#Envelopes Printing Service

[obstinatecondolement]

I'm quite grimly fascinated by the YouTube pen pal creator sphere. Like… first of all, these people are just putting their full name and address on screen, huh?

Also, Idk, it just feels kind of disingenuous that they're always all "It isn't about the decoration or the extras! A simple heartfelt letter is what's important!" when they've built their entire online brand around elaborately decorated letters—that they, again, show in full on screen to millions of people who are not the recipient—with a bunch of stickers and tea bags and bits of confetti and washi tape samples added as gifts on top of what's used for decoration. Like, I don't know, if you have to disclaim a million times that having a pen pal is Not A Stationery Swap and that people shouldn't expect to be given these things, maybe you could reflect for a moment on what may have created this impression?

Like, personally, I never for a second believed that I needed more than "just an ordinary sheet of paper and any pen at all uwu" to send a letter, so it's sort of baffling to be gently reassured by people spending hours of work designing a visual aesthetic for their letters that, of course, I don't have to do it like that. Like, yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

I mean, I'm all for people having fun with stickers and washi tape and markers and whatever, but I feel like they've created this very false barrier to entry that I'm not about. It's bullet journals all over again.

[scatteredcloud]

Going on yet another rant about “merch”

If you did not screen print that shirt yourself, you did not make it.

You made the design on it, which I’m sure would be a nice poster or sticker perhaps? Which of course you didn't print yourself, that sounds hard! An embroidered design? Maintaining a 12 needle embroidery machine capable of producing a design with that many colors for the number of orders being received is a lot of work, that's pretty impressive! Not to mention maintaining proper tension on the frame working with a hundred stretchy t shirts, which idk came from somewhere who knows! Your repeating pattern looks very nice on a skirt that you did not make and was mass produced by some Vietnamese person getting paid pennies so that ~50 gay people on the internet could pay for international shipping for a design you “made”. Wow that mug is awesome didn’t know you got into sublimation printing! And have a cylindrical heat press to be able to do not just mugs, but tumblers too! Woah your sublimation set up can do bed sheets (any size)? And shower curtains? And three different shapes of throw pillow stuffed with poly fill, which will never decompose and isn't comfortable to begin with?

Your poorly digitized vector art looks lovely as an enamel pin now that someone else (Who? More like who cares!) cleaned it up for you and then created moulds for and maybe even hand injected the enamel into only for you to sell maybe seven or eight of them. Aw damn your design got ripped off? Who could have guessed that with the distribution power of an entire manufacturing plafffnt that has hundreds, if not thousands of moulds sitting around that they might have used your mould to make themselves a profit for a change! Those money grubbing Chinese bastards! After all, you were there every step of the way, casting the negative of the mould, running the injection of liquid metal into that mould, mixing each color of enamel, and precisely filling each segment of the design, which you refused to simplify! You just can't compromise with art.

Ohhh I see they’re made to order so its more sustainable. So this factory (Guatemala? India? The Philippines? Pakistan? Could you point to it on a map? They just don't teach you this stuff in school!) Anyways this factory in some poor country has to keep your design on file, oh and for your enamel pins they have to keep the mould too! Ahh right but it’s sustainable, because it's a limited run. You’re the 100th person this week to place an order, and they're only printing 50 of your design, you should complain to the manufacturer about how slow your orders are being filled.

I love supporting small businesses - it’s just you after all! With all the hard work you’ve put into fiddling around in procreate who has time to figure out material acquisition, and production runs, and printer calibration, and inventory management, and machine maintenance, and payment processing, and international shipping, and packaging, and

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[bunnys-kisses]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

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[unboundprompts]

any prompts of how a serial ki!!er would ki!!? a concept of sorts? (ex:basing their murders on fairytales)

Serial Killer Signature Ideas

-> A criminal's signature (or trademark, calling card) is something they do that is not necessary for committing the crime.

Basing their Murders off of:

Fairytales

Greek Myths

Roman Myths

Religious Scriptures

Cultural Stories

The Board Game Clue (using weapons like a wrench, candlestick, lead pipe, horseshoe, etc.)

A Popular Murder Mystery Movie

An Agatha Christie Novel

A Murder Mystery Novel

Monsters (vampires, werewolves, etc.)

Location (only killing in a library, a school, etc.)

Stories from their Childhood

A Favorite Movie

Their Imaginary Friends as a Kid

A Poem

A Person in Their Life (only targeting victims that look like this person)

Leaving Items at the Crime Scene:

Kissing the Cheek of their Victim

A Printed Photo

An Envelope with a Letter

A Painting or Drawing

A Poem

A Map

Dressing the Victim in Specific Clothes

A VHS Tape

A CD

A Watch Set to a Specific Time

Taking Something from the Victim (a Keepsake):

A Lock of Hair

Jewelry

A Tooth

Their Shoes

Their Eyes

Clothing

A Body Part

Photos of the Victim

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[spurbleu]

rendezvous

ch.1 mother’s advice

[ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!stripper!reader ]

▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎

S. mother left you with very little aside from her cat, calloused advice, and a legacy at your local brothel.

warnings. shameless men, customers service industry, mentions of abuse

a/n: lore drop and y'alls first meeting :) again, slowburn so be patient

word count: ~3.2k

‧︎༚︎☉°︎༚︎‧︎༚︎✳︎☉︎︎°︎‧︎༚︎‧︎

“Only eva’ let the good lookin’ ones get dirty wich ya, darlin,”

your mama had said rather plainly one night as you fixed her tea, voice coarse under cigarette,

“no use ina ugly fuck.”

