#Trouser Stitching Machine

[consultingskeletondetective]

Colonel's Girl

You’re the young army nurse on base and König decides to keep a protective eye on you. You don’t mind at all, the Colonel is sweet and safe - until he isn’t.

masterlist 🩷 ao3

tags: military inaccuracies, blood and injury, angst, smut, oral sex, vaginal sex

This was your first time on a real military base. You’d done field medic training of course, but this was the first time in your career as an army nurse that you’d been shipped out to base, far from home, calling a tiny bunk room your own in a building full of rowdy young recruits. 

Their daily training brought them to you constantly with scrapes and bruises and concussions. They were feisty, adrenaline-fuelled young men, and you were one of the few women on base. The catcalling and the leering didn’t surprise you, even if it was unwelcome. 

“What time do you get off, darlin’?” Private Turner drawled in a cockney accent as you applied butterfly stitches to a bleeding split across his eyebrow. “Maybe I can come to your room and we can keep each other company-”

“Turner!” It was barked, a stern command from an accented voice. The private paled as Colonel König stomped into your clinic, and you blushed. König was a very imposing man. He was at least 6”9 by your reckoning, and just as broad, in his late 30s or early 40s with a thick Austrian accent. His years of military training had given him a thick, muscular frame, with his broad thighs barely contained in cargo trousers and steel-capped boots on his feet, a black tee stretched over his chest and biceps the size of your torso. You knew what he looked like under that hood, square jawed and piercing blue eyes, but today he’d kept it on, his eyes framed and dark. It was no surprise you blushed whenever you saw him.

“Colonel?” He stood and turned. His voice held none of its previous bravado. Next to König, he looked like a mere boy.

“Two weeks of toilet cleaning duty.” König said gruffly, “and if I catch you using that kind of language again, it will be a month. Understood?”

Turner slumped. “Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Turner, chastised, scampered out of your clinic without looking at you.

König turned his hulking form towards you and actually had to look down to greet you. 

“Pardon, ma’am. He won’t step out of line again.”

Ma’am . Your blush deepened. You gave him a small, nervous smile. 

“Thank you, Colonel, that’s very kind of you.”

“These boys don’t know yet how to respect a lady, but they will.”

“Once you’re done with them?” You smiled playfully.

“If I have done my job correctly.” He said kindly, before turning on his heel and leaving swiftly. You giggled. 

You didn’t see much of König at the start of training, his rank and his experience meant that he didn’t end up in your clinic as much as his recruits did, but when you did pass each other in the hall or by exchanging paperwork, he was nothing less than a courteous and charming gentleman. It seemed bizarre, considering you’d heard tell that he was a brawling killing machine out on the field, but he could switch from barking stiff orders to giving you a gentle smile that made you blush in the blink of an eye. You had to routinely remind yourself that this didn’t make you special, he was just being respectful, and you weren’t used to that. It didn’t matter that he was a soldier, or nearly twice your age, it didn’t take you long to develop a crush on the handsome and mysterious Austrian. 

A few days later and you were stood in line to the mess hall. It was breakfast, and you’d seen the black pudding in the warming trays as soon as you’d stepped in. You were practically salivating as you waited, it wasn’t often you got a creature comfort like this - something that reminded you of home - on base.

“Not often we get this kind of luxury, eh, miss?” You recognised the coarse accent before you turned. Lieutenant Riley had joined you in the line, a balaclava covering his face. You knew him a little, the infamous Ghost. You’d crossed paths with the 141 on occasion, and you knew Riley, sometimes even Captain Price, dropped into the base to provide training or engage your services. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to make polite conversation with you. In fact, it seemed the norm here. The high rankers felt a bit sorry for you, while the recruits made you feel like a piece of meat or an object of ridicule. 

You didn’t mind much, you were here to do a job, and you kept to yourself mostly anyway, but the offer of friendship was much appreciated. 

You smiled a little shyly in return. “I know, right? I hope the black pudding doesn’t go too quickly. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”

“A girl after my own heart.” The lieutenant chuckled. In front of you, two privates who had been turning around to eavesdrop on the conversation - more to get a look at Ghost, than you, you understood - burst into laughing at your admission. Your ears turned red and you wished you’d never opened your mouth.

Riley didn’t seem to notice, he was holding his gloved hand out to König, who had somehow appeared next to him in the line since you’d looked away. You actually had to do a double take. For a near seven foot slab of muscle, he was stealthy when he wanted to be. 

The two of them talked among themselves in low voices and you left them to it, knowing you didn’t particularly want to hear the contents of whatever they needed to discuss.

You reached the front of the line and the private in front of you - the one who had laughed - piled his tray high with black pudding until the warming tray was empty. He turned and smirked mockingly at you.

“You can have my sausage, darlin’, if you ask nicely.” At least three recruits laughed. You wanted to shrink down so small you stopped existing altogether.

König’s brick hand clamped around the private’s tray and wrenched it easily from his grip.

“Sir-my breakfast…”

“Get out of the line, or I will feed you my fist.” König didn’t even raise his voice, the cold delivery had the private skulking off empty handed. König placed the tray back onto the counter and then he turned to you. 

“Help yourself, ma’am.” 

“Oh.” Your cheeks were crimson. He cocked his head, his eyes, the only part of his face visible through his black hood, looked amused. It wasn’t unkind. “T-thank you.” 

König tipped his hood towards you before turning his attention back to Riley, and the pair of them moved off to a separate table. You sat by yourself, chewing your black pudding, and smiling like an idiot. 

You glanced over to König a few times more than you would like to admit. He put you at ease, that’s what it came down to, it gave you a confidence you didn’t usually have around military men. 

It was that very ease that left you wholly unprepared for the following week.

It was ballistics training out on the grounds, and you caught wind of an accident halfway through your sandwich.

“Come quick!’ An officer skidded into your office, “there’s been an accident - potential fatality.”

You cursed, and gathered your supplies, before following him out of your clinic and out onto the training ground. Recruits stood nervously holding rifles, their half-shot targets abandoned. A young recruit was wailing on the ground, another kneeling beside him and pressing against his belly with a jacket, there was blood on the sand. 

König was towering over a young private - the same young man who had laughed at you in the mess hall, you briefly noted - and barking bloody murder in his terrified face. It took you more than a moment to realise that König wasn’t actually speaking German, you could just barely make a word out in his fury. 

It was easy to tune out, you’d been out in the field before, and turn your attention to your patient. You knelt beside the terrified looking private stemming the bleeding, and carefully lifted his jacket to look at his wound while the young man screamed.

“You’re going to be okay.” You said confidently, calmly. “It’s nothing we can’t stitch up. Private, keep putting pressure on the wound, just like this, you’re doing a good job.” Just this once, you were obeyed without question. 

“I will have you court-martialed, dummkopf, you could have killed him. You come onto my base, you do not listen to a word I say, and now you attack my men? You sorry piece of -”

“König,” you cut through the accented remonstration, pulling bandages from your bag, “I need your men to carry him to my clinic immediately, then you have to-”

König turned swiftly to you, those bright blue eyes visibly narrowed in the slits of his hood. “Do not fucking give me orders, nurse.” He seethed, voice ice cold with rage, fists clenched and towering over you. “You address me as Colonel, you little girl.” The white hot fury in his eyes matched the venom in his voice. You baulked, in fear, in surprise, horrified to realise tears were gathering in your eyes. You looked back down on the man in your arms and forced yourself to regain your composure.

“I need to get him to my clinic, I can’t lift him myself.” Your voice was steady, if muted, throwing your gaze over your shoulder at König and the recruits staring at you. “Please, colonel .”

König turned from you and began barking your orders at his men and within moments, your patient was being carried between three recruits back to your clinic. You turned and rushed after them. You extracted the bullet from his ribs and sewed up the damage as numbly as you treated any one of your patients. You left your makeshift surgery room with bloody hands and sweat on your forehead, surprised to find König leaning against the wall in your waiting room. He’d stripped out of his uniform to a simple pair of combat trousers and a black shirt that looked like it was losing a fight with his bicep muscles. His hood was held lax in his hand, giving you a rare glimpse at his face. It was no surprise to you that he looked exhausted. He pushed himself from the wall when you entered. Like a gentleman , you thought bitterly.

“Will he live?” He asked you, his voice soft. It was just like every other interaction you’d had on base. 

“It was a flesh wound. He’ll be fine, Colonel.” Your words were stiff, and you walked straight past him without even a glance, feeling like a complete idiot that you’d ever thought he might treat you with the slightest bit of respect. You were angry until the adrenaline wore off, then you cried in your bed.

The recruit, Jenkins, pulled through the night, and the next day he was airlifted to the nearest hospital. The accidental shooter was gone, and you didn’t care to ask what had happened. Training was halted for a few days as a result and you had a quiet week, but you weren’t complaining, as you now had a mountainous amount of paperwork to complete. You were grateful when you were able to file the heft of paper into your pigeon hole to be sent off, and rewarded yourself with a sit down in the breakroom to the main office.

You looked up on instinct more than anything when the door opened. König walked in, in combat boots and a military vest, his hood over his eyes and helmet strapped to his head, like he’d just come straight from deployment. He glanced at you with tired blue eyes, but all you could see was the fury in them when he’d scared you the week before. You felt stupid for thinking someone like König would ever be nice to you. You were just the idiot girl on base.

“Morning, ma’am.” He said pleasantly when he saw you, slipping one hand into his trouser pocket as he poured himself coffee from the pot on the table.

“Hey.” You replied, voice flat, suddenly finding your nails remarkably interesting.

