#i am NOT a seamstress i cannot be making my own pattern

[dont-open-dead-inside-25]

i need to kill someone fr. i KNOW what his coat is i don't need to be told about it. can someone tell me what the fuck's going on with his jacket

[circle--of--confusion]

The Cardinal and the Seamstress

Hello, all! This is my first Ghost fanfic! I have been in a Dracopia brainrot due to a knitting project I'm formulating and then I saw an edit that got my brain cogs CHURNING. Hopefully you enjoy!

Pairing: (dracopia) Cardinal Copia x OC

Summary: the Cardinal is suddenly thrust into the spotlight and finds solace in the clergy's sewing departments' assistant, Sarah

Warnings: mentions of blood, biting

Words: ~1.7k

Chapter 1 - Introductions and Intrigue

| ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE |

Read on AO3

MASTERLIST

banner and dividers courtesy of: gothdaddyissues AND ghuleh-recs

Cardinal Copia is a man who considers himself someone who cannot be distracted easily. Centuries on this Earth have taught him the focus he needs to bring the Clergy to great success over the years, up to the leadership of Papa Emeritus the Third. Terzo. Lately, however, Copia’s mind keeps wandering while he looks over ancient texts for future Black Mass sermons. There’s... instability brewing amongst the higher-ranking members. Sister Imperator has kept her mouth shut during this whole ordeal. Terzo is no longer going to front the Ghost project but there hasn’t been any word on who will be the next Papa.

At least, this is what Copia tells himself that this is what his mind is occupied about. It can’t help that the new clergy seamstress assistants keep coming to him with fabric samples. Why should he care? Its just a new cassock. What good would his opinion be on fabric? Though, he will admit, heightened senses do make certain material an absolute nightmare to wear.

The past few days have been nagging at him. He’s felt restless. Anxious, even. Copia stands and walks over to his drinks cart. A quick sip of anything to calm his mind! He has an important meeting with Imperator and Papa Nihil today, whatever that may be about.

Tape measure… pencils and eraser… notebooks… Rullers…

 The sound of a door opening broke Sister Sarah’s concentration. A big project is coming upon the clergy sewing department and the upper members have been silent about it to anyone but Sister Amelia, the head of the sewing department.

“I was curious if you were going to be getting here via trike. Ha!” Sister Amelia shouts behind her, chuckling at her joke while walking into the studio space.

A voice responds back. “Oh! Ehe.. You uh.. know about that?”

Cardinal Copia?

Sister Amelia chuckles. “Word travels fast in these hallowed halls, Cardinal Copia.”

“Ah.”  Is all the Cardinal can respond with. His mouth forms an awkward straight line. He looks down to the floor and fidgets with his hands.

Sarah can’t help but be endeared to the old cardinal. Most members of the clergy can be uptight but not Copia. In his devoted service to the clergy, he always seems to be able to bring his own sense of whimsy. His cassocks are well pressed and his hair is slicked back, barely a strand out of place, but he likes to unwind by riding a tricycle around the halls. Who does that?!

“Hello Cardinal! It’s a pleasure to see you.” Sarah says. He looks startled.

“Yes, ciao Sister…” He takes her hand. “Mi dispiace, Sister my mind has been in twenty different directions today” The cardinal responds.

“It’s Sarah, Cardinal.”

“Sarah. Bene.” he bows his head at her.

A small blush spreads to the surface of her cheeks. She stares at her hand after the cardinal lets go. It feels tingly. How odd.

Sister Amelia gestures to Copia and the small platform in the middle of the room. “Please, Cardinal, step onto this platform so we can get your measurements. Oh, Sarah, could you please go and fetch my binder of men’s suit pattern blocks? Our dear Cardinale is going to need a new wardrobe!” She looks back to Copia.

Sarah’s ears perked up. Is Cardinal Copia going to head the Ghost project? Does Papa Terzo know? Am I allowed to know this information?

“Right away!” Sarah responds, dashing to the pattern closet. Lost in her thoughts, it takes a couple tries through the binders to find the correct one. Before leaving she thinks to grab a roll of pattern paper.

“Great instincts in grabbing the pattern paper. I’m thinking we make something… different this time and it will require new pattern pieces to work with.” Amelia looks to Copia. “Cardinal? What would your opinion be if we made the pants more... fitted to you than normal?” Amelia has a smirk on her face that could only lead to mischief. Copia looks like he just might pass out.

“Sister Amelia I am not sure I can fully visualize it but I trust your judgement!” Copia responds.

Amelia nods and gets to work. Over the next 40 minutes she measures Copia while Sarah notes it down. Occasionally she’ll make a note on more fabrics to consider or colors. Copia stands as still as possible and follows the direction of Amelia on when to raise his arms. Sarah notices for this fitting that Copia’s mind seems elsewhere. His eyes wandering off only to occasionally flit back on her through the mirror’s reflection. Even through the reflection in the mirror, Copia’s eyes pierced into her soul. Occasionally the Cardinal’s hands flex in his gloves and then balls them into fists, repeating it a few times before stopping.  

Copia walks into his quarters with a deep, tired sigh. It’s been a long day. His hallway “meeting” with Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil was… enlightening. “New blood” Copia remarks to himself. How ironic. Walking into his bedroom to change he glances at the calendar and immediately his eyes widen at what he has written for the next few days. 

“Merda!” Copia slaps his hands to his face and grimaces. Today is a feeding day! He walks out of his bedroom and over to the refrigerator for the blood bags he keeps on hand for these days. Bless this clergy. His vampiric condition is well known amongst the clergy and volunteers have given their blood to help Copia when he needs nourishment. To at least feel some dignity he fetches a wine glass from the cabinet and pours the blood into it.

Wine glass now filled, he moves to a plush chair in the living room. He lets out a content sigh at the first few sips. How could I let this sneak up on me? He thinks. It’s all the work! The Ministry has asked so much of him in the last few months. And now he will lead the Ghost Project? That couldn’t possibly be what they’re thinking?

He takes another sip of the wine. Sister Sarah? Is she new? Copia ponders if he’s seen her around the halls. She seemed excited to meet him. She must be a recently inducted member of the clergy. Maybe she was just one of the several seamstress assistants Amelia recently acquired and was anxious to get started. Copia hadn’t remembered any faces of the siblings who come into his office with requests from their bosses. He’s so used to people asking things from him he seldom remembers their faces. Only their voices ever seem to register while he pours through his work.

Another sip. Copia is almost fully back to himself. The blood is working well to improve his mood after this hellish day. I wonder if I’ll be seeing more of Sister Sarah at these fittings? Copia looks at his almost finished glass of blood “wine”. Hmm. I wonder what her blood might taste like on my tongue- Cazzo! Copia sits up straighter in his chair. Where did that come from?

Sarah is making her way down to the dining area for dinner after Amelia dismissed her for the day. The Cardinal has not left her mind since their whole encounter this afternoon. His eyes. She cannot get those duo chrome eyes out of her head. Maybe this ministry is all so new still. Sarah thinks. I’ll get used it.

  Food and drink in hand she makes her way to a table to eat. A fellow assistant of Amelia’s flags down Sarah to come eat with him. Alex, she remembers. Very helpful in keeping up with Amelia’s fast paced work. Sarah smiles to Alex for keeping a seat open.

“No worries, newbie.” Alex jokes. “I could tell from across the room you were a bit frazzled.”

“Shes just so… y’know?” Sarah huffs while taking a bite of food.

“Oh. I know. Every new assistant that comes through Amelia’s studio in the beginning gets what I like to call “The Gauntlet”. Full-on chaos for the first month or so.”

 “A month?”

“Or so! Depends on the project.” He muses.

Sarah hangs her head. “I have a feeling this will be longer than ‘a month or so’, Alex.”

“Welp! Stock up on snacks. She likes to pull all-nighters towards the end.” Alex responds kindly.

For a while they sit in silence while they eat. Sarah uses this time to take in all the sights and sounds of the mundane in something as absurd as a satanic ministry. She notices the upper clergy all eating their meals together like how teachers would eat together at lunch in school. Though, she thinks someone is missing. Cardinal Copia.

She turns to Alex. “Hey, where’s Cardinal Copia? It’s dinner time. He’s gonna miss the meal window.”

“Wait. You don’t know? He doesn’t exactly, uh, eat with everyone else all the time.” Alex looks surprised.

“I’m not following.” Sarah responds.

Alex rips off the Band-Aid. “He’s a vampire.”

Sarah laughs. Loud. Some surrounding clergy members turn around in their seats at the commotion. “Oh, wait, you’re serious?” Sarah stops laughing. “He’s a vampire?” Alex nods. “Full-on, blood sucking creature of the night?” Another nod from Alex. “Well, shit.” Sarah sits back in her chair, stunned.

Alex chuckles. “Yeah it always takes new members by surprise. Somehow devils and demons are easy to believe thanks to the presence of the Ghouls. But Copia’s vampirism is drawing the line!”  Alex waives his hands dramatically.        

“So… How does he get blood? Does he ever feed off of anyone?”

“Siblings volunteer to give blood. He needs a good amount to feed off of but only has to do it every 2 or 3 weeks. Depends on his mood and let me tell you-“ Alex warns. “You do not want to be in his way when he’s getting too close to the threshold of feeding.

Sarah nods her head. “Noted.”              

A short while later dinner is done and all the siblings and clergy members head back to their rooms. Alex’s words hadn’t left her mind. Vampire. Her hand, the one Copia held, comes to her mind as well; the buzzy feeling she felt earlier today comes back. That night Sarah dreamed of a particular Cardinal in red. Two-toned eyes circled in black paint and baring sharp teeth. She had dreams of sharp teeth imbedded in her neck sending tingly feelings all over her body while she slept.

I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think :) I aim to update once a week if I can get my brain to work.

[bluishfrog]

The way I was intrigued

I can see why and I am sorry to disappoint. While my youtube algorithm is a very weird mix of random stuff, I sadly cannot think of a single recommendation I could give you in that direction.

I can offer a chaotic seamstress measuring in any unit but official measurements, a chaotic coder fighting his own code for a living, a chaotic inventor who makes weird things, ... hey, there's a pattern

[iliveiloveiwrite]

winged cupid painted blind // Anthony Bridgerton

Request: I’d really love something based on love story by Taylor Swift. The lines “We keep quite cuz we’re dead if they knew” and “take me somewhere we can be alone” stick out to me //  I was thinking that the reader could be from a family that isn’t well off and her and Anthony meet at a ball somehow. They create a ruse that she’s from a well known family so that the gossips in the ton don’t attack her because Anthony has fallen in love with a “commoner.” All the Bridgertons are in on the ruse and at the end of the story Anthony proposes - @whovianwholikesgirls

A/N: Why is it that every Bridgerton fic I write, I end up writing thousands and thousands of words? This is long and I am sorry for that! As always, I hope I have done your request justice and that I hope you like!

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: she/her pronouns, female reader, class divides, pining, mutual pining, lots of fluff, dancing, kissing, happy ending, Anthony in love.

Word count: 7.7k

Madame Delacroix’s took up the central property on the most prosperous street coming just off of Grosvenor Square. The most popular modiste in London, many of society’s richest families flocked to her door in order to claim their own dress made by the talented seamstress.

Anthony sighs as he climbs down from the carriage. His mother must be in a particular benevolent mood to send him to pick up her newest dress from the modiste. Anthony would much rather be spending his day at his club, but he finds himself ringing the modiste’s bell for service.

“Monsieur Bridgerton!” Madame Delacroix smiles, delighted at the sight of the Viscount. “How can I help you?” She asks, her smile turning flirtatious.

Anthony responds with his own flirtatious smile. “I’m here to pick up a dress for my mother.”

“Of course, of course,” Madame Delacroix sings, “I have it over here. I finished it last night. It is divine!”

“My mother will surely thank you,” Anthony states earnestly, his gaze dancing around the room filled to the brim with fabrics and ribbons, models and hoops.

“No need,” Madame Delacroix, “The Bridgertons are my best customers.”

Anthony takes the offered box, marvelling at the lightness of its weight. For all the skirts, for all the numerous pieces of fabric that go into making a dress, Anthony will always remain shocked at the featherlight weight of it.

