#Easy pants pattern drafting

[anielskaaniela]

Scandi Pants Pattern Drafting: Tutorial for Beginners

In this post, you will learn how to self draft comfy scandi pants sewing pattern . Are you looking for a fun, beginner-friendly project that will add a comfy, stylish piece to your wardrobe? You’re in the right place! In this tutorial, I’ll show you how to draft your very own Scandi pants pattern from scratch. Whether you’re new to sewing or just want to create a custom pair of cozy,…

[dkettchen]

A summary of my excursion to the local (publicly accessible) uni library to look at some books to learn proper pattern drafting for my highly customisable sewing needs/goals

I'd assumed the problem would be a nonbinary one of binary gendering above base theory, but ALAS, THE MATRIARCHY IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE

[scara-meow-che]

then they were roommates ┃ sweet deception with thoma

CW. NSFW (MDNI), afab! reader with no set of pronouns, roommate! thoma, use of sedatives, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it!), pervert! thoma, noncon, he takes pics of you, male masturbation, pervert and a bit ooc thoma ♥︎

AN. another reposted work. i promise that i'd be posting new ones soon <3 just a little more from my part on actually editing the drafts that i have here but anyway, enjoy our ooc pervert, roomie thoma!

thoma is the sweetest roommate you’d ever ask for!

besides the fact that he constantly reminds you of the tasks you have absentmindedly forgotten or prepares breakfast in the morning, he also helps you with your projects whenever he has some time to spare.

you also want to take note of the tea he always makes!

“hey thoma! you haven’t told me what brand this tea is.”

the weekend had just arrived and you were left sprawled in the comforts of your blankets while watching another rom-com with thoma. he was laid adjacent to your side, the two loveseats occupied by your tired bodies.

“silly, how many times do i need to tell you that i handmade this! you can help me pick up the ingredients tomorrow morning if you want,” thoma offers with a smile. he can see how you immediately perked up in interest, nodding your head in agreement. “well, just make sure that you sleep early now since i often leave around 5.”

and he hears you grunt afterward.

“come on now, you wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this, yeah?” he encourages you, standing up from his seat. he eyes you, taking a huge sip of your tea before dropping down the cup on the nearby table. he shudders, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips before he reaches out both his hands to help you stand up.

as you do, you can feel your body slipping into a relaxed state, almost stumbling and falling back into the seat. but thoma was fast and had an arm wrapped around your body, gently cradling you in his warmth.

“easy now,” he mumbles. it felt quite nice to be wrapped in his embrace as the nature of his being caring seeps through while he guides you to your room. “getting sleepy now, aren’t you?”

you hummed, feeling the softness of your blanket caressing your skin as thoma gently lays you down on your bed. as each second passes by, you find your eyes can barely keep themselves open. and before you were consumed by sleep, you can hear the faint whisper from your roommate, a sweet smile etched on his face.

“sweet dreams f/n.”

it was truly sweet, thoma had always been like this every day and you barely notice the patterns. he is someone so kind, dependable, selfless, and caring so you trust him. there’s never a reason to doubt him, not when he had you gullible just as he wanted to.

don’t get him wrong but thoma genuinely cares for you. he likes you, a lot. but the intensity of his emotions quickly becomes too much for him to handle. you were so pretty, so perfect in his eyes that he can’t help but give you what he thinks you’d want, what you’d like, what you’d find worthy of your affection.

but he thinks that fucking you when you’re asleep is something you wouldn’t approve of.

when he sees the steady motion of your chest, lungs pumping air in and out of your relaxed and vulnerable state, he’s quick to adjust your body, letting you lie flat on your back and your legs pressed on each side. you’ve always looked beautiful to him, no matter what you wear, no matter how unkempt your hair was.

and he finds you most beautiful spread out like this for him to take. an angel you are in his eyes.

he groans when he feels his cock ache inside his tight pants. you’re just that perfect, fuck, he’s so damn lucky that he’s the one who gets to share this apartment space with you and not just a random bastard who wouldn’t treat you like he does.

he just hope you wouldn’t find out the debauched person he can be.

thoma wants to put all the blame on you. you should be held accountable for how adorable you are, and how your beaming eyes always had him hooked whenever you tell him what happened in uni. you should know that he’s utterly smitten from how much you cling to him, trusting him to the point where you don’t even notice that the tea he makes was the very reason why he had you pressed down like this.

of course, he wouldn’t dare hurt you. he’s not an asshole who just takes advantage of you like this and ends up hurting you in any way or form. thoma would spend the time preparing you, holding you, and pleasing you before he could even please himself.

as he had your legs spread open, he would gently remove your pants, revealing you in your underwear. he finds it cute how you wear this particular pair every weekend, the soft pastel red cotton undies he always love!

then he would notice how you’d shiver, feeling the cold gust of wind welcoming your flushed skin. thoma would cover you up with the blanket he made for you, smiling as he remembers how you were elated to receive this from him.

as he provides you a source of warmth, he would continue and leave kisses on your thighs, his large hands pressing down to spread your legs wider. he dares not leave any hickeys, as much as his mind tells him to mark you already. he can do that later when you’re finally sober enough to know what the hell he’s doing.

after leaving feather-like kisses on both your thighs, thoma would press two of his fingers between your clothed cunt, sliding up and down your slit. he can hear the gentle hums of satisfaction escaping your lips.

“even when you’re in deep sleep, you’ve always loved being pleasured like this, huh?” he whispers, putting in some pressure that the tip of his finger glides down your clit. “we wouldn’t want to mess this though,” he adds before he hooks two of his fingers to the band of your underwear and slowly pulls it off your body.

with your lower half exposed for his eyes to feast on, thoma almost came at the sight of your cunt slightly shimmering from your slick. he curses under his breath, impatient because he just wants to shove his cock but had put an immense focus so to mentally stops himself.

before he even loses control, he moves his head down and has his lips close in your cunt. he hums, satisfied, tasting you as his tongue laps up and down your clit. he can finally taste you, so sweet against the sensitive flesh of his mouth. you were addicting, thoma can’t help but give your pussy lips a kiss before he had his whole mouth sucking on your poor cunt.

he felt your thighs occassionally close back from the sensation, your eyebrows furrowing that your sleep-induced state tries to focus on the pleasurable feeling you’re receiving between your legs.

“you’re so damn cute,” thoma mutters before he goes back on assaulting your sensitive clit. he wants to hear you moan, to hear you whimper about how good he’s treating you, how good he was on eating you out, on pleasing you but that can wait.

after flicking his tongue on your sensitive nub, he had two fingers slowly pumping in and out of your hole. you were so wet, so ready for him to take but he wants to make you cum first. thoma goes back on sucking on your clit as his fingers smoothly go in and out of your hole, adjusting it to reach the most sensitive spot inside that he knew by heart. you were so warm, so tight around two of his digits.

the pleasure he gets from fucking you like this had him rutting his hips down the bed, cock itching to shove itself inside your warmth and have your tight walls snuggle it closer. his pants' already ruined from his pre. he groans as he does so, eyes peering up to witness how your back softly arched from the vibrations he had let go on your clit. thoma can feel how close you are, your warm walls sucking him in with fervor.

“that’s it f/n. go on, cum for me,” he says even if you won’t even hear him or know that it was him pleasuring you like this. your walls clamped on his fingers, your hole gushing out so much slick as thoma didn’t stop sliding his digits in and out to ride your high.

your body was still shaking a bit from the aftermath of your orgasm when thoma swiftly moved up and pulled his hard and aching cock out of his already-ruined pants. he hissed as the warmth of his hands made contact with his skin, quickly rubbing the bulbous head on your cunt to relieve himself from the pain.

“‘want you so badly, f/n, just let me—” slowly, he pushes himself inside your walls, grunting at the sudden tightness engulfing him. he eyes your body, those emerald hues watching every twitch of your eyebrow and how your chest lets go of a shaky breath as he finally pushes all the way in. “fuck, you feel so good around me.”

thoma’s head was spinning at the view he’s getting of you even more when he looks down to where you’re both connected. his long girth feels just perfect to be inside you, smoothly sliding in and out. hell, he wanted to roughly bend you in half and shove himself as deep as he could but you might wake up. he doesn’t want that but fuck, you’re making it so hard for him.

in seconds, he rocks his hips against your body, his thighs softly smacking against your butt as he slowly ruts himself in your core. thoma bites down on his lips, focusing on being gentle while getting the most out of your cunt. he closes his eyes, savoring how your walls sucks him in, tightening every time he bottoms out. he was so big yet he had managed to have you adjust to his size perfectly, molding you to have his cock alone.

he was close, the pleasure so intense on bis lower half he had somehow let go of his focus and started a rather quick pace in fucking you. he hears you whimpering, his mind thinking that you’re awake and was ushering him to go faster, that you’re close too, that you want him to make a mess out of you.

“anything for you, f/n. fuck, i’d do anything for you,” he utters with a moan, sweat glistening on his forehead, his balls slapping oh so loudly against your thighs covered with your slick. and he pulls out, groaning as his cold hands started to jerk on his sensitive cock before he lets out his thick cum just right outside your hole.

thoma could barely keep in his moans, shivering at how he coats your pussy lips with his load that you looked so damn messy but fuck, you’re just so beautiful in his eyes.

“i love you,” he whispers but gained back his focus in seconds when he hears you humming. his eyes darted back to your face only to see that you’re still fast asleep.

thoma sighs, shaking his head, and went back down to look at your cum-stained cunt. he could just jerk again at the sight but doesn’t want to wake you sooner than he’d think he might. but, before he puts your legs back down and it let relax, he pulls out his phone from his pocket and quickly took pictures of your body, more on how he ruined you below, angling it where he can see how he had claimed you to be his.

with this sweet smile on his face, he bends down and slowly left a kiss on your forehead.

“sweet dreams, angel. i hope that we can spend more time soon.”

⠀⠀scara-meow-che © 2023 ┃ do not copy, modify, or repost ANY of my content

[partyanimal167]

How Fitting- Crocodile x F!Reader

I'm so happy to see all the new Crocodile content here after that nice man's birthday, so I wanted to add something for all my fellow Croco simps. I've been meaning to write something, so it all worked out. The prompts for his birthday event were certainly helpful too (fashion, au). Requests are open too if anyone has any ideas.

CW: modern au, fluff, fem reader, no pronouns

In all fairness, you were not expecting to be measuring such a specimen within the first week of your job.

The family trade had been sewing for generations, and you were no exception when the call was at your door. Your slight rebellion got you into men's fashion however since you had fond and not-so fond memories of dresses, fluffy underskirts, and berserk brides. Oddly enough, you found yourself to be one of few women in that sector, but you didn't mind so much. You weren't a big name designer, so blending in was easy enough when necessary.

You worked at a well-known shop that had been a community staple for decades. You paraded around in the backrooms where bolts of fabric of all kinds of patterns and materials were stored. You weren't new to this line of work, but you figured you would do simple alterations since most repeat customers had their favorites amongst the tailors.

As you hemmed a pant leg, you heard the bell ring from the front. Soon after, your name was called by your beloved elder boss. You cheerfully walked towards the front not prepared for towering figure at the counter.

It was comical in a sense. Your boss was small and fragile looking compared to tall, muscular man who didn't seem to fit the quaint ambiance of the shop. However, your boss simply beamed at the man who despite having a serious demeanor held some fondness in his eyes.

"I want you to meet Sir Crocodile. He's a very loyal customer here, a familiar face."

You smiled kindly at the man and shook his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

The man's lips tugged in a slight grin as he lifted your hand for a soft peck. "Pleasure's all mine." You were surprised by the gesture, but didn't say anything.

"They're quite spectacular in their work. I hope you don't mind, but I'll have 'em take over for today's suit fitting." the old man went on.

You were caught off guard and held up your hands in defense. "Oh I couldn't possibly. I'm sure the gentleman would prefer your work."

The boss looked at your softly. "Please. My arthritis is acting up." He rubbed his hand for emphasis.

Well you couldn't argue with that.

...

The two of you moved to the back, and you couldn't help but notice the strength of the man's presence.

As you set up your work station, you peeked over.

Crocodile was a man of class. You weren't sure what he did professionally, but the fur-lined coat definitely meant money along with the adornment of rings. You made note of the sleek prosthetic as well that was just as much of a luxurious accessory as well as a functional piece. You could appreciate the sight.

You shook your head slightly before reaching for the roughed suit jacket draft. You glanced over the previously noted measurements and turned again.

Crocodile had taken off a few layers and seemed relaxed. He noted your expression and chuckled. "I'm not new to this."

You blinked before nodding and handing the jacket. "Certainly not."

He put it on and pressed it against himself. You held a couple pins between your lips as your checked the lengths with your tape. You hummed as you worked, but soon felt eyes watching you. You looked up and were met with those captivating golden eyes. "Is something wrong?"

The man grinned and shook his head. "Not at all. It's always satisfying watching a professional at work. "

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment and you turned away to feel the shoulders. "Everything comfortable?"

"Quite."

You two went on through the other elements and noted the addition of a notch for a lapel chain.

"What can I say? I'm a bit old fashion."

You giggled before finishing some adjustments. "I can certainly appreciate that."

"You seem to have a bit of personal style yourself." Crocodile motioned towards your silk tie.

You touched it fondly. "Ah this, it's a memento of my grandfather. He was an excellent suit designer."

"I've seen the design before, but I'm afraid to say I don't have one in my collection."

You stepped off the stool and without thinking much replied, "Well I'll be sure to make you one," then you realized, "of- of course, if you're interested."

Crocodile began to dress in his original clothes. "Certainly. I'd be honored."

You weren't quite sure how to respond, so you hummed as you looked over your notes. "There are only minor adjustments to be made before we finish off. We'll be sure to reach out as soon as your suit is complete."

The man nodded before turning to go. "I look forward to it."

~~~

It was just your luck that you were off the day that Crocodile picked up his suit. The custom tie had been included in the boxes, so there was that at least. You could only hope that you'd see him again. Though, a part of you was nervous that he would find something wrong with suit, but your boss simply stated that it was your newbie jitters.

You were out doing some errands outside the shop when you walked passed a well-known cafe. The smell of savory cigar smoke caught your attention, but you were going to continue walking until you heard your name called.

You turned and saw that well-dressed man approaching you--no suit coat in place and appreciated the fitted vest.

Your heart raced when he again kissed your hand in greeting. "Ah I'm sorry to have missed you when picking up my items."

You waved your hand simply and glanced away. "Oh it's alright. I just hope everything is to your liking."

"Of course, I'm happy to say that many have appreciated the new tie as well. Thank you again." he went on.

You swayed a little and scratched your cheek. "Ah that's wonderful news. I'm sure many would try to get it. Too bad that fabric is very limited in its production."

"I'll treasure any one-of-a-kind piece from you, my dear." that made you lost for words.

"Oh, I'm flattered."

"Only stating the truth." he paused. "How about you join me for lunch?"

You totally wanted to, but looked at your watched. "I'm afraid I have some more tasks to complete."

Crocodile looked a little shock to see someone turn him down but it was quickly replaced with a grin. He reached into his pocket before pulling out his wallet. He handed you a card and looked deep in to your eyes. "Well please reach out when you have a chance. Don't keep me waiting." the eyes kept you locked in and you nodded shyly.

"Of course not."

~~~

I was totally counting on this being a model au and that totally didn't happen. I liked this intimate version though. Crocodile is certainly getting his suits custom and tailored.

Happy birthday to that gruff bossman.

Thanks for reading!

[heartsofminds]

‘cause no one breaks my heart like you

“Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.” or Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it’s hard to see). 

A/N: Okay so EXTREMELY long time, no see! I’ve been working on this little project since the end of September and have been driving myself crazy in trying to sculpt the words the way that I wanted and how to make this seem as realistic as possible. I appreciate every single person who has been so patient with me and my inconsistent posting and hope you enjoy 19k words of our favorite guy in the sky. 

(Year 3)

He loves me. He loves me not. 

He loves me. 

The strange thing about crying is never knowing when the tears will fall. There’s this burning sensation that comes with it; clearly juxtaposed to the watery mess your eyes want to produce. Your nose burns, your face is hot, and the all-consuming, mind-numbing squeeze of rubberband-like pressure around your temples makes you dizzy. 