Strange, how the only good advice she had given you (alive, at least. plenty of lessons from her dead), was about sex. She’d never been gentle enough with your hair to elicit the idea she might be with her words (but being a daughter meant you hoped). So, when you buried her, outdated ramblings and boorish tongue, most of what you took with you was boneless.

You packed the vulgar with the rest of the house, strapping it to the back of your truck and hoping it would nestle in the tobacco-less walls of your new apartment (a different shade of yellow- little kinder- absent of bile). Or maybe the newer wooden floors, eroded under boot heel, sturdy still.

On arrival you discovered it had found a less subtle home. Must have been some twisted fate (a mother’s memory- hardly sweet), that your new apartment was neighbors with your town’s brothel.

Funny, how a broke, orphaned woman like yourself, sun bleached elbows and sore neck, was given an opportunity to finally test the merit of a mother’s advice.

The withering building paralleled one of her last gifts to you, a lingerie set. Old brick red, lace trim gauze between blocks. Thick straps bridging bralette to panties like the iron beams holding up a raunchy sign- Rendezvous.

Stench of sex fogged up greasy windows, drunk mumblings of wifeless (or, a more depressing thought, married) men on its porch, wearing crucifixes in bogus devotion. The oak beneath their leather was rusting by their print of dust and the grooves beneath a bottle of beer- sorrel glass broken at the foot of creaky stairs.

Recently, your old church pews found their way back to your mind. You pushed the last of your boxes through the door, knees blushing purple with guilt. No, you had decided upon arrival- you wouldn’t even look at the place.

Pig stye, you’d convinced yourself, whore house. You turned your nose to it all, prissy and ornery even as they whistled from the railings, red knuckles itching for your attention. Hasty for the day they’d see you in dusk light, starting your shift. Only for you to leave them, day after day, cockdumb and unsatisfied.

And you had been doing so well, too.

That was until you opened the envelope- your mother’s allowance. The one useful thing that the drunken, deceased mess of a women could’ve given your hopeless soul. Magnum Opus of her faulty motherhood, forgiven with just some fucking money.

But she was always more complicated than that, wasn’t she. Peaking from the back of the white fold was, indeed, that wonderful, faded green of cash- but in front of it was a depressing beige- capitalized by black ink.

Girl,

Leave this apartment to you, take care of the old thing. That brothel knows me likes me; they’ll give you a job. Make yourself some real money, use my looks, darling. Be good. without me

Much love,

Mother.

You tossed the note aside before your hungry fingers tore the dip of the paper apart- revealing, and you counted a dozen times to be sure, sixteen dollars.

Sixteen dollars is what you’re worth. Cheap cattle at a fair, squalid men drooling as your mother snickers. Your scrawny legs buckled under the weight of the gold bell- which, you’ve now discovered, costs more than you do.

You’d be angrier if you were surprised. But you weren’t. Hell, sixteen wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been- with the way her money was spent on dozens of those cancer packs a day, cig smoke stealing your wages one stick at a time.

You plucked up her note, reading between the pen’s blood to find anything else. Searching, like you had in her for decades, for a little more. A secret message between your fiber taught liaison, written in the tone she had used with you (old spice on dry meat) up until she couldn’t anymore. You could hear it now, reading the note to you, and suddenly you were five again, tugging at her shawl as sleep nipped the last pages of your Goodnight Tales.

You didn’t fail to notice the way she signed it, either. Mother. You had always opted for the simpler, casual name, ‘mama’. It felt truer to what she was, an apparition of a parent spared by a younger nostalgia- lacking the reliance, the respect, of an actual mother.

Yet another opinion where the both of you seemed to diverge.

No, of course you weren’t surprised.

But you were now extremely aware she had limited your options to the worst one. No southern shop, built on dirt and sweat, was going to take a labor virgin without a foot in the door. Which meant the only place desperate enough to take soft, vestal hands and good hair was that ratty brothel.

So, stubborn oxen halting actual progress, you watched the bar for a week.

Perched on a chair by the sill, the last bags of honey tea in your cup as you observed the lulls in its busy. That way, when you eventually forced your ass from the dips it made in the old seat, you’d walk to the door with as little shame as possible.

As you scurried across the street at dawn, sunrise made the old cobble appear prettier than it was. Light finding the gaps between stone, serenity’s veil cast over the Dutch Gables in early morning. The birth of day scared off the grimier patrons, leaving you in the barren womb to watch it’s first breath. You paused there, relishing the one time the small market looked…worth it.

Seconds after you slide through the saloon doors, barely given enough time to drink up the sandy lighting and timber walls, a voice calls from behind the bar.

“We’re closed.”

She’s a natural blonde, you can tell by her lighter roots. Freckles contour a round face under eye bags- and you even catch the subtle crease of crows’ feet next to her grey eyes- blemished and old. Her lips screwed into what you think might be a permanent frown- that is until you speak,

“I’m here to apply.”

and it turns into a snarl, skin pitching at the bridge of her nostril, “We ain’t hirin’.”

Your mother’s note comes back to you, and you loosen the resentment in your voice as you say her name. “I’m her daughter. ‘Said I- you’d let me work here.”

The wrinkle laxed, and her snarl came down to a thin neutral line. “Did she finally kick the bucket?”

