#pad printing machines

[meditek122]

MPS printing machine manufacturer

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[wttcsms]

proof of love;

physical traces that reveal just how much you truly mean to him

ft. tobio kageyama, kiyoomi sakusa, atsumu miya

KAGEYAMA, your skincare routine in his bathroom — tobio lives in a stereotypical bachelor pad; you walk into his apartment and it's the very definition of bare-bones. thin, cotton navy sheets line his bed, with one single flat pillow. he doesn't own a dining table, and instead just stands near his kitchen counter to consume his meals. he blushes and tells you that he's just a minimalist. despite it all, though, after fun nights out, you find yourself heading back to his place with him, sleepy and drunk and pouty. you wake up, instantly regretting not washing off your face, moping because "i'm so gonna break out now, tobio!" when kags visits your place, he opens his notes app to get the names of all the skincare products lining your sink. the next night out, you're being carried into his apartment, mumbling drunk incoherencies. instead of setting you down on his bed (which now has two fluffy pillows and a fruit-print comforter that he bought for you), he guides you two to his bathroom where he places you on the counter and starts trying to figure out which steps to do first to help you remove your makeup. drunk-you guides him every step of the way, and the warmth you feel in your chest and cheeks isn't from the drinks — it's from the gentle care of your boyfriend rubbing in an oil cleanser to strip off your makeup.

SAKUSA, your lipstick stains on his water bottle — kiyoomi likes everything in his life to be neat and tidy. he carries a tide pen in his pocket that he ends up using on your clothes more often than his own. he's particular with how his belongings are treated, and you know better than to mess with anything of kiyoomi's. you respect his boundaries and find his oddities endearing, but you feel so much more secure in your relationship when you realize just how loose his boundaries are when it comes to you. on a road trip, you're thirsty and he offers you his water bottle. you don't think too much about it until you finish drinking and instantly widen your eyes at the sight of pink encasing the rim — remnants of your lipgloss. before you can say anything or try to wipe it off, he reaches over and takes a swig from it without a second thought. you try telling him not to drink yet, but he just glances over at you before focusing back on the road. "why would i be bothered by that? i kiss you all the time, don't i?" it's his subtle way of telling you that what's his is yours; you don't need to walk on eggshells with him.

MIYA, a cheap ring that came in a plastic egg — the proposal doesn't go as atsumu plans. things rarely ever go as atsumu plans, but this time — this is the one time he needs everything to go perfectly. and it does: the photographer is well hidden and on time, the decorations came out fantastic, and the ring! the ring is stunning. it's what's on everyone's pinterest boards. the only issue is that he put the ring box in the wrong pants pocket! with sweaty palms and a pink flush creeping from his neck to his cheeks to his ears, he gets down on one knee. he manages to stammer out his proposal speech to you, and you're listening with tears brimming in your eyes and a watery smile on your face, and then, those beautiful eyes of yours widen in surprise when you see, not a velvet ring box, but a plastic orb being revealed to you. he quickly explains that this is not your real ring (no duh), but that in typical atsumu fashion, he messed up. "it's just a placeholder!!! i'll buy you five diamond rings, just don't say no!" you're not marrying atsumu because of the ring, you remind him, but you allow him to slip on the cheesy ring. it's made out of plastic and it's one of those cheap prizes that are available in those weird machines outside the grocery store; the machines where you insert a quarter and twist the knob and a mysterious plastic ball surprises you with a prize. he tells you it took him a dozen tries to get a ring. you're laughing and saying it's meant to be since the ring manages to fit you perfectly. even after getting your real engagement ring, you still keep the cheesy ring to this day. it's evidence that no matter what happens, atsumu will always go the extra mile for you.

[sakshamlighting]

We are Saksham Lighting a  leading Manufacturer of motorised pad printing machine, pad printing machine, manual pad printing machine, automatic pad printing machine from delhi, india.

[andyoullhearitagain]

Every Starfleet Uniform Ranked By How Annoying The Sleeve Is To Sew, Part 1

The Star Trek designers appear to be allergic to a normal-ass armscye, so I've broken down which sleeves are the most time-consuming and annoying to put in, starting from the easiest sleeve.

TOS Minidress:

A normal raglan sleeve, which is easier to sew then a set-in sleeve when it comes down to it. Quick and easy.

2. "The Cage":

A regular human armscye, set-in sleeves, a thin shoulder pad. They are made of velvet, which is notoriously slippery under the machine and requires hand basting, but they're a straight one piece sleeve which is going to take less time to place then a shaped two piece sleeve.

3. Original Movies-Era:

Both the movie uniforms have normal tailored two piece sleeves. Nothing weird. A tailored sleeve is going to be hand basted (maybe a few times) and include a shoulder pad and sleeve head, so despite being normal they do take longer than the more relaxed armscyes in our list.

4. AOS:

These guys aren't too bad, but they have a double row of satin trim that echoes the zipper in the TOS uniforms (cute!) that would be a little tricky to work with. They also gain difficulty points because they're stretch which I personally hate working with.

5. Strange New Worlds:

These are interesting because they echo both the raglan sleeve in the TOS uniforms and the piecing that starts in the TNG uniforms. Gains difficulty points for having two points of pattern matching and being a THREE piece sleeve (plus a cuff) with all those corners to navigate. AND it's a stretch fabric, AND I'd bet anything that the printed fabric sticks to the machine. Better break out that Teflon foot!

Part 2

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing 1890s Day Dress in Doll Scale

I went slightly overboard with this second historical doll project. Here's my first one. The style is from around 1897 and more of a middle class style. As with my first doll outfit, I tried to stick to historical methods as much as possible, but the scale forced me to do some deviations. I hand-sew everything though sewing machine was already widely used, because in this scale it's easier to control the stitch, there's not that much to sew anyway and also I just really like hand-sewing. Here's all the items I made. As said, I went a little overboard. One thing that's missing is the corset cover, but the layers of fabric were creating enough bulk on the waist as is so I decided to not make one.

This time I decided to try repainting the face. I don't have any doll customization materials, so I used acrylics. After couple of attempts I got decent results. Acrylics can't make as smooth and delicate finish as pastels, pencils and gouache, which can be used on vinyl with basing sprays, and I'm not experienced with painting small details on 3D objects, so it's a bit smudged at points, especially with the other eye. I aimed for 1890s very neutral make up and the type of expression that was popular in fashion plates and other illustrations.

Undergarments

Combinations and stockings

The combinations are split crotch as they were in the period. They are from thin cotton voile I have a lot of and is very appropriate. I didn't have really tiny enough lace for this, so it's kinda bulky, but I think it's okay enough. The stockings are cotton knit, which fits well. The garters are not actually necessary for this doll since her legs are rubbery.

Corset

I made the corset from a firm-ish linen and satin rayon pretending to be silk as the fashion fabric. The stitching of the boning channels is not super neat, this fabric is very unforgiving, I didn't have exactly matching thread and the scale made it very difficult. I of course didn't have tiny busk, so I used small hooks, sewed thread loops for them and used narrow metal wire for the edges. I think it looks surprisingly right on the outside. I used the same wire as the boning to reinforce the lacing on the back. I didn't actually use boning elsewhere but the tightly packed linen edges in the boning channels kinda work like lighter boning. I think it keeps the shape pretty ways even with just that. I stitched cotton tape inside to shape the corset further. I also didn't have tiny metal eyelets so I hand-sewed the lacing holes.

Bustle pad

The bustle pad is from linen and stuffed with tiny cabbage.

Petticoat

The petticoat is from the same cotton as the combinations.

Outer wear

Skirt

The fabric is cotton half-panama. It's pretty thin, but firm. I would have liked to use a woven wool, but I didn't have any that's thin enough to work in this scale. I think this cotton looks close enough in this scale to a wool with a tight weave, so I'm imagining it's that. My problem was that the cotton was white, but I wanted light brown. I wasn't going to buy any fabric for this, so I did the reasonable thing and dyed it with red onion peals (I've been doing natural dye experiments so this worked well for me).

Shirtwaist

The shirtwaist is from the same cotton as the undergarments. Yes, I dyed it too. I didn't have thin enough cotton in a color that would fit with the skirt and the purple bow, so I dyed it light blue with fabric color. Since I already went the trouble of dyeing I decided I might as well make a small flower print to it since that was popular in the era. I didn't want it to jump out too much but the lighting makes it even less visible. I made it with a white fabric pen. The collar and cuffs are reinforced with linen. I also sewed small stick-like beads to the cuffs on both sides, so one acts as a button (I sewed a buttonhole too) and the other makes it look like they are cufflinks. The bow is from the same fabric as the corset and the belt is sewn from the same cotton as the shirtwaist. The buckle is from a barbie belt.

Waistcoat

The waistcoat is from the same fabric as the skirt, thought the lapels and the back are from another satin rayon. I tailored the front panels and the lapels by stitching the linen interlining with tailor's stitches (I don't remember if that's the correct word in English) into shape. There is some wonkiness on one side of the hemline for some reason.

Boots

I made the slightly insane decision to make the shoes fully from leather, like they would have been in the period. I had an old broken leather wallet I had saved in case I needed some leather scarps. It has fairly thin leather, so it was workable here. It's light brown though, so I used black shoe polish to darken it. I wanted black or very dark brown shoes. I stacked the heels from glue and leather pieces and carved them into the right shape and sewed the shoe itself to leather shaped as the sole and glued it to the heeled and shaped sole. After I had shaped the shoes and the heels as much as I could I painted the heels black.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI art has no anti-cooption immune system

TONIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

One thing Myspace had going for it: it was exuberantly ugly. The decision to let users with no design training loose on a highly customizable user-interface led to a proliferation of Myspace pages that vibrated with personality.

The ugliness of Myspace wasn't just exciting in a kind of outsider/folk-art way (though it was that). Myspace's ugliness was an anti-cooption force-field, because corporate designers and art-directors would, by and large, rather break their fingers and gouge out their eyes than produce pages that looked like that.

In this regard, Myspace was the heir to successive generations of "design democratization" that gave amateur communities, especially countercultural ones, a space to operate in where authentic community members could be easily distinguished between parasitic commercializers.

The immediate predecessors to Myspace's ugliness-as-a-feature were the web, and desktop publishing. Between the img tag, imagemaps, the blink tag, animated GIFs, and the million ways that you could weird a page with tables and padding, the early web was positively bursting with individual personality. The early web balanced in an equilibrium between the plunder-friendliness of "view source" and the topsy-turvy design imperatives of web-based layout, which confounded both print designers (no fixed fonts! RGB colorspaces! dithering!) and even multimedia designers who'd cut their teeth on Hypercard and CD ROMs (no fixed layout!).

Before the web came desktop publishing, the million tractor-feed ransom notes combining Broderbund Print Shop fonts, joystick-edited pixel-art, and a cohort of enthusiasts ranging from punk zinesters to community newsletter publishers. As this work proliferated on coffee-shop counters and telephone poles, it was visibly, obviously distinct from the work produced by "real" designers – that is, designers who'd been a) trained and b) paid by a corporation to employ that training.

All of this matters, and not just for aesthetic reasons. Communities – especially countercultural ones – are where our society's creative ferment starts. Getting your start in the trenches of the counterculture wars is no proof against being co-opted later (indeed, many of the designers who cut their teeth desktop publishing weird zines went on to pull their hair and roll their eyes at the incredible fuggliness of the web). But without that zone of noncommercial, antiestablishment, communitarian low weirdness, design and culture would stagnate.

I started thinking about this 25 years ago, the first time I met William Gibson. I'd been assigned by the Globe and Mail to interview him for the launch of All Tomorrow's Parties:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/transcript.html

One of the questions I asked was about his famous aphorism, "The street finds its own use for things." Given how quickly each post-punk tendency had been absorbed by commercial culture, couldn't we say that "Madison Avenue finds its own use for the street"? His answer started me down a quarter-century of thinking and writing about this subject:

I worry about what we'll do in the future, [about the instantaneous co-opting of pop culture]. Where is our new stuff going to come from? What we're doing pop culturally is like burning the rain forest. The biodiversity of pop culture is really, really in danger. I didn't see it coming until a few years ago, but looking back it's very apparent.

I watch a sort of primitive form of the recommodification machine around my friends and myself in sixties, and it took about two years for this clumsy mechanism to get and try to sell us The Monkees.

