#fabric inspection machines

[amithgarment]

The Role of Fabric Inspection Machines in Textile Manufacturing

In the intricate tapestry of textile manufacturing, quality control is the thread that holds everything together, ensuring that the final product not only meets but exceeds the expectations of consumers and industry standards. Central to this process is the fabric inspection machine, a technological marvel that has revolutionized how the industry identifies defects, maintains quality, and ensures customer satisfaction.

The Essence of Fabric Inspection

Before we weave into the specifics of fabric inspection machines, it's crucial to understand the role of fabric inspection in the textile industry. This process involves examining textiles for defects or imperfections that could affect the quality, appearance, or performance of the final product. Traditionally, this was a labor-intensive process requiring skilled inspectors to manually check fabrics, a method prone to human error and inefficiency.

Key Features and Technologies

Modern fabric inspection machines are equipped with a host of features and technologies designed to enhance inspection accuracy and efficiency. Some notable features include:

High-Resolution Imaging: Utilizing high-resolution cameras to capture detailed images of the fabric, allowing for precise defect detection.

Automated Tension Control: Ensuring that fabrics are inspected under consistent tension, which is crucial for accurate defect detection, especially in stretchy materials.

Data Analysis and Reporting: Advanced software tools generate detailed reports on fabric quality, providing valuable insights for quality control and production planning.

The Impact on Textile Manufacturing

The adoption of fabric inspection machine in textile manufacturing has had a profound impact on the industry. These machines have significantly increased the speed and accuracy of fabric inspection, reducing the reliance on manual labor and minimizing human error. This not only improves the overall quality of the textiles produced but also enhances production efficiency, reducing costs and lead times. Furthermore, by automating the inspection process, manufacturers can ensure more consistent quality, bolstering brand reputation and customer satisfaction.

[buckynats]

Absolutely making shit up as I go. Still finishing the other one and then I have to figure out how to attach them without ruining it all. I actually made my own pattern and cut fabric out to it without crying or panicking this time. So that's progress.

(Ignore how uneven those look, that's my abysmal posture at work. They do actually match in length when I'm standing still. And despite the lighting weirdness, it all matches.)

[dsgustng]

It makes me mad that Im. At least pretty sure before opening a new business buildings have to be inspected pretty thoroughly and prepared and up to a certain standard but it feels like with places people actually live like houses and apartments landlords are able to just make shit the bare minimum level of quality as long as it looks fine and clean on a surface level

[welcogm]

Fabric Measuring and Inspection Machine (Kaigu) with defect counter, meter, and printer

Fabric width adjustability, high productivity, and ensure easy and accurate inspection with our advanced machinery. Our system features an analog length counter, boasting a width of 1800 mm, equipped with front rollers for efficient fabric winding and unwinding. Benefit from additional features such as an edge control system, relaxing system, defect counter meter, and printer… https://www.welcogm.com/Fabric_n_Cloth_Inspection_Machines.php

[immortalmetalswelding]

Immortal Metals

Website: https://immortalmetals.com/

Address: 10410 66th St N Unit 2, Pinellas Park, Florida 33781, USA

Immortal Metals, a family-owned business led by Travis and Adelyn, specializes in custom metal fabrication and welding. With over 18 years of experience, they offer a range of services for residential, commercial, and industrial needs, including custom metal structures, welding, machining solutions, and heavy machinery repair. Their commitment to quality craftsmanship and personalized service makes them a prominent choice in Pinellas County, Florida.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/immortalmetalswelding

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/immortalmetalswelding/

Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/company/immortalmetals/

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[ltlabs]

Enhancing Quality Assurance with Ltlabs' Fabric Inspection Machine Discover the cutting-edge fabric inspection machine offered by Ltlabs, designed to revolutionize quality assurance in the textile industry. Utilizing advanced technology and precision engineering, this state-of-the-art system ensures thorough and efficient inspection of fabrics, identifying defects and imperfections with exceptional accuracy. Elevate your production processes and guarantee the delivery of flawless textiles with Ltlabs' Fabric Inspection Machine.

[evieolo]

Panty Thief

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Contains: SMUT!!/ Male masturbation / Handjobs / Male!Receiving

“Chris, can you check if my laundry’s done for me?” You call from behind your door, catching his footsteps in the hall. Chris sighs dramatically, his voice loud enough for you to hear, and stops at your door, pushing it open. “Why can’t you do it?” He proclaims, shooting a playful glare your way. He’s dressed in low-cut gray sweats and a plain black t-shirt, carrying a mix of shirts and hoodies, folded messily in his hand.

You stretch your arms out, feigning tiredness. “I don’t want to get up.” You yawn, draping your comforter more over your torso and immersing yourself further in your social media. Chris sighs, realizing since he has to do his laundry he has to get yours out of the washing machine. Begrudgingly, he heads to the laundry room, as if he wasn’t already on his way there.

The smell of fresh laundry fans Chris’ nose as he walks into the dull room, a boring room contradicting the rest of the house, with white walls—no decor, only a window with a drapy shade over it that, on sunny days, beams light into the room, the only exception of furniture being the washer-dryer.

Chris inhales, shamelessly breathing in the fumes of your coconut-scented detergent, a scent he’d grown happily accustomed to after your many years of friendship. In Chris’ mind, you had an excessive amount of clothes. You’re not a messy person if you subtract clothes from the mix; your room is always littered with your latest clothing hauls, mixed but in separate piles from your dirty laundry. When he’d gone down to the laundry room an hour ago your clothes were cycling through the wash; still now you now had one snug load to the side in a circular hamper. The hamper adjoined the running dryer which had a second batch of clothes in it.

He approaches the shaking dryer slowly—there are two minutes left in the cycle—he might as well stay in the room while he waits for yours to finish.

Chris absentmindedly picks up the detergent you use and out of boredom reads the many labels on the bottle, giving up when he reads too many ingredient words with over twenty letters in them; the bottle’s sticky at the top where Chris holds it, he doesn’t realize this until it's slipping out of his fingers. The detergent bottle falls from his hand and spills into the hamper of your clean clothing.

Chris curses silently and snatches the bottle off the haphazard mix of clothes. He sets the bottle atop the drier and inspects the pile, pulling the soiled short on top of the pile off, wincing at the damp stain. He presses a palm to the next shirt down, realizing detergent did seep past the first top. He lets out a dramatic sigh of frustration and pulls the shirt off the top of the pile—discarding it into his basket of dirty laundry, deciding he’ll wash it with his own clothes and return it to you afterward.

He peeks to the pile of your laundry now without your baggy T housing the rest of the apparel. An orange piece catches his attention. It’s his favorite color, plus, he’d never seen you wear this specific shade before. He’s curious.

Chris saunters back to your hamper and pulls the orange bottoms out of the basket. He flushes when he realizes the bottoms are not shorts. They’re panties, peachy orange with a navy frill along the hems.

The man practically freezes in place, the panties were innocently simple—nothing relatively showy but they were his favorite color. There had to be some meaning to that. Right?

Chris runs his wrist along the hem of your bottoms, meshing the fabric of them between his thumbs. The fabric is light and delicate, almost weightless to touch, running his fingers over the hem he feels the jagged texture, so thin it's almost translucent.

