jenn-the-butterfly

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Raffle prizes and fanart!!!?

I'm very late posting this but please enjoy!

Brought to you by @imagine-creative wondering how Echo and Event respond to being asked for a hug <3

@scarredkitty held a raffle and I won some art of the Big Bitch In Charge, Narii QwQ

and some lovely ship fanart of Xeros and @/saka-aka-chan's Saros being cute af and honestly I kinda love them

(I have more art of them coming~ As a note: this is a fan ship! Which Saka is fully aware of! Xeros does not canonically have a partner but I do personally really love them <3)

[jenn-the-butterfly]

StarHearts

Part 1: Darkened Horizon

Ch 2: The Calm Before

Even though it had been raining, the weather throughout the day was mild with no wind or torrential downpours flooding the streets—but it was a touch chilly. Nothing bad enough to dissuade customers from coming in to get dry and then get a drink to warm themselves up. If anything, the cold brought more people in for a quick sip of heat. Then they would dance to shake the cold out of their bodies. Then they would drink. And dance. Drink. Dance. Drink again—the rhythm of the club played out as it always did as humans and synths both mingled in and out of view before the bar. Careful hands worked away at drying a highball, inspecting its shine before setting it under the counter and moving to the next.

Last call would be soon, and only then did he expect the sea of bodies to start thinning, the ebb of motion falling to his periphery as the barkeeper turned to his inner catalogue to start inventorying the drinks already sold a bit early. Few things could surprise a bartender on last shift, yet surprised he was when he registered a [NEW PATRON] approaching his station at such a late hour.

She rolled in like a storm cloud, standing tall on the horizon while threatening rain and thunder in her wake.

Chin lifting to attention, the synth took a quick, slightly baffled assessment of his guest, sensory array shifting across his head in a flutter that betrayed his amusement. “Well well welcome to The Calm Before lounge,” he greeted with quiet playfulness.

She smiled, her shawl—soggy and barely retaining any volume at all, not unlike her hair—shifting down her shoulders just a touch as she sat on a stool directly in front of him.

He cracked his own grin, not too wide, before giving the glass in his hands a final wipe so he could spare her his full attention. “Can’t say I’ve seen you in here before?”

“Well, since I’ve never been, I’d be concerned if you had,” she replied, laying her clutch on the polished bartop.

The tone of her voice gave him pause as he made to ask what she wanted to start with. It was playful, yes, but rather than flirtatious and smooth like so many women tried to give him, hers was coarse. Tired, even. The kind of voice better suited to sharing dry wit and rueful sarcasm among friends, not for buttering up a booze dealer right before closing time.

A more genuine crook of his mouth betrayed the curiosity that wrapped through his code. “Long day?”

“Something like that, yeah.” The woman gave a deep sigh that heaved her chest before she clutched her damp shawl closer, attention traveling back toward the door for a moment. “I’m just here for a drink while I wait.”

A few ideas passed through his mind of what she might want, one hand lingering on the neck of a bottle just under the counter expectantly. “Someone comin’ to get you?”

A glitter of her eyes as they turned from the entry back to him kept his hand from grabbing anything, the blue color vibrant as the sky itself and alert despite what he noticed wasn’t some odd makeup trend or the result of rain marring her mascara. Dark circles made deeper by the dim golden lights of the lounge casting their unflattering shadows gave her face an edge of tired danger—or desperation. “Genuinely, I hope not,” she answered plainly, fingers drumming the counter as she shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

Given she was soaking wet, the bartender mused over how clingy and chaffed her dress was making her. It was already bunching in places that fabric didn’t need to bunch in, and he didn’t doubt if he checked there would be a puddle of water under her feet from the mop of hair that clung to her neck in spirals. Faintly, he thought she was shivering and for a moment, he likened her to a wet cat just brought in from the rain and had to bite back the urge to laugh.

“Anyway.”

His attention snapped back, his array roiling again as he shrugged off the unprofessional urge to tease her if he had any hope of her tipping. Before she could prod him about his silence, the synth let practiced words roll off his tongue, “You look like you need something hot,” while pulling and spinning a pour-stoppered bottle and a glass mug out from below the bar.

A huff of a giggle told him he was right, her red tinted lips thinning with amusement. “Well, the bouncer did say if I got a toddy it was on him.”

Only for a fraction of a second, barely visible to a human’s eye, did his body hiccup and pause before auto-engaging the steps to gather hot water and the other fixings. This at least let him reassess what he’d just experienced with a more critical mind without drawing attention. Voice calm and smooth as he wondered, “Lemon or lime?” toward her, back to his guest, he decided, I’m thinking top shelf, when selecting the whiskey he wanted, barely minding the movement along the bar as another patron came to collect a drink.

“Isn’t it with lemon?” the woman wondered back, his eyes making note of the white button up appearing down the way from him. One of the others had come back from their smoke break finally, giving him a good reason to send a note through the ServerSync network as they punched in on the register at the end of the bar.

“Yeah,” he answered back vocally, barely a second passing as he sent the encrypted equivalent of a sticky note to the staff— the wet one with blue eyes is mine . “I like mine with lime, though. It’s tangier.” Within milliseconds, there were three blips on his note as the servers acknowledged his claim.

“Well, I’m a sucker for tangy so I’ll try it.”

Pleased with himself, the synth turned to grab a kettle only to scowl as he realised the earlier motion of a patron had been someone sidling his way to the blue eyed beauty while his back was turned. This one had been knocking back everything he could tonight, the stink of alcohol thick as he breathed, body swaying on invisible waves far too close to the woman for anyone’s comfort. “I gotta’r drink if’ya make two,” the man warbled, his eyes so heavy lidded and glazed with booze it was a wonder he could see straight enough to make it to the bar, let alone talk to someone.

The synth’s jaw squeezed as he kept his temper down, array raising across his skull warningly, but the woman seemed unbothered by the incursion. Her smile was gone and the light in her eyes dimmed to icy disks, but she was alert nonetheless, her hand coming up to cover her nose; the man’s body swayed which made her lean from him before her hand turned to block his mouth as he rocked back, seemingly pushing him without laying a finger on him. “Juleps aren’t as good without mint in them, maybe have a few before you come talking to someone next time.”

It was harder to fight the laugh back this time, especially as the drunk man’s face reddened with embarrassment, then anger, his expressions too exaggerated to ignore as the emotions slowly picked their way through his alcohol infused brain. “You rude bit—” he started to blurt, getting cut off by the clatter of a glass mug and whiskey bottle landing firmly on the bartop beside him.

Jumping out of his skin nearly, the human man shrank back, the ruddy color of his face draining to white under the flaring halo of the synth barkeeper’s sensory array. Standing at his full height with his shoulders squared, he was larger than the bouncer and even more sturdy, voice a low thrum of thunder on a dark night. “How ‘bout you leave her alone, hm?”

Quaking from his head to his boots, the man only managed a squeak back.

Just then, the other bartender chimed in from an arm’s length away, cutting the fuse threatening to blow the lounge sky high if the idiot didn’t take the warning gracefully.  “Sir, I can help you over here.”

