#Garment Tags Manufacturers

[roseband]

people have /now/ been googling "trump tariffs" and "tariffs" in mass after voting for them BRUH??????????????

WHAT THE FUCK?

we literally do not have the manufacturing capacity domestic for the sheer amount of consumerism these freaks want and they're seeing it /now/ what the everloving fuck? yes your prices are going up, you?

im getting a tax break, and consumer goods will go up to cover it, and it's a net 0 tax raise according to every economist for my income bracket, but the bottom 75% that voted for him...... whelp?

[clothing-labels-india-blog-blog]

The Evolution of Apparel Tags: From Functionality to Fashion Statement

In the fashion industry, subtle details often carry the weight of a brand's identity, a narrative meticulously crafted and woven into every thread and trim. This narrative has evolved over time, with apparel labels and tags transitioning from mere fabric identifiers to paramount brand storytellers. Golden Fabtex stands at the forefront of this transformation, embodying the intersection of heritage craftsmanship and contemporary branding necessities. This examination of the tag's journey reflects not just a change in utility, but a deeper cultural shift in the realm of fashion branding.

The Inception of Identification

The story begins with a simple yet crucial function: identification. Initially, clothing tags served the basic need to convey information about garment size, composition, and care instructions. These tags were inconspicuous, tucked away out of sight, their purpose purely informational. But as the fashion landscape burgeoned, these tags started gaining prominence. No longer just a source of data, the humble tag began to whisper the first notes of a brand's legacy.

Industry expertise suggests that as brands recognized the power of recognition, tags underwent a metamorphosis in both design and placement. The evolution was gradual, a dance between functionality and emerging marketing strategies. The language of labels became more elaborate, and materials more varied, as brands sought to distinguish their products in an increasingly crowded marketplace.

A Canvas for Creativity

With the rise of fashion as a form of self-expression, tags transcended their traditional roles. They became canvases for creativity, reflecting the ethos of the brands they adorned. It was no longer just about the information; it was about the impression. Designers and brands started experimenting with colours, textures, and techniques to ensure that the tag stood out as a distinct piece of the fashion puzzle.

Expert designers and label manufacturers, with years of experience, played a pivotal role in this creative revolution. They partnered with fashion houses to develop unique tags that aligned with the aesthetic and values of the brand. It was an artistic collaboration that pushed the boundaries of what tags could represent, turning them into miniature billboards of brand identity.

Authority in Authorship

As tags gained visibility, they also gained authority. They began to tell a story, not just of the garment, but of the craftsmanship behind it. A well-designed tag could convey luxury, sustainability, or innovation, acting as a seal of authoritativeness. In this, the concept of brand image solidified, with consumers beginning to recognize and seek out the tags themselves, sometimes even dictating purchase decisions.

The shift towards authoritative branding has been supported by extensive industry expertise. Brands with a customer-focused approach, like Golden Fabtex, know that a label can be a powerful touchpoint, a direct communication line with the consumer. The tag became a pledge of quality and a promise of performance.

The Emblem of Experience

Experience, both of the brand and the consumer, began to take centre stage. Tags evolved to become emblems of a shared journey between the brand and its clientele. For instance, a tag indicating a garment's origin or artisanal method became a story of experience, a narrative that customers could participate in and wear with pride.

This experiential aspect of tags is a result of brands listening to their audience, understanding their desires, and reflecting them in every aspect of the product, including the tag. It became clear that a tag could be as personal as the garment itself, making the experience of buying and wearing fashion deeply personal and communal in equal measure.

Finally, trust became an essential part of the tag’s narrative. In a world increasingly conscious of ethical production and authenticity, tags began to carry the weight of transparency. They reassured customers of the legitimacy and ethical standing of the brand. This trustworthiness was not just implied but explicitly stated through certifications and symbols of sustainable practices.

[lorelune]

O4O: part i

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || omega for omega, soft smut || wc: 10.3k  || ao3 ||

Jing Yuan has been content riding out his heats alone for centuries. You, despite being another omega, are happy to lend a hand if Jing Yuan will have you.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

💦🎀 this piece is apart of SPRING FEVER: an omegaverse collab! 🎀💦

part i (here) — part ii — part iii (coming soon!)

notes: hello omega jing yuan omega jing yuan save me... the way omega jy has haunted me for months. MONTHS. this fic is incredibly indulgent soft, needy smut with non-traditional a/b/o dynamics. THANK YOU to the lovely @owlespresso for beta reading!! please read the tags and enjoy!! <3

CW: a/b/o dynamics, omega jing yuan (with afab and amab anatomy), omega reader (afab anatomy), past yingxing/jing yuan/dan feng, bottom jing yuan flavors (though reader does not do any penetration), use of toys, worldbuilding around omegaverse, lots of biting, milfy jing yuan, mommy kink without the word mommy (at least not in this part 👀💗!!),

Jing Yuan has not shared his heat with anyone in a very, very long time. Centuries, most certainly. Jing Yuan doesn’t find it very useful to keep track of that length of time— he finds it cumbersome if anything. There’s no use holding onto a past that only forces him to redigest pain. 

Jing Yuan rarely has heats. He keeps a diligent schedule of medication and only has to go through them once every decade or so. Occasionally less, if the Luofu is passing a particular star system or comet field. His heats are always cumbersome. He can conceal his omegan sensibilities often, but it is more difficult prior to a heat.

Preheat is a different beast.

When Jing Yuan sequesters himself in his estate for the better part of a week, anyone who knows he’s even there assumes it is to go through a rut. A week is a standard amount of time to take off for a rut and is expected. However, a heat has a standard time off of about two and a half weeks. Much longer to accommodate preheat and nesting needs. 

Jing Yuan rarely indulges his own. 

The Luofu, at large, assumes he is an alpha. This is manufactured, however only partially. Generally, the citizens of the Luofu assume, given that he is the General and he has a larger, broad-shouldered stature, that he is an Alpha through and through. He always wears scent patches in public, which is normal for both omegas and alphas. Betas, too, occasionally. Depending on the subtype. The Charioteers know that he is an omega, but they are committed to some amount of discretion and guard the information as a secret. Lady Fu, an alpha, will occasionally scold him for being so secretive. Like he harbors some sort of self-hatred that he is an omega. 

It is simply more convenient for him to be seen as an alpha. Jing Yuan doesn’t wish to disturb this perception.

And therefore, it is much easier to wait as long as possible between heats and bear them alone. Whatever instincts he has can be satiated with toys and a half-decent nest. Jing Yuan has always considered this enough. ‘Enough’. 

(It’s not sating. Jing Yuan cannot lie to himself about this. He remembers laying with Yingxing, and how the alpha made him feel more full and content than Jing Yuan had ever thought possible during a heat. Or ever, truthfully. He remembers how calming Dan Feng’s presence had been— grounding and reassuring, too. Jing Yuan was fucked, filled and protected. An omega’s dream.)

Jing Yuan... copes with what he has. A large, plush bed with a downy mattress, a few donated, alpha-scented garments, and a collection of inflatable, knotting toys. He always leaves his heat with lingering cramps, a brutalized hole, and a yearning that takes a few weeks to quiet itself. 

It is natural that he craves his mates. Even if they are long dead (not dead. Not really. Not the same as they once were, anyway.)

And certainly, never to be his again. The mating mark on his neck has long faded.

Jing Yuan tracks his heat so such yearning can be anticipated and planned for. He knows when his heat is approaching, down to the specific day it will occur. He titrates off his suppressants carefully, and maps out a portion of time off for himself a year or so in advance. 

Which is why it is very odd that he starts exhibiting preheat symptoms in the middle of the day, a random day, during a tactical meeting.

Even if he had been titrating down his dose in anticipation for a planned heat in a few months time, it is far, far too early to begin feeling symptoms. The familiar itchiness prickling under his skin is entirely unexpected. Jing Yuan has to put a particularly large amount of effort to get through this unnecessary meeting without letting a single symptom slip. He can only adjust in his seat so many times before it is improper, or juggle the cradle of his jaw from one hand to the other before it is clear something is wrong. 

If any of the Charioteers and their advisers notice anything amiss with him, they say nothing. The only one who looks off-put is Fu Xuan. She’s a spitfire alpha herself, and perhaps she’s keen enough to notice that Jing Yuan is beginning to feel... unwell. Though he is masking his scent as he always does, he imagines that the flush in his cheeks is becoming increasingly obvious.

Fu Xuan gives Jing Yuan a wary look as the meeting is dismissed.

“General,” She says curtly. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” He gives her a rich laugh as he stands, muffling a groan as his stiff back and knees ache. He’d sat for too long. He feels light-headed as he rights himself and Fu Xuan glares at him.

“I doubt that,” Fu Xuan huffs. “I will not interrogate you in public, nor do I think you would give me an honest answer even if I did—”

“So little trust in me, Master Diviner—”

“ However, I will urge you to go home. ” She takes a step closer and sniffs the air. It’s just the two of them in the meeting room now, the rest of the parties in attendance having filtered out. Subtly and without fanfare, she takes his hand in her own, and presses her wrist to his. Jing Yuan keeps an easy grin on his face but can’t help the way he tenses his fingers, flexing them at the contact. “Do you need an escort?”

“Is Lady Fu worrying for me? How kind.”

“I’m— not, ” Fu Xuan huffs now and more roughly smears their wrists together. The scent gland she is almost abusing is swollen and hot to the touch. It takes all of his composure not to squirm with her treatment. “I’m no fool. If you have a heat starting, you should be comfortable at home, not in a war room.”

“Master Diviner, you think I’m an omega?” Jing Yuan says with a smile. He knows she is already privy to this, but he can’t resist teasing her a bit.

“You are insufferable. Even in this state. Go home. I will take you there myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t return home just yet,” He hums. He imagines he has a few hours before proper pre-heat sets in. “I have a lunch date that I cannot miss.”

“You— a lunch date?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a scheduled event, dear Diviner.”

“Do not patronize me.”

Jing Yuan laughs as she fumes. He has the urge to ruffle her hair, but thinks better of it. The complicated updo would surely be ruffled, and Jing Yuan is already getting an earful as it is. 

“I would never.”

Fu Xuan yanks her arm away with a growl. She wears some type of masking perfume, she always has, but with her frustration swirling, a bit of her actual scent peaks through. It’s light on the back of his tongue, floral almost. Nearly inedible, but the kind of scent Jing Yuan that makes him nostalgic—

(For a master with a scent like frost-covered roses, and a packmate with a scent filled with springtime lilac blossoms in fat clusters.)

“If this lunch is really so necessary, may I escort you there at least? Or will your alpha be meeting you here?”

“They’re not an alpha.” Jing Yuan hums. His stomach feels warm regardless. “And I’ll be just fine getting there myself.”

Fu Xuan looks at him, questioningly. Her lips open, then close once more. There are questions she clearly has. And for all her brashness and hot-blooded fervor, she understands decorum better than most. She pries out of care and her good intentions, and Jing Yuan can respect that if nothing else.

“I’ll concede,” Fu Xuan sighs. “ However, please let me know if there’s anything else you need. You have my number.”

“Noted.” Jing Yuan rises, and feels the heat clouding his head sink lower in his body. He’s being engulfed. 

Fu Xuan deadpans, “General—”

“Have a good rest of your day, Master Diviner,” He calls with a light laugh, slipping away before Fu Xuan can give him any further grief.

...

As the Arbiter General of the Luofu, Jing Yuan knows its streets and secrets very well. There’s more than one way to arrive at his favored terrace garden without being seen or smelt by the public. It is helpful that this path is lined near an aqueduct stream, surrounded by lush greenery and clumps of fragrant azure asters. This path is tucked away, straddling an external tunnel of the Luofu’s inner tunnels. Really, only the Calibrators aboard the ship use it, and as there are only a few and they tend to keep to their delve, Jing Yuan has very little fear walking this way at his own leisure.

He is glad you tend to take your lunch dates in the privacy of this particular garden, under the gazebo and nestled atop its many silken blankets and pillows. A conventional restaurant in this state would be doable, but unideal. 

Jing Yuan can smell you as he approaches. It makes him pause, just outside the gate. His hands hovers over his jade abacus as he opens his mouth to taste you in the back of his mouth.

(Warm, a familiar scent that he associates with the rare indulgence of relaxation. It’s not overly sweet or ripe, but balanced and full-bodied. Not quite floral or fruity, and not deep enough to be akin to an aged black tea. Perhaps like the roll of a hearth or the beeswax of a lit candle.)

He’s sighs. It calms him instantly. 

Even if you aren’t an alpha, you are familiar, as is the current setting.

You’re sitting at a low table in the shade of the gazebo. There are several plates of cheeses, cut fruits, salted meats, and nuts laid out. You’re ladling sticky honey into a small dish as he enters, and look up at the sound of the gate closing.

You smile when you see him.

“General,” You smile. “I apologize, I started setting up lunch without you. Everything should still be chilled.”

“No need to be sorry,” he laughs gently, brushing a hand against your shoulder before rounding the table, and taking a seat across from you. “I could never complain about your diligence. You have chosen quite the spread today, haven’t you?”

You flush with a nod, and gesture down to the table, “The markets were lovely today, I had to splurge. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Only if you do the same.”

“I-I can do that,” You smile at him softly.

Despite your familiarity, you still regard him with some amount of anxiety. Jing Yuan has long since placed this has less to do with his status as General, and more than likely due to a deepened amount of affection that Jing Yuan... entertains. Enjoys. Thrives off of, even. He perhaps returns it, though he hasn’t told you that explicitly.

Besides, you believe him to be an alpha. He’s sure that, if you did know his secondary gender, such affections would fade quickly. The allure of what he could provide as an alpha is quite different from what he can provide as an omega.

Jing Yuan takes a sip of sparkling juice, and as he lowers the thin-necked glass, you look at him strangely. A crease knits itself between your brows.

“Did I get some on my face?” Jing Yuan chuckles and wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

“No... you just,” You stumble with your words, hands flexing in your lap. “Are... are you alright? Your cheeks look quite warm, and you’re sweating around your hairline.” 

You always have been keen to bodies other than your own. It’s not the most common trait. 

“... Am I?” Jing Yuan could choose to lie at this moment. It would be easy to say he was using a new brand of suppressants, or blame it on a stressful day. However, he doesn't like lying to you, only twisting the truth when entirely necessary. “I do suppose I’m at that point in my cycle.”

“Oh!” You startle and sit up more straight. You push a plate at him. “Pre-rut? You should eat, then. You’ll need your strength. Do— do you have someone I can call? I don’t mind.”

Your worry is cute. 

