#Trouser Sewing Machine

[upperranktwo]

I wore my Nemesis jacket today and my friend said it looks like Douma's shirt and honestly so glad she also noticed it because I said the same thing to myself. It's his shirt expect red on black instead of black on red. Like what can I say? I am a sucker for black and red

[severeprincesheep]

How to hem Jeans with the Original Hem

Another way to do it, and this time it's with a sewing machine.

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

sometimes you go to a party of sorts like "oh yeah i have time" and then you're there like "some of these conversations are actually pretty solid even if most peopl here at the literal youth centre are decidedly not young" and then you get home like "nvm i had too little sleep and too long a day and no social battery it actually wasn't that worth it and also i haven't had a free weekend since late may"

[cantankerouscatfish]

handsewing is fun & cool & sometimes involves bleeding all over your projects.

[zeawesomebirdie]

Every day I turn more and more into my Grandpa and I love this for me

[be-a-cute-scientist]

love that when moving continents the sewing stuff i took with me were 5 (five) patterns, two sewing books, and a single zipper

[alexaloraetheris]

Oh boy, I feel like it's time for a post nobody will like.

We all know clothes are getting worse. Recently I found some jeans I bought in high school, and since I lost weight recently I tried them on and they fit, so I'll be wearing them once we get out of the Hell season.

But I took them and compared them to the most recent pair of jeans I bought, and... Honestly the difference in quality is so fucking stark it made me want to give up on life. The jeans I wore in high school have gone through everything. I'm talking half of Europe here, because one of our teachers was pretty big on school trips everywhere she could get the money for. They've been washed, tumbled, survived an actual car crash and they're still good.

The most recent pair I machine-washed ONCE, everything else was hand-wash only. I babied them to the max because they made my ass look like was on Instagram. Do you know what they look like now?

They're full of fixes like these. They lasted less than a year on their own. I got another decent year out of them SOLELY because I kept fixing them. And fixing them again. The crotch alone I had to fix SEVEN TIMES. I COUNTED.

And these weren't cheap jeans! C&A jeans tend to be around 40$ these days, and I got these for about 30 with a discount. I expected them to last me AT LEAST a few years, because those high school jeans? THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING BRAND.

Considering this was the quality I was getting for nearly 40$ I figured I might as well get the same quality for 15$ and downloaded SHEIN. I didn't get jeans from them but I got some light, fluttery summer pants in the style that, honestly, I fucking love. I got three pairs for the price of one C&A jeans, and I am aware I will have to baby them even more, because out of the five pairs of pants in total I have bought on SHEIN only ONE is made of the fabric that I might be brave enough to machine wash. And with SHEIN continually getting sued for using sweatshops I probably won't be getting those pants again.

So what to do with that shitfuck situation?

I am insanely lucky my grandma knew how to sew really well and didn't mind me looking over her shoulder as long as I was quiet. I am aware that's not a skill everyone has, but quite frankly? When nobody has any money and even paying big bucks for clothes does not guarantee any kind of quality, and even fucking THRIFT STORES are full of just junk now, I think it's time to face the facts.

You need to learn how to sew.

I'm not talking about sewing your own clothes, though if you can and you have the time and patience, it's probably the best option (good luck finding decent fabric, because we can't even find THAT anymore unless you're ordering from fucking Belgium). I'm talking about fixing up seams and sewing on a patch, little repairs that make your clothes last. It might be junk, but with sewing you can make it last twice as long for the price of a spool of thread.

Now that I've pissed off everyone who is, for some reason, morally opposed to learning how to sew because it's a 'girly hobby' or 'supporting the patriarchy' (a take that left me baffled like nothing else) I'm going to piss off everyone who already knows how to sew.

I recommend getting this little guy.

It's called a stapler sewing machine, for obvious reasons. If I recall correctly, it was invented to fix clothes on the go for fashion shows and/or cosplay. It does only a chain stitch and needs to be pushed manually, but if you need to, like, hem your trousers and you don't want to spend half an hour on doing it manually (and don't already have an actual sewing machine) this is a lifesaver.

Here's a tutorial how it operates:

Now, why am I recommending this? Because it will only set you back six bucks. I got two right off the bat because I was banking on one not working (and I was right) and so I could use it for spare parts. The one in the video (Spring Come) is the one I have as well, and it's the one that actually works. I can't vouch for any unmarked ones, but the blue one works. It IS a little temperamental, but with a bit of practice it makes things so much easier.

The reason I'm not recommending an electric machine of any kind, even the one that costs 18$, is because, if you're a beginner, then an automatic sewing machine becomes a machine that exponentially speeds up the rate at which you make mistakes, and if it breaks down, good luck fixing it unless you have a dad/uncle/friend who knows his electronics. This thing can be fixed with a screwdriver, and takes the same needles as an ordinary sewing machine.

You can buy a bundle of needles just about anywhere for any price and they'll be decent as long as they're steel, but I would recommend looking for some actual better quality thread. Everywhere else, you can pinch pennies, but the thread itself is what's holding your clothes together, so this should be the part where you're looking for quality instead of price.

Alright, those of you who didn't scroll past with a derisive scoff at my take, I hope I've been helpful.

[nujeskz]

Orphic - Hwang Hyunjin

Pairing: Hyunjin x designer!reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, mutual pining.

Synopsis: You and Hyunjin have always been inseparable—best friends, confidants, and, unknowingly, each other’s greatest longing. As a designer, he’s your muse, the canvas for every stitch, every fabric choice, every creation filled with the words you’re too afraid to say. But when years of silent yearning come to a breaking point one late night in your studio, a single kiss threatens to unravel everything—fear, hesitation, and the love that’s been woven between you all along.

warnings: no proofread, mutual pining, emotional tension, slight angst, hyunjin is reader's muse, kisses, let me know if I should add anything else! wc: 1.5k

Author's note: in honor of hyunjin's day! this is something i had in mind for a while, I hope you all like it ! And happy birthday to my bubu♡

Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated!