You nodded, unsure how to feel when her lips curled. “Damn. Y’had a firecracker of a mother. Worked alongside ‘er iner prime. Solid woman,” her eyes ran up your shoulders, “terrible mother, I reckon.”

You swallowed- she grinned. Her hand beckoned you to the stools, and you took a seat, shaking her outstretched hand. “You got ‘er looks. You’ll do fine ‘ere. Names Francesca.” Her eye narrowed to slits, “Nobody calls me Franny. Its Francesca, or Miss- got it?”

You nodded, and she flashed you another glimpse of her yellow teeth.

“I’ll start ya at the bar. See ‘ow long ya last.”

-

Turns out, you lasted a lot longer than she thought you would.

Swatting advances away as you gave patrons bottles, but smart enough to never get mouthy. You caught more flies with honey anyhow- so as your boots became comfortable in the mop-clean lumber floors, you’d occasionally entertain some of them.

“You single, sweetheart?” Slurred from a regular as you filled his tab. Grisly looking fellow, got years on you. Too many to be talking.

“Enough to work here.” You slid him a drink with a smile. Syrup on a glass rather than salt. The spread of his lips was telling- he tasted it.

Boisterous laughter- too loud to want just liquor- “’nough to sit on an old man’s lap?”

No. Not enough that they thought they’d get lucky- but that was the trick, wasn’t it? Just barely easy enough to send them wily looks over your shoulder, cover the spite in your voice with flirts- onion layered by a blushing red skin- weak enough that it kept them hoping. But never truly easy, moving to the next customer before the last could lean for a fat kiss.

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to him, jaw clicking in thin patience.

“Not over here. That’s for the other rooms.”

His eyes followed your pointer finger, attention sinking its dull teeth into the cardinal doors.

You pretended not to mind your position as the face of the brothel rather than the body of it. Why would you anyway? You’re sure the girls back there would kill for an easy job like yours- given the chance to politely navigate around advances rather than being forced to feed them. You only had to serve the dry slacks- and watch them as they left soiled. You didn’t have to see- no, make- that filthy in-between.

Church taught you enough. Nothing but festering confessionals behind that door.

But goodness, could you be childish. Curious mind, insecure heart- all of you greedy. You were positive they made bushels more than you- and all for some more skin, done up hair and lidded eyes?

You could do that.

Bitter, confusing envy. Makes you mad when Francesca gave you a hard no after asking for a promotion- but sorry as you curl in thin sheets before dreamless slumber.

(Did your greed weigh more than morals? Did church and your father’s absence teach you that little? Nothing should be this existential- but maybe that’s why it’s uprooting. Forked road- giving up a part of you either way.

You hate to admit you buried something of your own with your mother’s body, but what you hate more is that it’ll take this decision to figure out just what it was. Your innocence- daughterhood and a sweet virtue, or your hearth- the fight to survive and earn. Living for a little vice.

You’d dream in saturation on these nights, colors crisper than they’ve ever been- even young. You were never sure why the colors were so bright.)

So here you are, another night drawn as a sloppy line under a bar, marking…3 months? Sunrise and sunset look so similar nowadays, and it made the silhouette of an hourglass harder to etch in the tan pages of your moleskin.  

However, it did give you more time to sketch out the pub.

The booths pulled the same wood of the wall forward in a curved seat, split by a table and cushioned by yellow pillows- filled with rice, those damn things must have been harder than the booths themselves.

Around them, dark oak tables and creaky chairs- makes any working man feel ten pounds heavier with the way they whine when sat on. A candle and 3 coasters in the center of every round table, beckoning more drinks as the day died. In fact- those wax sticks were everywhere along the tavern- even in a chandelier that dangled above the liquor shelf, occasionally dripping hot tears on the bar.

Just the kind of place you’d expect to see the men you do.

Seedy- dusting in the corner of your bar are built scrawny- diet of yeast and grass evident in the hollow of their back. Mouths they hide from their mothers, hands that hit harder than their fathers. But in the redness of their cheeks- bloated by the sun and the contents you served them- was a weakness.

Masculine insecurity that had them calling you a ‘pretty bitch’. A compliment, but derogatory enough their clam tongue wasn’t revealed under the folds of their shell. No pearl, no wealth- just a common, beached, animal.

“’nother round, for mah fellows, baby.”

You glanced up. Sullen face, grey beard- twisted lips that cracked under ale. He flashed crooked teeth, and you strained a smile, forcing the tired plump of your cheeks to spread. You slipped your journal beneath the bar, taking his cups and filling them until the clouds of foam kissed the rim.

He flipped a couple coins on the counter, and you slid them into your palm.

You sighed, running your tongue along the cast of your teeth. Late hours were so boring- never new- repetitive that even the loud, sudden laughter from that back corner didn’t phase you anymore.

There were no more surprises- because everyone was here.

Ned and his calloused farmer men. Not too much of a hassle, sat in the back and called you names- but let you work. Callum and his wallowing ass in the center tables, nursing his umpteenth glass of the evening ever since his wife left.

And Silas- sweet boy- young and excited to drink. He’s more often than not by himself, drunk silly as he draws. You liked him more than the rest- brother feeling about him. Kinder.

So, it surprises you when the bell rings, well into the night, and he walks in.

