OK I guess I'm doing a little write-up about my monpe pants!
So many people want my pants, and trust me: you can have them!!
Caveat: this is a traditional Japanese garment with a long history and made to be worn with kimono. I'm not Japanese and know nothing about the history of monpe or the crafting techniques involved, I literally just looked at the diagram @/prince-rosalium posted, looked at some monpe other people have made, thought well that's not hugely different from the European medieval clothing I know how to make, and went from there. I have altered - westernized! - my monpe to be worn without kimono, so they do look different from true monpe, but still have all monpe advantages, which are splendid and manifold.
I’m splitting this post into two shorter ones, to preserve my sanity.
Part 1: Pattern and sewing
Part 2: Adjustments and finishing
Ok, here we go. Monpe write-up part 1 after the readmore:
Monpe pants part 1: pattern and sewing
Here's how monpe work: You cut four mostly identical rectangles, fold over the upper outside corners, join the rectangles in the middle front and middle back, add a square gusset to add to the crotch depth, close down the legs, and add ties. Optionally, the legs can be tapered to be narrower. The front piece is tied in the back, the back piece tied in the front, and the waist is adjusted to your true waist circumference with pleats, darts, or elastic. Theoretically, you don't even have to make any other cuts beyond those four rectangles / gusset / ties, which makes this a fantastically low waste pattern.
I made my specific monpe from midweight wool fabric and lightweight linen, added tailored pleats, and hid the slits in the side seams with further lining, so they're a bit more engineered beyond "stick rectangles together". This is fairly heavy fabric, so I wanted to reduce bulk around my waist as much as possible and wanted the wool to drape nicely. I could have added pockets, but... forgot!
People have asked about fabric recommendations, and as far as I know, you can use basically anything. Linen. Quilting cotton. Wool. Denim. Handspun handwoven hand-dyed fabric, obviously, and I'm totally not glancing at several of my mutuals here. Each fabric will behave a bit differently - with thick wool, you might want to cut off the triangles at the top and not just fold it under to reduce bulk; with linen, that would be unneccessary. I lined my wool monpe with linen because the pure wool would have been a bit too scratchy otherwise.
These can be sewn completely by hand, if you prefer - it's exclusively straight seams. It's very easy. All fabric edgs in this can be finished however you want - I serged all my edges on both top fabric and lining, because both are rather fragile and I wanted less bulk. You can also make french seams, or felled seams, or just zizag the edges if you've got stable enough fabric.
Here's the basic pattern diagram for monpe.
And here's how I have adjusted it according to my own measurements:
I really do advise making a mock-up version from cheap fabric first, because you will likely have to fudge around with the gusset a fair bit to find what works for you.
You need these measurements:
waist (the narrowest part of your body)
hip (widest part of your body)
waist to ankle (leg length)
crotch depth (length from front waistband, between your legs, to the back waistband)
Check if 1/2 of your hip width (= one trouser leg width) actually fits well around the middle of your thigh! If not, add a few more cm, so your trouser legs sit comfy around your thighs. You can also add a cm or two to your basic rectangle width, for more roomy pants. If you're fat this is a neutral term, measure your waist and hip width while sitting down - more soft tissue to move around means your tissue will behave differently between standing / sitting.
The rectangles are cut like this:
2 x front: 1/4 of your hip width x leg length
2 x back: 1/4 of your hip width x (leg length plus ca. 2 cm)
The back pieces are a little bit longer than the front pieces to add more room for your butt. :) You can also ignore that, like I did, and make four fully identical rectangle pattern pieces.
Remember to always add seam allowances.
Optional: Mark the following points on your fabric, to make variations to the mock-up easier: edges of the folded-under corners; start of the square gussets on all legs; start and end of the leg taper.
Ok, once you have your fabric cut, we can start:
Fold over one upper outside corner of each leg rectangle - my folded triangles are about 25 cm by 5 cm. (If you use really heavy fabric, you can also cut them off and finish the raw edges.)
Close the middle seam in front and back, in a straight line from waist to wherever your gusset should start. Where is that? About half of your crotch depth minus a few cm. Don't worry, we'll adjust this later.
Ok, add the square gusset:
Gusset size: around 20x20 cm
I cut my gusset 21x21 cm and placed it 31 cm away from the top edge.
Adding square gussets is a bit complicated, but here's an excellent video by Morgan Donner on how it works: Watch it. Trust me, watch it, then it will make sense.
Close the inside leg seams:
Here, you need to decide if you want to taper your legs, and how narrow you want them to be. I started the taper at around my knees, tapering down to a 43 cm hem circumference. If you're making a mock-up, you can simply make one leg tapered and one leg straight, and compare the difference directly.
Close up the outside leg seams, from where the folded corners start, to the hem. Add the optional taper at the same place you started it on the inside (that's why marking it ahead of time is a good idea).