The steady hum of your sewing machine fills the room, a rhythmic pulse that mirrors the quiet thrum of your heartbeat. Fabric scraps litter the floor, colorful remnants of your relentless creativity, while stray threads tangled around your ankles like whispers of unfinished ideas. You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, exhaustion creeping into your muscles. When your gaze flickers to the clock, it’s nearly midnight.

But that doesn’t stop you.

Without hesitation, you grab your phone, fingers moving with a familiar ease as you type out a message. You don't need to think about the number—you know by heart.

You’re threading a needle when your phone buzzes on the desk, vibrating against the sketchbooks piled high with unfinished designs. The soft glow of the screen reflects the name you’ve come to associate with both comfort and chaos: Hyunjin.

You don’t need to check the message. You already know what it says. He’s on his way, because you called him — like you always do. And he’ll come, because he always does.

A flutter stirs in your chest, one you've tried to suppress more times than you can count and you scold yourself for it. Hyunjin is your best friend, your canvas, your muse. He’s not yours to keep, no matter how much you wish otherwise.

The door swings open without a knock, and there he is, standing in your dimly lit space like he belongs here. His freshly buzzed hair is still damp from a shower, tiny droplets clinging to his skin. He’s wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowing his hands, paired with cargo jeans that sag lazily around his waist. He looks nothing like the sleek figure he becomes when draped in your creations—nothing like the version of him the world gets to see.

“What disaster am I modeling today?” he teases, collapsing onto your worn-out couch with a dramatic sigh, legs sprawled like he owns the place. You don’t mind; he’s been a fixture in your space for as long as you can remember, the living canvas to your creations.

You roll your eyes, tossing a cushion at him. “It’s not a disaster. And if you hate my designs so much, stop coming over.”

“I never said I hated them,” he grins, effortlessly catching the pillow. “I just like giving you a hard time.”

Your fingers curl against your sleeve as warmth creeps up your neck. You gesture to the clothing rack, where tonight's creation awaits. The piece you’ve made is bolder than usual — a fitted, asymmetrical jacket, intricate embroidery trailing along the back like poetry, paired with tailored trousers that hug the body just right.

Hyunjin whistles low, standing up to examine the outfit. He stretches, and for a fleeting second, the hem of his oversized hoodie lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. Your pulse stutters.

“You made this for me?” he asks, voice laced with something unreadable.

“Of course,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look away, feigning interest in a stray thread on your sleeve. “Who else would I make it for?”

He disappears into the bathroom to change, and when he steps out, you forget how to breathe.

The sharp angles of his jawline stand out more with the buzzcut, and the clean lines of the outfit mold against him like it was meant for no one else. He’s like a living sculpture, every angle carefully carved, every movement fluid and precise. You’ve memorized his form over the years—his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, the length of his limbs. But now, standing before you like this, he’s something more.

“Well?” he prompts, spinning around with a smug grin. “Do I look good, or do I look amazing?”

He looks stunning, as always, but it’s not just the clothes. It’s him — the way he carries himself, the way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room, even when you’re silently stitching for hours.

You swallow hard. “You look… perfect.”

⭑.ᐟ

It wasn’t always like this.

Hyunjin used to live in oversized shirts and beat-up sneakers, his hair long enough to tie back. He had no interest in fashion, claiming it was “too much effort” to care about what he wore. But then you started designing, and he started modeling, and bit by bit, you transformed him.

He let you mold him, shape him, change him.

His closet shifted from basic streetwear to an eclectic collection of pieces that screamed you. And somewhere along the way, your designs changed, too. The pieces you made for him became more daring, more intimate. Low-cut necklines, snug fits, fabrics that clung to his skin like a second layer of you. And not once did he refused.

You taught him how to carry himself differently, how the right clothes could alter his presence. You buzzed his hair on a whim one night, your fingers trembling as they skimmed his scalp. He trusted you completely, letting you shape him like clay, never once questioning why he was always your first call.

And now, when Hyunjin walks into a room, people notice. His presence is magnetic, drawing others in with effortless ease. You pretended it didn’t bother you when he came back with stories of girls slipping their numbers into his pockets. You smiled and nodded, ignoring the ache in your chest.

He never knew the truth — that every stitch, every fabric choice, every outfit was a love letter you were too afraid to write with words.

⭑.ᐟ

“Stand still,” you mutter, adjusting the sleeve of the jacket.

Hyunjin obeys, but you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense. You try to ignore it, focusing on the garment instead, but your hands are trembling, fingers brushing against his skin more than necessary.

“Why do I feel like a doll?” Hyunjin murmurs, voice softer now, laced with something unspoken.

“You are,” you reply absentmindedly, fingers brushing against his skin as you adjust the lapel. “My muse.”

His breath hitches, but you don’t notice — or you pretend not to.

Silence settles between you, thick and unyielding. You step into his space again, fingers smoothing down the fabric against his chest. Your brow furrowing in concentration. But Hyunjin… Hyunjin is watching you with something fragile, something raw.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, breaking the silence.

Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting slightly. “I don’t know. You get all quiet when I get close to you. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you whisper, throat tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop, watching you with a softness that makes your chest ache.

You finish pinning the last adjustment, stepping back to admire your work. But Hyunjin doesn’t move.

He just looks at you. He watches the way your teeth graze your lower lip, the way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought. And suddenly, he can’t do this anymore.

He’s loved you for years, silently, hopelessly. But standing here, with you so close, your hands on him, your voice calling him your muse like he’s something precious — it breaks him.

And then—

He moves.

His hands find your waist, tentative yet urgent, and before you can react, before you can stop this, he pulls you in and kisses you.

It’s sudden, messy, his lips pressing against yours with a desperation that steals the air from your lungs. Your eyes widen, body frozen in shock, and as quickly as it happens, Hyunjin pulls away, panic flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, stepping away like he’s been burned. “I—I don’t know why I did that. I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, but you grab his wrist, heart pounding.