He imagines how they’d sit on your hips; flaunt the curve of your ass. The thought of this—of you, shifts the looseness of his pants and he feels a recognizable stiffness arise against the fabric of his boxers.

“Chris?”

You enter the room tauntingly and Chris mutters a ‘fuck’ under his breath. He realized he’d look like a pervert in any situation so he quickly bunches your panties in his fist and pockets them.

Your eyes narrow as you realize he neglected your request and didn’t tell you that your laundry was done, “What have you been doing down here for the past ten minutes?” You ask skeptically.

Chris’ features flush red and he sucks his teeth, his mind blank of any witty remarks. He pauses for a second before speaking, “Wishing your laundry would disappear…Okay, but seriously, why do you have so many clothes?” He whines, alleviating the tension he’d created in his mind.

You laugh, opening the dryer that’d just finished its cycle with a ‘click’

“You’re just mad that I have style.” You rebuttal, a wide smile on your face.

“Mhm”

Chris swallows harshly, standing stiffly as he watches you bend down to spoon your clothes out of the dryer. His eyes focus on the curve of your ass, the way you teeter on your knees to reach the clothes in the very back. It’s not soon before he feels harsher tightening in his abdomen.

He mentally curses himself. Asking himself if he seriously got a boner from watching his best friend do laundry.

Chris makes a light grunting noise—his begrudging goodbye—before he leaves the room. You turn your head at the diminishing sound of footsteps. “Chris, I thought you were doing your laundry?” You press, curious as to why he’s leaving so soon.

Chris continues out of the room, only turning his head slightly to respond to you, “I-I’ll do it later.” He stammers, making his way up the stairs making a beeline to his bedroom.

When he reaches his room he’s flustered, his cheeks are red and you’re running through his mind. There are only two things he can think of: your ass and your panties.

Your panties that are in his pocket.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket and holds your undergarments again. The sight of the frill only turns him on further, making his hard-on tent his pants. Chris curses under his breath for the nth time before retreating to his bed, shooing away his self-accusations of him being a ‘pervert’ and deciding to do something about his boner.

He sits on his bed, scooting back against the headboard and shimmies his sweats down, pushing the band of his boxers down to reveal his hardened-cock.

Feathering a hand down to his base, he groans a sigh from the pressure his hand brings. He pumps his length upward, coaxing pre-cum from his angry tip, smearing the drops in liquid down his base as he pumps himself; picturing you as he does so.

He imagines you—bending down for him instead of a washing machine. How your hands would wrap around him, your small hands; small but oh so gentle. And fuck, those panties, he wished he could see them around your hips, how they would flaunt the curve of your ass perfectly. He’d push the cloth to the side and fuck you with them still on.

He palms your pocketed bottoms, pushing them against his cock and thrusting against the fabric, hips roiling into his hand as he moans your name.

“Fuck Y/N, fuck, yeah just like that.” He whimpers, rutting against his hand so desperately he doesn’t realize how his door creaks open.

“Chris, did you take…” you pause, unsure how to ask if he knows where your missing undergarments are, “Uhm - did you take something from my laundry bin?” You question shyly, too embarrassed to blatantly admit you can’t find your favorite panties. Your eyes are down, and you teeter on your heels, until you grow impatient with Chris’ lack of response and look at him.

Your eyes widen, and you yell out a loud “Fuck!”, meekly covering your eyes with your hands and turning away.

Chris then notices your presence, his jaw drops and his cheeks burn bright red. He tries to shuffle under his comforter, but it's to no avail; he’s sitting on top of it.

You continue to conceal your vision with your hands, only peeking through a small crack at his face until you realize where your panties are. Wet and bunched up in his hand. Your mouth falls slightly ajar in surprise, and you stop hindering your vision.

“Chris, were you jerking off to my underwear?” You ask wide-eyed.

Unsure of what to say, Chris simply nods out a quiet “yes.”

Chris stays silent. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows harshly. “Are you going to stand in my doorway like that for the rest of your life?”

You take this as an invitation to join him in his bed, sauntering to the bed’s foot, and kneeling yourself onto the mattress, crawling over his sprawled-out legs and leaving your hand dangerously close to his hard-on.

“Can I?” You hum, meeting his eyes. He nods eagerly, watching you intently. “If I had known you were this big I would’ve done this a long time ago,” you coo, feathering a hand down to his needy tip and running a thumb over in a circular motion. With this, Chris leans back and lets out an opened-mouth moan.

“Fuck Y/N,” He sighs, lazily running a hand through his hair as you start moving your hand down his shaft. Running your palm up and down and squeezing gently once you reach the tip.

“Wanna suck you off, baby.” You hum, pressing a kiss to his tip. Chris shivers at the contact, groaning at the sloppy peck, “Please.” He whines.

You puff your cheeks out, readying yourself for his size and kitten lick his tip before wrapping your lips around him, sinking your head down slightly to test the waters before speeding up a bit, filling the room with sounds of erotic spit and Chris’ loud groans.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Chris moans, knotting his hands in your hair and pushing your head down further every time you bob down. The sound of your lewd gagging nears Chris’ orgasm.

Looking at you sets him over the edge, the way your back arches towards him, to get easier access to him, how tears prod your waterline every time his dick hits your throat, the hums you let out as he knots your hair tighter and tighter.

His dick twitches in your mouth, signaling to you his upcoming release, and before you can get a breath through your nose, he's rutting his hips into you, pushing your head down to his base, breathing heavily, as his cum sloppily trickles into your mouth.

He holds your head down sternly as he comes down from his high, pushing you down against his base. When he releases his grip on your hair, you pull back, chest heaving as you gasp for air.

“Holy shit.” Chris mumbles, threading his fingers through his hair. You straighten your spine, positioning yourself back in a sitting position on your knees and meet eye level with Chris.

He smirks when you meet his eyes. Your face is red, and your throat is sore from the way his tip bruised your pharynx. Chris watches intently as you wipe his dripping cum off the corners of your mouth with the back of your wrist. “Where’d you learn how to suck dick like that?” He heaves, a playful undertone to his words.

“I dabble,” You smile, shrugging off his question as you give him a crooked smile.

Chris pauses for a second, opening and closing his mouth twice before he actually speaks, “Why’d we do that?” He asks, pinching his eyes shut in embarrassment.

You sense his awkwardness and scoot closer to him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “Chris, this doesn’t have to change things between us; best friends fuck all the time.” You say, delicately pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Chris meets your eyes, pulling his boxers back on to leave him less exposed. “You can’t call me your best friend after sucking the life out of my dick.” He laughs.

Meeting his gaze you fold your arms in your lap, “If I shouldn’t call you my best friend, what should I call you?”

“How about boyfriend?” He winks, shifting off the bed and heading for the shower stopping to toss you your dampened panties. “Can you wear these for me tomorrow?”

[headphonegrl]

“Do you feel old?” You ask Jude, your voice hoarse from performing multiple songs back to back on the garish karaoke machine his mum had rented out for the occasion. There are now at least a dozen badly shot videos of you singing in Jude’s camera roll, including a rendition of ‘happy birthday’ sung by you and his brother where half his index finger is covering the lens. 