In 1977, it took about eight months for a slightly faster more refined mechanism to put punk in the window of Holt Renfrew. It's gotten faster ever since. The scene in Seattle that Nirvana came from: as soon as it had a label, it was on the runways of Paris.

Ugliness, transgressiveness and shock all represent an incoherent, grasping attempt to keep the world out of your demimonde – not just normies and squares, but also and especially enthusiastic marketers who want to figure out how to sell stuff to you, and use you to sell stuff to normies and squares.

I think this is what drove a lot of people to 4chan (remember, before 4chan was famous for incubating neofascism, it was the birthplace of Anonymous): its shock culture, combined with a strong cultural norm of anonymity, made for a difficult-to-digest, thoroughly spiky morsel that resisted recommodification (for a while).

All of this brings me to AI art (or AI "art"). In his essay on the "eerieness" of AI art, Henry Farrell quotes Mark Fisher's "The Weird and the Eerie":

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

"Eeriness" here is defined as "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI is eerie because it produces the seeming of intent, without any intender:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

When we contemplate "authentic" countercultural work – ransom-note DTP, the weird old web, seizure-inducing Myspace GIFs – it is arresting because the personality of the human entity responsible for it shines through. We might be able to recognize where that person ganked their source-viewed HTML or pixel-optimized GIF, but we can also make inferences about the emotional meaning of those choices. To see that work is to connect to a mind. That mind might not necessarily belong to someone you want to be friends with or ever meet in person, but it is unmistakably another person, and you can't help but learn something about yourself from the way that their work makes you feel.

This is why corporate work is so often called "soulless." The point of corporate art is to dress the artificial person of the corporation in the stolen skins of the humans it uses as its substrate. Corporations are potentially immortal, artificial colony organisms. They maintain the pretense of personality, but they have no mind, only action that is the crescendo of an orchestra of improvised instruments played by hundreds or thousands of employees and a handful of executives who are often working directly against one another:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

The corporation is – as Charlie Stross has it – the "slow AI" that is slowly converting our planet to the long-prophesied grey goo (or, more prosaically, wildfire ashes and boiled oceans). The real thing that is signified by CEOs' professed fears of runaway AI is runaway corporations. As Ted Chiang says, the experience of being nominally in charge of a corporation that refuses to do what you tell it to is the kind of thing that will give you nightmares about autonomous AI turning on its masters:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

The job of corporate designers is to find the signifiers of authenticity and dress up the corporate entity's robotic imperatives in this stolen flesh. Everything about AI is done in service to this goal: the chatbots that replace customer service reps are meant to both perfectly mimic a real, competent corporate representative while also hewing perfectly to corporate policy, without ever betraying the real human frailties that none of us can escape.

In the same way, the shillbots that pretend to be corporate superfans online are supposed to perfectly amplify the corporate message, the slow AI's conception of its own virtues, without injecting their own off-script, potentially cringey enthusiasms.

The Hollywood writers' strike was, at root, about the studio execs' dream that they could convert the "insights" of focus groups and audience research into a perfect script, without having to go through a phalanx of lippy screenwriters who insisted on explaining why they think your idea is stupid. "Hey, nerd, make me another ET, except make the hero a dog, and set it on Mars" is exactly how you prompt an AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Corporate design's job is to produce the seeming of intention without any intender. The "personality" we're meant to sense when we encounter corporate design isn't the designer's, nor the art director's, nor even the CEO's. The "personality" is meant to be the slow AI's, but a corporation doesn't have a personality.

In his 2018 short story "Noon in the antilibrary," Karl Schroeder describes an "antilibrary" as an endlessly deep anaerobic lagoon of generative botshit:

https://www.technologyreview.com/2018/08/18/104097/noon-in-the-antilibrary/

The antilibrary is a generative AI system that can produce entire librarys’-worth of fake books with fake authors, fake citations by other fake experts with their own fake books and biographies and fake social media accounts, on-demand and instantly. It was speculation in 2018; it’s possible now. Creating an antilibrary is just a matter of investing in a sufficient number of graphics cards and electricity.

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/after-the-internet

Reading Karl's reflections on the antilibrary crystallized something for me that I've been thinking about for a quarter-century, since I interviewed Gibson at the Penguin offices in north Toronto. It snapped something into place that I've trying to fit since encountering Henry's thoughts on the "eeriness" of AI work and the intent without an intender.

It made me realize why I dislike AI art so much, on a deep, aesthetic level. The point of an image generator is to buffer the intention of the prompter (which might be genuinely creative and bursting with personality) in layers of automated decision-making that flense the final product of any hint of the mind that caused its creation.

The most febrile, deeply weird and authentic prompts of the most excluded outsiders produce images that feel the same as the corporate AI illustrations that project the illusion of personality from the immortal, transhuman colony organism that is the limited liability corporation.

AI art is born coopted. Even the 4chan equivalent of AI – the deeply transgressive and immoral nonconsensual pornography – feels no different from the "official" AI porn churned out by "real" pornographers. "Shrimp Jesus" and other SEO-optimized Facebook slop is so uncanny because it is simultaneously "weird" ("that which does not belong") and yet it belongs in the same aesthetic bucket of the most anodyne Corporate Memphis ephemera:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_Memphis

We call it "generative" but AI art can't generate the kind of turnover that aerates the aesthetic soil. An artform that can't be transgressive is sterile, stillborn, a dead end.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/20/ransom-note-force-field/#antilibraries

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Jake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1970s_fanzines_(21224199545).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[bluesidez]

Hi! I saw your opening requests!

I was hoping for Miguel O’Hara x plus-size reader. Reader is a regular waitress who meets both Miguel and Spider-Man. Knows Miguel because he’s become a regular and Spider-Man because the diner gets robbed, but Reader manages to save herself. Also if the reader could have glasses that would be awesome!

It’s up to you! You’re the writer.

Also I just wanted to say I love your Gym rat Miguel series! 😁❤️💙❤️

[Dual]

lab taster: Anonymous Participant 🩻

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x PlusSize!Reader

summary: There's something strange about that guy in the corner...

content warning: fluffy, definitely suggestive at parts, I kind of take a bit from the comic books, but it's still the ATSV Miguel, Kasey Nash is here + a certain someone for like a millisecond, talks of violence, guns, and threats (but nothing too terrifying), also LOTS of mentions of food. like lotsssss

word count: 3.6k, halfway proofread

a/n: I started writing this as if she worked at a fancy restaurant, but then I realized you said diner, so I had to backtrack. ALSO THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE ON GYM RAT MIGUEL!!! 🩵

“I’ve never seen one man eat so much.”

You looked to where your coworker was staring, eyes landing on the man that frequents the corner of the dim dining room.

“He’s a big guy. He probably needs it,” you flipped through your pad in order to avoid looking at the person who’s been wrapped in your thoughts for a few months now.

He always comes in just when the afternoon is turning into evening and the sun kisses his skin through the window. Most days he looks a little tired, lost in thought as he waits for his food.

His order is usually the same: a double-stacked burger with a large fry and a black coffee. Sometimes, he’d substitute the meal with a heavy breakfast, pouring syrup over everything. Other times, he’d order pork chops and gravy with a slice of apple pie to take home.

He always looked a bit sheepish when he asked for a meal to-go, as if you would judge him openly for being a working man.

On the contrary, you wondered why he always came here. From the shine on his watch to the material of his clothes, you could tell he could afford better establishments to eat at.

“If you’re done ogling at him, you can bring him the check,” Kasey snickered at you. “He keeps looking over here and it’s freaking me out.”

“You just don’t like anyone but that flying bug guy.”

“That’s Mr. Spider-Man to you,” Kasey moved so that you could print out his receipt. “And he does something useful with his time like save civilians. That guy just comes in here and looks at you like he wants to eat you for dessert.”

“What?”

You turn to him again and he quickly looks out of the window, plastic cup pressed against his lips.

“I don’t think he even sees me like that,” you mumble, ripping the paper from the machine and placing it onto the clipboard. “He’s just a man who enjoys comforting meals and ambiance.”

“Yeah. An ambiance that starts and ends with you and your ass, maybe.”

An affronted “hey” goes ignored by Kasey who disappears to go serve another table.

She really shouldn’t have put that thought into your head, because now you’re more hyperaware of your actions than usual.

You wipe at your apron and pull your dress down before you head towards his table, steps a bit hesitant.

As you get closer, he looks back at you. Maybe he is interested, but maybe you’re a bit delusional.

“Here’s your check, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal,” you placed the clipboard on the table. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” he holds up the check up with a small smile. “Maybe a name so I know who my tip is going to.”

Your fingers press against the frames of your glasses, pushing them up a little.

Did you forget to introduce yourself to him when you sat him down?

When you say your name, your confusion must have carried over to your face because the way the man brings his hands up is quick.

“Ah, it’s fine Mr.-“ you take a glance at his card, never mind that you’ve already memorized his name, “O’Hara.”

“Miguel is fine.”

“Mr. Miguel.”

“Just. Miguel is fine.”

You nod and smile. Miguel was fitting for a face like that, and your heart felt the same way as you completed his transaction and handed him his receipt.

The thought of him being interested in you was cute to imagine, but you didn’t want to get your hopes up.

Kasey taps your shoulder as she carries a coffee jug back to the machine, “Go clear your table. There’s a tip.”

With a routined step, you start to stack his empty plates. Napkins get thrown into the bin, and utensils are gathered.

A gasp leaves your lips as a stack of 20s reveals itself. A note wrapped around it says your name and “Thank you for always making my nights.”

Maybe Kasey was right. She could never know that, though.

It’s about a week or so before Miguel comes back.

Oddly enough, too much happened at the diner within that time.

Your boss was on your ass about splitting your tips with a manager that was never there. Creeps kept lingering around the corner during closing time. Your schedule was insane and you’ve hit your monthly limit of rude customers.

When Miguel comes in, it’s almost as if white angel wings were attached to him.

“What can I get you today?” you ask with a smile.

“I think just a black coffee to start off,” he looks over you. “New uniforms?”

You glance down at your dress, the neckline of it plunging severely low.

“Yeah. The boss thinks it’ll bring in more customers,” you yank at the back of the dress, still a bit nervous about how high the skirt is on your body. It’s tight in places that no uniform can should be, hugging your curves, and exposing your chest and legs. “I think he’s full of it.”

Miguel is silent for a while, eyes roaming in a way that you couldn’t quite discern.

“He definitely was onto something.”

You blink.

“Uh, is he- He’s not causing any problems for you, is he?”

“No. It’s all good. For now.”

He stumbles his way through his order, corned beef on rye bread with swiss cheese and sauerkraut along with some homemade potato spirals.

“Will that be all for you?”

“Yes, thank you,” he hides behind his coffee mug as you walk away.

While you wait for his order to be done, you watch Kasey run around and chat with some of your regulars. Despite how grumpy she could be, she was a natural at keeping the customers entertained.

Refilling the drinks for a few people at the barstools, your mind drifts to what Kasey is saying to one of the old geezers who’s keen on superstitions.

“I’m just saying, there has to be a motive for why he only strikes in the afternoon!”

“Are you sure he’s just not an idiot desperate for attention?” Kasey removes his empty plate and tops off his water. “Leaving notes with riddles? That’s so been-there-done-that.”

“Kase, I don’t think you get it, doll. His attacks have gotten more and more severe. He’s starting to target a specific demographic.”

A shout and a ding by the window lets you know that Miguel’s order is ready. You place an extra pickle on his plate just because.

Rounding the corner of the bar, Kasey is still bickering about the city’s most recent villain.

“Listen. If I’m ever in dire need,” she turns and sighs dramatically at a news segment featuring Spider-Man flying across buildings, “I know who to call for.”

The old man clicks his teeth and throws a hand at the screen, “What a bunch of rubbish. That prick isn’t worth a hoot. The Fly-Boys are your best bet.”

“As if those douchebags can do anything for me. Hurry up and pay, mister.”

You place Miguel’s food in front of him, mouth moving before your mind.

“Spider-man seems like a nice guy.”

“What makes you say so?” Miguel reaches for the ketchup.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kasey is always going on and on about him, so any doubts I had, she’s already debunked.”

He’s silent, turning over his sandwich.

“And what do you think of him now?”

“I think he’s pretty cool. He must be stressed out from everything, though. I couldn’t imagine taking on so much. What about you?”