Whether the dizziness is because of the crossed wires in your psyche (the hurt feelings and the busted-up ego that comes along with it) or the metaphysical spiral that sent you into a breakdown in the first place is up to your discretion. 

The thought pattern sometimes breaks you out of feeling so non-descriptively shitty. 

Because the thing about being a twenty-something that you’ve come to uncover is that life is shitty. Paying rent is shitty. Paying an arm and leg for a pilates workout is shitty. Office jobs are shitty. Office jobs that house cruel know-it-all men are even shittier. 

Shit, shit, and shit. 

You used to pride yourself on having a more extensive vocabulary than one filled to the brim with the swear word, but as of late, you can’t be damned to care. It’s not like anything you said at the office held any value to anyone anyway. 

You’re just a “kid” - “You and my sister are the same age!” And you’re also a woman; one of the fifteen employed by the grounds and building company you’re a consult for, and one of three on the fifth floor working on engineering consults and software materials for digital blueprinting. 

And the preparation for working in an environment like this - one where mumbled insults at the findings of a mistake on your colleague's draft or small comments about your body being made in passing (never enough to be called harassment, but certainly enough to make you question why it was even being brought up) - wasn’t new. 

The patent leather diploma propped up on the desk in your home office gave proof of it. Years spent with dreaded calculus exams and awkward office hours spent with even more awkward professors and snooty boys with poor attitudes served as the price you paid for the merit. 

So who can even be put to blame for thinking that you could handle it? 

The answer is definitely “you”, but accepting blame for these kinds of things - accepting the fact that in a way, you’re only reaping the consequences of your own actions - is never an easy thing to do. 

And your lips are chewed raw from all the intrusive thoughts plaguing your brain and sometimes you wish that you didn’t have this overarching tendency to view things from “outside of your body.” Sometimes being so critical inwardly kicked your conscience into a God’s eye perspective. 

The worry of if your work pants actually did make you look frumpy or if the makeup around your nose was caking like how it usually does if you blend it in before you let it get tacky. You worry if your hair sits the right way or if the secretary downstairs thinks you have a Dunkin’ Donuts addiction. And then that makes you worry if she notices the breakout forming on the left side of your face.

The worry then transpires from material to emotional and manifests in the form of the two things you’re most deathly terrified of; being a failure and being a failure who finds herself alone. 

Because what if you fucked around and lost the information to the three billion dollar hospital that you’ve spent the better part of fifteen weeks working on? What if you got fired because your bosses realized how inaccurate your math was sometimes? What if everyone was constantly laughing at you and that’s why you struggle to find a commonality with your coworkers? 

And what if, through this whole slue of hypotheticals that hadn’t happened yet but had the potential to happen, you found yourself in a position to be alone? What if your boyfriend - your darling, kind, and sweet boyfriend - finally saw you how you saw yourself? And what if what he sees makes him want to walk away? 

Bradley would never, you try and rationalize, but the more your brain tries to force the pieces of the jumbled insecurities to fit, you aren’t too sure. 

The fact that the same work colleagues who spark the flame of your self-doubt are the same age as he; thirty-somethings with wives and maybe a toddler or two. Your bosses who scare the shit out of you are in the same age range as the men Bradley knows and loves; his Uncle Maverick and Uncle Ice, and the commonalities are far-fetched but multiply the more you think. 

The more you torture yourself, really. 

And the excruciating rug-burn-like feeling slides its way from the depths of your stomach up your throat. When you were little, you used to imagine that it was slimy and plasmodia-esque. The Mucinex guy, you used to call it, and the feeling is so sickening and ugly and horrific, that the ugly little cartoon ploy almost seemed cute in comparison. 

You’re not really sure how your emotions caught up with you today. From how you run from them and shove them down and turn them off, you forget that you have feelings sometimes. 

But then you wake up freezing because Bradley took all the covers in the middle of the night and Dunkin fucked up your coffee and you spilled said fucked up coffee on your new work shirt that you know the stain is gonna be a bitch to get out. 

On top of that, your hair seems frizzier than what you remembered when you left the house and your lips are chapped with not a damned chapstick in sight in the abomination that happens to be your purse. 

David across the hall from your office says something about how you’re late and it’s probably because “You changed your outfit about six times. Know how you women are. My wife is the same way.” And that’s not the reason why you’re running behind at all, but you’re sure indulging in the fact that your boyfriend hopped in the shower with you uninvited and then proceeded to invite himself to bruise your cervix this morning isn’t exactly “safe for work” content. 

And your vagina hurts like a bitch because Bradley went too rough and the report you had filed was sitting on your desk with an intimidating note about how the numbers were inaccurate (“Fuck you, Michael and Rick from downstairs,” you think). 

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so tired and that the cogwheels in your brain are doing that fucked up thing again where it sends you into overdrive and your entire body feels numb. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you can’t cry; that you can’t actually process what you’re feeling until after five when you leave the office today. 

But the burning sensation doesn’t go away no matter how much ice water you drink or how many times you excuse yourself to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water. 

It’s all one big, nasty, slimy feeling that clouds your conscience until you’re met with the front door of your safe haven; Bradley Bradshaw’s home. The sniffles scratch at your chest like a stray dog begging to be let in. The whimper you let out is pathetic and you would’ve laughed at yourself if you hadn’t been so concerned with getting inside. 

Fuck. Was unlocking Bradley’s front door always this difficult? 

Bradley can sense you before he has any indication that you’re home. He joked how he could feel you oceans away when he was on deployment and while you thought that he wasn’t serious (Bradley was a sap and had a tendency to be so tooth-achingly sweet) you know that there’s some truth to it. 

It was odd how he was always so attuned to your needs; how he could always tell how you were feeling before you were even aware that you were feeling it. It was something that you had raved to your friends about in the earlier stages of your relationship. It was also certainly something that they had witnessed on nights out at the club when visiting you in San Diego.

Something inside Bradley loves you so deeply, but he also can’t deny the fact that he loves the praise; the reassurance that he’s a good guy who is always doing the right thing. He’s not doing it for brownie points, “per say”, but the praise does feel nice, and after having to fight tooth and nail to stand out - to be someone and mean something to someone other than his family - the good deeds and the compliments that arose because of them were satiating enough. 

But if he’s being honest with himself, he had always been that way. Despite his innate desire to recreate his parents’ epic love story, being empathetic and filled with space to make homes of other people’s sorrow was just something he was born with. 

Nothing new, and nothing special. 

You force the door open and try and breathe; the cold air of Bradley’s living room hitting your face and the dry heat of Southern California constricting your lungs even more than they had been. You just need a moment, you think. You just need to breathe and you’ll be okay. 

In, out. In, out. In, out. 

Suddenly you’re too aware of your heart beating inside your chest; the anger and sadness and frustration demanding to be let out. You can feel your trachea eroding away with your sobs. Your eyes feel like salt had been poured into them. Your body is heavy with the weariness of your soul, and something about today’s events and your life, really, has made your legs feel like they weigh a billion pounds. Moving them would only land you flat on your face.  

And then you’re made aware of your breathing and your heartbeat is out of sync. The feeling claws your insides and makes every fiber of your being sting.

Fuck. 

In. In. In. In. In! 

Bradley rounds the corner where your hallway extends into your living room. He has a basket of laundry in his arms. His chest is admonished with a shirt with a comically stretched “UVA” logo. Under different circumstances (one where you could breathe, for starters) you would have laughed at him and his expression reads that he’s prepared for it; the slight smile line near his mouth is quirked up on one side being his tell.  

“Hey, baby!” he says before coming into full view of you. 

You can see the light in his eyes leave and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drinks in your appearance. 

Your own eyes widen as you damn near suffocate in the doorway of Bradley’s home. Your sweet, sweet Bradley who you’re sure you’ve traumatized in the span of three seconds. 

You’ve had episodes like this before, but never in the presence of another person. 

They don’t happen frequently, and from various self-help Refinery29 articles and Google searches, you were certain that what you were experiencing - the sudden shortness of breath and the tunnel vision and the pent-up, white-hot frustration making your head woozy - was not normal in the slightest. 

And if it was anyone else you would tell them to get help. You would tell them that what they were experiencing didn’t make them any less of who they were before and that it would be absurd to define someone by such a small fragment of their experiences. But what you say to others is different than what you feel about yourself, because admitting there is an issue that you can’t solve by yourself is equivalent to weakness in your mind. 

Weakness isn’t something you’re allowed to show very often; not with Mikes and Bills breathing down your neck looking for something to boot your sorry ass out of the front doors of their company. 

Bradley recognizes the look you have on your face. It resembles that of new recruits during hypoxia training and even those unfortunate ones that experience g-lock while up in the sky. He’s had his fair share of freakouts and anxieties and he knows that the feeling is awful. Something inside the shelf of him breaks when he sees the same glimmer of fear in your eyes and a call for help on your face. 

He drops the laundry basket to the ground and rushes toward you. His feet move faster than his mind and if people on the base could see him now, it would be the last time they called him slow to react. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, softly grabbing your forearms and rubbing his thumbs over your wrists, “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.” 

His grip on your forearms drops to your waist as he subtly moves you into the entryway of his home. You can feel the vacuum of air behind you as he reaches around your back to shut the door and lock it. 

Bradley’s pupils search your face for answers your mouth can’t give him. He sees the slight bloodshot hue in the whites of your eyes. He sees the slight flush to your cheeks and knows that the dewiness of the shade isn’t because of the heat outside or the blush he had watched you apply this morning. He sees the forced movement of your chest; your lungs overworking themselves to keep you standing. 

Your eyes are staring right back at him but your brain can’t seem to register that you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with Bradley. 

The longer he rubs his thumbs in the crease where your elbow meets your bicep, the more feeling you regain. Your heart rate has slowed a good deal and the air you’ve so desperately been engulfing has allowed itself to make itself useful to you. 

He shushes you and steps closer, engulfing you in a wrap that could envy that of a boa constrictor with its prey. He peppers the top of your head with small kisses and he makes sure your ear is pushed up to his chest so you can hear the thump of his heart. 

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he moves your conjoined bodies so that his back is facing the door and you’re being held close to his front. Bradley slides down the navy blue painted oak so swiftly and carefully with you in his arms that you can’t even be sure when your view changed from his face to being at eye level with his coffee table. 

His hold is comforting and the dam that you’ve worked so hard to maintain all day has finally hit its peak of pressure and broken completely.

“You’re safe, baby. I’m here.” 

The sob that leaves your mouth is one that you don’t even recognize as yours. The last time you can remember hearing something remotely similar resonates in the memory of your niece throwing the biggest hissy fit ever known to man at her second birthday party last summer. 

Man, if only she knew that her competition was you instead of her new baby brother. 

“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispers into your hair, holding you as your body shakes so violently it jostles his large frame behind you. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Get it all out.” 

And you don’t know when the crying stops and turns into shallow sniffles or when the sky changed from its yellowed hue to the dark navy that usually blankets your late-night talks with the man behind you, but all you know is that Bradley Bradshaw is a saint. 

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who would stop the world from turning if that’s what you asked of him. 

Because it’s what you would do if he had been the one to ask instead. That’s how love works. 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

He loves me.  

(Year 4)

He loves me not. He loves me. 

He loves me not. 

Looking for blame was never your strong suit. 

But as you look outside the passenger window of an inherited Bronco on a chilly November night, the fingers you always seem hesitant to point uncurl themselves from your fist without resistance. You have half the mind to not actually point at the culprit of your anger who manifests in the form of the six-foot-one man seething beside you.

The radio is clicked off and the joyous laughter and cacophony of faux karaoke is absent in the midnight blue starlight. The windows are down despite the air surrounding the coast bringing the atmosphere to a standing fifty-five outside, and the wind from how fast your lover is driving taking the temperature down to at least fifty degrees even. 

Your eyes refuse to drink in his appearance for more than five seconds at a time because you know that you’re an angry crier who gets set off very easily. Exchanging looks with the fuel that set fire to the burning in your belly would not do you any good at this moment. 

When you had pulled on the pretty little cocktail dress and left Bradley to his own devices in the living room of your apartment, the thought of the anger brewing between you like a hurricane didn’t cross your mind at all. 

And how could it? 

In the four years of being together, there were a fair share of disagreements but nothing that wasn’t just a product of stress or small tidbits of jealousy and hurt feelings that brewed into something bigger than it was ever intended to be. They were usually resolved with a mature conversation on the floor of whoever’s living room followed by cuddles and on a few occasions, fervent makeup sex on the floor. 

It always gave you rug burn but you never complained. Having Bradley was something you craved so deeply that no consequence could ever outweigh the desire; even damn near purple knees and a sore ass from how domineering he could be. 

Love has a way of making the world stop turning. Nothing truly matters besides the feel of a warm body holding you in bed and the promise of sweet nothings weighing you down lovingly. That always is (at least in your case)  until too much pressure is applied and you begin to freak out - the ugly truth of how much love can hurt with each pained exhale that mimics simultaneous cries of pleasure and calls for help. 

“Does he really love me?” “Am I too much?” “Am I not enough?” 

Insecurities upon insecurities and you really have no true basis for why you think this way or why you feel like you will never amount to what Bradley deserves. If you’re being honest, it’s all a jumble of things and it reminds you of the ABC spaghetti-o’s you used to beg your mom to buy. 

Superficial and never really making sense, much like the word scramble of letters in your soup.

But despite you trying to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous - that the pit in your stomach that refused to move was nothing more than an overreaction - the ABC spaghetti-o mixture started to make sense of your anger and what may have caused it. 

And the insecurity you had felt that you tried to push down inside of you; tried to deny the existence that it was there and was, in fact, so excruciatingly real made way at Rueben’s wedding shower. 

It’s not like you hate being around Bradley’s friends - not like they’re strangers that you try and force small talk with so that the three-hour minimum interactions required for a get-together go by faster. Most of these gatherings have an imaginary itinerary that you’ve come up with and if you play the game right, you never come home with too bad of a hangover. 

The first thirty minutes will be spent giving side hugs and enthusiastic “Hey! How are you?”’s being tossed around. You’re always grateful that the years of sorority recruitment have prepared you for holding “safe” conversations; ones that don’t deter any deeper than being happy to see each other and the San Diego weather that never seems to change.  

Every now and again, one of the guys will hold up your left hand and inspect for an engagement ring before pushing Bradley’s shoulder slightly. A “You better lock her down before I do, Bradshaw,” nipping the air and making your cheeks turn slightly pink. 

Hour one will entail being tucked beneath Bradley’s arm as he sips a Budweiser and joins the circle of regulars that you often go to the bar with or host for dinner parties at his place. Mickey and Rueben will give you friendly exchanges and ask about your work and siblings. Javy and Jake will give you a curt nod and then start to babble away with your boyfriend about whatever hazing-like endeavor they’ll pull on the new pupils in their class. And sweet ole Bob will stand to the side with his hands in his pockets before offering to show you the newest picture of his two-year-old niece, which you graciously partake in viewing because she’s a cutie. 

You’ll slosh around the heavily poured margarita you’ve had in your hand for the past hour before Mickey will laugh and ask if you plan on drinking it at all, and you’ll give a faux introspective hum before shaking your head “no” and offering your drink to Bradley. And Bradley will ask what’s wrong with it and you’ll say it’s too strong and he’ll graciously take the glass and drop a sweet kiss on your temple.

And when he downs the drink with no grimace at the shit ton of tequila and triple sec poured into it, you’ll make note of how the margaritas you make at home are probably more of a mocktail than anything to him. You’ll then marvel at his ability to handle his alcohol, and recall asking him one time at the start of your relationship if a high alcohol tolerance was required to join the armed forces. 

Hour one and a half would be spent with Natasha kidnapping you from the group of aviators Bradley has concerned himself with. “Sorry not sorry, Bradshaw. We got stuff to talk about,” she’ll say and then drag you across the room to another corner of aviators (thank God they’re all women this time). And then you get another round of “Hi! You look so good!”’s thrown at you and a mojito to replace the margarita on account of Cali. The funny stories of hookups and boyfriends paired with all the constant belly laughing are reminiscent of college roommates after a night out at the bars. 

