#scent air machine for home

[aromasphere1]

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[amber-aromadiffusermachine]

Now you can make your home smell just like your favorite 5-star hotel. Meet the perfect stand-alone diffuser, which harnesses the power of scent and fills your space with an even, beautiful, healthy fragrance.

Utilizing cold-air diffusion technology, the Scent Diffuser turns fragrance oil into a dry nano-mist. With this method, scent stays suspended in the air longer and has better coverage. Using no heat or water, the Scent Diffuser preserves the therapeutic properties of our fragrance oils without altering their smell.

Key Features:

- Scents up to 500 M3

- Pairs with 100ml oil bottle

- User can customize fragrance intensity

- Sleek, compact and portable

- Waterless, heatless technology

- No residue

- Safe for pets, children, artwork and furniture

- Dimensions: 103*238 mm

[johnypage95]

[irndad]

here I lay me down - s.r.

a/n: ex!spencer gets shot, and you show up at the hospital to see if he's okay. spencer is still desperately in love with you. based on this post wc: 2.3k (she is LONG)

Spencer wakes to a cacophony of sounds, others breathing and various beeps and hums from a variety of medical machines. He hates the noise of the hospital, as he knows what always follows. It’s pain, and ever since he kicked dilaudid, he doesn’t get the relief that people are always pushing on him here. 

The last thing Spencer remembers, he was in front of Morgan, who was about to get shot- it was a piercing memory, one that even the anesthetic wearing off slowly couldn’t numb. He’d jumped in front of it, and the pieces of Morgan pacing around his room and the whole being in a hospital thing click into place. 

When he blinks his eyes open, he sees Hotch speaking to the doctor with his endearingly concerned eyebrow scrunch and it’s then that he notices a familiar scent in the air. 

It’s perfume- he knows because he’d bought it- a mixture of jasmine and lilies, and the memory of the night he gave it to her bursts into technicolor when he closes his eyes. It had been her birthday, and he’d gone with Penelope and Emily to pick out a gift for her. 

He remembers how she’d lit up, her warm doe eyes brightening with fondness that he’d earned, and the way his heart had flipped in his chest- the memory is in crisp detail. He remembers the way she’d kissed him, equal measure in thanks and in adoration, and it’s comforting to remember right now. He tries to think of her often, especially when waves of pain crash over him like an unruly ocean that threatens to drown him. There was someone who loved him at one point, he tries to remember. 

He wants to compliment the nurse wearing it, but even as limited as his social skills are in this state, he knows that telling the nurse you like her perfume because your ex wore it is probably inappropriate. 

A roar of desire presents itself in his chest- he has no desire to want her here, but Spencer can’t help but fantasize about her presence. Her nimble fingers running through his hair, her soft voice cooing at his injuries. It was always nice to come home to her after a rough day- her disposition warm and kind and good. It’s his fault he doesn’t have it- his fault that she doesn’t love him anymore. 

It’s as if he conjured her, when she walks in the door. 

He literally cannot believe that she is here, in his hospital room- he drinks in the sight of her like a man starved. She’s beautiful- he’d never forget this but it’s been so long since he’s seen her. The curve of her cheek, her cupid’s bow, the slope of her neck- the details he spent the best year of his life memorizing under careful touch. 

Her body language is protective, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other at her mouth, her delicate fingers holding a tissue. Had she been crying?

Before he can think of what to say to her, she speaks to him. 

“How are you feeling?”

He’d forgotten just how her voice sounded. Or rather, how it sounded when she was concerned for him. It’s addicting, hedonistic in the ways of wine and drugs and everything else you should have in moderation but had to give up. It’s just so comforting, her lovely doe eyes looking at him with warmth and concern. 

“Hey,” he replies, not answering her question. He might be imagining her. They might have given him drugs. There’s no way she came and see him of her own volition. 

She pauses for a moment, biting her lip in an incredibly endearing way (and god, he’d missed looking at her) before she makes the decision to walk over to the side of his bed. He tries to crane his neck to look at her and she scolds him, and this doesn’t make any sense. 

“You got shot,” she says, voice warm and concerned, and if he squinted he could hear love in her voice. 

“I’m okay,” he tries to reply. 

“You got shot,” she says, eyes flaring with emotion. She always hated that he minimized his pain. 

“You came,” he says, after a beat of silence. Her fingers are running through his hair and he tries to commit this to memory. It doesn’t mean she loves him. She’s the kind of person who stops on the street to give someone the last dollar in her wallet, of course she would visit her ex-boyfriend in the hospital after he got shot.

It doesn’t mean anything. 

“Of course I came, Spence,” she says, intentionality in her tone, “You got hurt.”

It’s selfish to lean into her touch, but she smells like home and he doesn’t know if he will ever be held like this again by her. And he doesn’t care to be held by anyone else. 

Hotch comes in, and if he’s surprised to see the two of them together, it doesn’t show on his face. He tells Spencer that the. Bullet had been clean through, and that he’d been lucky. He’d avoided internal bleeding and would need to stay at home for a week. 

When Hotch leaves to ‘give him some space to process’, the silence lingers.

“Thank you for coming.”

It’s kind of worse, actually. The reality where she’s still his girlfriend is superimposed on top of this one, and he can feel the ghost of the kisses she’d pepper his cheeks with. If she still loved him, then she’d hug him and tell him that she loves him, tell him how angry she is for jumping in front of a stray bullet. 

It’s my fault, he thinks to himself, eyes raking over her. She’d definitely been crying, he realizes. Her makeup had run and he think she might have slept here. How had he ever gotten someone like her to fall in love with him? 

It’s his fault she doesn’t love him anymore.

When the doctor tells him that he needs someone to stay with him for the next few days, and she volunteers, he agrees.

