sure his jaw would be on the floor. As it stands, he whips his head around to stare at Prowl, disbelieving in what just happened. It- it all happened so fast. Jazz said less than a sentence! Sure, he was told that Prowl would be handling things, but that — that was just inconsiderate!

Undeterred, acting as if such a thing was a regular occurrence, Prowl takes a seat in the now abandoned chair, unsubspacing a datapad. He glances up at Jazz after a moment of simply scrolling, and it’s — tense? No, that’s not quite right. It’s… it couldn’t be. Could it?

Just as quickly, the doorwinged mech looks away, attention resolutely on the screen of his datapad as he begins to fill in Jazz on the full set of details.

“As Sentinel informed you, tonight is a crucial event for the establishment of our ties to other ruling colonies in the area. Any information you can provide would be deeply appreciated, seeing as we have had little contact with those a part of this colony ourselves.”

The cultural investigator tries to listen, giving his input here and there where needed, but his mind keeps wandering. He’d almost believed for a moment that the look from before had been timid, almost shy, but as the more time passed, the more he was certain he must’ve been mistaken. The rumors, as well; Prowl wasn’t nearly as cold as they made him out to be. He was just awkward if anything.

Only…

Prowl takes him all around the building, never once losing his rigid stance, doorwings not even so much as twitching. The most damning thing of all is his outright refusal to look at Jazz head-on. He’ll get close, their optics almost locking, before settling his gaze on something just a little above Jazz’s eyes. It’s puzzling if Jazz has to be honest.

But you didn’t get to be a cultural investigator without accepting the fact some people act in ways you might not initially understand, so he just chalks it up to being how Prowl normally is. Or maybe it’s a custom from wherever he’s from. That would make sense, actually. Ah, wait — did that make Jazz rude for trying to get the other to look at him? It probably did, didn’t it.

Feeling thoroughly chastised even though it’s just himself he’s arguing with, Jazz puts the matter to rest. He’s here on business, after all.

That’s why he is most definitely not staring when the other suddenly pulls up his mask in the middle of talking, revealing icy-blue eyes and a thin, narrow face. It just — surprises Jazz is all, considering he seemed adamant about wearing it the entire time before.

It’d be rude to stare, so he turns away.

Catching his eye, Prowl lowers his gaze, looks up at the lip of the mask still hanging overhead, casting shadows on his face, then stops walking, prompting Jazz to stop as well. “Standard procedure,” he explains, gesturing to his face. “It’s a safety precaution. Forgive me for not taking it off sooner; I have a tendency to get wrapped up in my thoughts to the point of being negligent of my surroundings. I didn’t realize it was still there until my fans pinged a warning about overheating.”

“’S all good,” Jazz is quick to assure, tapping a finger on his visor. “Just didn’t know if it was something cultural or not, didn’t want to assume or cause offense.”

Prowl seems to consider that in that silent way of his Jazz was beginning to pick up on. It wasn’t obvious that he was updating his files, if not for the way his focus seemed to dim, returning with a couple of blinks. Then he’s all nods, and they continue on their way.

The Prime’s attendant is once again in the middle of explaining something when he suddenly goes quiet, words trailing off. A frown mars his face, minuscule as it is. It’s contemplative, a stylus tapping against the screen of his to-do list. He closes his eyes as Jazz twists his body around to step in front of him.

“Something wrong?” asks Jazz when the silence stretches on.

“Not wrong, per se… Just.” Prowl’s face screws up, the most emotion Jazz has seen on it so far. He taps two of his fingers against his lips. “Sentinel decided most events of the banquet would be left to you.” Blunt, precise. “The event planning itself will mostly be done by himself, but matters are to be overlooked by you before being approved. It’s a lot of work.”

Those icy eyes bore into him, his words seemingly ending there.

Jazz stares back into those unblinking eyes, noting the way Prowl’s grip on his datapad has tightened.

Feeling brave and a little risky, Jazz asks, “Sentinel not trust your word on such matters?”

A bit of pride makes his spark spin a little faster when Prowl actually looks relieved, doorwings lowering a bit. “No,” he says, voice still monotone but holding a little mirth. “He doesn’t. Says a mech constructed cold wouldn’t know a thing about foreign matters, least of all me.”

That gets Jazz’s attention. “How so?”

“Lack of experience,” Prowl says, shrugging. “I was made with the purpose of helping out the Primacy shortly after Sentinel was added to their ranks. I’ve never had the time to experience anywhere but Iacon, really.”

“Not even Praxus?”

“Petrex, actually,” Prowl corrects, bobbing his head a bit as if he was used to having to say it. “And no, I’m afraid. So as you might imagine, there is some truth to Sentinel’s words.”

“But you have something to say anyway, I’m guessin’. Well, let’s hear it,” Jazz says, happily relinquishing some of the control and order over to the other. Planning’s never been his thing, and honestly, this entire thing has left him dizzy. It’s just a little too surreal to be real, no matter how often he bumps his leg against a wall. “Not like I have a completely clear idea of what I’m doing.”

He thought that was encouraging, but if anything, Prowl looked slightly distressed and put off by his words. He glances around them, chewing on a lip.

“Sentinel won’t like it,” he weakly tries to argue. “He doesn’t take too well to some of my ideas, despite leaving most of the work to me. I’d hate for you to be blamed if it doesn’t go over well.”

“You don’t stay as acting attendant for so many vorns without knowing a thing or two.” Jazz grins a Cheshire grin, gently tugging one of those white hands free of its death grip. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’m sure that big brain of yours has already concocted a whole list of ideas on what to do, so tell me. I trust ya. Pretty pleeeease?”

The attendant stares openly at their clasped hands, making Jazz falter a bit in his enthusiasm, dropping it a little awkwardly. It’s — well, it’s not like he could read the other’s field before this, but now he can’t even get a single hint of what’s going on with him. His face is so impassive as he gives a small nod.

But even as everything seems all fine and business again, Jazz’s hand remains feeling a little cold, his stomach clenched in apprehension.

The gala comes and goes, miraculously being pulled off in the haphazard bit of time they had to spare. It’s not the worst party Jazz has ever been to, either. The foreign guests are a delight, laughing at his jokes and sharing bits of their culture with him that he commits to memory. The band Sentinel hired even lets him play for a bit, even if though it’s a less fancy and richly prestine song than they’re probably used to hearing.

It’s a good time overall, every mech looking happy. Even Prowl.

The battle mask is on once again, obscuring most of his face. But he’s so relaxed as he chats with his company, doorwings moving, even laughing.

He looks so… at home. So peaceful, elegant. Not at all stiff and awkward, adverse to any and all attention.

That is, he’s perfectly at ease until Jazz comes by, wanting to thank the mech for all of his help. Then, he’s a mirror of before; doorwings pulled up high, unmoving, face blank, but eyes furrowed behind the tinted glass of his mask. Jazz would almost think he’s concentrating, if it weren’t for the way his plating is pulled in tighter, tense.