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine.” Another one word answer. You still weren’t looking at him. 

König shifted uneasily. The atmosphere in the room changed. Of course it did, he was used to you being a blushy, smiling, pathetic mess for him. 

Concerned, König crossed the small space to you. He didn’t sit. From what you could see from your lowered head, his hand was no longer in his pocket.

“If this is about what happened…you did well, Jenkins will recover.”

“I know I did fine.” You genuinely didn’t mean to snap. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

The conversation went dead, the atmosphere was palpable. You didn’t know whether it was his culture, or his military status, but König went right to the point.

“Have I offended you?”

Was he being willfully obstinate? You felt your humiliated aggravation grow. Well, you were in it now.

“Just leave me alone.”

There was a pause. And then another. Neither of you moved.

“As you wish.”

He left swiftly after that, and you finally looked up at the empty room. You felt relieved, but also hollow. It was almost like you’d done something wrong. But you hadn’t, had you? König’s coffee was abandoned on the table.

König left you alone, and that pissed you off even more. He walked past you in the mess hall, he didn’t glance down to smile at you anymore, he didn’t come into the clinic, even though you secretly hoped he would. Your self-esteem was pretty much on the floor after that, and the base got just that little bit lonelier.

Two recruits barrelled into your office a few days later, one had a busted lip and they both had black eyes. They'd clearly been in a fight, but whether that was with each other, or someone else, you didn’t care to ask. You stayed quiet as you applied butterfly stitches to their cuts, and they were happy enough to complain between themselves.

“You’re a dickhead, Williams, the Colonel’s gonna fucking kill us.” 

“Relax, he’s not going to know.”

“He’s been such a dick lately. He put Taylor on shit detail for a fortnight for having his shoelace untied.”

“Probably because he has to look at your fucking ugly mug every day.”

“You’re done.” You cut across. “You can go.”

They thanked you and left, and you were grateful to get the foul mouthed privates out of your office. 

It was getting dark outside and you were tired. You left your clinic and crossed the training ground to the mess hall. There were still soldiers out here, practising hand to hand combat under the floodlights. You gave them a wide berth.  

You didn’t see the abandoned dummy grenade wedged in the sand until your foot hooked around it and you vaulted over with an unladylike grunt. 

A large hand curled around your wrist and stilled you before you ate dirt. You cursed under your breath and turned inward. König was towering above you, your wrist positively dwarfed by his gloved hand. His hood obscured his face, shrouding him in the darkness behind him, all except those bright eyes looking down on you.

“You should be more careful.” He grunted, releasing your wrist.

Your eyes hit the ground and you mumbled a hasty ‘sorry’ before you scampered away to the mess hall. König watched your retreating back as you left.

The next few days passed uneventfully. You worked, you ate, you slept, you called home. The clinic was surprisingly empty. You wondered if the recruits were finally becoming competent enough that they didn’t need you every five seconds. You signed off your discharge sheets for the day and headed to the main office to dump them in the output box. You were surprised to find König in there, sans hood, rifling through a box of papers on the desk. He glanced up when he saw you and his expression wilted. He looked back into the box. 

“I’ll be out of your hair in a second.” He said. “I just need to find the instruction manual for the - s cheiße .” The papers in his hand fluttered to the ground. He bent down to retrieve them and winced, arm circling his broad torso. 

You frowned and took a step closer to him.

“What’s wrong?” You asked. 

“Nothing.” He replied instantly as he straightened. His movements were slower than usual. 

“It doesn’t look like nothing, König, it looks like cracked ribs.”

“It’s fine, really.”

You put your discharge forms on the desk and walked up to him. “Lift your shirt.”

König sighed but complied after a moment. He lifted his dark tee to his pectorals. His deep abdominal muscles rose and fell under his breathing and you found your cheeks reddening under the sight. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his torso, and you reached out and lifted it. His skin was like lava against your fingers. He didn’t say a word as you lifted the bandage but he may have winced when your eyes widened. The right hand side of his ribcage was purple with deep bruising and lacerated with deep and shallow cuts alike, some were healing, and some were leaving blood stains on the inside of the bandage. 

“Oh my god, what happened?”

“Nothing.” König grunted. “Machine gun training. One of the recruits lost control of the barrel and clocked me in the ribs. It is just a scratch.”

“This cut needs stitches.” You said automatically, tracing the underside of the welt with your fingertip. König jolted and you took your hand away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

“You didn’t.” He replied.

“I have cream that’ll reduce this bruising too-” König huffed and you looked up at him. You couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. He might as well have been wearing his hood.

“It is fine.” He said. “The bruising has disappeared a lot in the last few days…”

“ Days ?” You blinked. “Days, König? You can’t have been walking around like this for days. Why didn’t you come to me?”

There was a pause. He was trying to avoid your gaze.

“You told me to leave you alone.”

“König,” it was reprimanding, reproachful, your eyes slackened. “You always need to come to me when you’re hurt, even when I’m mad. I’m sorry.”

König’s eyes snapping to you made you regret the words as soon as they were out of your mouth. Your gaze dropped to the grazes on his ribs but your cheeks were already on fire. 

“Are you ever going to tell me why you are mad at me?”

You didn’t meet his gaze. It seemed pathetic now. “You yelled at me.”

König didn’t respond straight away. When he did - “I yelled at you?”

You fought off the sudden urge to say sorry.

“When Jenkins was shot.” You explained. “I’m not one of your soldiers. I don’t like being screamed at, especially when I’m doing my job.” Your voice dropped a little. “And I’m not a little girl, I’m a nurse. You should respect that, just like the way you tell your troops to.”

You glanced up at König, he looked crestfallen. “I…” He frowned a little, as if giving up on any explanation he planned to give. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You shook your head, embarrassed, and lowered his shirt.

“It’s not important now-”

“It is important. I don’t think you are a little girl. Sometimes in battle, things like this become heated. I do not even remember saying this to you, but I am sorry. I do not think that, I truly do not, I was…one of my men was dying, I was not myself. Please forgive me.”

Your eyes met. It felt like the first time you’d looked at each other in a long time. König’s blue eyes were soft and sad.

“Um, come to the clinic, this afternoon,” you rose, flustered, “I, uh, that cut needs looking at.”

You turned swiftly and left but not before you heard König utter a single ‘yes ma’am’ before you did. 

You thought about what he said as you sterilised your clinic for his arrival. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment, but you managed to keep your cool? Why didn’t he? Because he’s a soldier, you reminded yourself. He kills easily and without thought, he’s not the sweet gentleman you want him to be. You shook your head to yourself, that wasn’t the issue and you knew it. You didn’t care that he was a killer, or that sometimes he scared you. You knew what his easy dismissal of you meant - and it hurt.

König reported promptly to your clinic at 1pm that afternoon. He stripped out of his shirt and sat patiently down on the end of your bed and you had to pretend like having a 7ft goliath of a man stripped down in front of you wasn’t making your heart race. He truly was extraordinary. 

You stitched the large cut on his ribs that was worrying you the most and he didn’t make a sound. it didn’t much surprise you, you assumed he was accustomed to pain. It made your stomach flutter with something . 

He was even more impressive undressed, his body heavy with swollen, toned muscle, faded scars criss-crossing over his flesh. You had to remind yourself that you were a trained nurse just to stop yourself from drooling. 

König watched you work rather intently. “You have very small hands.” He remarked suddenly. You didn’t respond, unsure if it was a compliment or not. You both lapsed into silence for another long while. It was like a form of torture. You’d never been more embarrassed in your life. You felt like a foolish little girl, trying to play with a grizzly bear. It must have shown on your face. 

You didn’t expect König to talk again. He must have thought that you were insane - pathetic, at the very least. 

“May I ask you a question?”

Oh. “Of course.”

“Why did you join the military if you hate being yelled at?”

You sighed and finished off your final stitch. “You don’t have to mock me, you know, I already got the message.”

“I am not mocking you. I’m curious.”

Forthright . You forgot.

You took a moment to respond, busying yourself with packing away your equipment. “I didn’t join as a recruit, I joined as a nurse.” You didn’t tell him the real reason, that it was because it was him.

“Right.” 

“It’s not your problem.” 

König stood, and pulled his shirt back on. “It won't happen again.” He said. “You have my word.” 

Your gaze flicked to his handsome face involuntarily. “Um, here’s the cream. Make sure to apply it twice a day, and try to take it easy for a few days.”

König grunted, a ghost of a smile on his face. You could tell he hadn’t taken it easy a day in his life. 

“What message?” König asked suddenly. 

“Sorry?” You froze, trying to backtrack to that particular exchange.

“You said you ‘got the message’.” He repeated. “What message?”

Oh. 

“Um, did I say that?” Your voice was uncharacteristically high. König tilted his head.

“Schatz, my English isn’t that bad. We both heard what you said.”

You blushed and your head dipped. You didn’t know much German, but you knew what ‘schatz’ meant. 

“Well, you know-” fuck, shit, fuck . “P-put in your place by the guy you have a crush on. I get it. I got it. I won’t go there again.”

“Crush?” König responded like a lightning strike, before he fell silent. His brain was calculating, before his expression turned to…well, there was no other way to put it, absolutely fucking floored. “You like me?”

Oh, this was very fucking bad.

“Well…yeah? I thought it was obvious-”

“Obvious? Schatz, I thought you hated me.”

You blinked. 

“Wha- why would you think that?”

“You told me to leave you alone.”

“You called me a little girl! In front of everyone.”

When exactly had you both gotten so close to each other? It was close enough that König could look down on you, and your heart was skipping a beat.