Hour two will include drunken karaoke (even if there isn’t a karaoke machine in sight) and some kind of serenade from Bradley. He always goes to the piano willingly (though it’s always anticipated that dear old Rooster is bound to end up there if the instrument is available) and he’ll pretend like he doesn’t enjoy it, but you know that his ego is inflated by everyone singing along and the praises sung to his playing. 

Hour two and a half will bleed into hour three and usually ends with people starting to head out and “See you tomorrow!” being tossed around. Nat always gives you a tight squeeze and holds your shoulders before making you promise her to get lunch sometime soon. You’ll agree even though you know that your schedules will never align and it more than likely won’t happen, but the drunken stupor you’re both in creates a bubble of extroversion that neither of you can seem to put a cap on. 

Bradley then takes you back to the car and turns on the radio. He’ll look over at you lovingly before kissing your forehead and rolling all the windows down. He knows that the sea breeze has made the air chillier than the number displayed on the weather app in your phone. You’ll groan as he gives you a, “C’mon, baby. You know I run hot!” with that cute laugh and head-shaking smile, and then you’re off down the interstate back to Bradley’s home, where you’ll stay the night and leave out back to yours around the same time he gets up for training. 

That’s how the itinerary usually goes, and the comfortability of it all keeps you sane and acts as a warm blanket that keeps you distracted from the sheer differences between your boyfriend and his world.  

But tonight was different, and the minute you step into the lavishly decorated venue, you know that your unofficial itinerary has no room to unravel despite the massive square footage of the party taking place around you. 

You recognized Natasha alongside the other female aviators that you were friendly with but certainly not close to. Because of the occasion at hand, a few girlfriends and spouses were also huddled around them including Rueben’s fiance, Izzy. 

And somewhere between the three glasses of champagne you had and Izzy’s stories about how she and Rueben were secretly “trying” but didn’t want anyone to know (you’re not sure how it’s a secret anymore because she blurted it out to her soon-to-be husband’s coworkers, but truly to each their own) planted a cherry pit of insecurity in your stomach. When you finished your glass of champagne and took note of how dizzy you were, the insecurity started to grow into the slimy monster that you were familiar with. 

Then came the picking yourself apart. 

Your eyes found the glimmer of engagement rings, baby bumps, and phones with family pictures as the home screen. Wearing your undergraduate alma mater’s class ring on your finger seemed infantile, and you made the conscience effort to slip it into the clutch you had been carrying with you the entire night. 

Phoenix noticed the sudden stiffness in your spine and how your eyes had a glimmer of sadness in them; how they held sparkles of wishing that you could relate. It’s a look she remembered having during her time in flight school. And because she had taken it upon herself to act as your big sister turned good friend since you’ve been dating Bradley, she knew that you wouldn’t speak up or excuse yourself from the conversation. 

Because you, much like her and so very much like Bradley, would rather suffer in silence and let the thoughts of not feeling good enough eat you alive until the joys of who you are become eroded to make room for the sorrows of who you aren’t. 

It came as a surprise to feel her hand guide you away from the giggling women to the front table housing cupcakes and plastic water bottles with the cheesy Canva-designed “Hitched to Fitch” labels replacing the ones they had come with. 

“Thank you,” you said, and she only nodded before handing you a bottle and grabbing one for herself off the table. 

“M’gonna head to the bathroom and then go outside for a bit. Meet you there?” she asked and you agreed, your hands busied trying to twist the cap off of your water bottle. 

Phoenix disappeared and your eyes started to search the room for Bradley. You’d even be satisfied to see some of the familiar faces that you’ve come to know via pool at Hard Deck or biweekly group dinners at your boyfriend’s house. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the room and realized that you didn’t see anyone you recognized for that matter. Instead of doing the smart thing and texting him about his whereabouts or trying to get some kind of idea about where he may have disappeared to, you did the opposite and headed outside to the back area where the sky swallowed any light in its darkness and the greenery around you smelled earthy. 

The November breeze chilled your bones and it took everything within you to keep your teeth from chattering audibly. You internally scolded yourself for being insistent that you didn’t need to bring a jacket to wear with your cocktail dress. When the wind chill had been brought up when you were putting on your earrings, Bradley had only shaken his head and laughed before making sure to put on the baby blue suit coat of his that you loved. You both knew that you’d have it across your shoulders come nightfall when the sun had set and the late fall wind chill kicked in.

The back of your heels dug into the blisters that had formed sometime during the evening and your champagne-induced mind can’t force you to walk any farther. And your intention was never to wander off and not let anyone know. It was to find Bradley and get some air, and you fell short in finding your boyfriend, so the latter had to do for the time being. 

Thoughts of the Law and Order episodes you watched leisurely slammed themselves into the forefront of your mind as the thought of a dangerous predator sent shivers up your spine. You chewed on your lips and crossed your arms over your chest; half thinking and half trying to preserve your body heat. You took a small step forward before your action was interrupted by the loud cacophonous laughter of the men that made up your boyfriend’s friend group. 

You smiled fondly and decided to wait a moment longer before making your presence known. Not very often do they get to joke around like that. 

“She’s letting you hit raw and you still haven’t knocked her up yet?” you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Jesus, Fitch, are you broken?”

You can hear Bradley chuckle along with the other males making up the group as you remained standing hidden behind the archway of the garden. If you had common sense, you would hit the gopher of your curiosity on the head like some dumb carnival game and would reveal yourself; softly joining in on the conversation and maybe even getting to put a face to the voice you had just heard. 

But instead, you stayed put and tried to flip through the catalog of voices that you had come to know. 

Reuben was ruled out because the statement was about him. Mickey’s voice was naturally quieter and softer in nature. “Hit raw” would never come out of Bob’s mouth ever. Hangman is an actual menace to society, but would “Never use the Lord’s name in vain, sweetheart. Was raised better than that.” And Javy was on leave visiting his family in Ohio for the next three weeks, you remembered Bradley mentioning earlier. 

So who could it be? 

An instinct - that old know-it-all voice that was cemented into your subconscious from years of mistakes and warnings from your mother - told you that the curiosity would actually kill you this time. Part of you thought it would be best if you found the bathrooms and waited for Natasha there. Your frozen toes and embarrassingly hard nipples would certainly thank you, but yet you do the opposite of what your panicked brain is telling you (one thing that the ABC spaghetti-o’s made clear to prevent you from getting your feelings hurt).

You had decided to snoop some more and God, did you wish you could beat yourself upside the head to forget what you had heard. Maybe a concussion wouldn’t be that awful. 

And by the time Natasha caught up to you, you had thanked God that the night sky concealed the sadness written on your face and that the cool air could be used as an excuse for your sniffles. 

Bradley, your sweet Bradley, had betrayed you, and he wasn’t even aware of how deeply that had cut you yet.

As you and Natasha made your way to the group of men huddled outside, you could feel the energy from Bradley shift, and from one look at you, he can tell that something in you has changed. His eyes are softened from both the scotch in his system and the tenderness he held in his heart for your being. Something in you just won’t allow his hazel irises to bleed into you. You already have enough blood surrounding the metaphorical stab wound that he unknowingly caused you tonight to last you through the goddamn week. 

He had reached out to bring you into him and tuck you into his front and wrap his arm around your torso. He knew that you were freezing and his suit jacket had been abandoned inside so blocking the wind with his body was the next best thing to warm you up, he had thought. His hand had grazed the goosebumps on your arms, but you pushed him away forcefully. He didn’t raise the question out loud, but when he turned to face you and saw the red tint on your cheeks and the straight line your lips were in, it confirmed what he had thought. 

You were pissed off. 

The thing about Bradley, though, is that he’ll never bring up someone else’s issue with him. He’s confrontational at heart but only about things that cut him deep; about things that stain his fingertips red with anguish and disappointment. And he knows that he has a lot of problems. He knows that what you had heard had to be beyond upsetting, and as you stood shivering with your arms folded over your chest and a good three feet put between you and him, he noted that the look on your face was something that he had caused. 

But because he’s him and because you’re you, he decided to let you come forward and let you confront him with your problem because the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you, and he certainly fell short in avoiding that scenario tonight. 

You stayed quiet and distant for the rest of the night. Your smiles and hugs and sarcastic quips were kept to a minimum and everyone noticed that something was off with you. When you had given Reuben and Izzy their parting hugs, he had whispered in your ear to “feel better soon.” Izzy had even made an effort (despite how “off her ass” drunk she was) to comfort you, and it was then that you realized that everyone had noticed you but Bradley. 

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who always happily obliged to love you and make you feel known and seen no matter the cost, but clearly, that was short of a few oceans away and the contempt of what he had done took precedence of the space you held for him in your heart now.  

All the realization did was piss you off more. 

Bradley had tried to give you his suit coat but you had just brushed it off your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Normally, you would profusely apologize and declare that the action was an accident, but you simply watched it fall, raised your eyebrows in a gesture of being unamused, and started making your way to his car. 

He had opened the passenger side door for you, but you stared at him; a look of utter silent disbelief and frustration rampant in your eyes. He couldn’t even process all that he was seeing reflected in your face before you reached your hand out to slam the very door he opened. You slung it open again before damn near hauling your body into the leather interior of the seat. 

He had half the mind to subconsciously reach out and shut the door for you until you started angrily buckling your seatbelt, to which he ultimately decided to back away and round about his vehicle with half caution and half emasculating retreat to the driver’s side. 

The wheels of how you were acting and how he could even begin to tread the water of what exactly had made you so painstakingly angry. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t speak to him. You didn’t even acknowledge him, and through the years of being an only child with a mother who doted on him like no other, Bradley had to admit that he was selfish; that he always wanted attention and always had to have it. The older he had gotten, the better he had become at concealing this, of course (Well, that’s debatable, you would have said if you were speaking to him) but he doesn’t like to share. Never likes to be pushed aside to have to make room for something else if he can help it. 

And his thinking is selfish…and absurd…and a “doorway for toxicity” (all things that his therapist had said before Bradley had stopped seeing him because he hates being called out), but he can’t help it, and despite keeping it at bay in his friendships, he certainly has a more than difficult time keeping it concealed in his relationships. 

Bradley blames the scotch he downed before he said his goodbyes on why he felt so wounded; on why the guilt and embarrassment were eating him alive. Everyone had known something was wrong with you and it hurt his confidence that he couldn’t be the one to pinpoint what exactly had caused your sour mood. He certainly had an idea, but he’d come to learn throughout the years that assuming things would never do him any good. 

The wound you had given his ego was further agitated by your show of slamming the door as soon as he turned on his heel to go to his side. Knowing eyes in the parking lot of the venue had made their presence known with hushed whispers and heeled footsteps walking faster to avoid running into him. 

Your anger angered him, and instead of being open to the idea of criticism and accepting his party in making you miserable tonight, his need to deflect kicked in instead. Old habits die hard, and he just couldn’t resist.  

He knew you would always forgive him; would always say sorry and mean it because you love him. He has a right to be mad too, he had thought. You let his suit coat fall to the ground on purpose. You refused his touch. You slammed the door to his Bronco not once, but twice. If anyone had a right to be angry, he knew it was you but who was to say that he wasn’t a second runner-up? 

Bradley knows that he was so incredibly wrong for trying to play you; trying to play chess when you weren’t even aware that there was a game being played, but so help him God if he got into a massive blowout fight with you in the goddamn parking lot before the night was over. 

And he’s pissed off but he isn’t an asshole (at least he doesn’t think he is intentionally). He settled for keeping his mouth shut because he knew it would keep your anger at a minimum with less material to be upset at. 

He backed out of his parking space and put his hand behind your headrest, his fingers lightly grabbed the ends of curled pieces of hair that wrapped themselves on the wrong side of the seat. You can feel the wispy touches and you tried your best to shrug him off. 

The ghost of his fingertips on your body drove you up the wall. Instead of harshly pulling your head away from him, you bend down to unbuckle the strap of your heel. You were sure you almost saw the tail end of a frown when you had come back up, but he was absolutely the last thing you wanted to look at for the time being. 

You could feel his stare on your face. His eyes traced your collarbone and followed the labyrinth of shadows up to your jawline. The temptation to give him some grace, to entertain his worries for just a second rang the bell inside your heart, but you were stronger than that. You deserved better than that. 

He didn’t care about you in front of his coworkers, so why should he get the privilege of caring about you now?  

Bradley, obviously attuned to your every move and gesture, sensed your subtle attempt at fleeing from him. He never knew how far away someone could feel from another despite being stuck in the confined space of a front seat.  

He could tell that you were digging your heels in; doing your best to avoid him and remove your brain from the peanut butter-thick tension that plagued the scene. It didn’t stop him from searching the side of your face for answers - for any indication that the metaphorical distance you’ve created between you two actually exists and isn’t just a figment of his chronic overthinking. 

The radio was tuned to some 80s throwback station, a Bob Seger song that you knew the melody of but certainly not the words to, which filled the uncomfortable silence. The age gap between you and your boyfriend was further cemented as he sang the song quietly as if he had written it himself. 

You’re sure you would have spiraled all the way down to the abyss located in the treacherous unknown of the Pacific Ocean if you were given the chance to. Anywhere would be better than here, you had thought. 

Bradley’s hand slipped to the heat to turn it on amidst the chilly fifty-degree fall air that had you shaking in the passenger seat. Your anger was so rampant and rage-induced that your body felt like it was on fire. Your annoyance has no place to go, as he didn’t even bother to lower the windows in the car this time. He had known that the routine of you two going out was thrown off, and trying to keep a small sliver of expectancy would do you both no good. 

Bradley could be so observant yet so self-absorbed at the same time, and it drove you absolutely nuts. 

And you started to spiral and the heat that was being blasted in your face crafted a tornado of grievances that you weren’t even aware you were holding against him. 

Bradley is a blanket stealer. He always gets the wrong kind of grapes for you at the grocery store. He can never tell the difference between Alexandra Cabot and Casey Novak no matter how many times you force him to watch Law and Order: SVU. He always gets an absurd amount of water on the bathroom floor when he showers. He never fills up the Brita filter after he uses it. He always places his shoes sideways on the rack near his front door; not quite crooked enough for you to say something about it but always slightly slanted enough for you to notice it. 

Most of all, he hurt your feelings tonight and he had yet to acknowledge that he was the cause of it. Yet here he is, trying to get in your good graces because the guilt of knowing that he had done something was chewing him up and spitting him out currently. 

So attuned to your needs but never to your feelings. Same old Bradley. 

His hand traveled to the bare skin of your knee; his large palm cupping the bone before moving it upward so his fingertips could trace the shallow gaps where your joints were relaxed. Your breath hitched in your throat and if it would have been acceptable to scream - ie; your boyfriend not currently driving you both across a narrow two-lanes-of-traffic bridge over the ocean - you would have. 

His touch burned you. Made your heart volcanic. Sent fiery tears streaming down your face. His touch had betrayed you. Made you small. Made you insignificant. Made you feel like he never cared. 

If you could’ve caught a glimpse at yourself you would know that you were beet red. You could feel yourself visibly shaking with anger and you knew Bradley could feel it too. You smacked his hand away as if you were smacking a blood-sucking mosquito off your body in the suffocating heat of June. 

Except this wasn’t a mosquito. This wasn’t the soft glow of a summer sunset with a pesky little bug slurping down your blood. This wasn’t a fond moment that you would laugh at later.

You’d been bruised; so deeply hurt. Made to feel so goddamn stupid for ever thinking that he loved you. That he respected you. Fuck him for making you feel the same way you do at your 9 to 5 every weekday. 

Bradley reached and turned the radio off. The deep exhale and the pink flush that crawled up his neck was his tell of truly being pissed off. You had only seen it happen a handful of times. Most of the time Maverick or Hangman served as memorable faces to cause the reaction. 

But this time, the time that extended your handful into two handfuls, was because of you. Part of you is prideful of that fact. Now he can feel what you’ve felt the entire night. 

“What the actual fuck is your problem?” he griped at you. He shifted in his seat and his left hand gripped the steering wheel significantly harder. “Been acting like a pissed-off toddler all night.” 