And without thinking—without hesitation—you pull him back. And this time, you kiss him.

This time, it’s slower, more certain. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, holding him close, grounding yourself in him. Hyunjin exhales against your lips, his hands tentative as they find your waist.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I thought you’d be mad,” Hyunjin whispers.

A shakly laugh bubbles from your throat. “I’ve been in love with you forever, Hyun.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“That’s why you’re my muse,” you confess, voice breaking. “I needed an excuse to keep you close.”

Hyunjin lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head as he pulls you into his arms. “I thought it was one-sided.”

You shake your head, burying your face in his chest. “You idiot.”

And when he kisses you again, there’s no hesitation, no fear. Just love, stitched between the seams of every design, woven into every thread, waiting—patiently—to be unraveled.

That night, you don’t finish your adjustments. The blazer lies forgotten on the floor as Hyunjin pulls you onto the couch, cradling your face like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

And maybe you are — but so is he.

Your muse. Your best friend. Your love.

Yours. Finally.

© 2025 all rights reserved to user nujeskz

[sevilemar]

I got my sewing machine back on Wednesday, and I've been busy. Have a look:

Both are made from bedsheets I found on the street, and the yellow-black cuffs and waistband were an old top a friend gave me. The only new thing in all of this is the thread, and the elastic in the waistband of the trousers.

I'm happy with my first attempts at both, and will now be altering the dress pattern to fit better. The most difficult thing was the hemline on the dress. I do not have anything I can put it on except myself, and no other person to help either.

[justalittlesolarpunk]

This morning I went to a repair cafe and one of my uni tutors helped me sew up my frayed trousers. There were people on sewing machines, mending radios and plugs. There was tea and cake, people chatting, all ages and a bunch of different accents. It felt radical and cool as hell, and now my trousers are fixed! Wins all round

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Shipping Out

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Drinking, smoking, public sex, smut. Word count: ~1.5k

Summary: Just trust me on this one, and read all the way to the end.

Author's note: A little birthday treat for @bottlesandbarricades. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The pub is crowded and noisy, the humidity of the air making her carefully coiffed curls cling to the back of her neck with perspiration. It’s not often that she frequents this side of Manchester, but the change of scenery is a refreshing switch of pace to the monotony of everyday life. Laughter, music and the clinking of glasses is preferable to the whir of the factory sewing machines.

She taps her red lacquered nails against the wood of the bar, wrinkling her nose at the stickiness of the wooden surface beneath her palm. If the frequency with which it’s wiped down is any indication of the attentiveness of the barkeep then she’s in for a long wait for a drink.

Sighing, she fishes her cigarette case from her handbag, flipping it open and plucking one out. No sooner has she placed it between her lips than a hand is clicking a flame to life before the end of it, turning it a glowing cherry red. She casts her gaze upwards through the steady plume of smoke, met by twinkling blue eyes and a cocky smirk, as the chivalrous stranger deposits his lighter back into his trouser pocket and regards her with a tip of his head.

“Thanks,” she says with an easy smile, taking the smoke between her fingers and exhaling a tight line of vapour up towards the ceiling.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies with a wink. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this then?”

God, that’s a terrible line.

She bites back a laugh, and decides to humour him. “Trying to get a drink, service in here is awful though.”

He purses his lips, eyes raking over her from head to toe, before nodding. “Can’t be having that.” Slapping a hand against the bartop, he calls out, “Oi! My lady friend and I are dying of thirst over here! Anyone serving?”

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief, but doesn’t have to wait long until a middle aged, irritated looking woman makes her way around the corner to the pair of them and grumpily takes their order. She’s long since finished her cigarette by the time the glasses are placed heavily down in front of them.

He doesn’t even ask what she wants to drink; she ends up with a gin and tonic, while he has a pint. It’s what she would have ordered anyway, but the bold presumption unsettles her regardless.

Sipping her drink, she relishes in the way the fizzy bitterness envelopes her tongue as she takes in what he’s wearing; navy blue slacks and a matching long sleeved smock, with a white striped collar.

“Shouldn’t you be on a boat somewhere, sailor?”

He grins, setting his glass down on a dog eared beer mat. “Just so happens I’ve been given a night of shore leave. I ship out again tomorrow.”

“Lucky me,” she says with a coy smile.

“If you play your cards right you might be.”

There’s that smirk again. She watches as he takes out a packet of Lucky Strike, perching one between his lips before offering one to her. She gratefully accepts, and he’s quick to light it for her, before doing the same to his own.

Every table is full, but she doesn’t mind, she’s content just to prop up the bar with him, ignoring the ache of her feet as they lapse into effortless conversation. He’s handsome, if a little overeager and she pays rapt attention as he entertains her with stories of his time aboard the HMS Exeter.

She’s on her third gin and tonic of the evening when he leans in to whisper to her.

“So, I might not see another woman for months after tonight. You gonna help me make it one to remember?”

Feeling her cheeks heat up, she giggles softly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a way for you to thank me for my loyal service to our country,” he tells her, taking her hand and leading her out of the pub.

Allowing the gin to fuel her confidence, before she can change her mind, she lets him guide her outside. Even met with the sobering chill of the night air, she offers up no protest when he pulls her into the ginnel, the brickwork biting into her back as he pushes her up against the wall and captures her lips with her.

It’s a messy kiss, moist and desperate with need. He tastes of beer and tobacco as she welcomes his tongue against her own with parted lips, her fingertips sliding over the breadth of his shoulders and up into the cropped softness of his sandy coloured hair.

Pressing tighter against her, he groans appreciatively, mouth moving from hers to travel a path across her jaw and down her neck, as his hands find their way up her skirt. One teases the top of her stocking while the other presses against her clothed core, making her gasp.