“You can’t like me.” He said quietly.

You frowned. “Why not? Have you looked at yourself? Plus you’re…you know, nice, and the only person in this dump that doesn’t leer at me or treat me like a stupid little girl. When people aren’t dying, I mean.”

“I…” Was König hesitating? The man who had nothing to fear?

“It’s okay,” you murmured, embarrassed. “Like I said, I get the message. Why would you want a pathetic sap like me who can’t even hear a raised voice without crying?”

“Do not say that.” König looked uncertain, his eyebrows knitting together. “You are like a...a flower. Not meant for men like me.”

“A…” Your brain couldn’t quite compute what you’d just heard. “Men like you? What does that even mean?”

“You need someone younger, for a start.” He sighed. “Someone who has seen less death, verdammt, someone who has caused less death.”

“Men like your idiot recruits, then?”

König didn’t respond. 

“I have to go.” He said instead. “Thank you for the…cream.”

“Anytime, Colonel.” It was softly spoken, you watched him freeze, then you watched him go. You smuggled a bottle of wine back to your room and drank until you fell asleep. This really was a new low.

…

The days passed slowly and without incident. On the face of it, there was no difference in you, except for a notably lacklustre delivery of your care. 

You were making notes at your desk when Private Jackson and his buddy, Williams, appeared at your desk, complaining of a groin injury. 

You rolled your eyes and returned to your paperwork. “I’m sure it’ll feel better tomorrow, private.”

“I’m sure it’ll feel better right now if you kiss it-”

“Shut up,” Williams chuckled, shoving him, “you wanna get a disciplinary? You know she’s the colonel’s girl.”

Your gaze snapped up. “What did you just say?”

Neither of them answered you, they just sniggered and slunk off. You watched the empty doorway with wide eyes. You tried not to ponder on it. You pondered on it for the rest of the day.

…

You signed the bottom of Williams’ sick leave and ticked off the various appropriate boxes, flipping the page and hoping that was all that was required until you froze. It needed the signature of the patient's C.O. König. Shit. 

You hadn’t even seen König since he’d rejected you and every time you thought about that particular exchange, your ears went hot and you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You were too much of a pussy to talk to him, so instead you went to his office when you knew he was scheduled to be out at training, and scribbled ‘ sign me please :) ’ on a post it note, stuck it on the front page and left the form on his desk. 

You turned for the door with a relieved sigh and accidently walked into König’s solid chest. He was standing in the open doorway, he was the size of the open doorway, wearing his combat gear although he was unarmed, his hood draped covering his face, even so, you could see he was looking down on you. It wasn’t until you glanced up that you realised he was ducking to fit in the doorway. That sent heat right to your cunt.

“Oh, hello.” You said stupidly, eyes hitting the carpeted floor.

“Hello.” He greeted you, accent gentle. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, right, I’m in your office.” You stumbled over your words. “Um, W-Williams needs sick leave approved, he needs gallbladder surgery off base, I need you to sign the form. I - I left it on your desk.”

König walked past you, he smelt of sweat and sand and some sort of hastily applied deodorant. He seemed unfazed that you were in his office, he certainly didn’t seem to be trying to avoid you as ardently as you were avoiding him. You cursed yourself for being so childish.

He removed his hood and draped it over the back of his chair as he picked up the form. His eyes were darkened with war paint, fresh stubble on his jaw. 

“A smiling face.” He remarked as he read your post it note, voice muted. “The way yours used to be.”

You blinked. “Is that meant to be some kind of joke?” You asked hotly.

“Not at all.” He replied, not looking up from the form. “It used to brighten my days.” He signed the form and held it out to you before you could really process what he’d said. “Let us hope Williams makes a swift recovery, he is one of my best.”

You tentatively took the form, mind drawn back to the last encounter you’d had with the young private. 

“He called me…” You bit back your sentence before you had a chance to finish it. But the damage was done.

König’s back straightened, his fists clenched. “Something inappropriate?”

“No.” Your shoulders hunched. Why did you even bring it up? “He said I was…they’re calling me…you know…the colonel’s girl.”

You glanced up at König shyly, to see if there was any truth in it. His back had relaxed, but his stance was still guarded. 

“What?” You asked.

“I told the recruits to leave you alone.” He admitted. “Or there would be consequences.” 

“Oh.” You blushed. “But, that’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No, it’s not…some of the men have interpreted the order to mean I am keeping you for myself.”

You took a bold step forward.

“And are you?”

König looked at the floor. You sighed and turned for the door.

König’s large hand curled around the front of your throat before you could turn and drew you back, right to his mouth. You whimpered into the kiss. You were forced onto your tiptoes to meet him, feeling his fingers against your oesophagus with every exhale. His lips eased wetly and insistently against yours until you were dizzy, gripping his arms and pressing yourself closer. 

As soon as it started, it was over. König released your throat and took a step back. You had to blink a few times to regain just a few of your senses. You were still on your tiptoes, and you could still taste him on your mouth. Gunpower, and mint.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was ragged, his accent even thicker than usual. Fuck, it was hot.

He turned and left before you could even articulate a response, but you were sure you saw his back muscles twitching as he went.

…

The deployment for the first active mission came about quicker than anyone had been expecting. It was practically a dummy mission, you’d been told, leading a team of recruits on a sweep near cartel lands for stray activity or potential landmines. Still, the atmosphere was palpable in the base, the recruits were scared, you could tell.

You watched from the doorway of your clinic as the men stood by the jeeps, ready to roll out. Riley had returned, and he stood next to König as the latter zipped up his kevlar and clipped on his helmet over his hood. You wanted to wish him luck, even though you knew everything was going to be fine. It was a routine sweep, and he was König, he wasn’t in any danger. Still, your stomach pulled. Fate was cruel. What if this was the last time you ever saw him?

You scrunched your eyes shut, called yourself an idiot, and jogged across the sand of the training field.

Riley saw you first, he knocked König on the chest to alert him - you tried not to read into that - König turned, face obscured, body heavy with kevlar and weaponry. He had to lower his head to look at you.

“Schatz?” 

Your insides ached at the familiar term of endearment that you didn’t deserve. Your mouth was as dry as the sand you were stood on, and you suddenly didn’t know what to say. Don’t go? Come back? How could you say any of those things to the man who didn’t want you.

König solved your problem for you. His fingers closed around your tricep, and his thumb stroked just once.

“Look after yourself.” You said quietly.

He nodded before he dropped your arm. Then you watched as they got into the jeeps and drove away.

…

The recruits were returned to you on a daily basis. Apparently, the drop point of the sweep was particularly hot for cartel soldiers, ready and willing to engage in battle. The wounds you were treating now were not the cuts and scrapes of training, it was cracked skulls and broken bones and lacerated flesh. And the men, Turner, Williams, Jackson, they weren’t the scrappy, joking lads they’d once been, they were crying and they were scared. 

You slept when you could but you were always exhausted. You were waiting for the first time one of them died on you. 

You were awoken that night by a loud, insistent banging on your door. You jumped out of bed and tied your robe around yourself, already gathering your hair up to tie it back.

“What’s happened?” You called, opening the door, “who is it…oh.”

It took a moment for you to realise that you weren’t staring at the pitch black of night, but rather directly at König’s chest. He stood in a dark shirt, helmet removed, hood covering his face, head disappearing behind your doorway, but his blue eyes were bright and wild and looking down at you.

“König! You scared me half to death. Get in here.”

You stood aside and König ducked his head and walked, actually stomped, his way into your room. You prayed you didn’t have any stray underwear on the floor. His shirt sleeves were short and you could actually see his arm muscles thrumming. 

“What’s happened?” You frowned. “What’s wrong, König? Talk to me, please.”

“There was an I.E.D.” He replied, accent thick. You couldn’t imagine what his expression looked like. “Ghost saw it before I did. He pulled me out of the pathway. The fucking thing exploded five feet in front of my face. I could have died. I am a fucking idiot.”

“Oh, König, you…you didn’t die, and you’re not an idiot, okay? Every soldier misses…”

“No, schatz.” He walked forward, backing you against the wall. You swallowed when his large hand came up, pressing your collarbone back against the wall. “I’m a fucking idiot because I could have died without doing this.”

One hand curled around your hip and lifted you effortlessly, and you gasped as you had no choice but to wrap your legs around his waist - it was a stretch, he was so broad. König wasted no time slamming you into the wall next to your bed with enough force to rattle your bones. You squeaked, but that was all you managed to do. He pushed his hood up to his nose and captured your lips with his.

Your eyes crossed and closed as you groaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as your lips slid against his. This was nothing like the first kiss - that was chaste, hurried, this was luxurious, long, wet and slow, the whole world went quiet as König pressed his tongue between your lips and lapped at yours with sure strokes that had you whimpering. Your fingers tangled in his hood as he kissed you like that, and you forgot everything else. 

He hitched your legs around his waist and you whined, muffled, as you felt a solid lump pressing up against your clothed crotch. You didn’t care – you ground down on him as you met his tongue with yours. He growled into your mouth and it reverberated through you, before he was pulling back, kissing along your jaw and grinding his cock against your heat harder than before. 

Then his eyes were on you, piercing and bright through the dark hood, the fabric sat askew on his top lip, his lips pink and swollen with your spit.

“I want you, schatz.” He said bluntly. 

“I - I want you, too.”

Your consent was all he needed. Suddenly you were airborne again, and you clung onto him as he lowered you onto the belt and knelt between your legs. The bed actually dipped under his weight and you blushed.

“K-König,” you murmured quietly.