Congratulations, you have the rough approximation of trousers! Go take a break and drink some water.
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Tracing a neat straight line, adept and sure,
The falcon heeds the calling falconer;
Things hang together, and the center holds;
Mere symmetry is ordering the world,
The sea-bright tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence proceeds;
The best have strong convictions, while the worst
Are full of resignation and are sad.
Surely no revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming's far away.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When an indifference borne of stable comfort
Leaves my sight clear: somewhere in sands of the desert
A lion with lion body and the head of a lion,
A gaze calm and leonine, as is usual,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all around it
Reel shadows of the normal desert birds.
What a nice lion, right? And now I know
That twenty centuries have gone along
And things were bad sometimes, and things were good,
And if a lion slouches toward Bethlehem,
That's 'cause it's native to the Levant.
the Potential of tuna meltdown in shallergies verse given that one potential symptom of anaphylaxis is a sense of impending doom
so they eat, have handsy time on the couch, smooch smooch, first names, and oh. OH. gotta. gotta go. oh god. bad bad. death is coming. bad. bad bad.
and shane doesn't even realize at first what's happening because he thinks it's just the first names getting to him (and it is. partially.), but he's like. halfway back upstairs when what's ACTUALLY happening hits him.
and now we've got the combo of, "oh, i just came on this person, attempted to book it, but uuuuuuh hey ilya. i need. a favor. like...NOW."
the idea of ilya, still half-dressed and with cum on his stomach, standing there like 🧍 because he is understandably confused about why shane is in his room throwing shit around like an angry ex only to get snapped at to lock in is SO goddamn funny oh my GOD
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Imagine you're coming home after a long day of hunting, and the first thing you hear is your seven shitty kids screeching at you for no reason, how pissed off would you be, I'd immediately fly away too
Imagine you're the oldest of seven and a fucking HOA member broke into your HOUSE and SHIT AN EGG and is BITING at your siblings, but your dad shows so you try to tell him the problem but you're very little and you don't speak English and he doesn't speak English either so you can't communicate that a fucking GOBLIN is in your HOUSE and the only reason he doesn't know is cause his ASS was on that bitch's HEAD and he must've assumed it was one of your brothers and sisters but it was actually that FREAK WOMAN who got in, and now your dad is flying away 'cause he has no idea what's going on
Imagine you're a parent and you've calmed down and gone to get McDonald's for your seven kids, and you come home expecting to get cheers because you know the D's are always a winner, but when you fly back in through the door the kids are all still screaming, and it's not even excited screams but you don't know what's wrong so you just look into the camera like you're Jim from the Office
Imagine you're one of the small middle children and probably the one that this HOA WITCH was BITING after she broke into YOUR HOUSE and SHIT an EGG and you tried to be a good host by cuddling with her to congratulate her on her egg but then she started BITING and taking over your ROOM and threw out all your GOOSEBUMPS books and your eldest sibling couldn't call dad so you all just had to wait, and then dad comes home but your STUPID FAMILY won't stop SCREECHING to explain what's going on so your dad leaves but then comes back and he's brought McDonald's which is like yay but there is an INTRUDER, and finally your dad looks around the house and notices BITCH BIRD KAREN IN YOUR BEAN BAG CHAIR, and you're like ok dad can handle this but then you learn he's more scared than you?????
Imagine you're a dad and you just got home with McDonald's and WHO THE FUCK IS THAT IN MY HOUSE but luckily you have seven children and the mean one is willing to fight this bitch and you're just gonna chill in this corner until this problem is resolved even if your other kids are straight-up judging you
Imagine you're Kevin McCallister and you're doing Home Alone except you're not home alone 'cause your dad is home too but he's not helping, he's just holding a bag of McDonald's, so you have to be the head of this house at eight years old 'cause you're home alone emotionally but this FREAK ON AN EGG isn't leaving so you decide to screech at your dad and he's more scared of you than she is
Imagine you're a dad and your child has publicly shamed you in front of your other kids and this ASSHOLE KAREN and you decide you're not gonna take this shit anymore so you tell your kids that you paid for this McDonald's with your hard-earned bird money and they're gonna damn well eat this, so everybody stop looking at that side of the house and just eat your fucking french fries but then that fucking MONSTER starts BITING your only child willing to go into battle so you recognize this is a lost cause and throw the burgers on the counter and you remember you're an ADULT so you grab your car keys and fly the fuck away
Imagine you're all seven children and dad left you with the pigeon again
1. The court holds Google responsible for statements made by its AI, considering them Google's statements (search engines have limited liability for results in their engine as they're the words of other sites/companies/people), meaning when their AI lies/hallucinates they're liable for the defamation/harm resulting from those statements.
2. Google's defense that customers are generally aware of the lack of reliability and are responsible for fact checking was dismissed. As the court pointed out, that would "significantly diminish" AI Search's stated purpose and it can't be distinguished from Google's business practices/statements as a search tool.