“What’d you mean?” After hours of displaying nothing but rash energy, Jude finally feels himself getting sluggish while trying to endure the unbearable gnawing feeling of pins and needles rising up his legs; a big plush sofa sits untouched on the other side of the living room but you’ve both decided to drunkenly cram yourselves onto the armchair in a mess of tangled limbs. 

“Just a silly question.” As you flutter your eyes shut, Jude tries to get a proper look at the glitter eyeshadow you had meticulously applied earlier that evening. In the wake of a large round of tequila shots, some of his friends had insisted on having their own ‘sparkle stuff’ and began queuing at the bathroom door like kids waiting to get their face painted like a tiger at the zoo. “Do you feel any older yet?”

“I’m not sure.” It’s the kind of question he’d once been asked in the primary school playground, with a blue birthday badge pinned proudly onto the fabric of his uniform. Back then it seemed very easy and obvious to answer plainly with a ‘no’, though now he’s finding himself stumped for a reply entirely. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“I think the last age I felt was seventeen.” You say definitively as if you've thought about it at great length before. Jude hadn’t known you at that age, but his home screen for almost a year was a photo your mum had shown him of you pulling a horrific face while blowing out the candles of your seventeenth birthday cake. 

“That’s probably the same for me.” Embarrassingly, Jude had once referred to himself as a ‘seventeen-year-old’ during a frenzied post-match interview and then had to sheepishly correct himself by clarifying that he had just turned nineteen. Sometimes he feels like the years are slipping through his fingers like sand and there’s no sufficient way to stop them.

“Then before that it was twelve.” You continue as you do a little cat-like stretch with your free arm which Jude finds incredibly endearing along with everything else you do; he supposes it’s a very common side-effect when it comes to being in love.

“I found being twelve proper boring.”  It was something he remembers expressing even at that age. Just as if he had been dropped off somewhere by his childhood and was painstakingly waiting for his teenage years to finally pick him up and take him somewhere exciting. “It’s such an in-between age.”

“That’s true.” The sky in the open window behind you is that awkward shade of grey that appears just before sunrise, like a page when a printer begins to suddenly run out of ink.

“I wish we’d known each other as kids.” Jude feels as though he goes through life with your name humming inside his chest like a second heart and yet this sentence seems so intimate that he can’t even look at you as speaks. Instead, he takes extra care and attention towards staring at the ceiling and inspecting all the sparse helium balloons that have floated up towards it.

“So do I.” Your words come out as a dozy whisper and Jude finds himself smiling up at a star-shaped foil balloon. He’s not twelve or seventeen, but he’s just turned twenty and loves you so much that he doesn’t even care that both of his legs have gone completely numb from sitting with you on this unbearably uncomfortable armchair.

[bloggerspam]

Cozytober - Borrowing A Sweatshirt

Ellie, like Danny, isn't really bothered by the cold.

She is a spirit of the wind, a ghost of swift winds and open air and places seen, places to be, places yet to know.

She is no stranger to freezing temperatures, but unlike Danny she is also intimately familiar with the scorching heat—of desert lands and arid concrete, burning tableaus where she can hardly even believe plants can thrive, of hot engines and the smell of searing rubber.

She is cold blooded, she is hot blooded, she is air itself, twisting and turning and roaming and sometimes stagnant and stale.

She floats like that today, in Jazz's apartment, waiting.

It is not in her nature to wait, but she was born waiting for her moment, and she fought her way out of waiting, and she is willing to weather the floaty stasis if only to feel the love and comfort and her only tethers to the earthly world: her family.

Danny will arrive soon, and he will probably indulge her on a flight around town until Jazz gets off from work, but until then:

Waiting.

It is neither cold, nor warm in Jazz's apartment. Outside it is freezing, but she has just come a jaunt through the summers of Africa so her equilibrium is still adjusting.

The heat isn't on, but it's insulated. It would be uncomfortable for Jazz, but it is not for Ellie or Danny.

It is a limbo, and she floats in it, sluggish and sleepy in the quiet.

Two more hours.

Her arms start to rub up and down, she curls into a loose sort of ball, and she spins, slow, in low gravity of her own making.

The dust motes flicker, and suddenly the apartment feels cavernous.

She forces herself to stretch, to fill as much space as she can, twisting and turning and restless.

One hour and 48 more minutes.

She might go crazy.

She twirls, diving towards the kitchen, finding nothing but tofu and vegetables, still uncooked. She's not opposed too tofu and veggies, but she also did not learn how to cook, so she makes the clearly correct decision to not mess about.

Her internal temperature fluctuates, again, and a shiver wracks through her. Hm.

Idea.

She floats up and zooms towards where the guest bedroom is, rummaging for through the drawers, finding mostly Danny's tee shirts and jeans.

There's a purple scrunchie, and a baggy black tee shirt with skulls and roses on it, and an absurdly big pair of shorts with fire patterns all over it, but no…aha!

She pulls out a firetruck red hoodie, shaking out and slipping it on.

It's big on her, but not overly so, so it must not be Dan's or Jazz's. Sam and Danny would never wear such a bright, ketchup-y color, so it must be Tucker's. the fabric is soft and thick, fuzzy on the inside, smooth on the outside. She snuggles into the collar, smelling machine oil and that weird cologne he insists on. Thankfully, it's only a hint, and Ellie's had a couple of years to get used to it, so she sinks into the comfort of it.

Inspecting the hoodie reveals a retro 70s font, wavy and bubbly, that proudly pronounces her "Furry Trash." She snorts, wondering if Sam or Danny got Tucker this hoodie, or if he bought it himself. With Tucker, you never know.

Flipping up the hood reveals it even has some cat ears, and Ellie is tickled absolutely pink as she floats around, spinning and snickering into the soft fabric.

She goes to press the drawer closed, but then something catches her eye.

It's a Gameboy Color, a beat up bright yellow one. It's got a faded wolf sticker on the back, with Tucker's name sloppily written in sharpie. Ellie is delighted that when she boots it up, it still has a green light to denote it's got full battery.

She wasn't alive during this time, but she remembers it through the haze of Danny's memories, and the tangential nostalgia is enough to maker her shut the drawer and move to the living room with her new loot.

Tetris loads up with a series of cheery low quality pings. The speaker must be slightly busted from age.

Tucker's got the top 3 highest scores, followed by Sam and Danny in fourth and fifth respectively.

She smirks, feeling settled and comfy and warm, and decides that maybe it's time she's better at her template at something.

When Danny floats through the floor later, Ellie is cursing up a storm and about to throw something. He laughs at her, at the source of frustration and at her hoodie, until he's blue in the face. She reminds him petulantly that he doesn't actually need to breathe, but graciously goes on that flight with him despite his rudeness anyway.

When Jazz gets home, she gives Ellie a big smile and hug, quirks and eyebrow at the hoodie, but says nothing about it.

This is why she's the favorite.

Ellie works on that high score to the sound of Jazz's soft cheering and Danny's obnoxious jeering, and it's good.

She decides that the hoodie is hers, and the Gameboy will be in her custody until her next visit, much to Danny's amusement. He gives her a bear hug to end all bear hugs, and Jazz gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she's off.