The desire to roll your eyes bated you with knowing it would satiate you in getting your point across. But the desire to do him one better, to see if you could irritate him more, took over. You know that nothing gets under Bradley’s skin more than someone taking the high road; someone one-upping him in his “noble and kind” act. 

“I’m not starting a screaming match with you in the car,” you deadpanned. You heard him huff beside you, still avoiding his presence with your eyes. 

“Would rather you fight with me than take an oath of silence.” He cracked his neck and stiffened his back against his seat. “More grown-up ways to go about telling me you’re mad, you know.” 

The anger ran up your spine and reared its head in your ears. “Hmm,” you sneered pensively, “More grown up than my pussy then, huh?” 

Bradley slammed on the breaks of the Bronco. His sudden change in speed caused you both to jerk forward. He thanked God that the road was dark and no one was directly behind him. His abrupt decision could have resulted in disaster. But even if someone would have rear-ended his prized possession, his biggest fear at the moment would have to be the fact that his suspicion was confirmed.

You had heard them and that’s why you were so royally pissed off. 

He simply swallowed and pushed his foot on the gas pedal, the car slowly starting to move forward. He turned the radio off completely and his raised brows to signify that he was deep in thought. 

How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now? 

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The scoff you let out rumbled in his ears; eardrums rubbed raw from how accusatory the pitch of your laughter sounded. “Does it fucking matter that I did?” Your voice sounded thick and the puff of air you blew out of your mouth told him that you were seconds away from angry tears. 

“You’re laughing, Bradshaw but what about that youngin’ you brought tonight? She even old enough to drink yet?” his friend and old squadron partner, Yankee, had laughed. 

Bradley had forgotten how loud-mouthed Yankee could be. Completely unafraid of asking the questions everyone was dying to know the answers to and unapologetically crass (even more so than Hangman, believe it or not). Call sign given to him by how goddamn opinionated he was about the MLB and how much of a ride-or-die fan of the New York Yankees he was. 

Yankee was one of those people who you didn’t tell your personal business to because he was bound to have some opinion about it; whether it was if he could tell that your flight suit was slightly stained or if you were making the right choice about proposing to your long-term partner. 

Come to think of it, Yankee was one of the friends Bradley had that he was sure he would never be caught dead hanging out with one-on-one. Something about the two never aligned. Bradley never found Yankee’s jokes to be funny and more often than not found his demeanor to be beyond annoying. But he can't help who his friends liked, and Yankee had never brought anything up against Bradley that made him want to beat him to a pulp, so he was found in the same hand-shaking and bar-hopping circle of friends with Yankee until the other pilot was moved to Corpus Christi. 

“Hey, Rooster’s girl is at least twenty-three. Old enough for a master’s, but can’t hold her liquor for shit,” Hangman declared, sipping the Budweiser he had been holding by its neck. 

You stuffed Bradley’s suit coat that was sitting over your lap on the middle console; desperate to have any part of him away from you. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt your tears fall into the dip of your collarbone.

The anger and sadness that bubbled inside you warmed your insides; turned your volcanic heart into lava. The heat from the vents of your boyfriend’s car blasted in your face and made you feel even sicker than you had previously. Your thighs stuck to the worn leather and itched due to your increased adrenaline. 

You fidgeted about in the seat. Bradley adjusted his posture, leaning his head on his fist that rested on the window sill on his left side. He wanted to drop the whole thing. He wanted to return back to your good tequila-shot-induced moods before the night turned to shit. 

He flipped the heat to a lower setting when he noticed your discomfort next to him. He haphazardly leaned over to close the vent on your side before he saw them; the tears streaming down your face and the pitiful pout adorning your lips. You looked so hurt. So broken. So done with him. Like maybe, just possibly, the love you had for him had finally given out. 

He figured no one was to blame but him. 

He tried his best to make you comfortable but the silence looming like a shadow from your side of the car sparked a wick of anxiety inside of him. His hands kept adjusting the temperature and checking your face as he turned the knob back and forth, the temperature going up and down. The air vents opened and closed as if they were playing some infantile game of peek-a-boo with you. 

“Jesus - fuck -, Bradley,” you hissed, “Can you quit it?”  The tears had turned from anger to sadness to annoyance and you wondered if it was possible for the primary purpose of tears to switch that quickly. 

Bradley let out a soft sigh before flicking the heat off completely and rolling down both windows. “Sorry.” The meekness on his face wrote regret for all that had taken place. 

“You don’t say,” Yankee joked, “Ole Rooster’s been scoping out the playground still, I see.” 

The group of men laugh, none of them in the know of the impending doom of the night about to take place. It always started like this with Yankee. One second, everyone would be laughing and having a good time. The next, he would say some “balls-to-the-wall” asshole-ish comment that even made Hangman grind his teeth in their offending nature. 

“I would say more ‘Babysitters Club’ and less ‘Sesame Street.’ Have to at least be in middle school now for Bradshaw,” Hangman fires back, and although the jokes being made about his taste in women and dating habits were being made fun of, nothing truly offensive had been said yet, so Bradley continued to laugh and nod his head with subtle “Fuck you”’s thrown in every now and again. 

Bradley had been in the Navy since he was twenty-one years old. He knows the way that Navy men talk. He knows the way that most Navy men think. “Swear like a sailor” is the common saying and the various time he’s spent on deployments or on carrier ships provided that it was true. He certainly isn’t blind to the nature of how these men viewed women from how they talked about them when there weren’t female ears around or when they didn’t have a warm body to go home to at night. 

And he’s not proud of it - knew that his mother and father would bury him alive for some of the things he’s said - but the guilt of his parents’ imminent disapproval had since been disbarred from his conscience. When it came down to it, no one gave a fuck who he had fucked the night before or what he had said about the women he was sleeping with. Not when he was miles away from home in an undisclosed location on a suicide mission with no one to go home to if he happened to make it back.

So many other people whom he had befriended felt the same way and Bradley had figured that this is why locker-room talk still exists in the military. Some of the things he heard he was sure could have been said at a random run-of-the-mill suburban high school in any part of the continental United States. All that was changed was the bass in the voices and the number of hairs on their chests. 

It’s hard to be polite when preserving your life is the action item at hand. 

“You know Bradshaw, I always knew you were smart,” the other pilot swishes around his scotch on the rocks in his hand, “They’re always so horny when they’re that young.” 

Laughter rang around the room and he joyously partook in it. “Well, I do get laid pretty frequently if you may ask,” he added before taking a sip of the beer he had in his hand. 

His gaze caught Bob’s eyes. Sweet, innocent Bob who thought the world of everyone. Sweet, innocent Bob who knew that Bradley was digging his own grave, but continued sipping his glass of red wine. The gawky metal frames that rimmed his friend’s eyes bore into his soul, almost magnifying the wrongfulness of what he was saying. 

Bradley had broken their eye contact, his arm coming up to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat and a shaky hand bringing the neck of his bottle up to his lips. He had known that Bob would never say anything, that he wasn’t one for confrontation or calling people out even when they deserved it. But that was the good thing about Bob. He always let people make their own mistakes and never really offered much to say about it afterward. 

“I knew it! You seemed looser than the last time I talked to you.” Bradley catches Bob’s eyes again, his friend’s eyebrows slightly raising in a scolding manner. “Now tell, she the tightest pussy you’ve ever had?” 

The atmosphere thickened as the side conversations had come to a screeching halt. He would be lying if he told himself that the lump in his throat was from the lack of water he had drank that night rather than the uneasiness of knowing he was in the wrong. 

And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should keep his mouth shut; that he owed you the small price of privacy, that you wouldn’t like the mechanics of your sex life being discussed with men who were probably making paper mache volcanoes for their middle school science fairs when you were born. He knew that Bob wasn’t giving him a warning look for no reason and that Mickey didn’t wander back into the venue for no reason at all. 

But despite his better judgment (or lack of coherent judgment at all), he opened his big, fat mouth. He had sped up the ends to his means without hesitation; without regard for your feelings. 

“Tightest thing I’ve ever put my dick in.” 

His friends nod their heads and laugh. Some of them chuckled to avoid the awkwardness and others in agreeance with what was being said. 

Bob scooted himself closer to Bradley and shook his head with a deep sigh.  “C’mon, Rooster.” A clammy hand had come to lay gently on Bradley’s shoulder.

He had pretended not to hear him. He knew the minute that he let Bob’s words register that he would drop to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. He hated peer pressure. He hated the way he was acting. He hated the way he was treating you behind your back. He hated the way his friends were laughing. 

He hated himself more for doing it because you deserved so much better. But clearly, he didn’t feel bad enough to stop. 

The sobs that wracked your chest shook you like an earthquake. The more you pondered on why he would say the things that he had said - why he would laugh and demean you behind your back - sent you into a frenzy. 

Had he always thought of you this way? Were you always talked about so grossly? So demeaningly? Were you really anything to him other than a warm vagina to pummel his dick in when he was horny? 

The questions remained unanswered as you tried to stifle your cries. You hated crying in front of people anyway, but crying in front of Bradley always made you feel awful. Tears always made him uncomfortable and your tears made him upset. Whenever the waterworks started from you, he drove himself mad trying to remedy your issue. You had used to think it was because he cared, but now you started to wonder if it was because he didn’t know how to tell you that he didn’t want to deal with it; that you were being a bother. 

Your hand is bitten raw from trying to hold in your pathetic cries. The alligator tears that ran down your face at a rapid speed and the shaking of your shoulders did little to mask the fact that you were sobbing. Years of being told that your emotions would hinder your credibility at work, months of pent-up frustration, hours of disrespect, minutes of unkindness, and seconds of insecurity create an atomic bomb on the merits of the lesson you had been told throughout your entire lifetime; there will never be enough room for your emotions. 

And you believed it. You took people for their word. You made narratives and internalized them from how people acted. You read between the lines and the margins of what you interpret carve doubt into your heart; carve the failure that you’re so deathly terrified of so close to your lifeline of needing to please everyone all the time. 

The trait is toxic - an unfavorable condition - your therapist would say but it had become such a compulsion, you’re sure you would die without it. Something about approval is so intimately invasive and the shower thoughts you conjured up while thinking about this never seemed to uncover the answer as to why. 

Why it matters. Why it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck would even care. (You, of course, but the world is so much larger than you are and your selfishness would be disappointing, you think.) 

You wish your boyfriend could read your mind and see the twenty-five cent bouncy ball-like thoughts hitting every crevice of your brain right now. You wish that your hurt feelings could be seen by him with x-ray vision or some fictional superhero-like ability. Most of all, you wished that he had known that the events that had taken place throughout the entire night were tearing you up right beside him. 

If he felt that way about you, felt like you were around just for your body and not for you, what did everyone else think? Was Natasha only friendly because she thought you were too immature to be left alone at gatherings? Did Rueben and Mickey actually give a shit about what you had to say when they asked about your work? Did Jake and Javy even know your name? 

Did your boyfriend even like you? 

The questions imploding like fireworks in your head made you cry harder, and you couldn’t help but let the sobs out now. Bradley looked over at you. His hand brushed your knee, his palm cupped it and his fingers spread out to rub soothing circles on the lower part of your thigh. 

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he begged, his voice quiet. Small. Unsure. All the things he had made you. “Please don’t cry.” 

The rubber band inside of you finally breached the capacity of tension it was able to withstand. The fact that you needed comfort more than anything and the person who usually supplies it for you with no bounds is the one who is violating that comfort made your head spin. 

“She’s got that young pussy,” Yankee continued. “Gotta fuck ‘em before they turn into moms. Not as tight anymore.” 

Bradley’s ears turned red upon hearing Yankee’s declaration. Knowing that you fucked up and realizing that you fucked up are two vastly different things and the realization hit when he heard Jake Seresin (of all fucking people) tsk and shake his head. 

“That’s fucked up, man. Have some respect.” Ever the Southern fucking gentleman. 

The sandy-haired pilot’s mouth gaped open before closing; the words loose in his psyche but ceasing to exist in real-time. He finally thought that he had a handle on what he wanted to say. Something noble. Something dignity preserving. Something along the lines of “What the hell?” and “Shut the fuck up.”, but either or never making its way out between his lips. 

Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes, he thought, and upon further internalized reflection, he realized that it posed itself as true. Jake wasn’t entirely wrong for saying that about him all that time ago. 

The clicking of heels on the ground announced Phoenix and his dashing girlfriend’s presence with the group of men and snapped Bradley out of his thoughts. Something in the way she was carrying herself, something about the way that her crossed arms over her chest blocked her usually sunny aura, told Bradley that something was wrong. 

He brought his lips down to her ear when he hugged her from behind and almost built up the courage to ask what was wrong. But he fell short when he was called away to do another round of shots with Rueben and Natasha. He had settled for a kiss to your temple instead before he bolted off. 

“Fuck you,” you manage to spit. 

Bradley raises his eyebrows. The curse word sends him into immediate fight or flight. “What did you just say to me?” 

You know that you’re teetering the line of too much. Toeing the line of immaturity. Testing if your boyfriend liked you enough to put up with your explosion of emotions. “I said fuck you.” The definitive tone in your voice that you attempt scares you with how much it resembles your mother’s. 

Bradley scoffs and squirms in his seat some more. His inability to sit still is his tell of guilt. “I told you it wasn’t like that.” 

“What the fuck else was it supposed to be then, Bradley?” Your head snaps to look at his side profile. 

The cream-colored polo shirt that you had bought him months ago was worn tonight with a different ending in a mind; one where he sped home and kissed your lips swollen and then had you withering beneath him as he fucked up into you on the wall of his foyer. Certainly not the narrative that was currently unfolding in front of him. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Now it’s your turn to laugh cruelly. “Well, what I didn’t want you to say was that I was the tightest thing you’ve ever stuck your dick in? That I’m insatiably horny? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?” You turn your body to face him completely, heart beating in your ears and chest starting to heave with the upset of Bradley’s attitude toward you. “How the hell is Jake Seresin defending me before you even thought to?” 

“Leave him out of this.” His face turns red and anger starts to bubble over inside him. Rooster always sweats whenever he gets flustered; so pissed off and angry that the heat inside of him has nowhere to go. The muggy threshold of the heat being flicked on minutes before pairs vexatiously with the aggravation that sits between the both of you. 

He rolls the windows in the car all the way down but remembers to roll yours down enough for the smallest gusts of wind to be let in. Even though you had made him angry and he knows that you’re completely justified in the case that’s been built against him, he still cares about you. 

He knows that you never like your window being all the way down unless the heat of the summer is unbearable and you were going on a beloved sunset drive with him; your shared playlist playing through his speakers and the top of the Bronco being taken off. 

The way that your hair dances in the wind remind him of when you’re carefree enough to lean your head backward outside of the car while driving down a backroad, the words of a Paramore song exiting your lungs with such clarity that he could question if Hayley Williams had written the song or you. 

But it’s not the heat of mid-June’s sunburn heating up his cheeks and your screams aren’t accompanied by the laughter of him poking your sides. Summer-salted air is replaced with a frigid fall breeze and your happy moods are burdened by your own frustrations. 

“Wish I could tell you the same about our sex life, but obviously too little too late.” 

His hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What the fuck do you think we talk about then? Huh?” Bradley’s pointed tone sends a slight sliver of fear down your spine at his annoyance. “Do you think we sit on those fucking carrier ships in the middle of the fucking ocean for eight months at a time and talk about what? Girl power and Title IX? How much we love AOC?” 

The tears dripping down your face continue to fall. 

“I’m not saying that you have to sacrifice your conversations with the “bros” about jet fuel and g-forces and whatever the fuck else you always seem to insist is so goddamn important, but my vagina is not a conversation topic to have over a fucking draft beer with your buddies.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes at your mention of the word “buddies.” If only you knew how he really felt about Yankee. 

“And I’m so fucking sorry that my lack of not wanting to be disrespected disrupted what you think is a party conversation starter. Would you like my apology half-assed like yours or sincere with a complimentary blowjob because that seems to be all you think I’m good for?” 

“I said I was sorry and I meant it!”  

“You said you were sorry because you want me to accept your apology, but what next, Bradley? Are you actually gonna fix it?” 

He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. “Don’t act like I won’t do anything you fucking ask of me,” his hand comes up to rub at his temples.“ I love you more than life itself and you know that.” 