He coughs, “What about me?”

“What do you think of Spider-Man?”

“He’s practical, always gets the job done. Maybe a bit too ambitious for his own good.”

“You talk like you know him.”

“I’ve never met him,” Miguel hums. “ Just taking a wild guess.”

The clip switches to Spider-Man throwing a car right at a villain camping out in a park resulting in immediate flames.

“That’s practical, alright.”

Miguel clears his throat, “He’s probably had better days.”

It’s been raining a lot which meant slower business and slower tips.

You’ve spent most work hours folding and refolding the towel in your apron pocket or flipping through the songs on the jukebox to fill the stillness of the diner.

A few lone stragglers were enjoying their meal, keeping quiet to themselves.

The chefs in the back were roughhousing and Kasey was ticking down when she could clock out.

Two more hours and thirty until you could fight through the rain to get home.

The bell to the door rings, opening up to a drenched Miguel.

A smile comes to your face as if you won a cash prize.

“Hey, stranger,” Kasey says as she turns and starts up a pot of coffee as you round the corner. “Glad to see you here. She was worried sick! You haven’t come in for a while.”

“Kasey, hush!”

“No, no, let her speak,” Miguel taps against the counter. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”

You elbow Kasey before she even thinks to respond, “Would you like your regular seat, Miguel?”

“I would love that. Had a long day.”

“That you should tell her all about over some coffee,” Kasey smiles. “Go ahead, I’ll cover you.”

You sigh as Kasey follows you to wear Miguel usually sits, and gets Miguel’s order down. She fights silently with you over sitting down across from him. Her eyes saying something along the lines of “we can split the tip,” “here’s your chance,” and “that old fart isn’t going to fire you.”

So there you were, sitting across the guy who you anticipate to come in every so often. The guy who loved simple, American-style meals. The guy with the nice build and a pretty face.

The guy who can’t stop looking at your chest right now.

“You said you had a tough day?” you peer at him from over your glasses, a little unsure of what his steady eyes meant.

“Um, yeah,” he stutters. “There’s been some changes in positions at my job. Some higher ups are giving me trouble, but I think they’re scared they’re about to lose their seats.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me you were a big-shot.”

“I wouldn’t say all of that,” he grins as he bends his head down. The way his hair falls is dreamy and it’s no fair that he still looks this good despite the rain dousing him. “I’m just in an interesting spot.”

Kasey plops down a hot plate of chopped steak and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy with some steaming broccoli on the side. There’s a heaping amount of food on the plate and you give her an incredulous look before she whips out an extra pair of utensils.

“The guys in the back a closing up shop. They want as little dishes to wash as possible.”

“We don’t close until-”

“As little dishes as possible!” Kasey sing-songs, leaving you shifting in your seat.

Miguel picks up a fork, “I hope you like beef.”

He starts to cut into the meat and you’re slow to follow, watching his arms bulge through through his sweater.

You wonder if he could hear your heart rattling in your chest.

The conversation continues and you learn that Miguel works at Alchemax working as a head lab technician.

“Miguel, that’s amazing! I’ve seen old classmates nearly go to war for that position.”

“It’s not all that it’s chalked up to be.”

“It’s still astounding that you got to that level,” you push your fork through some potatoes and take a bite, “You should be proud. And if not, I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he looks up at you while you continue to chew. “You’ve got something here.”

“Oh,” you quickly take your fingers to your lips, embarrassed.

“Here,” Miguel reaches across from you and wipes he corner of your mouth with a napkin. “All better.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Time is lost as you two exchange words, Miguel making you laugh over the smallest things. He’s as sweet as ever, his compliments make you ecstatic, and he listens when you go into your own stories. Your cheeks hurt from how much you’ve been grinning.

“Hey, so, I’ve been thinking,” Miguel starts.

“About?”

He takes a deep breath, shoulders tensing up.

“I would love to take you on a date. Somewhere nice and exciting. That’s if you would want to, of course. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“Miguel,” you stop his ramblings with a hand on his wrist, “I would love to go on a date with you.”

His shoulders relax, and his smile is wide.

The chime of the door rings, signaling another customer coming inside. His hands are in his pockets and his hoodie is pulled tight around him. Not an uncommon sight, but the diner was set to close soon.

You followed his steps as he sat in Kasey’s side of the diner, his leg bouncing repeatedly.

“For our date,” Kasey meets your eyes before she goes to his table. Her hospitable tone switched on. “Where were you thinking of going?”

Miguel begins to answer, but you continue to stare at the other side of the room. The guy is jumpy and from what you can tell, snappy. Kasey looks antsy as she walks back to the counter to grab a cup and a picture of water.

Miguel turns around to look where you’re watch and turns back, “Is something wrong?”

“That guy is making Kasey nervous. She’s hiding it well, but she’s freaking out.”

You both watch as he scans that side of the room, body rocking in the still chair.

It was daunting and quiet. The sound of the rain drowning out the idle noises of the dining room.

“Something’s not right,” you whisper.

From how Miguel gets up, you can see that he can feel the uneasiness, too.

Kasey walks over to him, a slice of thick chocolate cake on a small plate in her hands. She places it on the table, ready to ask if he needs anything else.

Time stops as he grabs her arm and yanks her towards him, the few customers left stopping to watch the scene. Kasey pulls her arm back, ready to put up a fight.

The man pulls something out of his pocket, Kasey’s voice reaching a shriek. You gasp as you see him point it right at her head, nerves nearly failing you. People scramble to corners of the room, some falling to the floor.

Miguel grabs your arm and drags you to the bathroom, your hands covering your mouth as you fight the urge to scream.

You can’t feel anything as he shoves you into a stall, your limbs trembling. Tears are running down your face as you try to think, but Miguel is holding you up to keep you from falling.

“Stay in here, and lock the door. Don’t come out.”

“But Miguel, he has a gun! We, we should call someone. You can’t go back out there!”

“I’ll be ok. I promise.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look at me,” Miguel takes your hands as you slide to the floor. He makes the trip easy, arms solid. “I’ll meet you when this is over, ok?”

“Ok,” your vision blurs as Miguel leaves, face worn with sorrow.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the gross bathroom floor, sobbing into your hands.

You could hear shouting and screaming, the yells of the man telling everyone to shut up. A few bangs of his gun went off and you bit your wrist in order to give yourself away. It didn’t feel right to be the only one to make an escape, but maybe you would be next to die, too.

The rain continues outside, a loud strike of thunder echoing off the tiles as lights flicker off. Your heartbeat picks up as you try not to make a sound. The lightning illuminates the room for a second, and the noise from outside stops.

You can’t tell what’s going on, the pit of your stomach falling with every second.

The door bangs open, and you feel like passing out. It sounds like the ocean is roaring in your ears as you try to listen for footsteps.

One second turns into two, two turns into ten, and you lose count of how long you’re holding your breath.

Your stall is pried open as the lightning shines through the window. Even as you see the masked hero, your throat lets out a weak cry.

“Come on,” he says, eyes on his mask squinting. “It’s safe now.”

With your eyes refocusing, you see Spider-Man standing tall and proud, with Kasey latched to his back like a koala.

Your hand moves across the stall before you feel yourself falling forward.

Spider-Man catches you with ease, lifting you into his arms.

“Thank you, thank you!”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

He carries you both back to the dining room where the robber is beaten black and blue, tied up in neon red webbing. People are huddled up together as policemen ask them questions.

Spider-Man places you in a seat and grabs a blanket from the pile that was brought in. You thank him with a soft voice.

“You can get off of my back now,” he tells Kasey. “He won’t hurt you any time soon.”

“No! I think I want to stay here,” she says. Her eyes surveying the side of his head. Her hands rub the side of his mask, “You really are as sturdy as they say. And this suit! It’s so cooling. What’s it made of? Silk?”

“No, it’s- Will you get off of me, please?”

Kasey jumps to the floor, face filled with glee, like she didn’t just get held at gunpoint.

“Where’s my phone? I have to get a picture. Look here! Say ‘whiskey’! Oh, wait, you can’t really smile can you? Can you sign something for me? My friends are going to be so jealous.”

Spider-Man stiffens up as Kacey flits around him like an excited puppy.

You try to be happy for her, but you can’t find Miguel. He said we would be ok.

There’s an old couple by the window, a mom and her son by the bar, a truck driver talking to the police. No Miguel.

“Shock, can you give me a second?” Spider-Man barks as Kasey tries to climb over him again, squealing like a schoolgirl.

“Excuse me,” you tug at his hand that Kasey doesn’t have a grip on, “Have you seen a man, about 6’8 or so? Sweater, khakis, and a lanyard. He- he was with me before the robber came. I don’t see him anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, this is everyone that was here when I came. Maybe he went to get help.”

“Oh, god,” you take in a watery gulp of air. “What if something happened to him out there? He told me he would be ok!”

“Hey, I’m sure wherever he is, he’ll be alright. No need to panic. Everything from here and a few miles out is taken care of. No one else is coming out here in this weather.”

The guy starts to wake up and fight against the webbing.

“I gotta take care of this,” he pulls Kasey off of him. “See you around, ladies.”

“But Spider-Man-”

Oranges, blues, and reds flash before you, Spider-Man flopping the man over his shoulder as he walks through, stoic silhouette disappearing before you.

You sit in horror as everything weighs down on you.

Something, no, someone, was taken from you before it even had a chance to begin.

Kasey’s hands are rubbing on your back as you cry into the blanket in your lab.

You had no idea where Miguel was.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” Kasey whispers to you, “And if not, I’ll kill him.”

A chuckle comes out of you, a bit half-hearted.

The lights of a car beam through the windows, doors slamming as people came rushing through the door.

You look up to Miguel and a man that looked almost identical.

“Miguel!” you run to him, his arms nearly taking you off the ground. “Oh my god, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Your hands shake as you touch across his face. He’s all intact, although still drenched.

“I’m ok, I promised you I would be. I went to go get help.”

“Hot help at that,” Kasey whistles as she looks at the man behind Miguel.

“Are you alright?” Miguel covers the hand you have on your face. “I hope I didn’t give you too much of a scare.”

“I’m better now,” you practically melt into him. “Is that date still on?”

“It was never off. I just need your number now. And we can get out of here, yeah?”

You nod and lean onto his chest listening to his heart sing to you.

It feels familiar.

As always, if you enjoyed, please like, reblog, and COMMENT! It felt very mysterious to write even thought I didn't really mean for it to be.

[aestas---estas]

Working hands

MDNI 18+ | Part 1 | Part 2 | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | ~4,6k words | fem!reader, assistant!reader, reader described as shorter than Simon, suspend your disbelief for how long it is inbetween missions, basically all fluff | if I forgot a tag/tw please tell me | divider by @cafekitsune | Read on AO3

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again. 

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you. 

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy. 

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored. 

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food. 

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- Masterlist

[hsdiaries]

The Secret Spot

5.1k words

Golfrry, quick escalation, shy Harry into vocal Harry, oral m recieving, p in v, quickie situation.

I didn’t edit this at all, just written in a whim lol.

“Cassie! You’ve been assigned to a party today!” Martin called out as he walked through the locker room handing everyone their assignment slips. I brushed my hair up into a ponytail high on my head so I could slip my visor on.

“Is it a big one?” I said, pulling out my white apron and tying it around my waist, slipping in my small order pad and favorite green pen with the small golf ball topper. It was always a conversation started with the club members; and conversations always led to good tips.

“It's a small three person party, I heard it's a big name, haven’t confirmed who yet - you'll have to pick up your slip at the front desk. It's a bit hush hush.” He shrugged and I nodded, making sure my shoes were tied properly as my friend Kyle came up to me.

“Hush hush, huh? I hope for your sake he’s hot,” He smirked, pushing all his weight onto his left hip. Whoever thought it was a good idea to let Kyle interact with the older men at the golf club had no idea how many sugar daddies he would end up by his second week on the job.

“Kyle, sweetie, I don’t need them to be good looking to get good tips, I just need them to have heavy pockets,” I said standing up straight and slamming my locker shut. Pushing him out of the way gently with my shoulder I made my way out of the room heading out to the front desk.