“No,” it was short, and stiff, as he yanked your night shirt down by your collar hard enough to rip. You yelped as the sound of fabric tearing filled the room and suddenly your tits were exposed. You whimpered in embarrassment but he’d already grabbed them in his rough, gloved hands, squeezing and rubbing, flicking and pinching your nipples between his fingers.

“Hhhh, fuck.” You blushed, biting your lip as your underwear moistened at the rough treatment.

“Fuck, do not tell me they are sensitive.” König’s voice sounded wrecked.

“Please,” it was a whisper, “please be gentle.”

“Wanted to get my hands on you for too long.” Was all his reply was as he squeezed your breast again and leant down, using his hand to guide your nipple into his exposed mouth. He sucked so hard that you thought he was trying to drink your soul out from you. Your head fell back and you gasped, grinding your wet, needy cunt as best you could on the side of his thigh. König took pity on you, lapping at your nipples until they were shining nubs screaming in oversensitivity, while his brick hand - when had he taken his glove off? - cupped your pussy through your underwear. His thumb was jammed right up against your clit. You didn’t know if he’d meant to do that, or if it was coincidental, but either way you ground up onto the solid digit until your eyes were unfocused.

“So wet for me, liebling,” he murmured breathlessly, between your nipples, “you are fucking soaked for me.” He stroked you with his thumb once and your eyes slackened and you came with a shudder, stiffening beneath him as stars danced above your head.

He let your nipple slide wetly from his mouth and suddenly those bright eyes were on you.

“Did you just have an orgasm?”

“Mmm.” You buried your head into his neck shyly, thighs shuddering as the waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your clit twitched against his hand. 

“Oh, sweet liebling.” He murmured, rubbing wet circles over the sodden fabric of your underwear. You shuddered as your thighs tried to close away from the intense pleasure, until one strong hand was on your thigh and pushing it wide.

“König!” You gasped. He was watching you intently as he pushed your underwear to the side with his fingers and pressed the thick digits through your sopping folds. 

“Such a pretty little cunt.” He murmured, stroking his fingertips over your slit. It opened with every heavy breath you took, dribbles of desire wetting his fingers.

“König, please,” you whined, “need you in me. Please -”

“Oh yes? Is that so?” The side of his mouth twitched up, then his finger was sinking inside you.

“Shit, fuck! K-König, you’re so big…” You felt your cunt stretching around his finger, clenching involuntarily down around it as your thighs tried to close but couldn’t, pinned open by his solid hand.

“I know, schatz.” He replied calmly. “You can take it.” He slid a second finger in without warning and grunted at how tight and wet you were, just imagining how your cunt would feel around his cock. You whined and threw your head back, the stretch aching after months of nothing, thighs shaking. You were so fucking wet that his fingers practically glided in, his knuckles against your soft pink entrance. “I want you to come for me, to loosen you up for my cock.”

“König, fuck, I…” Your cheeks were rosy. “My god, please...please move, I need-”

“Shhh, little one, I know.” He wasted no time shoving his fingers deeper in your aching cunt, and you yelped and lifted off of the bed entirely. König growled in disapproval and used the hand on your thigh to pin you down to the bed, keeping you still as he ploughed his fingers in and out of you. You moaned deliriously at the sudden intense, rough pressure to your sweet spot, watching the way König’s large hand was like a blur between your legs.

“I’m-” You couldn’t even say it before you were coming with a wet moan, your release splashing against his wrist and dripping all over the bed.

“Scheiße, liebling, making such a mess for me.” His fingers were still hard and circling your engorged sweet spot. Your body seized in panic as you gripped his wrist with all your might to try and still him. All you achieved was watching your own arms shake as he fingered you mercilessly. The noise was obscene, soaking wet come and slick filthy between your legs and soaking his hand as you squirted again, streaming down his arm with a mix of clear and white desire. You moaned and gasped and sobbed, the pleasure intense and spiralling, your pussy already felt worn out from the rough treatment.

“König, please,” you begged, “it’s too much-”

“Again.” He commanded, hand leaving your thigh and curling around your throat. “Want all of that squirt out of you.” he pinned you to the bed by your neck, using the change in position to drive his fingers roughly home deep in your aching, spent cunt. He didn’t stop when you came, and he didn’t stop when you came again - your eyes in the back of your head, body on fire with ceaseless pleasure, the bed beneath you soaked with your own humiliation. All you could do was take it, and shudder violently. 

Finally, König pulled his fingers from your gaping hole and slapped your cheek lightly, it was a wet noise and you blinked.

“Come on, little girl, do not give up on me.”

“König,” you slurred, heaving. “I…fuck, so good, never…I can’t…”

“Oh sweet one,” he cooed, crowding between your legs, pulling your thighs over his hips. “Fucked you stupid and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

You managed a tired smile as you traced your fingers down the front of his stab vest. You watched him drag the zip of his trousers down, rubbing just the once over the lump there before dipping in and pulling his cock free. It took him three tries - to extract the full, erect length of himself from the tight compression of his protective cup, before he was letting it hang heavy between his legs. 

“Fuck, König- you’re so big.”

“I know, baby,” he stroked the length of his long, engorged cock from length to tip and your eyes widened, cunt throbbing between your legs in your desperation to feel it deep in you. 

“König, please,” you begged, digging your heels into the small of his back, your wet cunt pressed up against his balls, inviting, begging him in, “my pussy - please -”

He chuckled before pressing the head of his foreboding cock against your clit and you trembled and cursed. He lent over you, hand squeezing your breast, the ends of his dark hood tickling your neck as you felt the hot, solid crown of his cock pressing against your entrance. Your eyes were wide, nervous, feeling the pressure, the give, then the hot length sliding home inside of you.

You gasped and arched, clenching around him and his biceps shook where he held you.

“Fuck, schatz, fuck, not so hard, you will make me come.”

“C-can’t help it.” It was a whine, rolling your hips and digging your heels in harder, trying to pull him deeper. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He panted, regaining some of his composure and locking his hand around your neck once more. His hips began to piston and you weren’t prepared for it, the shift of his massive cock in your tight walls making you moan and clench and writhe. Your cunt was obscenely wet, and every noise was a squelch that made you blush, until he was pounding into your sweet spot and you forgot everything.

“Fuck, König, fuck-” it was breathless, eyelids fluttering as you clenched and groaned and sprayed his cock, his balls, with your release. “I can’t - can’t stop, fuck,”

“Guh, fuck.” He grunted, lips ghosting over yours. His cock not slowing, pounding you like he was trying to nail the mattress beneath you. “So tight, liebling, your pussy is drawing me in. I’ve waited so long for this.”

You couldn’t ask him to explain, you were too busy coming, your world zeroed down to the tip of König’s dick abusing your swollen sweet spot. He curled his fingers under your knee and held your thigh up by your collarbone, exposing more of your vulnerable cunt to him as he thrust hard into your aching walls. 

Your moans were broken and never ending, blushing and squirming in delirious agony as you gushed and creamed on his cock, feeling your hot release on the backs of your thighs.

“Look at you,” König didn’t even have the decency to sound exerted as he took you apart. “You can’t stop coming, can you, schatz?”

“No.” There were tears in your eyes, your fingernails digging into his arms, holding on for dear life. “You need, please -” Your mouth fell open as you came again, the splash of your squirt explosive and filthy, “you need to come, please, I can’t, can’t come again, please, König, please.”

König framed your jaw with his hand, stroking along the bone as he slammed his hips into yours, forcing more of your come straight from you with a grunt.

“Nearly there, schatz.” He said into your mouth. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Fuck, please,” your walls clenched and contracted again, vaulted over the edge and nearly losing consciousness, clenching your fucked out cunt tight if only to help him get there. “Please, come, come in me, fuck.”

“Scheiße,” he groaned, cock jamming in your tight cunt as you came so hard you nearly pushed him out. He shoved his way back in and you wailed. “You want me to come inside? I’m not wearing…”

“König, please,” it was pathetic, and he couldn’t deny you, watching your sobbing eyes with his piercing blues as he slammed into your weeping cunt for a few more torturous minutes, then his forehead was pressed to yours and he groaned as he spilled inside you. He was so deep you couldn’t feel it, but you could feel his cock twitching, and you could feel yourself clenching and coming so hard you forced dribbles of his white come straight back out of your slit and dribbling down between your cheeks. 

König was breathing heavily against you as he held himself, forehead against yours, body framing yours, and you watched him as you shuddered and tried in vain to relax. He was…there were no words for it.

You let your hands trail down his clothed back, feeling the solid and bunching muscles there, feeling his cock heavy in your squirting pussy and wondering how the hell this had happened.

“König,” you had a warm, dizzying smile on your face. “You came back.”

He nodded mutedly, face partially obscured by his hood, as he stroked along your jaw, then your lips, and let his hulking body fall and rest beside yours. “Thought you might not want me.”

You shook your head, curling into his chest the best you could. He was still inside you.

“Want you, always. Don’t-'' He'd already curled his bear arms around you, drawing you into his warm chest and cutting you off. You were suddenly so overhot you couldn’t remember what you were going to say.

“I’m sorry I upset you, liebling,” he stroked along your back, his blue eyes slack. “I have always wanted you to be mine. From the moment I saw you.”

This felt like a fever dream. It couldn’t possibly be real. You couldn’t possibly be this happy.

“I’ve always been yours, König, I still am. If you still want me.”

He tilted his head as he watched you, lips pulling up, and you blushed.

“What?” You asked.

“You,” he said simply, voice warm like honey, “are smiling again.”