It’s a nice kind of pain, he thinks. Any piece of her is more than he wants of anything else.

_______________________________________

It turns out that she is a wonderful caregiver. 

Penelope had been incredibly supportive of this idea, somehow convinced that the proximity would bring them back together. This is a hope that Spencer does not engage in, but still- it’s nice to have her around. 

She knows her way around his apartment- knows how he organizes her things. Half her things used to be there too. 

Memory is a funny thing. The worst part by far of eidetic memory is the lack of forgetting, and up until now, this was best seen in the horrors of his work. Now, it’s all her.

Taking care of him when he got shot is not the same thing as loving him. 

When she makes them dinner (which is so kind of her- he offered to buy takeout and she’d insisted on recreating his mother’s soup recipe. She’d kept a copy of it in her phone. Spencer had almost died of flattery), she sits next to him on his couch

It’s funny how the best memories of his life are so colored now- their trip to Europe, their first kiss, the first time he’d cooked her dinner and she’d watched Doctor Who with him. Ghosts of memory linger through the place, and it hurts to see her sit next to him on the couch with a foot between them. 

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a beat of silence. She looks beautiful, and he always thinks this. She’s wearing his t-shirt which is just an awfully tempting view. 

It’s his fault he can’t have what he wants. 

“I told you I still wanted us to be friends,” she says, looking down at her bowl, “You’re my friend. I’m happy to do this.”

He can tell she means it as an olive branch but it cuts like a knife. Because he never wanted to be her friend. She was the first thing he even wanted enough to ask for it. He still remembers when he’d asked her out the first time, the stuttering and the way she’d looked, how impossible her liking him back had felt. 

And then he’d managed to make her fall in love with him. It didn’t even take much- he just had to be himself, the way she says it, and he’d give anything to have that back. 

“You’re a good friend,” he replies, instead of everything he’s thinking. 

“Hotch thinks so,” she muses, not looking at him, “He was surprised I’d come here after you broke up with me.”

It’s a slight lash out, and it’s fair. It’s not fair that she’s here, wearing his fucking t-shirt, her collarbones exposed under the fabric. He know what her skin feels like under his lips, and now she make veiled comment on his couch. 

“Why did you?”

He can’t figure it out. They’d broken up two months ago. He’d done it to protect her- after the anthrax case he’d been fucking fixated on her getting hurt. Because this is the stuff he can’t protect her from. Can’t help if biomedical hazards end up on his clothes,  and if he comes home shot. 

He got shot. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t get forever with the woman he loves, because he can’t keep her safe. Even if he quit just then- enough people have made an enemy of him. She’d never be safe.

So he made a choice to cut his ties and let her go, and yes, every fucking night since he’s had at least one nightmare about what she looks like crying and asking him to stay. He never, ever wanted to see her like that, but he also never ever wanted her to be a widow. 

She’d find someone else. She’s so easy to love- he doesn’t like to think about someone else loving her, but he’s sure she won’t be alone. 

His voice catches in his throat.

“It is nice of you,” Spencer chokes out, “I never wanted you to have to do that.”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” she says, getting up to get him another serving, and he grabs her wrist.

“Ba- Hey, please. Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” she says at him, but she doesn’t pull her wrist back. 

“I just-“ he stammers, but it’s heavy and something he can’t give up, the combination of her gaze under his and her soft skin in his grasp, “I can’t have you here and hate me. I just can’t take you hating me. I know- I know what I did. I know it’s not fair to ask and I know that we’re not together and I know it’s my fault but god, you can’t hate me. I can’t take it.”

“You think I hate you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“You think I came to the hospital in the middle of the night, slept in a waiting room, cooked you soup and slept on your couch because I hate you?”

He doesn’t know what to say. How could she still love him? 

“It’s you,” he replies. “You’d always do that for me.”

She’s closer now, moving into his space more and more and he can smell his own body soap on her because she showered here, and he’s overcome with a desire to hold her. 

“Why do you think that is?”

She’s almost in his lap now, and there’s a greed to this now, the way he pulls her a little bit closer. She tips her head back in a bitter, tinny laugh that he doesn’t like the sound of. 

“I mean, Spencer- I love you so much that I don’t even care if you love me back.”

“You still love me?”

“I’m working on it,” she says, a bitter smile on her face, “You’re hard to get over.”

“Don’t get over me.”

It’s not the smoothest thing he could’ve sid, and he kind of regrets the implication on her face, sees her gorgeous features crumple. 

“That’s mean, Spence.” 

“No! No. Don’t. Don’t-don’t do that. Don’t move on with your life and find someone else because this is the lightest I’ve felt in fucking weeks.”

Her eyes widen into saucers, and her grip tightens on his hands, and Spencer feels like he could fly. 

“I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have made you go and I should’ve let you be the person who picks me up at the hospital and I know, I know how lucky I am that you’re still here, that you cared enough. Please, please don’t get over me. I know it’s not far to ask.”

She blinks a few times at him before opening her arms for a hug, of which he flies into at breakneck speed. His ribs hurt but he’d forgotten what it was like to hold her. And yes, maybe wanting this makes himself selfish, but he wants this. Maybe this can the one thing he lets himself have. 

“I do love you. ” he speaks into her collarbone, and she shushes him. 

“No, no,” he says, looking up at her, her gorgeous doe eyes shaky with uncertainty he knows is his fault, “If you’ll still have me, I’d like to-I’d like to try again. And I know that you probably can’t trust me and I have so much to make up for and-“

“Spencer,” she says warmly, twining their fingers, “I’d like to kiss you now. Okay?”

He nods a bit fervently, shaking as he does, but when she kisses him-

It’s just as he remembers. She leans into him, her delicate fingers cupping his jaw and he wraps his spindles arms around the curve of her waist, pinning her to him like she might float away if untethered. 