“So why are you acting like you don’t then?” 

He starts driving down the stretch of road that leads to his home. The yellow glow of the street lights makes you want to ask him to take you back to your place. You can’t stand to be sitting next to him in his car's front seat, let alone sleeping in the same bed with him tonight. 

“Take it back,” he says dismissively. 

“Show me different and maybe I’ll consider.” He pulls the car into his garage and you throw the door open before he can come to a complete stop. 

“Hard to when every little thing that slightly offends you sends you into a goddamn spiral.” 

Your weakness. He’s got you there. 

“Fuck you, Rooster,” you say weakly, stomping away inside to his bedroom as fast as you can with the heels you have on. 

“Grow up,” you hear him say behind you, hot on your tail before turning around to head to the kitchen. 

You spend the next two hours separate from each other, toeing around the house petrified of seeing the other’s face. No fight you had gotten into with one another had ever been this bad in the four years you had been dating, and part of you wonders if this is how relationships begin to fade; how people start to realize that maybe their person wasn’t their person. 

But you think Bradley is it for you. You’ve always felt that way since coming to know him. Be with him. Have him in the same way he has you. You don’t think you can function without him no matter how much of an ass he’s being to you right now. And sure, you’re independent to a fault and yeah, you don’t always know what’s good for you, but you know one thing definitively, and that thing is that Bradley Bradshaw checks all your boxes despite driving you slightly insane at times. 

You look up at yourself in his bathroom mirror as you finally scooped yourself off of the floor of his bedroom and made the decision to scrub your makeup off (or what was left of it after your meltdown, really). The patch of stress acne near the side of your forehead from the new project you had been put on at work and the ball of anxiety over what to wear to the wedding shower tonight made itself known. You realized that you had run out of makeup remover and face wash at Bradley’s house a couple of days ago, and the regret of not bringing some or asking him to drop you off at your own apartment started to settle with the burden of your hurt feelings and the freakout your skin was bound to have come tomorrow morning. 

A sigh had left your mouth and Bradley’s bathroom cabinet opened as you decided to skip washing your face in favor of only brushing your teeth. But when you go to grab the lilac-handled toothbrush from its holder, you notice the two brand-new bottles of makeup remover and face wash that you certainly didn’t bring, and then you’re reminded of how sweet your boyfriend can be. How caring he is. 

The soft spot in your heart that he owns starts to warm again. 

After you manage to wash your face and brush your teeth, you run into the problem of only bringing a sleep shirt. Bradley keeps his house on sixty-five no matter the weather outside. He always claims that he runs hot despite some of the wind chill San Diego experiences at night during the fall and winter months.  And while you have clothes at Bradley’s, most of them fall into the business casual garb you wear to work or are borrowed (more like stolen, he likes to joke) and no matter how cold you may be, your pride has so much more precedence than it would allow you to give in. 

Bradley’s Chicago Bears hoodie sits folded in your designated drawer, but you bypass putting it on. The embarrassingly large t-shirt (albeit free t-shirt) that repped a random student organization from your undergrad institution would have to do tonight. 

You waltz out of Bradley’s bedroom quietly. Not only to go undetected, but to be polite in case he had already fallen asleep on his declared refuge of the couch. The soft sound of Breaking Bad playing told you that he was still awake. He can never fall asleep with the TV on; no matter how tired he is. 

“Baby?” Bradley calls out from the couch. 

Shit. Were you really that loud? 

Your feet move faster than your brain; something about Bradley is so magnetizing. You’ll follow him to the end of the Earth if you knew that he needed you. Your puffy-eyed, pantless form moves to stand in front of him. His form still wears the clothes he had worn tonight. The only thing different was the UVA throw blanket you had gotten him last month “just because” over his lap and his printed airplane-socked feet sticking out from underneath it. 

Your gaze looks towards the shoe rack near the front door and you chuckle to yourself as you see them exactly how you imagined them. Tucked away where he wouldn’t trip on them, but slightly askew. 

His hand comes up to grab yours that lies limply at your side. “C’mere,” he whispers, testing the waters to see how much damage he had done. 

You give his hand a small squeeze, the coldness of yours allowing you to feel every callous on his palms. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” 

He opens the blanket on his lap and guides you to straddle him. He closes the blanket and immediate warmth covers you. Bradley’s hands sit on your lower back above your tailbone, soothing circles being rubbed on the bone there, and his head coming to rest on top of yours. You breathe in his scent, your face snuggled into his neck. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he speaks and you exhale. You bite your lip, the tears welling up again and wetting his neck. 

“It’s okay,” you weep brokenly. “I’m sorry, too.”

He presses gentle kisses on the top of your hair. The sadness that fills the room; the culmination of utter sorrow and confirmation of your insecurities makes the room heavy and eats away at you. Bradley does his best to comfort you until your sobs quiet to hiccups. 

And as much as you love Bradley, as much as you want to be satisfied with his apology (or lack of a sincere one, thereof), you realize that sincerity was perhaps not one of his defining characteristics. But instead of calling him out, you so stupidly and cowardly accepted it and apologized right back.

He’s apologizing for the sake of saying sorry. For the sake of diminishing your anger. For the sake of being able to be truthful about never going to bed angry if someone asks. For the sake of doing so because if you accept, he’s still allowed to stay the same and he never has to change.

But you’re saying sorry for being a nuisance. For embarrassing him. For bruising his ego and for being accusatory that he never gave a damn about you. 

And what you don’t realize is that you should really be saying sorry to yourself, because while you’re boxing yourself up to make space for him, he’s not sorry about forcing you to do it. 

Boxes are heavier when they’re filled with resentment, you learn, and the weight becomes unbearable when sorrows are thrown out to sea with no lifesaver near in sight. 

Love is all about sacrifice and banged-up feelings; even if that means that the love of the man you would do anything for suffocates you as you lay curled into his side with a heat made by his chest and his soft snores in your ear. 

“Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind.” 

And for the first time in the four years you had spent together, you truly start to wonder if Bradley really does love you. The hot coffee on the nightstand when you wake up and the discovery of his thermostat being turned up to seventy degrees confuses you when you get up to head back to your apartment in the morning when you compare his treatment of you now to he had treated you the night before.

He loves me not. He loves me. 

He loves me not. 

(Year 5) 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

His mother used to tell him that women always knew. 

And she would say it over the sound of a cheaply made General Hospital episode that she had taped so they could watch it together during their evening “wind down time.” His pencil would be scratching away at a Calculus problem from the AP Calc booklet his teacher had passed out at school that day and the soft clink of his mother’s knitting needles would grace his ears. 

He would nod his head as he sat by his mother’s feet on the floor of their living room and wouldn’t say a word. The cocoon that the soft yellow glow of the lamp gave off wrapped him in a moment of security; a moment of comfort that he was never allowed very often. 

And he had never really thought anything of it at the time. He had figured it was just some chock-full wisdom that would blossom into a useful tool for his adult life; one where his mom wasn’t dying and he was married with maybe a few kids and a beautiful house with a backyard and a bay window. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as the female lead had discovered her husband cheating on her long before she had traveled home to catch him in the act. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as she would catch him trying to sneak a girl into his teenage bedroom at half past three in the morning. 

“Women always know,” his mom said as she comforted him when she had declared to an eighteen-year-old Bradley that she no longer wanted to continue with chemotherapy. She died not even two days later.

“Women always know,” he can hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head as he watches you tiptoe around him when you come home from work. 

The door closes with a soft click and your keys are grasped tightly in your hand to prevent them from jingling. The bags underneath your eyes beg the question of when the last time you had gotten a full eight hours of sleep was, but you both would rather not inquire out loud. 

The answer would shock both of your consciences. 

The tossing and turning you had done the night before was cruel. The anxieties of your day had breached unknown territory; the pit of your stomach hollow and your chest tight. Your mind was so frazzled with fear you couldn’t bear to stay still because the lack of movement gave way for your thoughts to be caught; for your fear and anxiousness to swallow you whole. 

Bradley would normally stir in his sleep the minute your eyes had popped open in the middle of the night, but instead, he had elected to turn over and cuddle his face more into his own pillow. The action tacked itself onto the mile-long list of things you were upset about - things that you found unfathomable that your brain scrambled together. 

And when you had finally gotten to sleep, your alarm clock blared beside you. Your heart had started to race and the monster of nerves you had successfully defeated for an hour and a half resurrected itself. 

When you had turned to face Bradley, you found him still fast asleep and that’s when you knew. 

You’re not stupid. You’re not oblivious. In fact, you’re always so painfully aware that it kills you sometimes. You notice how he’s been pulling away. You notice how he’s seemed more reserved and despondent than usual. You notice how he doesn’t kiss your forehead anymore or ask to join you in the shower when you’re both spending your mornings at home together on the weekends. 

Conversations at the dinner table are neither here nor there as most nights he can’t be damned to make it home to eat with you. For the first time in five years, you had run out of face wash and had to write a note to yourself on your phone to pick some more up from the store the next time you went shopping. Bradley had watched you type it out and his sagging shoulders wore disappointment on them. 

You knew. 

You knew he was both feet out of the door with your relationship; his hand still on the doorknob to close it but not having the guts to lock the door while he’s at it. 

You know. 

You know that you’re going to break up. You know that Bradley is the one who will be taking the initiative and doing it. You know that he’s been thinking about it for a while. The absent gasps whenever you do happen to catch dinner with him say so, and all you can think about is his mouth opening and closing like a goddamn goldfish as he searches for the words to bring it up. The thought makes the actions of the inevitable seem more bearable. 

But yet you cling to what little time you know you have left with him. 

How you know that you’ll never get to sleep beside him again. How you know that you’ll never get to snuggle into his UVA blanket. How you know that you’ll never visit the Hard Deck or the base or any spaces where Rooster Bradshaw exists freely. 

How you know that things will never be the same and that your sweet, sweet Bradley will soon become a sweet, sweet stranger. 

So you try to prolong it. 

You never linger in the same space as him for too long for fear of the dreadful topic being brought up. You bite your tongue a lot more than you usually do. You keep your stuff neat and tidy; praying for some miracle that he didn’t see your hairbrush on his bathroom counter and that it would buy you another day with him. 

You know it can’t last forever but the stupid, naive part of you thinks you can stretch the time to infinity and it’ll be some Groundhog Day-type plot. 

You had started planning your arrival home around his schedule months prior. You aimed for leaving the office when you knew he had already left base about an hour earlier. If Bradley was anything, it was predictable, and he would either be in the shower when you had made your way home or cooped up in the home office he had made of the spare bedroom. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him standing in front of you; hands drying the ceramic plates Penny and Mav had bought you as a housewarming gift whenever he bit the bullet and moved you both into his parents’ old house last summer. Gray running shorts are low on his hips and a New York Yankees long-sleeve looks damn near painted on his biceps. You swallow the lump in your throat that travels down to your stomach. 

Your brain can’t even begin to think of what to do or say but Bradley beats you to it. 

“Hi,” he speaks, breaking the ice of your anxiety that freezes you both over. He knows that you can feel that something is off. He knows that you’ve felt it for a long time. He also knows that he’s about to shatter you completely and he’s not sure if he can watch as he does it. 

“Hi,” your voice quietly sounds. Your hands start to shake and Bradley’s eyebrows upturn with sympathy as he drinks in your appearance. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places the plate down and steps towards you. “C’mere.” 

His arms stretch to accommodate you. His heart beats wildly as he approaches. He thinks you can sense it because you slam your ear against his chest. There’s no way you can’t feel the rise and fall and frenzied thumping coming from his pectoral. 

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” his heart begs, but his brain knows that either way, hurting you is inevitable. 

He wishes there was another way but he knows wishful thinking will only put you both in a landmine of resentment; a world of a loveless marriage and three kids who will eventually have to pack their bags for their respective weekends with you and him on opposite sides of town. He doesn’t want that for you. He doesn’t want that for him. He sure as hell doesn’t want that for them. So he pushes aside his selfish desire to keep you close and does what he always does. 

He decides to walk away. 

“Just get it over with,” you say weakly from his chest. He plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. His thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of both shoulders. Your stomach is cold and the rest of your body is left scorching. 

“What are you talking about?” his chin comes to rest on top of your head. His hold on you unintentionally shoves your face deeper into his chest. 

“Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.” 

“I can’t talk about it unless you tell me what you’re gettin’ at, babydoll.” 

“Don’t play stupid, Bradley,” you release yourself from his grip, “You’re going to break up with me. We both know it so please, just do it already.” 

The words that you say steer clear of the convoluted plan he had in mind. Breaking up is no easy task and the guilt of the thought even crossing his mind had been weighing on him for ages. It wasn’t like he sat down with himself and crunched the numbers of the housing market to see when the best time would be for you to move out or that he had a set itinerary of how the conversation was going to play out. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it today until you had left for work, and it seems to him that you had figured it out without having to mention it to you. 

Women always know. 

“Don’t say it like I’m just trying to throw you away.” You flinch at his words. He realizes that his tone had come off more aggressive than he intended it to be when he notices the slight watering in your eyes. 

“Isn’t that what a break up is?” you want to ask, but you’re so stunned you can’t get your vocal cords to carve out the shape of the letters, let alone thrust any sound out. 

He takes your hand and leads you to your shared bedroom. The white duvet and navy blue bordered throw pillows remind you of when he used to take the time to hold you before you fell asleep at night. The hardwood of the floors tell the secrets shared between the two of you as hushed and giggled whispers; pointless gossip and serious confessions alike. The framed pictures on the dresser show you and him in various moments of your five years together. 

Easter spent at your parents’ with your siblings and nieces and nephews this past spring. Thanksgiving with Mav, Penny, and Amelia three years prior. A selfie you forced him to take with you at Phoenix’s wedding last year. A candid shot taken by one of your friends of you two curled up on the beach; blissfully in love and lost in each other’s eyes at the start of your relationship. 

The photos and the room had seen so much of you two. Various deployments and promotions. A canvas of emotions and intimate moments. Laughter and tears. Petty fights and teenaged makeout sessions. So many things that had written the story of you and Bradley long before you had moved in and long after. The thoughts of the memories fill you with excitement. 

But the thought of him not feeling the same way - the fact that he’s bringing you to a room with the story of you both written exclusively in every crevice to end things - brings a waterfall of tears down your face. 

The story of creation and its impending graveyard. 

Another pang of anguish surges through you and the coldness in your stomach spreads to your feet. 

He sits down on the foot of the bed first. He looks up at you with worry written in his irises. Bradley can sense your discomfort; the sadness and panic bouncing off of your aura in waves of deep indigo blue - the color that he’s assigned depression. He doesn’t know why (and he thinks that if he were you, he would slap himself across the face) but he offers his hand to you. 

There’s no hesitation and his hand guides you to sit on his lap like how he always does when you’re upset and need comfort. 

You sit down and push your face into the side of his neck. The stinging sensation from the hot salt water tears leaking into a cut he had given himself from shaving that morning makes the nature of the situation all the more realistic. This is the last time he will hold you like this. This is the last time he will know you as well as he does. This is the last time he will ever have the chance to make you miserable. 

Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore. 

But the feeling of disappointment is just so intense this time. He’s sure it doesn’t even fall within the scope of what could be considered “hurt feelings.” He would classify this as torture, and he can’t help his own quiet sobs racking his chest as he holds your crying and shrunken-in form in his arms. 

“I don’t want to break up, Bradley,” you weep, “I just don’t want to.” 

He shakes his head and wipes his own eyes. “We need to.” 

There’s something so personal about failure. It’s not a stranger to you. It’s not a monster or fear or the Mucinex man that you try to boil it down to be. It’s something that you can’t obsessively try to avoid anymore because it’s right here in your face. 

Except this time, it takes the shape of Bradley’s red-rimmed eyes and gray hairs on the border of his hairline that you hadn’t noticed before. 

Bradley isn’t one for bragging. He can’t stand bragging, actually, and he wonders if that’s why he has such a hard time trusting his judgment. He considers that to be the reason why he’s always teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but he knows deep down that this time, he’s right. He’s so spot on and as much as it kills him, it would be more of a crime to deny it than to just admit that he’s right.

He knows it. You know it. He’s sure God does, too. 

 “No, you want to,” you stubbornly sniffle. 