It makes Jazz slow down a bit, his smile slipping. He’s not used to being hated — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Him being hated. Prowl had no problems looking the other mechs in the optics, didn’t seem to care when one of the governors from the distant colony put a hand on his arm, tugging on in as they told a story. The only explanation then is that Jazz has done something to upset him. But he came over here for a reason, and he intends on seeing it through. It’d be rude of him not to.

“Thanks,” he says, getting closer. “Never did get to ask you why or how you chose me in particular for somethin’ as big as this, but — thanks. It was fun, if a little hectic. Not what I’m used to usually helping out with.” He chuckles a bit, hoping to ease the tension a bit.

The other’s words are much more clipped, precise and to the point. “I was only doing my duty. It pays to know who is skilled in what is required. You were a big help tonight, so it is I, who should be thanking you.”

Despite himself, Jazz can’t help grinning a giddy grin. He attempts to play it off, hiding it behind the rim of his drink, pretending to take a sip from it. He doubts he succeeds. “Skilled, huh. Didn’t think I was skilled enough for the Prime’s Second to know of me.”

It’s minute, barely there, but Jazz swears the mech manages to just — stop altogether, a little hiss of air being pulled in through teeth. No doubt, it only means something bad, Jazz’s posture slipping back into something only half-relaxed, all cheeriness gone.

“Yes, well,” Prowl’s once again not looking Jazz directly in the face, “as I said: it pays to know. As the one who oversees most of Sentinel’s duties, it is my job to keep track of any names that come up often in conversation.” Now he’s staring down at his own drink, scuffing his peds against the ground as his fingers fidgeted against each other. “Senator Shockwave speaks fondly of you,” he mumbles.

That surprises Jazz. “Really? We’ve only spoken a few times, though…” None of those times particularly stood out, either.

Prowl nods a little more eagerly than before. “Fleeting as it was, your interaction left an impression on him. He was quite impressed with your endeavors and accomplishments, awed with the amount of places you’ve been to.”

It looks like he wants to say more, subtly shifting his weight. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more at all, merely dismissing himself politely with a bob of wings. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice that his doorwings only raise once he’s on the other side of the room, swept up in the crowd of mechs dancing.

And like that, Jazz sees no more of him for the rest of the night.

The next time Jazz met Prowl, it was long after Sentinel Prime’s reign. He’d almost forgotten about the mech entirely, but then, the war happened and things changed. Jazz changed. Mechs kept getting hurt, places kept getting bombed and raided. It hurt, seeing the people and planet he loved be torn apart. It was dying, their planet. Slowly poisoned and unable to sustain itself the way it used to, public transportation lines in ruins and whole cities demolished.

No longer could he safely travel from place to place, playing songs of old and new. There was simply too much death, too much destruction, no matter how much the newly-appointed Prime tried to avoid it.

He was a good spark, Optimus. Enough that Jazz felt sure in his sudden decision to enlist in the faction he had formed. He doubted there was much someone like him could do, but hey; it didn’t hurt to try. If he was truly so knowledgeable of their planet that even Sentinel Prime had paid some notice, he wanted to put those skills to use. People always did say he was a mech of the people, and maybe that was needed right now.

So here Jazz is, lined up and waiting for inspection. His application had already gotten him through the preliminary round, so now it was time for the real test to begin.

As he expected, Prowl himself was the one conducting the inspections, even though it was rather tedious, menial work. Not really something befitting of a mech perfectly constructed for a broad variety of political work. The sight of him and his datapad is enough to make Jazz’s lip quirk in a half-baked smile. Working with the mech even just once had taught him how important control and certainty were to him, down to the very last detail. Though in the case of Sentinel, that was probably more out of a necessity than anything else. Vorns of that kind of work probably left Prowl a little more than distrustful of their new Prime.

All the other mechs in line are nervous, some even mumbling rather profane things about the Second in Command, glancing at him from above cupped hands. Cowards are too afraid to say it any louder than a whisper though. What they didn’t seem to get, however, was just how sensitive a Praxian’s doorwings can be. Careless fraggers didn’t seem to notice the subtle twitches in Prowl’s wings, making Jazz’s smile turn into a smirk he had to hide behind his hand.

Staying in Praxus and other city-states predominately populated by door-winged mechs on more than one occasion had made him rather familiar and acquainted with the various tells of a mech’s doorwings. And boy were Prowl’s wings expressive if you knew what to look for. Jazz was pretty sure he was even cursing behind that stoic demeanor he seemed to be pre-programmed with, attention on his datapad as he cussed them out. Dignity and keeping up appearances were perhaps the only things keeping him from saying such things out loud.

When the Praxian gets closer to where Jazz is, the ex-cultural investigator sees the exact moment the other truly notices he’s there. Disappointingly, not much has changed. Only this time, Prowl doesn’t have a battle mask to properly guard the small changes in his expression.

His optics flickered to where Jazz was, his lips slackening a bit as he blinked. He tilts his head a bit — more when Jazz flashes him a million-watt smile with a coy little way. It’s hard to tell what, but Jazz sees him mouth something to himself before he—rather stiltedly—turns back to the mech he’s meant to be inspecting, blinking a couple times more. Jazz can’t help snickering.

It’s still pretty obvious he’s staring whenever he can, though, as much as he wants to act like he’s fulfilling his job perfectly. Not quite in an apprehensive way, it’s almost — curious? A little wide-eyed and innocent, even if the corners of his mouth are pulled in tight, riddled with stress, straining.

Maybe Jazz hadn’t been mistaken in thinking that night hadn’t been so bad between them, after all.

“Jazz,” Prowl says, bowing his head a little in greeting once he’s standing right in front of him. It’s the very definition of polite, if it weren’t for the datapad he’s ever so intentionally hidden behind, pretending to look busy.

Jazz can’t help the way his spark sinks a little at that. Try as he might, he can’t think of a single thing that would have the Praxian reacting like this in his presence. Sure, he probably wasn’t exactly Prowl’s typical cohort, nor first choice of company, and the mech didn’t seem very social by nature, but…

Whatever. One way or another, Jazz wasn’t going to-

“I see that you expressed an interest in covert operations. Special Ops. May I ask why?” Those icy optics pin him in place, glowing bright as Prowl’s eyes go a little wide, tiny rings of lenses rotating as he studies him.

“That’s not the type of question you’ve been asking the others,” Jazz notes, confused and a little shaken off course, something he isn’t used to. He’s always been known to blurt out rather careless things when nervous, which is exactly why he doesn’t do nervous, not in things like this. “Aren’t you supposed to like, ask about combat training? Background? How serious I am about this? Things like that?”

Oops. Was that insubordination? It sure sounded like it, no matter the fact Jazz wasn’t enlisted yet and this wasn’t his superior. Yet.

Jazz might even be fooling himself, but he swears Prowl’s death grip on his datapad tightens even further. The mech lowers his gaze, raising his datapad a little higher, hiding behind it. Perhaps subconsciously, he puts a bit of distance between them, as if literally trying to un-step over some unseen boundary. “Yes, that is normally the case. My apologies.”