Both synth and human were grateful the drunk took the offer to skedaddle away, unharmed.

Danger avoided, the array stopped glowing, settling back into its relaxed position against the synth’s head. He exhaled slowly, attention settling on the woman who still sat, unbothered by anything but her wet minidress and the cold water in her underwear. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, doing what he could to grab a pot and fill it with hot water from the bar’s coffee maker without having to turn away again.

“Me?” she blurted, confused. “I’m fine.”

Head tilting slightly, the synth’s brow creased. “Wasn’t he bothering you?”

“Well yeah, but it’s fine. He’s drunk and he backed off pretty fast, so there’s no reason to stay mad about it.”

The bartender huffed, Easy for you then , to himself while carefully maneuvering the pot into place without dribbling scalding water everywhere.

Not a beat later, the woman, having been leaning over the counter top somewhat to peer behind the bar, chirped, “So you’re actually that tall? And here I thought there was a riser you were standing on.”

The synth chuckled, feeling the simmer of anger bubble away as he kept his focus on the soggy cat who got her smile back, just slightly. “What can I say?” he mused while running through the steps of crafting the elusive toddy before the water went cold. “I’m built different.”

“Built Old World, you mean?”

Her words made him stop completely, gaze locked on his hands for a moment before slowly creeping upward across the bar to the thin lines of her fingers folded at the edge—one set organic and flesh, the other silicone and fiberglass etched with subtle detail work he wanted to admire for a moment but couldn’t—then onto the rich, dark blue of her dress that still clung to her body in a disheveled and ill fitting way despite her full chest. Against better judgement he lingered on that line of cleavage just a tad longer than intended even as it guided him up her neck to her face, eyes still bright with awareness and just a touch of mischief now. Wary, the synth started moving again, but his focus stayed on her, their gazes locked until he finally managed, “How can you tell?”

Leaning in, that distracting flash of cleavage pressed into her hands at the bar's edge, making it more pronounced—and putting it directly in his line of sight as he mixed her toddy. “You just told me,” her voice cooed, now a perfectly smooth flirtation as he’d expected earlier from her. Was she toying with him?

The notion brought a welcome tension to his back as he considered the time.

But then he remembered the toddy.

Wrapping up the steps, the synth set her drink down and cleaned up his mess in record time, unusually silent though the human wouldn’t know that about him. Sitting back, she took her drink and gave it a gentle puff before sipping.

Her eyes glittered as they widened, making the bartender pause, his gaze stuck watching every small movement now from the way her shawl fell from her shoulder onto the stool to the how she lifted one hand from the mug and covered her mouth in disbelief. “Wait, that’s actually really good!” she blurted, all facade of seduction or confidence melting away under the sour heat of the toddy. For a moment it was as if a completely different person sat on the stool in front of him, still a wet cat of a human but the energy of her presence had shifted abruptly somehow.

It was fascinating to watch someone’s mask fall away, and partly the reason he liked tending the bar in the first place.

Soft cyan eyes drew his attention once more over the rim of the mug as the woman took a longer drink, the tension in her shoulders falling away under the weight of the whiskey. He almost couldn’t keep it up, choosing to wipe his hands down with a rag to avoid staring too much. Somehow, she was captivating even when drowned by the rain.

He found himself wondering if she still would be when she was dry and properly dressed.

Dressed? Sense trickled back abruptly. The toddy. The bouncer. The method. Right, right.

Yet her voice muddled his attempt to follow the steps correctly. “Thank you for the drink…?”

His head tilted. She’d trailed off with a question, which urged him to look her way despite better judgment telling him that was dangerous.

Her gaze flicked down over his chest and back to his face, one brow curled up as if waiting for him to figure out what she wanted. Following her intention, the synth gave himself a once over—then he laughed a bit, pinching the front of his button up between two fingers where there should have been a name tag like the others had. “When I’m on duty, everyone just calls me Z.”

“Okay, Z,” the woman hummed, gaze now roving again but this time he felt a different kind of energy in her appraisal of him—the kind he preferred when being stared at. “Thank you for the lime toddy. My name is Jenyl.”

“And thank you for giving it a try, Jenyl, ” he replied, breaking his unintended silence while returning the hungry gaze that seemed to be deciding if he was worth pouncing on.

She added on, “In all seriousness before,” the hungry look disappearing with her change in topic. “Old World synths are always over six-and-a-half feet tall. I’m not a short person but I know I have to look up at you, so you’re easily past that limit. That’s how I knew.”

All he could do was snort and chuckle. “I forget about that sometimes, I won’t lie. Now drink that while it’s hot.” With a wink, he turned to finish cleaning.

The dark rings under her eyes seemed to lighten just a bit with the camaraderie, a flush crossing her cheeks that made her a little less of a wet cat and a little more of a soggy human for a moment.

It did not change the way her cheeks seemed sunken though.

As he watched her from the corner of his eye, doing some last minute cup arranging and starting the last call, the synth named Z at last found a chance to mull over everything. Though it was not the worst case he’d ever come across, between the ‘drinks on me’ flag, her ill-fitted attire and general look of being unwell, he could only conclude that this human named Jenyl that he’d never seen before was here for a reason.

There was only ever one reason pretty girls like her came into the lounge. He needed to be helping her—not flirting with her.

That was his one rule. His only rule.

They’re brave enough to come in, so you be decent enough to get them out .

The venue crowd began to thin at last, security dipping through the back door to the dance floor to check for stragglers and waitresses clearing tables from the sitting area in front of the bar itself with no sense of urgency. Content with the evening, Z meandered back to the human and her toddy, throwing a dishrag over his shoulder for no other reason than to get her attention. “Got about twenty minutes,” he told her, kneeling down to put the bottles underneath back in alphabetical order even though they wouldn’t stay that way. “The last bus leaves in five.”

Jenyl set the mug down, having been busy swirling the last swig of toddy around the bottom but unwilling to finish it. Unbothered, she said, “I was told the last bus leaves at closing,” which prompted a slow breath as the synth let go of any ideas about booking a last minute room around the corner.

“You’re right,” he agreed, standing up and offering only a gentle, knowing smile. “How about I walk you to the stop myself once I clock out?”

A similarly kind smile returned his way. “I think I’d appreciate that, Z.”

Pretty girls like her only came to the lounge for one reason.

Because they knew that if they were brave enough to rip the chains from their ankles and dare to hope they could beat the storm, they would find a special bus that only ran after closing time at the end of the alley behind The Calm Before lounge, paid by the hand of the owner, Ven Oriz, himself to run them across the city of New Calda as far as they could get.

All they had to do was ask for the last bus before the storm hit.

Of course, not everyone knew how to ask for that, but the bartenders were all smooth talkers and under strict orders to assess any possible flags no matter how small. One such being if the bouncers offered to buy a drink, as they were the first line to see who may or may not be there for fun. Yes, there were false positives on occasion, but it always got easier once the pattern was established and a false positive was always better than a missed one.