Ever the most hard-headed person to exist, but a sweetheart when it comes down to it. He almost cracks a smile at your attitude, but then he runs into it like a wall of bricks. You’re breaking up. This is the last time he’ll ever get to see your bull-headedness in full effect. The thought makes him whimper and he prays that you didn’t hear the infliction of it in his voice.

“That’s not true, sweet girl,” he sighs, fingers tracing the seam of your work pants, “I can’t make you miserable anymore. We need to.”

“Who said I was miserable?” 

He pauses. He knows that the statement he’s about to make will send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He knows that it’ll make him feel that way because he’s being called out. 

“I don’t want to get married and you do. That’s miserable.”

Your ears burn more than they already had because he’s right. You’ve been waiting around for a stupid diamond on a stupid gold band; for reassurance that he wants you to be his as much as you love the idea of being his forever. 

Five years and you know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Five years and you compromise regularly about what to keep the thermostat on. Five years and nine weddings you had attended with him. Five years of loving each other and knowing one another in ways that only fiction writers can dream of having someone know them. Five years of feeling like you would die without him. 

Five years and he’s ready to throw it all away because he doesn’t think you both want the same things. Five years down the drain.  

You think being kicked in the face would hurt a hell of a lot less than this does. 

“Uh-uh. No,” you say. You paw at your eyes with your hand ferociously. “No! You don’t get to do that. You know that’s not fair!” You spring up from his lap like he was a fire that had just licked your skin with white-hot heat. 

He grabs at your wrist, his eyes pleading with you to not leave him. His touch burns you but you give in. “It’s not fair to keep doing this to you.” His arms envelop you once again and you feel like you can’t breathe. 

You push at his chest. “This isn’t fair.” Your arms try and pry Bradley’s arms off of you. “You can’t - I can’t just let you throw us away like this. It’s not fair!” 

Bradley swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes produce more tears the more he watches you struggle against him. He’s scared that if he lets you go that you’ll lose it completely. Part of him knows keeping you near is helping him hold it together too, but he tries to rationalize the overall shittiness of the entire situation by telling himself that he’s appealing to your needs - that you need him, but he also knows that he needs you. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Then why are you hurting me?” The question explodes in the air, It’s something that he thought he was prepared to hear from the pep talk he had given himself on the ride to work this morning, but it still stuns him.  

“I’m hurting you by keeping you with me.” 

You scoff and cry harder. The fight inside of you hasn’t ceased yet. Such a stubborn girl, he thinks. It’s one of the things he loves the most about you. 

“You’re hurting me now.” 

Bradley swallows his comment. His mind ping pongs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on how to tell you why he knows this is for the best. The truth is, he doesn’t know it. He just thinks it, and the worry of having to follow his instincts, to have to be guided by something so material and un-cemented, scares him to death. But he knows that you deserve the word and the world is something he knows that he’ll never be capable of giving anyone. 

“You deserve someone that will marry you.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “Someone who will make you so happy that you won’t even think of us anymore. Someone who can give you that house in La Jolla and a huge wedding and babies and a dog.” 

“Someone who won’t blow up in flames while they’re in the sky,” he almost adds, but he closes his mouth instead. The conversation was already heavy. There’s no need to tack on his death that is always in the cards. 

“I deserve you,” you say, tone dripping with determination and assurance. 

He’s full-on sobbing now. “You deserve so much better, baby. Why can’t you see it?” 

You chew on your lips so hard that they start to split. The salt of the blood in your mouth is vile but you would rather taste that than the tears that have been roaming down your face. 

“Why can’t you just be better then?” 

He feels like you stabbed him in the heart. He guesses that he deserves that. “I can’t be better if you deserve the world. I know I can’t give you that.” 

The room fills itself with hiccuped breaths. His heart cracks and yours disintegrates. Bradley moves himself to the headboard to support his back. If you weren’t so concerned with your world crashing down, you would have made a joke about how his age was catching up with him. But trying to force yourself to smile feels like a crime. 

Bradley has experienced loss. He’s experienced disappointment. He’s experienced heartbreak. He thought he was prepared for what he was choosing to do, but he never had thought of how he would feel when he was experiencing all of these things at once. 

His abs hurt from how hard he’s crying. The hair on the crown of your head is soaked from his tears but you don’t mind nor do you notice. The chest of his long sleeve is stained black from your own tears. You both cling to each other even though being close is what causes you to ache. 

The bright white of the linen duvet reflects cornflower blue in the moonlight. Your throat is dry from your heaving. His head hurts from his racing thoughts. Both of your eyes sting uncomfortably; you seeing the world as if you were underwater. Not only because of your uncontrollable sobbing but because the focus of your life - the love you so willingly gave that has illuminated your world for the past five years - has finally dimmed. 

The hours spent holding each other felt like seconds and you finally muster up the courage to say something; to put on a brave face and revel in one of your lasts with him. 

“Bradley?” you croak. He clears his throat and presses a timid kiss to the top of your head as if he’s scared that his lips are more of a weapon than a tool of comfort. 

“Yes, baby?” 

“Will we still be friends in a few weeks?” 

He sucks on his lips. He wants to say that you’ll always be friends. That no one that comes after you will ever hold a candle to you and what you both had. That you’re his beginning and end, but he can’t keep dragging you along with a false promise of giving you what you actually want. He can’t make himself want to be a husband even though he knows that it’s what he needs to be to keep you. Wanting you just isn’t enough anymore.  

The risk is contemplated, but he never wants to prey on you and your vulnerability. He settles for the safe option. 

“Depends on if you still wanna be, sweet girl.” 

You plant a soft kiss on the wet spot on his chest your tears have created. The answer is sweet but not what you want. You wish it would’ve broken his resolve; would’ve reversed your relationship ending. You know that he knows better than to do that. 

The silence sets in again before you speak up. 

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you still call me every night before I go to sleep so I can hear your voice?”

“I can for a little while, baby.”

His answer is the right thing to say, you know, but you can’t help the fact that the statement breaks your heart even more. “Why only a little bit?”

He sighs. You’re not making this easy for him. “Babe, you know why.” 

“Right,” you whisper, shifting in his lap to wrap your arms around his neck. You peer into his eyes. The hazel in them is dimmed. There’s no sparkle left. “M’sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, “Just think that maybe that won't be healthy if we do it for too long.” 

It kills him to say that, but he knows that he’s doing the right thing. It certainly doesn’t feel as such, and he would think that nearly twenty years of service in the Navy would help him separate the bad feelings from the nobility. 

Breaks up just don’t work like that, he figures. No amount of experience or preparation can concoct an easy way out where no one gets hurt. 

He gets lost in his thoughts before he hears your voice again. 

“Bradley?”

Broken. Timid. Inquisitive. A test to see if he still cares enough about you to answer. He knows how you are and that you’re reverting back to old patterns that you had lost during your time with him. He has to push aside his feelings of being slightly offended that you’ve put the wall back up so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done enough damage to last a lifetime. He just wishes that you didn’t think he could fall out of love with you this easily. 

“Hmm, baby?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“My best friend too,” he exhales, the pang in his chest valiant in letting him know that this is the end, “Always will be.” 

You pause and tailor your next statement carefully. Part of you takes it slow to prevent yourself from breaking down again but part of you takes your time to keep him near; to keep him from walking away from you. And you don’t want to do this to him. You don’t want to anger him or upset him and that’s the fucked up thing about it. 

He’s hurting you and you don’t want to hurt him back. 

“Yeah, but what happens when you date another girl and she’s your best friend instead of me?” The thought makes your skin crawl and you dig half moons into the skin of your hand with your thumb to prevent yourself from letting out a chest-wracking sob. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Bradley sighs. The thought of you moving on is selfish but he knows that it’s inevitable. He wishes that no one will ever get to know you the same ways that he’s gotten to, but shakes the thought as soon as he realizes how selfish it is - a declaration of love or the right answer. 

He does the latter. 

“You’ll find someone who’s an even better best friend than I am,” he sniffles. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying again. “Someone who doesn’t make you cry.”

Your breath hitches and it triggers more tears to stream down your face. He’s hurting, too. You never want to see him hurt like this, but then you realize that after today, you will never have to ever again. The thought makes your body ache; withdrawal symptoms before any withdrawal had actually begun. 

“You promise we’ll still talk?” you speak in a watery voice. 

“Yes, babydoll,” he wipes his eyes and sniffles some more, “ We’ll still talk.”

You start to play with his hands. Your finger runs across a faint scar on his index, the freckle on his pinky, the empty space where you wish a gold wedding band would be on his ring finger. The tips of your own fingers start to burn when you realize that his disinterest in ever wanting to wear one is why you’re breaking up. 

You push the thought to the side and continue on in the conversation. 

“About life stuff?”

He gives a soft chuckle, the one he usually gives you when he’s playing into your amusements. Part of him is never serious when he does it, but there’s a new wave of promise that he has to keep. 

“About anything you want.”

The crying dies down again. The energy in the room is constantly going up and down like the waves on the beach near the back of the house. 

“Bradley?” you interrupt the quietness again. The lack of sound makes you even more anxious than you already are. 

“Yes?” He curses himself as the statement leaves his mouth. He knows you’re picking apart his lack of use of a pet name; that you’re convincing yourself that you’re an inconvenience to him and that he never cared for you the way you wanted him to. 

Bradley almost tacks one on, but the pause between adding it and answering would have been too broad and you would have noticed and called him out on it. He decides against it. He also starts to wonder when he became so decisive all of a sudden. 

Turmoil does that to someone, he guesses. 

“My heart hurts so bad and I don’t know how I’ll fix it.”

The energy in the room spikes again. The tension you can feel radiating off of him like an unbearable heat makes your eyes water. Crying was something you did often but not something you enjoyed. You’re in for some long, painstakingly miserable months, you think. 

“Mine does too but we’ll do what we always do, right?” You shift in his lap and curl into him more. You know he’s right, but it doesn’t mean that what he’s saying is what you wanted to hear.  “We’ll figure it out.” 

“I - I don’t think I kn-know how to d-do that anymore.”

He moves his chin from the top of your head to actually look at you. He had been avoiding it for the fear that he would be too cowardly and would retreat back to keeping you in this miserable, hopeless search for a marriage that he was never planning on partaking in. He can’t go back. He can’t undo what he had just done. Even if he were to announce that he wanted you to stay, it being brought up in the first place will forever have torn an irreparable hole in the fabric of your relationship. 

Bradley’s hands cup your face and he smacks his lips on your forehead. He thumbs away the tears that had been endlessly streaming all night. He rubs soft circles back and forth on your cheekbones. The pressure you get in your cheeks from crying always gives you a massive headache, he knows. 

The fact that someone else will know that about you sends him into a spiral of guilt. A spiral of weakness. A spiral of wanting to undo what he had just done. 

But he doesn’t. 

Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing. 

And so he does. 

“Bullshit, baby. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure it out.” Truthful words, but not truthful feelings. He’s never been good at deciphering those. 

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?” 

The words get stuck in your throat. You never want to make him feel bad because you know how hard he is on himself. You’re not sure if saying what you want to say is even worth it but - from the way he’s holding your face, from the way you’ve gotten to know and love him, from the way that he will always be your sweet, sweet Bradley -  you determine that he needs to hear it. 

“You’re the kindest man that I know even though you stomped on my heart.”

He sends you a soft smile and delivers a soft kiss to your lips; the first one of the night despite being so close to him all evening. 

“I learned how to be because of you.” 

You don’t know how long you both stay like that - wrapped up in each other with waves of tears coming and going as they please. The soft whimpers leave your mouth and the sniffled breaths that leave his paint each corner of the bedroom with an ending. 

One where you don’t get the ring and the house and the babies. One where he doesn’t get the girl and the family and the happily ever after. One where you both don’t have a soulmate anymore. 

He knows that he shouldn’t say it. He knows that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. He knows that he’s not ready for you to leave and he says it hoping that maybe, he can take back what had happened; that maybe you can steer the conversation in talks of staying together and compromising and “working it out.” 

“I love you. I’ll always love you.” 

You look up at him brokenly. His heart stops beating when you open your mouth to speak. 

“But you’ll never love me enough to try.”  

Bradley closes his mouth and exhales deeply through his nose. The point you made is compelling and it stings to know that it’s completely truthful. He sits with you on his lap, subtly rocking you back and forth until the sky turns from the midnight blue of nightfall to the yellow-tinted wisteria of sunrise. 

Women always know. And he would be foolish to pretend like your gut feeling was wrong. 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

None of it matters if he doesn’t love you enough to be what you need.

[cy-lindric]

Hi! I love your historical pants. Did you use an existing pattern, or did you draft your own? And if so... Do you sell patterns at all? I'd love to make myself a pair but I haven't learned enough to make my own patterns yet

Hello ! I got this question a lot so I hope you won't mind if I use it as a springboard to make a general public reply about it ! For reference, I started sewing a year and a half ago. I don't have any formal training and started from zero, so I kind of just rely on enthusiasm and trial and error.

For most of my projects, I use a mix of patterns and draping. I mostly do men's clothing and the patterns I find don't always match my body type exactly, so I rarely get to use them as is. I'm fairly tall and narrow so usually the smaller men's sizes are a good base, but not all patterns include sizes small enough, and there's still much to fix for me in terms of chest length, leg length, thighs, etc. That'll be something to keep in mind if you're smaller or more hourglass shaped for instance.

For the fall front trousers, it was kind of an impulse project, so I didn't work from a book and I bought a pdf pattern from Laughing Moon Mercantile. It was very useful to construct the front, which is quite complex by my second-year-of-sewing standards, but it only came in fairly big sizes so there was a lot of alterations to do pretty much everywhere else. Also worth noting is that the pdf is made for an A0 format, and although you can print it at home on a mosaic of A4 paper using Acrobat, it's impossible to select which "tile" section of the A0 page you want to print. The pdf pattern contains many options and printing everything to get just the pieces I needed was just too wasteful to do. Instead, I printed only the pattern pieces from the first page, and drafted/copied the missing pieces from other pages myself directly on pattern paper. If you're willing to go through the printing and resizing hassle, it's a great pattern with very clear and exhaustive informations on construction and options for both historical and modern notions.

I picked that one because I wanted to do trousers specifically and it matched my needs best with many options to potentially combine, but if you're looking to do shorter breeches or just want to use it for the fall front, patterns are fairly easy to find on etsy or elsewhere. I like Reconstructing History because their smallest men's size works great for me and they cover a huge range of eras and styles. Unfortunately the instructions don't contain as many diagrams and are sometimes a bit more difficult to follow. I almost never buy paper patterns so I can't recommend any. When it comes to actual historical garments that aren't like, halloween costumes, I find it very difficult to encounter paper patterns and I only find what I'm looking for in books or pdf patterns. I find that both is best where you're a beginner ; the book gives great insight, and the pdf is a good base to work off. I'm still fairly new so I only have a few books (some of them physical, a lot of them pdfs, because they're expensive and sometimes out of print) but they're great classics and they help me a lot :

The Cut of Men's Clothes, 1600-1900 by Nora Waugh 17th Century Men's Dress Patterns by Braun, Costiglio, North, Thornton and Tiramani The Medieval Tailor's Assistant: Common Garments 1100-1480 by Sarah Thursfield Patterns of Fashion - Books 3 and 4 by Janet Arnold

Sorry this was so long ! If you're a beginner reading this, keep in mind I just threw myself at this with no prior experience quite recently and I'm having a lot of fun so go for it and don't be afraid to make mistakes and start over ! Good luck :)

[iamacolor]

2023 sewing projects - part 1 details at the end of the post (click here for part 2)

Note: I work for a fabric shop so I get most of my fabrics for free as well as some patterns as I have to be wearing our products at work (I definitely consider it a perk). Without this job I would not be sewing as much and I'd probably be buying most of my fabric second hand or on sale as I used to do before. I also sometimes sew during work hours so keep that in mind if you're also a sewist, go at your own rythm 💜 Although I have basic training in pattern drafting I prefer to sew from pre-existing patterns to save on time (as i have to regularly make myself some new clothes for work) and discover new techniques and styles - but I often change stuffs to adapt the designs to my style.