[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

[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.

[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. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, clashing personalities, exclusion, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: moody boy Curtis Everett x bubbly, plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

It’s your first day at work. Your nerves have simmered over to a nice whirlwind. Even as you sit at your desk, going through the various training materials. You haven’t managed to calm down. Your heart is beating so fast.

Everyone’s been nice. You don’t know why you’re jittering. Like your mother says, you’re overthinking, and like your father says, you need to sit still. You grab the armrests and try to make yourself stop moving. It only makes you want to boil over.

You swivel back and forth and look at your coworkers. They’re all so busy like bees in a hive. They know exactly what they’re doing and you still feel lost as you sift through endless SOPs and corporate training videos.

You see a woman with purplish red curls with a mug, steam curling over the brim. Ah, that’s a good excuse for a break. You still need to figure out the office coffee machine. Daniella, your supervisor, briefly pointed it out during her tour. It’s one of those fancy industrial pod brewers.

You stand and nearly skip between the desks. Be cool. You slow your pace and hold your shoulders straight, your squared toed kitten heels clacking on the tile. You poke your head into the kitchen and find only one other employee inside.

The man’s shoulders are broad and straight as he stares silently at the coffee machine. It grinds and spurts out dark coffee. You come up next to him to peruse the spinning rack of pods, tapping your chin as you think. You peek over at him.

“Hi,” you smile, “any recommendations?”

His pale blue eyes meet yours for an instant before quickly flicking back to his cup. A plain black porcelain mug without any decoration or glitz. You already know which cup you want to bring in; the one that looks like a honey pot and has a small lid resembling a bear sticking his head out with a little honeycomb stitch between his ears.

You take one of the paper cups and a pod of the butterscotch twist. You stand back and wait your turn. He scowls as if mentally urging the cup to fill.

“I’m…” you introduce yourself, “I just started over in Research and Development.”

He doesn’t respond. He puts his hands behind him, clutching them tightly as his forearms tense. The tendons bulge out beneath his skin. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, a grey button up with black trousers. A bit grim but an aesthetic for sure. There’s several rings on his fingers as they curl around each other.

“It’s my first day,” you continue the one-sided conversation, “so… that’s why you never saw me before.”

He growls and grabs his cup as the machine dings. He doesn’t acknowledge you as he turns on his heel and marches out. You watch his back and shrug, blowing out between your lips. You get it, some people aren’t the social type.

You put your cup under the spout and tap the touchscreen. It takes you a lot of poking around to figure out how to brew the coffee. You step back and wait. Caffeine should definitely help your nerves… fuel them at least.

💗

Lunchtime comes and you grab your bento box and head down to the cafeteria. Daniella said you could eat your desk if you wished but you need a break from the screen. Besides, you notice that most people don’t.

You enter the cafeteria. There are tables here and there but they’re already crowded. You notice a few people from your department and head over to that table. Tammy moves her bag onto the seat before you can claim it. You frown and apologise as you back away.

Hmm.

You look around. You don’t know anyone. You don’t mind making new friends but it’s like high school all over again. Everyone has their clique and you’re just wandering in between.

Your gaze falls on the only table with more than one seat free. There’s a single person sitting at it, his head down as he runs his hand over his close cut hair. Hey, it’s… that guy. He didn’t give you his name.

You cross the room and near a chair, putting your hand on the back of it as you hover by the table.

“Hi, um, do you mind if I sit here?”

His eyes dart up and he says nothing. He shrugs and sits back, smoothing out the pages of the book in front of him. You sit, your bento box clanging loudly as you do. You give a sheepish smile as he clears his throat but doesn’t look at you.

You flip back the clasp and pop open the lid. He shifts in his chair as you take out your plastic cutlery from the little compartment. You try to be quiet but you can’t help but hit the fork off the side.

You look over at him. He has only his empty mug and a half-eaten protein bar. You look back at your colourful medley of food. Maybe he’s on a diet.

“Do you like hummus?” You ask.

He doesn’t look up. You bite your lip. You’re just being friendly but maybe he’s not hungry.

“Um, uh, you remember me?” You poke at your couscous, “from the kitchen? I didn’t get your name.”

He sighs and turns the page. You nod. Not much of a talker. You let your fork lean on the edge of the bento and grab the sides of your chair, scraping it closer. He snarls and finally looks at you.

You stop and show your teeth like a threatened animal. His jaw clenches and he refocus on his book. You stir the couscous and take a bite, swallowing as your curiosity piques.

“What are you read–”

“I’m not,” he grits and shuts the book without marking the page.

He stands and pockets the protein bar, swiping up his mug and book. You gape at him, stunned. You don’t know why he’s so upset. You’re just trying to be polite. He storms away and you frown at your food. Well, you’ve always got a friend in snacks!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey there, hi there, ho there! It’s your friendly neighborhood tailor! Pleasure to meet you Fellow! I’m quite the seamstress, and I always love to have people to practice styles on! I have, here with me, an entire wardrobe for you and your little brother there! I’ve got winter coats, summer shorts, formal wear for any kind of stuffy event, and a line of loungewear for any kind of casual affair! Hehehehehe. These are a little more experimental outfits, but a charismatic, distinguished gentleman such as yourself would be able to pull it off seamlessly, I’m sure. *Pushes the enormous mountain of clothing to Fellow to try on* Don’t worry about any cost, I just want you to be ready for any occasion. Everyone deserves to look and feel their best. Clothes make the man and all that. I…sincerely hope you and Gidel find something out there worth doing. Take these around for a spin and see how they work. I’ll make any adjustments necessary.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The dressing room curtain wasn't red nor velvet, but pushing them aside felt like the opening night to a grand show anyway. Fellow and Gidel stepped out, dressed in brand new outfits--similar in construction to the originals, without the holes or the mismatched fabrics. They had been trying on various threads provided by the town's local tailor for the last few hours--and, at the end of the day, this was what felt most comfortable to the duo.

A full-length mirror had been propped up against the wall, allowing them to inspect their figures in full dress. Gidel twirled and twirled until he got dizzy and had to take a seat. Fellow adjusted his lapels many times over, admiring the look and feel of brand new fabrics and buttons.

"Hmph. Not bad. Not bad at all," he said to his smug reflection.

"You're both so handsome," the tailor gushed. "The clothes suit you well."

"You sure we can have all of this for free? No strings attached?" Fellow asked warily.

His eyes darted to wheeled rack that displayed many more items. He almost breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there. Not a figment of his imagination, not a reward to be yanked away at a moment's notice. Something tangible and real.

"Yes, really! I'd appreciate it if you took them off of my hands. They're some of the season's old fashions--they've been hard to move--and some experimental pieces I made in my off-time that don't have mass appeal. It'd be a waste to not let them be worn and shown off." They chuckled to themselves. "Besides, free advertising for the shop, am I right?"

His eyes lit up, mouth breaking out into a smile that showed all of his teeth. "Hot dog! Didja hear that, Giddie? We’re set!”

The two scrambled to gather their new things. Left uncollected for too long, and they feared the clothes would vanish.

The tailor peered into their changing stall and, upon spotting their old discarded outfits strewn on the floor, tutted. They bent, retrieving them.

“You forgot to pick up your…”

They stopped.

The dark green trousers they had picked up bore large diamond shapes along one pant leg, a design most unusual. Textiles with red, green, and golden patterns pilled in the diamond holes, sealed in place with neat, tight lines of stitching. Saddle, passing back and forth—the sign of hand, not machine, stitch.

There’s talent here, they realized. Untapped potential.

The tailor cleared their throat.

“Excuse me, but have you ever considered taking up the needle and thread for a career…? If so, I might just have the apprenticeship for you.”

[halfagonyandhope]

for the obitine prompts, maybe their first kiss (in canon) ?

She will not cry.

Satine Kryze has not shed a tear in over a standard decade. She suspects the constant fighting, the perpetual loss of her people, has inured her to such sadness.

She hadn’t even become weepy after learning of the parents’ assassinations.

Her stoicism had earned her a reputation, she knows, but it had been necessary. She’d rather be seen as unfeeling than the opposite. She won’t give the opposition yet another reason why she is seemingly unfit to lead, and stars forbid she be labeled as too emotional.

But looking at Obi-Wan Kenobi through the window of the medical bay, she thinks she may have finally reached her limit.

The Draboonian healers had done what they could for him, but it might not be enough.

Satine and Obi-Wan had become separated from Qui-Gon as the elder Jedi had held off an unknown attacker, buying Obi-Wan time to get Satine to safety. Little had they known that they were running straight into a hive of venom-mites.

By the time they’d realized, they’d been surrounded, with their backs to boulders and the hive approaching from every angle below them.

Obi-Wan, of course, hadn’t hesitated, grabbing Satine into his arms and leaping as far as he could over the approaching venom-mites.

He’d almost made it.

He’d landed just at the edge of the swarm, and some of the venom-mites had managed to crawl up his leg. A couple of steps later, the leg had given way, sending them both tumbling.

Satine breathes out deeply, trying to forget the agony of Obi-Wan’s scream as the mites had punctured his skin.

The venom’s effect had been instantaneous, leaving Obi-Wan unable to stand, and Satine had acted without thinking: she’d grabbed Obi-Wan’s lightsaber to flick away the offending mites and then try to keep the others at bay. She’d quickly been overwhelmed, but she’d bought enough time for Qui-Gon to arrive, and he’d helped her get Obi-Wan to the healing facility.

But by the time they’d reached the medical bay, Obi-Wan had completely lost feeling in his legs, and then he’d lost consciousness.