Girls that needed help—that wanted  help—had ways of letting them know once they felt safe enough to ask about the last bus.

It was his job to get them on it.

As he pondered the time it would take to walk her through the alley, the synth felt a tug of disappointment in his code. Had she actually been flirting earlier or was it a reflex? Was he making it up entirely because he thought she was fuckable and his shift was nearly over? Snorting quietly, he made himself accept the blue eyed beauty wasn’t his to ravish—and he was being a jackass for even considering it, given the circumstances. Well, no one’s perfect, he assured himself, shoulders shrugging absently while he wrung the towel through his fingers, eyes peering at the back of his right hand for a moment.

Nestled deep into the plane of his hand sat a perfectly smooth, round gemstone just a bit bigger than a duck egg the color of butter and starlight. It had been some time since he last pondered this odd feature, having gotten so used to it he’d come to see it as a natural part of his design—even though it was far from.

“That’s quite a fancy thing on your hand there,” Jenyl commented, sending a surge of panic through his circuits.

Moving quickly, Z wrapped the towel around his hand, hiding the stone—why? He wasn’t certain. He only barked, “What thing?” like a criminal caught red handed.

The woman seemed baffled by his reaction, her gaze flicking from his face to his hands and back quickly. “That?” she uttered, gesturing towards him. “Your watch?”

Relief tinged with the taste of ‘dumbass’ swept through on the heels of the panic, clearing out his system and allowing him to speak normally again. “Oh, this?” Holding up his left arm, he stepped closer to let her look at the wristwatch encircling his forearm, the inner gears and coils visible through a small window in the face. “A gift from my boss.”

“Your boss?” Jenyl’s brow raised skeptically.

“Well, the owner actually,” he grinned, winking.  “I’m really good at my job.”

“I didn’t think one of The Four would be that generous. Money tends to make people selfish.”

Z’s hand twitched, grin falling as he fumbled for a reply. “What, do you know them personally or something?”

She shrugged. “No, of course not. People like that don’t show up in…” A moment of hesitation caught her, her gaze breaking away from him for a moment. “Either way, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything. The dons of this city aren’t known for being generous, regardless of their placement on the ladder of power.”

Jaw tensing again, Z tried to find something to rebuttal. To defend what he knew to be the truth–but he was blank. So he tried a different angle. “Who do you think pays for that bus you want to take?”

But frigid blue stopped his temper cold. “One generous act does not make up for a lifetime of wasted opportunity.”

What?

“It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Again, it was like a different person now sat in the chair before him, the energy drained from her body like water in a downspout. It was getting hard to keep up with, even for a synth. “What?”

Tired blue once more, Jenyl muttered, “I don’t plan to meet with any of them anyway. I’m very much done with dons, and gangs, and… everything.”

Oh. Somehow, it was too easy to forget this woman was in trouble. That he was supposed to be helping her. At least she still has her spirit, he thought deciding that a bit of snark and bad attitude was worth knowing she wasn’t a husk on her last legs. That strength would make a difference when the time came. Still, he couldn’t help a bit of teasing to try and lighten the mood, leaning on the bartop a bit and crossing his ankles. “Then what would you do if you did happen across one of The Four? Would you still call them lazy and selfish?”

“To their face?” she asked back, already continuing with the answer without a reply. “Oh, I’d say a lot more than that, but it’ll never happen. People like that don’t mingle in circles where I’m from, and I’ll be long gone before that ever changes.”

“Bold words for someone who can’t follow through. You sure you’d stay honest if given a chance?”

Jenyl scowled. “I’m always honest. It’s why I’m telling you now you’re being an ass-kissing jackhole because your boss got you a fancy watch.”

“Hey,” he snapped lightly, trying to err on humor with his tone, “I said I earned this!”

She didn’t seem to believe him but chose not to call him on it, instead scoffing as Z pulled out a small glass from the shelf that wasn’t supposed to be there among the highballs and tankards. Eventually, she settled down but her tone stayed sharp. “Better than what my boss gave me.” Turning the bourbon cup over in his hand, the synth tipped his head, indicating he was listening. Jenyl brought her right arm up, resting her forearm on the bartop to better show off the detailwork of the machinery that served to replace her original limb. Starting at her fingers, Z’s eyes roamed while he listened as the human grumbled, “Have an accident, get told not to worry about it, ‘I’ve got it covered, Jen, get better first’ and guess what?” She squeezes her hand into a fist, the mechanisms within shifting under the semi-translucent fiberglass like sheer satin. “I should have been worrying. Paycheck? What’s that? No, I get an allowance off of my tips because I ‘owe him’. I didn’t ask for this fancy ass–”

Z rocked back, hands coming up as the woman’s voice picked up and her cheeks reddened, the glimmer in her eyes now coming from tears rather than inner energy. If he had a heart, it would ache. “Hey,” his voice soothed, daring to set the glass down to wrap her delicate fingers in his for a moment—she was puny compared to him. Fragile. He only needed one to cover both of hers but there was no trying to be powerful here, so he used both hands, guilt be damned, to try and settle her. “The whiskey’s got you talking,” he chuckled, catching her turn to hide any errant tears, “but you don’t have to yell. I’m right here, I can hear you.”

He could hear her. He understood, more than she realized.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, hands squeezing in his grip. “I’m being such a bitch. I know I don’t sound it, but it’s not like I’m ungrateful for don Oriz’s help… I’m just… I’m mad.”

“I know.” He didn’t like how boney her wrist was in his grip, but medical debt was only one way girls like her were controlled. If she’d said she hadn’t eaten for a few days, he’d believe her instantly.

He knew far too well what she was dealing with.

“Well, joke’s on him,” she went on, voice wavering but firm. Pulling a hand free, Jenyl turned to face her prosthetic shoulder toward him and gestured to a large duck-egg-sized stone that glimmered like opal and crystal embedded in the shell.

Z’s entire body stilled.

“He’s the idiot that decided to put this stupid rock in my arm, so he can have it back when I sell it and use the money to buy a house somewhere far, far away from here.”

Electricity.

It ran through his body in an instant, leaving the taste of ozone and lime behind with repeating thoughts of No, she can’t, thrumming around with no way of finishing themselves. Somehow, the human didn’t notice his unexpected distress as she dabbed at her face, pushing away the tears that kept fighting to be free. There’s no fucking way. Thinking quickly, Z stepped back, forcing a sympathetic look onto his face before he lost all pretense of kindness. “Tell you what.” I need to double check this, now. He thumbed toward the kitchen door, stepping slowly back from the woman. “There’s maybe a dozen people left in here, I’m gonna see if I can dip early and take you to the bus now, alright?”

This seemed to lift her spirits and her head, her eyes regaining some amount of glimmer. “Um, okay? Yeah. I’d… appreciate that.”

“Wait right here.” Pointing to the floor, Z elbowed his way out of sight, his massive frame disappearing easily behind the white swinging door as he pulled up a neural call from his priority contact list.