Jing Yuan can’t help thinking about it. You are an omega full of so much care and urge to help. Jing Yuan has seen it and experienced it many times, and has also seen how it has gotten you into unfortunate situations. You have a trusting mind and spirit, and more than once, it has been used against you. 

Jing Yuan likes keeping you close, so he can look after you, even if it’s from a distance.

He stares down at the plate. There’s a pile of glistening orange grapes, a few roses of sliced, cured meats, a chunk of honeycomb, and buttery looking crackers. It does look delicious, however Jing Yuan has always struggled to eat in his pre-heat. When he looks up at you to decline, your expression looks even more worried, almost sour.

Before he can speak, you are. Petal-soft lips lips downturned. “Are you... not in pre-rut, General?”

He deflates, slightly. He is old— and. He does not wish to steer you away from what is a correct assumption. You are his most trusted companion.

“I am not,” He says softly, and picks up one of the grapes. He squeezes. The skin is taut and tight. “And, please call me Jing Yuan. Formalities can be dropped, yes?”

“I— yes, of course.” You look from his plate to him. “So, you’re... pre-heat?”

“I am, yes.”

“Oh!” You immediately heap his plate with several other kinds of fruit, and grab a clean glass and pour ice water from a pitcher into it. “I apologize— for. Making such an assumption.”

“No need to apologize.” He soothes and lays a hand over yours. “I’m aware of what the vast majority of the Luofu assumes my secondary gender to be. It does not bother me. If it did, I would have corrected the greater public long ago. I apologize for not telling you directly until now.”

“It’s— okay,” you reply. Perhaps a bit hurt. “I never asked. I just— I just thought. Wrong.”

(Please be kinder to yourself, he thinks. It hurts to see you saddened on my account.)

“Nonsense,” he laughs and gracefully takes the water you offer. He downs the glass down his parched throat. He— hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No harm done. If anything, I’m grateful that you now know.”

(Regardless of how it could change your feelings toward him.)

Jing Yuan has tempered heartbreak for millenia. Another one— is not nothing, but it is manageable. Perhaps not during preheat, but he still has time to mourn. 

“I’m glad too,” you tell him, and squeeze back his hand. You only scent him sometimes, always so shy about it, but now you firmly rub the scent gland in your wrist against his. His aches, and the sensation and exchange of pheromones nearly makes him wheeze. He straightens his spine. 

“Was that—?” You almost pull away.

“No, it’s very welcome.”

You stare at him, intent and soft, before settling. Tentatively, you rub at the gland in gentle circles.

“You should eat,” you say after a moment. “Do you have an alpha I can call? Or— um, anything you need me to pick up for you?”

“I am fine.” Jing Yuan will text Qingzu for the essentials, rather than troubling you. “I’ll finish lunch with you, and then see myself home.”

“... No alpha to pick you up?”

“None to speak of, no.” Jing Yuan manages a smile.

(It has been— centuries since Jing Yuan had an alpha to care for and stake a claim on him. The notion of finding another has been put out of his mind since he himself had to confine Dan Feng to the Shackling Prison and exile the man Yingxing became. Even after meeting them as they are today, Jing Yuan knows they are no longer his mates.)

“Oh.” 

Every one of your emotions is so clearly on your face. You look so sad for him and you squeeze his hand. He has half a mind to pull away, and remind you that he does not need your worry. However, he is in pre-heat, and by Lan, he is craving worry.  

“And... heatmates?” You ask. “I don’t want to pry, but it’s hard to spend a heat alone.”

“Once again, none.” Jing Yuan replies without hesitating. The silence that follows is poignant as you study him. 

“I see.” You frown again, clearly thinking. Jing Yuan can see the thoughts turning around just behind your eyes. You pile on even more fruits to his plate. “Eat, eat. You need it.”

“This much fruit will give me a stomach ache, I fear.”

“Some of it, at least!” You huff at him. “For me, please?”

Jing Yuan meets your gaze, easy and soft. There’s no threat, only the heat that matches your scent and the feel that radiates in his chest.

(You are not his alpha. You are something entirely different— something that he wants so badly to hold.)

“For you.”

...

By the end of lunch (in which, Jing Yuan does manage to eat a decent amount of the fruit you’d put on his plate), Jing Yuan’s pre-heat has begun to simmer into a more uncomfortable territory. He desperately wants to shed his uniform and armor, and slip into a robe and no bottoms. He hasn’t begun to slick yet, but he will surely start to by sundown.

Jing Yuan stands after the meal, stretching. It’s proper afternoon now, and the birds of the garden chirp eveningsong. 

“Jing Yuan?” You ask as he stretches his arms above his head. His name sounds lovely in your mouth.

He hums, “Yes?”

“Do you want a heatmate?” You ask quietly. 

He looks at you. 

You’re fiercely meeting his gaze, even though you’re clearly struggling to. Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth, and you’re fighting a frown from the crinkles on your forehead. Regardless, you stand your ground and ask a question that is surely difficult to broach, especially so directly.

“I—I am offering.” You stammer. “To clarify.”

“To be my heatmate?”

“Yes— I hate to think of you suffering alone, Jing Yuan. If I can be by your side to ease it, if only a little, I would like to be.”

“That is very brave of you to ask.” He smiles with a tilt of his head. “And bold.”

“I— I’m being honest.” You almost whine. It’s so cute. “Is that a no?”

“No, not at all.” Jing Yuan replies. “However, I wouldn’t want you to help solely for my benefit. If you wish to enter my nest exclusively to be an aid, and not out of... personal wants, I would feel guilty.”

“It’s— it’s personal wants too.”

“... Is it now?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Even though I’m not an alpha, as you thought?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain.”

“ Yes, Jing Yuan.” 

“I cannot give you a knot—”

“I do not need one!” You break, much to Jing Yuan’s amusement. “I am happy to be by your side, regardless of that! If anything, I’m more than happy to share a nest with you without the assurance of a limp and a potential pup.”

Jing Yuan smiles, almost unrestrained, and your cheeks heat deliciously. 

You stammer, and poke at his chest, “You’re teasing me—!”

“I apologize, you must forgive me—”

“ Rude—!”

Your bury your face in his chest and nuzzle there. It’s— clearly a self soothing action, one you realize a moment too late isn’t quite proper. You stiffen, beginning to draw away, before Jing Yuan catches you by your scruff and holds you there. 

“You’re alright,” He holds a wide palm there. “I apologize for teasing you. I mean so warmly.”

“... Scoundrel.” The sound muffles into his chest.

“Am I?”

You peer up at him, so warm in the cheeks and eyes... almost watery. Something in his chest feels sticky and molten. 

“ Yes—” You dare to meet his eyes again. “But, one I’m very fond of.”

Jing Yuan steels himself.

You are an omega. It is not your pheromones addling his mind. There is clarity in the attraction and affection he has for you, one not influenced by the urge to be knotted and bred. Though, Jing Yuan wants that, maybe part of him needs it. There is a trunk full of toys and implements he has tucked away that will sate the urge. The feelings that he carries for you will not so easily be placated.

“I would like it very much if you were to share my heat with me,” He speaks softly, just for the two of you to hear. Not even the garden birds will know his words. “If you are still offering.”

“Yes,” You say quickly, tentatively wrapping your arms around his waist. “Yes.”

He chuckles, easy and low, and presses his nose into your hair. Perhaps it’s pre-heat, making him sentimental and mushy. He usually hides out and bears it alone in his comfiest nest so these feelings typically do not get expressed in any other way other than delirious, anguished cries while a knotting toy takes the edge off. 

Jing Yuan finds these are nice to indulge, as your scent envelopes him.

...

“I lied earlier,” Jing Yuan says as you enter the threshold of his estate. “I apologize sincerely.”

“Oh?” You ask with a tilt of your head, accepting a pair of house slippers eagerly. “... What about?”

“I am in pre-heat unexpectedly. Though I have been tapering suppressants for an anticipated heat, it has come far earlier than planned . Things are... not as I would like them. You’ll need to excuse me for a few moments.”

Jing Yuan, like any omega, is particular about his home and nest, especially around his heat. He knows his home and inner chambers are not to his liking and he’ll need to prepare them. Even if you aren’t an alpha entering his nest, you are a guest and companion he is very fond of. You deserve only the best.

“Of course, whatever you need,” you assure him. “Do you need me to grab anything while you do so? I don’t mind running to the market—”

Jing Yuan turns on his heel, grabbing your arm firmly, “You’re not leaving.”

“O-Oh.”

Your eyes widen, and heat rises in your cheeks. Your throat bobs as you swallow and nod. Jing Yuan— were he not in pre-heat, would perhaps be a bit embarrassed by his brazeness. However, now? The idea of you leaving his home sends him reeling. You cannot leave— not until you smell like him and his nest. Not until— not until this is over.

“I sent a request to Qingzu to fetch us a few things during the walk over. She’ll be here shortly. I do, however, have a bowl of fruit that could be cut up while I get myself sorted. How does that sound?” 

You nod eagerly, happy to follow instruction. Jing Yuan knows this about you and enjoys it thoroughly.

He sets you up in the kitchen with a bowl of sunsiettas, a box of meldberries, and a few bunches of perfectly ripe, round kaishen grapes. Jing Yuan leaves you to the task, which he can already tell you will do dutifully. You thrive off of praise and direction. It’s a dangerous trait of an omega to carry, even more terrifying to hold openly as you do. Jing Yuan knows it has burned you before.

However, he intends to indulge you well and kindly, as it pleases him very much.

His mind, far-too warm and itchy, yearns to spin fantasies as he locks himself in his room with a shake of his head. 

He must keep it together. Just for awhile longer. His bed is— not a nest. Not the nest he wants (needs) it to be. His duvet, thick and luxurious as it is, needs a fluffing and a fresh scenting. His pillows are not arranged to his liking, and he needs to poke through his linen closet and add some extra layers as well. He needs to make sure there’s lube nearby with clean toys. Water out. His phone charged and volume on— (though, he already sent a message to Qingzu stating his heat has hit and he’ll be out for at least a week. ‘Defer to Diviner Fu :3’ , which is Jing Yuan’s payment to Lady Fu for the list of errands he had sent her.)

Jing Yuan shakes his head with a laugh. The little alpha will certainly be pleased when she hear she’ll get to play General for a while. 

Pre-heat drives him forward. He sheds his many layers (without aid, which is objectively a headache and he regrets not asking you for assistance initially. However, Jing Yuan is fairly certain that if he were to be fully bare around you, regardless of his pre- heat or not, he may jump you and drag you into his nest—)

Pre-heat is also making him somewhat irrational.  

He throws on his favored robe, a silken, cream-colored garment with delicate gold and red embroidery around the hems. The sleeves drape at his wrists and a sash ties it snugly around his waist. The itch that’s been rolling around just under his skin feels duller, with the less restrictive garment. The fabric crosses over his chest in a way that is... revealing. Probably too revealing, under any other circumstance, especially given that you have never seen him in anything less than his daily regalia. 

The thought of looking so indecent around you has its allure to it. One that Jing Yuan lets himself entertain with a smitten smile as he works.

He is attracted to you, surely. This he knows and has known. 

Jing Yuan acknowledges that this is both emotional and physical. You are dear to him, truly. In a way that is unique to any of the connections, he holds in the present. Your presence is one he thoroughly enjoys, and, more than once, (many times), has craved during his late-evening ruminations in his courtyard. He— has thought about inviting you over, if for nothing else than a chat in the moonlight and tea or wine to your preference, however—

He has always stopped himself.

Yearning, he will allow in the ways he has learned to manage it over the centuries. Small doses of longing that can be enjoyed and swallowed down, without festering. Being brazen with his wants and feelings is... slipperier. Especially concerning you, as you are dear to him, and Jing Yuan, for better or for worse, would like to share space with you for as long as he can manage. 

This attraction is regardless of secondary gender. 

Jing Yuan has not cared about secondary gender for a great while (since he shared a bed with a short-lived alpha and one of Long’s Scions, who, like all Vidyadhara, did not have a secondary gender at all.) 

Your presentation as an omega was never a deterrent to him. If anything, it was something of a comfort. Jing Yuan was claimed long ago, and he knows that no alpha’s claim will feel the same as Yingxing’s and he wouldn’t want anyone, especially you, to attempt to emulate it. The ownership of a claim was not something he sought. Jing Yuan has had his heart broken enough for this lifetime. He is sure you could rend his heart asunder, however it would not be in the way of losing a mate that he is biologically tied to. 

Statistically, Jing Yuan is lucky that such a loss did not cause him to become Mara struck five hundred years ago.

He is very content with whatever your relationship could become. If nothing else, the prospect of it allures him. Especially now that you know his presentation and clearly seem undeterred yourself. If— if anything. Your scent calmed and cooled when he’d told you on the terraces. 

Another thing that Jing Yuan will have to parse when he isn’t so wet that he’s leaving puddles in his wake. 

For now, Jing Yuan’s nest is satisfactory aside from a few personal items. 

Now, all it’s missing is you. 

...

Jing Yuan does not find you in the kitchen, but rather the foyer, wishing Qingzu a goodbye with a wave and shout. 

Jing Yuan must—

(Temper his instincts because you are far too close to the door and you need to be in his nest and his teeth need to be in you and his scent on you—)

“Jing Yuan,” you say to him warmly, with a smile. There are a few canvas bags on your arms. “How are you feeling—?”

Jing Yuan can’t stop himself from dragging you away from the tall set of doors and back to the kitchen. You squawk at his firmness, but don’t reject his touch. He helps you heft the bags onto a low table. His own arms shake, with both the strain and his own heat-induced weakness.

“It’s really progressing, huh?” You tentatively raise a hand, and place it on his forearm to stroke there.

Jing Yuan practically purrs when you rub over the silken fabric, “It is. Quickly. However, my nest and appropriate supplies are ready. Did Qingzu deliver all that I asked?”

“It seems so.”

There are— three more bottles of lube. A few pearly-looking medicine pills, a specialty item from the Alchemy Commission. Several stacks of ready-made meals and electrolyte powder. There are several vials of milky-looking oils he had her grab for more scandalous purposes as Jing Yuan would like to avoid any type of friction abrasion. Lastly, there are few unmarked boxes with new toys.

“You’re so well-prepared.” Your eyes are wide as you take stock of the haul. Jing Yuan bundles things into a basket and ushers you to his nest.

“I have gone through many heats,” he chuckles. “I have learned the best tricks.”

“I-I can see.”

As you enter his bedroom, you stare at his nest with wide eyes. You jump when Jing Yuan locks the door.

“... Is that alright?” Jing Yuan asks.