When Spencer gets back to the office, he it’s not just his wounds that have healed. 

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Her babes! Was wondering if you could do a imagine for toms dad series maybe he’s up early doing a interview on the computer. Y/n still sleeping and their daughter wakes up coming into the office maybe climbing into his lap all sleepy still and Tom’s like “Sorry hold on give me one moment gotta take care of my girl!”

First Priority

A/n: I pictured this so vividly in my head. Also, I’m so sorry this took me awhile anon!!

Dad!Tom Blyth x reader masterlist

Divider by @s-hyia

Opening his eyes and readjusting to the light that seeped into the bedroom, he gently places a kiss on his 4 year old daughter's forehead who was sleeping in between the two of you. Elsie had woken from a nightmare just after midnight so you and Tom gladly let her sleep with the two of you.

He quietly gets out of bed, stretching his limbs before coming to your side where he placed a kiss on your forehead, muttering a good morning as you gently smile, still half asleep.

Reason for Tom being up so early on a Saturday morning was because he had an interview at home for the upcoming episodes of Billy the kid. He got ready as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb his girls before he walked downstairs to make a cup of coffee before the interview started.

Tom cringed at the loud noise the coffee machine was making as he glances to the stairs leading upstairs. Walking back upstairs with a cup of coffee in one hand to wake him up more, he slowly turns the door handle to your shared bedroom and peeked his head in.

A soft smile making it to his lips at the sight of you and Elsie cuddled up to one another, fast asleep. Tom then walked down further down the hallway to his office where he shut the door. He set up his computer and in a couple of minutes, started his interview that was planned to go for about 30 minutes to an hour.

Just a couple minutes after Tom started his interview, Elsie had stirred in her sleep. The absence of her dad beside her made her more alert as she sits up on the bed, her head turning every which way to see if Tom was in the room.

You were still fast asleep. Elsie let out a little whine, her stomach rumbling in hunger as she rubs her eyes and decides to get out of bed. She looks around the room, checking the closet and the bathroom and there was still no sign of Tom.

Going on her tippy toes, Elsie opens the door and cheers up when she hears her dad's voice coming from the door at the end of the hallway. She ventures out and opens the door to the office.

Elsie stood at the door, slightly confused as to what her dad was doing as he had headsets on and was talking. "Sorry Tom, I'm going to have to stop you there- uh your daughter is at the door-" At her words, Tom whips his head around and sees Elsie there, in her cute little pjs and her brunette hair all over the place.

"Sweetheart, what is it?" He takes his headphones off to hear his daughter, his mic still on. "I'm hungry, mumma is still sleeping," She frowns. Tom looks to his computer, "I'm so sorry Lisa, could you give me a moment, I just gotta take care of my girl!"

"No no of course! go for it Tom!" The lady chuckles as Tom gives her a grateful smile before he gets up, scooping up Elsie in his arms. The second he walks out the door, you walked out the door as you look at the two confused.

"I thought you had an interview to do?" You chuckle as you caress Elsie's cheek who was still in Tom's arms. "Yeah, I'm in the middle of it, Elsie came in saying she was hungry," He chuckles as your eyes widen as you look at him.

"I didn't want to wake you up mumma," Elsie says as you melt at her comment, " It's okay, baby," You cooed as Tom let's her down on the ground. "Go, go back to your interview I'll make breakfast for us all," You shoo him away but not before he quickly steals a kiss from you.

After the interview finished, Tom walked out the door and the scent of pancakes wafted in the air as he felt his stomach automatically rumble. Walking down the stairs, he could hear soft giggles making him smile.

"Smells good," Tom says as you and Elsie look over to him, Elsie quickly getting out of her seat and running to her dad who lifts her up. "How did the interview go, darling?" You smile as you flip a pancake, "Good, it went great," He comes up behind you, pressing a kiss on the side of your head.

[ghost-proofbaby]

september love (e.m.)

eddie finds you awake on the first night he's home from the hospital, and wonders what you're thinking.

pairing: eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of canon ending of season 4, except eddie didn't die. mentions of hospital and medical procedures (in passing). sort of sad, sort of not. a little bit of angst? hurt/comfort. religious imagery (specific mentions of heaven).

wc: 1.7k+

an: this was just some sort of weird rambling upon seeing the poem mentioned above at like 11 pm? 1 am? who knows. time is a construct. also, reader is compared to a 'violent' dog/animal during eddie's recovery, and if you like this metaphor/vibe, then i strongly suggest and urge you to go read @myosotisa's fic Half Life. she does it far more beautifully than i ever could, and it is one of my favorite fics. ever.

Your head is on his chest. 

Your temple and your ear are flush with the soft cotton of his wrinkled t-shirt, the one he insisted upon sleeping on his first night home, and it’s all you can think about. The smell of week old laundry, the stubborn linger of a cologne gifted too long ago to remember the worn name of. A steady heartbeat that still pumps along a little too slow for your liking. The rise and fall of each promised breath that you force your lungs to pace themselves with. Just enough heat radiating off of him to keep you warm, here in bed, here in the dim light of twilight as he rests.

No tubes and no IVs to worry about. No nurses barging in every ten minutes. No beeping of a dozen machines to be your symphony tonight. 

No, you don’t need a machine now to keep track of his heart rate. You’ve learned to do that entirely on your own; your heart has learned how to match his with each dulled thump against the skin you cling to through this dingy old t-shirt.

It can’t be long after 3 AM, the moonlight almost as bright as a rising sun as it peeks itself in through the curtains of the window, as if whispering to check if you might still be awake.

And you are. And all you can think about, is your head on his chest. 