That… that felt wrong. Prowl was in way too high of a position to be apologizing to him so — so submissively. It felt weird, not at all fitting in with the paradigm Jazz had shoved the other mech into. Plus, it’s not like he was offended or anything, he just wasn’t sure what to do with that outlier of a question.

In a rush, he struggles to get the other to stop subtly slipping away, to stop curling away from Jazz. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine… Just a lil’ confused, is all…”

It’s awkward. Primus, take him now, it’s so awkward. Why were things always chock-full of silences and the oddest of surprises when it came to this mech? Jazz never has trouble talking! Socializing is what he’s all about! He loves meeting new people, but this guy — somehow this guy takes everything off-course, which is a rather amazing feat for someone so structured.

Shifting on his peds, Jazz tries to spare the mech who has now begun glaring at some speck over his shoulder, looking… ashamed? Hell, was it ever hard to get a read on this guy. “I guess — I just thought somethin’ like that would be a good fit for me? Dunno if there was really a reason behind it. I know a lot about different frametypes, different people. Figured it’d be helpful in pulling off stealth missions to have a mech onboard that can give a few pointers like that.”

“An acceptable and admirable answer.” The way Prowl says it is careful, as if there were a million things he was trying not to suddenly blurt out. It almost sounds like the words were forcefully pulled out from between clenched teeth. It really didn’t suit him, nor the constructed image of him Jazz had once again formed from the many press conferences shared on the news. He always seemed so regal, so poised in those clipped, reciting lines like a mech made for the job.

From there, the rest of the inspection carries on pretty normal. Jazz even manages to impress the Praxian with his scores on the physical tests, even if he doesn’t say as much. It’s only the barest hint of a swooping motion in his doorwings that gives him away, and that probably only happens at all because Jazz is so far away — most wouldn’t have caught it from this distance.

Really, what does it take to get on this mech’s good side? The other mechs around seemed to be thinking something similar, elbowing Jazz and demanding to know what he’d done to get such a reaction. It’s all light-hearted, but Primus does it make Jazz feel a little miserable. They acted like this measly morsel of attention was the holy grail when, to Jazz, it was hardly anything at all. He’d seen what a relaxed Prowl was like, what he was capable of emoting.

Sitting on the sidelines as the inspections carry on, Jazz observes Prowl. None of the strange behavior is present when he interacts with the other enlisted Autobots, face light while his doorwings say all kinds of things. Some of it manages to get Jazz to smile. It’s a dry kind of humor and wit, the insults he says in everything but words. He’ll tilt his head slightly when someone asks a question he deems dumb; will close his eyes and stand up even straighter when disappointed in someone’s answer to his question.

A few times the Praxian glances Jazz’s way, unmoving as Jazz flashes him a smile just for the sake of being a little annoying. It’s there that Jazz decides he wants to understand this mech a little bit better, wants to make him shed that standoffish nature that seemed to have only gotten worse in the tides of war. He’s just so fascinating, not at all like any other Praxian Jazz has met before.

Inspecting his newly added badge in a mirror, he supposes he’ll have plenty of chances and many things to try.

More vorns go by, and Jazz’s progress is… well. It exists if you know how to look at it.

Prowl has clear, practically visible boundaries with the way he declines offers and separates himself in his office, and the last thing Jazz ever wants to do is cross those in his attempts to befriend the mech. So he starts slow, merely leaving cubes of energon on the other’s desk, nothing more. It’s a bit of a peace offering too, giving Prowl the chance to decline it and make it clear he has no intentions of becoming Jazz’s friend. If so, the saboteur will gladly back off. He might not be used to being hated, but he knows you can’t force these things.

Surprisingly, Prowl always takes him up on the offer, not quite smiling but tilting his head downward in gratitude, not really lifting it all the way back up until Jazz is gone.

His relations with the other Autobots weren’t terrible, but Prowl still didn’t seem particularly close to anyone. Solitude was what he preferred, though the line between voluntary solitude and pure negligence was a thin one. Mech tuned out the entire world when he became focused on something, snapping at anyone who dared pull him away. Not in an overtly aggressive way, mind you, but sometimes if someone pushed a little too far it got to that point. He was always like that when it came to solving any sort of puzzle or fully understanding something that caught his attention, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe.

It was rather odd; then again, maybe friendship was just defined differently in Prowl’s book as a whole. It was clear Ratchet, Optimus, and Red Alert all adored him in their own ways, and Prowl both respected and appreciated them in turn.

Ratchet would gently prod and nag at him, but treated him with kindness all the same, never raising his voice. He seemed to get that Prowl didn’t do well with loud noises, easily overwhelmed when there was too much stimuli to keep track of. It’s what made the medbay so hard for him, with its extra bright lights and thrumming machinery. Plenty of medics would try to get Prowl to come in for maintenance, but so far, only Ratchet had a record of succeeding.

Red Alert and him were cut from a similar cloth, meticulous and a little overbearing when it came to their work and protecting everyone. They understood each other without having to say anything, making each other’s jobs easier in a way that even Jazz struggled with.

As for Optimus… Optimus loved everyone, accepting their flaws and all. But he truly valued Prowl in a way that Sentinel didn’t never had, Prowl practically beaming in that subtle way of his whenever Optimus looked to him for input.

Why Jazz seemed to be an outlier remained unclear. And it continued to be murky, until the whole Earth thing.

Everyone got closer to each other the second they came back online and understood their situation, homesick and so small in numbers. They were all they had left of home. They were busier too, trying to maintain their fickle relationship with the humans in power at amicable status. Prowl in particular became swamped with work, prompting Jazz to increase his efforts to get the mech to just relax.

Thus lay the issue — mech didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, continually rigid, words dismissive and solely professional when it came to Jazz.

“Is it just a Praxian thing? Or does the guy really hate me that much?” Jazz asks, voice pitching up into a whine as he drapes himself over Smokescreen’s desk, giving a big, feline-like stretch. “He hates meeeee… Wants me deeeeeaaaad.”

Looking up from his online game (which was a total violation of on-duty protocol), Smokescreen gives him a confused look of pinched face plates. “Who? Prowl?”

“Yesssss.” Jazz sinks further into the desk, becoming one with it. His words come out muffled, face pressed into the surface. “Talk about mixed signals. One moment I think he might like me decently enough, the next I’m certain he wants me dead where I stand. Is it me? Am I the issue?”

Smokey’s silent — too quiet. It makes Jazz roll over a bit, raising an optic ridge (not that Smokescreen can see it). That was a perfect opening for his friend to say, ‘always, Jazz. You’re the biggest nuisance I know.’ Smokescreen wasn’t one to pass on such openings, either, hence the confusion.

Smokescreen looks… full of mirth? His gaze is up to the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Have you, I don’t know, tried asking him directly?”

Okay, that definitely sounded like stifled laughter in the other’s voice. Like the tone of a mech that knows more than he’s letting on.

Still, Jazz is feeling miserable, so he’ll gladly bite if it means getting the chance to vent a bit. “No,” he says glumly, kicking a ped against the desk for the added effect. “I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right. We’re Prime’s Third and Second, y’know? It’d be awkward, laying it all out. Can’t risk damaging morale if it ends up ugly. And he really does dislike me.”