He hadn’t woken up.

Satine’s eyes snap up as a healer exits the room. “Any improvement?” she asks in Mando’a, hating how weak her voice sounds.

The healer breathes in. “The swelling in his brain has decreased. He should be awake by now.”

Satine folds her arms over herself, as though fighting off a chill. She understands the implications of the healer’s words.

We do not understand why he hasn’t regained consciousness.

“Thank you,” Satine murmurs, and the healer walks away.

Satine looks up and down the hall. Qui-Gon has retired to catch a couple hours of sleep, and no one else is near. There’s no one to object to her actions.

So she slips inside the room and sits at the edge of the bed, watching machines assist Obi-Wan in breathing.

There’s quiet, for the first time since they’d arrived, and Satine is suddenly aware of a sharp pain just above her knee. She looks down, realizing that her trousers must have been cut against the rocks when she’d fallen from Obi-Wan’s arms. The torn fabric is stained with dried blood, and she moves the pieces aside to examine the wound.

She swears.

It won’t heal on its own.

She takes another look at Obi-Wan, knowing he’d scold her if he were awake. So she stands and moves to the cabinets on the other side of the room, rummaging for anything she can find. She manages to locate an antiseptic solution and some butterfly bandages. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t find any bacta. There’s a shortage in the Mandalore system thanks to the war, and - if she’s being honest - Satine wouldn’t have bothered to use bacta even if she’d found it.

A simple cut, no matter how deep, would not be triaged high enough to be deserving of bacta.

She sits next to Obi-Wan, placing the bandages beside her on the mattress, and begins cleaning the wound.

She hisses at the first contact of antiseptic against her skin.

“That needs stitches, you know,” comes a weak voice.

Satine turns sharply.

Obi-Wan is awake. He looks high as the Alderaanian mountains, but he’s awake.

“Ben,” she whispers, setting the antiseptic solution on the bedside table and then flinging her arms around him.

He chuckles against her. “I must have been quite close to death to receive that reaction.”

If he weren’t already in a medical facility, Satine might put him there. But she refrains from inflicting any further bodily harm upon him.

She pulls back slightly so she can meet his eyes. “You didn’t respond well to the antivenom,” she murmurs. “The healers couldn’t figure out why you weren’t coming back to us.”

He groans. “How long was I out?”

“Almost two standard days,” says Satine. “Before you lost consciousness, you couldn’t feel your legs,” she adds in a whisper.

Obi-Wan glances down. “Funny,” he says. “I can sure feel them now.”

She follows his gaze, to where her hand is resting on his knee.

Her first instinct is to pull away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she shifts, moving her hands down his right leg to his foot, only the thin layer of the blanket between their skin.

“You can feel that?” she asks, and suddenly she’s…she’s hopeful.

Obi-Wan nods.

Satine repeats the process with his other leg. “And?”

He nods again.

She meets his eyes, unable to help the smile that spreads across her face. 

Obi-Wan gives her a peculiar look. “I don’t think you’ve ever smiled at me before.”

She huffs. “I just haven’t let you see me do so,” Satine admits, and he grins at her words.

Then he reaches for the antiseptic solution. “I meant it about your cut needing stitches,” he says, still smiling softly, appearing a little more lucid. “Come here.”

So she shifts again, letting him take a closer look at the cut.

He pours a bit more antiseptic on the wound, and Satine swipes at it with a sterile wipe, cleaning the grime away. After, she holds the skin in place as Obi-Wan places the butterfly bandages over the cut.

“For now, that’s adequate,” he says, looking back up at her. He grimaces. “I dropped you, didn’t I?”

Satine suddenly realizes how close they are. Just a few centimeters separate them.

“You saved me,” she corrects.

“Some job I did of that,” Obi-Wan says.

And she has to laugh - in relief, maybe? In happiness?

She locks her eyes with his.

In love, she realizes.

A tear rolls down her cheek to land upon his skin.

And without thinking about it, she eliminates the rest of the space between them to press her lips against his.

[vraisetzen]

𝑨 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 – 𝑲𝒐𝒌𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒐 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Summary: As Kokushibo does the laundry, he stumbles upon a pair of your underwear.

Tags: NSFW, 18+, Modern/KimeGaku AU, No use of (y/n)

Author's note: A short writing exercise. And I've been obsessed with writing about men jerking off lately...

It comes as little surprise that Kokushibo is fairly adept at doing the laundry – as Kibutsuji Muzan's designated secretary-slash-bodyguard-slash-handler, he is more than accustomed to managing his employer's collection of silk shirts with Italian labels and wool trousers with double pleats and monogram stitching along the inner lining.

When it comes to your clothes and his, Kokushibo has a system down pat, from sorting out dyed fabrics from his dress shirts, to polyester blends from cotton fabrics, and special netting bags for delicate garments. It was a language that only he spoke, with a frazzled attempt once on your part to take over the chores leaving him more than a little disgruntled as you turned his white boxers a darling shade of baby pink.

Hence, it has become a routine for him to find himself kneeling by the washing machine every Sunday, pawing through the laundry basket quietly and efficiently. His shirts and your pyjamas; your shorts and his gym towels. He tosses them into the washing machine, making a mental note to himself on how high he would have to set the water and rinse levels when he is finished.

And then, Kokushibo comes to your intimates – this is not foreign domain to him either. At this stage in your relationship, he is more than familiar with what you wear: the wireless bras, a unisex thong that your friends gave to you as a joke on Singles' Day, lacy pieces that you wear infrequently on special occasions. Kokushibo finds nothing embarrassing about this; he has already seen you in a far more revealing state, and this is, once again, routine.

What is not routine, however, is the strange curiosity that takes root inside him as he holds your panties in his hand, pausing for a long second. It is nothing special – a grey hipster that is a little loose around the elastic from wear – but Kokushibo hesitates as he lingers just over the metallic ring of the laundry drum. Perhaps it is the piece's simplicity; something you throw on without caring for seduction or looking pretty, something that is just there as you go about your day, beneath your clothes, something you hardly think about.

Kokushibo turns the underwear inside out, where there is a slightly darker mark on the crotch, the remnants of you on the cloth. A shot of arousal twinges through his cock as he wonders if you have ever fantasised about him while wearing this particular pair, staining the cotton with your wetness while you are at work.

Did your cheeks flush with the thoughts of him pummeling into you, stifling your moans through clenched teeth and bitten lip? Did you need to excuse yourself from the presence of your colleagues, escaping into the bathroom, checking each empty stall before choosing the one at the end? Did your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, before pressing your back up against the door as you lift your dress up and slide your fingers into your aching depths?

Kokushibo presses his nose up against the underwear and inhales, and is greeted by the faint scent of sweet-salty musk – the same notes that he finds when he dives between your legs. His hand reaches for the tent in his trousers, rubbing himself through his sweatpants. This feels wrong – debased, even; jerking off to your underwear like some pervert lurking around the laundromat.

And truthfully, if he wanted, needed, you so badly, then you are but a text or a phone call away; but as Kokushibo growls into his hand, thinking about the silky wet of your folds, the threads of glistening juices that clings to his fingers as he strokes your cunt, there is very little regard on his part on what is right. And right now, he is stroking himself swiftly and firmly; it is not like how you do it, with your languished motions and endless patience for teasing out his pleasure – but he is not here for prolonged foreplay. The rough texture of his sweatpants makes for excellent friction, and he runts up against his hand, angling himself precisely to glide his cockhead over the fabric.

It does not take long for him to climax, and he does so with a jerk of his hips and a ragged growl into the inside of his boxers. A dark patch blooms over his sweatpants, mirroring the faint mark on your underwear, and for a few seconds Kokushibo simply stares down at his lap, dazed by the quickness which he brought himself to completion. His cock is still twitching weakly as he thinks of you, and what you will say if you were to come through the doors right now, arms full with the groceries for the week ahead. Will you scold him for making a mess? Or will you let him bend you over the washing machine, paper bags and laundry basket equally forgotten?

Alas, these questions will have to wait as Kokushibo gets up on shaky feet. He pulls off his trousers and boxers with his clean hand and washes them in the basin; and when he comes back, he gives the offending piece of garment – that wicked, ordinary pair of grey panties – a final look before chucking them all in the wash.

For more of my writings, check out my AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vraisetzen/pseuds/vraisetzen

[eyelessmoon]

part two ig ig

The Tower

Frankie woke to the cold air seeping through the rusted vents. Her shirt was off, and the only thing covering her torso was a layer of worn bandages. Blinking, she glanced around the room—something was different. Darker. More unsettling.

The dim light revealed silhouettes of tables, chairs, machines, a bed... and a few posters she couldn't quite make out, all illuminated by dozens of flickering computer screens.

Sitting in front of the monitors was a short lizard, her back hunched over in focus. Some screens displayed security cameras monitoring the entire underground, while others calculated statistics or played some anime.

"Um... Doctor?" Frankie spoke up, her voice hoarse.

The lizard flinched visibly, and her glasses slid down her nose as she adjusted them. "Ah... you're awake." She paused the anime and game in a swift motion. "I wanted to bring you here, to give you new clothes—and maybe a bath..."

Frankie shifted, wincing as she sat up. Her stitches strained painfully, and she hissed in discomfort. "How long was I out?"

"Four hours," Alphys replied without hesitation.

Frankie's gaze flickered to the monitors—particularly the ones displaying security footage. "Do you, uh... usually spy on people?" She sniffed and wiped her nose.