Brutish arms- hung by shoulders that nearly reach the door frame. The rest of him was just as big- military fed, you had to assume. Strong jaw, buzzed skull except for a well-trimmed bush down the center. He stood out like a sore thumb, the slender builds of farmer boys a third of the bull that stood in front of you.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, as you heard the laughter behind you hush and Callum’s wallowing come to a lull. He didn’t seem to mind- especially as he made his way to the bar- eyes and smile beguiling- and directed at you.

Now you weren’t easily charmed- but you knew a handsome man when you saw one. It’s the particular weight on their shoulders- making their feet come down heavier and gate smooth.

Nothing wrong with looking at them- just as long as you don’t get too comfortable. Just because they’re clams with nicer shells, maybe even a pearl between clean teeth, doesn’t mean they’re any less washed up.

“Welcome. What can I get’cha tonight.” You offered him the same smile you gave everyone.

“Aye. A pint ‘il do.”

The thick arches of gaelic in his voice caught you off guard. Deep timbers, pine rooted in his throat, leaves lime with humor. It pooled in the back of your mouth- an aftertaste you found yourself liking.

You filled his glass, rolling the shock off your shoulders. “We don’t get many scots ‘n here.”

He chuckled as you handed him a glass, blue eyes unwavering as he took a sip. “Nae? Though’ it’da be fool of ‘em.”

He pulled a genuine laugh out of you- the sound of sarcasm familiar- comforting. “What brings you here.”

“Work.” He said plainly- but the twitch on his knuckle told you he wanted you to ask more.

“Military?”

“What gave ye tha’ idea?”

You hummed, eyes running up his shoulders. You didn’t miss how they squared, conscious under your gaze. “You don’t look like a farmer. Too much of you.”

“Aye, ere’s neva too much of me, darl.”

You sucked in your bottom lip. Charmer.

“So, you are military, then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You idled your hands with one of the many dirty glasses that blistered under old soap studs and dried foam. The rags bumpy fabric prickled your fingers- enough to keep them from trembling when he spoke.

“What branch of the military brings you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most of em.”

Your lips thin to an embarrassed line. Right, of course. “I…guess I’m really asking what branch you are.”

He took another swing of his beer, and you watched as he tipped his jaw back- revealing the catch of his throat as he swallowed. Must have been on purpose- show off.  “SAS. On leave, yer place looked tidy,” his eyes gave you a once over, “good tae see ’m right.”

Turning to set the glass down gave you an excuse to avoid his eyes. Demin blue but not casual, deep-set and sharp. Military grade, you could tell by the way they really saw. Accessing you, ran up the hunch of your spine and the click of your wrist- aiming to find spare bullets and threats.

He’d come up empty, though. No, not in you. All he’d find was the jump of your heart against your cervical.

“Mmm,” you offered, “Its cute, I’ll give it that much. Good for the drinks.”

He nodded, “’N maybe somethin more…”

These are the moments when your mother’s voice comes back to you. Thick spit, coarse hair- tangled and suffocating- your lungs sting almost as much as the red print on your cheek.

“Foolish child.”

Your back was turned, so you thought maybe you’d finally been tempting enough to something pretty. That the lilt in his voice, the gravel as it went an octave deeper, accent blooming under light o’s and rolled r’s- meant for your company.

That maybe, the looks you had been told were your only asset, had finally done some good.

You were left disappointed when you turned back around, cheeks a hopeful rose, when his eyes had left you. Instead, past your shoulder, to the red doors.

You’d never seen what was actually behind them, Francesca made sure of that. You could only assume it was the collection of every mans desire painted pretty- shelves of toys, women in bright, expensive lingerie, red lips on rum ones. A childish image, really, but what else were you to do?

In a way, you were just as desperate to get behind those doors as every man here. Not necessarily in the same way- not to satisfy some sick desire, dig up a buried, old arousal that their poor wives didn’t anymore.

No, for you it was to satisfy your own insecurity. Hungry creature, eager to prove and ready to sweat. To be something- pretty, ugly, didn’t matter. As long as you had a place there, you’d be rich.

“Oh, yes,” you let your customer smile come back, editing the script you were given in your head, “pretty gals over there. If you wanted a-“

“Ye work tere?”

You choked on nothing. “What?”

“Do ye work ‘n ta brothel?”

Genuine curiosity. Maybe he was hiding something else behind thin lips, but the question came out too casual for its boldness that you wouldn’t’ve caught it. You found yourself unsure in your own body, standing stiff as your bones questioned whether to lean, sit, or run.

You chose none of the three, and instead you spoke.

“No.” Not yet. You wanted to add. He hummed, taking a last swig of his pint before placing the cup on the table with a…hefty tip. You opened your mouth to say something, but when your eyes met his you were quickly hushed.

Ripped denim, now razor blue. The yellow of the lights seemed to bring it out, and if you weren’t confident he had killed a man, you were now.

“Shame,” he said, standing, “Such a bloody waste.”

[oldguydoesstuff]

I was in highschool in the late 1970s, and our "new" computer was a DEC PDP-8, that was five years old or so.

However the school was still largely running on punch cards, and older IBM equipment from the 50s. Attendance for instance, was handled by each home room teacher putting an absent students punch card in an envelope that went down to the computer room, a process that had probably been going on for decades.

There the cards were sorted, and fed into this beast, an IBM 405 alphabetic accounting machine. This is basically a SQL statement implemented in steel, wires, and relays. It would print off a report using fields on the cards fed into it, and could be programmed via a plug board:

I will never forget the IBM service guy coming in to change the oil on this, the whole bottom of it was relays that just kind of sat in an oil bath.