Unaware of the reason for the odd shift in the synth’s demeanor, Jenyl did the polite thing by waiting in her seat, trying not to pick at her nails. What a hell of a night, she mused to herself. Footsteps passed behind her, a group of five exiting with little fanfare aside from a drunken giggle that was a bit too loud. It hasn’t even been an hour either.

Absently, the human ran her hand across her cheek, finding it still cold from the rain. The toddy had been nice, but she needed dry clothes. And a nap.

Gripping her clutch and the wad of bills smashed inside it, she huffed. It would be a long while before she got anything of her own.

I wish I’d had a chance to change. Jeans would itch but they’re better than this old thing.

More footsteps behind her, milling about. A waiter with a bag of trash whisked by at the edge of her vision.

She waited politely, thinking about the night. About the handsome synth that gave her a lime toddy and lamenting that he bought into the bullshit that Ven Oriz was anything but another criminal exploiting the vulnerable and having more money than any one person should. If he wasn’t a dope, he’d be cuter. But she knew it wasn’t his fault.

That’s just how they worked.

Ven Oriz.

Locke Tyro.

Kilais Nossun.

Ambere Anterre.

Their statuses and reputations hardly mattered when it was an open secret they each had hands in the criminal underbelly of New Calda but being powerful and influential in and out of those circles somehow felt worse, as they could—and did—hide their activities from the regular citizens so well it seemed like those who knew were being gaslit. Then again, she knew she was jaded due to the unfortunate reality that Jenyl was one of the ones who did know—far too much about way too many people and the things they shouldn’t be doing because of a simple lapse in judgement when she was at her lowest point. Or at least the lowest she’d yet to be before he came along and pushed her further and further down with every promise, every request—every warning.

Carlo Valdez thought himself wealthy and influential. The kind that would turn heads and get favors by name alone—he thought himself worthy of the power wielded by those far above his station but in truth he was a fraud. Jenyl knew this. Other crimelords knew this.

He’d inherited his racket from the previous boss—not by nepotism, but pure luck and he’d squandered it horrifically on things that made him look powerful but amounted to very little.

Allegedly, the rock stuck in her arm was one of those grand money sinks he was known for, though this one came in the form of a pending payout that would make up for all of his spending. One day.

Allegedly.

He never fully explained what it was that his goons found among the old boss’s hoarded treasures, but Jenyl knew he not only thought it would bail his ass out of debt, but that he cared for that rock more than he did her.

It would be nice to give it back, with interest.

More footsteps.

Jenyl pulled her clutch to her chest, waiting for them to pass. For Z to come back. If I had time, I wouldn’t mind a ride on something else before the bus, she mused, legs tensing. He might be a dope but he’s handsome so it’s enough for one night. She sighed, knowing it wouldn't happen.

At least the next time she got the chance, it would still be on her terms. The idea was enough to turn her mouth up ever-so-slightly at the corners.

The footsteps came closer, the air shifting around her on either side. Jenyl stilled, eyes locked on the bartop. A distinct cologne wafted across her nose, a burnt wood and old brandy kind of odor that she knew terribly well. “Dammit,” she muttered, feeling both of her elbows being seized by the black-suited men on either side of her.

“D’you really think you’d slip out unnoticed?” the one on her right rumbled, his grip jerking her slightly to force her from her seat. “Every pimp in the lower quarter has eyes on this place. They all know tramps like you come through here tryin’ to run an’ they love ta talk. You ain’t the first of the boss’s girls to make a break for it.”

At her left, the other snapped while yanking her clutch from her grip, “Just come quietly an’ you’ll get out of this mostly unharmed.”

“Mostly?” she coughed, wanting to grab at her clutch but knowing better. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“The boss is a forgiving man,” the first assured with no sense of genuine care in his voice. “As long as ya apologize properly that is.”

“Like hell—”

The kitchen door swung open with a creak.

Z stopped dead in the entryway.

Jenyl’s heart thrummed into her throat—she wanted to tell him to go back. To stay in the kitchen.

She could feel the men reaching for their weapons, even if she couldn’t see them. They wouldn’t draw them yet unless they intended to fire.

Don’t give them a reason to fire.

“Uh,” Z’s voice warbled, face twisted in a moment of deep confusion as he took in the strangers in black and the empty, resigned mask Jenyl put on the moment she felt them approach. “Gentlemen… is there a problem?”

She watched him step near the bar but the two flanking her warned against that very quickly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. A friend’a ours wants to meet with the lil lady, that’s all. Don’t go pushin’ any buttons and alertin’ no cops now or we’ll have a problem, alright?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Z kept his hands up and off the bar, that charming grin returning–Jenyl’s brow creased. What the hell was he smiling about? “But see, I had a deal with the lil miss,” he nodded toward Jenyl, making her heart sink as his array fluttered across his head to full attention. The goons shifted, seeming aware he was doing something . “I’m not much fond of breaking deals.”

It didn’t surprise her at all that the idiots Valdez hired couldn’t read a room. “Tell ya what, let us make this quick an’ ya can have what’s left of her to do whatever ya want.”

Z hummed a low, warning tone. “See… I don’t really like that option either.”

The lights of the lounge wavered, dimming out and returning in sporadic waves. The goons in black both flinched as they looked around for the source of the surge, each pulling their guns free in defensive positions—they let Jenyl go, nearly smashing her between them as they went to stand back-to-back. Stumbling out from them, Jenyl managed to look up for a second, planning to beg Z to let it go before someone got hurt—

Fear sealed her throat from making any noise.

Beautiful, pure crimson.

That had been the color of the synth’s eyes when she first looked into them. An unusual color, unfriendly even, but so very eye-catching as she watched his face and the way his expression lines creased when he smiled. They were still that brilliant color as he stared down don Valdez’s lackeys but where they had been set into calm, white scleras just moments before, she now found herself peering into furious darkness which fed the red until they shined with malicious intent.

It was the same synth as before, but Z was nowhere to be found.

Chairs clattered to the floor.

Someone shouted.

Jenyl stumbled, falling against the bar—she ducked, hearing heavy feet land next to her.

“HEY!”

She whirled, barely recognizing the synth beside her as one of the goons flipped around, gun aimed their way—but Z was faster, hurling a barstool at the man before he could think to pull the trigger. In the same motion, the red-eyed bot turned and—still somehow grinning—chirped, “‘Scuse me, milady,” before wrapping his arms around her knees and hauling.

Jenyl, her throat burning with fear and bile, yelped. Everything moved so quickly—security was descending like ants on honey, the goons firing blindly into the lounge bathed in back up light and little else. Somehow, the power had gone out, leaving them blind. They shouted again. At her? She couldn’t tell. She pressed her palms to the synth’s back, trying not to knock herself out from the rough handling he gave her while booking it through a service exit at the back of the main room.

“My purse?!” she shouted as the door buckled under Z’s heavy foot, his hand going to her ass to keep her in place.

“No time!” he snapped back, pushing through into a dark hallway that swallowed the sound of gunfire and fighting.