1 - first outfit for my friend's wedding (this one was for the henna night), it's made in a linen-viscose blend and it's very easy and quick to make + i can easily wear each piece separately!

2 - second outfit for my friend's wedding made out of 100% silk muslin (it was a big remnant i found on sale) - i ended up making made a lot of changes from the base pattern: i lenghtened the sleeves a lot, i changed the skirt piece as the og one was too short for me and also too wide for my narrow fabric so i just cut rectangles in the desired length and gathered everything at the waist - the skirt is fully lined both in silk and in lining fabric - I also took a lot in at the middle back and some on the sides (i would've have loved to make a toile but sadly a nasty tendinitis kept me away from sewing for a few months so i had to speed things up before the wedding)

3 - i made this bodysuit last week - it was my first time working on a knit fabric in a while and i should have lenghtened it a bit more than i already did as the shoulder seams are being slightly pulled back - in a viscose/polyester milano knit + modified pants from a magazine in a viscose , large pants in fluid fabrics like that are great for all seasons as i can easily put some tights on underneath when it's too cold. I'm so glad i found a knitted fabric to match the print on the pants!

4/5 - this dress and blouse have the same base pattern from the same book but i modified the end of the sleeves on both (they were supposed to be gathered on a wrist band and closed with buttons) to create a ruffle effect with an elastic - on the dress i took out the collar piece and slightly adjusted the side seams to make them more fitting + i traced another skirt piece based on the back of the skirt in pic1 and added a ruffle at the bottom - the dress is made in a viscose twill and the top in a coton double gauze

6/7 - both of these tops are made from the same pattern, i simply lenghtened the sleeves for the checkered version and on both i tightened the sleeve band - it's a very quick pattern to make. The dotted one is made from a very fine coton corduroy and the checkered one is in a coton double gauze. The pants are made in a thicker corduroy, I'm very much in between sizes when it comes to pants (depending on the brands I cover around 4 sizes between my waist and my thighs at their thickest) I ended up cutting the size for my thighs and simply deepening the folds and the darts to make it fit at the waist + I wanted a loser fit on the legs so i added 1cm on each side

8 - this shirt is made in a linen and viscose blend (same fabric as the pink matching set) except for the contrasting blue elements which are in linen-coton - i had fun playing with the classic shirt finishing and deciding what to do in blue (the buttonholes are threaded in blue!)

9/10 - this top is made from a simple coton gauze, the bodice is lined with the same fabric (super quick to make although the fact that the right and wrong side are the same means i've put in on wrong at least twice lmao) - the pants are made in coton gabardine (i've also had to trace between sizes here - this is a us sizes pattern and for this i'm in between 6 and 10 with a slight redrawing of the crotch and the side seams under the pockets) I love this pattern because it comes in a slim legs version, a straight one, a wide version (this one) and a short version. I've made another large version in orange and a slim version in white.

11 - these pants are made in a coton-linen twill - pretty straightforward in their making, as always I am in between sizes for pants so I cut a size 10 (can't remember if this was in us or uk sizes)and ended up having to do my usual changes for pants by deepening the front folds and the back darts (which I also had to make longer to accomodate not just for my waist circumference which is 2 sizes smaller than my thighs but also the arch of my back). Really like how large the belt is and how the fold is pressed all the way down the leg. I wore it with the green top, a red jacket and gold shoes for christmas eve!

[rice-enjoyer]

A taste so sweet ; it makes all of your senses rot, from within.

a/n: this has been MARINATING in my drafts since august. reader is a cook/chef from Liyue! ~3.0k words! this is not sagau, for once, wow! a mostly harbinger-centered fic, i was simply not feeling it with scaramouche, sorry simps. (my boy pants though. - pantalone is finally in the spotlight! the wording of this fic seems to make it easy for me to go on and on about him.) dottore does get his routine paragraphs that are a mile longer than everyone else's, he's still my favorite war criminal <3 cw: gn reader, x reader format. food, probably everything that has to do with preparing food, reader gets kidnapped, reader has some angst added and self-esteem issues but it turns into fluff very soon. few mentions of death, (reader's and a side character's)some obsessiveness + possessiveness, reader ACCIDENTALLY cuts themselves with a knife, very short-lived and harmless wound.

--

As the saying goes: The way to anyone's heart is either through their pants or stomach - you chose the latter, being a well-known chef from Liyue. You sort of had to. How did you end up becoming the 11 harbingers' personal chef? Well... You liked to participate in those little cooking competitions, that's how. Always being on the podium, never getting anything worse than 3rd place. You grew up loving to participate, even as a child - not expecting to win, but to learn. Knowledge when it comes to cooking, baking, recipes, and how to alter them just fascinated you, ever since you were young. Xiangling was a close friend of yours, and you've been thinking about signing a contract, to work in a restaurant. You went home, already planning your future as an official chef for the restaurant. With new responsibilities in mind, you sigh deeply in the empty hall as you take off your shoes. Your mind was filled and rattling with all sorts of new problems to antagonize over. You were worried, deeply, but concealing that should be the best, weakness has no place in your heart for now. Maybe later, when you are a bit more comfortable with being employed at a new place. Everything was going too well. Maybe you'll even make friends! And, as you'd joke, fate really despised you. Only, it wasn't a joke this time.

The Fatui are everywhere, you can't deny that. But you started to notice a new pattern as you were about to start working at Wanhmin. Day by day, more and more agents show up around your workplace, then on the street, you live in, you were sure someone broke into your home the other day. But there was no evidence, so what can you do? Stay paranoid, and vigilant. Only one problem with this seemingly flawless plan. You are so exhausted from working one day that you didn't lock your door. You were already busy making dinner, craving stone harbor delicacies since it was easy to prepare - you hear the door creak open. Your train of thought has abruptly stopped.

Now, for the exact beginning of your pitiful reality. It all started with an offer you just can't refuse, literally. A misunderstanding brought you to Sneznhaya, how very tragic. The person rummaging and searching for something in your house made eye contact with you, as you were trying to arm yourself with a single, very average, and rather dull kitchen knife. Mistaking you for someone else who had information worth taking, maybe until your lifeless body would get thrown into the soft snow. While the only thing at your disposal was cooking knowledge, and your lowly excuse of a weapon. Such a sorry fate, for you, and that cicin mage who suddenly vanished shortly after failing such an important mission - never seeing your kidnapper again. You were naive, fate leading you by the hand into a pit you can never truly crawl out of.

Lucky for you, meeting your end would've been too kind of a finale to your seemingly short-lived story. Seeing how you are useful in a way, death's cold grip didn't pull you into the night. In the end, you did sign a contract to work, just not in the restaurant. Becoming head chef for the palace rather quickly, your talent would've been wasted, and, no one would want that now would they? Seeing how you were pleasant to be around, compliant, and mostly, quiet, you were just perfect. Having to serve food for the recruits, and agents were no big deal. You'd even strike up conversations with them, some of those were quite lovely. The problem was that after a while, the harbingers have taken an obvious interest in you. You were too frightened to notice that, at first.

To cope with your sudden change of scenery, of environment, to digest your experience, instead of sleeping at night, well, you'd walk. Restless, going from empty room to empty room, looking out the window. With whatever little moonlight was illuminating these rooms, you'd wonder, if you could ever rest, in a place so cold, so distant from your entire being. And so, the cycle continued, you'd wake early, still dark outside to start preparing for the day, exhausted from not getting any rest. Hands full of idle work, thoughts filled with uncertainty. You dreaded lunch, more so than before. Slowly, you climbed the ranks unintentionally, and because of your hospitality, every single cook, maid, and housekeeper tried to shove all of their scarier duties toward you. You may stutter and show minimal signs of discomfort when talking with any of the harbingers, but you wouldn't break under pressure, therefore, the other staff would live to see another day for a job fulfilled well. But knocking on their doors, when you knew you'd be bothering all of them, wishing they'd just, interact with you as little as possible. Oh but fate just hated you, you were just sure of it. You danced the same, off-beat waltz around the palace at dinner. It took you a while to understand but they hated each other so much. Your daydream of not having to talk to them on a daily basis, having them together at a single location, like one of the many dining rooms was never happening. There are a few exceptions, of course, but by the looks of it, they'd rather eat glass than willingly talk to one another. It was night again, so you'd get yourself ready for... walking. And restlessness.

And so, you thought you were replaceable, anyone can cook, bake, and make dishes taste divine, with the right background and experience.

Anyone could be you.

Oh, but how wrong you were. None of them would admit it to you, of course. Prideful creatures they are. The slow, slow change was seen by all, yet no one talked of it. Annoyance at your presence turned to quiet acknowledgments, nods, and slowly, questions. Having as stressful jobs as theirs, it was nice to hear you chatter about simple practices you do to complete your given duties. It was a breath of fresh air, literally. Some even asked you, - if it was only the two of you, - that you would not use their titles, as it makes them feel closer to you, to being human. They were all oh so curious, about your process, all your thoughts about how to make those extremely difficult Fontaine pastries, what was the difference between baking and cooking, and exactly what would it take to poison them, but before that thought could continue, you reassured them that would never happen, as you are the unofficial taste tester, also eating the exact same things they do, and so on. So, instead of quietly humming to yourself, feeling alone, you realized, they were just as lonely as you. And so after months, you'd find yourself humming along with Columbina. She'd ask to dance with you, and, who were you to deny her a little fun? The pots overboiling had different plans, of course, but you managed. She prefers sweet and light dishes, but the ones with some sort of sweet or tangy filling are her favorites. Like taiyaki, for example. Only because that means there's usually some extra cream on the corner of your lips, and she can easily fluster you by holding your chin in place to clean it off with her finger, sighing in delight while your cheeks become tinted with red and babble at her sudden boldness.

As you were having breakfast, Sandrone was showing you her newest altered automation, mouth full of a slice of an egg, spinach, and cheese pie you cooked for her, it was hard to make out what she was saying, but you listened. She seems to prefer mild salty flavors and portable dishes, which is understandable, seeing how much she's focused on her work. Her favorites are bread specialties you make oh so very often, mora meat, or bread pockets made with fresh fish. You only noticed this when one of her robotic assistants asked you to explain in great detail on how to make the foods mentioned, to produce the exact same result as you do.

On your way to the market, Arlecchino just happens to run into you, saying how the orphanage is not far from the market, knowing very well it's in the complete opposite direction, but you indulge her, talking as if you've known each other forever. You play into her fantasy of having a friend, but after a while, it seems to be genuine. You were homesick the day before, so you made a big batch of lotus flower crisps and took some with you. The sweet aroma from your bag intrigues her, and she now has a favorite snack to eat, not only because it's sweet, but mainly because it reminds her of your walks to the market.

La Signora, she scares you the least. While it seems that she's just as cruel and terrifying, she has known love at one point in her life, teaching you ancient recipes from Old Mondstadt. When making one of them is a success, her subordinates are eternally grateful to you because it puts her in a better mood for days. One dish she really likes and has told you that it reminds her of the past is northern apple stew, so you make it for her whenever you can.

You'd genuinely smile when Tartaglia compared your cooking to his mother's, saying it has a similar "warmth". Another advocate for seafood and fresh fish, he has told you many times when you make Wanmin-style black-back perch stew, he feels like he's right back in Liyue. He's constantly complimenting how skilled you are with a knife when cutting meat. Perhaps it's an invitation to sparring? Who knows, he is never quite clear on that.

Capitano is very against it, however. That's why there's never a direct and clear answer to his question. Why harm the one person who can make good food? This just fuels Childe to annoy you further. Not only because it's fun to do so from Tartaglia's perspective, but also because it's a sure source of Capitano's attention. He is not picky at all, quite the opposite. But there is an obvious preference for meat-heavy dishes, like braised meat or minty meat rolls. A small nod of appreciation that makes you smile softly.

Pulcellina is assisting you to send your letters that are addressed to your family almost weekly, making sure that your loved ones don't think your disappearing meant certain death. He reads them in secret, or so he thinks. How could you not suspect it when you've learned that there is no privacy in this cold place left for you? To your surprise, you've found another pasta lover through him, making most, if not all of Liyue's noodle-centered foods.

Dottore seems to think you want some sort of favor from him, he's far too focused on his research to realize that being a chef is your actual job. It appears that way, but he does care, whenever one of his clones drops by the palace or he meets with them personally, there seems to be a small batch of select spices on your desk or some sumeru roses. How surprisingly thoughtful of him. In exchange for his efforts, you often make Sumerian dishes, such as biryani.

Going out of your assigned guest room, that later on becomes your very own, starting the day with drinking bitter and dark coffee with Pierro. He has told you many times how certain flavors you use in your recipes remind him of a faint memory that tastes like home. You are more than welcome to stay in his presence, "You are no bother, truly." - he finds himself saying rather often. If you have any writing to do, please, feel free to knock on his door, working in solitude is so much more tedious, even if there aren't any words exchanged between the two of you.

Much later, after finishing up in the dead of night, you'd find yourself drinking authentic Liyue tea with Pantalone in his office. You'd sometimes look over his shoulder, interested in what he was writing so quickly. He swears if he were to start explaining, it would bore you tremendously. There have been times when if you'd say one of his colleague's names, he'd listen to you a bit too eager to hear any form of gossip you'd pick up on. You've found yourself a person to actually converse with, good job! There have been occurrences when you'd find yourself getting a bit too comfortable on a sofa in his office, his velvety voice accidentally lulling you to some well-deserved sleep. Don't worry, a secret like this will never be the topic of the newest talk. That would mean sharing your company, and your limited free time with others, and that is certainly the worst. At least with him taking a liking to you, there is nothing in all of Teyvat you are short of. Fate is forgiving to you, just this once. Sometimes voicing your concern about how this is all a bit too much, he'd laugh. "Oh, please. I sincerely hope you are doing this out of formalities." Dismissing whatever humane insecurities you have left like it's the most normal reaction one might have.

You were the last one to notice that closeness, of course. Both figuratively and literally. You were doing a million things at once and accidentally cut yourself while chopping vegetables for dinnertime. A small diagonal cut going from the knuckle of your index finger to the middle of your thumb, nothing major, you think. A voice, coming from behind you thought otherwise. You turned to your left, only to feel two short taps on your right shoulder. "Oh, that could get infected if you don't treat it. Hm. You probably should." - A dramatic sigh left his mouth, probably because there wasn't anyone else around. "Come, you have work to get back to, and so do I. But I can't focus on said work if I'm hungry." Of course. Dottore. The concept of personal space is foreign to him, not leaving you any time to protest or even process what he said. Grabbing your arm a lot more gently than you expected you are being pulled or rather, taken to that god-awful lab again. His tone of voice is...softer, it seems. After a long series of walking, going outside to feel the snow decorating your face in a flushed red because of the cold, going down numerous staircases, you end up at your destination. Keys jingling, ancient iron walls creaking.

He gestures at a chair for you to sit down at. You do, while looking around, this place still irks you. "Tch, I can't just clone you and make you anew, Pierro made one of me sign a contract to swear by it, ugh. Take better care of yourself. This is an order." Judging by his tone, how fast and seemingly carelessly said those words to you, he probably wanted to keep all of this to himself but failed spectacularly. You let out a hearty laugh. The first one in months. Your guard crashes down, into the unwelcoming environment. Your laugh brightens every dark corner of the lab, for a short moment. Someone so apathetic getting worked up over something so trivial really makes you chuckle. "Hah, sorry I apologize." - you deeply inhale to catch your breath. - "I could make something extra for your troubles. Would you like anything specific, Doctor?" "Something sweet should suffice." He finishes wrapping the bandage around your hand, suddenly wincing in pain. He applied something antibacterial to the bandages, but you were too distracted having a good time to notice.

Most of them complain to you about their workload, their colleagues, everything. You now know way too much about the harbingers. You've made them softer towards yourself, but also towards each other. You are acquainted with all of them now. Dottore gloats about being the first one to make you laugh as some huge achievement, like one of his usual cruel experiments on his subjects. You do hear of this, from a maid who took your refreshments to the meeting room. Another thing you hear of from the same maid is how delighted they all are that you don't they don't have to share your attention with the Balladeer, as he is currently busy wreaking havoc in Inazuma. This makes you feel a little honored, but still uneasy. The course fate has picked for you made you so much more than you bargained for.