No, Jazz wasn’t imagining it; Smokescreen snorted, pressing the hand a little tighter against his mouth.

“You’re… really not used to that, are you?”

And, well. That was a problem Jazz was trying not to address. Having it said so bluntly makes him pout a bit. “Maybe not before, but now it’s a little more common.”

Smokescreen sobers up a bit, field twinged with sympathy. “Oookay, that’s an issue you and I are gonna have to sort through at a later time. But what I want to know is, why do you care? What makes Prowl such an outlier you feel the need to sit here and whine to me about it instead of taking action?”

“I don’t know!” Jazz exclaims, plopping himself back down, raising his arms up to Primus Himself. “Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Hide what?”

Jazz scowls. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeup,” Smokescreen says, leaning back and grinning. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Me making you admit that you’ve got a problem you don’t know how to fix.”

“I hate you.”

“Then get out of my office.”

“No,” Jazz says, all the world’s petulance in his tone as he settles back down on Smokescreen’s desk. “Your desk is a lot comfier than mine. And you’ve got games. Lots of them.”

“Am I at least an added bonus?”

“Not when you’re yapping and pullin’ my leg so much, no. Not even a little.”

“You wound me, Jazz,” Smokescreen dryly retorts, turning his gaze back to his handheld. When there’s the telltale death jingle, he merely sighs, putting it aside as he studies Jazz a bit. It makes the saboteur squirm, that level of scrutiny. More so when Smokescreen’s got that psychiatrist look to his eyes.

Giving up the charade, Smokescreen smirks, leaning in close enough to poke Jazz in the nose. “Oh, you cannot be serious. Who knew you of all people could be so dense.”

Jazz frowns. “What do you mean?”

But the junior tactician wasn’t listening, muttering under his breath, “Hate you?” He shook his head a bit, chuckling. “Jazz — the mech practically trips over his own peds whenever you enter the room. He’s a real bumbling idiot when someone so much as says your name, suddenly all eyes and ears like some kind of organic pet being brought food.”

The saboteur sits up straight, not caring at all that he manages to knock a pad clean off the desk. He ignores Smokescreen’s indignant little ‘hey!’ when it clatters to the floor. “No, that- that can’t be right. Prowl doesn’t—”

“Do romance?” His friend finishes, raising an optic ridge. His grin was still there, but it seemed slightly forced now. It’s that look he gets sometimes whenever he’s stepping on rough terrain, knowing a little too much about the bots on base. “Listen, Jazz — I know that you’ve technically known Prowl longer than I have, but you don’t work directly under the mech. And apparently, you’re fragging oblivious to what’s been obvious to us all.” When that only gets him a blank stare, he shakes out his hands for emphasis. “The wings, Jazz, the wings!”

“W-“

Jazz doesn’t get to finish, the door suddenly opening, stealing both of their attention. And low and behold, there was Prowl, nose stuck in reports as he swiftly made his way through, none the wiser.

“Smokescreen, have you looked over the governor of Oregon’s request yet? I-“

He pauses once he notices said person is in the middle of something. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice the way his gaze flicks to him, the way he’s seated, before going back to Smokescreen. It could be an illusion, but Jazz swears the mech takes a small shuffle backward, trying to shield himself partially with the report in his hand. His faceplates looked slightly darker too, optics giving a small flicker, in, out.

“Is… this a bad time?” He’s addressing Smokescreen when he asks, making a point of avoiding looking at Jazz. But his wings — those fucking wings!

Jazz’s jaw could hit the floor. It’s — it’s barely there, barely anything at all, but when you’re actively looking it for, it’s rather obvious; Prowl’s doorwings droop a bit as he says the words, his left foot pulled back as if to pivot on out. His helm is lowered and — yep; he’s sneaking glances at Jazz out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his datapad.

Oh, Primus — it really was rather obvious, wasn’t it? Like, really, really obvious. The mech was shy. Ridiculously shy. Prowl! That had to be wrong, right? Prowl didn’t- oh. Oh. He didn’t do romance because Jazz was there and not romancing with him. Prowl was rather old-fashioned in everything, so why not this as well?

Snickering quietly, Smokescreen gives him a hard clap on the back that makes him stumble and almost fall off the edge of his desk. He ignores the glare Jazz sends his way, his tongue sticking out. Turning to Prowl, he’s all smiles and politeness, cheeky fragger.

“Nope, not at all, no worries. Jazz and I were just discussing some business, nothing important. And as for your earlier question — yep! Looked it over and ran the numbers myself. Should be all good to go.”

“That’s…” Prowl purses his lips a bit, face pinched and crinkled in thought. It looked… pained. Like he didn’t really want to say the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“I- uh.” Jazz points towards the door, because it’s clear Smokescreen has no intention of helping him out. “Go.”

That same, little droop. “If it’s because of me-“

“Nah,” Jazz says, cutting him off. And it isn’t. Not completely. Just — not for the reasons Prowl might be thinking. “Like Smokey said: it wasn’t that important. Just a little banter. Your report, on the other hand…”

The tactician looks down at said report, almost as if he had forgotten why he came into the room at all. Again, his face screws up into something rather odd. Indecisive. “It-“

-can wait. But Prowler’s always been a logical, by-the-books kind of mech, never selfish. The words die there, his lips pursed as he stops himself, blinking harshly as he lowers his gaze.

It almost gets Jazz to stay. Almost. His head’s a little too full of discoveries for that, needing some space to simply breathe. Primus. How long had everyone on base known? And why didn’t they tell Jazz? It’s not like he was some serial dater or anything! He wouldn’t react badly!

But… how does he feel about Prowl? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to think past his own wounded ego before, so fixated on the fact the Praxian seemed to only treat him differently.

Maybe. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Prowl was really that shy, no wonder nobody wanted to spoil things for him.

Jazz pauses.

The mech had been flirting with him from the beginning. All those times he would suddenly blurt out an unrelated question, sheepishly apologizing when questioned about it. He was trying to get to know Jazz better.

That. That changed some things — a lot of things. It answered some things too, but that seemed rather trivial right now.

Prowl — Prowl had a crush on him. Him.

A hand comes up to rest against Jazz’s mouth, his head turned and making eye contact with his own reflection. He didn’t remember making it make to his hab, nor entering his washracks.

He was even more startled to find himself smiling.

Valentine’s was. A holiday. A great holiday, even. Jazz was always stoked for it, showing his appreciation for everyone on base in the little things, such as giving them little pieces reminiscent of their home back on Cybertron. From treats to playing music — he had it all. It reminded him what he had loved about being a cultural investigator so much, his spark full and warm whenever people thanked him.

This year… It wasn’t like Jazz was any less excited, far from it. The problem was…

“Woah, either you’re really deep in thought, or you want to kill Blaster right now. Which is it?”

“Thinking, so go away before I catch your disease.”

Smokescreen, damn him, only presses in closer, making an utter mockery of Jazz’s threat. “Hmmm, I don’t doubt that—the thinking bit, just to be clear—but it really does look like you want to tear Blaster apart right now. Last I checked, he was your second best friend—with me being the first, of course—so now I need to know why. Though,” he chuckles, “I might have a guess.”