She beats Danny's score two days later, sitting on tippy top of the Taj Mahal. She beats Sam's score hanging off the hour hand of Big Ben the next day.

The Golden Gate Bridge (and Karl the Fog) witnesses her victory over Tucker's second place high score, her shouts of glee echoing over the morning Bay.

She's sitting on the Arc de Triumph when she finally does it, jumping up and down and squealing as she clutches the Gameboy to her chest like a precious trophy.

She loads the portal gun and dives, dropping directly into Tucker's room in the shared apartment he, Sam and Danny live in.

She lands heavily on Tucker's bed, which is unfortunately occupied by the man himself, but he'll get over it, she's light!

"Oof! Wha—Ellie?" The man grumbles, a quick glance telling Ellie it's 2am in the morning. She's surprised he's asleep at this time, but is too elated to really register the thought.

She shoves the Dameboy and the high score screen into Tucker's bleary face the second he has his glasses on.

"I beat it!!" She yells, laughing and joyous.

"What?" Tucker says, rubbing his face and looking again. It takes him a few seconds that last ages, and her yell must have woken the others, because by the time Sam and Danny barge in, Tucker has a soft but wide smile on his face.

"Hell yeah Little D!" He says, and even though he has morning breath she doesn't care because he gives her a big bear hug and Danny and Sam join and it's a big rolling pile of limbs and love and family.

"Bet you can't beat it!" Ellie finally says, in the middle of the sudden cuddle pile and feeling tethered but free, like she always does when she's got another connection to her family.

"You're on!" Tucker challenges, grabbing the Gameboy in one hand and ruffling her hair with the other.

"But first, sleep." Sam admonishes, ever the sensible one. "Ellie, what are you even wearing?"

Sam grabs Ellie by the back of her collar, holding her up effortlessly like a little kitten.

Tucker finally registers his hoodie on her, and promptly bursts into laughter.

Ellie sniffs, but she can't hold her own grin. "It's called fashion, Sam, look it up!"

[iliketangerines]

Jealous Kuai Liang x reader? Like someone flirts with the reader who is unaware of Kuai Liang's feelings towards her?

heating up

a/n: oh to be pursued by kuai liang

pairing: kuai liang x gn!reader

warnings: none :)

Kuai Liang breathes smoke through his nostrils as he sharpens his weapon, trying to ignore how your laugh rings through the courtyard as a Shirai Ryu warrior speaks to you

he’s trying to keep his cool and keep his eyes on his weapon, but he can’t help but glance in your direction and find the warrior holding onto your waist

Kuai Liang feels a pinprick of pain shoot through his hand, and he looks down to find blood streaming down his hand and arm, his own weapon cutting him in his recklessness

he sighs and stands up to head to the infirmary, avoiding you and the warrior to try and take his mind off how you looked so happy in their arms

Kuai Liang sits on the bed of the infirmary, blood staining the wooden floors as he rummages around for the bandages in the drawer

he presses his hand into his uniform, getting blood onto the rough material, but he can’t get himself to care as his hands heat up at the memory of you and the warrior in the courtyard

what did you see in him that Kuai Liang couldn’t provide? how was a random warrior better than him? what was Kuai Liang doing wrong?

the assassin sighs as he finally finds the bandages and clumsily unwraps them to try and wrap around his hand, but it’s proving more difficult than he thought

usually, Tomas helps him to bandage his hands, sometimes even Bi Han, but well, neither of them are here to help and-

he’s cut off by the sound of your stomping feet entering the infirmary, and you freeze like a deer in headlights as you see Kuai Liang in the room

you give him a sheepish smile before your gaze darts down to Kuai Liang’s bleeding palm and the poorly wrapped bandages, and you rush on over

you berate him for cutting himself, shouldn’t he be better at this?, and wrap his hand up tightly as you tell him that he should ask for help if he was having trouble

Kuai Liang has to keep himself calm in fear of embarrassing himself and burning off the bandages, and you continue to berate him until he catches notice of your bruising knuckles

you finish wrapping up his hands, but he keeps a hold onto you, raising your hand up to inspect the bruises, and he asks what had happened

you blush and pull your hand away, saying that it was nothing, and he raises an eyebrow at you before asking you again, not as your Grandmaster or as Kuai Liang but as a friend

you had been here since he had started the Shirai Ryu, and he considered you a close friend (and his crush) and he hoped you did too

you scratch the back of your neck before sighing and waving him over to follow you as you head to the ice machine

as you pile ice into a bag and place it onto your knuckles, you tell him about how a warrior you were talking to tried to kiss you even though you didn’t want to be kissed

Kuai Liang can feel the fabric of the bandages starting to singe, and he has to clench his hands together to try and not lose control

you continue on, saying you had punched him in the face, gave him a pretty nasty bruise, before storming off and realizing that your knuckles were now bruised

and so you went to the infirmary to get some ice

Kuai Liang asks you for the name of the warrior, and you shake your head, saying it was fine, nothing happened anyway

he files away the detail that the warrior would have a black eye and decides to go and search for the problematic warrior himself and teaching him a lesson

he sighs at you and checks the clock in the corner, realizing it’s time for dinner, and he holds out his arm for you to take

he asks if you would accompany him to dinner, and you look at him a little dumb-founded before taking his arm with a wide grin and telling him that you’ll gladly go and bring him to dinner

the conversation takes a much more leisurely turn as the both of you stroll to dinner through the gardens

the moon creeps over the horizon and lights up the garden in a pale light, and Kuai Liang makes the mistake of glancing over at you

you look irresistible, beautiful as a moondrop that fell from the sky as you continue to talk and laugh about some story you were retelling to him

he can’t really concentrate, not when the light casts soft shadows on your face, or when your eyes glance up at him with a bemused light, or when you smile at him softly as if he hung the stars in the sky and crafted you out of the finest clay

Kuai Liang snaps out of his stupor when he realizes you’ve called out his name, and he mumbles out a slight agreement when you become distracted by something

you squeal and let of his arm and rush over to a flower, and he walks on over in curiosity to see what had you so excited

you’re walking over to a budding flower, gorgeous white petals unfurling in the light of the full moon, and you stare at it with wide eyes, fingers reaching out to touch the soft petals

he asks you why you’re so excited, and you look at him almost offended that he doesn’t know the type of flower you’re looking at

you explain to him, voice high-pitched and rush, that the flower only ever blooms on a full moon and in the exact right conditions

it’s considered a blessing, good luck, fortune, and you ramble on and on, hands waving all over the place as you excitedly explain the properties of the flower

all Kuai Liang can focus on is how you glow in the light of the moon, as if you were the most beautiful blossom blooming in a field of roses

he holds onto your hands, and you stop your rambling to look up at him in confusion

he leans his head down, observing your face to see if you flinch away or back off or have any apprehension, but you don’t

in fact, you flush slightly and lean in a bit closer until your lips are only a breath apart

Kuai Liang asks if he can kiss you, please, and you bring your head forward just a bit too excitedly, causing your teeth to clash together

but he doesn’t mind the pain, not when your plush lips move against his so tenderly and sweet

he holds onto the back of your neck, drawing you in closer as he grows desperate for more

finally, the two of you break away, needing to catch a breath, and your chests heave up and down as your hands trail each other’s skin

he asks if he can court you properly, bring you gifts, take you out on dates, train with you on the field, spar with you in the ring

you nod, and bring him in for another soft kiss, before hooking your arms together and saying that you two should probably eat

Kuai Liang nods and walks the both of you to the dining halls

he spots a warrior with a black eye in the dining halls, and he holds onto your hand a little tighter and presses a soft kiss to your forehead as you pile food onto your plate

Kuai Liang smirks at the black-eyed warrior, knowing that you were with him and only him

[gnreadergames]

Find Something to Wrap Your Noose Around (pt 1)

Miguel O’Hara x gn!reader

Plot: Miguel gets tapped with a poison that makes him feral. His relationship with the reader is a stake…but neither want to give up that easily.