You hum softly. The same flavor of pride has set its poisonous teeth in you, just like it has in theirs. The walls they've built around themselves are turning into dust in your hands. You've awakened something humane in them, but, only towards you. And, of course, you would never dare to admit it, but they've changed you. You were still kind, and considerate, but the hunger for knowledge in your eyes... it has a different spark, a darker tint, barely noticeable, but it's there. Knowing you can... access information with no trouble, your view of the world, of fate, changed.

They all take great satisfaction in this, it was one of the few times something could be called a genuine team effort. Don't expect them to work together for another cause, unless it's the Tsaritsa herself declaring war. Her cold and gentle gaze makes you feel at ease when the palace is as empty as the poor people's eyes, glassy and dull who dare say anything against her Majesty's principles.

Making a cozy home for yourself in a place like this would make any workplace hire you in an instant, but why would you want to leave now? Maybe a visit to your family, making up for the many weeks and months of not seeing them, sure. But you'll come back, no matter what. You do seem to have some say in the matter, but smiling politely and declining is the way to go for now. It's quite a funny thing to think about, how you have the world's most feared feeding from the palm of your hand. Yes, you are sure of it now, fate has changed you.

--

Taglist! (If you'd like to be added/removed, let me know!) : @the-real-fandom-person @petrichor-1 @00kama00

[vinceaddams]

top five clothing items you wish you'd wear more often, please! and the five you do wear the most, please!

Oh heck! I still have asks from that ask meme thingy I reblogged 2 weeks ago, sorry for taking so long!

Hmm, tough to choose specific things I wish I wore more often. I do have a bunch of fancy 18th century things that sit in my closet most of the time, but usually when I leave the house I'm either going to work or to the grocery store, and I don't feel like being super fancy for that. Cuff ruffles would get in the way of all the hand washing and such, and breeches would be annoying at work because I use machines with knee levers.

I guess I wish I wore my nice shoes a bit more often than just for photos, but they were expensive and I don't want to wear out the leather soles. Maybe I ought to get little rubber soles added.

Oh, and my embroidered monster waistcoat! I wish I wore that more, but it's from an older pattern that doesn't fit me very well. The embroidery is also a bit worn out in places, alas.

It's a bit difficult to know which things I wear most frequently, but here are my best guesses for right now. (My summer answers would of course be different.)

1. This brown wool waistcoat from early 2019. I wear it all the time in the cold half of the year.

Just like the monster waistcoat, it's made from a pattern I drafted before top surgery, so it really doesn't fit me anymore. It's also getting pretty shabby. I've been meaning to make some new everyday plain wool waistcoats for a while now.

(I wear that green shirt pretty often too.)

2. This cap. It's just two pieces of linen, and I made it in 2018. I like wearing caps indoors when it's cold, and also under my wool hat outdoors. It adds an extra layer of warmth, is softer than the wool hat, and protects it from my very oily scalp.

I have 3 of these caps, but this one is my favourite. It's also something I ought to make more of.

3. These pants. They're just plain black cotton fall front pants.

I could pretend I'm wearing them the most because they're fully lined and therefore warmer than my other pairs, but the fact is I've got 3 other pairs of pants with holes worn in them that I need to patch and have been avoiding for a shamefully long time. It's a pretty easy thing to fix, and I will likely put it off for several more weeks, if not more.

I feel the need to point out that not all of my wardrobe is in such a miserable state, I at least have a good amount of shirts!

4. I don't think I have any pictures of it, but my winter coat is just a plain medium grey modern (by which I mean at least a couple decades old) wool one. Here's an image I found on google of approximately the same coat.

It was my grandfather's, and is a bit too big for me, and the lining is getting pretty worn out. Someday I want to completely pick it apart, recut it, and re-sew it with a new lining, but I can't do that until I have a backup winter coat.

5. This poor flannel nightgown which has finally worn out! Just a few days ago it developed a huge hole in the back panel, and a small one by the button placket, so it's destined to be cleaning rags and/or firestarters.

The buttons might end up on another nightgown though. So I guess this is no longer a thing I can wear frequently :( In the linked post I actually made 3 nightgowns from the same pattern, and that was the medium weight one, so now I'm down to the very heavy fish print flannel one and the light rayon one, and need to make more. (A very common theme with my wardrobe things, alas. I am slow.)

But I did just finish a new nightgown this week, made from a completely different pattern that I'm quite excited about! I'll get some pictures soon!

[icancdramahanfu]

Hello! I am looking to cosplay wei wuxian and/or xie lian(from the donghua) can you please describe the layers of their clothes, I have zero experience in sewing clothes or pattern making and I have no idea where to even begin. Thank you very much!

Hello there, Sorry for the slow reply, I've been distracted by real life and my continued PT for my wrist. But I can type much more normally at least now. As far as Wei Wuxian, I haven't really looked at his outfits seeing that he's got so many different versions in the live action CQL/The Untamed and in the MDZS donghua and manhua as well. I'm not a huge fan of MDZS, so, I can admit I haven't paid much attention to it. I think like most MXTX characters, he relies on a heavy black/red color palette and is pretty open to interpretation. I think focusing on the donghua would be your best bet since when you have to animate someone you would simplify their outfit, but the drama might have more realistic clothing to draw from since and actor wore it. Xie Lian is considerably easier since he wears many layers of white. I think the main thing to realize with all these outfits is that you have a foundation layer and then multiple layers over top with great variations.

The foundation layer (zhong yi) is usually the skin layer in white (cotton/linen) that it is breathable and washable. It seems for a more dramatic effect a character like WWX will have this as black. This is a top and pants combo, but I was lazy and skipped out on pants for my Wen Kexing b/c it was very warm already. I don't use Taobao sites (no Chinese skillz here) but it might be worth your while to look at some of the hanfu retailers to see how they construct their tidy little package outfits.

Like Hanfu Story which has a very good website and plenty of english language descriptions. Even though the colors aren't plain white, this one has a very close match to what XL wears. It has the skirt with the slight pleating like XL and simple sleeves and cut.

It is interesting to note that many of these outfits only sell the top layers, not that base layer.

When it comes to determining the exact layers just look at the neckline, that pretty much lets you know what else is on top of that base layer.

If this is your first time sewing and drafting a pattern, I would enlist the help of a friend who may have more sewing experience. Also, since many of these outfits don't reveal the full aspect of all of their layers, you have to guess what you think is underneath - that is what I did after lots of screen shots from as many angles as possible - or hoping for a zhong yi late night confession scene (as in Word of Honor) which allowed me to nail the sleeve shape for all the layers. I'll do and example with XL since his outfit is much easier.

As we can see here, he's only got two layers.

The inner layer is more form fitting in the torso, with wide-ish sleeves. The skirt portion appears to be pleated, which is why we get a ripple effect in the front. It appears the outer layer is a simple straight hem robe with wider sleeves that he wears very loosely since it flares back. You can't tell from this picture but the left side should also have a slit that runs along the left side of his body to allow for easy movement - it isn't a full rap around robe structure. He has a narrow belt that is tied off with the cyan colored cord and his bandages and basic hat. I haven't watched the donghua for awhile so I can't remember if he also has pants on underneath the pleated skirt. I'd go back and refer to the scene where San Lang notices the shackle on his ankle to see what he's wearing then.

When it comes to picking a layer to draft first for the pattern, it really doesn't matter. You will need to make a mock up and adjust. If you want it to be the inner layer it will need to be the same length but less wide than the outer layer. I just made a pattern and tested it out - it was terrible but hey, I knew where to go from after that. Good luck and hope this helps!

[anielskaaniela]

Elastic Waistband: 3 Easy Methods for Pattern Drafting

In this post, you will learn how to self draft elastic waistband sewing pattern in 3 ways. Love what you see ? Support me by snagging some cool items from my shop! Every purchase helps me bring you more awesome content. Thank you! Shop Now If you’re new to sewing or just starting out with pattern drafting, you’ve come to the right place! In this tutorial, I’ll walk you through three super easy…

[cedarboots]

I found your blog via a the historical clothing tag and I love your 1840s pants and the waistcoats and shirts you posted! As a somewhat butch/androgynous person who really likes historical fashion but is worried it's too binary for me to make it work, I'm curious how you find inspiration and ideas of what you historical clothing will fit your vibe, and how have you adjusted patterns to work for you?

Hi there-- thanks for stopping by! I am no expert but I will give you my thoughts.

I pretty much only wear men's clothing, and the same goes for historical fashion-- the trousers I made and some other garments are from Black Snail Patterns, which I found to have accurate patterns that were pretty easy to follow.

In terms of historical fashion being binary: it's definitely true that most available patterns out there are for either men's or women's clothing, because fashion in a lot of eras has been pretty sharply divided by gender. However, those gender norms can differ pretty wildly from our own, and some clothes that might have been seen as conventionally masculine in the past (silk stockings, ruffled shirt-fronts) can read as more androgynous in the present.

Also-- you do not have to abide by historical binaries! You can wear stays with knee breeches, or a tie-on pocket with a waistcoat! If you are just looking for clothes you enjoy, and not for reenactment events or something where strict accuracy matters, the most important thing is finding something that works for you fashion-wise and gender-wise.

The trick is definitely finding masculine patterns that will fit non-cis-male bodies. Learning a little about pattern drafting can help-- that way you can take your measurements and adjust patterns to fit you, and even make your own patterns if you can't find any that work for you. Some older garments are actually more forgiving than modern ones; I followed Marius Lee's video to make my 18th-century shirt, and it was mostly big rectangles, which did not require a lot of adjusting for body type. Even though I hate making mockups, I recommend making yourself do it, so you can see if you need to fix the pattern before you chop up your good fabric.

@vinceaddams has some incredible resources on 18th-century menswear, and @rowzien has some more 19th-century examples that are amazing-- I would recommend checking out their blogs!

Hope this helps!

[shadowphoenixrider]

(One of the old Draggka/Khadgar drabble knocking around in my drafts. Technically a WIP, but I felt it had a nice enough of an 'end' to post.)

“Where’s dat hand going?”

“What hand?” Khadgar asked, nuzzling into the side of her head and making her ear twitch. Said hand traced down her body, combing through her fur, fingertips stopping just above the hem of her underwear.

“Dat hand!” She swatted it away, Khadgar uttering a deep chuckle into the back of her neck that made her muscles tremble. “Behave yaself, if ya know how.”

“Ohh, you’re so cruel.” He replied, and she could almost see the mournful look he feigned.

“Uh huh. Says da mage dat were trying to get into my pants jus’ a coupla seconds ago.”

“In my defence, you’re already out of your pants,” he said, eyeing pile of jumbled fabric on the bedroom floor. “In fact, you’re out of most of your clothing.”

“As are you, Archmage.” Draggka arched an eyebrow, her own hand meandering its way to his thigh, finding the edge of his shorts. “Just ‘cos I be having to make sure my breasts don’t move don’t make me more undressed den you.”

“A fair point.” Khadgar began to listlessly trace the flattened scars across her belly, dipping into and out of the valleys they formed. “If I were more energetic, one could argue that I would benefit from controlling my own.”

The troll turned enough to look at him as he cupped a breast in thought.

“Mmm, maybe. Dey not have da substance mine have, though,” she said, after prodding them. “They be alright if ya put a breastplate over dem. Not be dat easy for me.”

“I don’t know, your armour seems to do a good job keeping yours safe.” The mage commented. “Though I haven’t had the pleasure of observing you on the battlefield for quite some time...” He grinned.

Draggka rolled her eyes.

“Ya supposed to be payin’ attention to da fight, not what parts of my body be doing.”

“Of course. I am always focused on our enemy.” Khadgar rested his head on her shoulder, holding her close to his body. “But I cannot help but catch a glimpse of you in the heat of battle. Or admire you after the fight has ended.”

The hunter rolled her eyes again, but offered no further comment. A comfortable silence settled around them, broken only by the drumming of the rain outside. Khadgar continued to trace his fingers listlessly over her body, following the pattern of her scars and the curves of her muscles and bones. Her hand copied his motions on his thigh, though she was careful her touch didn’t become ticklish, so not to ruin the peaceful moment they had found for themselves.

[queenofzan]

and idk it's hard not to be bitter about how anti-fashion people are when most people are also under the impression that clothes are cheap and easy to manufacture

they're not!

everything you're wearing was made by human hands, with very very limited exceptions. some tubes can be knit entirely by machine. your socks may have only been monitored by a technician, not directly sewn by one. likewise simple knitted hats. tubular skirts or dresses.

does the thing you're wearing have sleeves? straps? separate elastics? a zipper? it was made by human beings.

the only reason we think clothes are cheap is because they are made by slave labor.

everything i am wearing right now, except my socks, was made by me. if i paid myself an equitable wage for that labor, this outfit would be hundreds of dollars.

it's not a fancy outfit. i'm wearing a binder (self-drafted pattern), underwear (multiple-iterations of fit adjustment on a commercial pattern), a button-up sleeveless top (self-drafted pattern in multiple iterations), and trousers (self-drafted pattern with multiple iterations for fit). and the socks i did not make, but which i bought from a company that purports to only sell ethically made items like eight years ago.

i'd estimate the top took about four hours (not including pattern development), the pants more like eight (which does include some pattern development, since it was only the second time i used the pattern, and i ended up removing and adjusting the waistband twice), the underwear about an hour, and the binder probably two. at a decent but not great pay rate (less than most union jobs in my area pay, but about what they paid ten years ago), that is $375 not including materials, overhead, or any of my other costs (such as the pattern development and training to do all this).

this is a pretty standard casual-to-business-casual outfit. it should be $500-600.

now, i can get a pair of work trousers from target for, idk, $30. a top, let's say ditto. the binder is more expensive because it's still a specialty item but let's pretend anyone but me makes binders in my size i personally find comfortable, that's $75. underwear? likewise, i'm a sensitive baby, i have to buy kind of expensive undies in order to not feel pinched, let's say $15. which puts me at $150.

the only thing close to a fair wage for a skilled worker there is the binder, because, again, that's a specialty item people still feel comfortable charging a decent price for, because there's less undercutting happening. that won't be the case for long, as more places stock binders in store and therefore try to find ways to cut costs and get their sweatshop workers manufacturing them.

clothes are not cheap. clothes are not simple. they are not easy. they should not be so cheap, and the people who make them should not be exploited.

and tbh i do feel like there's a connection between not understanding how much work still goes into clothes and devaluing Fashion-As-Art. i think if more people were aware of the Real Cost of an everyday outfit being several hundreds of dollars, they might be less confused about why clothing designers and producers think hard enough about it to make Weird Fashion Art.

[pyroglycerinecreampufff]

Outfit number 3 from Axis Power Hetalia, Prussia as a Teutonic Knight!

I think this is one of the outfits where I made most pieces myself! The pants and long-sleeved T-shirt were bought, but the cape and tabard were made by yours truly~ Those garments are mostly straight lines, but long straight seams are the best way to learn!

This was both very easy and very hard to make. There are very few full body official artworks out there (and with webcomic they tend to be quite… scrunchy). It does open up the possibility for artistic freedom (and to make difficult things a bit more my level 8D ). The patterns for both the cape and the tabard were drafted with the help of various online sources and made with white terlenka. The fabric is a bit more forgiving than cotton for capes and such, since it doesn’t wrinkle that easy~

I did add my signature satin-stitching application for a bit more oomph. Made with black terlenka, ironed on with vlies-o-fix and stitched with a silver grey border. The crosses are modeled after the iron cross. I’m not sure it existed during the time of the crusades, but since it is a Prussian symbol, it fitted the character quite well. (it’s origin is not German and it’s definitely not a hate symbol, though it tends to get appropriated for such purposes, unfortunately…)

Click the read more for those scrunchy artworks (of scrunkly little Prussia xD )

Webcomic panels are... not very detailed

I do have to say, the anime screenshot is newer (from 2016-ish), so some colour choices might be off. (I mainly used fanworks and historical reproductions of knights for references back in 2011, so that was also a fun deep dive 8D)

[rlikerefashion-blog]

Beginner-Friendly Scandi Pants Pattern Drafting | Easy Step-by-Step Tutorial