It’s been over a month since you’ve had this type of moment with Eddie. A moment where you’re truly, sincerely, utterly alone with him. Privacy had become a delicacy that you weren’t aware of the fragility of. You hadn’t understood its importance until you had to bask in its absence, always on edge for the next body to walk into the room and take the air out of your lungs. Always anxious for the next sound of news, always worried for the next shoe to drop. 

You’d forgotten what it had felt like for Eddie to twitch his fingers along your spine in his sleep, and for you to be the only witness to his quiet worship, even unconscious. 

Your lips part, and you almost consider whispering hard truths into the trembling night air. There’s a million and one dying words cementing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and you know that every single one you could even manage to utter would only make you sound like a broken record. 

I’m sorry this happened to you.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it. 

All things already said to him when he had been drifting in and out of consciousness in that hospital bed. All apologies already buried between muted sobs as you’d clutched his knuckles a little tighter than you should have, a little too selfish in the moment to wonder if it might be hurting him. The only thing on your mind had been keeping him, holding him, feeling him. He was alive – he was alive. And for the first seven nights of his endless rest, all you could wonder is for just how much longer that desperate prayer could ring true.

Would he leave you again? Would he lose the fight? 

You can’t recall without bias which one of you had been the true wounded animal in that little room, scented with burning bleach and cacophonies of nearby patients just beyond the curtains. 

Eddie, looking up at the police who had finally come once he woke, eyes big and teary as he’d tried to wrap his head around his new reality.

You, baring teeth and claws at them in the end, ready to bite hard at anyone who got too close.

It wasn’t just the police. It was everyone. 

It was the same juxtaposition between the two of you at those nurses who would interrupt the nights, always frowning so dutifully at the sight of your carefully curled figure at Eddie’s side. When friends and family came to visit, and they all had the same look of disbelief. As if they were about to tell you that you had imagined it all; he hadn’t survived, he hadn’t come back to you, you were imagining it. You’d been all bark and awaiting bite towards Steve Harrington and the newly revived Jim Hopper, all the same. Their figures bore no difference to you when it came to protecting what was so holy to you. Him, Eddie, here and alive. Eddie, who slept enough for the both of you those nights. The pain in your back from all the uncomfortable hours spent in that little chair at his bedside was insignificant, all the headaches you’d endured from the smell of iodine that still clung to the air after every surgery were pitiful attempts at the Universe removing you from him. 

If you could, you might try to recall your reaction when Dustin Henderson had babbled on through tears as to what had happened to Eddie when the two were left alone. His final act of heroism, or so he thought. 

But you can’t. Right here, right now, you aren’t capable of living in the past. You’ve been haunted enough these last few weeks, and all your numb mind can handle is counting the beats of his heart. Like the rhythm of a song – 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. Staccato verses that you sometimes whisper in time, getting worried when they don’t follow the infallible metronome you’ve set for him. 

“You’re still awake.”

The murmur of his voice is a drink of cold water, startling in the dark greys and blues wrapping the two of you up. 

You lift your head ever so slightly against your better judgment, “Go back to sleep, love.” 

“Touche.” 

You can see his grin even through the shadows. It’s weak, not yet quite as vibrant as it once had been, but it’s there. He’s still alive. He’s still grinning. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” The pads of his fingertips are more intentional against your spine now, longer strokes and mindless shapes, “I’ve got a penny in my pocket if you tell me.”

His words are only slightly slurred. Probably residual of the pain medication they’d prescribed him.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything,” you say, and you mean it.

You hadn’t been thinking. You had just been listening to his heart and his breaths, feeling the weight of him beneath you. 

Little things you had taken for granted once upon a time. Never again, your soul aches as you let your head drop back to his chest carefully. Never again.

“You’re just laying awake, not thinking about anything, at…” he trails off, turning his cheek and squinting in the direction of the alarm clock across the room. The glow is dim, and you know you’ll have to change the batteries soon, “Four in the morning?”

4 AM. Last you had checked, it had been 3 AM. You hadn’t even noticed an hour had passed. 

“Is that really so hard to believe?” you smile up at him, and it’s just as sincere as your words had been. When his honey brown eyes meet yours, warmth drizzles down your entire being. Across your brain, down your spine, wrapping around your limbs. You could spend an eternity here, simmering in his warmth, content to your heart’s fullest capability. 

You’d almost lost him. You’d almost lost this warmth. 

You take a second to memorize his features. Studying him as if you didn’t already know every curvature, every freckle, every winkle better than you knew your own soul. You’re looking at him as if you may never look at him again, and he can tell. 

He doesn’t have to say that he gets it. His hand simply wanders up to cup your face, basking in you as you were him. Two souls, intertwining over overlapping legs and synchronized heartbeats, and he doesn’t have to say a word. 

The moment his fingers card into your baby hairs, you’re turning your mouth quickly to that warm palm. One, two, three kisses. Quick pecks, rapid succession. A secret language that you know he, and only ever he, can begin to understand. 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. 

It drowns out all sorrow, all guilt, all hauntings. Your cracked lips, and the feeling of those lines across his palms. If there is a Heaven, it’s not somewhere in a pearly gated kingdom above. There are no hark angels and there is no bearded man awaiting. 

It’s here. It’s now. It’s 4 AM, in bed with your lover, getting to experience moments you’d come so close to losing for eternity. 

Do the poets know? They must. All the love, all the adoration, in both your bodies is too abundant for them to not feel it. To not write about it. 

“Go back to bed, love,” you repeat almost a perfect imitation of your first command when he had awakened, and this time, his eyelids flutter with your words, “I’m not gonna disappear between now and sunrise. I promise.” 