His touch is hurried, not as thorough as she’d like, yet she feels a growing stickiness between her thighs regardless. The warmth of his fingers and lips against her makes her feel desired, and she is lightheaded, almost giddy, to see the effect she’s having on him.

Instinctively, she parts her legs wider as he dips beneath her knicker elastic, stroking eagerly through her folds.

“Christ, you’re soaked,” he rasps against the shell of her ear, “bet you’d let me fuck you right here, if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

She bites her bottom lip, stifling her quiet whimper as his strokes against her cause her to throb. “Please…”

“Since you asked nicely…” He pulls back, blue eyes dark with intent as he makes quick work of unbuckling his belt, lowering his trousers and briefs just enough to free his erection.

Even in the darkness of the alleyway she can see that he’s thick and heavy, and he pumps lazily at himself, while his free hand reaches into his pocket.

“Leave that,” she tells him, as she spots the foil of the sheath wrapper.

He raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips as he stares at her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

That’s all the confirmation he needs, slipping the packet away and surging forward. He pulls her underwear to the side, grasping the base of himself and pushes forcefully into her in one motion.

The movement knocks all the air from her lungs. Though she is wet, the public nature of their tryst leaves little time for him to prepare her fully, the luxury of time is not on their side, but in their desperation neither one of them cares. It stings, the fullness of him pushing against her, but it’s a pleasurable hurt.

Her breaths leave her mouth in shallow pants as he pistons his hips into her, lifting one of her legs to hook her thigh around his hip. She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he rocks into her, his forehead pushed up against hers.

“Filthy slut,” he grits out, “bet you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yeah…” she whines, feeling his fingers press tighter into the meat of her thigh.

His brow furrows, and he grunts, his pace becoming sloppy and erratic. While the ache builds steadily inside of her, she worries he’ll finish before she does. The thought is fleeting, and as though he’s read her mind, the hand not gripping her thigh slips between them, fingers rubbing tight circles against her bud. She clenches around him, the added stimulation serving to intensify the tightening in her lower belly.

“That’s it,” he mutters, “come on.”

He pulsates inside of her, knocking against a spot that makes her tip over the edge suddenly, and she lets out a choked cry, a rolling wave of weightlessness travelling from her head to her toes. Her walls spasm around him and he pushes himself in to the hilt, a groan of relief escaping him as he spills himself inside of her.

They stay like that for a few moments, both catching their breath as their bodies relax. He grins as he pulls back slightly, before leaning in to pepper her face with soft, playful kisses.

“Tommy!” She huffs a laugh, swatting at his shoulder.

He slips out of her, stepping back to tuck himself away and fasten his belt. “Thought we weren’t supposed to be using our names? Part of the fun was pretending we don’t know each other.”

She scoffs, putting her gusset back into place as she feels his spend start to drip out of her, and smooths her skirt back down. “Think you ruined that when you ordered my drink without asking what I wanted. A stranger wouldn’t know I like gin and tonic!”

Tom rolls his eyes and chuckles, offering his arm for her to take. “Right, right. Well, I’ll remember for next time. Whatever you need for me to fulfill your fantasies.”

“Right now, my only fantasy is being at home in bed. That pub is horrible,” she tells him as they begin to walk down the street arm in arm.

“You wanted the uniform. I wasn’t gonna take us somewhere someone we know would see and take the piss.”

She laughs, gripping his arm tighter as she looks up at him. “Was fun though, wasn’t it?”

He gazes down at her with hooded eyes as they continue to walk. “I’ve had worse nights.”

Read on AO3

More Tom fics

[daveth-isnt-dead]

Overlock Stitch Part 4/?

Summary:

Viktor is just trying his best to survive his years as a student at the academy when a girl studying textiles suddenly begs him to let her tailor his uniform. She is right, it doesn't fit, but he isn't in the business of accepting charity from strangers. "Please?" She asks, "It would be fully anonymous on your part and we would both be better off." Then again, but with feeling, "please?" Viktor eyes her again and against his better judgement, presents an undeserved olive branch, "Will you be here tomorrow?" Her smile is so wide it almost makes him want to recoil. He wonders if her cheeks hurt.

Contains: Third person POV, She/Her Pronouns for reader

Word count: 3195

Read on ao3

Having Viktor in her room makes her jumpy. Every one of her nerves is a live wire, she feels like she might implode in on herself if she doesn't find a way to calm the battering ram of her heart. It's somehow worse how casual he looks, the way he comfortably sinks into the cushions of her sofa and sips on a cup of tea, as if to him this is not a panic inducing experience. She should have fought harder when he offered- well, not offered, told her that he was going to fix the radiator. What kind of host invites a person over and then just stands around while they do household repairs for them? She gets an itchy feeling, worming into her brain, remember that conversation they had about favours and their value, looking at him now she can't help worrying that he felt he had to do that, so he wouldn't owe her anything.

She bounces a knee, glad that he has decided to stay, terrified at the prospect of keeping him occupied all the while.

It is much warmer in the room now that the radiator is actually working. Viktor quickly stood up from the sofa and turned the boiler back on five minutes ago before settling back into his seat and she can't deny how much nicer it feels inside now that the place is actually properly heated. She has been trying to carefully unpick the inner seam on a pair of his trousers for some time now, but her shaky hands are making it difficult. It's not so much Viktor that is making her nervous, more just the presence of another person at all. Viktor is special in a sense, largely that he is the only person she has cared to impress for reasons outside of maintaining her already fragile reputation.

Whatever desire she has to maintain airs around her classmates is more about protecting her enrolment at school, in making her final year of study as smooth as possible. Aside from that she could hardly care what they actually think about her as a person, she already knows they don't like her. With Viktor it's different, she aches for his approval, for the tiny first inclinations of a smile that she catches every so often. She wants for him not to just tolerate her, but to like her and that is what makes her hands shake.

"How old is your sewing machine?" Viktor asks suddenly.