Alphys glanced back at the screens, a flash of defensiveness crossing her face. "It's not spying, it's monitoring." She shot Frankie a sharp glare before turning away. She walked over to a nearby table, picked up a set of clothes, and tossed them toward Frankie. "I measured your size. I had these made for you."

It was a long-sleeved grey top, black high-waisted trousers, white underwear, and a white trench coat. Frankie raised an eyebrow, inspecting the clothes. "So, what, I'm gonna start working here?" She looked up at Alphys and snickered. "I don't know a lick of science or machinery! And you measured me? Do you know how creepy that is?"

Frankie started raising her voice, but Alphys didn't flinch.

"What? You're just gonna stare at me? Damn it, say something!" Frankie yelled, slamming her hand on the bed in frustration.

After a beat of silence, Alphys spoke, her voice sharp. "Are you done? I don't have time for this. Get up, get dressed, and meet me outside." That was it. No further explanation. She turned and walked out of the room.

Frankie watched her leave, disbelief flashing across her face. But as Alphys disappeared through the door, something else caught her eye. A red cane with a bird-shaped handle leaned against the wall. Was that for her?

Slowly, Frankie got up, wincing as her legs protested, and limped toward the cane. Her eyes never left the bold red.

It didn't seem like something Alphys would own—it looked far too tall for her to even hold. So, whose was it?

The cane reached up to Frankie's chest. She could use it as a staff if she wanted to. She leaned against the wood and looked back toward the bed, gathering her clothes before heading toward what she assumed was the bathroom.

When she stepped inside, she sighed in relief and closed the door behind her. The bathroom was dimly lit with pristine white tile walls. A single rectangular mirror hung above the sink, and a white rectangular curtain shielded a silver showerhead. The toilet sat to the side.

"Cozy..." Frankie muttered, peeling off her socks and jeans. She turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm up. In the meantime, her eyes drifted to the mirror, landing on her now-dirty bandages.

She sighed again, careful as she unwrapped them, wincing slightly.

After checking the temperature of the water with her hand, she stepped into the shower, letting the warm bristles cascade down her body. Her curly hair, once flattened halfway, now spiraled in loose waves that framed her face and cascaded down to the start of her spine.

Frankie closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She scratched her head, pushing the curls back, letting the water rush down over her face. For just a moment, everything felt calm. Peaceful.

Frankie limped out of the room, gripping the bold red cane for support. A few gasps sounded from the others nearby. Alphys, buried in a stack of papers, barely glanced up—until she saw it.

Her eyes widened. "Put that back."

Frankie straightened, gripping the cane tighter. "Why? Whose is it?"

Alphys didn't answer. She marched over, snatched the cane from Frankie's hand, and shoved it back into the room. Frankie stumbled but caught herself.

"You don't need it," Alphys muttered, voice clipped.

Before Frankie could argue, Alphys grabbed her arm and yanked her forward. Her grip was tight. Unyielding.

"Listen to me, and listen good." Alphys' voice was sharp—colder than Frankie had ever heard. She jabbed a clawed finger at the girl's chest. "Don't ever touch that cane again."

Frankie swallowed, nodding quickly.

"From now on, you'll learn medicine and science under me," Alphys continued. "You'll follow a strict schedule. You'll do as I say. And you will never—ever—go into my room again. Got it?"

Frankie hesitated, then mumbled, "Yes... doctor."

Alphys stepped back, adjusting her coat like nothing had happened. "Good. Let's start." Without another word, she turned and walked off.

Frankie lingered, glancing back at the room. The cane sat where Alphys had left it, its bold red practically glowing in the dim light.

Whose was it? And why did Alphys react like that?She didn't have time to think. With a quiet breath, she forced herself to follow.

Alphys led her into the operating room.

"Why are we here?" Frankie asked, scanning the dimly lit space.

Before she got an answer, the doors on the other side slammed open. A group of large monsters barged in, dragging a scrawny kid who kicked and thrashed, his screams raw with panic.

Frankie's stomach twisted. "Doctor, what the—"

"Get the tools," Alphys said, unfazed. "You'll be operating on him."

Frankie's breath hitched. "What? I don't know how to— I thought you were going to teach me!"

"This is how you learn." Alphys' tone was cool, almost bored. "I'll be right here giving you instructions when you need them—"

The kid's screams grew louder, cutting her off. Alphys sighed in irritation.

"Shut that kid up."

The two larger monsters nodded and went to work.

Frankie flinched as fists met flesh. The kid's screams were quickly drowned out by wet, sickening cracks as they pounded his face in. The sound of breaking bone echoed off the metal walls. Blood splattered onto the floor in thick, sluggish drops.

Frankie wanted to turn away. She wanted to run.

"Don't look away," Alphys said casually. "If you do, this will be you next."

Frankie froze.

Her breath came in sharp, rapid gasps. Her fingers curled into the hem of her coat, knuckles white. She couldn't move—couldn't even blink—as the boy's body twitched and convulsed under the monsters' fists.

Alphys watched her closely, eyes sharp behind her glasses. Calculating.

Frankie's shoulders shook.

—

Ten years later.

Her hair had grown longer, curlier. The white trench coat she wore now boasted bloodstains along the hem—old, dried, permanent. Dark circles had settled under her eyes, and a pair of square glasses sat perched on her nose, a sign of age and exhaustion.

She didn't call Alphys "Doctor" anymore. There was no doctor. Just Alphys. And frankly, Frankie was tired of this life.

Frankie pushed her hair back as she walked into the lab, hands shoved deep in her pockets, fingers fidgeting with her room key.

"Frankie!"

She cocked her head lazily, searching for the voice that dared utter her name. A small rodent-like monster skipped toward her.

"Emphany," Frankie drawled. "What a pleasure." Her shoulders rose and dropped in an exaggerated shrug.

Emphany twirled a small braid between her fingers. "So, um, the doctor wants to see you—ehe." She grinned nervously. "She said she has another delivery for you to pick up."

Frankie clapped her hands together, leaning in with a grin. "Oh! Greeeaaat."

Emphany beamed, clearly misreading the sarcasm. "Okay!" She clutched her binder a little tighter as Frankie brushed past her.

Then, Frankie paused. "Oh, and Emphany?" The rodent turned, expectant. Frankie flashed her a sweet smile. "Go fuck yourself."

She walked away without another word, leaving Emphany standing there, shocked and maybe a little flustered.

Frankie shoved open Alphys' door without knocking. She'd stopped caring about courtesy a long time ago. After all, Alphys wasn't going to kill her. Not her best doctor. Not her little go-getter.

"What now, Alphys?" she drawled, leaning against the wall. "I just got back from a 'delivery'—and you're already sending me on another? Give me a fucking break."

Her eyes flicked toward the empty space where the red cane had once stood. The owner had picked it up a month after she arrived.

"You don't need a break," Alphys said, adjusting her cracked glasses. "And the delivery is in Snowdin."

Frankie pushed off the wall. "Snowdin? Where the hell is that?"

"Past Waterfall." Alphys handed her a picture of the deliver-ee.

Frankie frowned, glancing between the photo and Alphys. "So let me get this straight. You want me to go on a week-long trip to this frozen dump, search for some asshole, and then drag him all the way back? That's gonna take at least a month, if I'm lucky." Her voice dripped with passive aggression.

Alphys barely looked at her. "When you find him, extract his heart and bring it here."

Frankie scoffed. "Fuck you."

"Emphany will give you money and a cooler. Get to it."

"I really hate you, you know that?"

Alphys only hummed in response as Frankie stormed out.

Outside, Emphany stood there, wallet and cooler in hand. "F-Frankie—!"

"Still go fuck yourself!" Frankie sang in a mocking, sing-song voice, flashing her a fake smile as she snatched the items from her.

Emphany stuttered, taken aback, but Frankie didn't wait to hear whatever she was about to say. She shoved open the heavy metal doors and let them slam shut behind her with a resounding clang.

She stomped up the stone steps, her scowl deepening with every step. When she finally reached the top, she stopped, staring into the gaping mouth of a dark tunnel.

"Never gets any creepier..." she muttered, pulling out her flashlight.

Her boots clanked against the stone floor, the sound bouncing off the cavernous walls. Every step soured her mood further. A gust of warm wind howled through the tunnels, making her groan.

Everything echoed—the rhythmic thud of her footsteps, the cooler bumping against her leg, the distant hum of ventilation systems, and the murmured whispers of the homeless lurking in the shadows.

Soon, she reached a familiar crossroads—three massive tunnels stretching into darkness. One led to Waterfall. The others? A mystery. Alphys had forbidden her from ever exploring them, and despite her curiosity, she obeyed. Eventually, she got used to always taking the same path.

She sighed and headed down the tunnel she knew best. The passage stretched endlessly, vines curling down from the ceiling, their tendrils swaying in the damp air. Moss clung to the walls, thriving in the perpetual dimness.

With a flick of her flashlight, Frankie pressed forward.

The water in the tunnel started to rise, slowly at first—just a small puddle—but soon it expanded into a full lake. A log bridge, old yet sturdy, stretched across the water, a structure that had been there long before Frankie's time. Alphys had once told her it was built centuries ago. Yet, despite its age, the bridge looked remarkably well-maintained.

As Frankie hurried across, the bridge creaked and rumbled under her weight. That was when a sudden, bright light hit her face. She quickly turned off her flashlight and shielded her eyes with her arm. To her surprise, this part of the underground had natural light, allowing crops and plants to thrive.

The people of Waterfall worshiped this light like a god, revering it as a blessing. It was strange, though—after all, they had a king, Asgore, but he never cared for this place, or Hotland, or even Snowdin. Alphys had told Frankie once that, during her time serving under her master, she'd met the king.