So if you have computer problems, just be happy changing the oil isn't one of them lol.

[thatchickwiththecamera]

What Do You Want From Me?

Synopsis: The European leg of the Concrete Forever tour marks one year since Tyler Garrett joined the Bad Omens media team. A lot can change over the course of a year. New experiences, new friendships, and new discoveries emerge.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x OC

Cross-posted on AO3 (thatchickwiththecamera)

MASTERLIST

Based on an idea I got from seeing this video.

Tag List: @sundamariis, @fastjelly-fish, @lilylovesdew, @narcissisticbehavior81

Tonight was night five of the European leg of the 2024 Concrete Forever tour and the end of January had marked one year since I had first joined the Bad Omens media crew. With the band's increase in popularity Bryan, the band's photographer and media director, decided it was time to expand the team going into Shiprocked so he could focus more carefully on planning and curating the media content produced and published for the band. 

So Bryan reached out to a friend in the music industry and asked if they knew of any photographers/videographers with a solid portfolio who were looking for a more permanent media production gig. That friend connected him to me and as they say, the rest is history. 

“Tyler! Did you finish up the edits for tonight's social post?” Bryan’s voice carried from the front of the crew bus to the back lounge where I sat backing up files to my external harddrive. 

“Yeah! They’re already in the dropbox!” I responded before ejecting my drive from my macbook and throwing them both back onto my bunk. 

I clipped my crew credentials with “CONCRETE FOREVER TOUR” and “TYLER GARRETT - MEDIA CREW” printed across the top and bottom through the belt loop of my jeans and slipped on my crew sweatshirt before walking toward the front of the bus. Bryan and Alana were standing over the main table and counter area double checking the batteries and the assortment of cameras we would be mounting in various parts of the stage for tonight's show along with our individual gear that would be on our person and laid out backstage for us to use throughout the show. 

The air once we stepped into the venue was buzzing with energy. I don’t know what it was about this leg of the tour, but it was like a switch was flipped. Ever since the first date in January opening for Bring Me The Horizon back in Cardiff there was this high that enveloped the entire group and it looked like no one would be coming down anytime soon. 

This energy was especially present in the band's lead singer, Noah. The usually stoic and serious persona he portrayed on stage was now replaced with one that roamed around the various levels of the stage doing jumping jacks, pushups, dances, and little vocal trills. 

After the first two shows, his antics even caused Poppy, our opener for this part of the tour, to completely abandon portraying her A.I. character like was originally planned for their performances of V.A.N.  Instead, she joined in Noah’s antics and even introduced the world to this little handshake that they had originally created during rehearsals leading up to the tour. 

Life in between gigs had been lively as well since the start of the new year. After each show when everything was packed up and the load outs were completed, the band and crew for both Bad Omens and BMTH would venture to one of the local pubs and celebrate with a few beers and carbonated beverages before loading up on the buses and venturing off to the next city. 

Until joining the Bad Omens crew, I would usually keep to myself in between shows while touring - choosing to prioritize edits, catalog files, and update my individual socials when not trying to finish a book on my Kindle or finish a show on a random streaming service. 

The first few months of touring after Shiprocked changed all of that and a few of the crew and band made it their mission to pull me out of the confines of my comfort zone and my regular routine. Over the course of the past year, Bryan has pushed me to learn and develop my photo and video skills far past where I ever thought they would go. Matt started teaching me front of the house controls, he now hounds me with daily racoon memes, and I in turn buy him random Dr. Pepper merch. Steven taught me all about the finer side of wristwatches, NBA basketball, and the intricacies of running merch. Alana quickly became one of my best friends and has balanced her assistant tour manager duties well alongside keeping me sane as the only other female member of the media team and crew. 

Folio decided that I absolutely had to learn how to fish when one of our venues had a lake nearby, even making me kiss the smallmouth bass that I caught before he threw it back in citing that it was tradition with your first fish. He also dared me to smoke my first joint, which caused me to hack up a lung because I somehow inhaled wrong. Nicholas helped me design a few tattoo ideas before inking my forearm and starting what will eventually become a full sleeve up my right arm. Jolly taught me a bunch of guitar riffs and how to cuss in Swedish (which I do entirely too often now), and Noah surprised me with the hidden talent of being a pool shark and we ended up becoming quick friends to the point where he is now my partner in crime hustling people out of their money when the crew goes out to bars. I also learned that while he hates it when people try to scare and prank him, he loves to scare and prank others. 

Which is why, as expected, throughout three out of the first four shows of the European leg, Noah made it his mission to try and scare me at least once per show mainly during the song transitions when I would try to quickly get from one side of the stage to the next during the blackouts. In Berlin, it was during the transition after “Nowhere to Go” when I was coming down from the second level of the stage after retrieving the camera that was filming Folio play. Luckily I had handed the camera and its tripod down to Alana behind the platform before descending the steps in time for Noah to jump out at the bottom already wearing his ski mask for V.A.N. 

I jumped, skipping a step on the way down, and felt a set of arms grab me and hold me back up before I could fall too far forward. I remember yelling ‘fucking hell’ in swedish and looking up to see Noah with a shit eating grin peaking through the mask and hearing Jolly laugh at my use of the words. I grabbed his mask and yanked on it so it was crooked on his face before I ran behind the platform to the other side of the stage where I had left my camera gear. I heard him let out a laugh and a few cuss words of his own as he struggled to fix the mask and climb the steps up to his spot on the platform before Poppy started singing. 