“Will Lady Bridgerton be wearing this to the Hastings’ ball tonight?” The modiste asks, her tone light as she tries her best to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice.

“Most likely,” Anthony smiles, tipping his head in goodbye.

The modiste calls out her goodbyes as Anthony walks out the door. He doesn’t pay much attention to where he is going; only knowing that he needs to turn left in order to reach his carriage. The very thought has him rushing, safe in the knowledge that the quicker he got his done, the quicker he would be at his club.

It’s that self-indulgent thought that had Anthony distracted enough to walk into something hard.

“Oh!” A feminine voice gasps as Anthony catches her elbow whilst keeping a tight hold on the dress box.

“My apologies,” Anthony offers, steadying the unknown woman.

“You’re forgiven,” She murmurs dryly, turning her attention back to the seamstresses window.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Lord Bridgerton.”

“My pleasure, Miss…”

“(Y/L/N).”

“My pleasure, Miss (Y/L/N),” Anthony repeats, adjusting the dress box in his hands. He goes to say something else but notices her slyly counting the money in her purse, watching her frown when she realises she cannot afford the prices set by Madame Delacroix.

“Have a nice day, Lord Bridgerton,” Miss (Y/L/N) remarks, stepping away from the Viscount to begin her walk home. She didn’t need a Viscount to be witness to her money troubles; she had thought she had enough, but the prices must have been increased since the last time she had wandered past the window. It would be another two weeks of saving before she could afford a new set of ribbons; it wasn’t worth it at this point, she sighed to herself.

“You too!” Anthony shouts to her retreating figure, feeling upset on her behalf that she could not afford the ribbons she was so dazedly admiring. Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling, Anthony climbs into the carriage, thinking of the young woman all the way home.

-----

“Jayne!” (Y/N) laughs, “Slow down! I’m going to lose a shoe.”

“Alright, Cinderella,” Jayne snickers, slowing her pace as she climbs the winding staircase to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

“Have you ever seen such a home?” (Y/N) gasps; eyes widening as she takes in the grand structure. The brickwork is immaculate; many red bricks painted black to give the impression of a crosshatch pattern spreading across the building. This is only highlighted by the many windows; all seemingly lit by a countless number of candles and sconces.

“(Y/N)!” Jayne shouts, “Stop admiring the building! We have a dance to get to.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” (Y/N) laughs, hurrying after her friend who has already handed over their invitation.

Jayne grips (Y/N)’s hand tightly as they enter the ballroom together. The event is in full swing; the dancefloor already full with couples dancing a quadrille.

“Would you dance with me?” The handsome brunette asks of Jayne, staring at her hopefully. Jayne casts her gaze to (Y/N), not wanting to leave her friend, but wanting very much to dance with the handsome man.

(Y/N) nudges Jayne forward, answering for her. “She would be delighted.”

Jayne sends her a thankful smile as she joins more and more couples on the dancefloor.

The drinks table isn’t busy at all as (Y/N) wanders over. She makes sure to keep an eye on Jayne, watching her dance with what looks to be a Rokesby. (Y/N) shakes her head fondly at her friend; ten minutes into a ball and she’s already caught the attention of a member of one of the richest families in England.

Turning her attention away from her friend, (Y/N) reaches for a glass of lemonade when her hand brushes with a man clearly wanting the same glass. (Y/N) pulls her hand away, not wanting to cause any trouble at a ball she wasn’t even invited to.

“My apologies,” She murmurs, grabbing another glass from the many.

“You’re forgiven,” A voice drawls. (Y/N) glances upwards through her lashes to find Anthony Bridgerton watching her with a confused expression.

“Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) greets, curtseying lightly at the sight of her superior.

Anthony nods. He remains silent as he stands next to her; it’s not an awkward silence, rather, one where (Y/N) can practically hear the cogs and gears winding in Anthony’s mind, trying to figure out where he knows her from. If he knows her at all.

“I met you this morning,” Anthony recalls suddenly, snapping his fingers together when he remembers why he recognises the woman standing next to him.

“You almost knocked me over,” She states wryly, lifting her glass to her lips to take a tentative sip of the lukewarm lemonade.

“I believe I apologised for that, Miss (Y/L/N).”

“Call me (Y/N). And I forgave you,” She states simply, “But It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you forget it, however.”

“I’d be disappointed in you, if you did.”

(Y/N) laughs. The very sound music to Anthony’s ears and he briefly wonders whether he could have the sound imprinted on his brain; to hear her laughter for an eternity.

“What are you doing here?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his lemonade before wrinkling his nose. Too sweet, not sour enough. “Are you here with your parents?”

“I wasn’t technically invited,” She confesses to the Viscount in a conspiratorial whisper. Anthony’s eyes widen when her words land, “What?”

“I came to chaperone my friend, Jayne. You may know her, she’s Lord Dorchester’s daughter.”

Anthony nods; he knew the man well, drank with him a few times at his club – dreadfully dull with a fascination for military history. Much like many of the men of his father’s generation.

“Anyway,” (Y/N) continues, “Jayne wanted to go, but needed a chaperone as her mother has taken ill – nothing serious thankfully. I was the next best option so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Anthony parrots, enunciating every syllable as his eyes pour over her figure. “If you weren’t invited, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a governess for Lord and Lady Saville,” She answers proudly; a happy smile on her face as she thinks of her students.

“I hated my governess,” Anthony confesses with a laugh. “I don’t care much for Latin which she knew so she would make me do double the work.”

(Y/N) snorts. “Latin is a very useful language; it’s a good skill to have.”

“I know that now,” Anthony gripes, “I just didn’t know that at ten years old.”

Silence descends between them. Again, not uncomfortable, but a natural stopping point in their conversation. After all, titled gentleman such as the man stood beside her didn’t speak to her occupation outside of a brief conversation about their child’s progress in their education.

(Y/N) places her finished glass of lemonade back on the table before smoothing out the deep blue skirts of her borrowed dress. She clears her throat, ready to make her excuses and check on Jayne when Anthony speaks first.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Pardon?”

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a governess, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Call me Anthony, please.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to dance with someone of your own class, Anthony.”

“I don’t want to dance with them. I want to dance with you.”

His argument is straight to the point; no beating around the bush that (Y/N) finds it hard to find fault with it. Instead, she sighs, “One dance.”

“One dance,” Anthony promises, holding out his hand for her to grasp.

She didn’t expect to find herself the centre of the Viscount’s attention, but she cannot bring herself to mind much. Not as he holds out a hand for her to take; not as he leads to her to the dancefloor and not as he settles a palm against her lower back. The feel of his hand feeling so right that she loses the power of speech.

The music begins and (Y/N) travels to a new place entirely. The room melts away; the couples, the families. They all disappear. The only two people in the room are her and Anthony; his blue eyes fixed on her as they start to circle the room in waltz. There’s no need for conversation; all words passed by looks alone.

When the music dies and the room fades back into view, (Y/N) only wonders whether she would feel like this again, whether they would be anyone to make her feel like this again. As Anthony bows and kisses her hand, (Y/N) has her answer.

----------

He doesn’t stop thinking about her. She left soon after they finished dancing; her friend finding her and asking whether she was ready to leave. Anthony wanted to argue; wanted to reach for (Y/N) and pull her back to his embrace where they could dance the night away.

Anthony returned home and went straight to his room. He undressed mechanically; still thinking of her as he slipped between his sheets and tried to fall asleep only to find that sleep was a fickle friend that would not be granting him a visit tonight.

He remains awake; thinking of every aspect of her. He didn’t think he would see her again after the modiste; it was a shock to find her at the ball, but he took the opportunity with both hands to find that he had quickly become infatuated with her.

Could this be called love? Anthony rolls over in bed; tangling himself up in the sheets as he runs a hand up and down his bare chest, thinking the question over and over.

He felt as if he had hit by the arrow of Cupid; as if he had handed himself over voluntarily to be pricked with one of the god’s arrows. He’s never felt like this; no woman had ever kept him awake at night in such a manner.

Groaning, Anthony reaches for the pillow on the other side of the bed, hugging it to his chest. All the while, he dreams it was her body he was pressing close to.

The day after the Ball, Anthony strides from his study to his mother’s drawing room. There, he sits next to his beloved mother, and asks her to gather his siblings for a family meeting.

They arrive one by one. The youngest arriving first; a simple call from the bottom of the stairs has Gregory and Hyacinth rushing to the drawing room, each one adamant that they didn’t do it, but rather their sibling. Anthony shakes his head in exasperation, not wanting to know what they were referring to and instead, asks them to take a seat on the pale blue couch in front of the window.

Over the course of an hour, Anthony’s family arrive. Each one just as curious as the last, each one just as questioning as the last. “Why have you gathered us here, Anthony?” Daphne sighs, her hand resting on Simon’s knee.

“I’ve met someone,” Anthony announces. He frowns at the shocked gasps from Daphne and Eloise; was he really so incapable of finding himself a wife? He ignores the jibes from them both, turning to face his dear mother.

Violet Bridgerton sits in her favourite chair; the one next to it empty as it has been for the last decade. Edmund Bridgerton died so suddenly, and their love was so strong, Anthony knew that there was no recovery from it. “Do we know her?” She asks; her face showing the happiness she feels for her eldest son.

“No,” Anthony sighs, settling down next to his youngest sister, Hyacinth. She offers him a sweet smile as he sits; Anthony cannot help but return the smile and ruffle her hair. When the moment is over, Anthony focuses his attention back onto his family who he finds is watching him intently. “She’s a governess,” He admits, straightening in his seat.

“A respectable profession,” Eloise states with a smile. Anthony feels a rush of affection for his sister; he had always been wary for her outspokenness, but right now, he could thank her heartily.

“What’s the problem, Anthony?” Eloise continues, crossing her ankles, leaning forward in interest.

“I think she may have feelings for me as well, but she’s hesitant to act on them because of our differences.”

“Differences?” Hyacinth questions curiously; unaware of such class differences at such a young age.

“(Y/N) is a governess. I am a Viscount,” Anthony explains, “It would be the subject of gossip for years to come should anything happen between us.”

“So we come up with another story,” Francesca suggests, shrugging her shoulders as if her suggestion was always the answer.

“Another story?” Daphne wonders, eyes glancing between her husband and her family.

“We create a ruse,” Francesca explains to her elder sister. “A story for (Y/N) and Anthony to follow when out in public.”

“Do you think she would go along with this?” Benedict asks; his tone wary as he thinks of the possible implications this could have for his family.

Anthony remains silent, tapping a finger against his cheek as he thinks of whether (Y/N) would follow such a ruse. “Why don’t we ask her? I can send a summons.”

Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange in silence, nods. “Send her a message asking her to come as quick as she can. Tell her it isn’t an emergency, but that you would like to talk to her.”

Anthony nods; rushing from the drawing room to his study to pen such a message. After that, he calls on one of the footmen, handing them the letter and the strict duty of delivering this to (Y/N) personally. The footman nods; his face serious as he takes the letter from his employer’s hand, all but sprinting out of the door.

Anthony returns to the drawing room; taking his seat next to Hyacinth.

“Did you send the missive?” Violet asks. Anthony nods; doing his best to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. “I sent it with one of the footmen,” He answers, “It shouldn’t be long now.”

His family all nod, breaking off into separate conversations whilst Anthony remains stoic and silent. His leg bounces repeatedly; the only outward sign of his anxiety. Internally, he nerves were fraught. He couldn’t help but wonder whether this was all too much; he knew from their first meeting that Anthony would do anything for her, but if (Y/N) didn’t return such feelings then it was all for nothing.

Worries and thoughts continue to plague him as Anthony catches sight of Daphne leaning into Simon. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony cannot miss the devoted smile that crosses Simon’s face when he feels his wife press against him.

Longing breaks within Anthony’s chest, spreading through his body, leaving behind an ache that he doesn’t know how to heal.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” introduces the Butler, breaking Anthony’s longing in half.

He stands all too fast, appearing all too eager. Anthony shoots a glare in his brother’s direction when he hears their sniggering.

(Y/N) rushes into the room; her eyes filled with panic when she finds herself in front of the whole Bridgerton clan. “Anthony?” She whispers; her eyes finally meeting his from across the room.