“Yes, yes, of course. I just—” You swallow. “I haven’t ever helped another omega through a heat. If you have any pointers or preferences, let me know while you’re still in your full mind, please? I’d like to make this as comfortable for you as possible.”

Jing Yuan thinks for a moment. With a tilt of his head, he rests his hands on your shoulders. Your scent is spiced, a bit nervous, but also undeniably aroused. Your gaze darts down to his exposed collarbones and chest, then quickly back up to his eyes. Heat rises fiercely in your cheeks. 

“Your presence will be helpful in and of itself,” he assures you with a squeeze. Carefully, he hooks his thumbs on your outer garment and pulls it down, undoing buttons and ties along the way. Your lips part, breath hot. “I’ll guide you as I need. My heats tend to be mild, though they do last a full week. There will be lulls, which I tend to be quite worn out during. I’ll need your assistance more than anything.”

You nod, taking in his response. 

Jing Yuan— he’s holding it together. Slick is beginning to drip down his inner thighs and there’s an ache in his core that feels heavier and hotter by the minute. However, he does want to do this part slowly. He prides himself on his patience. Piece by piece, he takes off your day clothes and tosses them into his nest. Without them, your scent is stronger. Your neck is bare from any topical or adhesive blockers.

“During the rest of it though?” You ask, softly. “When you’re in the throes of it.”

Jing Yuan hums, letting a shaking hand rest on the curve of your waist, “I’m not certain. It’s been quite some time since I’ve shared a heat with anyone.”

“... Really?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan presses his lips to your forehead without thinking. The heat of it, of you, sinks into his own. He feels like he’s going to burn up. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.” You answer, and push yourself closer to his neck. Your lips part to taste his scent on the back of your tongue. “You are a catch. I know you have quite the lineup of suitors... I just assumed.“

“You also assumed I was an alpha.”

“The General is a skillful liar.”

Jing Yuan clicks his tongue, sliding a hand below your last garments. Satin, lacey things that are almost sheer. Thin. He could tear them easily, but doesn’t. His touch lingers.

“ Jing Yuan,” he reminds you. You stammer before pitching into him. He carefully walks the two of you backwards. His legs are close to giving out. “And I’d like to think of it as a skillful withholding of unnecessary information.”

“ Jing Yuan is very good with his words,” You murmur into the soft skin of his neck, lingering around one of the scent glands there. They ache, sore and unstimulated.

So carefully, you stretch up on your tiptoes to nose at one of them. Your scents bloom together and his eyes almost roll back into his head at the meld of it, the relief and rush of connection. 

It’s the last push Jing Yuan needs before dragging you into his nest with a stifled moan. Coherency is shattered and all he can do is crave, crave, crave.

...

You are a good heatmate.

Astoundingly good. Attentive, kind, and so soft. It’s a relief to Jing Yuan, who’s heat-addled mind is so used to loneliness and cold. You do not have the scent or knot of an alpha, but you’re more than enough. It’s presence and comfort in a way Jing Yuan so, so missed. It’s enough in a different way— and that difference is good. 

(You are not Yingxing or Dan Feng, and Jing Yuan is grateful that you aren’t.)

Jing Yuan finds himself on his back, with you wrapped around him. You let him pillow his cheek against your collarbone. His nose presses against your scent gland, and he pants against it with an open mouth and spit slicked lips. Your hand lays over his chest, cupping his breast while gently thumbing over his nipple. He’s so swollen there, aching.

He cries out as you pinch, as if it could relieve any of the pressure roiling around under his skin.

You curl closer into him with your lips against his temple. “Does that feel good?”

He can only keen and hope you understand that it’s a plea for more. 

You must because a moment later you’re squeezing with your entire hand. It’s— too big of a handful for you. Your fingers are soft and your touch gentle. The visual of the plump flesh of his chest bulging out from between your fingers rewires Jing Yuan’s brain for a craving he never knew possible. A rush of slick gushes from his cunt and— it’s so much. He lurches into your neck, licking blindly at your scent gland. Vaguely, he notices you stiffen and your scent grows a little sharper. 

It’s worry. Jing Yuan can’t have that.

With every ounce of his strength, Jing Yuan rolls you below him, and sits on your hips. You let him, so pliant and agreeable, and lay below him. Jing Yuan’s breath catches and drool slips to the corners of his mouth.

You are beautiful. You look debauched, and you’re not the one in heat. You’re flushed and damp with sweat, just as he is. The robe he’d draped you in is mostly open, revealing supple skin and your last bastion of modesty in the form of a cute pair of panties that Jing Yuan will fantasize about later. 

You look up at him in awe, lust-hazed just like him. There’s little composure to be had as your fists ball up in the sheets around his thighs. Your gaze goes glassy as you look from his face down to where he’s seated atop you and back again.

“No teeth,” he assures you. It is the last coherent thought he has, if only to provide your some comfort.

You look up at him sweetly and nod, grabbing the plump flesh above his hips. “No teeth.”

(A claim wouldn’t take, anyway. Not really. Omega-to-omega pairings lack the necessary pheromones to stake a claim on each other. The most it would do would indicate that whoever has been bitten is a submissive-leaning packmate. Which— Jing Yuan actually would not mind biting you. He would like his teeth in your neck if you would ever allow him.)

He groans at the thought, lowering his head as a silver mane of hair spills around his face.

Jing Yuan is drenched and hard, leaking from the tip of his cock and seam of his cunt. It’s— filthy. You’re soaked too, with a mix of him and undoubtedly yourself too, though Jing Yuan can’t scent it over the smell of his own heat. It’s regrettable as he is sure the mix of you must be divine. Heavenly. 

He wants it in his mouth.

Jing Yuan slinks down your body, licking and sucking at patches of your skin. You try to bat him off, haul him up and away from your own leaking sex, but he resists. He needs a taste or he’ll die, probably. His heat can be quelled in a number of ways, he presumes.

With his face buried in your cunt, surrounded by your scent, the ache for a knot is dulled. When you cry out on his tongue, it is almost deafened.

Jing Yuan drinks you up— he should pay more mind to your clit, probably, if he wants to get you off properly. However, he is so immensely distracted by your entrance and the essence of you that’s leaking out. There’s a rapidly widening damp spot beneath your ass. A steady flow that Jing Yuan needs in him. 

He seals his mouth over your cunt, and prods his tongue inside of you. He presses so close, suffocating with his nose tight to your clit, to lap at your insides. 

You— you wail above him. Your hands bury in his increasingly tangled mess of hair for any sort of leverage. Jing Yuan doesn’t let up; he doesn’t think he can. Your tone crashes into one that’s softer, more airy, begging for more. For less. Jing Yuan can’t entirely tell. He isn’t sure he cares, truthfully. All he knows is that your thighs tighten around his head with each suck and slurp.

The sound of it is heavenly.

Your thighs press around his face. Flush to his cheeks are the scent glands in the apex of your inner thighs. Not everyone has them, as they’re something of a recessive trait among all secondary genders. The scent that comes off them is your own, however muskier and deeper. It sticks to the inside of his nose and pours down his throat like a nectar. You mewl when he breaks away to lap at one, coaxing out more of the scent. He gluts himself on it.

He needs, he needs, he needs.

“Jing Yuan,” you pant above him, propping yourself up with one arm while the other blindly reaches among his nest. “Do you need it? Knot?”

He— 

(He needs to be filled. He isn’t picky if that feeling is quenched with his cunt, ass, throat, or nose. The scent of you is almost enough, even if he clenches down on nothing and feels hollow in his belly. The sensations are so dull with you nearby. He feels heat incensed, but in a way that craves closeness with you and not the manic pursuit of a knot.)

It’s refreshing. Jing Yuan regrets not propositioning you for this treatment sooner.

“Are you offering?” Jing Yuan purrs. He places his thumbs over the scent glands of your inner thighs and presses down on the swell of them, just under your skin.

Your back bends off the bed and you throw your hand over your mouth. Teary eyes meet him and you nod. From the folds of the nest, you pull forth a knotting toy with a shaking grip. 

It’s beautiful for a toy. It’s a model that Jing Yuan had seen in a few high-end adverts on the few social medias he moonlighted on. It’s a flesh-like plastic cock, with an inflatable knot at the base. A little, wired remote drags along the blankets of his nest as you hold the phallus out to him. The plastic of the toy is a light gold, cut with veins of blue. It looks otherworldly and unreal. Jing Yuan has never cared for much realism with his toys, though this one is human enough. 

He makes a mental note to get Qingzu a bouquet for purchasing it for him on such short notice. 

The head of it feels cool against his cunt. It’s a welcome sensation as it feels like his body is burning up from the insight. He lays over you, wrestling you a bit to be flat below him, with his thighs caging yours. He growls when you try to grab the toy from his hands to assist.

It makes you pause.

Your soft palms cup his cheeks, “Do you not want me to help?”

“The angle—” The angle won’t be right, Jing Yuan wants to say. His words feel lost in his throat as he slowly begins to push inside himself. He gasps and tries to duck into your neck, to like and suck at the gland there and feast on your scent.

“I can try—?”

“ No.” 

Jing Yuan wants you just like this. In his nest, smelling like him and arousal and safety. The toy that’s sliding into his cunt is mostly irrelevant, as is the twitch of his cock as he slowly and methodically fucks the toy into himself. Little by little, he bullies it into his underused hole. The stretch is— is not bad. It would be far more uncomfortable if he weren’t in heat and pouring slick. 

You ask more quietly, just as he bottoms out. You still haven’t let go of his face. “Are you sure?” 

He is, but he can’t find the words to say so. Instead, he nods and tucks himself closer to you. You pet down the back of his neck and push on his scent glands. They ache with his heat. The pressure and direct contact makes him grunt as he adjusts to the toy in his cunt.

You hush him and nuzzle in his cheeks, “You’re doing so well. So good, Jing Yuan.”

He keens and pulls back the toy cock, only to shove it back into himself a moment later. Praise from you is a drug. He’s sure. You’re unbearably earnest and sweet and you are too kind to him. You whisper more of them into his ear as he fucks himself, deep and slow. He feels the sentiment of your words more than he hears it. Deeply affectionate and caring. If he were more lucid, he would be disarmed by you, speechless even. Perhaps he is already speechless, but he blames that on the heat haze and how the head of the toy is pressing deliciously into his sweet spot.

He narrows his focus on the spot and fucks him on the toy in earnest.

Jing Yuan will have an arm ache after this. Many aches, actually. It will be worth it. It is easiest to bear with you underneath him, tilting your hips up to grind against his dripping cock. It’s not the friction his body craves, but it’s welcome. It sends sparks down his spine and he whines into your neck. 

You nip at his neck, high on the side of it, and Jing Yuan lets loose a cracking moan. It’s almost embarrassingly loud. Were Jing Yuan able to feel shame in that moment, he’d be red-faced.

Instead, he tips his head to the side, allows you room to mouth and suck marks as you desire. You catch on quickly, and hum, licking broad stripes and soaking him in your scent. Your marks. It surrounds him.

He fucks himself on the toy faster.

(It’s nothing like the heats he had while he was mated with Yingxing and Dan Feng. Not at all. They were shorter, back then. Perhaps it was his youth or the relentless pace and haze Yingxing kept that burned Jing Yuan out faster. Or, maybe it was that Dan Feng always made sure he was wrung out, despite not craving him in the same way Yingxing had. It was carnal then. It still is now, but it does not feel as manic. You are gentle without qualifiers, sweet without expectation, and happy to let him rut into you and back onto the toy as much as he pleases. Your kisses are bruising, but not bloody like Dan Feng’s. There’s a different pace, a different scent, and a different intent.)

Jing Yuan once enjoyed the desperation that Yingxing put into everything he did (including him). He had fallen in love with Dan Feng for his poetics and distanced care. You have neither of these. It is unfair, ultimately, for Jing Yuan to draw comparison. 

Perhaps, he’ll feel guilty over it later. For now, his arm gives out and he falls into your chest with a keen. His back arches, hips raised, and the new angle is so, so good. You run your hands through his hair, and move your thigh, just right, so he can grind on it to his heart’s content.

He’s close; he can feel it in his belly.

What sends him over the edge is the feel of your lips against his hairline, the way your lips have curled into a soft, easy smile as you kiss him there. You stroke down his back, like how a good lover would.

You are a good lover. 

He shudders as orgasm grips him. The sound that rips from his throat is shattering, as overwhelming as the heat that boils over in his guts. And you are such a good lover, that the little remote must have already been in your hand, as in the moment he comes, the knotted base of the toy begins to swell. Jing Yuan can’t— can’t chase his orgasm. He can feel his eyes growing wet while his body feels out of his control (he hates that, he really does). You, however, are a good lover and reach and stretch, matching his angle with the toy and fuck him through it yourself. The knot catches once inside him, then a second time, and with the third, it locks him and the toy together.

And with what can only be called a sob, Jing Yuan fully collapses on top of you.

He can’t keep himself upright, he realizes. His thighs tremble terribly, and his arms are the same. His eyes are filled with tears he didn’t expect and doesn’t know what to do with. It feels vulnerable. Too vulnerable, in a way that Jing Yuan has avoided for centuries now. 

Before the feeling can consume him, you’re coaxing him onto his side and wrapping yourself around him. A sheet gets pulled atop the both of you and you’re nosing into him wherever you can.

“It’s okay,” You tell him. “You’re okay, I promise.”

A muffled sound that comes from your throat, followed by the low roll of a purr. 

Oh. 

All for him?

He shoves himself closer, skin to skin in all the spots he can reach. His tongue laves at your scent glands as his cunt flutters around the toy. He claws at your back before locking his arms around your waist. 

You’re purring for him.

He can help but do the same, even chirping without meaning to as he nips at your jaw. Jing Yuan trails his lips to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You curl and laugh at his touch, and Jing Yuan steals the lovely sounds from you with a kiss. It’s something deep and consuming, and Jing Yuan needs more of the taste of you. You squirm into it, gasping and opening your mouth for him to explore as he needs. Your openness continues to undo him. 

It’s all the reassurance he needs. Any poisonous feelings fall away, and Jing Yuan, for the first time in far too long, finds himself content and knotted. 

...

Jing Yuan has never had a heat quite like this one.

It is certainly more mild, and certainly a bit shorter than what he was expecting. The worst of it lasts five days, followed by three days that he can’t quite call post-heat. Though the desire in him is less feverish, he still craves your presence so much it hurts, and the idea of you being out of his nests sends him into a toothy panic those days. The ‘no teeth’ rule is modified to allow some biting, as long as it doesn’t involve any scent glands.

(However, Jing Yuan still would not mind putting a claiming bite on you. He makes a note to bring this up when he’s feeling some clarity of mind and can... attempt to court you properly.)