“But–”

“Later!”

My ID—my money! She knew he was right but what was she going to do after the bus?

Another door, heavier and metallic, blocked their progress. Faintly, she thought she heard footsteps coming down the hall; the toddy in her empty stomach wanted to leave the premises, post-haste.

The lock clicked—apparently Z didn’t want to kick this one down—and it swung wide. Cold, fresh air swept over them both, Jenyl’s stomach settling as she took in the sweet scent of rain—and less sweet after taste of trash and mildew. Spilling into the vacant alleyway, Z’s machine body pivoted and began a rough jog to the right, hand firmly squeezing her against his shoulder so she couldn’t wiggle free.

Eyes peeled for followers, the human squinted through the mist and her own nausea to the far end of the gap between the lounge and the next door building. There at the mouth sat a white and navy transporter, steam and smog wafting from its hot engine as it idled, unbothered. “Th-the bus?” she barked, helplessly pointing in the opposite direction from where Z was going.

He only offered a short, “Nope,” until she balled her fist and whacked him square between the shoulders. “Too risky!”

“The fuck you mean too risky—” As she snapped, Jenyl blinked against the damp and saw figures spill out from the door they had just come from, their black suits disheveled and torn. “Oh—shit.”

“Yep.”

Taking a hard left, Z skirted off the line of the alleyway under the protection of a parking garage that served the entire block’s employee parking needs, the security arm merely a hop for the massive synth whose stride carried him over with little issue. It did offer at least a chance for Jenyl, jostled from place as he shifted his weight over the bar, to sit up which forced Z’s grip to change. Cradling her in the crook of his arm, he didn’t pause to acknowledge her nor their followers, but the pressure against her body said enough for her to know she wasn’t going anywhere.

He marched up to the second floor, eyes locked forward even when she tried to get his attention. It was frustrating enough being manhandled, she at least wanted him to say something! Instead, they approached a sleek, black car—a very expensive looking car—that flashed and clicked with a silent unlock command despite Z having no keys in his hand.

“How the fuck—”

With precision, the synth snapped open the back door and flipped her into the back seat, barely missing the frame with her head. The unfamiliar red eyes and empty smile finally settled on her as Z’s mass filled the doorway, making it impossible for her to worm out. “Buckle up and be quiet,” he told her calmly but coldly. “And keep your head down.”

The door shut and locked before she could sit up, the pull-pin disappearing entirely into the mold of the door.

Trapped.

The driver’s side door opened, Z siding into the seat perfectly, no need to adjust anything except the rearview—which he tweaked to get a full image of Jenyl, his eyes still cold and brilliant red in the reflection. He could only spare a narrowed glance as the car started up, the rumble shaking her entire body—

—she whipped into the opposite door, barely managing to catch herself. Burnt rubber stung her nose, the squeal of the tires setting her teeth on edge as Z flipped a bitch toward the exit.

“I told you to buckle up,” the synth chided, seeming completely unbothered by the situation now.

“Fuck off,” Jenyl snapped back, catching a rueful grin on his face as he let out a breathy chuckle.

“Then get down.”

“What—”

Tires squealed again, Z’s foot pressing the accelerator flat to the floor. They launched forward, the twig of the security arm snapping against the hood of the car and shattering into pieces. Just barely, the human spied a few darkly-clothed bodies diving out of the way past the windows.

As they flew out of the parking garage, she dared to peer through the rear window. Two figures sprinted into the alley—the same men from before—their arms raised.

Jenyl felt a firm hand catch the underside of her dress and yank, pulling her down into the seat.

Something hard cracked against the window, a large crack forming from one corner to another.

“I said GET DOWN!”

Jenyl flinched, covering her ears as Z’s voice boomed like thunder in the enclosed space.

This time, she didn’t catch herself as he turned once more, her body sinking between the seats so her leg folded painfully under herself.

Face burning, she glared directly through the gap in the seats, meeting a level, red gaze devoid of amusement. His voice, however, still held a touch of sarcasm. “I told you to buckle up.”

It took a moment to unfold from the crevasse but once she managed to get up, Jenyl pulled herself through the center console to keep him in focus, her lip stain smeared at the edges from biting her lip. “How about you fucking talk to me, asshole! Where are you taking me?!”

“I’ll explain when we get there—”

“No, you’ll explain NOW—”

Z hit another sharp turn, Jenyl sliding back into the seat. A strap on her shoe snapped, leaving it to dangle off her toes uselessly. The smug look on the synth’s face in the mirror made her skin burn.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The grin lessened, Z’s brow raising. “‘Chu mean?”

“The watch, the car—shut up, I know this is yours, I didn’t see you use keys so it’s tuned into your personal access code. Don’t tell me it's another ‘gift’.”

“Why not?”

“No one is that good at their job, unless you’re someone's sugar baby.”

Z bellowed a laugh, the car coasting to a controlled stop at a red light that let the girl finally settle into the seat properly.

She didn’t see what was so funny. “If it’s that ridiculous then tell me who you are. None of the other cars in the garage were this nice, and the servers didn’t have watches like yours. I know both of those brands, I know they’re worth more than most people make in a year.”

“Yeah,” the synth mused, laughter subsiding. His gaze lingered in the mirror, even as he started driving again. “I suppose you’re not wrong there.”

“So who are you ‘Z’?”

Puffing playfully, he shrugged, grin widening in a way that made the hairs on her arms stand up. “Guess I’m not on shift anymore, am I?”

“Clearly.”

“Well then, you can call me Ven.”

Last:

Fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55846960/chapters/163846222

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion Week: Part 4

Get snatched

We finished strong and now eagerly await the final render (which is nearly done, I promise).

He seems to have had a good time ;)

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[jenn-the-butterfly]

You can't quite figure out why you don't trust the idea of being beloved, yet it feels so good that even if it's not true, you ignore it, craving the delusion for however long it's available.

You can't understand what they see in you because you are not them.

You can't see what they see. You might have shared memories with them, but you cannot understand what they felt in those times. You underestimate yourself and your role in those moments.

You underestimate the power of your bond, your history, and everything that's ever happened between you.

Not for not trying of course, but what is there to understand when all around you are stories of mistakes, of poor choices and betrayal one--five--fifteen years later. How do you trust that you're different? That they're different?

They'll get bored eventually. Surely someone more appealing, more intriguing, more everything will show up and they'll be gone, before or after breaking it off you can't say. But until then, you enjoy the facade.

You can't fathom it being genuine, even though you want it.

You don't understand what love is and the full breadth of its power.

You don't know the weakness you instill in those memories then they think of your smile. You don't feel the warmth as they experience your care and concern for their safety. That they're hurting and mistrustful just like you but they dared to take a chance, to follow the path laid out before them.

There can't be another because there is only one you.

You are the fluttering of their heart when they crave coming home.

You are the bright morning light when they wake up.

You are the sound of love and laughter because it's you that showed them what it was.

No one could be prettier, smarter, better, more anything to them than you because you earned that place by doing and being what others refused or failed at.