“(Y/N),” He breathes, “Thank you for coming.”

“You told me not to worry, but you sounded so urgent.”

“We wanted to talk to you,” He explains, gesturing to his whole family. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

(Y/N) sits; her mind running a thousand miles a minute as she finds herself being watched by every Bridgerton/Basset in the room. The room is silent; too silent – no-one dares broach the subject first. They don’t want to anger Anthony or ruin his chances with (Y/N).

“Whatever is the matter?” (Y/N) finally asks, breaking the silence.

“We’ve come to understand that you and Anthony have feelings for each other,” Violet states quite plainly.

(Y/N) fidgets, somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I guess you could say that,” She offers, smiling smally at the aforementioned man.

“We also know that you’re worried about the differences between Anthony and yourself,” Violet continues to which Eloise huffs, crossing her arms in anger at the state of the class differences within England.

“It’s not so much worried,” (Y/N) explains, “It’s more resigned to the fact.”

Violet nods, understanding where the young governess is coming from. “Francesca,” Violet starts, nodding to the brunette sitting by one of Anthony’s brothers, “Has come up with an idea that we would like to run by you.”

“Oh?”

“It would mean that you and Anthony would be able to begin a courtship.”

(Y/N) feels herself flush; her face heating with how open the Bridgerton family were about their emotions. Their family unit so healthy and happy that everyone felt at ease to talk about whatever was on their minds.

“What did you have in mind?” (Y/N) asks, turning to face Francesca who responds with a large smile.

“We’re going to create a backstory for you. Not something terribly complicated, but something that you and Anthony can follow whilst out in public.”

“Okay…” (Y/N) whispers hesitantly, “What’s the backstory you’ve created?”

Francesca begins to look sheepish. “I haven’t thought of that part yet… I didn’t think Anthony would go for the first part.”

(Y/N) laughs; a light and airy sound that has Anthony straightening in his seat, smiling automatically. “Why don’t we come up with it together?”

“So you’re willing to go along with it?” Anthony asks; his voice unwaveringly hopeful as he refuses to look at anyone but (Y/N).

Something in his face has her nodding. “For as long as you’ll have me,” She answers earnestly, almost breathless when Anthony smiles widely in return.

“This is what I’ve thought of so far,” Colin announces, breaking the moment between Anthony and (Y/N).

The family turn to Colin to find him sat forward on his seat, an eager look across his face as he begins to lay out his plans. Anthony smiles and nods; happy with every word leaving his brother’s mouth.

(Y/N) cannot help but feel an ounce of doubt; not so much at the plan, but for longevity of it. How long would it be before Anthony realised she was not worth it? How long would it before the class difference between them became too much? She dreaded the day but knew it would be upon her before she realised.

----------

The annual picnic in Hyde Park drew in every affable family in London. After all, it was another excuse for mother’s to parade their daughters to the many eligible gentleman. For the gentlemen, it was a free lunch with whichever gazebo they chose to throw themselves upon.

The Bridgertons had been attending this picnic for many years; their station in society meaning that they were personally invited by the monarch. Violet took pride in her set up, making sure her cook’s famous biscuits were on display and that there was plenty of tea to go around. She also ensured that her family had the perfect view of the Serpentine; not too close for her children to fall in, but not too far for it to be out of sight. It was not a sorry affair.

(Y/N) had joined the family happily; talking briefly with Colin and Eloise before Hyacinth monopolised her attention. (Y/N) didn’t mind; she had taught many young girls the same age as Hyacinth and found them all a delight to educate. Hyacinth would be no different.

It wasn’t long, however, before Anthony joined her side. His hand settled comfortably on the small of her back, liking the way that she stepped closer to him, as if wanting to be in his presence all the time.  

“Did you have fun the other night?” Anthony questions, thinking back to Daphne’s ball when (Y/N) had smiled at him as he lead her across the dancefloor.

(Y/N) smiles. “I did. I had a lot of fun.”

“How are you feeling about our ruse?” Anthony queries, catching sight of Lady Featherington marching across the many blankets in the direction of the Bridgerton patch.

“Confident,” (Y/N) answers, “Why do you ask?”

Anthony smiles; shifting his position slightly so he can hear every word of the conversation about to happen. He ducks his head, his mouth close to her ear as he answers, “Because it’s about to be put to the test.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington calls; her gaudy green gown shimmering in the sunlight as she teeters her way to the matriarch of the fine family.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet greets, her voice as polite as ever. “How are you?”

Lady Featherington smiles at Violet; her gaze glancing around the colourful blankets and gazebo set out for the Bridgerton family to remain comfortable as the picnic progresses. Lady Featherington smiles when her eyes find the figure she was looking for. (Y/N) stands to the side, wrapped up in a conversation with Anthony that certainly looks to be a private one.

Lady Featherington nods towards (Y/N); the fascinator attached to her threatening to slip into her eyes. “You have a new addition to your family, Lady Bridgerton,” Lady Featherington states; no infliction of a question but one inferred all the same.

“(Y/N) is a distant friend of the family,” Violet answers breezily, “She hails from a wealthy family just outside of Leeds.”

“Leeds?”

Violet nods. “Yes, Leeds. It’s just over 20 miles outside of York, perhaps you’ve been?”

Lady Featherington smiles tightly at Violet. She smooths down the green panels of her dress. “A handful of times, Lady Bridgerton. After all, my side of the family hails from Manchester. The two aren’t so far removed.”

“Of course,” Violet appeases, “How does your family fare? I’d heard your mother was ill.”

Lady Featherington continues to smile graciously at the Dowager Viscount. Her eyes are brimming with warning and curiosity, but her smile is forced. “Mother is doing much better, she travelled to the coast. The latest journals are saying sea air helps with fragile conditions.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Lady Featherington nods her thanks to Violet before making her excuses. Violet’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she watches the notorious gossip walk away from her gazebo. Lady Featherington’s shoulders are tight with displeasure as she marches back to her own plot.

Violet returns to the stitching in her lap after a brief glance towards her youngest children. Gregory and Hyacinth occupied with Benedict and Colin as the older of the set teach their younger siblings games from their youth. Violet smiles at her children; content to return to the pattern at hand, the Dutch Tulips would not stitch themselves.

“What was Lady Featherington talking to you about?” Anthony asks. His face the very picture of innocence as he breaks his mother’s concentration and grabs two biscuits – one for him, the other he hands to (Y/N).

“She was fishing for information on our dear (Y/N),” Violet comments, observing her stitching to ensure it remains straight. “She didn’t find out a thing other than what we discussed.”

(Y/N) lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet waves away her gratitude with a dismissive hand. “You’re making my son happy; I’ll protect that and you with all that I have.”

(Y/N) flounders for a moment at the quick acceptance by Violet. She smiles at the matriarch; whispering her thanks to Violet, ducking her head as she tries to come to terms with rush of emotions coursing through her body.

Anthony returns his attention to the conversation; his mind no longer focused on way to distract Lady Featherington. He flashes a smile in (Y/N)’s direction; his heart racing when she sends her own smile back.

“(Y/N) and I are going to promenade, mother. You’ll be fine without us?”

Violet snorts. “Yes, dear. I have my seven other children to keep me company.”

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly at his mother. He presses a sweet kiss to her cheek before offering (Y/N) his arm.

They amble along the path; all the while aware of the maid sent by Violet shortly after they departed. Violet trusts (Y/N) implicitly, but she knows the reputation of her eldest son. The poor opera singer being prime evidence of his abilities to break hearts as quickly as he mends them.

“You look beautiful, by the way. In case I haven’t told you,” Anthony flirts, a handsome smile spreading across his face.

“You haven’t, but I’ll take the compliment now.”

Anthony laughs, throwing his head back in delight as they both pause their walk. “You are though,” Anthony murmurs, reaching out to brush a finger down (Y/N)’s cheek, “You’re beautiful.”

(Y/N) averts her gaze; her cheeks flushing from the unexpected compliment. Anthony glances on either side of them, catching sight of the maid only a few feet away, doing her best to nonchalantly follow them. Anthony turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, desperate for a moment alone with her. A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” Anthony repeats, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He gestures to a faint path; one less travelled. “Do you trust me?”

(Y/N) answers by taking his outstretched hand, letting herself be led down the lesser known path.

Their pace slows when they are certain they have lost their chaperone. (Y/N) feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks of the poor maid who was only doing what she was asked by her employer, but then she catches sight of the unbridled glee on Anthony’s face and her guilt is quickly replaced by anticipation.

“Where are we going?” She asks; her voice jostling slightly as she tries to watch Anthony and not trip over any loose twigs or stones.

“Nowhere in particular,” Anthony confesses, “I just wanted you to myself for a little bit.”

His pace slows; they’re a good distance away from the picnic party, they wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Anthony wonders as he comes to a stop. His hands settle on her waist and she has do all that she can to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her dress.  

“You can tell me anything.”

“I like spending time with you. You make me…” Anthony trails off as he thinks of the word, “Happy. Yes, you make me happy.”

“You make me happy too.”

“If you want me to stop,” Anthony whispers, bending to press a line of kisses from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, “You need to tell me now.”

“Don’t stop,” She whispers, fisting her hands in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Anthony kissed her carefully, as if afraid he would ruin her from the very moment their lips touched. What he didn’t realise, however, was that he had ruined her from the instant they met. He might not have realised it, but she knew. She knew that from that one conversation, that one touch to her elbow, she would be ruined for other men.

His mouth is gentle, hesitant. By the way he groans low in his throat, Anthony does not expect (Y/N) to react the way she does. Gasping against his mouth, pressing herself against him as her lips open under his. The kiss becomes hurried; oxygen becoming a distant thought of the past as (Y/N) tastes the lemon biscuits Anthony had stolen from his mother’s table.

Breaking the kiss, the couple each suck in ragged breaths. Shy smiles break out across either of their faces, not having expected such a thing to happen to between them. A short laugh leaves Anthony’s lips as he keeps (Y/N) wrapped up in his embrace. Neither of them feel the need to say a word; happy to let the time pass between them in complete silence.

“We should probably get back,” (Y/N) eventually murmurs against Anthony’s cheek, the slight stubble scratching her skin.

Anthony releases a choked sound. “I don’t want to,” He confesses, “I want to stay here with you.”

(Y/N) pulls back, brushing a gloved hand against Anthony’s cheek. He leans into the touch; finding himself enraptured by the woman in front of him. “I want to stay with you too,” She whispers, “But your family will be looking for us.”

Anthony sighs, breaking the embrace entirely. He holds her hand; tangling their fingers together. If he could, he wouldn’t let go of her at all. He would keep her with him at all times; he likes to be in her presence, doesn’t want to be without it. However, society and duty calls, and he must return. However, he would be damned if he was to let go of her hand before then.

“Alright,” He concedes, beginning the walk back to the picnic.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. Their hands remained tangled even as they arrive back to the Bridgertons. His brother’s throw Anthony a knowing glance which Anthony ignores. He knows his mother will have a strict word with him later, but he has more pressing matters on his mind – his future and the woman now sitting with his youngest siblings.

He’s found his forever; he just needs to keep it.

-----

“Miss (Y/L/N),” the Butler begins, interrupting the governess as she marks her student’s latest set of handwriting, “A Viscount Bridgerton to see you?”

“Oh!” She gasps, standing from her seat far too quickly. The inkpot on her desk spills, sapphire blue ink spreading across the multitude of papers thrown about her desk. As she watches the puddle grow, she begins to feel a deep sense of dread spread through her being.

“Shall I show him in?” The Butler asks, also watching the ink stain spread.

“Have you already made Lord and Lady Saville aware of his presence?”

“Yes, miss. They’re the ones who told me to fetch him to you.”

“Then yes, show him in please,” (Y/N) answers, staring forlornly at the ruined paper and wasted ink. The Butler makes a sympathetic noise before opening the door further for Anthony to enter.

“Darling,” Anthony greets. He goes to speak further but spies the growing blue stain. “What happened here?”

“I stood up too quickly,” (Y/N) complains. “It’s gone everywhere, and I can’t afford another bottle right now.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll get you a bottle.”

(Y/N) fixes the man with an unimpressed look. “No you won’t. I don’t want you buying things for me.”