The most intense days of his heat are spent with a knotting toy in his cunt, rutting against your soft thighs, or with your hands wrapped around his cock. He eats you out whenever he can muster up the energy to shimmy between your legs and luxuriate there. Any down time is spent dozing in the warm sun rays that his bedroom is perfectly placed to receive. 

The latter days of his heat, Jing Yuan is more lucid. 

It’s in those days he truly enjoys his heat. Though the burn of arousal still lays within him, it is easily tempered with your presence in his nest and your many shared bite marks. Your time awake is spent lazily kissing, speaking in low voices, and sharing laughter and cups of cool water, one after the other. 

Jing Yuan, partially, did not think he would ever get to experience this type of connection again. with you or any other partner. The intimacy of the act is so deeply vulnerable, and after the spiritual loss of both Yingxing and Dan Feng, he never endeavored, or wanted to endeavor to, open himself up in that way again.

He, perhaps, convinced himself he did not need to.

(Nevermind the many nights, both heat-addled and otherwise, Jing Yuan spent craving nesting companions. Nevermind how many nights Jing Yuan lay alone, accepting his losses and mourning mates he’d never hold again. Jing Yuan could never choose to be selfish.)

It helped when Yanqing was little. He was just a small pup with golden eyes like Jing Yuan’s and a fiery spirit, even when he was so small. Jing Yuan had never considered himself maternal, however having a pup to take care of brought out latent instincts he’d spent the better part of his life pretending didn’t exist. As Yanqing aged, however, he was less receptive to such affections and connections. After presenting (far too young, poor thing, traumatized body), Yanqing wouldn’t share a nest with Jing Yuan unless he fell ill. Even then, Jing Yuan would have to coax him into it.

It quenched something in him. It allowed Jing Yuan to let himself care in the direct way he craved. With his position as General, how often does get to show care with his hands, and not with his words or stratagems? Not with sacrifice or poetry, but with his body and scent. 

Jing Yuan realizes now that there truly have been so many urges and behaviors Jing Yuan simply did not indulge.

And as his heat breaks, Jing Yuan thinks he’d like to start indulging them more.

...

On the last day of his heat, you stir around nightfall. You are exhausted, Jing Yuan knows this. Though his heat has provided him with a surprising amount of stamina, you are in standard condition, and looked wrung out halfway through day two of his heat. Jing Yuan’s grateful you’re as fond of midday naps as he is. 

You are cradled against his chest, your cheek pillows on his breast. He’d thrown a robe on while washing up, and hadn’t elected to remove it. The silky texture of it feels lovely against his flushed, sensitive skin. You seem to enjoy it too as you grip at the fabric of it in your sleep, nuzzling into his chest.

Your brow scrunches and a little sound pops from your throat as you try to burrow closer. It’s a hopelessly sweet gesture, desperate and honest. Jing Yuan can’t help but chuckle and smooth a hand over your mussed-up hair.

When your eyes crack open, your voice is raw, “‘S morning?”

“No, nighttime.” Jing Yuan nods to the darkened window.

You raise yourself up just enough to look, hum, and then fall back on top of him, “Feels like it should be morning.”

“We haven’t been keeping a very consistent sleeping schedule,” Jing Yuan rarely does, but he imagines that you and your position with the Sky Faring Commission have quite a regular routine. “You can keep resting.”

“I don’t wanna’,” Though, you shove your nuzzle into his chest, smearing him with your scent. “I wanna stay up and talk to you.”

“Me?” Jing Yuan smiles, smitten. He pinches your cheek. “About anything in particular?”

“... Not yet.” Your eyes slip closed. “Maybe later. I want to say things to you, but I feel... mushy. Inside my head.”

“Pheromone drunk?”

“‘Something like that,” Your words slur. “Not that I’m complaining. You smell so good, Jing Yuan.”

When you say his name, he shudders. The hand that’s been playing with your hand slips to your nape and squeezes. You keen at the contact and tangle your legs with his. It’s an impossible amount of closeness you are seeking, but Jing Yuan must attempt to give it to you. It’s abashed and honest, and in the stillness of night, how can he not indulge?

“Do I?”

“ Mhm.”

“Like what?” 

You’re falling asleep, clearly. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open even as you inhale deeply. Your lips part and you take his scent into your mouth. 

“Earth after rain,” You hum. “Sunbeam and linen. Warm milk.”

He squeezes you.

(A long time ago, Yingxing had complained about his scent. ‘Complained’. His face had been flushed crimson, telling him how distracting his sweet, rich scent had been. Dan Feng thought it was the funniest thing, considering Yingxing so clearly enjoyed Jing Yuan’s scent, as did he. They’d described it similarly— “petrichor” Dan Feng had told Jing Yuan while sweeping his mane back from his neck— “the smell of sunshine” Yingxing had told Jing Yuan after berating him.)

“How complementary.” Jing Yuan purrs and pulls you closer by the waist. Your face is smushed against his chest, but you don’t complain. You keep your lips parted to enjoy his scent. “And you like it?”

“So much,” You assure him, droopy-eyed. 

So good for him, so so good.

Jing Yuan presses the tip of his finger to your lips, a bit chapped from the dehydration and exertion. You chirp with it, a bit more awake.

He hushes you, and pushes his finger further into his mouth, “Sleep now, dear. You need to rest.”

“‘So do ya’,” You try to say, though it comes out garbled as Jing Yuan lays his finger on the flat of your tongue. Your eyes widen and go a bit crossed to look at his wrist, then up to his eyes. 

Jing Yuan isn’t entirely sure what compels him, but something does. Gently, he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. He idles there, and pets down your side.

“I’ll sleep soon, I’m sure you know.” Jing Yuan says softly. “Will you indulge me?”

(He asks to be selfish.)

Without hesitating, you nod.

(And you let him.)

Jing Yuan doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s the specific sweetness his scent must take on, or the night air in contrast to the warmth and comfort of his nest, but you understand what he wants and give it to him without so much as a word.

Your lips open a little wider and Jing Yuan slips another finger inside. You stroke your tongue on his fingers as you close your mouth, eyes going dazed and heavy-lidded. You take a deep breath, inhaling his scent into the deepest parts of your lungs. You suck on his fingers gently. 

Jing Yuan watches with still, even breaths.

Later, he will analyze why this scratches so many itches in his brain. Why his post-heat mind feels more calm and sated than he thought possible. Why he wants more of this, always, even if he doesn’t have a name for it yet.

For now, he is so, so content to have you this way. You are lulled back to sleep so easily, sucking on his fingers with your cheek still smushed against his breast. Even as you sleep, Jing Yuan doesn’t remove his fingers. He explores the inside of your mouth with gentle, easy pressure, so as to not wake you. It’s exploratory, more than anything. 

He plays with you in such a way until he’s too drowsy to continue. Satisfied and warm, he drags you under the covers and holds you close, scenting you one last time before letting himself fall into a contented, new kind of sleep.

...

You depart suddenly, while Jing Yuan is in the kitchen deftly chopping fruits and assembling little parfaits. 

You had been in his bathroom, freshening up with whatever products you’d like from his stash. Jing Yuan had left you your own robe for when you exited, quietly beaming that he’d have yet another article with your scent on it.

However, when you do leave the bathroom, you are fully dressed in the day clothes you arrived in a week ago. You stand at the doorway of his kitchen, pausing, wide-eyed.

“I n-need to go,” Your voice wavers, like you’re going to be ill.

Something squeezes in between Jing Yuan’s ribs. There are thin, transparent patches on your neck on either side. Scent blockers. Your eyes look watery. Jing Yuan immediately sets down the knife he had been working with.

“Is everything alright?” asks Jing Yuan. He knows something is wrong, even if he can’t smell you, you’re clearly distressed and disheveled.

“It’s— it’s nothing. It’ll be okay.” You tell him. Your voice trembles and you shake your head. 

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“It’s— it’s really nothing. I need to leave. I-I’m really sorry.”

You look from him to the foyer that leads to his front door and back again. There’s a desperate look in your eye that Jing Yuan has never seen with such an intensity before. It makes his heart ache and his hands feel clammy. He sighs.

(And a quiet, ever-present voice in his mind says, “they all leave, eventually.”)

“Alright.” Jing Yuan gives you a smile, the best he can muster. He knows it must be sadder than intended, as your expression falls and you look like you’ve been punched. 

“I’m so s-sorry.”

“It’s alright,” It isn’t. Not fully. “Handle whatever it is that you must. I’m only a call away. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath and shudder out the exhale. You’re trying not to cry and it takes everything in Jing Yuan’s being not to rush to you and attempt to mend whatever is causing you distress but—

(He can’t. He can’t do that. You have asked him to leave you be and Jing Yuan has spent his entire life honing his ability not to chase, even when he so, so badly wishes to.)

You give him one final, fleeting look, “Thank you. I— I’ll see you at our next lunch, okay? I’m sorry.”

It looks like there’s more you want to say, but you’re already out the door before you can. Jing Yuan hears it open and shut with a soft thud that vibrates throughout his home. It leaves Jing Yuan standing alone in his kitchen, frozen, while the robe he wears slips down his shoulders. He bears your marks, and reeks of your scent. His nest grows colder each minute. And though his heat has ended, the yearning for you has not.

If anything, the feeling is far stronger than it was before.

He latches onto the fact you will have your lunches. That— he will find some clarity then. That he can inspect you for damage during the next sunshine-filled meal you share, and prod to see if the last week and half did not carry the same type of... meaning for you, as it did Jing Yuan. He will need to make sure you’re well. He’ll fret until then, he knows this.

(A more dormant, possessive part of him wishes he snatched you back from his foyer and threw you back into his nest. If something was wrong, he could. If something needed fixing, he could help. If it were anything official for your work, Jing Yuan would pull any and all strings to get you out of the obligation. If you were hurt, Jing Yuan would do anything to see you better.)

Instead, Jing Yuan idles in his kitchen, feeling struck and helpless. Something in him aches, deep and low, and Jing Yuan lays a hand over his chest and squeezes it into a fist. He had thought he had become used to this type of loneliness, but it aches all the same.

[pathetic-gamer]

something about that "most expensive item of clothing" poll (and, in particular, the post responding to the many tags about $100‐$200 clothes) has been bugging me, and I finally figured out what it is:

you are on the Reject Fast Fashion Buy Sustainable Clothing And Support Small Craftspeople To The Best Of Your Ability website. how much do you think clothing costs? do you not understand the value of labor?

Obviously big fashion labels will mark up their goods to turn a huge profit (basically all labels will), but when you're looking at ethical/sustainable new clothing, you'll see the same prices for similar items. what you need to understand is that the company making those products is turning significantly less profit than the ~designer~ brand. you cannot avoid the higher costs!! growing the fiber takes labor and resources! manufacturing the textiles takes labor and materials! designing and patterning the garments takes labor and skill! sewing the garments take labor and skill and materials! the workers at *every single step* need to be paid a living wage, and all of the processes in general - from growing the fiber to dyeing the textile - take longer and cost more than the industry standard demands. It makes the clothes expensive!!

one of the biggest problems with fast fashion imo is that the obscene level of exploitation of people and resources has allowed giant corporations to drive prices so fucking low that no one understands the value of their *own* labor, let alone the labor of a seamstress they can't see in a factory they've never heard of getting paid 5 cents an hour to work her fingers to the bone finishing a $20 t-shirt.

Bernadette Banner explained once the reason she doesn't take commissions or sew clothing for other people: To use the materials she uses (high quality natural fibers) plus the hours and hours and hours of labor at a living wage, and then a small mark-up to turn any kind of profit, each piece would cost literally thousands of dollars. This shit is fucking expensive.

so anyway. yes, $400 is a lot of money for a pair of sweatpants, but for people who are interested in supporting sustainable fashion brands and who have the means to do so, $100-$200 is beyond reasonable for basically any given item, and the people who buy those clothes certainly aren't your enemy for it.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Identity Pt 3

Part (3) of Identity, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Well, guess I decided to make up for the last two chapters being on the small side. I admit, I was super intimidated by this one. It's a bit of a change from how my chapters usually go, though the next one will fall back into more familiar territory 😉 Also, @captainrex89, sorry! I absolutely didn't mean to leave you out of my previous tags, and thank you for bringing it to my attention! ❤️

Warnings: Brotherly bullying, varying degrees of dread, unwanted advances (between two women, though I want to be clear: the 'unwanted' aspect is not due to gender), profanity, brief descriptions of gore and burns, needles, brief description of dead bodies

WC: 5,953

Sleep refused to return to me after the conversation with Wolffe, thoughts conflicted between betrayal and guilt. I would never be able to bring myself to regret joining Hunter and his brothers, but the knowledge that Wolffe let me go so easily hurt in a way that left my heart writhing in my chest. It was almost a relief when the time came to begin mission prep despite the lingering anxiety in every terrifying unknown that entailed.

I’d had no say in the elaborate gown chosen for me, nor had I ever had to adorn such pretentious attire during my years as a medic, a thing for which I instantly found myself profoundly grateful as I fought against the urge to scratch at the elegant lacework adorning my arms and neck or to readjust the layers of heavy silks draped about my chest and hips. While the garment was a stunning example of Separatist finery, the life it represented held no attraction to me, and I found myself loathing the way it clung to my figure just enough to impede my movement.

After wasting several minutes trying to secure the clasps at my back without stretching or tearing anything, I finally accepted defeat with a sigh and headed toward the chorus of voices in the neighboring room and had to swallow back the flare of self-consciousness at how quickly they fell silent the instant I tread through the door.

“Yeah, yeah; quit gawking. Who’s going to help me button this thing up?” I drawled, rolling my eyes as though my cheeks weren’t heated beneath a violent blush. Boost instantly shot up, beaming smile on his face, but Warthog slid his foot forward just enough to catch his brother’s ankle, sending the man crashing down with a sharp curse. I was laughing too hard to notice Sinker until he stood mere feet before me, waiting impatiently for me to turn my back to him. Flashing him a toothy grin, I spun around.

“Anything broken?” I called back upon hearing Boost’s deep groan.

“Just my pride…” He replied morosely, earning a fresh bout of chuckles as I pointedly ignored the careful movements of Sinker’s fingers gradually working up my spine.

“Any questions about your cover story?” The Sergent asked.

“I’d be a bit embarrassed if I did.” I answered, brow hitching as I glanced over my shoulder at him. “It’s almost too close to the truth for comfort.”