Cw: Angst! It gets better in later parts though…

WC: 2820

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There was a harsh slam from the front of the apartment.

From your place in the back bedroom, folding fresh laundry, you jumped. Miguel must be home. He must’ve had a bad day.

Lyla confirms your suspicions when she pops up next to you, giving you half as large of a scare.

“Jesu-“ you clutch your heart, “Lyla you can’t ju- whatever- is he alright?” You ask, quietly as you can because you know Miguel will pick up anything he can focus on across this apartment and even through the walls with his heightened senses.

Lyla shakes her head, and your stomach drops. He’s either pissed or hurt. Or both.

You abandon the laundry to seek a more important goal.

You find Miguel clutching the kitchen island. His knuckles are torn through the suit, something hard to do with the nearly impenetrable fabric. You can see other tears littering the surface of his torso and powerful legs. You swallow.

It’s never usually this bad.

“Miggy…” you say, quietly. “What happened honey?”

He doesn’t respond so you decide to gently, slowly reach a hand out to touch his shoulder. But before you can even make contact he whips around towards you and leaps with a feral snarl.

“MIGUE-“ you can’t even get through the scream of his name before he’s on top of you, red eyes glowing and fangs popping out even longer than they usually seem. His talons sink into your thin flesh and for a minute you genuinely think you’re about to die, here on the floor of Miguel’s kitchen on some average Tuesday.

Lyla has thought ahead though, and at that moment a light flashes in your peripherals a swirling portal of blue and orange. Before you can turn to look, the weight of Miguel is thrown off you to the side and a loud crack echoes across the apartment as his back meets the side of the island with a harsh dent.

Three people hop out of, what you can only assume, is a portal.

A tall man with brown hair, a 5 o'clock shadow and a small red headed child strapped to his chest, a very pretty very pregnant taller woman, and a smaller girl with blonde choppy hair all fold out in a line.

You’re still not sure what’s happening, and your brain is on too much adrenaline to think of anything other than the immediate danger right now.

Somehow, your sweet, caring, and sometimes grumpy boyfriend has become some sort of…feral killing machine.

You realize suddenly that you’re practically hyperventilating as Lyla stands over you and snaps a few times, calling your name.

“Y/N…Y/N!” She says. Her glowing form is painful to look at right now but not as painful as the shallow cuts on your arms from Miguel’s claws. You belatedly realize you’re bleeding when the younger blonde woman comes over and crouches beside Lyla to inspect your arms.

“Peter, they’re bleeding.” She calls back to the man, Peter, you assume. You glance in that direction to see him and the other woman standing over Miguel.

“What's happen-“ you try to sit up but your head spins.

‘Minorly concussed’ Lyla explains. Which also explains why you’re pretty sure you’re seeing other Spider-people right now.

Unless everything has just suddenly gotten weird.

It seems it can only keep getting worse though, as it’s then you realize that Miguel could be getting back up any minute. You turn your head sharply with a twinge of hot pain up your neck as your heart rate spikes at the thought of the experience you just had happening again.

Your fears are quelled though once you see that Peter and the other woman, Jess, you learn from the blonde one talking to her too, have Miguel in some sort of cuff like contraption he struggles against.

He’s also muzzled. You’d almost laugh if he hadn’t tried to kill you a few minutes ago.

The baby on Peter’s chest babbles and yeah, you’re definitely seeing things now because this is just so bizzare you can’t imagine how you had gotten dragged into this.

Suddenly, a large and lanky man with a scary looking Mohawk of spikes steps through the still glowing circle in your wall.

Lovely. More of them.

Peter and the man talk for a second and then you see the scary man look towards you.

No. No.

Whatever is about to happen you’re not on board with it as this strange man hoists you bridal style like you weigh nothing. You’d attempt to fight back if you had any strength left in you, but the further you get towards the glowing portal the more your brain begs for sleep.

As the man steps through, you drift off into a dream.

-

You wake with a start.

The first thing you notice is that your headache is much, much, worse. The second thing is that you are pointedly not in your own apartment.

You were hoping the thing with Miguel was just some sort of fucked up bad dream but judging by your bandaged arms and throbbing temples, it was all real.

The blonde woman is sitting in the corner of the room, a white and sterile looking place that you’d assume to be a hospital room if you couldn’t see an absolute amalgamation of spidermen, just like Miguel, milling about outside the glass wall on your left.

Your jaw drops.

What is happening.

Are you suddenly crazy? Have you seriously gone mad? This has to be some sort of psych ward if this is what your brain is coming up with.

The blonde woman notices your consciousness. She has another young man with curly hair beside her, a similar age you guess from their similar build and height.

“Hi, how are you feeling?” She asks as she stands from a chair and walks to your bedside.

“Am I going insane?” You ask.

She blanches at that, obviously not expecting it.

“Um- no you’re not. This is all real. My name is Gwen and this is-“ she gestures to the boy, “Miles. We’re assigned to watch over you until you wake up and are feeling better.”

You swallow. That explains almost nothing.

“But- what is this place?” You look back out the window.

“Oh! This is HQ.” Gwen says, like that means anything to you.

“HQ for what?” You say.

That seems to make it click for Gwen. “You mean…Miguel didn’t tell you?” She quirks an eyebrow seemingly genuinely confused that Miguel wouldn’t share his involvement in…whatever this is.

“No- no he hasn’t mentioned anything. I mean, I know he’s Spider-Man but there’s like- a million of you…” you drift off, shifting to sit up in your bed.

Miles laughs from behind Gwen. She shoots him a look and he blushes looking down at his feet.

“Well not a million but- yeah there’s a lot.” She says. “This is HQ for the spider-multiverse.”

“The what?” You ask, still confused.

“You know what let me just-“ she sighs and pulls up a watch on her wrist. It’s identical to the one Miguel used to wear around his arm back home. He’d always been shady about it but now you know why.

“Lyla, help me out here will you?” She asks into the watch. The familiar glowing figure pops up and it sends such a pant for homesickness into your heart that you almost want to cry. She’s an island of normalcy in a horrible sea of crazy right now.

“Hi, Y/N!” She greets in her constantly chipper voice.

“Hi…” you repeat. Gwen slips the watch off her wrist and holds it out to you. Gently, you clutch it in your hands as Lyla explains the many, many, thousands of worlds and Spider people in them. The information is shocking enough but most jarring is the fact that Miguel has been running it all almost 24/7.

You knew nothing about this.