Night one in Cologne, I was mainly in the photo pit for the majority of the show, while Bryan and Alana were the ones roaming the stage. I kept a gear bag tucked behind one of the few big boxes we had on either side of the stage. In it, I had my spare batteries, my water bottle, and the 360 camera on an extension pole. The plan for this show was to focus on crowd shots and footage along with regular low-angle stage shots. While I got amazing shots of the guys performing and some hilarious shots of a fan crowd surfing in an inflatable shark suit. Noah lost any possible opportunity offered for pranking during the show. 

On night two in Cologne, he made up for the missed opportunity. During the transition between “Artifical Suicide” and “Like A Villan,” I quickly ran to the media team roadcase set up behind the guitar stage case and tech area to get a quick drink of water and change out a lens. As I was kneeling down in front of the case and had just finished switching the lenses, I felt a pair of hands grab my shoulders. Luckily all the equipment was out of my hands because the sudden motion made me jump and fall back on my heels, causing me to bump into something, well someone, behind me. I let out a string of curse words, this time in English, and tilted my head back to see Noah, now without his mask, trying to hold back a laugh as he smiled down at me. I let out an annoyed sign and rolled my eyes. He gave my shoulder a squeeze before disappearing back out onto the stage right as the song began. 

In Munich, he chose the “Miracle” break as his time to strike. Only this time he stepped up his game. While I was switching out gear and changing my settings from photo to video, I set everything on a storage case under the second level platform and stood up to stretch a bit since this break was the more lengthy of the two. After I finished trying rid my shoulders of the tension that had built up from holding a camera in front of my face for a hour, I felt an arm wrap across the front of my collarbones and pulled me back into them while the person's other hand took one of the band's athletic water bottles and sprayed it down the rear collar of my crew hoodie. I squirmed and let out a loud gasp as the shock of the icey cold water briefly hit the back of my neck before I managed to wriggle away. I turned and as expected was greeted by a sweaty Noah smiling down at me trying to hold back laughter. 

“You little shit!” I shouted before quickly grabbing the water bottle from his hand and pointed it at him spraying him with the same icy cold water. 

He started swatting at the spray, laughing as his long thin fingers did nothing to block the liquid. He reached out and grabbed my wrist and I quickly tried to switch the bottle to my other hand but he was too quick, capturing that wrist as well before I could aim the bottle at his face again. I laughed and tried to pull away but he pulled me toward him and pinned my wrists against his chest trying to render the “weapon” he introduced inoperable. 

The laughter between us suddenly died off. The height difference between my 5’1” and his 6’3'' became very clear and his chin practically touched his chest as he gazed down at me. We stood there for what felt like an eternity, brown eyes connected with blue. He loosened his grip on my wrists slightly but neither of us made any attempt to move.  

The arena suddenly felt very warm and I don’t think I could blame it on the array pyrotechnics used during the show. I don’t know what to call this sudden shift in the air between us, but all I know is it caused something to flutter in my stomach and that scared the hell out of me. So I did the first thing I could think of, I diffused an intense moment with humor. I squeezed the water bottle that was still in my hand and the last remnants of water from the bottle hit Noah’s chin and neck. The shock of the cold liquid caused him to step back and release my wrists. I immediately missed the contact, but I needed to get away from this situation. 

“Shit that really is cold!” He laughed, turning to grab one of the black towels we had on hand backstage and started to dry off the water. 

When he turned to offer me the towel I had already retrieved my camera and fled to the other side of the stage wondering what the fuck had just happened. 

During the day off between Munich and Zurich, I kept myself busy editing, organizing, and uploading photo content to the media team drive and to my own socials. I had gained a considerable amount of followers since joining the Bad Omens team and while I enjoyed seeing the reaction and appreciation the guys' fans had when I posted new content, I was also starting to see some of the reasons why the guys like to take social media breaks as often as they do. 

Editing was one of my favorite parts of being a photographer and with us starting this European leg off with four back-to-back shows, I hadn’t had time to pause and really work my magic. So that is what I designated as my mission for this day off. I also may have used it as an excuse to avoid leaving the crew bus and chance any more contact with Noah. I was still trying to figure out if that flutter in my stomach was real or if it was just part of the adrenaline from a high energy concert and my body being attacked with ice cold water. 

Tonight, we were in Zurich and I was running around the stage at various times throughout the set while Bryan was down in the photo pit trying out some new ideas he had photos wise and finally having his turn with the 360 camera during a show.

During “What do you want from me?” I was standing in the wings to stage left filming Noah when he suddenly walked over to me in the middle of the second verse, grabbed my left wrist from where it held the side of my camera and pulled me out onto the stage. I keep filming as he releases my wrist and quickly slips his hand in mine while he continues to walk backward onto the stage. Once we were in the middle of the stage he started to spin in a circle with our connected hands extended in the middle. We spun around a few times before he started to jump while we were spinning causing his hair to bounce up and down on his head which I shakily captured on camera. The randomness of it all led to fits of laughter and caused Noah to mess up the last two lines of the verse. 

As the verse came to an end I expected him to let go and yell, “JUMP JUMP” like he usually does during the brief blackout. Instead, as the light goes out, I am yanked forward and feel a hand and the cool metal of a microphone against the side of my face, and a set of lips briefly collide with mine. I barely had time to process what happened before it ended, the lips were gone, the lights came back up, and Noah jumped onto the riser at the front of the stage to sing the rest of the song. I still held my camera up and panned to follow him trying to hide any reaction my face might show behind a veil of concentration. 

