Page 31 of Vicious
Chase pulls a small bolt of dark red silk out of the bin. “I went to a store and asked for advice. I have no idea about these things, and I didn’t want to get the wrong one. While I was there, I bought some fabric that caught my eye.” He smirks at me. “You’d look stunning in an evening gown made of this. Or a sexy nightie.”
“I’m not making evening gowns or lingerie with any of this,” I inform him, even though the fabric does look luxurious enough to belong to something equally glamorous.
Chase sets the fabric aside and pulls out a smaller tin. Inside is a small pair of scissors, a fabric pencil, measuring tape, and other tools useful for sewing. “How did you get into all of this, anyway? I’ve seen a few pictures of your work, but it’s not the usual hobby for a young woman these days.”
My cheeks flame up again. “Pictures of my work? How…” I’ve only posted on cosplay forums, and not even that often. “You’re a fucking stalker,” I accuse him. Just when I think he can’t get any more vile, I realize just how deeply he must’ve dug into my life.
“Stalking is barely a crime,” Chase informs me.
“It absolutely is a crime,” I retort.
“Good luck finding anyone to enforce it.” His smile turns darker. “Until it’s too late, of course. But don’t worry, I have no intention of ending our acquaintance.”
He reaches out to caress my face, and I recoil from him. “Thanks. I feel so much better already,” I say, trying to put more distance between us. I might be grateful for the gifts, but that doesn’t mean I plan on treating him like a savior.
Chase taps the top of the sewing machine. “So. Are you going to test it out?”
“I… Yes…” I say slowly, but I feel self-conscious with him sitting there. “Are you going to watch?”
“Absolutely,” Chase answers. He takes the sewing machine out of the box, and it takes the two of us to remove all the layers of styrofoam and packaging. I find the instruction manual too, and start reading it while Chase plugs the machine in.
It’s a lot more advanced than the machine I’m used to. I’d found that one out on the curb while walking home from school one day. It had needed a little bit of maintenance to work again, and it isn’t the smoothest sewing machine, but it does its job for me.
“You never did tell me how you got started with the sewing.” Chase sets the machine’s pedal onto the floor in front of me.
I don’t really want to share these details with Chase, but he had gone above and beyond. He hadn’t needed to get me the fabric or the tools; we hadn’t negotiated anything but the machine itself.
I stay silent for a moment. He’s going to think I’m ridiculous, and I’m not really in the mood to be mocked. I want to revel in this, in the knowledge that it’s brand new and it’s mine—at least, unless he takes it away from me when I ultimately piss him off.
Before he can prompt me again, though, I say slowly, “It’s stupid.” Knowing he’s not going to accept that as an answer, though, I continue, “I found a sewing machine and decided I wanted to learn.” I hesitate, thinking of all the ideas that had gone through my mind when I’d seen the discarded piece of equipment, when I’d so lovingly brought it back into working condition.
“Just like that?” Chase gives me a skeptical expression. “Your parents didn’t force you? You didn’t have to sew because you couldn’t afford clothes?”
Flustered by his words, I say hotly, “Is that really what you think of me? That I’d have to be forced into a hobby? Do I look like I can’t afford clothes?”
Well, I sort of do now, considering I’m wearing a dress made out of a sheet, but that’s entirely beside the point.
“Well, I only started swimming because my mother forced me to join the swim team,” Chase says. “And I don’t know how poor you were. Forgive this upper-class snob for not knowing what level of poverty you were at.” He says that last bit with amusement, even though it’s not funny at all.
I glare at him, my hands shaking as I try to contain my indignant anger. “Some of us do things because we want to, and if you’ve seen pictures of what I’ve done online, you should know that I make things that are fun.”
Assuming he even knows what cosplay is.
Chase reaches out to tousle my hair with a smile. “You’re so cute, Ah-May.” I slap his hand away, and he turns his attention to the fabric bin. “What do you want to create now, then? I’d love to see you model your clothes.”
“I’m going to make you a stuffed animal, or a pillow,” I inform him, trying to calm myself down.
“Hmm.” Chase looks into the bin. “I didn’t pick up any of that filling stuff. Should I order some of that?”
“Yes,” I say. “Then I can make you a proper dakimakura. Don’t worry. It can’t say no, either, so you should enjoy fucking it too.”
“What the fuck is a dakimakura?” Chase starts picking out different bolts of fabric. One of them is yellow with adorable little sunflowers on it, completely out of sync with what I would have imagined was Chase’s style.
It would make an adorable sundress though, and I suddenly have a vision of just what kind of pattern I would need to make for it.
“It’s a big pillow for you to snuggle,” I say innocently, “usually with sexy anime women on them. I’ll leave a hole for your dick. Maybe you’ll develop plushophilia and decide you only need stuffed animals or pillows to fuck.”
Chase laughs with a shake of his head. “Really? Do people buy that kind of stuff?” Then he turns thoughtful. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Get money from all the sad, desperate losers. But that sounds like a waste of your talents. What do you actually want to make?”