“No,” he quickly whispers back as his eyes fully shut, and your palms smooth out the wrinkles of the shirt to feel the ridges of scars hidden for now. Scars he’s ashamed of, for now. Scars you’d one day show all the love in the world to, sacred proof that he came back to you, only once he was ready. One day. “But you’re looking at me like I might.”

His words are heavy in the shades of violet now sinking into the room. But the moon is high in her sky, and the crickets are chirping to the East, and he’s right.

You’re terrified the daylight will steal him from you. You’re terrified the new day might tear away all that you’ve sunk your teeth into. 

“I’m not going to,” he mumbles around a yawn, arms slowly encasing you, pulling you in closer, “I’m not going anywhere. Yeah?” 

He’s back with that warmth, coaxing you right back into heavenly notions with him. You let him; he baits you, and you follow. 

“Yeah.”

It’s a sigh. Of hopefulness, of relief, of belief. 

This time, the I love you is more than a prayer repeated in your mind. And he somehow manages to say it back, just as he begins to slip back under. Still holding you and hands still twitching where they rest against your back. 

Let daylight come. You aren’t capable of worrying about it, or stressing about all that has happened. You aren’t capable of thinking about anything right now, because only one thing matters as your temple and ear find his heartbeat once more. 

Your head is on his chest.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @mediocredreams @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin

@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87

@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea@kellsck

@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking

@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore

@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog

@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria@loveryanax@stylexrepp

@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

@writinginthetwilight @trixyvixx @kittydeadbones @munson-addict @bluejeangenies

@cryingglightningg @joannamuns9n @missmarch-99 @rhirojo@findmeincorneliastreet

[cordeliawhohung]

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [4]

pet!au part 4 | ghoap x fem!reader

simon goes shopping

cw: non-con, dark content, groping, oral (m!), non-con videoing, voyeurism, thoughts of violence

Department stores always had such a synthetic scent to them it made Simon sick.

It was the last place he wanted to visit after a long day of butchering animals and cutting them into palatable pieces. Yet there was something he needed, which proved difficult to find. Plastic was incorporated into everything those days — weaved into food bags and molded into anything one could think of. Cheap trash. Something that broke too easily, unlike flesh and metal. 

Needless to say, the brute looked at the rack of dog collars with disappointment as nothing but plastic and nylon stared back at him. Fluorescent reflective yellow, glittery princess pink — disgusting. They were poorly crafted, items that would fray and break within no time. Putting either of his pets in something so gaudy seemed inhumane, and his nose twitched underneath his mask at the very thought. No, he needed something more dignified. Something real. 

Thick-soled work boots hit the concrete floor with a dull thud as Simon rounded the other side of the rack. It took everything in him not to scoff at the plump purple faux leather collar that greeted him on the second row, but as his eyes meandered downwards, he finally caught sight of the good stuff. Dark cow skin tanned and conditioned into lovely leather. His knees creaked as he bent down and reached a hand towards one of the collars. Smooth, and it smelled leagues better than the synthetic shit a few rows above. 

Once he made his choice of a dark brown leather collar chosen just for you, there was only one more thing Simon needed to retrieve before returning home to you and Johnny. 

Your name. 

Simon wasn’t interested in the shaped cut tags the engraving machine offered. Dog bones, stars — all of it. Cliche. Annoying. Though he was certain Johnny would have rather you had the heart shaped tag, he went with a simple circle to engrave the name Bonnie onto it. Of course he knew your other name, your old name. The one on your lease and your driver's license. It didn’t suit you. And you were under his care, now. A new life demanded a new name, after all. 

As the machine whirred and whined in front of him, Simon snuck his phone out of his pocket. Several customers milled around the aisles behind him as he opened an app that sported a house-shaped icon and was instantly brought to a live feed of the rooms in the house. The videos illuminated in a grid on his phone, though the images were too small to clearly see the contents, he knew exactly where he could find you and Johnny.  

Clicking on the live feed from the bedroom, Simon nearly smirked when the video popped up on his screen. Johnny had you bare naked on the bed, head leaning over the side of the mattress as you laid on your back, legs flailing. Unlike earlier that morning, your shirt had finally been torn off and discarded next to the rest of your unnecessary garments, and Johnny pawed at your tits like the dog he was as he pumped his cock into your mouth. 

Had the audio been on, Simon knew exactly what he would have heard. Johnny’s pathetic grunts, and your gagging and panting as you struggled with the harsh angle your neck bent at. He scolded the man in his mind. The pace he set was too fast and brutish for you to get any air in, yet he didn’t listen to your pitiful attempts at non-verbal communication as you pushed back on his hips. 

That wasn’t his first round with you that day, and he figured it wouldn’t be his last. Simon had watched the cameras like a hawk that morning when he left for work and witnessed every second of Johnny fucking your thighs. Pathetic. Almost cute. So close to your cunt yet not quite the real deal. Had to make sure his pup listened to the rules, and while he was very close to breaking them, Simon was rather impressed with the man’s self restraint. 

He would have hated to get rid of you had his silly pup fucked you properly.

The machine in front of him beeped, signaling the completion of your freshly engraved tag, yet Simon’s eyes refused to look anywhere else but his phone. Johnny’s hips began to stutter, yet he pressed his cock so far down your throat he could nearly see the bulge of it. Your body thrashed as you tried to squirm from his grasp, but Johnny’s grip on your torso kept you pinned to the bed as his fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples. 

With one final thrust, Johnny sunk himself into you and threw his head back, and Simon could nearly hear the groan in his mind. His fucked out, mouth opened gaze trained on the ceiling as his spend trickled down your throat. Silly pup nearly forgot to let you breathe until he all but collapsed off the side of the bed, pulling his cock out of your mouth in the process. 

You sat up much too fast and collapsed onto your side as coughs rattled your body. Even through the graininess of the camera, Simon could see the spit and cum dribble down your chin and onto the mattress. A real fucking mess. One he wasn’t excited to clean up when he got home. 