“Easier to make it believable that way.” He said dismissively. I knew he was right, and being able to call on actual memory to support my manufactured cover of being the daughter of a senator from Agamar admittedly lessened my anxiety of the façade. I didn’t doubt how quickly that anxiety would return upon reaching the gala, however; how alone I’d be as soon as I stepped off the platform and listened to the engines fade as Wolffe and his men acted their part of chauffer before circling around to infiltrate the grand structure elsewhere. I glanced down at the slim band about my wrist, noting how brilliantly the twined metals gleamed under the fluorescents.

“You sure this thing isn’t going to set off any sensors?” I asked, twisting my arm to begrudgingly admire the elegant jewelry.

“Getting nervous, civi?” I could hear the smirk in Sinker’s voice, and instantly shot him an unamused glare.

“As long as you don’t activate it until after you’re inside, you’ll be fine.” Boost reassured me as he finally pushed himself to his feet. “We’ll hear you loud and clear the whole time.” I forced my lips into a smile at his approach, though I found little comfort in his words. Once they were clear, they’d send a signal to the bracelet, causing it to buzz twice granting me permission to take my leave, and I knew I’d be painfully aware of its delicate weight the entire time, second guessing if I’d missed the subtle alert or worrying that someone else might notice it if it went off at an inopportune moment…

“I swear, if you just jinxed me, Boost…” I warned jokingly, earning a cheeky grin.

“That other squad has you all jumpy.” Warthog accused, stretching his legs out atop the now vacant couch. “I don’t remember you being so nervous with us.”

“You’re clearly forgetting that mission on Nal Hutta.” Sinker retorted, drawing an affronted scoff from me.

“You mean when you sold me to the karking hutts?!” Before I’d finished speaking, both Warthog and Sinker were laughing shamelessly. Only Boost had the good sense to look at least partially chastised.

“We got you back.” He reminded me, voice lilting between apology and compromise. Before I could more than twist my lips in reply, the door hissed open as Comet joined us.

“Hey! You clean up nicely, med’ika!” He greeted happily, utterly oblivious to the ire warming my blood. I gave a mock curtsy before letting out a small sigh.

“How close are we to leaving hyperspace?”

“Any second. Wolffe sent me to grab Warthog.” He answered, looking past me to where his brother lounged contently. The pilot let out a reluctant grumble but offered no further argument before grabbing his helmet and starting toward the cockpit as the ship shuttered slightly. This was the most dangerous moment; waiting to see if our clearance codes were accepted planet-side or if we’d be shot down before ever nearing atmo. The four of us waited in tense silence as the engines stalled, surely marking the beginnings of Warthog’s attempts to grant us access to land. Mere seconds later, everyone in the room let out a small breath of relief as the ship roared back to life.

“You ready?” Comet asked in a fond whisper.

“I’m just going into a room filled with people I’m trying to overturn without so much as a dagger to protect myself. Why wouldn’t I be ready?” Even that growing anxiety couldn’t quell the flood of affection at his gentle laugh, cheeks warming as he slipped his hand through my hair to touch his forehead softly against mine.

“You’ll do great.” How could I not believe him when he spoke with such unfettered quiet, that subtle smile granting each word an effortless confidence that swept the tension from my frame absent even the memory of doubt.

“Remember, we’ll be able to hear you the entire time. You just need to meet the contact, monitor security details, and get out when we tell you to.” Sinker’s attempt at crisp professionalism nearly hid the hint of his own worry from bleeding through, and I offered him a comforting smile as he lightly bumped his head to mine as well before he and Comet started toward the back rooms lest they be seen upon landing.

“Be careful, med’ika.” Boost murmured, shamelessly forgoing the routine keldabe kiss to lightly press his lips to my forehead.

The silence that fell around me after he joined his brothers was deafening; the fleeting calm granted by Comet’s innate quiet fading away beneath the impending reality of how many ways this mission could go wrong.

Just as the telltale shuttering of atmosphere jostling the ship began, the cockpit door slid open, instantly drawing my attention. Wolffe stood with his arms locked about his chest, head tilted down ever so slightly as he studied me with those unflinching, intense eyes. I felt my body still beneath his gaze, all thought toward sobbed apologies and shouted accusation abandoned in favor of the desire to simply remember every night I’d sought him out for the wisdom gained by the loss of too many brothers, for the unwavering conviction of his carefully metered responses in the face of every moment of crippling doubt and regret and fear that had haunted me in those first months after abandoning my home world.

I still felt the desperate need to know why he’d let me go, but some unspoken warning forbade me from asking, and my shoulders sank with a forfeited sigh.

“Don’t get yourself killed, kid.” It was such a rare thing for him to whisper like that, like there was so much more hanging on every word, painstakingly stifled into silence, allowed existence only in the way his jaw clenched in that forced stillness. My lips parted, chest swelling with a breath I knew I couldn’t risk releasing in anything other than a sharp exhale.

“You too, Wolffe.” I replied in that same, unsatisfied quiet. We both seemed to pause, almost pleading the other to break, to find some means of washing away the shadows cast by lips loosened beneath too much heartbreak and confusion in the hushed hours of night, but there wasn’t time for it. There never would be, and that was an agony I knew we’d simply have to live with.

The acceptance that softened those eyes drew a weary smile to my lips. With a small nod, he stepped back, allowing the door to close once more between us, and was again, I stood painfully alone, though that solitude felt somewhat lighter. I think I’d found myself expecting him to avoid me in the wake of my outburst, but I should have known better. Wolffe had never been one to hide regardless the weight of whatever decision or confrontation awaited him. It was simultaneously intimidating and envying, but my relief in not having to tread into the gala with that uncertainty cloying my thoughts was a blessing I was too eager to accept.

-

Music dominated the center hall, brass resonating through domed ceilings as strings sang of unknown sorrows and lost loves. What unearthly vocals accompanied the masterful orchestra lingered in subtle reverie rather than making any attempt to monopolize the attention of the dizzying number of senators and dictators and generals garbed in finery worth more than their citizens could hope to ever earn in their lifetimes floating about the grand ballroom careful only to avoid the disastrous social scandal of treading across the center stage absent a partner to mimic them in some pre-choreographed dance that had long since sacrificed all memory of passion in favor of empty symbolism that none cared to even pretend to remember.

I’d purposefully avoided all but the fringes of the room, save for a handful of forced conversations for the sake of my cover, head tilted up in silent judgement of those around me as I pretended to sip whatever pale liquid filled the crystal flute I’d been offered upon entering. B2 droids stood frozen in precise formation within enclaves built elegantly into the walls, almost more a decoration than true security. Their armor gleamed brilliantly beneath the enhanced candlelight flickering throughout the chandeliers floating overhead, void of scuffs or dirt or any signs that they’d ever seen battle. Still, I didn’t doubt how quickly they’d snap to attention at the faintest show of danger.

The droids weren’t my primary focus, however. Hidden within the higher echelon lingered just as many organic guards as those made of cold metals lining the gala. Each time I drew the glass to my lips, I counted off another half dozen, noting their clothes and species and any other details that might identify them. Years spent in the GAR left certain habits painfully obvious despite how the Separatist soldiers tried to blend in; shoulders held just so, the way their eyes scanned the room, the practiced tempo of their strides that only decades of intention could ever hope to unlearn.

My attention kept wandering back to those brave enough or bold enough or bored enough to find themselves gliding around one another in that antiqued dance, my lips just hinting at a smile as thoughts drifted far from this façade of self-importance. It was so easy to imagine Tech embodying the exact precision of those movements, tall form granting each stride an elegance lost to so many of those fumbling through the motions. I wondered how long Wrecker would humor the uninspiring steps before yielding beneath his desire to simply enjoy the moment; how his innate glee for life might grant new meaning to the music through a dance all his own. Hunter, surely, would find no joy in the act itself, but would amuse the both of us with whispered comments on those around us, noting groundless confidence in a nearby couple as one believed themselves far more accomplished than their clearly unimpressed partner, how he might create tales of how certain persons found themselves here when, in truth, they would prefer a stale beer in a raucous bar, while Echo would embody the perfect partner, matching movement for movement with a gentle conversation to free me of all thought toward where we were and who we were with; and Crosshair… I doubted any combination of pleas or promises would succeed in dragging him amidst the countless dancers yet found myself wishing for the chance to try all the same.

“That bracelet wouldn’t happen to be of Dal-Shay make, would it?” My gaze instantly snapped to the rugged voice, heart jilting at the codeword meant to reveal the contact I’d been sent to meet, and I froze, ice shooting through my veins and blistering beneath my skin. I knew those eyes. I knew those hands, and though his hair had thinned with age, I held no doubt toward who stood before me.

“I… I must be mistaken. Apologies.” He quickly murmured, head ducking politely as he began to step away.

“Uh; not at all.” I stammered, cheeks warming from the brief misstep, and stretched my arm toward him to reveal the telltale ornament. “You have a good eye.” Relief clearly shown in that eerily familiar face as I tried to convince myself that my initial assumption had to be some trick of the mind even as I found myself longing to ask if he remembered how his children laughed as he tried to teach them the very dance playing out before us.

“I understand we’re in for a treat with the gala’s speaker tonight.” He said warmly, attention turning to absently follow the orchestrated performance alongside me, shoulder just near enough to brush mine. I dropped my hand near his, shifting to block the brief contact of him slipping the tiny datachip between my fingers.

“I thought that was meant to be a surprise.” The feigned reprimand in my voice was enough to draw a chuckle from the older man, and I took the opportunity to appear mockingly insulted, arms crossing my chest that I might tuck the chip away through the lacework binding my neck.

“Whoever it is, I’m sure we’ll all be regaled with inspirational goals and haughty assurances primed to loosen ample credits to feed the war effort.” I continued in an uninterested sigh. He released a hum of agreement but let a moment of silence settle between us.

“May I ask you something?” I asked quietly. His attention flicked only briefly to me, lips pulling into the heartbreaking ruination of a smile.

“Of course.” There was a weary warmth to his voice that spoke toward a broken hope he couldn’t let go of.

“How did you come to find yourself here?” I offered no forged smile as I looked toward him, reflecting the solemn heaviness clear in his eyes as he drew a slow, deep breath.

“I lost my wife to the war.” I’d almost expected him to offer some pre-conceived dismissal, but there was no reservation in his reply; no effort to hide the way his words haunted him still. “Then I lost myself to the grief, and because of that, I lost my daughter, too. By then, it was too late to save my son, but I realized something. I could either continue drinking myself into a grave that wasn’t coming near quick enough, or I could try to do something.” He gave a small shrug, and I had to lock my cheek between my teeth to stem the threat of tears.

“’Something?’” I echoed, brow hitching slightly, and the flare of mischief that lit those eyes reminded me of endless afternoons filled with laughter and a love I hadn’t felt in far too long.

“Not gonna say my motives are entirely altruistic,” he admitted with a half-concealed smirk, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than lying around feeling sorry for myself.” Maker, I wanted to tell him… I wanted to make him look at my eyes and beg him to recognize me, but how could I? He’d found something to live for, and I couldn’t begin to guess how he’d react upon learning what had happened to me when I suddenly vanished… what happened to my brother…

“I think that’s amazing.” I murmured instead, voice just hinting at the tension coiling up my throat. He flashed me that smile once more, and I could feel every ounce of guilt and exhaustion weighing on him, but then he let out a small sigh.

“Probably best I see myself out right about now.” There was a gratitude in his words as he bowed his head. “It was a pleasure talking with you… Good luck.” My lips parted, and I only just managed to bite back the words screaming for breath.

“Take care.” The quiet whisper left in something just shy of a sob as I watched him start toward the main entrance, and I wondered how he’d made it past the iris scanners and blood tests that had taken the powerhouse of the Republic to see me through when I first entered those grandiose doors. I wondered if he’d found himself a part of some thriving network working against the Separatists from within, if he’d made new friends and new lovers that helped see him through the long nights and hopeless days. I wanted that for him. I wanted to find him when the war ended and tell him everything; to apologize for blaming him when I had no concept of how effortlessly loss could drown a person, and beg his forgiveness for my contribution to that loss, but, again, I found myself bound to a silence I loathed by the extraordinary circumstances we’d somehow placed ourselves in.

The pale liquid swirling within my glass suddenly looked far too tempting. Shoulders swelling beneath a carefully metered breath, I brought the chilled cup to my lips.

“Package acquired. Continuing patrol.”

-

Another half hour saw me through several more loops around the elaborate ballroom, with another dozen or so undercover soldiers identified and a final count on the displayed droids. I hated not knowing how Wolffe and the others were doing, if they’d reached their target or if they’d been captured… killed… I hated how my dread grew with each passing minute of hoping that damned bracelet would grant me some sign that they were alive, that we could leave, but I’d seen those men survive far more treacherous assignments than this. It would be foolish to doubt them now, nor was there anything I could do to quiet my fears either way.

“You seem frightfully alone tonight.” My attention snapped toward the crisp, well-spoken greeting to find a tall woman drifting to an easy stance a few feet from me.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I retorted coyly despite the nervous trill dancing beneath my skin. She looked so nearly human; pronounced cheekbones emphasizing the powerful build of her jawline, jett-black hair falling midway down her neck, not a strand out of place beneath the carefully applied product slicking it back, but there was a subtle blue tint to her skin that left me feeling a chill despite the climate-controlled air filling the room.

“I suppose that depends on your preference toward the available company.” She yielded with a good-natured bow, pale lips just hinting at a smirk. I knew well enough to judge the broad width of her shoulders for the earnest strength and skill they represented rather than some consequence of mere vanity.

“It would seem rather bold to dismiss a building full of the most wealthy members of the Separatist Alliance.” I shot back, brow hitching slightly.

“And yet…” She motioned toward me with a knowing grin, and I found myself letting out a quiet chuckle.

“And yet.” I repeated, offering no argument to the implication.

“I think we might be each other’s solution to the monotony of tonight’s obligatory attendance.” My heart dropped at the implication in her words, the eagerness in hazel eyes garnished with streaks of crimson, mind already racing for some way to excuse myself. “Is there any way I might convince you to join me for a dance?” Kriff…. kriff, kriff, kriff… It took every ounce of self-control to school my expression into some façade of curiosity vailed beneath feigned disinterest.

“I’m afraid you’ll not find me nearly so capable as the partners already waiting near the stage.” I replied with a pointedly insincere apology, glancing toward eager faces standing at the edge of the dance floor silently hoping for someone to join them.

“Ah, but I’ve never been fond of accepting what is so effortless to take.” My jaw tensed at how fondly she mimicked my attempted dismissal. “You strike me as a challenge, and that is far more tempting than the promise of performing thoughtlessly repeated steps with equally thoughtlessly repeated conversation.” The thin chain suddenly felt impossibly heavy, attention desperately pleading for it to vibrate, for it to flutter with that quick signal that I might flee this place.