You taught them love because you craved it so, and in doing that you made the delusion a reality.

They love you because you are you and nothing in this world will change that.

Realizing that the problem with feeling loved is not due to a lack of it, but because you genuinely cannot comprehend that someone can and does love you unconditionally. It just never feels like it because you do not see yourself as worth loving, not as a moral failing on your part, but because you aren't "interesting" enough to be loved by another who is vastly more intriguing than you.

You are "boring".

You are "weird".

You keep your interests to yourself.

You are fussy, you are indecisive.

You are infuriating to be around.

Why would anyone love that? It's inconceivable.

And yet... When they tell you they do, you know it's the truth. They would never lie to you.

But you think they could lie to themselves. That's the only way it makes sense to you.

You cannot fathom being loved, even if you want it, because you only know how to give it. To show and share it. Never receive it.

It simply does not make sense.

And yet... Love you they do, into the madness of incomprehension and beyond.

[jenn-the-butterfly]

StarHearts

Part 1: Darkened Horizon

Chapter 1: The Storm Approaching

There was no more fitting scene to set than a wet street lit up by lamps and traffic lights that slowly shifted between red, yellow and green, a pulse of life between gray facades and darkened windows. The rain itself was a cold drizzle, the kind that seeped into the bones and lingered long after drying off, smearing makeup and flattening hair into an unrecognizable mess. Not that she cared how bad she looked at the moment.

Jenyl waited, eyes lingering on the reflections of the street lights as her heart drowned out the misting roar of distant traffic and raindrops. I’m doing this, she told herself, waiting for her feet to take a step off the curb on their own. I’m doing this.

A faint echo of frantic instructions hummed in her mind, the voice not her own and far less calm. “Go there. Talk to the bartender, but be subtle. Everyone that knows, knows, and there are eyes everywhere.”

Despite the damp weather, she found her throat to be very dry when swallowing, taking her pride with it. Lifting her gaze, the human followed the lamp lights as they wiggled in the puddles to the large spotlight of color across from her. Up, up, up she slowly panned her gaze, water rolling down her temples into her eyes-–the mascara burned a bit, mixing her tears with the rain until they couldn’t be told apart. What is this, a movie? she wondered but with no sense of humor to ease how pathetic she felt, standing in the rain alone, waiting for something to happen so she wouldn’t have to act on her own accord.

Blazing bright as lightning with navy lettering, she read the sign of the only building open and operating at this insane hour of night.

The Calm Before Lounge.

The irony was not lost on her as her breath shook–-from cold or nerves, she couldn’t tell-–but her time to wait had run out. Standing under the awning between her and possible safety was a large man, bald, also human though only just. Even from across the street, she’d managed to catch a glint on his left arm that told her it was mechanical, the color of charcoal and ice; it made her gaze at her right hand for a moment, the seams and joints criss crossed with beautiful inlays and filigree marks, color matched to her own skin so it would blend in at a distance–-subtle, but no less artificial. Might be a good talking point if he won’t let me in, she mused, knowing it was very nearly the last hour and many places stopped admitting newcomers then. He’d already spotted her some minutes ago, so any more delay would only increase her suspiciousness–and her odds of being stopped.

It had to be now.

I have to do this.

Taking a long, deep breath, Jenyl squared her shoulders, slicked her hair back from her face, checked the road, and stepped forward. The drop from the curb was barely anything but her gut churned nonetheless, threatening to empty itself despite there being nothing inside to evacuate. There was no way she’d have been able to eat, had she thought to. Not with the anxiety burning her veins.

The bouncer’s gaze, hidden by black lenses she assumed had a screen behind them, followed her with a slow turn of his head. Now safely under the awning herself, Jenyl paused to wring out her hair, tousseling it into some semblance of style as she settled into her decision. Once she flipped her ‘do into place, making effort to dig out her only compact from the clutch gripped in her left hand to clean up the awful coon eye the rain had given her, the bouncer spoke, which she hadn’t expected.

“‘Bout time you came over,” he said with a deep but shockingly gentle tone. “Started to think you were a ghost.”

Letting herself laugh, Jenyl gave her best disappointed smile–-smiles make the lies go down easy. “It starts to feel like it. My friends said they’d meet me here for a last crawl but now I’m thinking they went to bed without me.”

“Lousy friends then,” the tall man uttered, giving his new arrival a proper once-over-–both for door keeping reasons and his own curiosity.

A human woman, just shy of six feet, soaking wet and barely hiding her shivering. Hair flocked on the sides but grown long down the middle, past her shoulders, of a dark blond or light brown color too sodden by rain to get a clear idea of the texture for. Her makeup was ruined by waiting, but she didn’t seem to have much to begin with-–not that she needed it with the intense cyan irises she had. Any extra anything would be overwhelming if it had to compete with those beauties-–though he found her lip stain to be just enough, a touch of deep pinkish red that had his eyes jumping between her eyes and mouth when she spoke or blinked.

Under other circumstances, he’d be keen to let her in for free just for being nice to look at even if it was close to closing, but he hesitated. Something felt off. Five years in the business gave him insight, whether he knew it or not, and when he didn’t feel right he listened.

So the bouncer took another moment to assess this late comer. Just enough that her smile wavered–-she knew he was checking for something and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other to shake the unease. “Is there something wrong?” her voice wondered softly, still trying to be playful. “Am I too late to go in?”

It was there in the way her clothes shifted on her body, where they sagged and crinkled when they should cling and stretch as if the outfit was just a bit too large for her. In the way he realized the shadow of her cheekbones was not a clever use of bronzer but a genuine gauntness, as if she ate only saltines and tonic water for a long period. In the way he understood why she was there an hour before closing, waiting in the rain.

He’d seen it all before.

“Nothing of the sort, miss,” the man finally said, Jenyl’s shoulders relaxing as he stepped aside and lifted the rope in front of the door. “Go ahead in, no cover.” He nodded to the entrance, Jenyl’s hands pausing as she made to pull out the cash for the fee, her heart thrumming where it sank into her gut. “Go talk to the bartender, get yourself a hot toddy and warm up. On me.”

It was casual, done from behind a playful tilt of his sunglasses, but the wink he offered spoke volumes as the soggy girl entered the dim lounge and felt swallowed by its red, gold and navy interior. He knew she lied. She knew he knew.

She’d have to thank him if she ever found a way back safely.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55846960/chapters/141800263

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Realizing that the problem with feeling loved is not due to a lack of it, but because you genuinely cannot comprehend that someone can and does love you unconditionally. It just never feels like it because you do not see yourself as worth loving, not as a moral failing on your part, but because you aren't "interesting" enough to be loved by another who is vastly more intriguing than you.

You are "boring".

You are "weird".

You keep your interests to yourself.

You are fussy, you are indecisive.

You are infuriating to be around.

Why would anyone love that? It's inconceivable.

And yet... When they tell you they do, you know it's the truth. They would never lie to you.

But you think they could lie to themselves. That's the only way it makes sense to you.