“Be a good whore!” I heard him call out, making me shake my head and laugh. The lunch time crowd was beginning to flow in quickly; lunch time was the prime time to have a shift, people hardly ever wanted to let go of these shifts for that reason. Small waves were thrown my way from the usual crowd, I made sure to make note of my usuals, sending them extra greetings especially since I wouldn’t be assisting them today. As I approached the front desk, Cedric, the club manager spotted me, perking up instantly.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little waitress,” he smiled, eyes back on the computer screen in front of him.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little boss. I heard I have a part assigned today?” Leaning on the front desk, I reached over the counter, grabbing a mint packaged in the signature green of the Ocean Wells Country Club, earning me a soft smack on the hand. I pulled the mint to my chest, quickly opening it and popping it in my mouth, Cedric rolling his eyes.

“Yes actually, and I’m sure you will thank me for it. I had to pick wisely and my soul told me you would be the only one to not act like a crazed fan girl when I told you who you would be serving today,” I watched as the small slip printer started printing out our usual assignment slips, he quickly ripped it off the machine and slid it across the front desk to me.

Raising an eyebrow, I slowly picked up the slip and looked it over, my eyes widening at the sight of the names on the slip.

Niall Horan

Harry Styles

Mitch Rowland

I looked up at him, jaw slightly dropped, “You’re fucking joking right?”

“Nope, not a joke at all. As a matter of fact, they are walking in at this very second,” he smiled, pointing his chin in the direction of the front door. My body seemed to turn quicker than my head, but once it followed, my eyes were instantly drawn to Harry. He was wearing a navy sweater over a slightly brighter blue dress shirt, matching slacks and brown golf shoes. He has recently cut his hair, a frenzy in the media, but it had grown out to perfection, short on the sides, a swoop of curls wanting to remake their appearance on the front. His face was perfectly layered with growing facial hair, it made him look so mature and well cultured. He looked like money, and well, he was. It wasn’t until they were almost in front of me that I noticed the three of them had made their way to the front desk - and that I had been staring like a gawky girl in love.

I quickly cleared my throat and turned to face Cedric who chuckled a bit as I made myself busy organizing the business cards on the desk, chewing on the mint in my mouth. I felt their presence next to me soon after, Niall standing the closest to me, Harry doing most of the speaking for the party.

“Hello, we had reservations under Styles?” He said kindly, his voice so soft spoken and kind. I didn’t expect anything less if I was being honest.

“Yes, Mr. Styles, Mr. Horan and Mr. Rowland, we are all ready for you. You have been assigned to start on the left, two golf carts have been assigned, one for you and one for your caddies. Your personal waitress, Cassie here, will also have her own cart to bring drinks, cigars, food and any other desired items here at the club,” Cedric spoke, his hand gesturing over to me, causing all three men to turn their eyes to me. Each smiled, making eye contact, but only Harry’s lingered just a moment longer than the rest.

“Nice to meet you all, I’m here for whatever you may need, even making sure that the other isn't cheating,” I smirked, making them chuckle a bit.

“She's a club favorite, you’ll enjoy her ever present company,” Cedric said in a slightly condescending tone.

“I’m sure her services will be appreciated,” Niall said, clearly noticing Cedric's tone.

“Very well then, here are your keys, golf clubs should already be loaded, enjoy your time here at Ocean Wells Country Club.”

I nodded at Cedric, turning to the front door and holding my arm out to let the gentleman know they could carry on ahead of me before I began walking slightly behind them. I noticed Harry’s pace slow a bit more than the others as we made our way over, his attention turning to me for a moment, clearing his throat.

“Would you mind starting us off with some whiskeys, over ice please. We will need lunch reservations at around two, we should be finished with our game by then,” he said, unable to make eye contact fully.

“Might I suggest 2:15 to make room for any delays and travel time back to the cafe?” I said politely, his eyes shifting to meet mind more predominantly. They were a beautiful shade of green, tricking the eyes to think they were blue, crystal clear in certain lights - glimmers of aquamarine.

“You know the place better than I, 2:15 is fine,” he smiled small my head nodding, for some reason my cheeks found themself washed over with a flush of pink.

We exited out into the warm summer sun, a sigh instantly leaving me, eyes closed as my face moved to look up into the sun, taking in its heat. Summertime was my favorite time of the year, it’s when I thrived most, when I felt most alive. Bringing my face down, I opened my eyes to find Harry already looking at me, quickly looking away when he noticed my eye contact.

We all stepped into our individual golf carts, they drove off to their first hole as I drove to the cafe to pick up their first round of drinks. I placed the order, waiting until they were brought out, throwing in some complimentary pretzels and beer cheese to start them off right. I carefully loaded everything into the cart, driving my way over to where they were. By the time I had made my way over, they were on the second hole, Niall currently lining up his shot before swinging effortlessly, the ball landing right next to the hole but not quite making it in.

I watched as he handed Harry a twenty dollar bill, Mitch and Harry laughing at how upset Niall looked. I pulled up behind their carts, Harry’s attention quickly moving over to me. He walked over as Mitch chose his golf club for his turn, reaching for the tray of drinks as I moved out of the cart.

“Oh you don’t have to do that, I got it,” I smiled, both our grips steady in the tray.

“Truly, I got it,” he smiled, his hand brushing my hand away. I felt my breath get caught in my throat as I swallowed, turning back to grab the tray with the pretzels and cheese.

I faced him, smiling shyly, “I figured you all would do well with some post game fuel? No one has ever hated our pretzel and beer cheese. It’s a club favorite,” I smiled, his eyes took in the food as Niall and Mitch made their way over to us.

“What’s all this?” Niall smiled, Harry’s eyes staying on me as he spoke.

“Cassie brought us a club favorite apparently,” he finally broke his eye contact, handing a drink to each of the boys as I nodded.

“I could drink the beer cheese if it wasn’t frowned upon,” I shrugged as Mitch reached over, ripping off a piece and dipping it in the cheese. He took a bite, eyebrows raising, nodding as he pointed to the tray with the remaining piece in his hand.

“Holy shit, let the stuck up pricks stare at us cause I’ll down it with you in a second,” he exclaimed making the rest of us laugh.

Niall and Harry took a piece each, copying Mitch in every single aspect, quickly praising me for my choice in game starting fuel. For the next few moments they stood around me, eating and drinking to their satisfaction before agreeing to move onto the next hole before anyone else began the same course, though I of course knew that wouldn’t happen. They were elite guests, no one would be assigned to this side of the club until two hours in so they would take all the time they wanted.

I loaded the empty glasses and trays into the back of my golf cart, hearing Harry yell out as my eyes caught Niall and Mitch driving off without him, middle fingers in clear sight, “Fuckers!”

Covering my mouth, I bit back my chuckle, shaking my head, “Need a ride?” I called out, his body shifting to face me, an eye roll following.

“I swear they know how to act proper,” he shook his head, shy dimples imprinting on his cheeks.

“Proper isn’t exactly my style, so, eh,” I chuckled, getting in my cart and patting the seat next to me. He walked over, getting in, hands wiping down his thighs. I took in his actions, my eyes taking in his face with a soft smile, before facing forward and starting up the cart.

“So how long have you been doing this for?” He asked softly, facing forward.

“Umm? Three years? Trying to make enough money to pay for college. The goal is to finally start this coming spring, but we shall see,” I shrugged, glancing over at him. He turned to me for a moment before we both looked forward again.

“What are you wanting to study?” He continued the conversation, his voice a bit stronger than before, almost as if he was slowly getting more comfortable.

“Social work, work with youth in the foster system. I want to be able to help people in a way I wished someone helped me when I was in foster homes,” I swallowed, my grip tightening slightly on the wheel as I drove. I could see Niall and Mitch in the close distance.

“That sounds like a beautiful full circle moment?” He said, questioning if that’s what it really was to me.

“Uh…sort of? I guess. I mean, you’re not the first person to tell me that, but I’m not exactly sure if I see it in that light. Just because, I don’t know if it’ll give me the healing most people think it will,” I said as I parked behind the other carts. We both turned to face each other and he nodded slightly.

“Mm, that’s understood. Your trauma isn’t healed just because you helped others avoid the same,” he said softly, a smile pushing into my left cheek.

“Exactly,” I breathed out, his lips rolling into his mouth. I couldn’t help but linger there, linger on the plumpness, the perfect rosey pink, the perfect Cupid’s bow. I shifted in my seat, “Um, shall I get you all some iced tea? Or water? Second round?”

He cleared his throat, moving to exit the cart, “Um, water and another round please, thank you.”

I watched as he moved towards his friends without another word and I drove back to the cafe to pick up their next round.

HARRY'S POV

I walked towards Niall and Mitch, willing myself to not turn back towards Cassie. Since laying my eyes on her upon arrival, something struck my heart in a way I hadn’t been struck in a while. She radiated electricity, not warmth, not light, electricity. She seemed to shock my entire system by just standing there. It didn’t help that I was aware it wasn’t just my eyes lingering for too long - hers on my lips just now shocking my soul.

Running my fingers through my hair, I approached Niall and Mitch, Niall’s hand slapping Mitch’s chest, “Told you!”

“Told him what?” I said, raising an eyebrow, walking over to my caddy and picking out my next club.

“You’re already smitten, been smitten since we walked in,” Niall said, my eyes narrowing in his direction.

“What the fuck are you going on about? I’m just being polite, she’s treating us well,” I said, picking my club and walking over to prep my swing.

“Full of shit, you both are eye fucking each other any moment you get!” Niall said, my eyes rolling and Mitch just laughed.

“He kinda has a point,” he said, standing next to Niall, arms crossed in front of his body.

“You both are idiots,” I said, turning back to the ball, pulling back and taking my first swing. It was such a lousy swing, the back of my hand meeting my forehead. They were wrong, it was obvious they weren’t, but I didn’t want this to be just another damn hook up situation. She seemed like a good person who didn’t deserve that, even if she didn’t mind it.

“That swing shows me that we aren’t,” Mitch teased, and I shook my head.

“Look, she’s beautiful, there is no damn denying that, but I’m not letting it get to my head, alright? Let’s just play the damn game.” I pushed past them, switching clubs so we could just continue playing.

We finished up the hole and moved onto the next when Cassie finally joined us again. She brought over our drinks and water, making conversation with Niall. I tried to avoid her this time around, watching her from a distance. At least this way I could take her in, and not deal with the teasing from my mates.

She was so animated when she talked, often twirling her long brown hair as she spoke, the white uniform, trimmed with green making her tan skin pop against it. She smelled like an apricot, something I noticed on the drive to the previous hole with her. Sweet, fresh, something I would gladly bite into. I shook the thought from my head, bringing my hands behind my head, linking my fingers together. I closed my eyes, inhaling the summer dry air, it was my favorite season to bask in, just taking in the sun, letting it warm my skin.

“Seems like they left you again,” I heard Cassie’s voice next to me, my left eye opening to peek over at her.

“I feel like it’s going to be a thing for the rest of the game,” I let my arms drop down next to me, a small giggle coming from her.

“Well, it’s okay, you have the best golf cart in the entire club to save you,” she winked playfully.

“Thank goodness for that,” I smirked, as she shrugged, walking backwards to the cart before turning around completely. I followed like a lost puppy behind her, watching her full hips swing from side to side as she walked away from me. I licked my lips, biting down on my lower lip, walking around the cart as I reached it, getting in.

“So, are you enjoying your break from work?” She asked, her eyes shifting towards me, and I let mine meet hers instantly.

“Yeah actually, nice to not have to be moving constantly unless it is my choice to do so. I like that I can just settle for a bit,” I said, her eyes shifting down to my hand then back in front of her.

“I like settling. Just knowing somewhere is home. Moving around so much when I was younger, it made me crave stability, you know?” She said, and I nodded.

“It’s like, rooting your feet somewhere long enough to actually make it feel like it’s your home,” I responded, bringing a big smile to her face.

“Exactly, exactly that,” she giggled a bit.

We drove for a bit longer, trying to find the boys at the next hole but they were nowhere to be seen. She came to a complete stop, pulling out her phone, “Maybe I went the wrong way? But I doubt it, I know these pathways like the back of my hand.”

I rolled my eyes, tossing my head back knowing exactly what they were doing, “I’m sure it’s not you. I have a feeling those assholes are long gone right now.”

“Oh..,um, I can head back if you want? You don’t have your clubs so…” she suggested, her face glancing over her shoulder then back at me.