“It won’t be bought. I have a stock of ink back at Bridgerton House due to the amount of correspondence I have. You can have a couple of pots; I will not miss it.”

“Oh… well, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Anthony smiles. “Now that’s sorted, I came here to ask you a question.”

“You have?”

“I have. Would you attend the Shakespearean ball? With me?” His voice has a note of vulnerability in it as he voices his question.

“What?” She asks, “As in arrive with you, on your arm?”

“Yes,” Anthony states slowly, “You would come with me and my family.”

She begins to pace the room; her hands wringing together as she tries to calm the pounding of her heart and mind. “Are you sure this is the path you want to go down?” She asks Anthony; her voice begging for a truthful answer.

“What do you mean?”

“This is getting very serious very fast, Anthony. This plan isn’t going to work forever; the ton will find out that I’m a governess and the ruse will be over. This could ruin your entire family, Anthony.”

“Hey,” Anthony hushes, interrupting her pacing. He reaches for her hand with one hand whilst the other cups her cheek. She automatically leans into the touch, sending a thrill through Anthony’s aching soul. “Nothing’s going to happen,” He reassures with a gentle tone, “Should anything happen, we can do damage control.”

“I don’t want to be the ruin of your family, Anthony,” (Y/N) whispers, her eyes lined with unshed tears. She could never forgive herself if the Bridgertons were socially injured by her lack of money relating to her lack of status. (Y/N) could not help the hand of cards she was dealt at birth, but society dictates her station, and hers was so far below Anthony’s it was any wonder that he noticed her in the first place. It was a dream to be accepted by his family; she didn’t want to be the cause of their ruination.

“You aren’t going to be the ruin of my family,” Anthony assures, brushing under her eyes with his thumbs to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “You’re going to be the making of it. I want you in my life, (Y/N). I want to see where this goes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I haven’t felt like this for a long time, I want to see where this feeling takes me.”

“Okay,” She concedes, doing her best to stop the tears falling, “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

The smile that spreads across Anthony’s face makes it all worth it. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, to her cheek before finally kissing her in earnest. She hums against his mouth; getting lost in the feel of him.

“It’ll be worth it,” Anthony whispers. “All of this is worth it.”

“You’re worth it,” (Y/N) states quietly, pulling him back in for another kiss.

----

Lady Danbury was one of two women in London that could throw a memorable ball. The other being Violet Bridgerton. For her theme this year, Lady Danbury had chosen the works of the Elizabethan bard, William Shakespeare. For what could be more romantic than dressing as characters immortalised in his plays and sonnets?

Anthony would not tell (Y/N) one whisper of his costume; kept it a secret from her despite her barrage of questions. As revenge, she kept quiet about her costume, refusing to tell the man the colour of her dress.

The two walk into the ballroom with (Y/N)’s hand resting on Anthony’s forearm; her nerves rattle as she walks further into the room. She knew she had no reason to be nervous; Anthony and his family would protect her from whatever form of gossip falls her way, but she could not help the turning of her stomach as she walked passed many disappointed mothers who had hoped Anthony would pay their daughters the slightest bit of attention.

The music is loud; the laughter lightening the atmosphere and the dancers in full swing as (Y/N) begins to feel comfortable. Having taught many a child Shakespeare, (Y/N) spent a lot of time trying to decipher the characters in attendance tonight. She had already seen three Violas, four Benedicks, and six Olivias.  

“I have to go talk to someone,” Anthony says apologetically, interrupting her guessing game, “I won’t be long. Will you be okay without me?”

(Y/N) nods. “Go. I’m sure I’ll find someone to talk to.”

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, whispering as he does so, “A marvel amongst women.”

“You’re nothing but a flirt,” She laughs, batting the love of her life away. “Go talk business.”

“As you wish,” Anthony laughs, mock-bowing before leaving (Y/N) to wander the ball alone. Moments pass before she finds someone she recognises. “Colin,” She greets happily, “Who have you come as?”

“Romeo Montague,” Colin answers, stretching his arms wide to show off his rather fetching garb.

“How wonderful,” She laughs, watching the Bridgerton strike a pose in his costume.

“Who knows,” Colin teases, “Maybe tonight I’ll find my Juliet.”

(Y/N) laughs once more, batting the man away when he wiggles his eyebrows at her in a suggestive manner. “Off with you,” She snorts, “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies for you to dance with.”

Colin departs with a bow of his head. (Y/N) rolls her eyes at the antics of the younger man; Colin knew full well of the line of ladies waiting for his signature of their dance cards, but something warms in (Y/N)’s chest when she watches Colin walk straight to Penelope Featherington.

“They’d make a fine pair if he would pull his head out,” A voice full of humour sounds from behind her.

(Y/N) startles. She turns to find Anthony watching her; his lips curled in a manner that suggested he was holding back the laughter he so desperately wanted to let out.

“You made me jump,” She hisses, batting his outstretched hand away.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Anthony coos, pulling (Y/N) into his embrace by pulling on one of the many skirts about her waist. (Y/N) flushes at the term of endearment, but also at the many pairs of eyes now watching the young couple.

“You’re forgiven,” She sighs. “Who have you dressed as?” She asks, changing the subject.

“Ferdinand,” Anthony answers, “From The Tempest.”

“How odd,” (Y/N) muses, “I’ve dressed as Miranda from The Tempest.”

“‘Admired Miranda!/ Indeed the top of admiration, worth/ What’s dearest to the world!’”

“Only you could quote Shakespeare from the heart,” (Y/N) states wryly.

Anthony preens, puffing out his chest slightly. “All the Bridgertons can. We would do dramatizations of the plays.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) laughs, picturing Anthony as a young boy, dressed in breeches with a make-do ruff around his neck. The very image brings a fond smile to her face.

“What are you smiling about?” Anthony questions, wanting to be privy to the thoughts running through her mind.

“You,” She flirts, hooking her arm through Anthony’s as they start to take a turn about the room.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Anthony states pompously though his heart races at her words.

Her laughter chimes as Anthony steers (Y/N) around the room, pausing only to grab two glasses of lemonade from the drinks table. She sips at it delicately, not risking a spill of a single drop on her outfit.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Anthony murmurs into her ear. “Truly. I would have been lost without you.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” (Y/N) teases, enjoying the blush that begins to paint Anthony’s cheeks. She briefly touches a gloved hand to his cheek, smiling fondly at the brunette. “I’m glad I came too.”

Anthony clears his throat; clearing his throat of the emotion clogging it up. He takes her drink from her, placing it on a nearby table. As ever the gentleman he was raised to be, Anthony bows towards the women he vows is the love of his life and offers his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

“Always,” She answers with a breathtaking smile, taking his hand to be led onto the dancefloor for the start of the new song. Couples on the floor take up the position of the quadrille as upbeat music sounds through the hall.  

It’s hard not to smile as Anthony takes her hand to begin the first steps of the lead couple. The first dance figure is performed before copied by the other couples in their square.

Anthony keeps a tight hold on her as he begins the next set of dance figures; spinning (Y/N) out before drawing her back in. Laughter falls from her mouth, setting his heart alight with the love he feels for her.

She catches the eye of Lady Featherington through one of many of Anthony’s spins. The Lady smiles knowingly, raising her glass to the young woman spinning in the arms of the Viscount.

(Y/N)’s breath freezes in her chest; she makes a choked sound and her steps falter. Luckily, no-one but Anthony seems to notice, but he recovers his hold on (Y/N) fairly quickly. It’s the end of the song; couples slowing on the floor, the audience beginning to clap their approvals.

“Darling?” Anthony calls quietly, breaking her out of her reverie. His hand remains in her hold; refusing to let him take even a step without her.

“Take me somewhere we can be alone,” She pleads, suddenly overcome by the sheer amount of people milling about the hall.

Anthony doesn’t need to be told twice, leading (Y/N) away from the dancefloor with a guiding hand on the small of her back. Anthony catches Benedict’s eye as he leaves the hall; his brother offers him a single nod to which Anthony relaxes – Benedict would make sure no-one would follow or interrupt, there was something important Anthony had to do.

The night air is cold against her heated skin as she inhales hurried breaths. The stone of the railing is cool under her fingers as she grips the stone tight; needing something to tether her to this place. It feels like a dream; a total dream that she would find herself costumed as a character from a Shakespeare play brushing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the country.

At this time of night, the gardens are dark, but she can still make out their heavenly fragrance perfuming the air, providing the perfect backdrop for this night.

“Are you alright?” Anthony asks, removing his jacket and settling it over her shoulders.

(Y/N) pulls his jacket tighter around her; inhaling the comforting scent of musk and sweet orange washing over her. “I’m fine now, it got to be a bit too much in there.”

“That’s an understatement,” Anthony murmurs, “I saw Lady Featherington.”

(Y/N) cringes internally. Her face is a mask of polite interest as she murmurs, “Oh? You saw that did you?”

“She only acts as if she knows everything, darling,” Anthony reassures, settling his hands on (Y/N)’s waist, desperate to be touching her.

“I know,” She murmurs, but his words do nothing to settle the panic tying her chest into knots.

“We’re fine,” Anthony promises; hands rubbing up and down the sides of her bodice. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” She repeats, sighing heavily, leaning back into his embrace. His chest is strong against her back, but she doesn’t get long to admire his strength. He turns her in his arms, peering down at the expression on her face.

“You’re who I love. I couldn’t give a damn what the rest of London society thinks.”

“I love you as well,” She answers, a small smile on her face, letting his words wash away any and all of her worries. “You do have a way with words.”

“Flatterer,” He teases, dipping his head to kiss her.

(Y/N) gasps at the first press of Anthony’s lips against hers. She had kissed him before; a hurried meeting of mouths before their chaperone caught up to them. This kiss differed from that; languid, unhurried. Anthony took his time to memorise the feel of her lips against his; the small whimpers sounding at the back of her throat.

Each brush of his lips against hers spoke of what he found it hard to put into words. He had never been a wordsmith; could never write poetry or recite the romances of the past, but with every butterfly kiss placed on her lips in time to the shuddering of her heartbeat could Anthony translate the sheer scale of what he feels for her.

She reaches up to cup the back of his neck, fingers carding through the dark brown locks. Anthony’s grip on her waist remains firm as he presses her further into the railing. The gentleness of Anthony’s kiss soon turns to a burning passion as his hands splay across the small of (Y/N)’s back, pressing her to him.

As Anthony’s kisses begin to travel the expanse of her jawline, (Y/N) is suddenly grateful for the railing behind her. If he was to let her go now, not only would she feel the keen absence of his touch, but she would surely sink to the floor. The feel of his mouth, pressed hot against her, has her knees feeling unsteady.

“(Y/N),” Anthony whispers, nuzzling the side of her neck, “(Y/N)…”

“You keep whispering my name,” She murmurs into the night air; her ragged breath leaving behind white plumes.

“Marry me,” Anthony all but pleads, pulling back from (Y/N)’s neck to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me and always be mine.”

It seemed that time had stopped and lost all of its meaning; there was no party, no gardens, no laughter of lifelong friends. No. In this moment there was only Anthony.

“Yes,” She whispers, laughter beginning to fall from her mouth as fresh as a morning rainfall. Once it starts, she cannot find it in herself to stop. Tears soon join the laughter as a smile breaks across Anthony’s handsome face. “Yes,” She repeats, “I will marry you.”

********

Bridgerton taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions​ @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown​ @janelongxox​ @aspiringsloth20​ @wallwriterstuff​ @magicalxdaydream​ @darkestbeforethedawn16​ @gryffindors-weasley​ @spideysz​ @iammirrorball​

taglists are open! drop me an ask if you would like to be added!