She nearly stabs herself with the seam-ripper. She had half expected him to not say a word until she did and she was still trying to muster up the confidence, "I-I'm not sure, very, I think. It was my grandmother's on my father's side."

He hums low under his breath and then leans forward to rest his teacup on the table, "Might I take a look at it?"

"Oh, sure, that would be fine." She finally finishes undoing inseam of his trousers and hangs them over the armrest before reaching for the last pair, "Just be careful, it's pretty delicate."

"I did say look and not touch, didn't I?" Viktor asks in a tone that she almost dares to interpret at playful. He smiling again, she tries not to stare, "I will be careful, don't worry."

Luckily finding the first stitch and hooking her seam-ripper through it takes enough focus that it's easy to avoid watching as Viktor crosses the room to look at the machine. It's nothing like the ones in the academy, it's an old thing with scuffed dark paint and a litany of chipped hand painted flowers decorating it in a assorted colours and styles. Her father and grandmother paint differently enough that she can tell which flowers were drawn by who by style alone. Her father always seems to paint the sorts of daises that grow up through cracks in the pavement, the ones she always watches the academy groundskeeper ripping out because they are apparently weeds. Her grandmother largely favoured painting an old species of flower that her father says haven't been seen in decades, not since he was very young. Butter yellow, with a shape like two scooping hands held upward to the sky.

"Did you paint these?" Viktor asks quietly.

She peers up at him, he's bent half over, fingers not quite brushing the flowers on the base of the machine, "No." She answers truthfully, "My father, and grandmother. I'm too nervous to add anything to it, I'm better with a needle and thread than I am with a paintbrush."

"These are Zaun flowers." Viktor says and she might imagining it, but he sounds almost wistful.

"Yes." She answers softly, noticing the way his hair curls up at the base of his skull, the broad slope of his shoulders, "My father says they died out sometime after he moved topside to be with my mother. I've never seen them."

There is silence for a moment, so long that she returns to tailoring. She manages to unpick a few more stitches before Viktor replies. His voice is quiet and mournful, he doesn't turn to face her, still staring at the sewing machine.

"My mother had two of them pressed in a hardcover novel." and then, quietly, like a rasp in the back of his throat, "They were beautiful."

She doesn't know how to respond to that. To the realness of it. She could tell him that she is sure they were beautiful, but that wouldn't help because she doesn't know and she can only assume, that's all it ever is with him, assumptions that she is sure are wrong half of the time. "My grandmother must have painted them well, then. If you recognised them." She tries, hands shaking in her lap.

Viktor hums, peering at her from over his shoulder, "She did."

There is a lapse in conversation, in time too, it feels like. Viktor slowly returns to the sofa and picks his teacup back up and she returns to unpicking stitches in his final pair of trousers. It feels like hours have passed before she finds the courage to peer up at him, only for her heart to gallop in her chest at the sight of him staring back. He doesn't move to break her gaze, just continues to look at her, curiously, she thinks. Her hands shake at the final stitch, unsure where she is supposed to be looking but unable to bear the thought of turning from him.

His nose is slightly crooked, she's never noticed that before.

She quickly ducks her head down before she notices anything else. Before she starts mapping the contours of his face, enveloping his topography in the soft inner recesses of her mind. Though she can't stop visualising the curve of his upper lip, the jut of his chin.

She finally manages to unpick the last stitch, but the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach doesn't leave.

"I-I have to affix the fasteners now." She says quickly, trying not to look at him, "It can be a little noisy sometimes, I need to hammer them. Is that alright?"

"Cannot be louder than what I hear in the engineering lab." Viktor says dismissively from somewhere in her peripheral vision, "Besides, I am not much of a complainer."

She has noticed that, and as she gathers all of his trousers and starts bringing them up to her worktable, the thought stews in her a little, they way thoughts always do before she says something stupid. She does, of course, right as she sits down at the table.

"You can complain." She says quickly before she can stop it, "I'd like it if you did."

Viktor barks a laugh from behind her, "Would you?"

She shrugs a shoulder, opening her sewing kit to remove a set of fastener pieces and the tool used to press them together, "My classmates never tell me when I've done something wrong, at least not to my face." she pauses as she rummages through her drawers for the hefty cube of metal that she uses for hammering, she hits her fingers less this way, "I like that you speak your mind. If you did it more I'd probably be less nervous around you."

"I make you nervous?"

She turns around quickly with the intention of defending herself, completely forgetting there was a reason she hasn't been looking at him. Viktor has one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting across the back of the sofa and the other still holding his teacup. He's smiling too, which isn't fair. That toothy smile, the one she barely gets to see.

"Everyone makes me nervous." She says unconvincingly, certain that her tone betrays that the way he makes her nervous is somehow different, "I'm not good at pretending, not like them."

Viktor hums, and she likes the way the sound is absorbed into the walls of her dorm. She hopes it sticks.

"A complaint, then." Viktor begins, "For your satisfaction." "O-Okay." She responds, nerves suddenly alight at the thought of him disliking anything about her, despite asking for the truth herself.

"You are too afraid of me." He says slowly and evenly, "I will not bite, Myšičko."

She feels blood rushing up the sides of her throat, she is not afraid of him. Of disappointing him, of driving him away, yes, but not of him. She swallows, "Promise not to pretend around me, then I won't have a reason to be afraid."

Viktor pauses, his brow furrowing and she panics, terrified that she has overstepped. He exhales evenly and responds, "I can try, but it will not come all at once. I do not know you yet, you understand?" he shrugs one shoulder, "Maybe if you stop pretending around me as well, it will be easier."

She didn't really think she was pretending. She has been trying hard not to, but the high-society false pretences cling to her like a second skin and Viktor is right, they don't know each other, it is not so easy to shed the falsification that way it is with her parents. Every minute detail of herself that she has shared so far felt terrifying, made her heart race and muscles tighten like her body was preparing to sprint. She wants to be real, but it is like prying herself open each time.