Jazz sighs, focus thoroughly ruined now. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not. Blaster just conveniently happens to be chatting away with your not-so-secret admirer that you may or may not have similar feelings for, all whilst you’re glaring at him. I’m believing you so hard right now.”

“Knock it off,” Jazz says, giving him a shove. “It’s genuinely not like that. I think-“ He hesitates, knowing the words will be very real once they leave the sanctity of his own head. “I think Prowl’s planning to actually confess soon.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen’s blink is audible as he turns back to study Blaster and Prowl from the other side of the room. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s been acting more skittish than usual, almost acting guilty anytime I walk in on the two of them talking. Mighty embarrassed too.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen says, slowly and giving an even slower nod. “I’ll pretend to understand the thought process here.”

Exasperated, Jazz huffs again. “Prowl doesn’t get embarrassed unless it’s something to do with — y’know. This.” He waggles a finger between himself and where Prowl stands. “Which, considering Blaster’s title of second place bestie—soon to be first, if you don’t stop poking me—makes me think he’s plotting something. Something big.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet then, both of them just staring as Prowl eventually leaves the rec. room, wings a little higher than normal. In unison, their heads turn to follow him out, mouths pressed into lines.

Watching Blaster soon leave as well, Smokescreen drums a finger against Jazz’s arm, humming. “You gonna do anything about it? You want to do anything about it?”

“That’d be mean though, right? He’s obviously trying so hard…”

Suddenly serious, Smokescreen sits bolt upright, grasping Jazz’s arm a little too firmly. Urgently. “Jazz. Jazz, Jazzy, Jazz-meister. You don’t have to reciprocate or do anything if you don’t want to. I know I teased you a lot-“

“What? No.” Jazz wriggles out of his friend’s hold, raising an optic ridge. “I’m not- ah, slag. That’s not what I meant, Smokes. I just meant I don’t wanna rush him by letting him I’ve caught on or anything. It’d spoil his fun, right?”

Smokescreen studies his face some more, likely trying to parse through his words and link them back to his body language. When he’s satisfied, he smiles, leaning out of Jazz’s space once more. He taps all fingers against both knees obnoxiously. “Well, you might be right about that. He might curl in on himself and die if he feels like he’s made a fool of himself.”

And then, he’s wearing that professional, clinical look. He looks over to Jazz out of the corner of his peripheral view. As much as he is Jazz’s friend, he’s also the glue holding this base together, and—in his own way—Prowl’s friend as well. “I know it’s been a long, long time, but he isn’t used to — sincerity, I guess. He’s a little slow when it comes to processing emotions and putting them in the right little boxes he’s made up. Sentinel… had a lot of fragged up ideals, you know. Didn’t approve of being so affectionate with others and other junk.”

The tapping continues.

“Now, imagine living a life of seclusion, hidden away and made to perform only one task and having no other opportunities. The only person that pays you attention is someone who treats you like slag, though not as harshly as you know other people are capable of being. It makes you lacking in social skills, harsh and cold because you were programmed to be as such and nobody has given you anything more than diplomatic pleasantries. Suddenly, that’s gone and you’re surrounded by new, unpredictable people. They care about and appreciate you, but you were convinced such things weren’t yours to have. It goes on for years and years, and while it gets a little easier to believe, you’re still stuck being standoffish and a little alienated. How would you react if someone told you outright ‘I like you’ before you get to do it yourself?”

Jazz is silent for a long, long time. He thinks about it — really, truly thinks about it, hands clasped together, elbows pressing down into the armor of his knees.

Eventually, “I wouldn’t believe it. I’d think it’s some kind of joke to get a reaction out of me.” And Prowl is a very, very logical mech in all areas, except for feelings. There, he’s illogical as can be, as emotional as the best of them.

The Praxian clasps his shoulder. “Good.” Approval dyes his words in bright hues, a small smile on his face as he stands up with a groan, twisting. “Definitely sat there too long,” he grumbles under his breath, wincing as he rubs at his back.

It makes Jazz laugh, which might’ve been what Smokey was really aiming for all along.

He’s turning to leave when Jazz makes a grab for his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it to a degree words can’t convey. “And don’t worry.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Smokescreen retorts, so gooey and fond.

Jazz has been avoiding the rec. room tonight, every revolution of his spark loud in his head. He can’t remember ever being this nervous before, practically giving himself a spark attack with the way he’s both giddy and filled to the brim with anxiety.

He can hear the sounds of the party going on even in his room, loud and positively thunderous, making the ground shake a little, depending on where you are. It’s exactly the scene of life he’s always loved, feeling at one with the beat and energy. It makes him remember days of a little town of nowhere, one small mech clinging to a pillar hidden in shadows as they watched a live performance. They were never meant to be there, having snuck in.

Every bit of it was worth it though, the music resonating and positively singing in his spark. It was heavenly bliss, enough for him to get lost in it, forgetting his place.

He expected the musicians to be upset at having discovered a little stowaway taking up their time. Instead, they had been delighted with how enthusiastic he had been about their music, jumping up and down.

It was the entire group that had given him a new designation then and there, taking him along and raising Jazz as their own.

The rec. room practically beckons out to him, but — he’s unable to stay still, so sickeningly worried. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s right?

Prowl was special to him — that much became so blindingly clear the moment he discovered the Praxian’s crush on him. It only made sense for him to be bothered when he thought the mech seemingly hated him — he wanted his attention! He just. Hadn’t realized that at the time. But now it’s so painfully there, squeezing his chest and pressing down until it hurts.

Lovesick — that’s what Smokescreen had called it. Kinda embarrassing, considering Jazz’s age. He’s much too old to be acting like a youngling having their first crush, writing away in this datapad and swinging their peds.

But here he is, virtually doing that very thing.

In, out. Round and round the air goes, flustered hands constantly in motion, checking all over himself for any unseen imperfection.

He wants this to be perfect. He wants-

Prowl. Wants to hold him and kiss him — eventually. He doubts the Praxian’s the type to move so fast, but hey, he’s surprised Jazz before.

All Jazz has to do is go out there and see. He’ll never know if he stays in here all night. Would Prowl be crushed if he did? He would, wouldn’t he. All assuming Jazz’s suspicions are right, of course, and Prowl really is planning something tonight. Primus. Jazz could be so very, very wrong. Prowl didn’t go to parties, what has him so convinced tonight will be any different?

But it’s also Jazz’s party and, well. He’s sorta obligated to show up no matter what.

Right.

Steeling himself, Jazz makes the oh so very scary decision of finally leaving his room, gradually approaching the ruckus of music, streamers, and a little bit of high-grade. Just a little.

The whole room is dyed red, many mechs dancing and laughing, loud, loud, loud. Too loud and totally not Prowl’s scene, Jazz really should just — he’s already said hello to like, five different people, surely — half of them were drunk off their afts already, they wouldn’t even notice-

Where is Prowl??

Jazz doesn’t even notice he lifted himself up to the tips of his peds until he’s lowering himself to the floor in disappointment when he’s unable to spot the mech he’s been both hoping and dreading seeing.