“I’m here neither to act as temptation nor cure for your boredom.” I retorted with no small hue of offense. The woman responded with a huff of abashed laughter.

“Of course.” She hummed ruefully. “And yet…?” I nearly rolled my eyes at the charming smile as she held her hand toward me, cursing the impossibility of my position. If I declined, would her wounded pride see her to one of the guards with questions none could answer? Would it be safer to humor her, if only to serve as distraction lest her curiosity reveal the fallacy of my identity? Could I even recall enough to mimic those swaying to music that deserved far grander celebration than the subdued series of near-touches and attentive gazes?

“And yet…” I sighed with an almost reluctant defeat as I lightly set my hand atop hers, and I wanted to sneer at the victory that lit her eyes. “I warn you, however; I haven’t partaken in this archaic dance since I was a child.”

“Shall I offer promises not to let you fall, nor laugh should you stumble?” I did roll my eyes at that, but she only chuckled gleefully, strides unfaltering as she led me to the edge of the dance floor, thumb resting so gently against my fingers that I barely felt it.

“You haven’t told me your name.” I noted without drawing my gaze from the closing flurries of motion in the encroaching finale of the song, desperately trying to recall how to perform those movements myself.

“And doesn’t that just make it all the more interesting?” She teased. I merely scoffed, fighting back the threat of panic upon watching the dancers offer their partners a low bow before taking their leave that the next batch might take their place.

“What’s it like on your planet?” She asked as we stepped forward. My chest ached from how violently my heart thrashed within me, barely able to keep the nervous tremble from legs hesitantly assuming the appropriate beginning pose.

“Cold.” I answered with a small shrug, as though I couldn’t be bothered to explain further. “I suppose the springtime is pretty enough – when the farmlands are in bloom.” The music began in a gentle, lilting murmur, guiding us through those first few steps absent embarrassment. I tried not to show how I struggled to offer even simple conversation in the midst of straining to fall back into some semblance of muscle-memory from lessons taken decades prior. “And you? What are your homelands like?”

“I wouldn’t know.” That drew my attention more pointedly to the woman effortlessly striding around me in careful rhythm to the growingly pronounced bass. “I was turned over to the state as an infant – grew up in various military schools until I was old enough to enlist.” There was neither grief nor shame in her voice, and I couldn’t help but respect her for that.

“Then you have both my condolences and my congratulations.” I said quietly with a respectful nod. “I suppose there must be something special about you to have seen you from such tragedy to where you now stand.” Her lips twitched with a prideful grin before she could fully suppress it.

“I should like to think so.” She answered, shoulders drawing back slightly as she stood just a hair’s breadth taller.

“Did you ever try to find them?” I asked, forgoing the social normalcy forbidding such potentially unpleasant topics. “Your parents?”

“Why would I?” She so nearly hid it, but I could hear the faintest note of contempt in that airy question. “They saw no reason to be in my life, so I’ve no reason to strive to be in theirs.” Freed of overthinking each movement, my body flowed naturally in time with hers, and I tried not to draw my own attention to that revelation lest I break whatever trance guided my limbs.

“There’s no weakness in seeking to understand why.” I paused as I spun away from her, glancing back to just catch her gaze over my shoulder until the next beat saw me facing her once more. “Nor is there weakness is mourning what their absence robbed from you.” A somber quiet eased the earlier glee from her eyes, though she made no effort to look away from me.

“I’ve had time to mourn.” She stepped just inches closer than she should have, and my heart balked at the sudden intimacy in those near-touches. “I’ve let myself feel anger at their abandonment, curiosity toward their motives, and I find myself in the same state of mind after each burst of emotion: gratitude.” My brow hitched at that, silently inviting her to explain. “Had they not surrendered me to the Alliance, I may never have committed myself so fully to its cause.” Oh. “As I am, there’s nothing to distract me from my mission,” Oh no. “And that freedom for absolute devotion is a boon few understand.” This woman was dangerous in ways I had no means of protecting myself against. I needed to run. Now.

���Nothing distracts you?” I pressed, fighting the way my eyes wanted to dart toward the main doors and forcing some taste of flirtation in my voice, expression carefully drawn into something resembling a teasing grin which she happily returned.

“There’s a difference between enjoying certain… pleasantries and allowing those pleasantries to become a hindrance.” I let out a quite scoff.

“Maker forbid anything of the sort.” The taunt barely caused the woman to narrow her eyes. “Still… the results speak for themselves.” I offered, pointedly letting my gaze travel down her meticulously kept form, drawing a haughty smirk to her lips.

She’d just drawn breath to reply when the music faded to an unexpected halt, notes hanging in the air just long enough to draw our attention away from each other, and I vaguely noticed the odd looks several of the other dancers kept shooting us before a man began to speak at the podium overlooking the ballroom from the second story, flanked by an ensemble of stern looking military commanders.

“Esteemed guests and colleagues, now that you’ve had time to partake in conversation, arts, and libations – enough, I hope, to loosen premeditated budgets – it’s time to announce our guest speaker!” A gentle laughter rolled through the crowd, some out of politeness, others clearly encouraged by too much drink.

“I’ve always found this part to be over played.” The woman murmured, leaning down enough for the warmth of her breath to trail over my ear, sending an unpleasant shiver down my spine, but I responded with a knowing glance.

“What? You don’t enjoy hearing various members of the ruling class pretend to fawn over each other out of civic duty?” Her shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle.

“Nor do I enjoy the painfully inadequate attempt at humility that follows.” She added, nearly groaning.

“But we shall clap when appropriate and cheer when it ends all the same.” I sighed, happily paying no attention to the introductory speech of whatever over-glorified parliament member had been chosen to parade before the others. It wasn’t until feeling the woman’s hand tug softly against my arm that I noticed her turn toward one of the grand staircases as the rest of the audience had just begun to applaud.

“Come with me.” She murmured, voice rich with what would, to most any other in the room, have been an intoxicating mixture of danger and confidence.

“What?” I couldn’t silence the depth of confusion, nor could I still those first few steps as she guided me forward. “You… uh-” Her eyes lit at my stammered attempts at speech, thrilling as my mind struggled to make sense of unspoken implications, and by then it was too late.

“You’re…” She merely answered my final attempt to grasp some understanding of what was happening with a broad smile, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking into a cold sweat as that earlier panic returned in force, but she’d already tread up that first step. There was no way I could escape this without causing a scene, though I didn’t doubt that some manner of a scene was precisely what she wanted. I��d shared empty words with enough of those around us to quickly be known as the unimpressive daughter of a senator from an unimpressive world, and what better way to stir some sense of self-entitled rivalry than to find oneself overlooked in favor of such an unimportant person as me? Those individuals were sure to go far beyond reasonable contributions in hopes of gaining the favor of the methodical woman leading me toward the focal point of this grand theater of insincerity.

With a smile far too charming for the charade she was clearly playing, the woman paused mere meters from the podium to offer me a final bow, warm hand slipping around mine to bring my fingers to her lips for a parting kiss, and I didn’t doubt how profoundly my cheeks darkened in a violent blush as she turned to the face the rest of the room. There was no way to escape amidst the countless eyes gazing and glaring and sneering up at me from below. I could risk no wrong move like this. I had no choice but to embody the smug aristocrat I’d striven all night to portray, at least until the speech ended and I might find myself overlooked in favor of those known to harbor far more wealth than one of my standing.

“My deepest gratitude to our lovely host!” She started, rich voice booming clearly through the room. “Both for his kind words and for the use of this gorgeous estate!” She took a half step back to look toward the man whose earlier speech I’d all but completely ignored, drawing her hands together to lead the crowd in another round of applause. “And, of course, to you!” She continued, arms sweeping out to motion to all those standing before her. “Friends, business partners, many a bit of both, and all irreplaceable to the overall success of this Alliance.” Another raucous cheer boomed within the towering walls.

“Let’s waste no time stepping around the reason for this albeit enjoyable party. I handpicked each and every one of you for one reason.” My heart dropped, body going painfully still as my eyes darted to the woman standing mere feet away from me. “I know you all to harbor the same profound loyalty as I do, and that loyalty calls on us to do all we can to put an end to this farce of a war!” I didn’t hear the roar of approval as ice danced beneath my skin in waves of frenzied dread. “We know that is a feat that cannot be bought with empty wishes and vague dreams.” ‘Handpicked’… That’s why she approached me…

“If you want a thing done, you must pay for it, be that with credits or time or blood – we all must sacrifice to lead our people to victory.” She knew I didn’t belong here and merely sought not to let me out of her sight as she gleaned what knowledge she could from me. “Many of you know my story, but for those that don’t, you may find yourself asking what I know of sacrifice to find myself justified in demanding it from all of you.”

There wasn’t time for her to say more, nor for me to fall further into that consuming panic of prey freshly caught in the jowls of some great beast. Before her voice faded from the far corners of the room, the world erupted in white. I couldn’t understand why I was no longer staring at the woman’s back; why distant screams sounded so strangely muted while my own breaths rang clearly beneath a deafening ringing; why I could feel the vibration of rushed footsteps reverberating against my cheek even as I watched my own hand struggling to push against the floor beneath me that I might force myself back to my feet.

That confusion lingered even as a shock-induced acceptance left those unknowns feeling far less important than they deserved, flittering awareness straining instead to merely react; to survive. My vision blurred as I fought to take in what was happening around me, broken thoughts reaching for some hint as to what I should do.

Smoke billowed from behind us, remnants of the shattered wall strewn over the floor in smoldering shards. Another might have balked at the bodies cast about the platform that once lined the speaker in some grand show of empowerment, many of which lay lifeless, illustrating the power of the blast in the form of ruined and lost limbs, blackened cloth atop blackened flesh burned too deeply to bleed, while others were far from still, motions just as desperate as their choked cries as they scrambled to haul themselves clear of the flames.

My hand slipped just as it had nearly gained purchase, dropping me harshly back to the hardwood beneath me. There was no thought beyond acknowledging that blood slickened the time-worn surface, nor was there any hope of discerning if it was my own blood or someone else’s. I merely felt the need to try once more to stand, muscles trembling in that vain, driving instinct to flee absent any hope for logic.

Vaguely, I watched several people rush the podium, recognized the orderly shouting so ingrained in medics and soldiers roaring orders between each other as they tended the orphan-turned-war leader who’d so easily ensnared me in her trap. I think one turned toward me but couldn’t make out their voices as reality flickered around me with a dizzying delay despite how I strained to drag myself back toward consciousness.

I barely noted the medic or soldier or whoever it was quickly tread away from mob, steps oddly booming and distant all at once even after he stopped to kneel beside me. If he spoke, I couldn’t make out his voice among the discordant chorus of confusion and panic, but I felt the sharp stab of needles piercing my neck before my mind sank away from that unapologetic chaos into a far more frightening darkness.

Next Chapter

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[mariacallous]

In 2023, the fast-fashion giant Shein was everywhere. Crisscrossing the globe, airplanes ferried small packages of its ultra-cheap clothing from thousands of suppliers to tens of millions of customer mailboxes in 150 countries. Influencers’ “#sheinhaul” videos advertised the company’s trendy styles on social media, garnering billions of views.

At every step, data was created, collected, and analyzed. To manage all this information, the fast fashion industry has begun embracing emerging AI technologies. Shein uses proprietary machine-learning applications — essentially, pattern-identification algorithms — to measure customer preferences in real time and predict demand, which it then services with an ultra-fast supply chain.

As AI makes the business of churning out affordable, on-trend clothing faster than ever, Shein is among the brands under increasing pressure to become more sustainable, too. The company has pledged to reduce its carbon dioxide emissions by 25 percent by 2030 and achieve net-zero emissions no later than 2050.

But climate advocates and researchers say the company’s lightning-fast manufacturing practices and online-only business model are inherently emissions-heavy — and that the use of AI software to catalyze these operations could be cranking up its emissions. Those concerns were amplified by Shein’s third annual sustainability report, released late last month, which showed the company nearly doubled its carbon dioxide emissions between 2022 and 2023.

“AI enables fast fashion to become the ultra-fast fashion industry, Shein and Temu being the fore-leaders of this,” said Sage Lenier, the executive director of Sustainable and Just Future, a climate nonprofit. “They quite literally could not exist without AI.” (Temu is a rapidly rising ecommerce titan, with a marketplace of goods that rival Shein’s in variety, price, and sales.)

In the 12 years since Shein was founded, it has become known for its uniquely prolific manufacturing, which reportedly generated over $30 billion of revenue for the company in 2023. Although estimates vary, a new Shein design may take as little as 10 days to become a garment, and up to 10,000 items are added to the site each day. The company reportedly offers as many as 600,000 items for sale at any given time with an average price tag of roughly $10. (Shein declined to confirm or deny these reported numbers.) One market analysis found that 44 percent of Gen Zers in the United States buy at least one item from Shein every month.

That scale translates into massive environmental impacts. According to the company’s sustainability report, Shein emitted 16.7 million total metric tons of carbon dioxide in 2023 — more than what four coal power plants spew out in a year. The company has also come under fire for textile waste, high levels of microplastic pollution, and exploitative labor practices. According to the report, polyester — a synthetic textile known for shedding microplastics into the environment — makes up 76 percent of its total fabrics, and only 6 percent of that polyester is recycled.

And a recent investigation found that factory workers at Shein suppliers regularly work 75-hour weeks, over a year after the company pledged to improve working conditions within its supply chain. Although Shein’s sustainability report indicates that labor conditions are improving, it also shows that in third-party audits of over 3,000 suppliers and subcontractors, 71 percent received a score of C or lower on the company’s grade scale of A to E — mediocre at best.

Machine learning plays an important role in Shein’s business model. Although Peter Pernot-Day, Shein’s head of global strategy and corporate affairs, told Business Insider last August that AI was not central to its operations, he indicated otherwise during a presentation at a retail conference at the beginning of this year.

“We are using machine-learning technologies to accurately predict demand in a way that we think is cutting edge,” he said. Pernot-Day told the audience that all of Shein’s 5,400 suppliers have access to an AI software platform that gives them updates on customer preferences, and they change what they’re producing to match it in real time.

“This means we can produce very few copies of each garment,” he said. “It means we waste very little and have very little inventory waste.” On average, the company says it stocks between 100 to 200 copies of each item — a stark contrast with more conventional fast-fashion brands, which typically produce thousands of each item per season, and try to anticipate trends months in advance. Shein calls its model “on-demand,” while a technology analyst who spoke to Vox in 2021 called it “real-time” retail.