For a brief, fleeting moment you feel slightly betrayed. He didn’t trust you with this, so what else could he be lying about?

But then you remember where you left off with him. A spike of fear shoots up your aching spine.

“So where’s Miguel?” You ask frantically, looking between Gwen, Lyla, and Miles for an answer. None of them seem to have one for you.

“Let me get ahold of Peter…” Gwen says as she lifts the watch out of your hands. You twiddle your thumbs nervously, the movement of the muscles sending tiny waves of pain up your arms.

Gwen finishes whatever call she turned to make with this Peter guy and spins back around.

“So, this is going to sound weird.”

You laugh.

“This entire day has practically flipped my world upside down. Hit me.” You deadpan. Miles laughs again but Gwen huffs a snort with him this time.

“So, currently Miguel is being held in our prison sector.”

Your heart drops.

“Why? Is he okay?” You shoot off questions faster than she can answer as you sit further and further up in the bed.

Gwen holds her hand up to slow you down and you take the signal, snapping your mouth closed.

“Ok, well here’s what I know.” She starts. “Miguel got some sort of poison from his last battle. It reacted badly with his DNA that’s part Spider and he’s currently pretty feral. That’s why he attacked you. They have him in an impenetrable cell in the holding area and he’s been muzzled for his own safety.”

You cannot believe this.

Those scratches, they must’ve been really really bad to cut through his suit like that. That must’ve been why he had come home in such a foul mood, he wasn’t thinking straight.

He must’ve been out of his mind completely when he attacked you.

“They’re working on an antidote, hopefully it’ll be ready soon.” Gwen says with a small smile. It does little to cure your nerves but it’s still nice of her to try.

Miles pipes up finally from behind her. His voice is soothing.

“We can take you to see him.” Miles says.

Gwen really does shoot him a look then. You giggle to yourself. It reminds you so much of you and Miguel’s relationship. If these two aren’t together they probably will be soon, you think.

“I’d like that.” You say, standing from your bed.

-

They were right. Miguel isn’t himself.

He’s huddled up in the furthest corner of the red block. The cell borders are reinforced, so you don’t fear much when you walk up to crouch next to the front wall.

Miguel smells you or senses you, something along those lines, because the minute you rest on the balls of your feet, his head swivels like a snake around to fix you in that terrible red gaze.

His eyes are practically glowing as he barrels towards the wall you’re at and slams his full body weight into it. His talons are out, clawing furiously and futilely at the screen. If this cage was even half as sturdy as it currently is Miguel would’ve killed you by now.

You can’t imagine what would make him act like this, even if his primal instincts are being tapped into. You’re his partner. Surely even in such a state Miguel would recognize you?

Apparently not, as Miguel also attempts to bite at you through both the muzzle and the wall. You sigh.

There’s something cold and unsettling about seeing him this way. He’s barely ever gotten angry at you, has never once blown up on you and it’s absolutely unfathomable that he would ever lay a hand on you. So now, seeing this side of him, it breaks your heart.

“He’s a little crazy right now.” A man’s voice says from behind you. You look up from where you’re sitting cross legged on the ground to see the same man from before, Peter, standing with his hands gently bouncing the smiling baby in front of him.

You can’t help but smile as the little girl lets out a joyous giggle, even as Miguel still tries to claw his way to you from inside the cage. You’re glad it’s soundproof, you’d probably have to leave if it wasn’t.

“You know him?” You ask. Peter takes his cue and sits next to you with a groan as he saddles his body down into the same position. You feel that same sensation, painful joints and now painful muscles with your injuries. You can’t imagine throwing the exhaustion of a kid into the mix.

You won’t lie though, you had thought about it. Miguel had mentioned a hypothetical child once or twice, but you could tell it was something he wanted more than anything. And before all of this, you would’ve given him what he asked for in a heartbeat. Seeing Miguel as a dad would’ve made you the happiest person in the world.

“Yeah I know him.” Peter finally answers your question. “I’m like his right hand man. Or I was at least. Maybe his left hand man now that I have this one,” he tickles the soft tummy of the girl and she cackles with glee. You smile at them.

“He never mentioned any of this.” You say.

“He never mentioned you.” Peter says.

That breaks your heart a little, but you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the screen Miguel has seemingly given up on trying to kill you, at least for now. Tiring himself out seems to have mellowed him slightly as he now sits eye level with you, panting and crouching in anticipation.

You sigh.

“How long will he be stuck like this?” You ask. You don’t expect an exact answer, not wanting to get your hopes up.

“I…I don’t know. We shouldn’t have let him go home like that. It was our fault you got hurt. Jess and I-“ he must mean the other woman you surmise “-we thought he lived alone, and even though he doesn’t get cut often we had no idea the anomaly could do that.”

“You couldn’t have known.” You say, trying to comfort him a little, even though you feel slightly hollow.

“We’re working on it though. We’re gonna fix this.” Peter says with a new determination. You smile half heartedly. He stands suddenly, renewed with more energy than he sat down with. “I’m going to go check on that antidote. You’re a little better right?” He gestures to your arms.

You nod. It’s the best you can give him in this situation.

He nods back and walks towards a large hallway opening.

You turn back to Miguel.

The area in which they have him housed is empty and large. His cage stands in the back part of the room. As far as you can tell, it’s just you two now.

Your arms still hurt, but your head has gotten better with some walking and Tylenol.

“Miggy…” you sigh. There’s so much built up stress just from the past few hours that it makes your entire body tense. You lean forward and place your hand on the glass-like substance.

Miguel’s eyes flick quickly to it and for a second you see a look on his face that seems almost like himself again.

It shocks you when he puts his hand back up to the glass mirroring yours.

You tear up.

“Miguel.” You beg. “Please, please come back.”

He doesn’t seem to understand, and the moment passes, as he licks his fangs through the muzzle. His talons pop out and he begins clawing where your hand just was again. You sigh.

It was worth a shot.

You stand, pushing yourself up of the ground. “Okay, we’ll- if you’re like this there’s no point in me being here.”

You turn to leave, maybe you can find Gwen and ask her to get you some food. You have a suspicion you’re going to need more Tylenol to-

“Y/N-“ a ragged voice says from behind you.

You whip around.

Miguel, your Miguel stares back at you. His eyes are wide and terrified but it’s definitely him even if it is for just a split second.

As quick as it’s there, it’s gone. Whatever is overriding his system comes back with vigor as you race towards the cage and press yourself desperately against the glass.

“Say it again- Miguel, please, say it again-“ You are breathy and panicked. He’s in there. Somewhere.

Miguel, the feral one, continues to paw at where you stand with his nails.

“I’m going to get you out.” You press your forehead up against the glass and look into his eyes.

There’s a sound from behind you and Gwen’s voice echoes from the doorway.

“Hungry?” She asks as you quickly pull away.

“Absolutely.” You say, following her.

As you leave you glance backward. Miguel stands, watching you leave.

You’re going to get him back, even if it kills you.

[amithgarment]

Fabric Inspection Machine

A fabric inspection machine is a specialized piece of equipment used in the textile industry to inspect fabrics for quality control purposes. Its primary function is to identify and detect defects, irregularities, or variations in the fabric, ensuring that only high-quality products are delivered to customers. Visit www.amithgarmentservices.com for details.