You cannot fathom being loved, even if you want it, because you only know how to give it. To show and share it. Never receive it.

It simply does not make sense.

And yet... Love you they do, into the madness of incomprehension and beyond.

[jenn-the-butterfly]

StarHeart-core

i don’t want characters with healthy coping mechanisms, actually. i want them to yearn and weep and suffer and have their brutal worldviews informed and/ or altered exclusively by their unyielding love for like. one other person. sorry

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Someone who started with nothing, not even memories of a life before, and so fearful of being without that they cling and hoard and desire everything until there's nothing left to have. To be surrounded with plenty and for once feel at peace, not worrying over loss of things or if the self, to never struggle or fight again just to exist.

And then to find the one thing they do not have that reawakens their coveting, their need to have and own--but they cannot possess this because it is not a thing, but a person. A person defying the inherent repulsion to things that refuse to be owned, who has value immaterial and leaves so much to be desired they cannot fathom being without.

Nothing else matters anymore. There is no worth in the world because nothing can buy this person and to unravel the thorn covered threads of possession to understand they never needed to be bought to offer their value. They willingly give themselves, and through their generosity everything becomes valuable again because it is new.

The desire to own never truly dies, but the fuel feeding the right to claim has long since been changed from greed and fear to something more, something new: desire to protect. What good is there in hoarding those valuable things if they are left to rot once possessed?

They should be shared. Others need to know their beauty, their value, or there is no meaning in it. But to be appreciated they must be kept safe because others cannot be trusted not to be selfish and greedy in their own ways.

And so that needs changes, as they have, so the world knows what is theirs to have and they can look on with jealousy to what they can never have.

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Sex and physical intimacy as a love language but the one with this language has had it warped and ripped and twisted so much they no longer understand the words used.

It's incomprehensible to them, so much they have forgotten they once knew the language themselves--that it used to be theirs.

Shamed and shut down, used and abused until it was less of a language and more an intricate weave of slurs and condemnations.

The one suffering this loss of comprehension needing to relearn and trust that they know, that they understand what is being said and there was never anything wrong with their language. That it was others who couldn't speak it that made it their problem.

To recover a piece of themselves and be empowered with this reclaiming of understanding.

Feeling themselves again, to sing in their native language and find others who sing with them, not over them or against them.

Before they break beyond ever comprehending again...

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion Week: Part 3 (Part2)

Never miss an opportunity to show off the perks of your job

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[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion Week: Part 3 (Part 1)

Where a special action was used to leave some very unsubtle stains on Xeros's face~

Sorry for the tease, but mobile tumblr only allows so many images~

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[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion Week: Part 2

The mystery item has been engaged.

What is it? Guess we'll find out!

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Previous:

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion Week: Part 1

Now we're getting somewhere~

Fair is fair, he lost his sleeves and the shirt top. Somehow we avoided changing 'fits but that wouldn't last long...

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Previous:

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Bluesky 100 Follower Fashion Event Featuring: Xeros

I wanted to celebrate with one of those like/repost games and I had way too much fun. The collective braincell came together beautifully to strip this bot with incredible efficiency >:3

Started by switching him into the first outfit, a fun number with a lot of zippers and leather pants--and immediately he loses something. Got a lot of sass it was only the belt but we had to start somewhere~

Next:

[jenn-the-butterfly]

I had such a good birthday this last weekend🥹

I got fanart!? By @dragongirl658

LOOK HOW FANCY THAT DESK IS??? And Event is SWOLE--I do not recommend arm wrestling him if you want your elbow to stay attached

And Followers, questions, and even people Azil-fying their own robots??! And getting inspired by my OCs??! Plus i sold some Task Manager adopts????? My heart feels so full I can't even explain!

Plus I indulged myself with shibari art (that blew tf up)vvvvvv

I can’t begin to explain how happy I am, I really can't. Best birthday in ages!! <3

[jenn-the-butterfly]

Fashion & Decadence Culture

Fashion is notable on Azil as it is elsewhere, with different groups and cultures having long (or recent) traditions and recognizable styles that are unique to them. On average, modern collective preference wavers between comfortable and practical, to sleek and fashionable, but ever an emphasis on personal expression. Outside of unique places or events, it’s considered rude to judge an individual for their preference of clothing unless it infringes on cultural customs or the comfort of someone aside from the wearer, such as flashing lights in dark places or massive accessories that crowd others. While the exact rules are an understood concept that varies in social settings, the style, color and way one dresses is meant to evoke an idea of personal honesty and feeling, thus any number of fashions can be found in large cultural centers.

Buckles, bags, gadgets, blinkers, baggy pants with a form fit top–in a general sense, neon cyberpunk and eco-future-punk are the go-to ideas for average sensibilities. Runners can be seen sporting any number of athletic-minded modular fashions (zippers are as common as pockets), often in their signature colors, and bots are dressed to show off their mods or patterns in a tasteful manner.

As for formality, suit-and-tie fashion managed to worm its way back through convergent social evolution despite the knowledge of it being lost to history. Crisply ironed shirts and slacks with vests, ascots, chains and coats are considered “black tie” wear, though with certain notable differences from earth’s staple code. Neck decorations are common substitutes for jewelry, with ties being either silk or fractals.

Suit wear, also sometimes referred to “decadence wear”, is not limited to men. While dresses are considered peak femininity to match the pants and tunics of masculinity, cultural variance blurs the lines between men’s and women’s fashion. In Arrimask, skirts are considered high fashion for both sexes with pants also being used by both to facilitate work and comfort; layers are their main take away, with the absence of “workers hems” (pants) being a sign of wealth and status. Many arid locations also use sheath wear and flowing fabric for comfort, thus pants are considered decorative and fashionable as they denote the lack of necessity outdoors where circulation is required to be comfortable. Meanwhile, working class folks favor pants cut loose for mobility and wraps that hold air for carrying and cold weather. To the Weslans, the pants and vests are stern and cut a silhouette they appreciate for matching their formal, direct and militarized system, usually in pristine whites for active duty individuals which mirror their fatigues which are often blacks and dark blues.

A language evolved, as it does, in certain mixed social settings in regard to formal attire not unlike fan culture on earth. Following the “average” rules that are obeyed in all cases where the event is not tied into cultural heritage, these habits popped up in regard to self-expression, intention and other details based on one’s preferences in dress:

The base color means less than the accent colors; a base color is generally flattering but how they choose to accessorize and with what hue is thought to be an expression of personal taste. Warmer hues are welcoming and cooler ones denote a formal attitude.

In cases of suit wear styles, straight cut pants are worn for business and formality while shaped, belled pants with loose bottoms are playful and friendly, welcoming approach while the straight-cuts wish to be the one approaching.

The flamboyance of the attire versus the event is used overall to judge one’s persona with extravagance equating to self-confidence (or self-centeredness). In general gatherings, anyone is welcome to dress however they wish, but in cases where there is a centerpoint patron (weddings, celebrations, birthdays, etc) it is considered extremely rude to upstage them.