At the conference, Pernot-Day also indicated that the technology helps the company pick up on “micro trends” that customers want to wear. “We can detect that, and we can act on that in a way that I think we’ve really pioneered,” he said. A designer who filed a recent class action lawsuit in a New York District Court alleges that the company’s AI market analysis tools are used in an “industrial-scale scheme of systematic, digital copyright infringement of the work of small designers and artists,” that scrapes designs off the internet and sends them directly to factories for production.

In an emailed statement to Grist, a Shein spokesperson reiterated Peter Pernot-Day’s assertion that technology allows the company to reduce waste and increase efficiency and suggested that the company’s increased emissions in 2023 were attributable to booming business. “We do not see growth as antithetical to sustainability,” the spokesperson said.

An analysis of Shein’s sustainability report by the Business of Fashion, a trade publication, found that last year, the company’s emissions rose at almost double the rate of its revenue — making Shein the highest-emitting company in the fashion industry. By comparison, Zara’s emissions rose half as much as its revenue. For other industry titans, such as H&M and Nike, sales grew while emissions fell from the year before.

Shein’s emissions are especially high because of its reliance on air shipping, said Sheng Lu, a professor of fashion and apparel studies at the University of Delaware. “AI has wide applications in the fashion industry. It’s not necessarily that AI is bad,” Lu said. “The problem is the essence of Shein’s particular business model.”

Other major brands ship items overseas in bulk, prefer ocean shipping for its lower cost, and have suppliers and warehouses in a large number of countries, which cuts down on the distances that items need to travel to consumers.

According to the company’s sustainability report, 38 percent of Shein’s climate footprint comes from transportation between its facilities and to customers, and another 61 percent come from other parts of its supply chain. Although the company is based in Singapore and has suppliers in a handful of countries, the majority of its garments are produced in China and are mailed out by air in individually addressed packages to customers. In July, the company sent about 900,000 of these to the US every day.

Shein’s spokesperson told Grist that the company is developing a decarbonization road map to address the footprint of its supply chain. Recently, the company has increased the amount of inventory it stores in US warehouses, allowing it to offer American customers quicker delivery times, and increased its use of cargo ships, which are more carbon-efficient than cargo planes.

“Controlling the carbon emissions in the fashion industry is a really complex process,” Lu said, adding that many brands use AI to make their operations more efficient. “It really depends on how you use AI.”

There is research that indicates using certain AI technologies could help companies become more sustainable. “It’s the missing piece,” said Shahriar Akter, an associate dean of business and law at the University of Wollongong in Australia. In May, Akter and his colleagues published a study finding that when fast-fashion suppliers used AI data management software to comply with big brands’ sustainability goals, those companies were more profitable and emitted less. A key use of this technology, Atker says, is to closely monitor environmental impacts, such as pollution and emissions. “This kind of tracking was not available before AI-based tools,” he said.

Shein told Grist it does not use machine-learning data management software to track emissions, which is one of the uses of AI included in Akter’s study. But the company’s much-touted usage of machine-learning software to predict demand and reduce waste is another of the uses of AI included in the research.

Regardless, the company has a long way to go before meeting its goals. Grist calculated that the emissions Shein reportedly saved in 2023 — with measures such as providing its suppliers with solar panels and opting for ocean shipping — amounted to about 3 percent of the company’s total carbon emissions for the year.

Lenier, from Sustainable and Just Future, believes there is no ethical use of AI in the fast-fashion industry. She said that the largely unregulated technology allows brands to intensify their harmful impacts on workers and the environment. “The folks who work in fast-fashion factories are now under an incredible amount of pressure to turn out even more, even faster,” she said.

Lenier and Lu both believe that the key to a more sustainable fashion industry is convincing customers to buy less. Lu said if companies use AI to boost their sales without changing their unsustainable practices, their climate footprints will also grow accordingly. “It’s the overall effect of being able to offer more market-popular items and encourage consumers to purchase more than in the past,” he said. “Of course, the overall carbon impact will be higher.”

[vincent-is-vintage]

Update on my CUNTry Cowboy apparel!

I’ve found my manufacturer for the job and have decided on colors but could use YOUR 🫵🏾help determining which garment style and color palette is preferred! The poll feature is kinda limiting so feel free to pick a second option and even third in the tags- it really helps!

Newsletter for Kickstarter updates

[mayakern]

Hello! I got one of your midis in August (which I adore!) and kept the tag to remind me which size to get for my next order. I noticed that the tags numbers are slightly different from what is listed on the website (My size A tag says 10 to 30 inches), but I can't find anything mentioning a sizing change. Was there a change in sizing that I missed? Thanks!

so the sizes aren’t different, this is just one of those funky manufacturing things. size A’s completely at rest measurement is 10”, but if someone with a 10” waist (i.e. a child) wore the skirt, it would not stay up because for full elastic waistband items like the skirt, there is a minimum amount of tension that needs to be present for the garment to stay on. that’s why we say the minimum measurement for size A is 15” and not 10”, which is the actual unstretched size.

as for the larger end, idk why they put 30” because that is not the full stretch (it’s closer to 34”, with 32” being the max comfortable stretch). 30” was our target measurement for a full comfortable stretch for the A size—emphasis on comfortable, as maximum stretch is NOT comfortable to wear, so we always chop a couple inches off the top when providing sizing info. however in order to get a max comfortable stretch of 30”, the skirts need to have a resting waistband size of like 8” which is honestly a bit ridiculous. we did get prototypes made in this size and they were wayyyy too tiny, to the point where the factory didn’t even want to make them.

unfortunately, even tho we’ve tried to communicate this multiple times to get the tag sizing to reflect the actual sizing, our factory just doesn’t seem to understand what we’re asking for,

TLDR: the sizing info on the site is accurate and the info on the tag is not.

(tho it’s in the ballpark)

[inmate62763]

In my HMP prison issue uniform that is issued in UK prisons. In my HMP jeans and stripe shirt.

The yellow tag on the shirt pocket is the HM PRISON tag. One side says HM PRISON and on the reverse side of the tag it will say which prison the shirt the garment was manufactured in. Same applies to the jeans. There is a yellow HM PRISON tag on the back pocket.

[sybilius]

Old Internet Fridays #11: Fashion's Unseen Stories

Transform Trade Unseen Stories Project

What’s this?

What’s this website?

A UK based advocacy organization for better trade, that prioritizes workers and environmental sustainability. Originally known as Traidcraft Exchange, it split off from Traidcraft Plc to focus entirely on advocacy.

The "unseen stories" project is a 2023 project about textile homeworkers in Tirupur, Tamil Nadu, India. They were trained on photography and given nice cameras to document their own lives to raise awareness about homeworkers and their roles in the garment industry.

Okay, how did you find it?

Looking mainly for information about textile industry imports and fast fashion. I came from DuckDuckGo trying to find out where a lot of clothing manufacturing happens. This article from the BBC prompted me to research Bangladesh, which led me to this article, which then led me to the excellent but dense report on conditions post early COVID-19 and unfair practices from buyers, from Transform Trade. It's a bit too much to be the main topic of a post in this series, but here's a highlight of statistics that made me go "mmmm":

How's it doing on Internet Archive?

Kind of flabbergasted I got the first save, ngl! I'm not sure if this is because the stories were added recently or what, but happy to be a part of it.

What delighted you the most?

Okay, "delight" is a strong word-- this one was a thinky topic and no mistake. Regulars on my blog might know from the #math skirt tag that I'm making my first garment, and as a result, I'm thinking a lot of the clear and absolutely fucking absurd undervaluing of garment-making labour. Skimming that report netted me the knowledge that the minimum wage for textile-workers is $2.50 USD in Bangladesh. This is less than half of the urban living wage cited by this study, if you're wondering (and that's already hedging for a modest family).

The delightful part is how clearly the homeworkers are proud of what they do, and happy to be the ones with their hands on the camera. I liked that there was clearly enough freedom left to the individual artists to allow for pictures like this, literal time to smell the roses (from K. Selvrani):

Thanks for reading this far if you got here. I truly hope in my lifetime that textile-production and the way that garments are created, compensated, purchased, repaired and cherished undergoes major changes (fast fashion die challenge). I hope for the return of a certain amount of everyday savvy for basic repairs, and respect for the good work a local tailor can do for you. I hope every corner in the world can afford the time or is given the resources to have clothing that they cherish and can take care of. I have a lot of hopes, you see. <3

[carpe-mamilia]

List 5 topics you can talk on for an hour without preparing any material.

I was tagged by @bunny-banana - thank you!

1. 19th century fashion. How it changed over time, the various layers and garments, how the industrial revolution changed manufacturing, the disappearance of regional fashions... God, Common Misconceptions alone would take more than an hour.

2. Detectorists. Beautiful, warm sitcom that explores friendship, disappointment, history, the relationship between people and landscapes. There's a very subtle mysticism all the way through and the music (by The Unthanks and Johnny Flynn) is glorious.

3. Sasha Regan's all-male Gilbert & Sullivan productions. They are SO GOOD OMG. Absolutely magical pieces of theatre: fluid, poignant, beautifully staged, very funny, very queer, gorgeously sung.

4. Fin-de-siècle gothic horror. Go on, ask me about invasion narratives, hypocrisy, and homosexuality in Dracula/ The Picture of Dorian Gray/ Jekyll & Hyde. I actually did an off-the-cuff mini lecture about queerness in Dracula once when we were doing a New Year's Eve party on zoom in 2020 as a forfeit. But I was pissed as a newt so I don't remember any of it.

5. Various poems by Philip Larkin - most specifically Church Going, An Arundel Tomb, and First Sight

Tagging @vinceaddams @mischieffoal @shimyereh @stoportotouch @hegodamask

[clothing-labels-india-blog-blog]

How to Choose the Right Garment Label Manufacturers in Mumbai?

When it comes to the clothing industry, garment label manufacturers play a very important role. They help in producing labels that are used in different clothing lines. A lot of important information is contained in these labels such as size, brand name, fabric type, care instructions, etc. Thus, the overall garment aesthetic is improved.

So, in this article, we will be discussing in length how the right garment label manufacturers in Mumbai can be selected. Let us have a look: -

How you can choose the right garment Label Manufacturer?

If you want to meet specific needs that you might have, a good garment label manufacturer must be selected such that you can get top-quality labels. So some of the things that you need to consider are: -

Experience

It is recommended that you opt for a manufacturer that has extensive experience in creating labels for a wide range of clothing companies.

Quality

Make sure that the manufacturer that you are selecting uses high-quality materials for creating the labels and perhaps a quality control process is put into place.

Customization

Customization is a very important aspect to consider when choosing a garment manufacturer. So, select a manufacturer who can create unique labels matching your brand.

Price

You must compare the pricing of various manufacturers and select the one that can match with budget that you might be having.

Turnaround time

Choose a manufacturer whose turnaround time is not much and who can produce labels for you as per the deadline that you might be having.

What are the Advantages of Garment Label Manufacturers?

Manufacturing hassle is minimized

If you opt for a good garment label manufacturer, then you will be free from any kind of mental stress. These include paying labourers purchasing raw materials, running the manufacturing unit, etc. Thus, you can leave everything to the supplier.

The right Clothing can be selected

If you work with a good garment label manufacturer, then a wide range of clothing designs can be produced.

It will help you in building the brand

You can't build a brand without doing the marketing on your own. So, if you work alongside a good garment label manufacturer, then you will get a lot of time to build your brand.

Garment Labels – What are the different types?

The best garment label manufacturers in Mumbai create a wide range of labels which include: -

Woven Labels

They are made using woven fabric and they can easily withstand several washes. Besides this, they are quite durable as well.

Printed Labels

In the printed Labels, printing is done on the garment through screen printing or heat transfer. The best part is that they can be produced in large quantities and they turn out to be very cost-effective.

Leather Labels

The labels are made using leather and a premium touch is added to the garment.

Metal Labels

In this, metal is used as labels and it is used in the garment as an adhesive or rivets. Thus, through this, a unique touch can be provided to the garment.

Final Verdict

When it comes to the clothing industry, garment label manufacturers play a very important role. They help in providing all the important labels as well as improving the complete garment aesthetic.

So, above are some of the aspects that you need to consider when opting for a garment label manufacturer in Mumbai. In this way, all your needs would be fulfilled according to your budget. Lastly, in case of any queries, you can reach out to us and we would be happy to help you out.

[cusmytrims]

Custom real or faux leather labels & tags with brand logos for clothing, hats, crochet, bags

Manufacture and wholesale custom leather labels with any custom size, color, shape, or style. Logo can be embossed, debossed, gold stamped, etc. Also, you can print, or add metal logos on the custom leather patch. Custom leather labels with personalised logos are a great decoration for jeans garments, knitted or crocheted handmade items, etc. 

They are vintage, classic and timeless for fashion brands! As a leather label manufacturer and wholesaler, we supply high-end and luxurious jeans leather labels to make your brand stand out!

Email: info@cusmytrims.com;

WhatsApp: (+86)19980532214; 

[thoughtportal]

Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus and other brands were buying clothes from a 'sweatshop' that paid just $1.58 an hour — in California

Clothes with a "Made in the USA" tag account for a small fraction of sales in the American market, typically coming with a higher price tag. But when federal investigators looked at 50 contractors and manufacturers in Southern California, the heart of the domestic garment industry, they discovered that 80% were breaking one or more provisions of US labor law, according to the report published Wednesday.

Over a third of garment makers falsified their payroll records, investigators found, while more than a quarter kept no documentation at all. And while California in 2021 banned piece rate wages, where workers are paid based on how much they produce, the Department of Labor discovered that 32% of those investigated were still doing it, resulting in take-home pay that sometimes fell below the legal minimum.

[20dollarlolita]

Why you shouldn't buy lolita fashion at anime conventions:

AKA how I broke my own personal rules, and how I've been punished for not listening to Past Me.

Short version of a long story is that I went to an anime con, and there was a booth selling brandname lolita. I bought some, and it wasn't what I was told it would be. I should have known this, and I'm going to go into why exactly I should have known this.

So, let's start off with an economics lesson: if you sell something for less money than you paid for it, you lose money on that sale. While there's plenty of times that you might want to sell something for less money than you paid for it--a situation I'm going to call "cashflow is sometimes more important than profit"--you generally have a large booth at the dealer's hall at an anime convention because you are there to make money. This logically means that you're going to purchase items at an anime convention for more money than the vendor paid for them. This means that an item that's being sold for the same cost that the item costs from the manufacturer is going to be an item that the vendor purchased for less money than the cost of buying it from the manufacturer.