"Ask me a question, then." She says quietly, urging her hands not to shake, "I'll answer." she finds she can't meet his eyes anymore and suddenly figures it will be easier if she doesn't have to look at him, "Just…Just let me get started on the fasteners, the distraction will help, I think."

Viktor stays quiet for just a moment, waiting for her to start focusing on her work again. Then, he asks, "When you first introduced yourself to me, you didn't offer a surname. Why?"

Despite his gentle intonation, her shoulders still jump like his question is some sort of assault. She tries to focus on aligning the pieces of a fastener, pressing the pins through the fabric. This is an easy question, she can tell he has tried to ease her into it, but despite that her body still arc with terror even though Viktor is perhaps the only person at the academy who wont judge her for this.

"I don't have one, technically." She says quietly, lining up the tool designed to press the pieces of the fastener together "My mother's surname was forfeit when she married my father, she tried to negotiate for him to take hers instead, but they didn't allow it."

Viktor doesn't speak behind her, so she quickly hammers the fastener into place and continues, "My maternal grandmother lets me use the family name on academy documentation and I use it with my classmates but I-" she moves onto the next fastener, struggling with her shaking hands, "I guess I felt like I didn't have to with you, lie I mean, at least, not about that."

"Is your grandmother your patron"

She nods, taking a moment to hammer in the next fastener, "She says I shouldn't suffer for my mother's poor decisions, and that if I study and find a nice topside husband I can rejoin her side of the family, it's all so very-"

"Piltover?" Viktor offers mischievously, and that makes her laugh.