Simon turned his phone off with a sigh before he retrieved your tag out of the machine. A large thumb grazed over your new name, and he pocketed that along with his phone before going to pay for your collar. 

The bold cashier that was unfortunate enough to serve Simon looked at him with his towering height, intimidating mask, and concerning choice of merchandise with what could only be described as faint disgust accompanied by caution. Simon doubled down on his cold expression, eyes screaming to the man about the ten different ways he knew how to butcher a human. Neither man spoke a word to one another as the item was scanned, yet Simon wished he had grabbed his knife instead of cash when he was asked to pay for it. Animals shouldn’t look at owners like that. As if he was a monster. If an animal wasn’t a pet, then the only look he should have received was fear. 

Instead, he grabbed the collar the moment the man took his cash, and he didn’t look back as he exited the store, even as the clerk called after him asking about his change.

[hyunjinsjeans]

Breakfast in bed (Bangchan x Reader)

Summary: going with Chan on his trip to America you can’t let an opportunity to give it a try to have that baby you talked about pass you by.

Type: Fluff 🧸, NSFW 🔞

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, unprotected sex (don’t do it, guys!) , little proofreading.

Word count: 2263 words

Related: He Knows (Chan ver.)

Masterlist Here

AN: This fic is a part 2 to Bangchan’s version of the He Knows Series. It can also be read as a stand alone. There is so little plot, I’m a little sorry. I’m also a little shy around smut still but I’m trying guys 👉👈This is the first one! Let’s go!

You breathe in the morning air. America has been wonderful, after Chan decided to bring you along only a few days before the departure date, you had to get the days off from work and plan accordingly.

Chan finds himself dragging you behind him everywhere, he cannot help it. While he is in his leader mindset, he is also so unable to disconnect from you. You experience his bossy side first hand. He is strict and direct, and he does not play games with the boys whenever they begin having too much fun during dance practice.

Chicago has been kind to the boys, even though they have spent little time on their own personal interests, you still find yourself having a great time seeing them all do what they love. Their set was a massive hit, the boys had great fun and Felix went a little overboard on stage… You enjoyed the show from a spot backstage with some of their staff as well as Changbin!Reader and Felix!Reader who had made it with their little ones.

“Hey… what are you doing all the way over there?” He drops his arm over his eyes as he lays on his back in the bed.

You hear his voice and smile from the open balcony. You turn in your old snoopy pj shorts and shirt and look at him, forgetting about the birds that fly above the busy city. You’ve already made coffee on the coffee machine in the small hotel room, the small mug between your hands.

“Morning, sleepy head!” You step aside and close the balcony sliding door. “I was just having a second with my thoughts, how’d you sleep?”

Chan sighs but does not move a muscle, still tired. You walk up to the bed, leaving the coffee on the bedside table and sit next to him, placing your hand on his forearm you pull the limb away from his face and whisper.

“Mmm, that good?” You arch an eyebrow and watch him whine.

He rolls on his side and wraps his arm around you, dragging you down onto the bed beside him. “Yeah, it’s nice to share a hotel room with you…”

You complain as you drop on the bed, hands go reach out to him on instinct. “Chan!” You can hear him chuckle at your plea. “I’m telling Lee Know you don’t like sharing rooms with him.”

He smiles and wraps his arms around you, “tell him something he doesn’t know…”

You push his messy hair away from his face and examine his face. Eyes closed and expression full of glee. He takes a deep breath and you put your hand against his cheek, he smiles and puts his hand on top of yours, turning his face to kiss your palm.

“I’m so glad you could come. I miss you so much when you stay home.” He admits in a soft voice.

You hum and lean in to kiss his nose. “I know. I feel weird when you’re travelling.”

Chan opens his eyes and meets your gaze, his hand reaches out to touch your face too, his fingers drag along your temple and fix a strand of your hair behind your ear. You lean against him and let him turn to lay on his back again, now pulling you softly into his chest. You wrap your leg around his and let your arm rest on his stomach while your head finds the perfect spot on the crook of his neck.

“Remind me, what time are we supposed to check out?” You rub your nose against his skin, inhaling his scent with a soft smile on your face.

“This afternoon. I think they said at around 3…” his arms squeeze you against him, he closes his eyes when you start nipping at his neck, “babe, what are you doing?”

You smile and slip your hand slowly up his chest and neck until you reach his jaw, “I’m spoiling my husband, what are you doing?” You say playfully.

He chuckles, “well, obviously I’m being spoiled!”

You laugh against his skin, kissing his neck before throwing your head back to look at him.

“Should I stop?” you wait for his reply.

Chan’s grasp on you tightens, “I never said that!” He complains and you giggle in response.

“Oh, so I am allowed to give you hickeys?” You press your lips on his neck again.

“No, no, no!” He puts his hand on your hair and pulls you away softly, “I’m still the only one allowed to give hickeys.”

He stares at your neck for a moment and then his eyes meet yours, all sleep has disappeared from them all of a sudden.

“Mm, actually… let me fix you with one…” He dips his head into your neck and pushes his plush lips against your neck.

You close your eyes as his breath hits your skin and you feel him nibbling on the sensitive spot right under your ear. Your head falls on the pillow and you run your hands up and down his naked chest. He presses his body against you and you grip onto his shoulder, pulling him on top of you as you roll onto your back.

“Looks so pretty, babe.” He whispers when he pulls away and watches the small mark on your neck.

With a cloudy mind you sigh, while he is fully awake now you feel like you’re being put into a trance.

“Chan,” you whisper, combing his hair back with your fingers. “You do realise I have to walk behind you at the airport, right? Now sporting this thing on my neck.”