Men’s suit wear coats take after trenchcoats, favoring long tails and patterned inside linings while women’s often have bustles or waist trims. Coat length is a mark of formality.

Attached hem-extenders are occasionally used on menswear when coats are too formal, which they then use in the same manner as their coattails. Sweeping a hem between himself and another is a dismissal or disapproval while sweeping it away is an act of welcome; holding the coat end up is akin to holding a door, permitting the one at the “entrance” to approach. Turning quickly or otherwise making the coattails flutter when departing denotes displeasure and a “removal of footprints”, acting as a “do not follow me” marker. Not “sweeping” the floor leaves an invite to pursue or interact later on, particularly if conversation was favorable.

Men who favor shoulder cloaks over coats apply the same techniques.

For women, extenders go on the cuffs, acting as long sleeves they use in similar fashion. Hiding their faces behind their sleeves is an act of coyness but also of privacy, insisting on their conversation not be listened in on. Flicking a cuff hem is a dismissal of topic but balling them into the hand is a withdrawal from interaction; men are expected to back off if this is done, as it equates to “hiking one’s skirt” to cross a puddle. Sweeping one’s arms wide and allowing the cuffs to flow open is a welcome gesture of approach; if the cuffs are then picked up into the hand, it is a sign of engagement and to not be disturbed. Cuffs left to hang means “interaction welcome” even if the wearer is already involved with discussion. Bringing the hands together in such a way that they are covered by the hems is a polite dismissal of interaction or end of a conversation where either party may disengage. Hands left together in this way when attempting to approach is a hard ‘no’ to the approacher (visible hands is an invitation to talk).

For women favoring dresses, scarves or elegant sleeves are used for the same effect.

A lack of hem extensions removes this communication method and default to the ‘straight leg’ rules.

In formal gatherings where connection is favorable (mixers, company parties, galas, etc) it’s not uncommon to bring “favors”, which are as simple as silk cuts that match the accent color of one’s attire or other such things that act as tokens of interest. The context and meaning of receiving one is heavily dependent on the gathering and discussion held, but generally equate to an invitation to get together after the event ends. Business cards are the most common as they hold contact information that can be used at any time, but other favors are used to request company after the main event or even to “exit” together which can be a declaration of interest and visibility (i.e. if you’re seen leaving together it can be quite a scandal or subtle way to imply business ventures or courting). The return of a favor at any point is a rebuke of attempted affection or the desired deal.

In some cases, it’s considered a game to see who can pass a favor without drawing attention, leaving them in pockets, the palm or otherwise attached to their receiver. Adding up favors after an event is a bit of fun for school-age individuals.

This “speaking with motion” culture arose to save face by not drawing attention with yelling. It is considered extremely impolite to invalidate a silent command (don’t follow, drop the subject, etc) without good reason and to cause a scene (yell, cry, etc) is viewed as poor taste/low class. In most cases where there is not an obvious reason to do so, the one causing a fuss will be seen as the aggressor for their shameful behavior, thus it helps to keep everyone on their best behavior to know (sort of) that causing a scene when insulted or rebuffed will not win them any sympathy. (This doesn’t always work but generally it’s understood that way).

The host retains the right to dismiss anyone for any reason and is exempt from the “causing a scene” rule, as part of the host’s duties is to maintain harmony, levity and safety during the event. Sometimes that means publicly shaming someone.

Levels of formality (the minimum level of dress required):

“Tieless” is the least formal kind of party, equivalent to “dress casual” where one dresses well but without adhering to decadence policy.

“Button formal” necessitates a dress shirt and slacks but is otherwise considered informal. Accessorizing is minimal. Button formal is considered appropriately minimal for holidays and birthdays or social gatherings.

“Vested” or “three-cut” is the most common level of formalwear, requiring a nice shirt, vest and slacks; “three cut” is taken from the idea of each piece being tailored to the wearer and to have three pieces in a set is “classy”. Certain exceptions exist for cultural garments and most will equate standard formality for that group to this level. Substituting waist cinches or corsets for vests, blouses for button ups and skirts for slacks is acceptable; long skirts are less common than short ones, with knee-length being the average. Long socks or leggings/tights are considered classy and clean as opposed to bare legs.

“Covered”, “coated” or “pressed sleeves” is a fancy affair that requires a coat, shawl, cape or other outer covering. Attendees can accessorize as readily as they wish, and while coats may not remain on (sometimes they are taken to keep them safe, particularly at dinner parties) having one is the expected minimum. Short hems are the norm with extensions often used during social hours if coats are not kept. Wearing full hems to a coated event is considered extravagant. This is the most common “high formal” kind of event (high formal means having a full outfit: shirt, pants, vest and coat).

“Cotique” or “gilded” is the highest formality with emphasis on socializing. Accessories are in full display and coats/hems can be worn full-length as they are expected to be used extensively. Many of these events do not have full dinners, relying on small eats and drinks throughout the night to avoid discarding the overcoat. At one time these gatherings were more common but now they are special events, often put together by niche groups (think of ballroom dances) or for certain social gatherings of high society.

Substitutes/exceptions:

Blouses can be swapped for button shirts; corsets or waist cinches can be substituted for vests; skirts can be substituted for slacks.

Capes can be substituted for coats.

Short coats equate to single-shoulders

Long coats equate to full-shoulders

While it is not forbidden to hide one’s face, “masquerade” does not exist as we know it. Adding a layer of mystique, a masked individual often does so for privacy. In high formality events, masks are worn by security to “hide” them and not distract from the event, thus a guest wearing one is both suspicious and alluring.

Likewise, gloves are a form of communication tool. Wearing them at high-formal events acts much like straight-cut pants and can be used if one is wearing bell hems but prefers minimal interaction or a form of difference. The pants say “greet me, I am friendly” however the gloves prevent assumptions, acting as a barrier to the interaction. Dancing with gloves is shorthand for “this is merely out of politeness” and not to be taken further; parent-child dances, friendly dances, etc, are gloved. Gloveless dancing is considered more intimate, implying a desired connection, though this has fallen out of favor in modern times for being “too much”. Nowadays, gloveless dancing is the norm while gloved dancing is seen as unusual but retains its original meaning, as instead of attending with gloves already on, one would put on the gloves as a deliberate act of intention.

Cultural clothing and mannerisms are to be treated with respect and in cases where formality is not known, it is considered polite to ask. What is not polite is to call into question the taste of the wearer or insinuate they are low-class for having different standards than oneself (though it still happens).

Ball gown dresses act as entire ensembles for the “vested” look with shawls, scarves or certain coat styles acting as the gilded level coat requirement. Generally speaking, the eye-catching manner of dresses is usually reserved for hosts or guests of honor so they are easy to pick out in the crowd but this is usually noted in invitations that dresses are not permitted for these reasons.

[jenn-the-butterfly]

GORGEOUS

A beautiful piece of art by the very skilled and lovely @imagine-creative

The colors and motif fit beautifully for Nyria, the false goddess of venom and daughter of the head leader’s family in the lands of the Vandinor.