Staying quiet for a moment, I took in the situation, analyzing the possibilities and that one that stood out the clearest was - I didn’t want to leave her just yet. I brought my hand to my lower lip, pinching it softly as I turned to face her, “You know this place like that back of your hand right?”

“Basically.”

“You have a place you like to hide out, that no one knows about?” I said, her eyes narrowing a bit, before a slightly devilish smile appeared on her face.

“I do actually,” she said, putting the cart into drive without another word.

“Going to show me?” I said, and she nodded.

“An adventure on company time? Why not.” She giggled, making me laugh with her.

We drove for a good five minutes, the golf cart cutting through different courses, avoiding people’s games and paths. We reached what seemed to be a back corner, a giant tree settling into the corner. It’s long thick trunks and branches seemed to bend, creating perfect nooks to rest in the shadow away from the sun. She park just to the side of it, turning off the cart, holding her hands out.

“Voila!! My secret spot,” she smiled, getting off and walking over to the tree. I watched her climb on top of it, effortlessly finding her perfect spot, settling into the curve that seemed shaped perfectly for her.

“How many people actually know about this?” I said, walking over, trying to pick the perfect place for me to climb up and settle.

“Just my friend Kenny, but he wouldn’t know how to actually get here. Just knows it exist….so like please don’t kill me or anything cause then I’ll never be found.” She pointed at me, making me laugh as I found my spot directly in front of her, our legs extending out next to each other.

“I won’t, I promise, I wouldn't know how to get back without you,” I said, sitting up for a moment to slip on my sweater before settling back. Unbuttoning the sleeves on my dress shirt, I rolled them up to my elbows, finally relaxing.

“Did the tattoos have stories?” Cassie said.

“Some. Others were just crazy ideas, things I thought would fit the bare spaces. A couple friends have chosen,” I smiled over at her.

“So if I said to get a turtle near your palm tree you would do it?” She asked, my head tilting slightly knowing my palm tree wasn’t currently exposed.

“And how do you know about that?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, both eyebrows raised at her. I watched her eyes widen, reds and pinks covering her sweet cheeks.

“Oh….I just…um, Niall he uh —…”

Bursting into laughter, I cut her off, shaking my head, “Cassie, I’m aware some people know more about me than I may know, I’m just twisting your arm.”

I kicked her legs softly with my foot, her eyes narrowing and returning the same gesture. For the next moments, we just sat in silence, taking in the small noises of the golf course, the bits of wind on the tree leaves. Every now and then we would ask one another questions about our personal life. I had no problem opening up to her and her with me, letting her tell me about the things that seemed to just magically pop into her mind.

As we sat, our bodies also seemed to scoot further down, feet and legs sharing soft touch against one another, knees rubbing gently against her thigh, her fingers also moving to dance around my calf. I let my own do the same, small chills forming on her bare legs. We stayed this way until she let me know we needed to head back soon, the time we were meant to be out on the course was almost over, and she would have to finish the rest of her shift.

I nodded in agreement as we both moved to begin our climb down. I made my way first, extending my arms out towards her to help her lower herself the rest of the way down, her perfect self landing perfectly in front of me. Her eyes locked on mine, tongue licking over her lips, breath heavy from our proximity.

“How much longer did you say we have?” I said softly, my hand moving to push her hair behind her ear.

“I didn’t specify,” she said, her voice shaky, my head nodding as I bravely closed the distance between us and kissed her. It’s what I wanted, and though her movements were hesitant at first, her eagerness in kissing me back let me know she wanted it too.

I wrapped my hand around the nape of her neck, gripping at it, pushing her closer to me, her mouth opening up and letting my tongue meet hers. I ran it across the roof of her mouth, pulling away as my teeth pulled her lower lip with them. She shuddered softly, a soft moan escaping her pretty pink lips.

“And to think I thought you were shy,” she whispered, hands trailing down to my hips, fingers tapping softly against them.

“Mmm, being shy doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want, and what excites me,” I quipped back, earning me a small raised brow.

“And what do you want?” She pushed up on her toes, kissing nose as her hands began pulling my dress shirt out of my pants.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, fire growing in my stomach, blood beginning to rush to my prick, “Fuck sake, you really wanna know?”

She nodded, undoing my belt buckle and pants, working the zipper down as her hand slipped into the band of my brief without question.

“You. You on top of me in that golf cart. Fucking me until you can’t anymore,” I groaned as her hand wrapped around my length, freeing me from the restriction of my clothes, pumping up and down my length.

“Mmm, get in the cart, Harry,” she said, releasing her hold on me, pushing me back. I watched as she began stripping free of her clothes, and I did the same as we walked over to the cart, sliding into the back seat. She climbed into the space next to me, bending her body over to take me in her hand, pumping up and down my shift before slipping me in her mouth. Her tongue rounded around my tip, teasing along my slit making my abs contort, my legs shooting up slightly, body tensing at the feeling.

She chuckled, the vibrations adding to an additional sensation around my cock, as she pushed her mouth further down me, bobbing up and down until she took me completely, nose meeting my happy trail. I felt her swallow me further down her throat, my hand instinctively wrapping around her ponytail, holding her there as my hips bucked forward.

She pushed against my hold, pop off me with a gasp of air, her spit covering my cock, her hand replacing where her mouth was as she wiped her mouth with the other. She moved closer to me, kissing me deeply, my hand curling around her jaw, not able to get enough of her, of her taste.

Of her sweet apricot scent.

My hand moved down to her hip, gripping at it and directing her over my body, her legs straddling my hips, her hands both moving to my shoulders. I pushed her wet center onto my shaft, guiding her hips up and down it, her slick and spit creating enough lubrication to guide her movements further.

“Oh fuck,” she gasped, her hips rocking back and forth on me, her thighs clenching as she did, “Mm, I need you.”

She moaned, her eyes moving to mine, pants falling from her lips as her movements grew incredibly sloppy, her face was so flushed, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Yeah? Where do you need me? Huh? Tell me where,” I pressed into her lips, her moans growing more frequent, lips pressing an open kiss into my chin as I felt her come on me, arousal coating my cock thickly.

Her body trembled, her teeth biting at my chin, my hand moving up to her face, gripping under her jawline tightly, “Hmm, you need more than that?”

She nodded, “Please.” She basically begged.

“Mm? What more do you want, huh? Tell me Cassie,” I groaned at the thought of her saying she needed me inside her, at what that would feel like.

“Fill me up, please. God, Harry, please,” she breathed, pushing body up, gripping at my cock, bringing it up to meet her wet cunt, rubbing the tip against it before slipping herself down on me. It was a slow moment of taking me inch by inch, each moment further down met by the tight squeeze of her walls. She finally took the last bit of me in, each of us groaning out in pure ecstasy, before she began to lift her hips again, bouncing up and down on me effortlessly. Her perfectly round tits were in front of me, bouncy with her, begging to be in my mouth, my hands wrapping around them and bringing them to my lips. My tongue flicked at her nipples, pulling at them between my teeth, her moans escalating just like her pace on my cock.

“Fuck you do that so good, that wet cunt is so good,” I groaned into her tits, biting at the plump fleshy skin, kneading it with my hands. I slipped on arm around her waist, pumping my hard cock up into her, matching her pace.

“Oh, yes, Harry, just like that. Fuck just like that….god,” she moaned, her hands pulling my face to hers, kissing me deeply, our tongue sloppily running against each others. I slipped my fingers between us, rubbing her clit as I continued to pump in and out of her, her movements hardly existent, her legs trembling, her head knocked back in pleasure.

I could feel her tight cunt fluttering around me, pulling me deeper into it, her arousal already soaking down my thighs and hers. I wanted to taste every bit of it, I wanted it to coat me completely, make me filthy in it.

“You wanna come for me, Cassie? Come all over my hard cock, sweet girl? Hmm? Cock so hard for you, wants to fill you up. Can I do that? Can I fill up that wet cunt? Watch you squeeze me out after? Yeah?” I whispered into her neck, kissing along it up to her ear.

“Oh yes, Harry, fu-fuck, yes, yes, fill me up, oh…Ha-Harry I’m going to…I’m..” she gasped, her walls clenching around me, her hips pushing forward, legs clenching around me tighter, “Oh fuck, yes.”

She breathed out in relief, a moan so damn sexy I could have came at the very sound of it. I kept bucking my hips up into her, letting her ride out her high on my hard cock, taking in the way her body and face reacted to the feeling, only turning me on more. Both my hands gripped at her hips, fucking into her harder and quicker until I came, my hips bucking up and holding place their, shooting warm ropes into her fluttering walls.

We both came down from out high, her face nuzzled into my neck, my hips final relaxing and lowering back down, bring her carefully with me.

“Cassie baby, do something for me?” I whispered, a tired nod coming from her. She carefully sat up, eyes locking with mine.

“Pull off me sweet girl, squeeze out my come for me, let me see it drip out of you? Yeah?” I breathed out and she nodded, lazily doing as I instructed. She pulled off of me, both of us groaning. My eyes locked into her sweet cunt, watching her squeeze my come out of her, “Fuck, yes.”

She smirked tiredly, reaching down and covering her fingers in it, bringing it to her lips, licking them clean slowly. I met the other side of them, helping her, until she pulled them away so we were sharing the mix of our arousals on our lips.

Pulling away, she sighed, pushing her forehead on mine, “Mmm, I’ve never christened my secret spot before. Must be my lucky day.”

I chuckled, pressing one more kiss onto her lips, “We can do it again tomorrow. I have time. Find other places in this club to christen.”

“Mm? Sounds like a challenge.”

“I never liked when things came easy anyways.”

[nerdiel-has-no-braincells]

Cat Nap

ft. gojo satoru x gn!reader

summary: gojo had just gotten an earful from his teacher and is seeking you out. what he finds is unexpected ❦

a/n: i’ve been working on this short one for a while deciding on how long i actually wanted it but decided to keep it short but sweet

Satoru stretched as he walked through the halls of Jujutsu college. Yaga had given him another lecture about his lack of attention in the classroom. While Satoru had stayed behind, Shoko and Suguru had snuck off to smoke. You, however, disappeared, and he was trying to find you.

He knew you weren’t inside the school — the sun was shining and the weather itself was perfect for you being late Spring. You enjoyed spending time outside so Satoru knew you were outside somewhere.

Opening the door to the outside hall, his eyes wandered around, looking for that familiar figure.

Hands in his pockets, he wandered outside. You weren’t in the training grounds, you weren’t in the forest nor were you near the vending machines. He had one place to check, which was your favorite tree. The tree was big enough to shade you from the sun without taking away the warmth. Often Satoru would find you there and eventually it became the group’s lunch spot. It had a nice view of the city and the cherry blossoms in the Spring. It easily became his favorite spot as well.

As he neared the tree, Satoru looked up to see the top of your head. A smile appeared on his face as he felt his heart pound as he got closer to you.

Standing in front of you, Satoru tilted his head to the side and let out a quiet chuckle. You had fallen asleep, leaning against your favorite tree, earbuds in your ear and your mp3 player beside you. You were too cute.

Taking out his flip phone, he took a picture of you as you slept, making it his background.

The smile on his face matched the feeling in his heart; warm as he looked at his new background.

Putting his phone back into his pocket, he sat down next to you leaving no space. He told himself that he wanted to be there for you in case you fell over but in actuality he wanted to touch you.

He slowly and gently took your hand and held it, rubbing the pad of his thumb against your soft skin.

Looking at you, he wondered what you were listening to so he reached his free arm around and gently took out one of your ear buds and set it into his ear so that he could also listen to your music.

A warm and comforting song was playing and he immediately recognized what song it was—he’d caught you singing it one day when you were passing the training grounds on your way to the vending machines.

He felt at peace. It was the perfect sunny day where he spent time with the one who was perfect for him listening to the perfect song.

Closing his eyes, he let himself relax and lull into a deep sleep.

Shoko and Geto wandered around looking for the two of you. Satoru was meant to find you but it had been an hour with no word causing them to find Satoru as well.

What surprised them was the sight of you and Satoru sleeping against the tree, holding hands, your head on his shoulder and his head on top of yours, the two of you connected by earbuds. A smile was formed on your face while you slept as if you were dreaming of this exact moment.

The sight made Shoko and Geto want to let out an audible ‘awww’ but they didn’t want to risk waking you up.

Instead, they took out a camera and took a photo of the two of you.