Alphys wasn't much for storytelling, nor was she fond of speaking to Frankie at all, but when the mood struck, she would share a bit of her past.

"Wanna hear a story?" Alphys had asked one day after watching Frankie absentmindedly roll her pen.

Frankie perked up, grinning. "Seriously? Yeah! Tell me!"

A smile that was reminiscent of her youthful days spread across Alphys' face. "I met the king once," she said softly.

Frankie leaned in, intrigued. "The king? What was he like?"

Alphys leaned back in her chair, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I was a teenager, like you. I worked under my best friend's father. He took me to the fancy part of the underground—New Home. The king and queen had just had their heir."

She closed her eyes for a moment, lost in thought. "The streets were cleaner, people were kinder..." Alphys sighed, sitting up straight again. "But then... something happened to the royal family. They've never been the same since." She looked distant as if the memory weighed heavily on her.

"...Doctor?" Frankie started, but Alphys immediately raised a hand, silencing her.

"It's nothing," Alphys said quickly, her cold demeanor returning. "Get back to work."

With that, Alphys stood up and walked away, the conversation over.

frankie sighs and continues to walk on the bridge, from a far distance she could see waterfall's town surrounded by the endless deep blue, a siloette with a hood stood on a boat humming a song "hey rp" frankie gave them a lopsided smile

"oh! frankie! what a pleasure, though i didn't expect you to come back so quickly..." the look down at the cooler "a quick delivery? ...that's new" the commented slowly

"yeah.." frankie dropped down onto the boat "don't go to the usual spot go to the port... gotta get a few supplies" she shifted slightly "as you wish" river person nodded and took off

frankie stared into the water, lost in thought, this was gonna be one hell of a trip

[asleepyyeti]

unnervingly domestic

simon cares about his stuff, sure, but he doesn't have the disposition to care too much about mending his civvie clothes. helpful, then, that you've such an interest in mending and repair... (three little peeks at mending things throughout your relationship)

platonic!simon 'ghost' riley + reader

[masterlist]

“Hey, Simon?”

He meets your question with a grunt.

“Why’s your jacket in the bin?”

“Ripped the arm,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his bicep.

“Oh, that’s a shame! I thought it was your favourite?”

Simon shrugs.

“I could try and repair it?”

Thankfully, it was still at the top of the bin, so you manage to pull it out without your hands getting mucky. You inspect the rip, and it’s a nasty one–long, all frayed edges–but ever since you’d moved in, you’d seen how he treasured it. It would be a shame for him to have to throw it out. “It won’t be as good as new, but I could do a little visible mending?”

“Do what you like,” he says, taking himself and his mug and retreating into his room. You’re still getting used to simon, but you’re learning not to take his blunt manner of speech as necessarily dismissive. He really does mean that it’s up to you.

You’d wager that he might even be interested in the outcome.

-

When he returns from base one night, Simon finds his jacket folded up neatly on his spot on the sofa. He inspects the hole on the forearm, pokes at your repair. You’d sewn a patch of grey camo fabric into the hole and finished up the frayed edges with some machine stitching. When he fusses at it, he finds it sturdy–you’d done a good job. The mending stands out a little, sure, but when he slides his jacket on and looks down at it, he finds he likes it.

“Simon…” you groan. You’re hanging off the side of the sofa, staring intently at him as he moves around the kitchen.

“What did I do now,” he asks, deadpan, though his attention doesn’t shift from the fruit basket.

“Nothing, it’s just–your trousers…”

He looks down, scrutinises the denim, tries to see what’s bothering you.

“‘s a matter with ‘em?”

You sigh. “The holes…” You point at the seam on the outside of his leg, where the stitching had come apart slightly. “And your knees are almost worn through..”

“‘adn’t noticed.” 

“If you like ‘em enough, it might be worth getting ahead on repairs. Would you want ‘em reinforced?”

“You offerin’?”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, Simon. I can strengthen the knees a bit, should be almost invisible, and the holes look easy enough to fix, too.”

He hesitates a little, rolling an apple around in one hand and then chucking it to the other. “You don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did. I’m running out of mending projects, and I’ve been looking for a bit of a challenge–denim’s not a material I work with that often. Not that I can’t!” you assure him, “it’s just so hard wearing I don’t often need to, y’know?”

He nods, looking off into the middle distance. “I’ll wash ‘em and–where should I leave ‘em for ya?”

“Yes! Uh, just—anywhere on the kitchen table will be fine.” You look him up and down again, and smile, slow and knowing. “But don’t let me keep you, say hi to... John?”

“Kyle,” he corrects.

“I’ll guess right one of these days…”

“Sure you will.” He pats you consolingly on the head, and bites into his apple.

“‘spose these are a bit far gone for repairs,” Simon asks, holding a pair of nearly destroyed slippers out to you.

“What the fuck happened to these?!”

“Luna got ‘em,” he says with a sigh. “Thought we were playing tug-o-war when I tried to get ‘em back.”

“Well… might not even be all the holes that make this one a challenge, more the shape and construction and… drool.”

“They’re grim,” he agrees.

“Proper grim, but… put ‘em in the washing machine, I’ll see what I can do.”

-

Simon’s surprised when spies the box in his spot at the table–he really hadn’t expected you to even attempt to try and fix the slippers he’d left you with before deployment. He’d only even brought them to you because you were always looking for a challenge, and anyway, it didn’t seem that he could throw anything away without you realising. He opens it and has to abort his chuckle before it wakes you.

The ones he’d left you must have been too far gone, because instead, the box is full of grey fluff–and when he picks up a handful of it, he finds a garishly large monster foot, claws and all. A pair of utterly impractical slippers, and a little note scribbled on the inside of the shoebox--

“Not for Luna consumption!!”

[heimundhandwerk]

Added a patch to my work trousers with my sewing machine. Pretty good imo considering I rarely use the zig-zag stitch function.

I'd usually add embroidery but they'll just get muddy. Still! I'm quite proud of this and hope it holds up long term.

[bisquid]

Clothing repair is not a moral imperative and you shouldn't feel bad for not doing it

One of the most frustrating things about the whole 'just repair your clothes!' thing is that so many clothes just aren't easily repairable, and yet so many of the takes I've come across act like anyone not repairing their stuff are either lazy or stupid and Contributing To Climate Change.

My favourite pair of jeans was three years old when they ripped along where the back pocket was attached. I darned it. The first time I wore them again they ripped along the edge of the darn line.

I patched and redarned them. They ripped along the other pocket. Patch and redarn. They ripped where I'd sewed the patch on, even though I'd tried to weave in every stitch from more than an inch away

Every time I tried to repair them the denim basically disintegrated, because it was incredibly cheap and thin, so the repairs were stronger and just ripped free

One of my favourite dresses got mangled in a washing machine incident because it was a jersey knit stretch fabric and I have no idea how one goes about patching something that needs to stretch in every direction

I wanted to lightly modify the pocket situation on a denim jacket but couldn't, because I physically couldn't get a needle through the four layers of denim I needed to

One of my favourite t-shirts failed at the underarm seam and I couldn't fix it because they'd cut off and overlocked the majority of the seam allowance, and that had frayed when the seam failed

Another pair of trousers came entirely unseamed up one leg the first time I wore them because the (almost certainly overworked and underpaid) person who sewed it had failed to catch the thread in the hem, so the whole thing just unraveled. I did manage to resew that seam, but it took four weeks and three tries, and it's a bit wonky to this day

I have a favourite hoodie that's hanging up, unwearable, with almost an entire sleeve missing, because it got eaten by mice but I'm too attached to it to bin it, but I have no idea how to even START fixing damage like that.

'Twelve cool visible repair designs!' cool cool so that four colour embroidery over a one inch hole is going to cost approximately as much as just replacing the item cheaply and take how many hours to complete? And how many hours to develop the skills to make it look good?

I don't own a sewing machine. I don't particularly want to own a sewing machine, because they're expensive and take up space and require an entire skillset to use effectively. I have to repair or modify everything by hand. I don't have time for that, generally.

There's so much out there that's treated like a moral choice (clothing repair! Food delivery!Plastic straws!) without any examination of the barriers preventing people from doing the (please note the quote marks) '''right thing'''.

The people who most need to be able to repair their clothing are also the people most likely to only be able to afford the cheapest and therefore least repairable clothes. And also least likely to have the time and/or equipment to do so.

[mika-makes-things]

Green trousers part 3:

After getting the darts, pockets and crotch seam ironed, I moved on to sewing the side seams and inseams. I forgot to take process pictures of that part, but it was pretty straightforward anyway.

Next was the fly. I sewed buttonholes (by hand, because my machine’s buttonhole setting scares me) into one side of the facing, folded it to the inside and topstitched it down, then sewed buttons onto the other side. Luckily, I found enough buttons of the right size (and flat enough to not create bulk!) in my stash.

Instead of adding a waistband, I sewed twill tape to the outside of the waist as a reinforcement. I folded the fabric to the inside just below the tape and topstitched it down. I finished the hems with some green bias tape, topstitched on the outside and whip stitched on the inside. Lastly, I added the top button and belt loops.

Then came the most time-consuming phase of this project: hand-finishing the raw edges with a whip stitch. I forgot to take out some of my thread marking and basting stitches before I did that, so I ended up having to wrestle with those for a bit afterwards. I’m fairly certain there are no contrasting threads visible on the outside anymore, though…

And that’s that! The trousers are finished! All in all, I’m very pleased with how they turned out, though there are some things I would do differently.