3. Studies have found about 91% of Google's everyday AI responses are accurate, leaving millions of searches per HOUR with potential liability for falsehoods. 56% of correct responses weren't supported by the sources the AI listed. Both of which mean Google is now liable for a LOT more AI "errors."
4. Google was held liable for 80% of court costs in this case and this precedent is expected to reverberate around the world. This is a massive shift from the 3rd-party search provider role Google has previously played and it comes right as they've tied ALL searches to their AI search.
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My smol contribution to shallergies is that mangoes can be REALLY hit or miss ESPECIALLY when they're out of season and ESPECIALLY in north america, so I can imagine Shane buying his Illicit Mango, cutting it up, and tasting it, only to discover it was a Bad Mango. He feels personally betrayed. His hands are already red and itchy from the juice. Motherfucker can he not have ONE SINGULAR GOOD THING. There are times when he has especially bad luck and ALL the mangoes he picked are bad and he is literally already having the allergic reaction so he cannot go out and buy more.
Then, maybe one day hollonav get to the point where Ilya is resigned (aka understands it is Shane's choice to make) to The Mangoes, so it's the end of the season and it's Shane's Illegal Mango Time and Ilya (huffing and sighing and whining) presents Shane with a batch of precut, pre-tasted mangoes that Ilya visited like 3 separate stores to get. There are 3 in the tupperware versus the like 15 that Ilya bought to try, ranked for sweetness and juiciness etc etc. They are hands-down the best mangoes Shane has had in his entire life. This ranks amongst top 5 most romantic things Ilya has ever done for him. Ilya remains bewildered that he is getting kissed and thanked and blown because he is aiding and abetting Shane willingly poisoning himself every once in a while.
HI HELLO PLS HAVE FICLET BECAUSE I WAS INSPIRED BY WHAT IS INDEED THE MOST ROMANTIC GESTURE OF ALL TIME
Having his entire life implode around him has meant a variety of changes and plans and contingencies and conversations and contracts and discussions.
It has also meant reducing this year’s Mango Time to only one week to fit within all of his other obligations.
Naturally, because apparently it’s the theme of the entire fucking year, it also has to go badly. He had allotted himself three mangoes for the first day, but he’d ended up going through six in his increasing desperation to just find one fucking good one.
He hadn’t succeeded.
By the time Ilya–away for a photoshoot for a magazine and then a brand event and thus not here for Mango Time–calls, Shane’s mood has plummeted sharply in a way he knows shouldn’t be hitting him so hard.
And yet.
“Hello Mango Maniac,” Ilya says with fond resignation as soon as the call connects. “How badly-what’s wrong?” His levity drops in an instant. “Shane, what happened? What's wrong?”
Shane wonders if it's worse to answer and tell him the humiliating truth or just hang up. Knowing the latter would likely have Ilya on his doorstep within two hours, though, photoshoot and contractual obligations be damned, he answers, voice absurdly tight for such a stupid thing.
“My mangoes all sucked.”
Ilya blinks.
“I tried, like, six,” Shane says, feeling stupid and weak and ridiculous.
And itchy.
“And they were…not good?” Ilya says carefully, obviously a little thrown by what’s happening, which Shane can’t blame him for. He knows it’s beyond ridiculous, being upset because the mangoes were all stringy or bitter or astringent, but-
“It's not fair,” he says, scrubbing his arm over his eyes, hating himself and mangoes and allergies all together in a blend of hurt and humiliation at being so hurt over something so fucking stupid. “I already feel like shit, and it’s just going to get worse, and it was for nothing.”
As soon as he says it, he's aware it's not just something that applies to this year's shitty inaugural session of Mango Time.
But at this stage of things, being upset about the mangoes is easier than being upset about the Metros.
“I can't have fucking anything,” he says, scrubbing his arm over his eyes, knowing he sounds petulant and stupid but unable to help it, knocked down in this last little cosmic fuck you, offering him all of the price and none of the pleasure of his singular fucking vice. He eats clean. He trains hard. He follows the rules. He does everything right.
And he can’t even have the one fucking thing he lets himself indulge in knowing it’s not good for him.
It’s just not fucking fair.
“Everyone else gets to eat whatever the fuck they want all the fucking time, and I have to read every goddamn label and menu and ask every waitress and check every ingredient and be so goddamn careful all the goddamn time and never slip up because I could fucking die and-” He cuts himself off, looking away, like that’ll mean that Ilya doesn’t notice that he’s being a fucking basket case right now. “And I can’t even have a good mango,” he finishes miserably, voice small.
“I’m sorry you had bad mangoes, malysh,” Ilya says, and the sincere sympathy in his voice just makes him feel even worse.
Shane tucks himself down a little firmer on the couch under the throw blanket he’s under, primarily as a guard against him itching the way he wants to.