Shoko planned on printing two copies; one for you and one for Satoru. The two of them knew of your feelings for each other, but the both of you were blind to the other’s feelings. She secretly hoped this would help you understand each other’s feelings and finally, finally get together.

Turning back around, they decided to let the two of you have your time together. They’ll just tell Yaga they couldn’t find you once training started.

tags: @mrsyixingunicorn10 @cinnaa-x @xamilarin @cloudsinthecosmos @rivaiken @vr00m-vr00m @shycreatorsandwich @the-fab-killjoy

Sequel to Cat Nap here

Jujutsu Kaisen belongs to Gege Akutami

©️nerdiel-has-no-braincells Please do not copy, translate, and post as your own. Reblogs, likes, and comments are ok with me!

[hai7ani]

os ventos do amor ᡣ𐭩 ー haitani rindou

the five times rindou shows you he loves you (tries) & the one time he finally tells you about it.

( the winds of love ) friends with benefits + colleagues au, mdni

一 · in his kitchen (prequel)

The first time Rindou tries showing you he loves you, you're busy slurping noodles in his kitchen, and he's creasing his brows ironing your stupid little blouse in his tiny laundry room.

"Need some help?" You tease from the table after swallowing.

Usually you'd let him do it himself in peace, with no mocking, as per his own request to iron your clothes for you whenever you stay the night. But he's been at it for the past 20 minutes now just ironing one stupid blouse, and you're starting to grow impatient, because he'd promised to share this bowl of ramen with you but it's almost finished now.

Your voice echoes in the living area and he doesn't reply, but you know he heard you. You put down the chopsticks and sigh, "you know, I could've done it myself. No need for the trou-"

"Here."

You cock your head to the side and you see him, finally, out of the laundry room, with some sweat beading on his forehead and he's padding towards you, holding out your white blouse to you by its hanger.

He's still frowning when he stops before you at the dining table and you can feel his deject before he even says his next words:

"It's a stubborn crease, 'n I coulda done better. But I don't wanna burn through your shirt." He hands you your blouse and you immediately soften at it, fingers gently running over the said crease and you can tell he's done his best ー he did a great job, because if it were up to you, you would've chosen to give up halfway through.

"And sorry I ripped your skirt. I'll buy you a new one this weekend." He apologises through a mouthful of ramen and you reach a thumb up to wipe away some soup dripping down his chin.

Your eyes flicker to the said skirt sitting on the edge of his couch ー a black linen pencil skirt with a little slit running up your knee is now a big slit running up your hip, and the sight makes you want to laugh. You'd stripped it off and threw it there upon entering his house ー a little angry and upset that he'd ripped through your favourite skirt to wear for work out of eagerness to fuck you in the backseat of his car without getting you both home first, and he'd offered to iron your shirt for the next day out of guilt.

And now you're left in nothing but your undies, still not yet showered (you're waiting for him together), and you notice it's a little red on the tip of his ears. But your fury has died out long ago and seeing him like this ー somewhat embarrassed and you think he's kind of stupid for apologising because deep down you know he knows you don't mind at all, but he still says it anyway ー makes you want to grab him by his cheeks and place a fat smooch on his lips. But you don't, and you continue to watch as he swiftly finishes up the noodles before turning to wash the dishes.

"...Thank you, Rin." He doesn't see it but you're smiling when you say it to him ー shy, rosy lips a little pursed, the apple of your cheeks rose high, and he resists the urge to turn around and cup your cheeks with soapy hands.

"Whatever. 'N the noodles were disgusting. Remind me to never buy it again."

"Okay."

二 · in the office

The second time is when you catch him in the printer room the next morning.

He's photocopying documents by the printer, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and he has one hand manning the machine with the other supporting his body. His fingernails tap beats against the hard surface as he waits for the next batch of documents to finish printing.

Rindou doesn't notice your presence and you don't make yourself known either, choosing to watch him by the door as he makes quick work of counting and organising and stapling together freshly printed documents while making sure they're all in the correct order for the team meeting later ー and you think it's so bad of you to be ogling at his exposed arms with indecent thoughts of doing many things to him floating in your mind as his muscles flex under the light with his every move.

But you don't let your thoughts consume you, and he looks up at you ー now standing beside him with your arms tucked behind your body and a cheeky smile planted on your face.

Rindou focuses back on his work, obviously in a rush to complete everything, but he still acknowledges you nonetheless.

"You're up to something." He sighs while stacking together the stapled documents.

You feint a pout.

"...'M not." (He interpreted this as "I am.")

Rindou has never once told you this but he always thought that you had somewhat of a close resemblance to a cat. A very annoying Siamese cat that behaved like his previous one, constantly following him around and begging him for attention while also pretending like it isn't.

But it's nothing new. Rindou had come to a conclusion a while ago that you like to keep him guessing, and you particularly enjoy acting nonchalant when it's so obvious to him right now that you want something, anything that can keep you going for the day.

"What, you want a kiss or somethin'?"

"...Kinda,"

Bingo.

"But I want to use the machine more than I want a kiss."

He smirks, though he doesn't give it to you just yet, and you begin to count and prepare your own documents in silent when he doesn't reply. (You think he's ignoring you and it's awkward.)

But Rindou doesn't step away even when he's finished and you're confused. And unlike yourself, he doesn't have a knack for keeping you guessing. He speaks before you have the chance to ask.

"How many?" He grabs at your papers and lays them face-down on the machine before closing the shutter. His thumb hovers over the screen, eyes unwavering against your own as he waits for your reply.

"Um, ten copies." Your smile slowly widens when he finally presses 'print' and steps back for you to take over. He doesn't collect his documents to leave, however, and you raise your brows in confusion when he moves to close the door gently (and locking it, too) before shutting the blinds altogether.

"What're you doin'? Aren't you in a rush?" You question.

He shrugs and makes his way over to you.

"I've got time," he says it while trapping you against the machine with his two arms, lips quickly hovering against your own and you can smell a hint of the peppermint gum he likes to chew on from time to time.

"The machine's all yours," he licks at your bottom lip, "and now, for your kiss..."

I've always got time for you.

You think it's a great thing that the printer room doesn't have a CCTV.

三 · at the mall (shopping for your skirt)

Rindou has a good eye for things. You knew it the moment he'd picked out a pair of Daiso's reindeer-printed socks for you as your Secret Santa a few Christmases ago.

(You've always liked reindeers, but Rindou simply bought it for you because he didn't know what you liked.

You'd jumped in happiness the moment you opened your present and Rindou thought you were actually the prettiest girl alive.

You'd pounced on him in excitement, yelling out your gratefulness for everyone in the party to hear.

He'd decided that he wanted you then.)

So you're in Aeon browsing through skirts without him even though you came out here together. You don't know where he is, and you've given up on looking for him after phoning him a few times and wandering around like a lost child looking for its parent.

But you hear a cough behind you and you turn around, only to be greeted by the sight of a really pretty dress hanging from his finger.

You admire it from top to bottom ー a really nice coral pink dress with large hibiscuses printed all over with a little slit running up the thigh ー and Rindou moves it closer to you.

"Whatchu think of this?" He asks, nervous eyes a little dodgy against your mischievous ones, and you smile a little when taking the hook off his finger.

"I wanted a skirt, not a dress." You comment, obviously poking fun at him and Rindou immediately reddens like a tomato. "Forget it, then."

He reaches a hand out to snatch it from your own but you take a step back away, clutching the dress to your chest tight.

"Didn't say I don't want it, though." You jut your chin out and he snorts.

"I need to make a call," he fishes his card out from his wallet and hands it to you. You grip on the flat plastic tight, afraid of losing it while also in shock because why did he hand you his card? He's acting like you're both a married couple now.

"Text me when you're finished." And he shuffles away with his phone pressed to his ear.

四 · during the phone call with his brother

"Yo, Aniki." Rindou greets the moment his brother picks up the phone. After eight rings, what the hell is this idiot even doing?

"What?" The older man answers from the other line, phone tucked between the shoulder and his ear while he's rushing to prepare his daughter's dinner.

"You busy?" The younger boy asks. He shuffles his weight from heel to toe while standing in front of a wall full of different mugs and bowls at the home appliances department.

Pink is nice. She likes pink. Or should I get red? It's almost Valent-

"Uncle Rin-rin!" His niece's voice booms through the speaker, cutting Ran off and Rindou immediately smiles at it. "Hi, sweetie."

And Ran takes over the phone again. "What's up? Speak before I hang up. I'm a very busy man." Rindou resists the urge to snort at it ー he has a favour to ask, after all.

"How do you..." The younger pauses, oddly feeling a little too nervous to continue. Though it is his own brother on the other line that he knows although very annoying, he would still be there to help, Rindou finds it a little embarrassing to be asking him about this. He's never done this before, and he's not very big on asking his brother for favours too, and Ran is surprised at the sudden question shot that's been left hanging.

He looks up at the ceiling and sighs. He knows Ran will never let this go if he asks, but he decides to screw his ego because in the end, it is for you.

"How do you, um," he taps his foot on the ground.

...Fuck it.

"How do you chase a girl? Or something like that. Whatever it is."

"...Chase a girl? What girl- Oh. The one you've been sleeping with."

"What the fuck? Not in front of my niece, dude."

"Relax, I put her down a while ago."

"You're fucking annoying, you know that?"

Ran only laughs boisterously at Rindou's annoyance, but he doesn't leave his brother hanging.

He's always here for him, no matter what.

"So what're you thinking? Any options?" Ran asks. Rindou grabs at a white mug with pink flowers painted on it before replying. "Mugs."

"Mugs? Like for drinking, mugs? You're not serious, Rindou? You're buying mugs to chase a girl, are you insane?"

The younger clicks his tongue and puts the porcelain back on the shelf albeit a little harshly. "Why else do you think I'm asking you, asshole? Just tell me what to buy. I really don't know."

"I can't tell you what to buy for a girl you're chasing, dude. And I don't even know what she likes. What does she like? You tell me."

He ponders for a moment. "Dresses. Pink stuff." His mind travels back to the night you first met, at work, as clerks, when you'd included your hobbies into your introduction and one of it was gardening. "And like, flowers."

"Then just get her flowers, you already have your answer." Ran deadpans from the other line, but Rindou only hisses. "Yeah, but I already got her a pink dress with flowers printed on it. What else?"

"I'm talking about actual flowers. You can get them anywhere, and most importantly, never fails to make a pretty girl smile. She already likes flowers anyway."

"...'Kay, thanks. You're useful for once."

"Fuck off." Ran clicks his tongue. "...And red tulips, if I may suggest. And remember, tell me how it goes-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

五 · aftercare with you

Remember when I said that Rindou wanted you the moment you'd hugged him in excitement after seeing some lame reindeer-printed socks wrapped up nicely in a little box tied with a pink ribbon on top?

Yeah. He'd wanted you since then. But instead of starting off as friends from colleagues before getting to know you better and then asking you out on a date when he feels the time is right ー like a normal, sane person ー the both of you had gotten into a mutual agreement of becoming friends with benefits.

You don't remember exactly when it started, how it started, who initiated it, and neither does he, but you don't really care. Not when he's busy rubbing soft circles on the bruise forming on your hips for some comfort while he pecks you again and again on your forehead as you slowly fall asleep beneath him. He'd lost focus for a bit and gripped you a little harsher than he should've, but you really don't mind, yet he still feels bad.

And Rindou thinks you're prettiest like this ー neck and chest painted in hickeys that he'd sucked (out of adoration), eyelids droopy with your bags a little red from the tears of bliss you'd shed, and the back of yours fingers are gently caressing his left cheek. Your room smells of sex and lemongrass and a quiet 'sleepy?' is all he asks when your eyes finally close.

You hum out a lazy response of 'yes' before moving the same hand down to rest it on his nape, playing with the ends of his mullet a little, and you push him down to rest on your chest.

It's heartwarming. It feels intimate. And despite your abnormal relationship title with the man, you don't reject the sudden swell of your heart and neither does he.

So he presses a soft kiss to the top of your left boob ー right where your beating heart resides ー and you hug your legs a little tighter around his waist. It's nothing sexual and you both know it. It was all just to bring him closer to you, for you to feel more of his warmth in the coldness of your bedroom paired with the chill of February.

"Sleep then." He assures, voice gentle and lulling, and you smile a little at it.