Now, if you're buying lolita fashion from someone who wears lolita fashion, or you're buying something from a booth being run by the maker of the fashion (or an official reseller), it's very possible that you could get things for equal cost to getting it officially. But, if you don't think the seller is able to get the garments as new-with-tags at a wholesale price, then you should really question if a garment is being sold as NWT at the price you'd pay to get it from the vendor.

So, ignoring that economics lesson was mistake number 1, on a list of many mistakes I made.

Mistake number two was remembering that this booth was, at the con previous to this one, selling lolita fashion at about $100 markup per dress, and had several garments that were replicas, and yet not having that be a big red flag that chased me the heck away from them. I kind of assumed that they had understood that doing so was a mistake, and I also assumed that if I could prove that a dress was not a replica, that it was legitimately the thing that it was being sold as. I should have known damn well that there IS a market for people at anime conventions to buy replicas. I literally said in the panel that I'd hosted not 20 minutes prior to my purchase that one thing that anime convention sellers will do is to take advantage of people who know that EGL is expensive, but who are not experienced enough to know what is normal expensive and what is a rip off.

Mistake number three was not taking the vendor's packaging as a huge red flag. They had the garments packed in plastic bags. I asked to see the inside tags and the wash tags, and she showed them to me, and they were legitimate. I didn't get a chance to inspect the whole dress outside of the plastic. However, it was listed as new with tags, and I could see the tag. I looked up the item number on the tag, and it was the item number for the dress in question.

Mistake number four was not asking my friends questions when I was concerned about the status of the lace. I have never bought brand new lolita, and I wasn't sure if the lace being kind of crushed was just normal. My friend who were there would have told me if I asked, but I didn't ask. The lace looked like lace does when you wash the dress and then don't re-shape the lace before you let it air-dry.

Mistake number five was not backing out of this transaction when the thing that should have been the biggest red flag happened. Quick reminder that I have hearing loss and so places with lots of background noise are very difficult to navigate. I also spent all of 2019 with my hand in a thumb spica and often forget that I can now move it like a normal hand. The woman running the booth often had her son translate for her. The tag for the dress that I wanted had fallen off. I held up the dress and asked her if the dress was the same cost as the other dresses, and held up fingers to indicate how many dollars it was. However, I'm pretty sure I forgot to tuck my thumb into my hand, so it looked like I was asking a price that was more than I was actually asking for. We agree on the price (or so I think) and she hands me a phone to pay with Square. The amount is a lot more than I expect it to be, and I tell her that I don't want it if it's that price. She grabs her translator and I tell him what's going on, and that I don't want the dress if the price is what she showed me. He just grabs the phone, writes out a price that's $100 less than what the woman running the booth gave me, and I pay.

If they have enough flexibility on the price such that they can just knock $100 off the price, and the dress is being sold as new with tags, well, that's a big red flag. That's a "the best movie of all is a masterpiece of art called Human Centipede" level red flag.

But, at the end of the day, I got caught up in the experience of getting to buy lolita fashion in person, and I made some pretty dumb decisions.

Anyway, let's go over the "buying lolita fashion at an anime con" rules that I ignored here:

Always remember that the vendor has to make a profit on their items. They had to have bought the item for less money than they're selling it for. Think about why and how they were able to do that.

Don't buy something without closely inspecting it. Definitely don't buy something that the vendor won't allow you to inspect. If they're asking a price over $75 or so, they should be understanding when you want to make sure it doesn't have flaws.

Ask questions. Again, if they're asking for more than $50 or so, they should be understanding when you ask for information. While the dress I bought was in a bag and with the original tags attached to the garment and prominently displayed, no one ever actually said the words, "oh yes, this is new with tags." While they were obviously implying that, I'm pretty sure that if I called them out on it, they'd pull a "we never said that!" card. If I'd explicitly asked, "is this item brand new?" and they said yes, then they would have actually lied to me. Asking, "this is a really good price! Where did you get these from?" isn't particularly rude.

Remember that you can back out of the transaction at any time before they run your card. If it feels wrong, don't commit unless you've found something to make you stop feeling like that. It doesn't matter if they've already punched the total into their card reader or if they've already bagged up the item. It's your money, and you can decide not to use it.

One of the seller's biggest tools is to create a feeling of urgency or scarcity. Source: My job is sales and I do this a lot. This isn't necessarily a lie, especially in a convention context. There's going to be other people looking at the same item, and if you walk away, you might not be able to buy it later. However, do not let that feeling override any other feelings of red flags. Be honest: when you left your house or hotel this morning, did you plan on buying a lolita dress? If you weren't planning on getting it, then you didn't lose something if it sells. There's probably also not as much scarcity or urgency as the vendor is going to imply, especially at higher price points. Yes, a lot of people have been looking at the dress, but how many of them are going to spend $400+ on an impulse buy. Most of the people going, "Oh, that's so pretty!!" are going to be people who back out when they see the cost.

If it feels too good, then it probably is. While it's nice to get a cool bargain, if this feels like you're getting the best deal of your entire life, then that's a big heckin' concern.

Do remember that the vendor might be doing you a service in bringing the product to the convention. Buying a single item from Taobao can be expensive, so if a vendor bought a huge lot of items from Taobao and marks up the price, it's not unreasonable for you to see that marked up price as worth it, since it includes the cost of them performing the service of getting the items to where you can buy it locally.

There's also a lot of reasons why a smaller vendor might be selling an item where it's clearly being sold for less than normal prices. If there's an emotional reason to let a dress go, that will often drive the price down. If the seller needs money right now (cashflow-not-profit), that'll drive the price down. If it's an item that they later realized they didn't want, or an item that didn't fit, they might let it go for less. Remember that, if you're buying the item, it's reasonable for you to ask why it's such a good deal.

Anyway, I really don't mind buying a dress that's been washed and has some stains on it. I do that all the time. I do mind that it's a dress that I was told was new, but now I need to do that. I'm pretty pissed about this, both at the seller and at myself. I know better. I KNOW better. It's absolutely the seller's fault for staging these like they're new, and hiding the damage by discouraging people from inspecting them, but I fucking KNOW not to fall for that.

Anyway, don't be like me, buy your Brand from the seller or people who have a legitimate reason for selling it so cheap.

[haggishlyhagging]

"Some enchanted evening, you will see a stranger. . . ." The music came up at the MK Club in New York, and the buyers and fashion writers, who had been downing drinks from the open bar for more than an hour, quieted as rose-colored lights drenched the stage. Six models in satin panties and lace teddies drifted dreamily into view and took turns swooning on the main stage prop—a Victorian couch. The enervated ladies—"Sophia," "Desiree," "Amapola"—languorously stroked their tresses with antique silver hairbrushes, stopping occasionally to lift limp hands to their brows, as if even this bit of grooming overtaxed their delicate constitutions.

The press release described the event as Bob Mackie's "Premiere collection" of fantasy lingerie. In fact, the Hollywood costume designer (author of Dressing for Glamour) had introduced a nearly identical line ten years before. It failed then in a matter of weeks but the women of the late '80s, Mackie believed, were different. “I see it changing,”Mackie asserts. "Women want to wear very feminine lingerie now."

Mackie got this impression not from women but from the late-80s lingerie industry, which claimed to be in the midst of an "Intimate Apparel Explosion." As usual, this was a marketing slogan, not a social trend. Frustrated by slackening sales, the Intimate Apparel Council—an all-male board of lingerie makers—established a special public relations committee in 1987. Its mission: Stir up "excitement."

The committee immediately issued a press release proclaiming that "cleavage is back" and that the average woman's bust had suddenly swelled from 34B to 36C. "Bustiers, corsets, camisoles, knickers, and petticoats," the press kits declared, are now not only "accepted" by women but actually represent "a fashion statement." A $10,000 focus-group study gathered information for the committee about the preferences of manufacturers and retail buyers. No female consumers were surveyed. "It's not that we aren't interested in them," Karen Bromley, the committee's spokesperson, explains. "There's just limited dollars."

In anticipation of the Intimate Apparel Explosion, manufacturers boosted the production of undergarments to its highest level in a dozen years. In 1987, the same year the fashion industry slashed its output of women's suits, it doubled production of garter belts. Again, it was the "better-business" shopper that the fashion marketers were after; in one year, the industry nearly tripled its shipments of luxury lingerie. Du Pont, the largest maker of foundation fabrics, simultaneously began a nationwide "education program," which included "training videos" in stores, fitting room posters and special "training" tags on the clothes to teach women the virtues of underwire bras and girdles (or "body shapers," as they now called them—garments that allow women "a sense of control"). Once again, a fashion regression was billed as a feminist breakthrough. "Women have come a long way since the 1960s," Du Pont's sales literature exulted. "They now care about what they wear under clothes.

The fashion press, as usual, was accommodating. "Bra sales are booming" the New York Daily News claimed. Its evidence: the Intimate Apparel Council's press release. Enlisting one fake backlash trend to promote another, the New York Times claimed that women were rushing out to buy $375 bustiers to use "for cocooning." Life dedicated its June 1989 cover to a hundredth-anniversary salute, "Hurrah for the Bra," and insisted, likewise without data, that women were eagerly investing in designer brassieres and corsets. In an interview later, the article's author, Claudia Dowling, admits that she herself doesn't fit the trend; when asked, she can't even recall what brand bra she wears: "Your basic Warner whatever, I guess," she says.

Hollywood also hastened to the aid of the intimate-apparel industry, with garter belts in Bull Durham, push-up bras in Dangerous Liaisons, and merry-widow regalia galore in Working Girl. TV did its bit, too, as characters from "The Young and the Restless" to "Dynasty" jumped into bustiers, and even the women of "thirtysomething" inspected teddies in one shopping episode.

The fashion press marketed the Intimate Apparel Explosion as a symbol of modern women's new sexual freedom. "The 'Sexy' Revolution Ignites Intimate Apparel," Body Fashions announced in its October 1987 cover story. But the magazine was right to put quotes around "sexy." The cover model was encased in a full-body girdle, and the lingerie inside was mostly of Victorian vintage. Late-'80s lingerie celebrated the repression, not the flowering, of female sexuality. The ideal Victorian lady it had originally been designed for, after all, wasn't supposed to have any libido.

A few years before the Intimate Apparel Explosion, the pop singer Madonna gained notoriety by wearing a black bustier as a shirt. In her rebellious send-up of prim notions of feminine propriety, she paraded her sexuality and transformed "intimate apparel" into an explicit ironic statement. This was not, however, the sort of "sexy revolution" that the fashion designers had in mind. "That Madonna look was vulgar," Bob Mackie sniffs. "It was overly sexually expressive. The slits and the clothes cut up and pulled all around; you couldn't tell the sluts from the schoolgirls." The lingerie that he advocated had "a more ladylike feminine attitude."

Late Victorian apparel merchants were the first to mass-market "feminine" lingerie, turning corsets into a "tight-lacing" fetish and weighing women down in thirty pounds of bustles and petticoats. It worked for them; by the turn of the century, they had ushered in "the great epoch of underwear." Lingerie publicists of the '80s offered various sociological reasons for the Victorian underwear revival, from "the return of marriage" to "fear of AIDS"—though they never did explain how garter belts ward of infection. But the real reason for the Victorian renaissance was strictly business. “Whenever the romantic Victorian mood is in, we are going to do better,” explains Peter Velardi, chairman of the lingerie giant Vanity Fair and a member of the Intimate Apparel Council's executive committee.

In this decade's underwear campaign, the intimate-apparel industry owed its heaviest promotional debt to the Limited, the fashion retailer that turned a California lingerie boutique named Victoria's Secret into a national chain with 346 shops in five years. "I don't want to sound arrogant," Howard Gross, president of Victoria's Secret, says, "but . . . we caused the Intimate Apparel Explosion. We started it and a lot of people wanted to copy it."

The designers of the Victoria's Secret shop, a Disneyland version of a 19th-century lady's dressing room, packed each outlet with "antique" armoires and sepia photos of brides and mothers. Their blueprint was quickly copied by other retailers: May's "Amanda's Closet," Marshall Field's "Amelia's Boutique," Belk's "Marianne's Boutique," and Bullock's "Le Boudoir." Even Frederick's of Hollywood reverted to Victoriana, replacing fright wigs with lace chemises, repainting its walls in ladylike pinks and mauves and banning frontal nudity from its catalogs. "You can put our catalog on your coffee table now," George Townson, president of Frederick's, says proudly.

The Limited bought Victoria's Secret in 1982 from its originator, Roy Raymond, who opened the first shop in a suburban mall in Palo Alto, California. A Stanford MBA and former marketing man for the Vicks company—where he developed such unsuccessful hygiene products as a post-defecation foam to dab on toilet paper—Raymond wanted to create a store that would cater to his gender. "Part of the game was to make it more comfortable to men," he says. "I aimed it, I guess, at myself." But Raymond didn't want his female customers to think a man was running the store; that might put them off. So he was careful to include in the store's catalogs a personal letter to subscribers from "Victoria," the store's putative owner, who revealed her personal preferences in lingerie and urged readers to visit "my boutique." If customers called to inquire after Ms. Victoria's whereabouts, the salesclerks were instructed to say she was "traveling in Europe." As for the media, Raymond's wife handled all TV appearances.

Raymond settled on a Victorian theme both because he rise renovating his own Victorian home in San Francisco at the time and because it seemed like "a romantic happy time." He explains: “It’s that Ralph Lauren image . . . that people were happier then. I don't know if that is really true. It's just the image in my mind, I guess created by all the media things I've seen. But it's real.”

Maybe the Victorian era wasn't the best of times for the female population, he acknowledges, but he came up with a marketing strategy to deal with that problem: women are now "liberated" enough to choose corsets to please themselves, not their men. "We had this whole pitch," he recalls, "that the woman bought this very romantic and sexy lingerie to feel good about herself, and the effect it had on a man was secondary. It allowed us to sell these garments without seeming sexist." But was it true? He shrugs. "It was just the philosophy we used. The media picked it up and called it a 'trend,' but I don't know. I've never seen any statistics."

When the Limited took over Victoria's Secret, the new chief continued the theme. Career women want to wear bustiers in the boardroom, Howard Gross says, so they can feel confident that, underneath it all, they are still anatomically correct. "Women get a little pip, a little perk out of it," he explains. “It's like, ‘Here I am at this very serious business meeting and they really don't know that I'm wearing a garter belt!’” Gross didn't have any statistics to support this theory, either: "The company does no consumer or market research, absolutely none! I just don't believe in it." Instead of asking everyday women what they wanted in underwear, Gross conducted in-house brainstorming sessions where top company managers sat around a table and revealed their "romantic fantasies." Some of them, Gross admits, were actually "not so romantic" like the male executive who imagined, "I'm in bed with eighteen women."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women