He smiles and chuckles, “couldn’t help it…” He brushes his nose against yours. “I remember seeing you dance and jump around last night. You looked so cute, so excited to watch us perform. I’m glad you had fun.”

You nod with your head still on the pillow. Looking up at Chan you understand a little better why he wanted you to come. It has been a couple of months since you two decided to grow the family, encouraged by those members who already had kids. The night before you had helped Changbin!Reader with her two year old, Hajoon. She was an excitable little girl and you had a lot of fun holding her and dancing, playing with her small hands as she giggled with her big noise cancelling headphones. Obviously, Chan was eager to watch you have that same kind of fun with a child of your own.

“Aw, are you getting the baby fever?” You tease him, “welcome to my life, be thankful LeeKnow!Reader couldn’t be here, I’m a fool for their baby boy!”

Chan giggles, giving your lips a soft peck.

“Don’t worry, you can be a fool for our baby too. Let’s work on that, yeah?” He proposes.

“Oh, you’re on a schedule now? Is it time for that?” You tease.

“Mmmhm,” He kisses you, smiling into the kiss. “It’s time.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and play with the hair on the back of his head, letting his tongue into your mouth once he licks your bottom lip. You bring your leg up to his hip and feel his hand pull it up against his side. Your hand goes to find his arm and you hold on to him, his fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin. He kisses down your neck and bites every so often, making you gasp and let out little whispered sounds. He pulls your shirt and shorts off and has you laying on your back naked in a few minutes. His hands touch your legs from the ankle to the back of your knee, to your thighs and then his strong hands grip your hips. You reach up and touch his naked chest.

Chan grabs your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles and the back of your hand, before leaning down and kissing your stomach, right above your belly button. You whine under his kiss but let him kiss an agonisingly slow path down your belly and between your legs.

He really gives no warning before his face is buried into you, his hands holding your legs apart over his shoulders.

You gasp under his mouth and put a hand on his hair, fingers tangle with his dark locks while your other hand holds on to fistfulls of the bedsheets. You throw your head back as his tongue works on your most sensitive spot, making sure you are absolutely ready for him. You pant with a strong string tightening inside you, breathing seems so difficult as he laps at your folds, his nose rubbing against your sensitive clit. He hums into your sensitive knob and you gasp loudly, legs shaking in his grasp. He keeps going, eating you out like a starved man, only stopping after you cum on his mouth. You call out his name, your back arching off the bed as you do. He kisses your thighs and then your belly and up to your chest, his hands now eager to grope your breasts, he speaks against your chest, lips brushing your skin as he does so. “So pretty, babe… you’ll be even prettier with our baby…”

You nod, lazy hand landing on his shoulder. “Mmhm,” you kiss his lips, “I can’t wait…”

He leans into your kiss and struggles to kick off his boxers fast enough, you laugh as he has to step off the bed to get them off. Smiling, you sit up in the middle of the bed and wrap your arms around your weakened legs and stare. He looks back at you with a sheepish smile on his face as he stands fully naked before you.

“What are you laughing at?” He climbs onto the bed again, his hands land on your knees and he pulls them apart slowly, still face to face with you as you sit up.

“I’m thinking I love you,” you caress his cheek. “And that I am so eager to have your baby one day, hopefully soon…”

It is not spoken, but as the time has gone on and you’re still a couple months into trying for a baby, the two of you have relaxed a lot about the topic. Especially you, since the stress of it was not doing you any good. Chan feels his heart fill with hope when you say those words. He wants the same thing you want and he knows the uncertainty of the situation is hard to cope with, everytime you get a period it’s both of you who deal with the disappointment. Everytime you’re together like this, you remind each other that it’s not a “task”, that you’re doing it because you want to, because it means something.

He sighs and his shoulders relax, he laughs to himself and grabs your face. “I love you too, Y/N. And I can’t wait either…”

You cup his face and bring your lips to his, he leans the rest of the way and he pushes you down slowly, hovering over you as you wrap your legs around his waist. He slips his hand between your bodies and guides himself inside you. You grip his shoulders and moan into his ear as he starts kissing down your neck. You feel him sink in, all the way in until there is no more space between you. He whispers in your ear but at that moment he starts moving. His hips snap against yours and you plant your feet on the bed, head thrown back.

“Channie…”

He hums and groans into your skin. Picking up the pace, it becomes almost unbearable the way he reaches the most sensitive spot inside you, your legs shaking with the imminent release approaching. You dig your fingers into his back and meet his every move, hips meeting his.

“...so close, Chan… ‘m so close…” You let him know in a whine.

He pulls your legs up, his hands find the back of your knees and he pushes them against your chest as he keeps going.

“It’s okay, babe… I’ve got you,” he basically folds you in half as he continues with a fast pace.

You grab onto the bed sheets and soon find the drag of his cock inside you too much, a loud moan falling from your lips as you cum. He gasps and fucks you through it, his hips stuttering a couple of times before he suddenly lands a hand on the headboard behind your head.

“That’s it babe, I’m going to… gonna cum too.” He announces.

Only a couple thrusts later, his warm cum is spilling inside you. You reach up and pull his hand down kissing his bicep before he lets go of your other leg and you can fully wrap yourself around him.

You let Chan kiss your lips, your cheek and your neck before he pulls away and peppers your collarbone with kisses as well.

“You’re so extra…” you joke, he chuckles and asks why, “because you didn’t have to put me in a mating press!”

He breathes in, “oh, you love it…”

You put your hands on your face, unable to deny his statement. You hear him laughing and cannot help yourself but smile.

“See?” He kisses your hands still on your face. “Hey, I’ve got a good feeling about this…”

You let him take your hands away from your face and smile at one another, hopeful but unaware this would be the moment that would change your lives.