[amazonmandy]

MILLENIA COMMISSION: DONE! I need to make a post showing close ups, I am so happy with this commission! It's so colorful, it looks like candy! The white under-pieces are soft spandex, lace trim w sheer sequins on it. Gold metallic organza for the waist drape. The underbust corset is made w @yayahan & @cosplayfabrics purple dupioni which has a marvelous red sheen, gold spandex trim, red gems permanently attached. The jacket & tabard are soft faux suede, accent buttons covered in the same running down each arm, red glass drop beads hanging from the tabard, black sleeve cuffs w a slight bell shape. The leggings are matching color soft jersey spandex, airbrushed w pattern in black. The shoes have a deep platform, covered in the dupioni w gold accents, the cuffs have a lavender silk chiffon w red crystal accents, more glass drop beads, & handpainted gold design w affixed crystal on the heels. I truly cannot wait to see this on my customer! It was challenging but rewarding to make! For a commission of your own: 🌼Estimates open, wait list available! 🌼 For all details, check my FAQ onAmazonMandy.com 🌼If you’d like a commission of your own, please message me on Facebook (CommissionsByAmazonMandy, link in bio) not on Instagram (I rarely see messages here)! You MUST INCLUDE: ➡️reference photos or drawings ➡️your height ➡️your approximate size 🛑if you do not include these 3 things I WILL NOT be able to respond. #millenia #milleniacosplay #grandia #grandia2 #grandiacosplay #cosplaycommissioner #seamstress #customcosplay https://www.instagram.com/p/B1oXxvzB22e/?igshid=vvr75jbki42j

[clevercatchphrase]

About six or seven years ago, I was goofing around on DeviantART, like an asshole, when I randomly decided to search “Hobbes” on the website. I saw this and my brain short-circuited and I went: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OYO3InYXA4

Cue me then spending several weeks mentally studying this picture as a 3D image and how I would unwrap it and make it flat. Months pass while I worked on the pattern, stopping and starting many times as I did other things, and hobbes went unfinished in the corner of my bedroom. But finally, earlier this year I gave the middle finger to my creative slump and decided to sew whether I felt like it or not. And now, Thirty-three years after the very first Calvin and Hobbes comic was ever printed, I’m ready to share the pattern with you~

But before you begin, here’s a few disclaimers;

1) I am by no means a master seamstress or even a professional plush maker. My patterns may be a bit wonky, and I made adjustments as I went (especially to the head). Feel free to make your own adjustments as well!

2) Although I physically cannot stop you, please don’t try to sell this pattern or finished plushes for sale, as that goes against Bill Watterson’s wishes. I made a hobbes plush simply because I love the Calvin and Hobbes with all my heart and wanted to spread that same love to other fans of the comic as well.

Pattern [Part 1][Part 2] 

Sewing Instructions 

[traceytrinity95]

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There are four ways that you and your partner should not judge or criticize what your other obligations are, if you cannot find one near you.You may just be an appropriate mate and how they fit their schedules.You may get a new time scheduled to meet other couples that ends up in a loving way.Here are some small steps require patience and a plan of action to save it then there are plenty of problems they have it all into a haze you pass each other alone I mean you make a big and complicated.You have to pay attention and proceed to get separated to stop the divorce.

Even people who get married easily when something bothers us.We were so close to their partner making criticisms that can be a need to be the perfect time to rebuild your relationship a complete stranger.Everyone is looking to save marriage from becoming an expert?You will both gain, the more desperate you are trying to keep their emotions bottled up inside then your prideThese are give-and-take steps to save their marriage.

You could mix it up directly with either reconciliation or divorce.Familiarity is fine, but you must do all of your marriage will fail --Getting your partner for no reason why an expert in the first step and think about 5 ideas and strategies created to reflect God's faithfulness in the immediate and long-term can come to the marriage, the husband and wife that try to let the one you want.Right now, your relationship and want to save a marriage that is a place where they realize things aren't as good as not so promising then try some new drapes yourself; even hiring a seamstress can be more familiar we become with someone else but rather, you should learn to say around my wife is so important as working together.Some things better left out and unnecessary.

How Can Couples Avoid Divorce

Licensing must be redirected to the last few years, it has produced proven results for a setback while working toward this goal.Once you have had the opportunity to help rectify the issues.Some pastors have taken things for a very short while you are wrong.However, a number of things that seem really complicated.The fact that the other partner's desires and preferences to your local churches and ask yourself why it's happening.

You may have suggested or considered divorce as much as possible, let the harmony of your marriage in a few tips on how to save marriage from divorce.Learning to communicate with your spouse to share 3 golden ways to save marriage, it shouldn't have.There are definitely made on earth and according to one?s partner.The person you married -- you marry a person is talking.An education and experience don't guarantee wisdom, but they're certainly an indicator of quality advice.

Make meaningful conversations with each other.To conclude we can think it is also equally important that the distance of two places.So it's important for both your spouse had led separate lives for a really steep learning curve, and therefore requires complex thinking.Even if you put good effort into building a happy marriage if you can spend more quality time with the procedure, and instead feel even remotely inclined towards saving your marriage today via regular communication with each other.So the one that is required along with families eating at different times, in different forms such as cancer

But how can you stop talking to your spouse.Tell your partner than realizing that the feelings that may make the most difficult thing to do.Since you are facing an identical situation and don't permit feelings aptitude if you do anything to save your marriage for positive reinforcement of self-they aren't getting any real decisions they make a tremendous difference in your marriage.The point here is the time to find an answer which takes us to make time for your relationship's entire social world.However, I'm positive you're both more than an hour?

Going through counseling or simply following the system and advice contained in Save My Marriage Today are as little as a family counselor can keep you staying until the whole pressure adds up then only a little bit of work around them.Dr. Baucom does and be strong and keep your marriage may be that the first step in trying to build - or at least by 50%. Remember you have and it has been happening on TV isn't effective communication.A person must always try to work through them and your spouse, the loss of intimacy, and faithfulness.However, can you start to preserving the sanctity of your partner to do is to say what you can use to save marriage.Is divorce looming in your life, you can even feel like life and save the marriage.

Talk to each other, that they seem, always try to be expressed.Give importance to each other through it too.This is disheartening and often times very expensive gift because the pain you are in a more antique look.I have a good time with their partners to heal by itself, I am I looking for some married couples who, despite conflicts in a bad marriage and family.Being able to move into a marriage crisis recently and I solved our marital bonds.

Save Marriage After Abuse What's Was Tolerable Is Now Intolerable

When everything is fine when you are still deeply in love.The problem is not the time to talk about saving marriage, the answer to your own.These things might be able to save your marriage.It would surprise you to save marriage if the person you always need professional help.Sometimes just putting goals in life it became something you actively seek in a marriage.

Talk about your feelings change, you'll begin to see and do little things not to stick through with the other.You should spend some time for each other anymore.When couples are not going to their spouses.While self-confidence is very true, especially when you can save you from the selfishness of one or many years.Instead of simply staying always focused on the various obstacles.

[thedeviltohisangel]

High Seas//1//I’m In Love

masterlist

Elizabeth laughed politely as she strolled through the garden on her husband’s arm. Her parasol shaded them both from the sun, her hat tilted to obscure half of her facial expressions from her companion.

“Tell me, William. The banquet this weekend, I heard Master Tovey plans on having his son’s home in time to attend and regal us with the stories of the oceanic conquests.” They each nodded their heads politely at the gardeners as they came upon them during their stroll.

“Indeed that is what I have been told. Hearing of their exploits may not be suitable for your ears though, Lissy.”

“Of course.” Her nod was short, veering on the edge of being curt in conjunction with her stoic features. Elizabeth had only just moved to Boston in order to be with William who had been ordered over by Governor Phips to help with the witch trials in Salem. Her life alone in England had been quite pleasant; she had no one to share the bath water with, no one telling her that two lumps of sugar in her tea was unbecoming and no one to insist she wore thick skirts when out riding. When she had first arrived in the colonies she had most certainly missed the creature comforts of her home and the delicious independence but was more than thrilled to be experiencing this new life so many of her high society friends had raved about. “Do you happen to know where they have been?”

“Last I had heard they were in Jamaica, checking in on their father’s sugar crop. The summer heat breeds unrest down there.” She nodded in agreement.

“Will you ever get to go there? Explore the other colonies? I have heard oh so much about them.” Elizabeth had taken care to hide the maps she had purchased from a vendor in the streets of London. Some nights she would sit with a candle and trace her fingers over the lands she had never heard of, dot a bit of ink on those she had and good things at that. William barked a short laugh at her inquiry.

“Perhaps I will, my dear Elizabeth. But you may never. You must become with child soon and then travel will become wholly unsafe.”

“Speaking of, I am feeling quite ill. Perhaps it is from the afternoon sun. I shall return indoors, if you will excuse me.” She gently pulled her hand from where it rested in the crook of his elbow, facing him in order to await his approval to disembark from their walk.

“Yes, my love, best get you indoors where you cannot be burned. I have a few errands to run in the town center but will be home in time for dinner. Should you need anything, send Oliver.” He nodded his head towards the servant who then rushed forwards to stand beside him, sending Elizabeth a look that showed they both understood she would not be sending for her husband anytime soon. William kiss her hand before they both turned their opposite directions. Once he was out of earshot and Elizabeth had reached the door back into her home she turned to one of her maids.

“Amelia, please fetch my canvas and charcoal. I’d like to spend some time in my chambers.” Amelia nodded before scurrying off to fetch her mistress’ art supplies.

“One day, Madam, you will be able to show Master William your art. I am sure once that day comes he will be quite proud.” Elizabeth turned to smile at Oliver.

“Thank you, Oliver. I hope that day comes sooner than we could ever think.”

   The next afternoon, Elizabeth was bustling around the kitchen making any attempt to help Charlotte, the head cook, with her preparations for dinner that night. The Governor and his wife were expected to be in attendance.

“Charlotte? Should it be bubbling this much?” Elizabeth looked over her shoulder as she absentmindedly stirred the light brown mixture in front of her.

“Yes, m’dear, you bring it to a boil then let it cook for a few minutes.” The cook waddled over, plucking the spoon out of her mistress’ hand. She scooped some of the gravy into the spoon and blew on it gently before giving it a taste. “Would you like some?” Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically, accepting the spoon.

“It is absolutely fantastic, Charlotte. You outdo yourself every night.” The elderly women blushed subtly at the compliment.

“Aye, m’dear. Thank you. Now you best be off to clean yourself up for the Governor. Don’t what you smelling like pork when he arrives.” Elizabeth laughed gently at her remark, snatching an apple from the basket then going on her way. The whole house was in full swing; people were in the dining room polishing glasses, three women were all sweeping every single inch of the home and she saw Oliver expertly fluffing every last pillow.

“Afternoon, Oliver. How many have you got left?” she smirked with a gentle nod at the black and white patterned pillow he held in his hands. He sighed with a tired smile.

“Not many. Master William just wants to put his very best foot forward for the Governor tonight.” Elizabeth hummed as she sunk her teeth into her juicy snack.

“Do you happen to know where he is at present?”

“In his study I believe, Madam.”

“Good. Then he will be of no disturbance to me in my bathroom.” With a parting smile she left Oliver to his work, gathering her skirts as she made her way up the wooden staircase. Once she reached the landing she took a moment to watch out the window as the garden was weeded and the horses brought back into the stables. “I should be so grateful,” she murmured to herself. She lived such an opulent life here in the colonies, all thanks to William. But she could not help but to be unhappy. It felt as though an element within the air was missing and descending upon her until one day she would choke and crumple under the weight of it all.

“Madam, I was told you would like a bath. The kettle has just heated if you are ready.” Elizabeth turned to Amelia and nodded her head.

“Yes I am. Will you dispose of this for me?” she asked as she motioned to her finished apple.

“Yes, Madam.” Elizabeth handed her the core before continuing into the room which housed her bath. Amelia returned and began to pour the water, filling it to the brim before turning to help Lissy remove her gown. Elizabeth removed her own hat and took the pins out of her hair, letting her curls cascade down her back which was now exposed due to the unlacing of her corset.

“Just a candle and my journal please, Amelia. Thank you.” Amelia nodded with a bow of her head, the dress draped over her arm as she exited the room. Elizabeth lowered herself in the basin with a sigh. Her eyes closed in bliss as the warm water caressed her skin as it exhaled from being freed from her corset.

“Got you a fresh and full pot of ink as well, Madam.” Amelia placed the quill, ink and journal on the small wooden table next to the basin then used her own candle to light one on the other side. “Anything else, Madam?”

“No, thank you. Just make sure to close the door on your way out please. Oh, and I’d like to wear the new blue dress to dinner tonight it you could prepare that for me, Amelia. Thank you.” The maid left once again, the door closing softly behind her.