"I was going to say vapid, but i suppose the two are synonymous." She sighs, moving onto the final fastener for this pair of trousers, "I took up the offer for patronage and just need to play nice with her until the end of this year, and then I can go set up my own shop without her or her help."

~~~

There's a lamp on her desk with a pale yellow bulb. Viktor notices they way the light catches on the shaken out mess of her hair. He also notices the tension in her shoulders and aches to ease it, the same way he aches for someone to ease the ever-present tightness in his temples and behind his eyes. he notices that even with the explanation behind her reasoning, she still never offered the surname, but supposes that he is a secret he is happy to let her keep.

"Ask me something." He says before the rational side of his brain has a chance to stop it.

She freezes in the middle of affixing the next fastener, the tension in shoulders changes to one of alertness instead of discomfort. Viktor is shocked that he can even tell the difference. She turns to face him, bright eyes wide and uncertain. The light of the lamp shines out around her and his gut once again churns with the thought of softness and warmth and home.

"Are you sure?" She asks, as if he had just ordered her to bury a knife into his gut.

He laughs, "Supremely, it's only fair."

She makes a sound, a sort nervous titter and he imagines her as a mouse all over again, "Are you…enjoying your studies?"

Viktor nearly laughs again at the innocent inquisitiveness of her question, so easily answered and so seemingly kind, "Yes and no." He answers truthfully, "It is good to have my brain teased a bit, but I could do without my gaggle of classmates."

She turns back to her worktable and nods, "The same as me, then."

She doesn't ask him anything else, instead returning her focus to the worktable. The tight pull of her shoulders seems to have loosened and Viktor doesn't appreciate how relieved that makes him feel. He decides not to ask her another question either, at least not yet. Instead he muses about the difference in how she works on her textiles to how she communicates. At this angle he only catches glimpses of her hands, how quickly and nimbly they move as she inserts the fasteners. Hands that shake at her sides whenever he speaks to her seem completely stable now that her focus has returned to her work.

He finds himself wishing he were sitting across from her, to watch her brow furrow and lips purse as she loses herself in focus. He wonders briefly how he looks when he does the same. Viktor is not one of those self-important engineering students who believes the arts are a frivolous endeavour requiring little to no actual expertise. He watched his mother darn enough of his socks that he has more than a burgeoning appreciation for textiles, the art of it, the mathematics behind knitting or crochet, the importance of different stitches for different fabrics. The essentially of over-locking, preventing the edges from fraying, holding everything together when it could so easily fall apart.

So he continues watching her, even as she finishes the last fasteners and instead begins pinning the folded seams before lining them up with the needle on her sewing machine. It's a loud thing, each press of the pedal sounding more like a kur-chunk than the smooth gear rotation of the one she uses at the academy. She's confident enough with the machine that she is able to tuck some unruly hair behind her ear and continue holding the fabric in place with just one hand.

For some reason, sitting here in her small, dimly lit dorm room. The sound of old machinery, the clutter of bolts of fabric and dried flowers reminds him of a home that hasn't existed for years, back when his parents were both alive and his mother would slip flowers between the pages of old books and his father would tinker with whatever he could find at an old worktable. It's a nostalgia so aching that he almost resents it.

Then the silence breaks, gently, tentatively, when she whispers, "Viktor?"

She is very focused on her sewing and doesn't look up, even when he responds, "Yes?"

She grows still, foot pausing on the pedal, and then after a moment she asks, "Do you miss Zaun?"

She says that word, Zaun, with a quivering intonation. It's as if she isn't sure that she is allowed to say it, that this is her first time actually voicing it out loud.

Viktor has been asked about his home many times, though usually with a teasing edge, or even worse, with a morbid curiosity. Though her question is different from all the others he has suffered through. She doesn't ask for gritty details, doesn't ask if it is just as terrible and violent as everyone says that it is.

Of all the students who have asked him invasive, curious questions, this is the first time anyone has dared acknowledge that his home is a place worth missing. That it isn't just somewhere he was lucky to escape from, or some stink that he will never be able to scrub out. It makes the inner corners of his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears. He clenches his hands and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

"Sometimes." He lies, he misses it always.

She hums quietly and slowly starts working the pedal again, "Well if you ever want to go visit, I could always come with you?" she says softly, as if she is reaching her hand out, pleading for him to take it, "My grandmother used to have a workshop down there, but my father closed it when he lost his arm. Sometimes I wonder if it's still there, I guess."

Viktor finds himself laughing, in disbelief more than anything, "Are you certain? You aren't worried that someone might try to attack you or rob you, Myšičko?" She shrugs a shoulder, "You haven't, and you've had every right to, I know I can be very annoying to be around."

He laughs again and is happy when he catches the nervous upward curl of her mouth, "Alright, then." he says non-noncommittally, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, too appreciative, "Maybe someday."

She turns around in her chair and gives him another one of those achingly wide smiles, her eyes crinkle in the corners and her cheeks flush red.

Viktor is too afraid to tell her that these days he hardly finds her annoying at all.

[newtonsheffield]

I know the bee costume thing was surprise Neddy au but like... the image of funeral au Kate making them costumes in the middle of the night to surprise her son who just mentioned it when he was learnin the alphabet and SHE can't get the idea of her little boy as the most precious little bumble bee on the planet out of her head

ps is funeral Kate crafty I feel like shes crafty

Kate is a seamstress, she’s very crafty. And she absolutely does think her little three year old would be adorable in a Bee costume. So there she is, working at her sewing machine in the middle of the night with her husband padding down the hallway. His hair is sticking up at an odd angle and he’s rubbing his eyes, blinking around in the light.

“Babe? What are you doing?”

Kate looked up a little distractedly. “I’m sewing.”

“Why are you sewing at 3am?”

“Your child’s kicking me in the ribs anyway.”

Anthony sighed. “Why are they my children during pregnancy when they keep you awake but your sweet little boy is sleeping down the hall?”

Kate smiled, inspecting a stitch under the light. “Because he’s a handsome little angel who’s grown out of your annoying habits. This one hasn’t learned yet.”

Anthony kissed the top of her head before he sat on the floor beside her. “What are we making?”

“A tiny little bumblebee costume for my handsome angel.”

“Me or Neddy?” Anthony joked.

“Neddy. But I’ll make you a shirt that matches.”

“Did you have time to-?”

“I already hemmed your trousers, yes.” Kate paused, “Gave myself a little treat as well.”

“They’re extra tight at the arse then?”

“They are.”

[hannahssimblr]

It’s an innocuous day in January when, for the first time, I realise my life can come apart just like anybody else’s. Like theirs, mine is a seam, a thousand tiny threads holding it firm, an analogy somewhere about a stitch saving time. Or nine. I don’t remember. My mother is too high class to sew her clothes. When they tear or wear at the elbows and knees, she buys more, because people like us don’t need to repair. 

Friends at school with fraying cuffs on their uniform sleeves, hems of their trousers unrolled and hanging raw about their ankles. Shirts, a rectangular echo of a pocket on the breast of the thing worn for years after being attacked in the hallways by boys who tore them off for fun. Happened to me too. Inevitable. A rite of passage on my first week of school. I wore a shirt still creased from the packet the next day, because my clothes never had to be old, worn, damaged. When something tore, another one appeared in my room. I was from the big house on Vernon Avenue. I had the PlayStation 2 before everyone else. My clothes were always new.

But this, all of this, is like when Jen’s school trousers ripped up the back the time she tried to climb on the cistern to have a cigarette out the window. The threads had been giving for a while. They just waited until that moment to let her know, in a violent display of embarrassment in front of the girls she was hoping to impress. It’s like when the elastic in your swimming togs gives up one day, falling to bits around your body after months of cooperation, eaten secretly by the chlorine the whole time. 

It starts with nothing. A pretzel. The bakery near the university I get my breakfast some mornings. Simple, a bagel and a coffee which I’ll take with me to class. Tuesday, that day. The day I have art history at nine with Steffen, the lecturer that fancies my girlfriend and loathes me. It’s my most dreaded hour of the week, one that calls for the comfort of a pretzel and a coffee, essential to get me through the slog of it, keep me sane while he pretends he cannot understand my German and corrects me sneeringly in front of everyone, determined to embarrass me. 