A shame, really, because Jazz really thinks he’s outdone himself this year with the amount of heart decorations and streamers. It’s practically a whole store’s worth of things.

Yeah. That’s the only reason he feels sad right now. The only reason at all.

He tries, he really does. He smiles, he waves, he even dances a bit. Does the things expected of him, acting like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.

It doesn’t last, not completely. He doesn’t think anyone notices or questions his sudden departure, halfway out the door without anyone stopping him. But he does — stop, that is.

Down the hall, he hears it: a song he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Following the distant sound of music, Jazz finds himself in a more secluded section of the Ark, away from prying eyes. It’s not a very spacious room, but nor is it crowded like the rec. room. It’s quiet, save for the red boombox perched up on a small ledge.

“Blaster…? What’s going on?”

Blaster, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“I asked him to, considering he’s the only one with records of this song.”

Jazz whirls around and — there — there’s Prowl. Smiling that smile that he’s so fickle about sharing, saying it makes him look untrustworthy. Which was really just a fancy way of saying he didn’t like it, which always made Jazz sad because — it’s cute. Ridiculously so, the way it’s lopsided and shows a little teeth.

“Hey,” Jazz says.

“Hey,” Prowl echoes.

“What’s,” Jazz gestures to the small bit of heart streamers he’s only now noticed, “all of this?”

“What does it look like?” Prowl says, flashing more teeth as he playfully pokes Jazz’s arm. “Surely you of all mechs recognize a party?”

“I- I do, but-“

Oh, Primus. He really hopes he still looks put together right now.

“It’s my song,” he says, voice nothing more than a choked up whisper packed full of love and shock. “It’s the song my mentors played and re-named after me. I didn’t- I’ve never played this song for anyone before. How did you…?”

“Rewind,” Prowl answers, holding out one of his hands. And Jazz — he takes it. It doesn’t even occur to him why until they’re dancing. Not a formal dance or anything like that — it’s Polyhexian to its core. “He’s got a recording of practically everything, you know. Even of your mentors’ older performances.”

“And the — and the dancing?” Jazz asks, grinning like mad as Prowl leads him through the motions of a song and dance he knows by spark. He thinks he should be more shocked by this entire affair, maybe stuttering and disbelieving. But he knew Prowl a little better than that — knew his subtle cues and spark better than most.

Everything about this was so very Prowl; down to the way it’s a moment between them, and them alone. Minus Blaster, but ah well. Blaster was always good at keeping a secret.

“Blaster. I — apologize if it isn’t any good. I’ve never done anything more than the formal dances expected at political events.” And the thing was, it — well, it was awkward, the movements stilted and a little clumsy. Less than Jazz would have expected from Prowl, convincing him that it’s more about the dance itself than the action as a whole.

Funny, how Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect. Just — perfect. You’re perfect.”

That makes Prowl — stop. Stop like Jazz had always interpreted as being a sign of discomfort.

His eyes go wide, mouth forming a little ‘o’. He ducks his head, trying to hide it in the crook of his neck.

“Aw, c’mon, none of that,” Jazz teases, putting his hands on either side of the Praxian’s face, turning him back forward. “I wanna look at’cha. I don’t get to do it this close, this often. I like looking at such a handsome face.”

“I’m assuming you knew, then?” Embarrassment twinges in Prowl’s field, twined with mortification and a bit of loathing. All making Jazz’s smile turn a little sympathetic, but above all else: full of love, love, love. Adoration for this shy weirdo of a mech he’s come to know and appreciation.

“Took me a bit,” he admits. “But once I caught on — oh boo, all subtly was off the table. You’re so transparent, but that’s something I love about ya.”

Prowl’s eyes are zeroed in on Jazz’s hands, sliding his own up until he’s clasping them. He rubs small, little circles into the palms, voice a little husky and shaky as he says, “Can I take this as a yes, then?”

“Yeah, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, voice equally shaky now, leaning his helm to rest against the tactician’s. “You can.”

[saoirseyun]

⸝⸝ x fem reader

‹‘ 🎑 ’›— festivals

—A messy draft of hues splashed the black canvas of night into full color. Loud bangs igniting off the packs of fireworks with an uncontrollable frenzy almost, just as carefree it presents to really be as it sets off. You closely held on the slim fabric of Dazai's yukata, relaxing against the support of his shoulder—with the other lightly grasping on a simple stick of dango. Lost amidst the ray of beautiful colors, a darling reverie. "Amazing," Dazai muses. Eyeing the stunning arrange of fireworks blasting one over more then after impatiently. "We picked the bestest spot out here, [name]. I'm quite proud of ourselves." Payed no attention, with you lost in the show and only now mindlessly biting the dango in hand. If anything, it was almost like all movement were involuntary now. Dazai himself couldn't help but be the more amused. Brushing aside some baby hairs and calling out your name in a trance, "[name]? Can you hear me?" He asks. Dazai held a tighter touch to soft petite-like hands of your own. Having to now blinks a few times to catch his voice.

But if anything, it were less than a bother if there had to be one to say. Watching your eyes feast away to beholding sights of stunning, charming fireworks similarly to a few others by stand. As if moths to a flame, blush colors your cheeks adorably with a slight moment of realization. Snapping awake, kind of. "What—?"

"I was asking you something." The sleeves of his loosely folded yukata falls, "Seems like you're more into viewing fireworks, though. I'll leave you be." You blink, him turning back to the show in full focus at the boundless sparks of colors fading into the night. Its light reflect to Dazai's fair skin, having that alone to bring out his smile the best. You sigh—deciding to reciprocate such manner. How lovely...

...For once, it was nice for you and Dazai to share a quiet moment spent together. Nothing but between the enjoyment of fleeting fireworks, akin to the pace of life itself. You desperately needed one of these.

‹‘ 🎟️ ’›— dates

—It's either that he goes all out or have no plans attached throughout the whole day; only in hopes of anything interesting happens. Nevertheless, Dazai just knows how to spoil his sweet girl dearly right to the moment often. You weren't able to come into terms into telling praises so directly—despite of how the brunet might as well deservingly need to hear them at least someday. You plan to anyway. Await for the time to slip in those words through a crack of vulnerability, humming to yourself lost midst thoughts and Dazai who wonders about what was going on your head. "Someone's busy." Heartfelt touch of his finger to your forehead and you immediate to compose yourself for him.

A stutter exits your lips, desperate to not give Dazai a baffled look. "My bad, just thought about some things." The exact minute where Dazai sneaks into your apartment before Kunikida forces the man to get up on time—just to slip by watching sunrise close to the ports. Next to rushing towards an open seaside attraction nearby and hit the sweets for breakfast... The lovely, rather pleasant arrange of events. "You're always thinking, aren't you?" Dazai points out: then playfully pokes at your forehead, a snark grin.

He wasn't entirely wrong for sure yet somehow it felt more annoying than it should. Teasingly (with affection and adore) mock you about potentially pondering about himself when he's literally next to you! One bad habit, for sure. Your grip to Dazai's palm tightens.