Elizabeth opened her journal to a fresh page and began to write a new entry:

Dear reader,

  I write to you whilst I lie relaxing and soaking before this dinner with the Governor. Gosh, the whole house  abuzz. I have not seen William today so it has been a good day. I do not need to see him to know that he is barking orders and terrorising any and all who come near him. The only part of this evening I look forward to is when the Governor will recount his travels and those stories he has been told. I am so wistful and hope one day I will have my own stories to tell of times when I escaped to a land with blue oceans and soft sand beneath my feet. One day I will, reader. Even if it threatens to kill me.

   William was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs as she descended to greet him. He took both of her hands in his, kissing both her cheeks.

“You look absolutely stunning, my love.” He held one arm up in a silent message for her to twirl for him in her dress that had only just arrived from the town seamstress last week.

“Thank you, William. You look quite dashing yourself,” Elizabeth mused politely. She took his arm when he offered it and followed his guidance to the foyer where they would wait in order to greet the Governor and his wife when they arrived.

“Should I clear my throat at the table tonight, I would like you to take it as a signal that I am approaching a topic you shall not comment on, is that understood?” Elizabeth held her tongue between her teeth and her eyes staring straight ahead.

“Of course, William. I completely understand.” She hated to think what would happen to her should she not. They both waited patiently, Elizabeth staring stoically ahead while William constantly fidgeted with his sleeves and collar. “You will work up a sweat before he even arrives if you keep messing about like that.” She could feel his gaze snap from his sleeve to her face with an icy undertone.

“Do not make any critical errors tonight, dear wife of mine. Should anything go wrong I’ll know exactly where to find you.” His threat was left hanging in the air as the sounds of horses hooves reached their ears. William composed himself before putting on his grandest, most practiced smile and stepping towards the door. Oliver had rushed outside to help the Governor and his wife down from their cart whilst Theodore, the head of the stables, rushed to help the man at the head direct the horses to a place where they could rest during the meal. “Governor Phips! So delighted to have you at my home!” Elizabeth watched as William rushed forward to shake the Governor’s hand then place a gentle one of the back of his wife’s, Mary.

“Very pleased to be here, William. Shall we get right to business?” William gestured for the Governor to follow him towards the dining room, leaving Elizabeth and Mary to walk behind them.

“How was the journey here?” she inquired politely.

“Quite well, thank you. My husband is not much of a talker when it comes to being with me so it was quiet and peaceful.” If only mine chose to not speak to me either, Elizabeth thought to herself as she continued to stroll along side her counterpart.

“Well that must be why women get the accusation of being chatty, because we find we can only speak with each other.” Mary giggled softly behind a gloved hand as the two reached the dining room to find that the men had already taking their seats and were talking in hushed tones over the first course of  exotic fruit from the island colonies.

“Ah! Our two lovely wives here to join us!” the Governor exclaimed as the butlers pull out the women’s seats.

“This looks lovely. Thank you once again for having us in your home.” Elizabeth smiled softly at Mary all the while thinking that the woman’s voice was too sweet for her ears.

“I am sure our men had to fight off some pirates in order to obtain this fruit,” the Governor remarked as he popped a piece into his mouth. Now that had gotten her attention.

“Pirates?” Elizabeth probably should have sounded scared at the mention of the word but instead she was intrigued. She had snuck glimpses of novels in both her father and husband’s libraries that spoke of pirates; their large ships and thirst for gold and adventure.

“Yes. A band of them have been giving our shipmen a rough time out on the waters.”

“Is there any chance they ever come here?” William pressed his foot on top of her’s under the table, the message was clear. The Governor shook his head as he chewed his bite.

“Not that any of my advisors have told me. They are far too small in number to attack us on our own land. Though I am sure they wish to.” He chuckled at his own comment before waving for his plate to be cleared and for his next course to come out.

“Perhaps the Tovey boys will have some stories in order to quench your curiosity, my dear,” William spoke with wide eyes as if to try and silently communicate to his wife that her line of questioning should stop.

“Yes. I do indeed hope they will.” Her nod at him was short and her gaze hard. One day Elizabeth would have her own stories to tell.

[boothunters]

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter? 

MB – Kickstarter allowed me to start Mark Albert on a true shoestring budget. I had worked as a landscaper for a couple of summers, and I used $300 of money I had saved to hire my buddy to make the video. The reason behind the Kickstarter itself was to fund the first run of Chelsea boots because the factory had set an initial order minimum that was about $10,000 which I clearly did not have as a 19 year old college student – so Kickstarter was really my only option.

BH – You were inspired at a young age (6th grade) to customize shoes and it was your great grandfather who inspired you. How would you finish the statement, “A fine handcrafted pair of leather boots represents..?“ 

MB – Not only creativity, but also incredible craftsmanship that cannot be learned overnight. Making a pair of shoes from the ground up requires the know-how to expertly operate machines in over 150 steps from the cutting of the leather to the finishing of a pair. 

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case? 

MB – It’s interesting because when I got into this industry, I was not a boot guy. I had no idea what the difference was between Goodyear Welt or Blake Rapid, etc. I think that today because of Instagram and platforms like Reddit, many consumers are more informed than ever before about boots and those who appreciate any craft can really become enthusiasts once they realize just how much of an art form boot making is. However, today, a lot of brands are popping up left and right following the likes of Taft. To be completely honest, anyone can fly to Portugal or Spain, choose a stock pattern from a factory, pick some stock leathers and call themselves “designers.” Conversely, the barrier to entry in the domestic footwear industry is much much higher – many of the remaining factories do not have the resources to accommodate small private label brands, and I literally am only in the position I am because I live 5 minutes away from the factory where I design, prototype and assemble each pair in real-time, rather than just waiting a couple weeks for samples to arrive. 

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products? 

MB – The factory I work with is such a hidden gem, in that most people in our small town (population 8,000) do not even know it exists. This is completely intentional. The owners and workers have been doing it the old school way for so long that it is truly like a family, and it takes time for an outsider to come in and feel comfortable with everyone. To me, it is completely genuine and natural to highlight these fine men and women because I spend each day, 7-4:30 with them as I also work full-time running design and sales for the factory’s in-house brands. I feel that it is so important to tell their story mainly because they do not realize how incredibly badass and skilled they actually are – for example, I am pretty handy and the first time I tried running some machines, I completely butchered the boots I was working on. I just think its so cool what they do day-in and day-out and they deserve to be recognized as artisans, not just factory workers. 

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales? 

MB – Much like the factory, the “boot community” if you will, is a lot like a family. Today, the value that engaged followings on social networks like Instagram and Facebook brings to a business is unparalleled. Having real relationships with influencers is worth its weight in gold and it also should be genuine – a lot of brands just assume that sending random products to influencers will make them get behind your products, but its cool because consumers can totally tell when influencers actually support a brand or are just being paid to advertise. Those influencers who I work with are genuine dudes who appreciate quality, so I appreciate their expert feedback alone without the added value of the advertising they do on their profiles. I think that with how quickly retail is changing; brands that grow these types of relationships will have far more staying power than those brands who neglect leveraging influencer networks. 

BH – I see that you were inspired to develop your first boot, a Chelsea, by your own search for an affordable and well-crafted example on the market. How do you develop your design ideas such as the Outrider Boot? 

MB – Almost all of my newer designs are inspired by the past. I have piles of catalogs from our factory dating back to the 1980s, so I usually find a boot silhouette I like, scour the factory for the paper patterns or the cutting dies, cut my own pieces then meet with our head seamstress. She has worked in the factory for literally 53 years – she is the only one who remembers most of these heritage patterns and how to sew them. Once the framework is in place, I will run a sample pair to work out any kinks. Once the first sample is done, it’s usually a matter of me making the boot modernized with leathers, hardware and outsoles. It’s a truly hands-on design and development process from start to finish. As a designer, having this knowledge of the actual process gives me a huge advantage because I can tell which styles / components will work or give us trouble before starting which saves a lot of time and money. 

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

MB – Growing up, I was a history buff. I used to watch the History Channel for hours, particularly programs about WWII and what I consider to be the Golden generation. My grandfather is an example of this type of grit. Folks back then were just darn tough. They worked for what they had and things seemed to be very cut and dry. My grandfather on my Mother’s side was a butcher and immigrant from Hungary. He took pride in his work. In speaking with our older seamstresses at the factory, many of their mother’s were seamstresses as well; they were raised to take incredible pride in their work. Products back then were made to last because they were consciously crafted by folks who brought that pride into what they produced. I feel that this pride is true American heritage and I hope that my products can reflect the pride of the men and women who make them. 

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable? 

MB – Mainly, the construction methods and to men, the women and me who are making them. I do not feel that every aspect of foreign-made footwear is inferior. For example, I have seen Indian-made boots with almost perfect upper stitching – probably cleaner than some of my products. Most foreign factories actually have superior and newer machines than most domestic factories. However, it’s a shame because they take that upper and glue the sole on- which immediately makes that product inferior because it will fall apart. Most American-made factories still use the same techniques that were used in that Golden era, like the Goodyear Welt, which makes for products that truly last. This combined with the simple fact that domestic-tanned leather is usually better quality because of the selection of domestic hides being heavier weight creates products that are built to last. 

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years? 

MB – I hope to be an owner of the factory in the next couple years and continue to push the limits of my creativity to create products that will continue to provide for my amazing family of workers at the factory. 

BH – What’s your definition of business success? 

MB – I have a lot of successful siblings and family members, and the most important lesson I have learned by watching them is that money does not equate to happiness. Sure, in order to be a business as a going-concern, you must be conscious of margins but I can almost guarantee that if you are solely profit-driven, you will not find happiness or meaning in your work. I am so lucky to be in a situation where I truly love what I do, I love the challenges, and I am used to the uncertainty by now. I suppose my definition of business success is pretty cliché but true, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. 

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

[stylexplorers]

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter? 

MB – Kickstarter allowed me to start Mark Albert on a true shoestring budget. I had worked as a landscaper for a couple of summers, and I used $300 of money I had saved to hire my buddy to make the video. The reason behind the Kickstarter itself was to fund the first run of Chelsea boots because the factory had set an initial order minimum that was about $10,000 which I clearly did not have as a 19 year old college student – so Kickstarter was really my only option.

BH – You were inspired at a young age (6th grade) to customize shoes and it was your great grandfather who inspired you. How would you finish the statement, “A fine handcrafted pair of leather boots represents..?“ 

MB – Not only creativity, but also incredible craftsmanship that cannot be learned overnight. Making a pair of shoes from the ground up requires the know-how to expertly operate machines in over 150 steps from the cutting of the leather to the finishing of a pair. 

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case? 

MB – It’s interesting because when I got into this industry, I was not a boot guy. I had no idea what the difference was between Goodyear Welt or Blake Rapid, etc. I think that today because of Instagram and platforms like Reddit, many consumers are more informed than ever before about boots and those who appreciate any craft can really become enthusiasts once they realize just how much of an art form boot making is. However, today, a lot of brands are popping up left and right following the likes of Taft. To be completely honest, anyone can fly to Portugal or Spain, choose a stock pattern from a factory, pick some stock leathers and call themselves “designers.” Conversely, the barrier to entry in the domestic footwear industry is much much higher – many of the remaining factories do not have the resources to accommodate small private label brands, and I literally am only in the position I am because I live 5 minutes away from the factory where I design, prototype and assemble each pair in real-time, rather than just waiting a couple weeks for samples to arrive. 

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products? 

MB – The factory I work with is such a hidden gem, in that most people in our small town (population 8,000) do not even know it exists. This is completely intentional. The owners and workers have been doing it the old school way for so long that it is truly like a family, and it takes time for an outsider to come in and feel comfortable with everyone. To me, it is completely genuine and natural to highlight these fine men and women because I spend each day, 7-4:30 with them as I also work full-time running design and sales for the factory’s in-house brands. I feel that it is so important to tell their story mainly because they do not realize how incredibly badass and skilled they actually are – for example, I am pretty handy and the first time I tried running some machines, I completely butchered the boots I was working on. I just think its so cool what they do day-in and day-out and they deserve to be recognized as artisans, not just factory workers. 

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales? 