Card declined. 

“Ah, weird.” Trying again then, and another denying beep. Smiling sheepishly at the barista, explaining I don’t have cash on me. 

“It could be a problem with the machine. You can take it. You come here all the time, so just pay later if you want.”

Thank her. It was nice of her. Tell her I’ll be back in a couple of hours, after my classes, but I won’t be. My card is declined in the little Italian deli where I’ve met Astrid for lunch. It’s awkward this time. They’ve already made our sandwiches up. 

“I’ll pay it,” says Astrid after a long, uncomfortable pause, and presents a little blue debit card while it strikes me I’ve never actually seen it before. Never knew what her debit card looks like, and sort of assumed in some sense she didn’t even own one. Why would she? I think. What does she ever have to pay for?

The sandwiches, I suppose. Tasting worse than ever now, they are spoiled by the pungency of my guilt. We eat them by the river, hands freezing around the tinfoil wrapping, frowning at the water, as the wind lifts white peaks from its surface. “So weird about my card,” I say, but Astrid is disinterested, doing that flippant waving thing with her hand. “Sometimes the machines just don’t work as they’re supposed to. That’s why having cash is good.” She wants to talk about this Iranian film she and Dalia saw in an indie theater. I let her, all the distracted by thoughts of my bank account. It’s fine, surely. I have money. People like me have money. 

Early evening, with my earbuds in on the gym’s treadmill, and I hear a message chime. Jonas. I wipe the sweat from my brow and read it. It’s about the water bill. A message so unbelievably dull that usually I’d ignore it for a few hours, but now my stomach twists. I went back to the bakery after college to pay for my breakfast, and my card was declined again. It looks like I stole that pretzel now. I told the barista I’d come back in the morning with actual euros for her, and she smiled in this vacant way that made me feel like a liar, wanting so badly to explain to her I’m not, like, poor, or whatever. I can pay for it, while knowing that explanation would only make me look worse. 

And now Jonas is asking about the water bill, saying I never paid it. I step off the treadmill and stare at my phone. A drop of sweat hits the screen, magnifying the pixels, little dots of coloured screen, and emphasises the word paid for me, like I didn’t already understand the central theme of the text. As in, I have not paid my share of the bill. 

“I have,” I respond. “It should just come out of the account automatically.”

“It hasn’t,” he says, and sends a photograph of the bill, big überfällige Zahlung across the top of it in terrifying red lettering. Overdue payment. Surely not. My legs start feeling a bit weak, which is very dramatic. It’s fine. I have money. I hold on to the arm of the treadmill anyway, in case I decide to fall over. Someone is asking if I’m still using it. I tell him no and head for the changing rooms. 

I call Jonas from the UBahn on the way home, immediately confrontational on the phone to him. “I paid that bill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” he’s eating something. “If you had, then the letter would not say ‘überfällige Zahlung’.”

“That’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” rustling noises, him unfolding the paper for further examination. “I have never seen a mistake before like this, if that is the case. It’s more likely you didn’t pay.”

“I’ve direct debit set up, so.”

“Okay, then maybe your account is empty.” He says it so casually, mouth full of whatever he’s having for dinner. The nonchalance enrages me. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” I hiss, and someone on the train looks over. “There’s no way. I have loads. There’s something going on with my account today, is all. This is normal.” I have no idea whether it’s normal or not, but am sure there’s merit to saying it with such conviction. 

“When did you last check your account balance?”

Well, I’ve never checked it. The sight of it frightens me and reminds me of the drain and eventual cessation of life. Completely reasonable reason. “Jonas, I am telling you that this is a mistake.”

“You can check. When you get home, check.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up as the train hurtles from a station into a black tunnel, rumbling through the darkness. 

“You look unwell,” Jonas greets me as I arrive and untangle my scarf from my neck, choking me now, and kick my boots outside the door. Indeed, I do. My reflection is pale and wild-eyed, hair tousled from grabbing at it, like one of those Wall Street guys in the documentary my economics teacher made us watch to explain the recession. 

“Where’s my laptop?” I already know where it is. Need to look. Can’t bear to. Pushing through the apartment now with everything in a dizzying blur, shaky cam, the smell of Jonas’ cooking, him trailing behind, offering me a plate of it, as if I can even think about putting food into my mouth. 

My laptop is on the bed, tossed all casually on the rumpled duvet. Macbook. How much are these things worth? I never cared before this moment. Jonas is in the door as I type the banking website into the address. My codes then. Fuck sake. Don’t know them. I have to navigate through a chat with my mother to find them, heightening the suspense. Then punch them in. Check balance. 

It’s like being punched in the head, the feeling. Then there’s this long, deathly silence, because Jonas knows without me having to say it. He knows by the look on my face. 

“Do you–”

“I have four euros in my account.”

We look at one another for one endless moment, and I can tell he wants to laugh a bit, because it’s a funny kind of shocking. Four euros. A comically depressing number. 

“It’s fine,” he’s saying now. “You just top it up with more,” and then I look at him with the most scathing look I have in my repertoire, because for the first time, he’s the one who looks like the privileged idiot. I feel I have to speak to him slowly to control the emotion in my voice. Tremors anyway, wobbling there beneath every word. “Where do you suppose I get the money to top it up, Jonas?”

He falters. “I thought your parents gave you money.”

“They don’t.”

“But you… We all thought they were funding your lifestyle.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“But Jude,” he says, shaking his head at me. I don’t like that. “You were spending so much money all the time. We all thought you had an unlimited amount.”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I wasn’t, really.”

“The holidays you went on. The gifts for Astrid, the way you eat at restaurants every day…”

“Those things didn’t feel expensive. I thought I had enough money to cover it, or, I don’t know, I didn’t think. When I sold my car, I–it looked like…” I break off helplessly. “I got an A in maths, Jonas. How can this happen?”

“It’s basic subtraction.”

“This shouldn’t be happening to me.” my laptop fades to black now, the account disappearing from sight, but the reality still ringing in the surrounding air. I think of all I am about to lose. A vision of my life crashing down around me like a house of cards. “Astrid! Oh, God, Astrid. What is she gonna do?”

“She will have to buy her own things for once.”

I groan, head in hands, unable to formulate a response. How can I speak when my life is basically over? Condemned to the streets. One of those people rummaging through skips with holes in my shoes, saying mad things to people at the bus stop, terrorizing the feral pigeons in the town square. There he is, crazy bird man, a cautionary tale. He got an A in maths in his leaving cert, and this still happened to him. 

Jonas, there by the door, deciding it's the perfect time to ask whether I've paid rent this month.

Without looking up. “No,” One glance at my account was enough to show it’s been struggling along for a while. Hundreds becoming tens, whittling down through December to the last few euros. Pocket change. It’s been bad for a while. “No, I didn’t pay rent.”

“Hm,” he says. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Looking at him in despair, considering, briefly, a tantrum of some sort. Pure childhood panic. If I cause enough of a scene, this will all go away. Looking into Jonas’ face is frightening, because I can see it there. He doesn’t know what to do either. He isn’t going to help me. 

“What do I do?” I ask, as if he knows. Pity in his eyes, watching me flail. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps you can get a job.”

A job. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. A job. An actual job. Kill me. That’s the last thread. The one causes the seam to give and ruins my life. You don’t understand. I want to explain. I’m from the biggest house on Vernon Avenue. I had a PlayStation 2 before everyone else. Instead of saying that, I lie here like a corpse, staring at the ceiling, wishing some heavy piece of furniture would crash through it and turn me into one for real. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, not understanding how bad it really is. Unable to fathom the intricacies of my life. 

I don’t bother to answer. It’s the financial equivalent of being pantsed in the schoolyard. The blankets ripped off my sleeping body on a winter morning. I am a creature accustomed to the shade beneath a rock, exposed at last to the light, nothing left to shelter me.

A job. 

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