"It's difficult enough especially with what you've done earlier at the jewelry shop."

He blinks at you, innocently, a glare to the exquisite necklace piece Dazai bought on his own spare money (from the past) before to your eyes. If not for the gift, then... "Was it wrong for me to openly say that I'd marry you?"

"...On god, let's focus on our date."

10/18 for my valentine's special masterlist -— daily clicks

@emyyy007, @emmzai, @adventurinea, @moomuzan, @skibididazai, @iams0up

[upperstories]

(this is about the post homophobic tumblr won't let the gay men be in the tags.)

WAIT THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS ARE MEN. I THOUGHT THEY WERE WOMEN!!!! I THOUGHT T HE PEOPLE I FOLLOW WERE POSTING CUTE OLD LADY YURI BUT IT WAS CUTE OLD MEN YOAI???

I am the dog mitski bet on.

The characters Hector and Capochin from go by he/him pronouns and refer to themselves The Bizzyboys! So i defer to them as old men.

That being said, they also come from a game where most of characters don’t subscribe to a gender binary. There’s a lot of characters that appear to be trans, non-binary, gender-fluid, so on. Canonically, here’s a character that bi-gender, another character who uses it/its pronouns—I could go on.

Basically I’m just trying to say that I don’t think the gender themselves is important. Hector and Capochin can be toxic old woman yuri or old man yaoi.

I have my own headcanons for what their genders are but I’ll keep them under the cut since they’re just headcanons.

Spoilers!!! Kinda!!!

I honestly believe that the Bizzyboys can be more than one gender, but they don’t understand how to use more than one kind of pronoun.

They understand gender can be expressed in any shape or form, regardless of their personal biology, and are satisfied with how they present themselves, but they just think using only he/him and boys to refer to one another is easier and use it as a catch-all.

Inspekta/Hector and Capochin, in my eyes, are both afab trans men who refuse to bind or top surgery or go in HRT. Names are an important part of being in the Bizzyboys, and they’re both refugees from another dimension that is equivalent to Hell in this universe, so I think they were subjected to transphobia back in the Drain and chose their current names.

Patty is genderfluid, presenting femme but preferring he/him. If he hangs out with Razz more often, I could see him embracing she/her pronouns, but it’d get a bit confusing. Since he’s the youngest, I think he’s one of the few Bizzyboys born in the Grove and not the Drain, seeking to join the crew as a form of inclusion rather than obligation, so he’s grown up a more accepting livelihood of gender expression. It also might explain why he’s the first to break off from the Bizzyboys and stand up to Capo.

Alexei is gay cis man but in a “I don’t really care what I’m perceived as” kind of way. Just prefers comfy clothing and good food.

Bananathaniel is also an afab trans man who got top surgery at Hobbyhoo and wants to be perceived as a man. I could see him, Alexei, and Grujaja being from The Drain but immigrated to the Grove after Hector ascended and established roots for refugee camps. I don’t think there was just One Mass Exodus, I think there were several smaller ones over time, which were made much easier once Hector became a god.

Grujaja is intersex, but is too anxious to really care either way or out too much thought into it yet. I could see him being the most recently immigrated to the Grove and possibly hypersensitive to the sunlight (The Drain is at the bottom of the ocean don’t @ me).

Vibiano is non-binary preferring he/him, but prefers to dress either way. Like Patty, he’s native to the Grove and doesn’t care so much about what people think of him. The gender presentation isn’t the thing that’s most important to him—so long as he dresses fabulously and designs his own outfits, that’s all he cares about.

Anyway. Poses. Enjoy my headcanons!

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Regulus: You're not here.

James: Well, we don't know that do we? Did you fall asleep on a rooftop again?

Regulus: Thanks for the vote of confidence in my sleeping habits... and no, I haven't been up here since the last time you brought me.

James: Ah.

James: How've you been?

Regulus: As all right as I could possibly be... considering.

James: considering...?

Regulus: You left me. You died.

Regulus: and it's Halloween night again. you've been dead a year, James, and here I am talking to a ghost.

Regulus: I wasn't like this before. you made me like this.

James:

Regulus: And I'm glad for it. In a devastating way.

[fatedroses]

I draw a sketch to simply offer my own personal little headcanon and theory that Zenos was the only other descendant Emet got close to (knowing him probably unintentionally) besides Lucius.

Obviously we never see them interact directly, but several little worldbuilding tidbits do make me ponder about certain things, like the possibility lorewise that it could've been Emet that named Zenos, and the fact that they share certain habits and potentially interests.

[littlelightfish]

As I said I would, I drew my oc with yours my beloved @clawdouobit

My pretty girl likes to infodump your pretty girl about the smallest things. She's like a reel, talks a lot but most of it is meaningless.

Close ups and more info because I can't shut up ehtier under the cut <3

20 years old and engaged to a half-foot. They're waiting to gain some more money to get married and leave the dungeon. Note: they're best friends but idk if what they have going on is truly romantic love or just a very good friendship.

Quite skilled at upper levels, but wouldn't go to lesser levels. She isn't skilled enough to make her party survive there.

Her race is a mix between gnome and half-foot. Idk if that's possible but I don't think it's not.

If I had to guess, she's 13/14 on half-foot standars. It's unclear whether she's an adult or not, but she's preety mature most of the time. Most.

Flushed cheeks always. Also very pale.

She's 109 cms tall, a lot more than avarage on haflings, but lot less than avarage on gnomes. Since she hangs out mostly with haflings, she's a giant woman. This gives her some problems with traps so her BMI is 18 due to diet.

Fwens with Shahad. Who knows why tho. We gotta figure that out ;}

[rmorde]

Trigun Manga Reaction

Now, back to Volume 1 Chapter 9!

Insurance Ladies know they are going above and beyond what is normal here. But, they still continue as consummate professionals.

THIS IS SO ADORABLE!!! SO CUTE SO CUTE SO CUUUTEE!

I like the tiny little details that hints something about the characters too.

The most obvious things are Milly's childish expression (playful) and Vash's one leg raised on the seat position (gremlin). However, "no nonsense" Meryl's feet are placed inside the table's rings! You'd expect her to put them by the side of the table but nooooo!!! They need to be IN the ring (she's not above them all!). LMAO.

Tbh... I think the Kaite & Vash relationship feels more fleshed out here in the manga than the anime. I guess it's because of the Rem conversation. It added more weight to their interactions.

Also, they're adorable! Kaite is one sharp kid calling out Vash's bullshit. Vash, like a dog with a bone, keeps deflecting.

Oh wow. This is a huge difference from '98. Kaite was totally alone when he approached the crew.

And this is just as painful and hard to see because, you can absolutely understand the crew's reaction and feelings. What Kaite did was wrong. At the same time tho, he is just a kid who didn't know better. Taking out their grief and fury on him is not right.

Gosh... It makes me think of Little Vash and The Great Fall.

I wonder what exactly went through Vash's head here. In my perspective, Kaite is reflecting Vash unknowingly in this scene. But it's so painful because he's just a kid. He should never have been put in this position. He is too young to be on this path for atonement and redemption! It's just wrong.