For the remainder of the show, I tried to avoid making any and all eye contact with Noah, who in turn tried his damndest to get me to look at him and gauge my reaction to what he did. He did it in a way that wasn’t too noticeable to the crowd by acting like he's playing up to the camera. My brain tried to process what had happened and what the hell it possibly meant over the course of the remaining ten songs in the set. 

Noah kissed me. 

On stage. 

In the middle of a show. 

Did one of the guys see? 

Oh Shit! Did anyone in the audience see?

The usual jump scare from the previous shows never came and my self-sabotaging brain was trying to solve the question of what everything meant. Kissing me to see my reaction instead of scaring me like usual? Was this real or was it just another prank?

__

Author’s Note: Let me know what y’all think!

[usaprintingandgraphics]

From Invoices to Purchase Orders: Navigating the World of Business Form Printing in Visalia

In the bustling city of Visalia, businesses are thriving, and the demand for professional printing services is at an all-time high. Whether you’re a startup entrepreneur or an established corporation, the need for accurate and visually appealing business forms is undeniable. USA Printing and Graphics, a leading Business Form Printing in Visalia, stands out as the go-to destination for all your business form printing needs in Visalia. Read more....

[awesomedbzmerch]

Heh, there are no words for the sheer joy I felt picking this up from the post office the other day :D I ordered the sexy pillowcase (it’s two sided and so gorgeous!!!! Folded over here as my table is too small to display his full size) and print and am beyond delighted with both. After thinking it over I decided I am gonna buy a second body pillow so I can have both my new Piccolo and my Frieza out at the same time (I believe in living my best life) so that will be ordered within the next week or so. And the print! Look at that shiny booty- I mean, beauty! It’s getting framed and hung up in a place of pride on my wall. Even the shipping envelope is gonna get displayed somewhere because look at it!!!

Thank you so much @conceptcatart for the service you provide for the Piccolo fan community!!!!

(Even Muffuletta couldn’t resist Orange Piccolo)

[lou-struck]

A Sweet Delivery

Tamaki Amajiki x reader

~Tamaki is on a mission, but he still manages to surprise you after you get a promotion at work.

WC: 1.8k

A/n: Awhile back I was writing this as an entry for one of my event prompts but it became an idea of it's own so I had to tuck it away for another day.

What’s the point of receiving good news if you don’t have anyone to celebrate it with?

You have been up for a promotion at your job for quite some time now, and finally, after months of ass-kissing and hard work. You landed the position, but you don’t feel like celebrating right now. 

How could you? 

Tamaki is out of town on a mission, and you have no idea when he is coming back…

The mission he is on is pretty low profile, so you don’t know too much about it, but the one thing you do know is that he is safe and unharmed. This is the best possible news, but sometimes you wonder how safe it is safe? 

You continue to worry your whole drive home, only stopping to take a breath once you are back inside your lonely apartment. The two of you usually share. You sigh, leaning against the front door and peeling off your shoes and letting them drop to the ground instead of placing them nicely in their usual spot. 

It’s just not the same without your Suneater.

You wish he was here; he would’ve given you that adorable wobbly half-smile of his and praised you for a well-done job. He always knows just what to say to make you feel seen and appreciated. It’s one of the many things you love about him.

It’s the eager knocking at the front door that pulls you from your thoughts. You walk quickly across the room and twist the knob slowly to reveal a delivery girl with a long clipboard. A large beige wagon of packages sits behind her. “Can I help you?” you ask kindly, wondering in the back of your mind if you remember ordering anything special.

“Hi there, are you…” she looks down and reads off of her notepad. “Y/n?”

“That’s me,” you reply. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, actually, I have something for you,” she smiles, gesturing to the large Pink and Bown spotted box that rests on the top of her delivery wagon. The white lettering printed on the top says it’s from your favorite bakery you go to with Tamaki. 

“Wait, what’s this?” you ask as she gently places the box into your hands. It’s much heavier than you thought it would be. 

“It’s a delivery?” the girl sends you a sarcastic tight-lipped smile. 

“I know that,” you chuckle. “I just don’t remember ordering anything.”

“Someone probably just ordered it for you then,” she says, handing you the clipboard, “Sign here, please.”

You scribble on the dotted line and hand it back to the girl who seems to have a lot on her plate. She takes it and smiles before dragging the wagon down the hall and to the elevator, leaving you alone with what feels like 40 pounds of mysterious pastries.

“What are you?” you say aloud, bringing the box over to your kitchen counter, tearing through the delivery seal, and flipping open the paper lid. 

The first thing you see is a white envelope taped to the underside of the lid, 

Butterfly,

Congratulations on getting that promotion; no one deserves it more than you do

I wish I could be there with you to celebrate, but I thought that If I got you something sweet, you might think of me. 

I know it’s not the same, but I’ll have good service tonight, so if you want to video chat.

~Tamaki

His words make your heart flutter as you set the card next to the open box. You have no idea how he managed to find out about your promotion, but you don’t care. You get to see his face tonight.

Eagerly you rush over to the couch and pull your laptop out from under it. Wanting to call him as soon as possible. So you can go through the box of sweets together; Tamaki loves getting you little treats, so it’s only fair for him to be semi-present when you go through them.