Rindou is always softer at times like this, you realise ー when he'd fucked the life out of you after a particularly long day, when he'd made you moaned out melodies that he swore belonged to heaven, when he'd spent hours between your legs lapping up everything you have to give him.

Though you don't let yourself go at his words, and he watches amusedly as you try your hardest to fight back dear sleep in his arms. You don't think you're ready to sleep yet. Something feels out of place, oddly, even though you're sure you have completed everything that was in your checklist today.

Laundry, washing the dishes, prepping for Monday's meeting... You've done it all, and yet you still can't pinpoint what it is that is missing.

Until he moves up to silently place a warm kiss on your neck ー where your pulse beats against his lips ー and he realises his life hasn't really started until recently, until the day he'd met you and he thought you were such a breathtaking girl. Colours had burst into his world and your smile was the first thing that had lightened up.

And while you're happily drowning in his attention, Rindou silently wonders if the two of you were perhaps lovers in your past lives.

He wonders if you'd be willing to catch him. To be there, holding your arms out and yelling to him that you're here and to not worry; for him to just fall into your arms and he'd be safe ー you'll catch him.

Because he is falling. Hard. And he doesn't know how to tell you about it. He hopes that for the past few days his gestures were enough to tell you a portion of his love...

Just a portion, though. Because he wants to tell you the rest when he finally gets to call you his. Under the moonlight, at dinner with his brother and his family, before his parents at their graves every anniversary, or in front of your dog that's pawing at your door asking to be finally let in... Whatever it is, he wants to show the world that he loves you.

So when you smile sweetly up at him as he grows hard against your thigh ー a silly little love boner that you must've thought was just him getting horny to you massaging his sore backー Rindou's become a little more certain that the two of you must've met one way or another in the previous lifetimes and have fallen in love with each other when you gently trail a finger down his abdomen, before finally wrapping a hand around him.

Rindou wonders what it'd feel like to be yours in this lifetime.

And he gives in to your touches. He buries his head into the crook of your neck and lets you play with him as you please.

He thinks it's kind of cute that even as friends with benefits, you've already engraved a piece of yourself onto him.

Like the extra sets of pencil skirts and blouses that you leave hanging in his wardrobe in case of last minute plans that he swears are a hassle to iron because he can never get the creases right. But he never complains, and he would always offer to iron your clothes each time you stay over at his house. Or even when you don't. Because he would always find your stuff sitting in the basket when he's doing his laundry. And he'd have to iron them neat for you, before hanging it up in his wardrobe for you to wear the next time you stay the night.

Or like your toothbrushes hanging next to each other on the wall in his bathroom ー pink and purple facing each other by their bristles because you'd insisted out of the blue on a random Monday morning, at the start of your "relationship", with foamy toothpaste in your mouth and your hair poking out in every different direction it can go.

And sometimes your shoes bring him joy too, whenever he would get up to check on the door while you're falling asleep in his bed and he'd spot how your black pumps are always somehow scattered messily next to his own neat dress shoes by the entrance, and he'd have to squat down and rearrange them nicely.

He looks back up at you with ragged breaths and a coil in his abdomen that's threatening to break anytime soon. You're still giving him the same smile that drives him nuts every single time, and he leans in closer to give you a little kiss on the lips that you very much love.

And Rindou comes to a sudden realisation that he wants to tell you he loves you now. He needs you to know that he's all yours. You're his sweetheart.

So he does what he thinks is right ー what he feels is right. He reaches over your body, towards the marble vase on your nightstand that your mother had gifted you as a housewarming present, and he picks a fresh flower out of it after careful consideration. You don't move from your spot, only trying to kiss whatever skin of his that your lips can reach from your position ー his shoulder, his bicep, his arm, his neck... And a familiar smaller-sized tulip appears before your eyes. You raise your brows a little at it.

"Pretty fuckin' girl," is all he murmurs before pushing himself into you.

"I'm all yours." He whispers.

A peaceful winter night and Rindou fucks you again in missionary with so much love bubbling in his chest and a red tulip tucked behind your ear.

终 · during breakfast together

"Do you want eggs?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

You kick your feet and watch from the bar as he cooks you both breakfast in your kitchen. You're covered in one of his shirts that he'd left sitting on the back of your chair, your tired eyes scans over his half-tattooed back covered in scratch marks, and you feel oddly proud to be the one to have done all that.

But you know it is not right. And you're not stupid ー you're aware of the things he's been doing these days, and if you were a forgetful fool you would've missed the rule you made with him at the start of your intimacy.

Never catch feelings for each other.

...But you were no forgetful fool, and the ache in your heart is too painful for you to ignore. You'd seen the way he looked at you last night ー the way he'd fucked you like you were the finest thing personally handcrafted by the hands of God. And because you treasure your friendship, you know you shouldn't be doing this to him. You think he's a good person, and you want to remain friends with him.

But you don't want to let him go.

"Hey, Rindou." You call out. He's in the midst of scrambling your eggs with butter when you do so. "Yeah?"

"Rindou," he hums again.

Ever so patient, but I have to break your heart.

"...We should end things, Rindou-kun."

Saturday morning and it feels as though his world is falling apart from your simple sentence. Like you've ripped apart his beating heart that pounds solely for you and threw it on the ground.

You are so cruel.

So much for all that last night, he thinks. So he turns around after hurriedly switching off the gas. The wooden spatula covered in eggs is still in his hands when he faces you in agony and you want to break down and cry.

You feel like a villain. The evilest villain of them all.

"Why? Was I too rough on you last night? I- Or were we too open about it? Tell me." He's worried. He's so worried that it almost makes you want to crumble into pieces.

Purples flicker between your own and your lips wobble. You grip the hem of his shirt tight in your hands and look down.

"Please, tell me." He pushes again, so you decide to tell him truthfully.

Be a big girl, don't cry. You've survived 25 years of life, cutting things off with your FWB should be easy.

"...I've caught feelings."

Except it's not.

A lone tear makes its way down your cheek and you wipe it away quick. "Sorry, I broke the rule. I caught feelings and I- I don't think it's right for us to continue this any further." Your voice cracks with every word you speak and it makes you want to cry even further, because he's not saying anything.

And despite the strong stance you've presented to him, Rindou knows you're putting on an act for him. So he puts down the spatula and shuffles to you. He stops before you and tilts your chin up with his finger.

You'd half-expected him to be upset about this as much as you are, because you know the feeling's mutual, but you respect the rule of your relationship more and you don't think it's right to continue on.

Except he isn't, and he's so fucking smug about it.

Rindou's got a huge grin on his face when you look up at him. Hair a little messy, a hickey on his jaw, and you're sobbing into his arms now.

"You like me." He states.

You kick him a little and continue to cry.

"You like me, huh?" He repeats again.

Rindou has an arm wrapped securely around your waist with the other hand smoothing the back of your head as he shushes you gently, rocking you both side to side and you hit him a little on the chest.

"Do you think this is funny? It's not funny. I'm being serious." So you try pushing him away in hiccups but he only laughs as you struggle against his strength.

"Why do you wanna end things?"

"As I've said, I broke the rule. It's not right anymore."

He snorts at your reasoning. "You know, rules are always meant to be broken."

"So you don't respect me enough to follow my rule?" You're trying to pick a fight but he doesn't quite buy into it, choosing to kiss your forehead instead as you continue to wiggle your way out of his hold.

"I've never been one to follow the rules anyway." Rindou mutters against your hair as he presses another kiss to your crown. You're too endearing to let go, he thinks, and he holds you anymore tighter to himself at that.

"And who said if it's right or wrong? Screw rights and wrongs. We both like each other, the feeling's mutual. There's no point in letting each other go." He wipes your tears away with his palm and cups your cheeks with them. "I know you don't wanna let me go."

You swat his chest again at that and he only laughs harder at your reaction. He thinks you're the most precious thing in life. In his life. In the universe. You're the most precious thing ever.

"I like you a whole lot, you know." Smooch. "More than you'll ever know." Another smooch. "Let me be yours."

You pout as you look into his eyes. Purple orbs sucking you in deep and you have no choice but to fall. Purple orbs that tells you these arms will catch you if you do. And another kiss to your soul that tells you everything you need to know.

"Okay."

You'll catch each other.

"I love you."

You're already catching each other.

😅😅😅😅😅 been mia for so long bc i've been working on this. Its been in my drafts for soooo long LOL and this was supposed to be a valentines day special but i didnt make it in time cus i was bz sleeping.. but i hope you guys like this a lot ^^ listen to the playlist if u have time! And i tried a new layout too i hope it looks nice.

Reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for reading <3

© HAI7ANI ON TUMBLR / DO NOT STEAL

[meditek122]

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[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

"tea" - emily prentiss x fem!liasion!reader

summary: you make a cup of tea to help you sleep

wc: 1.2k

cw: none, really? mostly fluff, & just emily being the best girlfriend ever

a/n: i'm in an emily phase rn and i'm not responsible for the fics i write ok ly all bad

A teal, ceramic mug with I <3 MYRTLE BEACH carved into it is cradled between both your hands as you lean against the kitchen counter. Your sleepovers at Emily’s apartment have become more and more frequent these days, which is lucky for you, really, because now you have a drawer where you can keep your comfortable, printed pajama sets. The set you have on tonight is blue, decorated with cartoon puppies. The shorts ride up your ass a little as you lean against the counter, but it’s no matter to you. Not right now, not when you’re the only one awake.

Or so you thought. 

Emily’s steps are akin to that of a kitten as she pads into the kitchen. Her ivory skin is the first thing you see, standing out in contrast of her dimly lit apartment. Then her dark hair, pulled up in a chaotic bun on the top of her head, leaning a little to the left because she always sleeps on her side. 

“Shit, Em, did the kettle wake you?” You grimace as she treads softly towards you. Her eyes squint to adjust to the light you have on over the range, and she reaches a closed fist out to chuck your chin playfully on her way to the refrigerator. 

“It’s alright,” she says, her voice like sandpaper compared to the usual velveteen you hear all day long. She must have been deep asleep, then. You feel a pang of guilt tug at your heart as you take a long sip of your tea. Emily grabs a handful of green grapes from the bowl in the fridge, popping one into her mouth. She glides to stand against the kitchen island, opposite a small stretch of linoleum from you. “You’re having trouble falling asleep again?” 

You shrug a little, trying to be nonchalant about it, but the truth is, you’ve been unable to fall asleep for a few weeks now. You chalk it up to a bad case about a month ago - unfortunately, both the unsub and their latest victim didn’t make it. You’ve had cases that didn’t end well before, but this victim was a young girl and you can’t help the way this one lingers in the back of your mind, like a bad aftertaste. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, baby,” Emily says before crunching down on a grape, the last one in her hand. You set your tea down on the counter beside you and cross the linoleum street that separates you and your girlfriend, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her satin pajamas tickle your cheek as you press your forehead into the crook of her shoulder. 

You cling to her like a koala and Emily just keeps her hands on your waist, holding you closely as you embrace her. She smells like jasmine and vanilla, and you almost want to chastise her because you know that means she stole your perfume. 

“My head just feels very full these days,” you sigh after a few moments, pulling away. Emily uses her hold on your hips to guide your back against the kitchen island. You hoist yourself up onto it and Emily moves to stand between your legs. 

“It’s that Oregon case, isn’t it?” she asks, tucking your hair behind your ear with one hand, the other palm resting flat on your thigh. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, an eyebrow quirking upward. 

“You asked Reid to help you finish your report on it,” Emily begins. “Two out of three cases since then have revolved around young girls, like you’re overcompensating, and Derek told me he saw you zoning out by the coffee machine while Anderson and JJ were discussing the case.”

You feel pink rush to your cheeks. All of Emily’s evidence is factual, much as it pains you to admit. “Is that all?” you deadpan, feeling a little sheepish. You also want to lay into your coworkers for being such tattletales. As the Communications Liaison, you generally maintain a well-rounded, professional disposition, but you suppose even your attitude at work has been lacking recently. 

“And, y’know, the gut feeling,” Emily adds. “You’ve been a little slower getting ready for work, almost like you’re dreading it.” 

“We agreed, no more profiling at home,” you remind her. She runs her thumb over the dimple in your chin. 

“It’s not profiling, it’s knowing my girlfriend,” Emily bites back with a compassionate sincerity that makes you want to eat her alive. How did you get so lucky? “You’re usually dragging me out of bed in the mornings, not the other way around.” 