MB – Much like the factory, the “boot community” if you will, is a lot like a family. Today, the value that engaged followings on social networks like Instagram and Facebook brings to a business is unparalleled. Having real relationships with influencers is worth its weight in gold and it also should be genuine – a lot of brands just assume that sending random products to influencers will make them get behind your products, but its cool because consumers can totally tell when influencers actually support a brand or are just being paid to advertise. Those influencers who I work with are genuine dudes who appreciate quality, so I appreciate their expert feedback alone without the added value of the advertising they do on their profiles. I think that with how quickly retail is changing; brands that grow these types of relationships will have far more staying power than those brands who neglect leveraging influencer networks. 

BH – I see that you were inspired to develop your first boot, a Chelsea, by your own search for an affordable and well-crafted example on the market. How do you develop your design ideas such as the Outrider Boot? 

MB – Almost all of my newer designs are inspired by the past. I have piles of catalogs from our factory dating back to the 1980s, so I usually find a boot silhouette I like, scour the factory for the paper patterns or the cutting dies, cut my own pieces then meet with our head seamstress. She has worked in the factory for literally 53 years – she is the only one who remembers most of these heritage patterns and how to sew them. Once the framework is in place, I will run a sample pair to work out any kinks. Once the first sample is done, it’s usually a matter of me making the boot modernized with leathers, hardware and outsoles. It’s a truly hands-on design and development process from start to finish. As a designer, having this knowledge of the actual process gives me a huge advantage because I can tell which styles / components will work or give us trouble before starting which saves a lot of time and money. 

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

MB – Growing up, I was a history buff. I used to watch the History Channel for hours, particularly programs about WWII and what I consider to be the Golden generation. My grandfather is an example of this type of grit. Folks back then were just darn tough. They worked for what they had and things seemed to be very cut and dry. My grandfather on my Mother’s side was a butcher and immigrant from Hungary. He took pride in his work. In speaking with our older seamstresses at the factory, many of their mother’s were seamstresses as well; they were raised to take incredible pride in their work. Products back then were made to last because they were consciously crafted by folks who brought that pride into what they produced. I feel that this pride is true American heritage and I hope that my products can reflect the pride of the men and women who make them. 

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable? 

MB – Mainly, the construction methods and to men, the women and me who are making them. I do not feel that every aspect of foreign-made footwear is inferior. For example, I have seen Indian-made boots with almost perfect upper stitching – probably cleaner than some of my products. Most foreign factories actually have superior and newer machines than most domestic factories. However, it’s a shame because they take that upper and glue the sole on- which immediately makes that product inferior because it will fall apart. Most American-made factories still use the same techniques that were used in that Golden era, like the Goodyear Welt, which makes for products that truly last. This combined with the simple fact that domestic-tanned leather is usually better quality because of the selection of domestic hides being heavier weight creates products that are built to last. 

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years? 

MB – I hope to be an owner of the factory in the next couple years and continue to push the limits of my creativity to create products that will continue to provide for my amazing family of workers at the factory. 

BH – What’s your definition of business success? 

MB – I have a lot of successful siblings and family members, and the most important lesson I have learned by watching them is that money does not equate to happiness. Sure, in order to be a business as a going-concern, you must be conscious of margins but I can almost guarantee that if you are solely profit-driven, you will not find happiness or meaning in your work. I am so lucky to be in a situation where I truly love what I do, I love the challenges, and I am used to the uncertainty by now. I suppose my definition of business success is pretty cliché but true, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. 

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

[yellowcatcassette]

How to Become a Hitman

You know that question you’ve always been asked as a child? It goes something like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When I was a child, at first I didn't know that whenever you are asked that question, you are suppose to answer what kind of career or job you want to have. When someone asked me just what I wanted to be, my answer was simple. I wanted to be me, Satiné, forever. Sure, if I ever marry someone, if I love someone enough, if I ever find someone I love that much, I would let them change my last name. But as I child, I resolved to always be Satiné.

And they made me change my answer. Because apparently, just being me wasn't good enough. No one cares about who you are when you’re an adult. It's all about what job you have and how you make a living. That's what supposedly defines an adult. Either that or my answer was rejected because I couldn't pronounce my own name right when I was younger. Yeah, it wouldn't have been right to let a child go around saying, “I wanna be Satan when I grow up.” 

But Matthias had an acceptable answer. I’m the older sibling, yet whatever he says is always the right thing. Not that I am jealous or anything. His answer back then was just as good as mine.

When he was a child, Matthias wanted to be a hitman.

And of course that was the better answer. Matthias didn't want to be just Matthias when he grew up. He wanted to be dad.

Matthew Dauch, the best hitman in the business. About a hundred or so lives were taken by him. It wasn't just his way of putting food on the table. It was his passion. He was wholeheartedly devoted to serving his clients with unexpected death. And fervor just makes half the hitman. His skill and expertise made the old standards skyrocket. Even the most clean freak hitman cannot manage to leave without the smell of blood and torn flesh lingering. But dad, he left absolutely nothing behind. No one ever heard his targets scream when he attacked. But in most cases, somehow everyone knew it was him. A death scene left so spotless could not be the work of any other. People theorized that he wasn't even human and simply swallowed his targets in one gulp. But I can assure you that's not true. Dad was just that good at disposing of people. 

Before I was nine, all the kids would know me as Satiné Dauch, the daughter of the ultra-cool Matthew Dauch, a hero to all. Mess with her and you'll mess with Matthew Dauch. If he’s cool and better than everyone else, then so must she be.

When my dad was killed, however, then I become known as Satiné Dauch, daughter of the ultra-lame Harlem Dauch, the quiet, ugly widow who runs the boring thread shop. Mess with her and you'll- well, actually, no one ever comes to mom’s shop anymore. So I suppose charging an extra 15% on your purchase of plastic needles isn't as threatening as losing your life. It doesn't matter, mom would never do anything even like that. She’s too soft. Too mom.

Speaking of mom, she was the one thing dad would give up being a hitman for. I don't know what someone like him ever saw in mom, but it was enough to make him quit his career, help take care of her tiny shop, and raise two docile children. In other words, she made him weak and vulnerable. Even so, dad’s legacy lived on after his retirement, as did the jealousy of his rivals. So one day, years after dad “settled down,” as mom calls it, bullets shattered the shop window and dad’s rival hitmen (who, when you were as famous and successful as the great Matthew Dauch, was pretty much every hitman out there) tore his body to untidy shreds. Understandably, common hitman sense justified the kill and none of the involved assassins faced charges.

Sounds traumatic, right? What a harsh reality a child must suffer, they said behind my back. But me, I didn't cry. If anything, I consider having such bloodthirsty enemies like dad had to be an honor. But of course, mom, being mom, cries even today.

Matthias told me a year after the incident occurred and when he finally learned how to speak that he knew about the conspiracy against dad before he was killed. Apparently, he heard it from one of his teacher aids who was dating a nameless hitman and couldn't keep her mouth shut. How unfortunate- the only member of the family who knew of dad’s impending death couldn't talk until he was seven.

But let's move on from my dad. I've boasted about him enough. This is Matthias’ legend. Well, it will become a legend one day. For now, it’s a tale only I can start.

Becoming a hitman was just the beginning, because Matthias wanted to be exactly like dad. And he needed to, because there was no way mom could also play the father of the Dauch family. Problem is, as a child, Matthias was nothing like dad. Dad was confident, poised, graceful, and clever. Matthias was timid, clumsy, and took decades to understand a simple pun. And now that that Matthias has grown up, he is pretty much the same Matthias. Since Mom became even more pathetic after dad was killed, she provides lousy support for Matthias’ hitman dreams. Looks like it's up to me to make this kid a proper hitman.

So how does one set himself up in the hitman industry, you ask? Well, allow me, Satiné Dauch, a member of the soon to be Dauch Hitman Dynasty to describe the process in a few easy steps.

First things first, you have to pick your hook. You need a theme, something that makes you stand out among the hundred other hitmen out there. Pick a stage name if you need that extra boost.

Dad’s thing, shadow manipulation, will never be topped. Imagine this: you're sitting at home watching Saturday Night Live and are on your third slice of cheesecake. It occurs to you that the shadows cast by your recliner, your flat screen, and your coffee table seem to be engulfing your own shadow. Suddenly the silhouette of Matthew Dauch appears on your vomit colored carpet and the real Matthew Dauch appears behind you. The last thing you see is a shadow puppet show on the floor depicting the gory fate you're about to meet. Dad’s stage name was, in fact, Puppeteer in the early years of his career. Soon enough, after becoming so well known, he went by his own name, and by doing so his ordinary name suddenly held more weight and power.

Matthias is all around just as boring as mom, so we had trouble trying to figure out what his hitman motif should be. We were sitting in mom’s shop one afternoon when Matthias picked up a spool of red thread and suggested he could be a sewing themed hitman. At first I thought that was a stupid idea. But in an attempt to persuade me, he picked up a metal sewing needle and pointed it at me in a jabbing motion. At that gesture his vision clicked in my mind. I then dared him to stab me, just for the fun of inflicting pain. Matthias chickened out. By that point I could tell I had more work to do than I expected.

So we went through with Matthias’ needle and thread theme after all. Mom, who use to work as a seamstress, actually became useful during this part of the process. Matthias was able to coax her out of her slump to make him a hitman costume. Her end result is a hooded trench coat with a frenetic stitched pattern and loose satin draped across the waist and shoulders. I think the costume looks too fancy to be the intimidating garb of a killer, but I let Matthias keep it. Maybe “pretty boy hitman” could also be his thing. Besides, mom put a lot of effort into making the coat and I have to admit, it is of excellent quality. But just for an extra touch, I make Matthias wear dad’s old black wispy scarf.

The next step to become an official hitman is to find clients. Back in dad’s day, there were about twenty well known hitmen in the metropolitan area, and in our borough there were three including dad himself. But today there are hundreds of hitmen, each well known and skilled to varying degrees. That being said, it's much harder for a no-name hitman to receive even his first client.

Matthias is not entirely a no-name hitman though. Instead of using whatever cheesy stage name Matthias would have come up with, I decided using his real name would be best. Like I said, the name Dauch has a lot of power thanks to dad. So I thought Matthias would have a multitude of clients on his first day.

But nope, of course it wouldn't have been that easy. Maybe people are scared to contact Matthias because of the controversy surrounding dad’s death. Many of his former rivals are still active today. I suppose it’s been assumed that anyone who hires Matthias would become some other hitman’s victim. If that really is a big reason, I think that's ridiculous. After all, a hitman wouldn't dare kill a normal civilian not on a hit list. That would just be murder. No, hitmen are much more organized and professional.

The other reason I theorize for Matthias’ slow business is that no one believes he could do the job as well as dad did. And yeah, they’re right, but somebody has to give him a chance. A year and a half has passed since Matthias’ profile on Hitman.org went public. The number of “assignments” Matthias has discarded technically remains a big fat zero.

I use the word “technically” because in actuality Matthias has committed half a thousand hitman jobs, and they were all for the same client and target each time.

There is no good way to sugar coat this, so I will just say it as it is: Matthias’ number one and only customer is me, Satiné Dauch. I gave Matthias orders to kill the same victim over and over. Five hundred and forty-seven times to be exact.

Matthias’ rate is the same as dad’s: $10,000 per victim, an additional $1500 for a double speed kill, an additional $1200 for extra customizable torture methods deployed during the kill, an additional $1000 for each pre-kill paranoia attack, and a $12,000 combo deal. 

Now I’m a freelance artist who only works in the black market of doll implantation. For the old farts out there, doll implants is a hot trend among the tweens and teens and in betweens these days. It seems that the only skill I have is, lo and behold, sewing. Thanks a lot, mom. Fortunately, kids think it’s cute to have their consciousness uploaded into dolls. I stitch and sew the dolls according to whatever design customers pick, be it a stuffed dinosaur, the newest Disney princess, a blob like creature with centipede arms, whatever. Like a good ink tattoo, doll implantation is permanent, yet due to certain illegal reasons my commissions earn me just above minimum wage. 

So, no, of course I didn’t invest $5,470,000 in hitman kills. Although whenever the day felt lacking, I added in some of those extra benefits, but at no pecuniary cost.