[celebtf]

THE SHAWN REPLACEMENT

Shawn Mendes stepped out of the car, adjusting his jacket as his manager waved from the driver's seat. "Good luck in there, man. We’ll head straight to the meet and greet after."

“Yeah, thanks,” Shawn replied, his voice carrying the weariness of endless interviews, meet and greets, and concerts. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension built up from weeks on the road. He didn’t have much time to think about it, though. He had to be on point for the interview. Another day, another routine.

Shawn entered the sleek glass doors of the building, the cool air inside washing over him. He checked his phone for the time: 3:30 PM. The meet and greet was in a couple of hours, followed by the concert. Just a quick interview, then back to the craziness.

He hit the elevator button, glanced around the empty lobby, and waited. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The hum of the elevator filled the silence as he leaned against the wall, his mind drifting to the setlist for the concert. It was going to be a long night.

The doors opened, and he stepped out into a modern, minimalist office space. A young man stood waiting for him—a tall, blond guy with stubble and an easy smile. “Shawn, hey! I’m Derek,” he said, extending his hand.

Shawn shook it. “Hey, Derek. Thanks for having me.”

“Of course. Let’s get you set up,” Derek said, leading him down a hallway. The office was quiet, with only the hum of air conditioning and the occasional click of a keyboard from unseen rooms.

Derek opened a door and gestured for Shawn to enter. Inside was a small, sterile room with a chair in the middle and a camera on a tripod in front of it. Shawn took a seat as Derek shut the door behind them, the soft click of the lock barely registering in Shawn’s mind.

“Alright, let’s get you mic’d up,” Derek said, walking over with a microphone pack in hand. He clipped the mic to Shawn’s shirt, his fingers brushing the fabric as he adjusted the wire. Shawn barely noticed; his thoughts were already drifting to the evening ahead.

But then, something changed. Derek’s movements became slower, more deliberate. Shawn felt a coldness in the air. Derek stepped behind him, and before Shawn could react, he felt something tightening around his wrists.

“What the hell—” Shawn started, twisting in his seat, but it was too late. Derek had tied his hands together with a zip tie.

Shawn's heart pounded in his chest. “What are you doing?” he demanded, panic rising in his throat.

Derek didn’t respond. He calmly walked in front of Shawn, pulling a strange device from his pocket. It looked like a gun, but with a metallic sheen and wires that pulsed with a faint red light. Shawn blinked, his mind reeling as Derek inspected the device, turning a dial on the side.

Derek smirked as he lifted the device, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent. “I’ll explain it, Shawn, don’t worry,” he said in a voice that dripped with mockery.

Derek aimed the device at Shawn first, his finger squeezing the trigger as the machine came to life with a low, ominous hum. A beam of red light shot out, beginning at Shawn’s feet and rising slowly up his body, scanning him like a digital copy was being made.

The light lingered as it climbed, inch by inch. Shawn felt its heat as it passed over his legs, his torso, and finally up to his face. It wasn’t painful, but it was invasive, like the machine was stripping away every secret his body held.

Shawn watched helplessly, feeling like an animal caught in a trap, as the red light scanned every inch of him. His skin tingled as it moved up his neck and over his face, his muscles tightening as if it resisting the scan.

The beam finally disappeared, leaving Shawn panting slightly from the strange, disorienting experience. But Derek’s eyes glinted with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” Derek said softly, admiring the device’s display, which now contained all of Shawn’s data. “I needed to make sure I get every detail.”

Shawn's stomach twisted as Derek turned the dial on the device, preparing for the next phase. “Now for my part.”

Derek turned the gun toward himself and squeezed the trigger. This time, the beam of light washed over Derek’s body, starting at his feet. As it climbed, Shawn’s confusion morphed into horror. It wasn’t just a scan—it was *changing* him. Derek’s muscles twitched and rippled beneath his skin. His stubbled jawline softened, the rough patches of hair thinning out as his face began to smooth, becoming more youthful, became flawless—perfect

Shawn’s eyes widened as Derek’s hair began to darken, strands of blond morphing into deep brown. His posture shifted, his shoulders rounding in the exact way Shawn’s did when he performed on stage. It was an haunting sight—like watching a wax sculpture slowly melt into a new shape.

Derek flexed his fingers as the light scanned them, watching with satisfaction as his hands became more slender, the veins and muscles rearranging themselves. His fingernails rounded out, his knuckles losing the roughness they once had.

The transformation was disturbingly precise. Shawn could only watch as Derek’s eyes—previously a piercing blue—turned a warm, familiar brown. Every detail, down to the freckles scattered across Shawn’s nose, appeared on Derek’s face. His cheekbones shifted, and the lines of his jaw rounded until they matched Shawn’s exactly. Even his height adjusted, shrinking subtly to match Shawn’s leaner frame.

The last part of the scan settled on Derek’s voice, and when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t *Derek’s* voice anymore.

“Not bad, right?” Derek asked, his voice now a perfect match for Shawn’s—smooth, deep, and resonant. He grinned, testing the new sound, rolling his shoulders as if he was settling into a new suit. “I’ve got to admit, this feels *incredible.*”

Shawn’s stomach churned as Derek stood before him, now indistinguishable from himself. The sheer wrongness of seeing his own face looking back at him, sent a shudder down his spine.

Derek wasn’t finished yet. He glanced down at the device, turning the dial again. “Now it’s your turn.”

Before Shawn could even comprehend what was happening, Derek pointed the device at him and pulled the trigger. The red light hit Shawn with an overwhelming force, flooding him with a burning heat that made him gasp. It felt as if every inch of his skin was on fire, tingling with a sensation that was both excruciating and numbing at the same time.

Shawn felt his bones shift first, a sickening crackling noise accompanying the reshaping of his skeleton. His tall, lanky frame began to compress, muscles tightening in all the wrong places. His shoulders broadened, growing heavier than they had ever felt. His legs shortened, and his body seemed to thicken, growing bulkier in ways that felt foreign and monstrous.

His hands, which had always been delicate from years of playing guitar, grew rougher. The skin stretched over his knuckles, becoming hard. His fingers, once precise, felt clumsy and awkward as they thickened.

He looked down in horror as his legs bulked up, the lean, athletic build he had known for so long vanishing. His knees felt stiff, and his feet ached as his shoes grew too tight. Everything about his body felt *wrong*.

As the light reached his face, the changes became unbearable. His skin tightened, the soft youthfulness draining away as wrinkles formed around his mouth and forehead. His nose sharpened, his jawline became more angular, and his cheekbones seemed to protrude unnaturally. His hair, once a rich brown, turned lighter, fading to a pale blond as it thinned.

Shawn looked into the reflection of the nearby window and saw *Derek* staring back at him. His own eyes had turned cold and blue, devoid of the warmth they once held. His entire face—once so familiar—was gone. He was now trapped in Derek’s body, his identity stolen, his entire existence erased.

The real Derek—now fully transformed into Shawn—let out a slow, cruel laugh. “It suits you,” he said, his voice a perfect match for Shawn’s. “How does it feel?”