You rake your fingers through her hair, meeting her dark eyes in the soft, dim light of the kitchen. This is as romantic a backdrop as any, in your opinion - lovelier than Paris, Rome, and London combined. You’ve always heard that to be loved is to be known, and boy, does Emily know you. 

“Well, I’m sorry for waking you up,” you concede in a slight change of subject, tracing your thumb across her hairline. “D’you want some tea? It’s that herbal stuff for sleep that Penelope recommended.” 

Emily shakes her head, kissing your jaw gently, then your cheek, finally your lips. It’s brief but it carries so many words. “No, thank you,” she says in a whisper, then steps back, grabs your cup from the other counter, and hands it to you. 

You take a drink, the warmth seeping in through your nostrils. “Do you love Myrtle Beach, Em?” you ask with a small laugh as you examine the mug in your hands. It’s obviously handmade, with the splotches of teal paint and weird lumps - and the lack of a handle. 

Emily just laughs, turning around and hoisting herself up onto the countertop beside you. You eye her smooth legs sticking out of those black, satin pajama shorts, and, uncontrollably, you set your mug down and place a hand over her thigh. “I’ve actually never been to Myrtle Beach,” she says. “I bought that at a thrift store.”

“So, you buy designer pajama sets off the rack, but you shop for your mugs secondhand?” you chortle a little, drawing circles into the sliver of pearly white thigh peeking out from her shorts.

“Yep,” Emily confirms, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word and shooting you a sideways smirk. “I like some things luxurious, but other things with lots of personality.”

“And which one am I?” you ask all-knowingly, leaning a little closer so your mouth was mere centimeters for hers.

“Oh, c’mon, now, you know you’re both.” Emily teases, then kisses you softly. 

You smile into the kiss, one hand curving against the smooth angle of her jaw to keep her face by yours for just a moment longer. “I really am sorry I woke you up,” you whisper as you pull away. 

“Don’t be,” Emily insists, resting her forehead against yours. “If it comes down to staring at the ceiling all night or waking me up by making tea, just wake me up. Okay?” 

You start to pull back, but Emily’s hand cups your cheek to keep your eyes on hers. “Okay?” she repeats. 

You nod. “Mhm. Okay, Em.” 

“Good, sweet, lovely girl,” Emily murmurs, pecking your lips once more before hopping off the counter. She offers you a hand to help you down. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

[sits-bound]

My bookbinding tools and stuff

I started binding in July 2023, so I'm certainly no expert, but in case you're interested in what I use to create my binds…

I use Adobe InDesign to typeset and Illustrator for graphics

I print on an old Canon laser printer for black and white and an Epson ET-3830 inkjet for color

I purchase my shortgrain paper from Church Paper (for folios) and the long grain paper I use for quartos is just whatever (nothing special)

I love my punching cradle and guide that I got off etsy.

I use this thread (that I wax with beeswax) for sewing signatures

I love this cardstock for endpapers (Craft Consortium ink drops) but I collect pads of 12x12 cardstock in various designs from craft stores.

I like this bookboard (in black specifically)

ETA: I recently ordered precut boards from Hollander's. I cannot recommend this enough. I got the .10 thick board.

I use these tools for spacing and squaring when creating covers

Everything gets stuck together with this glue. (GET THE POINTY TOP!)

I have an old Silhouette Cameo for cutting vinyl and applying foil to bookcloth (with this pen)

I use this foil quill for freehanding

I apply laser toner foil with this Scotch laminator

I have a thermal binding machine from Amazon and I use these glue strips with it

I have this guillotine (but I don't recommend black for visibility reasons)

I have purchased bookcloth from Hollander's, Colophon, and Amazon. I don't recommend the Allure line if you are decorating with HTV or paint.

Get this heat and bond if you want to make your own bookcloth

I make ribbon bookmarks with charms like these and these crimps.

I get positive feedback and help and kindness from @renegadeguild

Caveat: These are just the tools and supplies I use. I am not an expert. I'm a hobbyist who is relatively new to it. Some of the things I use might be "wrong" but every book I've made works, so who cares?

If you want to see what it looks like when I bind something, here's a short video.

[auraxins]

Dan Heng - Cockwarming

tags: amab!reader, NSFT, minors DNI, cockwarming, praise, teasing, erotic novels

wc: 0.9k

kinktober masterlist

Walking in on your boyfriend reading what is so clearly an erotic novel wasn't particularly the expected outcome for the evening. You'd anticipate finding him with a book in his hands, sure; he did that most nights. But this is truly a sight to behold.

Dan Heng's cheeks are flushed, eyes fixed intently on the words printed in front of him. His grip is tight, vice-like, around the edges of the book, as though anchoring himself to it. The clean lines of his clothing are wrinkled, disheveled, and his hair looks like he has run his hands through it several times.

To say it hadn't immediately enticed you would be a flat-out lie.

“What have you got there?” you ask innocently, padding across the room to the seat he's taken. You go to peer over the pages and he snatches the book away, hastily snapping the cover shut. “Something naughty?”

“It's not what it looks like,” Dan Heng scrambles to explain. He stands abruptly, moving to shove the book back amongst its cohort on the shelves lining his room. “March asked me to read this.”

“You don't have to stop on my account,” you say, reaching around him to pluck the book from his grasp.

Turning it over, you glimpse the title. Love and Other Machinations. You can see why March might have gotten away with convincing him to read this. He's never quite felt himself attuned to the inner workings of romance. (Not that you've ever minded, and not that it's ever stopped him being the sweetest man you've ever been with.)

Dan Heng is almost too easy to coax into compliance at times. Eager to please, and already worked up from the novel, all it takes is one simple suggestion to have him stripping for you with avidity.

“How about you take a seat, and you can keep reading for me?”

You watch the layers of fabric hit the floor with a dull thunk as your hands trace the edges of the seat he'd been using. The soft padding yields to your body as you sit, shifting to pull your cock free. It takes a few careful strokes to bring it to attention, and Dan Heng's eyes follow it like a moth with a flame.

“You really want this, huh?” you tease lightly, noting the pink flush that dances up his thighs and dusts his cheeks.

With his lower half bared, you reach out and slide your fingers along the hem of his shirt to draw him closer. It's all too tempting not to play with the soft curves around his abdomen, encouraging him to sit on your lap.

His nails carve crescents into your shoulders as he sinks onto your cock, warm walls spasming under the stretch. His own leaks beads of pre readily, tip red and throbbing between your stomachs.

"That's my good boy," you praise gently, the pad of your thumb caressing his lips. You part them and let his mouth hang open, watch the saliva pool upon his tongue and his sharp canines glisten in the moonlight.

He releases an unbidden keen and you bite back the urge to sink your fingers into the flesh of his hips and fuck him like your life depends on it.

But you’re shockingly more restrained than your counterpart. Dan Heng has taken to biting his lip to keep himself together as his ass clenches around your cock. His fingers tremble with each turn of the page, and even the most minute of changes in position seem to send a shiver down his spine.

“Keep reading,” you command gently. “I want to hear your pretty voice.”

“They reach down to his– ugh– his member and…”

You cut him off before he can continue. “It doesn’t say that.”

“Please don’t make me,” Dan Heng insists, cheeks flushed and forehead slick with sweat. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I thought you wanted to read to me,” you pout. With one shift of your hips, you’ve pulled out so only the very tip of your cock remains embedded within him. “Or did you want to stop?”

“No!” He panics, the book almost flying from his grasp as he clings to you. “I’ll keep going. Please.”

The warmth of his hole is so inviting as you pull him back onto you, grasping his plush ass tight to anchor yourself. Dan Heng almost collapses against you under the motion, arms falling slack over your shoulders as his head presses against yours. “That’s it,” you coo softly. “Now stay there for me and read.”

“They reach down to his dick and grasp it firmly,” Dan Heng reads aloud, “and he moans.”

You slip a hand between your bodies and take hold of Dan Heng’s cock. Like a prophecy, a breathy groan falls from between his lips. It’s so easy to run your thumb across the slit, to gather up the eagerly flowing pre-cum and smear it along his length.

“Unfair,” Dan Heng protests, but he is already instinctively writhing to increase the friction.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you say, dipping close to press a kiss to his nose. “I’ll put you out of your misery.”

When you finally snap your hips and set a steady pace, both in his ass and with your hand, Dan Heng all but falls apart there and then.

[thelibraryghost]

A Young Person's Guide to 18th-Century Western Fashion

unabridged version at blogspot

General info Cox, Abby. "I Wore 18th-Century Clothing *Every Day for 5 YEARS & This Is What I Learned (Corsets Aren't Bad!)." YouTube. May 10, 2020. Cullen, Oriole. “Eighteenth-Century European Dress.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2004. Glasscock, Jessica. "Eighteenth-Century Silhouette and Support." In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2004. Accessories Banner, Bernadette. "Women's Pockets Weren't Always a Complete Disgrace | A Brief History: England, 15th c - 21st c." YouTube. April 10, 2021. Colonial Williamsburg. "#TradesTuesday: Men's Accessories." YouTube. June 13, 2021. Murden, Sarah. "The Georgian era fashion for straw hats." All Things Georgian. December 6, 2018. Cosmetics & hygiene Cox, Abby. "I Followed an 18th-Century Moisturizer & Sunscreen Recipe & it kinda worked??." YouTube. February 21, 2021. Cox, Abby. "We tried making *5* different 250 year old rouge (blush) recipes || [real] regencycore makeup." YouTube. August 29, 2021. JYF Museums. "Hygiene in the 18th Century | From the Farm to the Army." YouTube. August 21, 2021. Décor Heckscher, Morrison H. “American Rococo.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2003. Munger, Jeffrey. “French Porcelain in the Eighteenth Century.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2003. Formal wear SnappyDragon. "This dressing gown changed fashion forever : the feminist history of going out in loungewear." YouTube. April 15, 2022. Stowell, Lauren. "The Many Types of 18th Century Gowns." American Duchess. March 15, 2013. Zebrowska, Karolina. "Cottagecore Style Is Much Older Than You Think." YouTube. June 30, 2021. Hair care Cox, Abby. "I made 250-year-old Hair Products Using Original Recipes (and animal fat...)." YouTube. November 7, 2021. Cox, Abby. "I tried a 300-year-old hair care routine for a year & this is what I learned (it's awesome!)." YouTube. January 23, 2022. Cox, Abby. "What's the Deal with 18th Century Wigs? (and why Bridgerton really messed this up)." YouTube. June 1, 2023. Laundry Cox, Abby. "Making 300 Year Old SLIME for Laundry Day." YouTube. June 15, 2023. Townsends. "Historical Laundry Part 2: No Washing Machine, No Dryer, Hit It With A Stick?" YouTube. June 3, 2019. Outer- & working-wear JYF Museum. "Getting Dressed | Clothing for an 18th Century Middling Woman." YouTube. March 18, 2021. Major, Joanne. "The practicalities of wearing riding habits, and riding ‘en cavalier’." All Things Georgian. March 12, 2019. Rudolph, Nicole. "What did Pirates ACTUALLY Wear? Fashion at Sea in the 18th c & Our Flag Means Death Costumes." YouTube. May 8, 2022. Shoes Chin, Cynthia E. "Martha Washington's Shoes." George Washington's Mount Vernon. No date. Murden, Sarah. "18th-century shoes." All Things Georgian. December 15, 2015. Rudolph, Nicole. "Real 18th century Shoes? Historical Shoemaker Examines an Antique." YouTube. December 13, 2020. Textiles Cox, Abby. "18th Century Printed Cotton Do's & Don't's." American Duchess. December 23, 2019. Stowell, Lauren. "Fabrics for the 18th Century and Beyond." American Duchess. June 14, 2021. Townsends. "Oil Cloth - Waterproof Coverings for Your Campsite." YouTube. July 30, 2018. Undergarments Major, Joanne. "Quilted Petticoats: worn by all women and useful in more ways than one." All Things Georgian. November 20, 2018. Rudolph, Nicole. "Making 18th century Stays for the Ideal Body Shape : Historical Undergarments." YouTube. August 12, 2023. SnappyDragon. "RUMP ROAST : Ranking historical fashion's wildest fake butt pads." YouTube. October 27, 2023. Townsends. "Sewing Histories' Most Popular Garment - The Fabric Of History - Townsends." YouTube. September 3, 2022.