Post by Deleted on Jun 5, 2023 12:54:33 GMT -5
Io stopped as she laid a hand on his forearm, slowly setting the fabric back down. "O-of course. That I would never do without your ah, direct permission."
He had to admit that he wished her fingers lingered on his skin a little longer, but she was off and focused on work again.
Like you should be, the tailor mentally scolded.
Slowly taking the needle from her, Io watched Oriana's movements with the thread. Certainly this was far from her first time using this technique, effortlessly gliding stitches through the tough fabric. A sense of familiar competition with his rival welled in his chest, a feeling he desperately tried to use to disperse the lingering desire.
"Right," Io took the scrap fabric, looking carefully at her stitching before folding the fabric and attempting his own.
The needle slipped into the first layer of velvet, catching before exiting the second. Io frowned, trying to adjust the needle angle a bit: Oriana had made the process seem so smooth. The ivory needle felt so brittle in the tailor's fingertips, he was afraid to try to bend and force it through like a traditional metal one. Still, he wouldn't just give up and hand it over to the seamstress. As he twisted and pushed, the needle suddenly came free and found purchase not only through the fabric but all the way into his palm.
Io winced, reflexively shaking his hand out before holding the fabric once again. He would not be beat by Oriana, he would not be beat by velvet and ivory needles. He tried again, a new angle and curvature to the stitch: it wasn't as fluid as his typical sewing, but he didn't prick himself this time at least. Biting his lip, he worked again, glancing at Oriana's stitches for guidance, until he finally found a sort of stuttering rhythm to the unique stitch. This would take some getting used to.
He had to admit that he wished her fingers lingered on his skin a little longer, but she was off and focused on work again.
Like you should be, the tailor mentally scolded.
Slowly taking the needle from her, Io watched Oriana's movements with the thread. Certainly this was far from her first time using this technique, effortlessly gliding stitches through the tough fabric. A sense of familiar competition with his rival welled in his chest, a feeling he desperately tried to use to disperse the lingering desire.
"Right," Io took the scrap fabric, looking carefully at her stitching before folding the fabric and attempting his own.
The needle slipped into the first layer of velvet, catching before exiting the second. Io frowned, trying to adjust the needle angle a bit: Oriana had made the process seem so smooth. The ivory needle felt so brittle in the tailor's fingertips, he was afraid to try to bend and force it through like a traditional metal one. Still, he wouldn't just give up and hand it over to the seamstress. As he twisted and pushed, the needle suddenly came free and found purchase not only through the fabric but all the way into his palm.
Io winced, reflexively shaking his hand out before holding the fabric once again. He would not be beat by Oriana, he would not be beat by velvet and ivory needles. He tried again, a new angle and curvature to the stitch: it wasn't as fluid as his typical sewing, but he didn't prick himself this time at least. Biting his lip, he worked again, glancing at Oriana's stitches for guidance, until he finally found a sort of stuttering rhythm to the unique stitch. This would take some getting used to.