Hmmm. Another big difference. Interesting. The Plant was never mentioned in '98 at all.

So, Tristamp followed this manga arc more closely. Some elements are remixed such as Wolfwood replacing Kaite, the Gung-ho Guns substituting BDN as a threat, and the race is avoiding destroying a town instead of avoiding falling off a cliff. All beats are the same tho.

HOWEVER!

I think '98 has a more logical timeline personally because they are in a hurry to stop the ship right? It's a critical moment. If you think about it, there should not have been enough time for Vash to regroup with Kaite after the duel. So, '98 having these two events happen simultaneously is actually good.

Another benefit is Kaite's offer to help feels much more genuine when he was alone and away from Vash in '98. It really sells the idea that this is entirely his own decision despite the risks of retribution.

Of course, Vash didn't influence him in the manga too but by visually having him there with Kaite, it kinda undersells it imo.

Oi. Vash. That's no way to talk about your sister!

While I do appreciate the changes on the Plant design in Tristamp, I really like the '98/Manga more. They're both excellent designs for Sci-Fi but I just really like the 90's flavor of magical Angel Power Plant... which appeases my thing for magitek.

Tristamp tho is a modern flavor of alien Faerie Power Plant - not bad but not my cup of tea. However, the glowing lines feature is wonderful! It reinforces the idea of them being power plants because they have "circuits" in the body. Restraining myself from saying Magic Circuits!

Oh... This is a really fascinating set of panels that I think both '98 and Tristamp haven't adapted well.

'98 kinda skipped this. However in Tristamp, the emphasis on Plants is very clinical. Not sure if that is the best way to describe it, but, in the plants feels so much more objectified in Tristamp. I guess the horror element about the human-plant relationship is further emphasized there.

It's contrasting the manga which seems to be more focused on the awe-inspiring side of it like in the scene above. The scientist waxes poetic and is practically making a religion out of the whole thing.

I guess, to put it simply, the manga effectively shows how humans see Plants worthy of worship. Meanwhile, Tristamp displays how humans see Plants as just a life-essential battery.

So beautiful... Oh...

What if the re-design happened because animating expressive individual feathers would be a pain for Orange staff? GASP! Is that why everyone's hair were cut short?! Because hair is tedious to animate. OMFG... IS THIS WHY MILLY WAS CUT OUT IN SEASON 1 since she really really long luscious locks?!

I kid. I kid. 🤣

Oh. That's really clever remixing by Studio Madhouse. So '98 Miss Purple Avenger Episode is like a "Prototype" of this manga arc. This is where Vash having to prevent an explosion of a Plant came from.

Okay. Another great difference... I've been saying that a lot in this chapter. Sorry.

In '98, Vash dealt with this alone and the only witness was terrified. It focused more on the mystery.

However, here in the manga, Vash is not alone. Humans must work with him to save the Plant and everyone. He can only buy time but it's up to them to stop the whole thing. It's a really nice display of Vash's hopes and beliefs regarding human-plant relations. ----> BTW, the art in this page is really pretty and interesting! (1) The almost "gradient" like transition of Vash's coat to the bulb is so creative. (2) The drawing of the Plant resembling a blooming flower: feathers as ray florets, the plant/sister as the disk floret, and the wires as receptacle/stem.

These pages are so gorgeous and the way the slowing down of the heartbeat was shown through the interspersed tiny panels is just really good.

ROFL. The human instinct of "I don't know what's going on but it's helping so I won't pry anymore and I'll just roll with it!". Love to see it!

I think this arc is so good because it justifies Vash's often criticized brand of hope - his endless patience at giving humans chances to bridge the gap between their species.

Humans can work together and save themselves with just a little push. They won't rely on exploitation forever.

People can realize when they are wrong. They can atone and redeem themselves. They do not stay cruel and ignorant forever. They are capable of change. ----> Also, this art is so perfectly adapted in '98. This page, actually, all the pages relating to this collective effort of humans to save the ships (with a bit of an assist from Vash) is so heartwarming to read. ----> Oh... Kudos again to '98 because since they relegated the 'Vash prevents a Plant explosion' to an earlier episode, the episode covering this particular plot had him out of commission. So, the stakes have become higher. Humans must set aside their differences and work together to save each other and Vash too.

And finally, humans are more than what they seem. They are complicated. What could be an enemy at first could turn out to be an ally that can save you later.

This entire conclusion to the conflict is just good and very... Vash. This is what he wants for Knives to see and understand about humans.

I think '98 really did well in adapting the essence of this arc. Tristamp is complicated because now, on hindsight as I read the manga, the episodes are basically hard-carrying and working overtime telling multiple plot lines at once!

Let's see... in Tristamp's version of this arc:

Wolfwood was working double time in the narrative as "Kaite" and one half of the "Good/Hope of Humanity". Not to mention he has his own conflict going on too.

Meryl was the second half of the "Good/Hope of Humanity" that works with Vash (Plant) in saving people.

Unfortunately, with BDN being replaced by the Gung-ho Guns, there is nothing that echoes the "Hidden Depths Enemy Turned Ally"... character...No way... OMFG! WOLFWOOD WAS SUBSTITUTING FOR THAT ROLE TOO IN THIS ARC!!! Poor Woofwoof!

Roberto is a unique addition since he is a Tristamp OG, but I think he represents well the approach taken by Orange with Trigun. He is like the "Flaws/Indifference of Humanity". He is good but experience had turned him into someone that's jaded and refuses to rock the boat (unlike Meryl). His age and 100% ordinary human status prevents him from surviving long enough to change his disposition too (unlike Wolfwood). It's pretty in line with Orange's more emphasis on the "darker" aspects of the story.

WHA-?!!!

Eh? Eh? EHHH?!!

WHY WAS THIS CHANGED IN '98?!!! THIS IS ADORABLE AND COOL!!! AHHHH!!!! NOOOO!!!!

But... then there won't be Meryl and Milly supporting injured Vash. NOOOO!!! Augh. AND THERE WON'T BE TRISTAMP VERSION OF THIS! AHHHH!!!!

Oh. So, the singing is in the manga too. That's a surprise. I thought it was a '98 original scene.

Awwww. ಥ_ಥ

[lesbianralzarek]

why does every article reporting on idf war crimes go "hamas, who started the war on october 7th with their brutal terrorist attack slaughtering innocent israeli civilians, has condemned the idf's use of-"? like, nearly verbatim every single time. we know about october 7th. we know by now. half the time, hamas isnt even relevant but they gotta find some way to sow doubt and numb any potential compassion responses. will you get fired if you show sympathy for murdered palestinian civilians without first adding a disclaimer saying its all their fault for being born in gaza? if you call "palestinians under 18" children? if you use the words "murdered" or "brutal" or "massacre" for acts that didnt occur on october 7th? if you call a spade a spade? why are israeli reports front page news without proper fact-checking but palestinian reporting is always "allegedly" even when theres video evidence? why does the idf not get the hamas treatment of reminding everyone that theyre biased before treating their words as law, like they havent been caught bold-faced lying again and again?