The dull ringing sound of the video chat spills out from your speaker, and you do a quick one-over of your reflection on the screen, checking that you don’t have any bats in the cave.

The screen buffers for just a minute, and you back away from the camera. Hopefully, the first thing he saw was not the inside of your nose.

You forget about your worries as soon as his face appears on your screen, his dark eyes are not looking directly into the camera, but they still light up a bit when he sees your face. You scan his own quickly, looking for any sign of injury or illness, finding none. 

“Hi there,” you beam. “I’ve missed you, Tamaki.”

Your sincerity sends a shiver through the Hero as he glances shyly away from the screen. “I-i’ve missed you too, Butterfly. Congratulations on the promotion. Did you get your present?”

You are smiling so. Happily, it’s getting hard to see your boyfriend on the screen, “I did, and I wanted to open the box with you on the call, so I haven’t seen what you got me yet.”

His shoulders slump, and he smiles softly; even just being on call with you like this makes him feel more normal. He may not be comfortable expressing all his feelings toward you yet, but you mean more to him than anything else. 

“Then you should open it,” he says. “I wanted to get you all your favorites.”

You curiously peel off the top layer of tissue paper at his request. A bit of frosting sticks to the top, but otherwise, the pull was clean. With the paper out of the way, you see dozens of mouth-wateringly delicious-looking baked goods. Buns, sweetbreads, and more call out to you, their fresh scent making it seem as if you had died and gone to heaven.

“Tama,” you breathe, unconsciously wiping a bit of drool from your lip. “This is too much; how did you manage to get all of this together in such a short amount of time?”

Through the screen, you see the tips of his ears turning pink, “I ordered the box from the bakery a week ago.” he says earnestly. “You are just so amazing and capable; I knew you would be the one to get the promotion.”

“You did?” you ask, letting a giddy little giggle leave your lips. “That was bold of you; what would’ve happened if I didn’t get it?”

“I-I don’t know.” he stammers, “It was in the moment, and I was so focused on picking out all your favorite treats I forgot about it. I know it was a bit stupid of me.”

Your muscles twitch in lovesick anticipation; never in your life have you wanted to hold someone in your arms so badly. “I thought it was very cute of you. I miss you so much.”

The tips of his ears twitch slightly, and the blush on his cheeks from earlier settles to a nice shade of pink that suits him perfectly. “I miss you too.”

“When you get back, we can celebrate together,” you say hopefully. The statement was well-meaning, of course, but as his face falls, you regret it.

“I should be there now,” he mumbles quietly; the sound comes out just above the humming of your laptop fan.

You feel horrible. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that you are doing a lot of good. I’m just being selfish.”

He looks just as worried as you do. “No, don’t apologize; I just wish I could be there for you when things like this happen.” he sighs, “This mission is taking forever; I wanna go home.” He says those words longingly, sinking into the collar of his jacket, but you can’t help but think he looks a bit like a turtle, the way he is shrinking into his metaphorical shell.

“You’ll be home soon,” you smile. “And then we can go out and celebrate the both of us.”

“Both of us?” he asks, looking a bit confused.

“Both of us,” you repeat. “After all, when you come home, it means that you will have completed your mission and helped a bunch of people; that is something worth celebrating.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting then,” he smiles, his eyes lighting up with well-deserved confidence.

“Glad to hear it,” you say, your eyes falling to the box of sweets. “I can wait to eat these too, so we can try them together.”

His eyes go wide, “Don’t do that.” he says suddenly. “They won’t taste as good if you wait that long; you should try them all, and then we can go back to the bakery, and you can show me the best ones.”

He is just too sweet; sometimes, you wonder if he raises your blood sugar. “You’ve got a deal; I’ll make notes and ~” Before you can finish your sentence, you are interrupted by some muffled shouting and noise that takes Tamaki’s attention away from you.

He presses the mute button and nods seriously at whoever is talking to him. Going into full hero mode instantly. You know what’s coming…

After a few minutes of trying and failing to read his lips to try and figure out what is going on on his end, he turns his attention back to the screen and unmutes himself. “I- guess I have to go now,” he says sullenly. “I think we are going to the next phase of the mission. I don’t want to leave you, but I~.”

“I understand,” you say, hiding the disappointment in your voice surprisingly well. “Go and be a Hero.”

“If everything goes well, I think I’ll be back in a few days,” he says hopefully, fiddling with a few of the latches and zippers on his hero suit. 

“That’s great news,” you say earnestly. “I love you so much, Tamaki; please, please be safe. “

“I’ll do my best,” he breathes, shifting a bit in his seat. He can never promise such a thing, but he will do what he can to make it home safe for you. “I love you too.” just as the screen goes dark. 

Now alone in your room, you look down at the box of sweets he got for you. If Tamaki took the time to pick each one out for you, it’s only fair to try one now and satiate that sweet tooth of yours.

But which one shall you try?

The number of options in front of you is almost overwhelming, but you find yourself drawn to a Yellow bundt cake with a deep violet-colored icing. The Violet coloring reminds you of your boyfriend. Curiously you read the key card that tells you what each sweet is and learn it is a Lemon Lavender Bundt cake. 

As you bite into the treat, your taste buds are kissed by a beautiful combination of tart lemon batter and the floral sweetness of the lavender. It may just be one of the best things you have ever had in your life. 

But what makes it taste even better is that Tamaki got it for you.