Shawn, still panting from the shock of the transformation, tried to form words, but his mouth—now twisted into Derek’s cruel grin—couldn’t produce anything coherent. He was paralyzed by the sheer horror of it.

Derek leaned down, staring directly into Shawn’s new blue eyes, his grin widening. “You should have seen this coming,” he whispered, his tone filled with sadistic delight. “After all, who wouldn’t want to be Shawn Mendes? The fame, the fans, the life..."

Derek stood back, slipping into Shawn’s leather jacket as if it had always belonged to him. He moved with an ease that made it seem like he had always been Shawn—the way he ran his fingers through his hair, the casual way he glanced at his phone, all of it naturally.

The real Shawn—now trapped in Derek’s body—could only watch in silence as The new Shawn casually dialed his manager. “Hey, I’m done with the interview,” Derek said, his voice chilling in its perfection. “Come pick me up.”

He hung up the phone and turned back to Shawn, a cruel smile stretching across his new face. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your life. "

Without another word, Derek—now Shawn—walked out the door, leaving the real Shawn behind, trapped in a body that wasn’t his, with a life that no longer belonged to him.

The meet and greet went perfectly, almost too perfectly. As Derek—now completely transformed into Shawn Mendes—walked into the event, a wave of excitement rippled through the room. Fans gasped and screamed, their phones flashing like strobe lights as they tried to capture every moment. The energy was electric, and Derek soaked it in, his expression the perfect blend of humility and charm. He moved with effortless confidence, just like Shawn, giving warm smiles and that signature wave that made the crowd roar even louder.

One by one, fans stepped forward, eagerly awaiting their chance to meet “Shawn.” Derek wrapped his arms around them in familiar embraces, his movements smooth, affectionate, and practiced. His hands didn’t tremble as he hugged them, he posed for selfies, flashing Shawn’s trademark grin. He even joked with the fans, throwing out Shawn’s typical playful banter, causing a chorus of laughter and adoration.

Some fans wiped away tears of joy as they leaned into him, trembling in disbelief that they were touching the man they idolized. “Thank you for everything,” one whispered as she hugged him tightly.

“My pleasure,” Derek responded, his voice soft and sincere—exactly the way Shawn would’ve said it. No one suspected a thing.

He studied every expression, every reaction from the fans, feeding off their admiration. It wasn’t just about fooling them—it was about being adored, about living in this intoxicating world of celebrity that had once belonged to someone else.

Derek took extra care with each fan, ensuring no moment felt rushed. To them, this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and he wanted to ensure that *their* Shawn Mendes was everything they hoped for. He answered questions, made eye contact, signed autographs with a flourish. To those fans, this was the real Shawn, and Derek reveled in their adoration.

When it was finally time for the concert, Derek stepped onto the stage like he had done it a thousand times. The roar of the crowd was deafening, the sea of faces illuminated by flashing lights and glowing phone screens. His heart raced—not from fear, but from the sheer thrill of it. This was *his* moment now. He owned this stage, this crowd, this life.

The band kicked in, the music filling the arena, and Derek launched into the first song without missing a beat. His voice, now identical to Shawn’s, hit every note perfectly. His movements mirrored Shawn’s signature style—effortlessly smooth, the way he strummed the guitar, the way he leaned into the microphone stand during quieter moments, the little twirls and gestures that drove the fans wild.

As the set progressed, Derek found himself growing bolder, more comfortable in this stolen skin. He interacted with the audience just like Shawn would, smiling down at them, giving them the heartfelt, emotional moments they craved. “You guys are amazing,” he called out between songs, his voice dripping with the sincerity that Shawn was known for. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

The crowd erupted, hanging on his every word, believing without question that the man on stage was their beloved Shawn Mendes.

With every song, every cheer, Derek felt the power of Shawn’s life flowing through him. He had perfected every move, every look, every smile. By the time the concert was over, the crowd was in a frenzy, chanting Shawn’s name over and over.

As he stood at the edge of the stage, gazing out over the crowd, Derek let the moment wash over him. The cheers, the love, the undying devotion—he had done it. He had truly become Shawn Mendes.

And the real Shawn, now trapped in Derek’s body, was out there somewhere, forgotten and powerless.

Derek raised his hand for one final wave, basking in the euphoria of the crowd’s roaring adulation. He had succeeded.

[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.”

[welcogm]

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[luvfy0dor]

first kisses with Sigma & cheek and hand kisses! plzzz

Sigma + First Kisses, Hand Kisses, and Cheek Kisses ♡⁠˖

Warnings; light drinking, not proofread

Sigma and yourself had been together for about a month now, and at first he was a little hesitant and awkward towards affection. He still usually wasn't the first one to grab your hand, but he had warmed up to your touch. Sometimes when you held his hand in his office, he'd bring it to his lips to kiss your knuckles like you had once done for him. He also copied your cheek kisses. However, the thought of kissing your lips had almost never crossed his mind. Not until he saw couple kiss at the casino, atleast. One of them had won big on a slot machine just before they stood up ecstatically and pulled their partner in for a big ol' smooch. His eyes widened and he hummed thoughtfully before burying the idea away, saving it for when he saw you next, which happened to be the day after. You decided to visit the casino for a drink with him after a tiring shift at work, and he was happy to see you. He greeted you with a kiss to the cheek and a hug, taking in the faint and mostly worn-out scent of your cologne/perfume. He led you over to your favorite bar in the casino and sat with you on one of the stools, letting you tell him about your day at work. "It was just so annoying! Something must be in the air because all my coworkers have been acting stupid. They can't even do the easiest of tasks." You say exasperatedly. Sigma nods, with his head resting on his balled up fist. "I'm sorry, that sounds annoying, but at least your done for the day." He said, crossing his legs. "Yeah, then I get to do it all over again tomorrow." You say, recieving your regular drink from the bartender and thanking her with a smile.

"Still though...I'd say it's pretty celebratory." He says, inspecting his nails and glancing over at you. "I guess so." You sip on your drink while holding your straw in place. "Have you ever kissed anyone?" He asks you, turning to look directly at you quick enough to see you start to laugh, a little taken aback. "Yeah, I have. Why do you ask?" You question him, setting the glass down on the finished, wooden counter with a quiet 'clank' sound. "Why don't you kiss me? I'm your boyfriend." He expressed, his eyes big and round as always. "Oh, I didn't know if you wanted me to- do you?" You ask, your brows raised in amusement. He hesitantly nods. "I never have, though." He confesses. His hands are placed in his lap and he fiddles with the fabric of his jacket while maintaining eye contact. "I know, don't worry, you'll get used to it eventually." You giggle and take another sip while he stares at you expectantly. "Wh- you mean, here? Now?" He nods again. "Why not? People kiss here all the time!" He explains. You grin and lean over to peck his lips, but his hand holds your face closer for an extra second or two. When you both pull away, he hums in contentment. "Good?" You ask him playfully, to which he replies in the affirmative. Inside, his heart was beating and his cheeks were warming up. "Uh- next time should I close my eyes though? You looked kinda silly."

A/n; I hope you like it!!! I really focused on the first kiss, but I sprinkled in the other two as well!! I've just been SOOOOO down on motivation lately cause of testing and flopping, etc. Hope everyone enjoys and it gets more than 30 notes!!!