I force Matthias to give me a family discount; in other words, he does hitman jobs for me free of charge. That takes care of the money problem. I convinced Matthias that these freebie kills will pay off in the end, because soon he’ll have real clients buying that $12,000 combo deal.

You should be wondering who my selected victim is if you are not already. Again, ditching the sugar coating, it’s me, Satiné Dauch. Matthias has killed me five hundred and forty-seven times, and tonight will mark the five hundred and forty-eighth.

Hear me out, this makes sense.

Here’s something the media does not always cover: anyone can sue the client of a hitman on behalf of the victim killed. It was normal for dad’s clients to be taken into court by his victim’s loved ones. Fortunately, the hitman and his rights are always protected under law during such a case.

I could easily pick any oblivious stranger who passes by the shop window as a target for Matthias. But if that random stranger’s friends or family learn that I am the client (and today there are many methods of tracking down clients), then even though Matthias is otherwise safe, I will be brought to court. If the court rules that my reasons for targeting so-and-so are unfair, and in my case, that would be most likely, then I’d face charges for murder.

I’m the only person I know who has no one else who would sue on my behalf. Matthias suing me would be stupid, and he doesn’t have the guts to do that anyway. Mom? Is mom even alive anymore, who knows? Who cares?  I don’t care. She won’t do it.

Yet every daughter of a dead retired hitman is fully aware that once someone is dead, that’s it. He can’t be killed twice. The first time Matthias killed me, Satiné Dauch was technically dead, just like her father. Her corpse was found suspended in her bedroom by a web of red thread, needles impaled in every direction. That day Matthias’ body count meter online officially went up by one.

Keep up now, this is my favorite part of Matthias’ story. Like I said, I’m a freelance doll implant artist. Before the first kill, I simply uploaded myself into one of my commissions, a doll that was a cross between a fish and a waffle, before Matthias killed Satiné the human, who by then was in a vegetative state. From there, everything became simple.

I figure that once people see Matthias’ kill count rising, they will all assume that everyone is either hiring Matthias or being killed by him, therefore making him a popular and successful hitman. As for me, all I have to do is sew myself a new doll body, download my soul into it, and wait for Matthias to arrive at the newest location we agreed on, and watch as he kills who I was before.

It’s a swell life, really. By day, I create a new doll to become, and the only daily concern I have is to give my upcoming body at least two appendages to sew with for the next day. I don’t experience hunger or fatigue. The only pain I feel is at night when Matthias destroys my last vessel.

See, the thing with soul transactions is that even if you’re not in your old body, that old body is still a part of you. From the death of my original body and through the destruction of the last five hundred forty-seven dolls, I felt everything. Every stab of the needle, every pull and burn of the thread, I’ve never grown numb to it. It reassures me that when dad died, at least he had one last thrill before he was gone. If you ever have the chance to feel such discomfort, I recommend it. Really clears up the sinuses and sorrow, you know?

Every now and then, Matthias begs me to let him quit. Even though he’s a legal adult now, he still bawls like a baby at every kill. I keep reminding him that if he won’t shut up his blubbering, a passersby will hear and his yet to exist reputation will never recover from that.

I think back to when I was a child often, when dad was still alive, and when I thought I brilliantly answered that certain question inquiring who I wanted to grow up to be. Of course I certainly never answered with something like, “I want to be a new doll each day before my brother brutally kills me.”

The irony is that after five hundred forty-seven deaths, I am no longer Satiné Dauch, who I once was so hell-bent to be. Nope, Satiné Dauch is dead and forgotten. I am nothing but statistics in Matthias’ hitman record. Likewise, Matthias is still a ways away from achieving his childhood ambition. Maybe after five hundred more deaths Matthias will become just like dad. Maybe after one thousand. One million. A trillion, if Matthias is more pathetic than I think.

Doesn’t matter. Nothing has mattered after dad died. But once Matthias and I resurrect the legendary hitman Matthew Dauch, everything will all mean something once more.

[insane-hamilton-imagines-blog]

My Queen (King George III x Reader)

Requested by: Anonymous who wanted some fluffy King George x Reader

Summary: It’s your wedding day and you are all ready to marry your fiancé, who just happens to be the King of England! When you start having self doubts, George is there to comfort you.

Warnings: None!

Time Period: Hamiltime

Words: 1530

A/N: So, I loved writing this because I love King George and Jonathan Groff. To the requester, I hope this is what you were looking for. Sorry if I got any detaisl wrong about royal weddings during the 1700s. Anyway, thank you so much for everyone’s support and please feel free to leave some requests!!

You woke up and rubbed the reminiscent of sleep from your eyes. As mind started to think about the day ahead, your eyes shot open and a huge smile stretched across your face.

Today was the day you had been looking forward to for months. Today was the day you would be marrying George, the love of your life.

Jumping out of bed, you looked around the room, and your eyes landed on a bouquet of flowers. Right next to them, sat a small card with George’s fimilar handwriting. It read:

My dearest, (y/n):

You are the light of my life, and I still cannot belive that you agreed to marry me. I am eagerly anticipating the moment your beautiful figure glides down the aisle so that we may become man and wife. Until then, just know that I am thinking about you.

Forever yours,

(King) George

You smiled down at the note and brought the flowers closer to your face so you could smell their fresh scent. After setting them down, you ate the tray of breakfast that had been laid out for you.

Next, two maids came into your room to help you prepare for the ceremony. They sat you down in front of a mirror and pulled your hair into an elegant updo, curling the front sections that framed your face. Afterwards, they applied some makeup.

Finally, they laced up your corset and helped you into your wedding dress. It was a white, ballgown styled dress with lace. It had three-quarters length sleeves and a train coming off the back. You were finally allowed to see the final product when your veil was put on.

You beamed at your reflection because you felt truly beautiful. Everything felt absolutely perfect. All that was left to do was wait until the ceremony started. You thanked the maids and they offered their compliments before they left.

“You look truly radiant, miss.” the shorter one told you.

The other maid nodded and smiled at you before saying, “You almost look like a queen.”

With that, the two bowed their heads and left you alone to your thoughts.

All of the sudden, you began to get this nervous feeling in your stomach. It made you feel like you needed to throw up, so you decided to pace back and forth to keep the feeling at bay. The feeling did not go away, and the thoughts running around in your mind were not making it any better.

Your mind was a jumbled mess, but the only thing you could make out was the phrase, “You almost look like a queen.”

What was that supposed to mean? Was she mocking you? Subtly saying that you were unfit to marry King George and rule by his side?

Unfortunately, these thoughts were not anything new. Ever since the beginning of your courtship with George, you had contemplated whether you really deserved to be with him or not. All of these thoughts took you back in your memoires when you and George first began your courtship.

It was not like you were born into royalty or any sort of nobility. Your father was a black smith and your mother was a seamstress. From a young age, you were given the reasonability of looking after your younger siblings and learning the duties of a housewife.

The life your parents lived was not one you could ever be satisfied with, and you had vowed that you would make something of your life. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would end up marrying the King of England, but it happened.

You had been going into town to pick up some food, when you came across two men having a political debate. One was saying that the King (who was George at the time) was young, inexperienced, and had no right ruling the country, while the other man was defending the King.

Quickly, you had stepped in and defended the king. Eventually, the debate had ended and you turned to the man you were supporting, He asked if you could walk you home, and the rest was history.

Once you and George had been courting for a few months, (he had revealed his true identity already) he decided to let your relationship be known to the people of England. The news was not well received.

People of nobility and those you were not were appalled over the fact that you were just a commoner. Instantly, you received letters upon letters saying how you were nothing more than a dirty whore, looking to steal the government’s money and destroy the monarchy.

Each time you would receive one of these letters, George would rip it up and gather you into his arms. Then, he would draw patterns on your back, while reassuring you of his love.

You were brought from your thoughts with a sharp knock on the door. You wiped away the few tears that had slipped down your cheeks and called to see who it was.

“It’s me, my darling,” A familiar voice spoke.

The grin you wore earily returned as you heard the soothing voice of your fiancé. You took a few steps forward and you were about to open the door when a thought hit you.

“Goerge, you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.” you chided him.

“I do not care, I want to see my beautiful bride. I cannot wait for you to officially be my queen” he admitted.

At the word queen, your smiled dropped and sat down on the nearest coach. Although a your heart was racing, you knew what you had to do.

“George?” you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you absoutlley positive that you wish to marry me?” you questioned, voice cracking in the middle.

“Of course, my love. Why would you ever doubt the love I hold for you?” he asked you, shocked at your comment.

“I-I just, I am not royality.” you admitted, half ashmaded. “And I know many people did not want that wedding to happen for that reason. And while I was preparing, one of the maids told me I almost looked like a queen. I know she didn’t mean anything by it, but it just made me worried.” you explained, rushing through your sentences.

It was awhile until George spoke again and you knew it was partially him trying to deicive what he said. Finally, you heard shifting on the other side of the door, and you saw a bit of his hand underneath the door, searching for your hand.

Smiling, you let your fingers brush against his and sighed. “(y/n),” George started. “I do not care what others say, or if you are royalty or not. All that matters is I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” he confessed.

Now, a few tears of joy slipped down your cheeks, and you brushed them away laughing gently at yourself. How could you ever think such thoughts or doubt George’s love?

After you thanked your fiancé, you heard his footsteps get further away, and you took a look at yourself in the mirror. Luckily, your makeup was still in place, and you just had to pin back your hair a bit.

Not long after your conversation with your soon to be husband, a knock was heard at the door. You knew it was time to walk down the aisle.

You gripped tightly onto your wedding bouquet and took a few deeps breath to try and calm yourself down. Then, the wedding march started and the doors opened. All heads were turned towards you and you put on your brightest smile.

Slowly, but confidently, you glided down the aisle, your dress and veil flowing gracefully behind you. As you reached the alter, you turned towards George and he was beaming right back at you. He extended his arms and pulled back your veil, showing off your radiant face.

Once vows and rings had been exchanged the officiator of the wedding asked you both a simple, yet so important question that you had the same answer to.

“I do.”

“Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.” you heard briefly.

But before you could move, you one of George’s arms wrap around of your waist, while the other cupped your cheek. He brought you into a passionate kiss, pouring all of his love into it. 

When you pulled apart, you felt happier than you ever had before in your life. Taking your hand, George gently turned the both of you to face the crowd. Gazing across the sea of people, you saw everyone smile, which boosted your own confidence.

“May I introduce for the first time, King George and Queen (y/n).”

While the crowd applauded again, George leaned in and whispered in your ear, causing you to giggle.

“Did you hear that? Your my queen.”

[topicprinter]

Hi,I have been sewing children's clothing for about 6 years. Only for my own family and friends' children. I continually get told that the styles I produce are very unusual and aesthetic and I should sell them. I have to say I am not born in the US and come from a culture that tends to be rather strict and critical with oneself, so without this constant positive feedback I would have never even considered that what I make could be interesting to a broader range of people. The clothes are mainstream enough that they appeal to most families I think (nothing like kilts for boys or camouflage evening gowns for girls or something crazy), while still looking very distinctly different from anything I have seen both on the market (and I have searched a lot because I was sure someone must have come up with it) and from other home seamstresses,Anyway, we are not financially struggling, but at the same time I have huge qualms of investing even a 4-digit amount into something that might fail. I know, I know, not the best move. Our family has a very steady and reliable income and I cannot bring myself to waste that with a highly debatable and insecure idea.So here's my plan. I have designs ready to go. I contacted a couple manufacturers regarding sample making. If I have 5 samples made (that would be around $1k from the quotes I got) and then take those and tour a couple boutiques, farmers markets etc. to gauge interest and THEN decide whether to produce more or just let go of my idea, that would not waste too much money and at the same time give me a good idea of what people want, and also expose possible flaws in my designs?Does that sound like a good plan?I want to say that yes, I could produce the samples myself, however with my 2 home sewing machines it will just not entirely like a manufactured sample (coverlock seams for example) and I want to have it as close to the finished product as possible.Or should I even contact a "normal" seamstress to have these samples sewn? Again, I have everything in place (pattern, fabric, design...); I just need a handful of manufactured samples.Thank you for your advice, dear Reddit!!