A price he’s paying for something he didn’t even fucking enjoy.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it’s stupid to-”
“Is stupid to eat something you are allergic to, yes,” Ilya interrupts. “But is okay to be upset, Shane. You do not have to apologize for this.”
“Okay, Galina,” Shane scoffs, but Ilya doesn’t take offense.
“Hey,” Ilya protests, faux-offended. “She is very smart person, and I listen to very smart people.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Just like other people could listen to smart people like, oh, I don’t know, their fucking allergist-”
Shane makes a face, but he does feel a little better, just having Ilya in front of him, even if only on a screen.
If he can’t have good mangoes, at least he can have a good boyfriend.
*
By the end of their first year on the Centaurs together, his and Ilya’s sex life has gotten sparse enough that when Shane is playfully told to close his eyes and hold out his hand after collapsing on the couch after coming home from end of season PT for his bad shoulder, he's expecting to feel the weight of his husband’s cock or a new dildo in his palm. It wouldn't be unwelcome, honestly. He’s already been making a list of everything he’d like to catch up on that he’s thought about but not had the energy to explore in the bedroom.
Instead, though, what lands in his hand is…tupperware?
He opens his eyes before he's told to.
“What’s this?” He asks, tilting the container up and then frowning when he realizes what’s in it, even more confused. “You're enabling my mango habit with pre-sliced mangoes?” He asks, suspicious, frankly, at this gesture from the president of the Jesus Fuck Shane Stop Eating The Fucking Mangoes Club.
“I am enabling you with the best mangoes,” Ilya corrects, dropping down next to him and looking distinctly pleased with himself. “You still should just stop eating the fucking mangoes,” a look, “but if you are going to keep making bad choices, it should at least be worth it. So: the best mangoes.”
“The best mangoes, huh? Promise?” Shane asks, both touched and amused at the grandness of the declaration. “What, did you hire a mango witch?”
“Would have been easier,” Ilya says wryly. “Then I could have not eaten so fucking many. I don't know why you-”
“You were eating them?” Shane asks, thrown, as he pops the top on the container, mouth watering immediately at the sweet, juicy, floral scent that wafts up to him, feeling hunger so intense it feels almost like arousal.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “For the first day of the world's most stupid annual event-”
Shane kicks him.
“-here are the best mangoes Ottawa has to offer. I bought five from five stores, and these are the winners of all 25 in celebration of the first day of Shane's Stupid Mango Time Cel-”
“You bought 25 mangoes?” Shane asks, incredulous. “You-wait, you also ate 25 mangoes?”
“After peeling them–which was the worst part, why do you have to love such a stupid fruit, huh?–I ate a piece from every single one, and these are the best. The others-”
He doesn't get to finish the sentence.
Not when Shane carefully puts the bowl of mangoes down on the coffee table, straddles his husband, and pulls him into a kiss so filthy it couldn't be aired on television were someone filming them. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest their foreheads together. If his eyes are a little wet, Ilya doesn’t mention it, instead thumbing affectionately at the apple of his cheek.
“You got me the best mangoes?” Shane asks, voice a little rough.
“I would still prefer if you would just have healthy bad habits like normal people, like maybe getting addicted to cocaine-”
Shane snorts.
“-but this is what you like, and I know you wait all year for it.” He brushes Shane's hair back, stroking over his cheek before resting his hand along his jaw. “And last year was bad. So this year I am making it good. So you can have a good Mango Time.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu” Shane says, kissing him again, once, twice, three times.
“I love you, too,” Ilya says affectionately, ruining a bit of the sweetness of the moment with an appreciative squeeze of Shane’s ass before he nudges him off. “Now eat your stupid choices so both of us suffering can be worth it. Commence Shane Hollander’s Very Stupid And Bad Mango Time.”
Shane graciously ignores the slander of his holiday and climbs off of his husband to sit on the couch again. He reclaims the bowl and picks out the smallest piece of mango he can find from the beautiful morsels on offer, moaning without meaning to when he chews. Jesus fuck. It is a fucking excellent mango.
Ilya's look of pleased amusement at his reaction fades slightly into hunger of his own when Shane slides off the couch to his knees and reaches for Ilya's belt buckle, swallowing his bite of perfect mango and licking his lips as he lowers his husband's fly.
After all, sweet always tastes better with a little salty to go with it.
(And if he pauses mid-blowjob for another bite of mango, well.) (Ilya already signed the marriage certificate and can’t follow through on his threats to leave him.)
all yall make jokes about couples and their nonromantic third wheel having fun together, but im the one getting treated to food tonight by the couple im nonromantically third wheeling. you wish you were me
I'm sorry I read this as "necromantic third wheel" and went on a very rapid powerful imagination adventure. hello lovebirds I'm the skeleton here for breadsticks
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