———

Comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for reading!

[pretzel-box]

Streamer AU masterlist here

tags: Meeting old friends, some fluff, streamer au

words: 2,7k

authors note: See you for part 5 on thursday!

Sebastian’s bike roared to life, its powerful engine vibrating beneath you as the machine settled into a steady, low purr. The familiar hum, combined with the cool breeze against your skin, sent a rush of adrenaline through your veins. You wrapped your arms around Sebastian’s torso, pressing yourself against his back. The warmth of his body radiated through his leather jacket, filling you with both a sense of euphoria and nervousness. Being this close to him was rare—these motorcycle rides were some of the few moments when you could really feel that connection.

The city was bathed in golden light, the late afternoon sun casting long, soft shadows across the streets. As the two of you set off toward the café, you couldn’t help but soak in the moment. The engine’s steady vibrations beneath you and the wind rushing past contrasted with the comforting solidity of Sebastian’s body in front of you. It was a strange combination of sensations, but it felt like home.

He glanced back at you for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his voice cutting through the noise of the ride. “You doing okay back there?”

“Yeah, fine,” you replied, your voice slightly muffled through the helmet, but the smile on your face was impossible to hide. You rested your chin on his shoulder, letting your thoughts drift. These rides were your sanctuary—silent, peaceful, and filled with unspoken intimacy.

Sebastian had offered to drive you to a local café, where you were planning to meet up with Allison, an old friend from high school. Life had gotten in the way for both of you after graduation, but out of the blue, she’d reached out a few days ago, suggesting that you meet and catch up. While a little surprised, you were looking forward to it. The ride there, though, was becoming the highlight of your day.

After weaving through the city streets, the café finally came into view. It was a cozy little place, tucked into a quiet corner with ivy climbing the brick walls. The gentle hum of the city seemed to fade as you neared the café. Sebastian parked the bike, and you hopped off, feeling your legs slightly wobbly from the ride. You unclasped your helmet, watching as Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, shaking it loose before securing the bike.

“I’ll grab some food before going,” he said, his usual relaxed tone adding to the comfortable rhythm of the day. You nodded, already spotting Allison sitting near the window. She looked up as you approached, her face lighting up with a familiar smile.

“Allison, long time no see!” you said, pulling her into a warm hug before sitting across from her. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, making the atmosphere even more inviting.

“I know, right? It’s been ages,” Allison replied, her eyes flicking briefly toward Sebastian, who was now standing at the register, ordering a coffee. She studied him for a moment longer than felt casual, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “So… that’s Sebastian, huh?”

You smiled softly. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Allison gave a nod, a slight smile tugging at her lips. There was something in her expression you couldn’t quite place, but you brushed it off, eager to dive into conversation. The two of you began catching up, chatting about life, work, and all the things that had happened in the years since you’d drifted apart. It felt good to reconnect, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that Allison wasn’t entirely present. Her eyes kept flicking toward Sebastian, who had found some food and was scrolling through his phone while waiting for his turn to pay.

As you were in the middle of discussing your plans for the weekend, nature called, and you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. You left your phone on the table, not giving it a second thought. It was a casual moment, one that felt harmless, but as you walked away, Allison’s eyes zeroed in on the device.

The moment you disappeared around the corner, Allison’s curiosity got the better of her. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she reached for your phone, unlocking it with the code she had remembered from your high school days. Old habits die hard, and secrets had always flowed freely between the two of you back then.

As she scrolled through your messages, her heart raced when she stumbled upon the chat between you and Solace—Sebastian’s streaming alias. The messages were playful and full of banter, the kind that only close friends—no, close partners—would share. Her eyes widened as realization dawned on her. Jelly was you. You were the streamer she had always admired, and Solace—the man she had been fangirling over for years—was none other than Sebastian.

Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of the discovery hit her. She hurriedly snapped pictures of the chat with her own phone, her heart pounding in her chest. The thrill of it, the idea of finally having a way to get closer to Solace, to Sebastian, sent a surge of excitement through her. She wasn’t just going to sit on this information. No, she had a plan—a way to infiltrate the world you had built and get closer to the man she had admired from afar for so long.

With a sly grin, Allison quickly memorized the login credentials for your Jelly account. It was wrong—betraying an old friend like this—but in her mind, it was worth it. The chance to become part of Solace’s world was too tempting to pass up.

By the time you returned, Allison was back in her seat, the picture of innocence. She smiled warmly as you sat down, her earlier anxiety masked completely.

“Everything okay?” you asked, noticing the calm, almost relaxed demeanor she had now.

“Yeah, just catching up on some messages,” she replied smoothly, slipping her phone back into her bag. You didn’t notice the slight smirk that crossed her face when you weren’t looking. If only you had seen it, maybe you would have suspected something was amiss. But for now, you remained blissfully unaware, continuing your conversation, unaware of the storm Allison was about to unleash.

Allison's plan was straightforward, yet it required a careful balance of deception and patience. She had thought everything through, knowing well that the key to success was staying undetected. She couldn’t risk texting Sebastian on Discord, not when you had access to the same account. But what you didn’t have, and what she needed, was his phone number.

She had noticed, during her little snooping session, that while you had conversations with Sebastian as Jelly, you didn’t have his number saved. That was her opening—her way in. From the messages, it was also clear that you hadn’t yet revealed your true identity to him. Sebastian remained blissfully unaware of who Jelly really was, which meant he would be none the wiser if Allison took your place. She would become Jelly.

Over the next few days, everything began to fall into place. She logged into your Discord account, carefully crafting her approach. She needed to play this cool, not arouse any suspicion. So she sent a simple message, mimicking the casual tone you always used with Sebastian:

“Up to call?”

The reply came quickly, his name flashing across the screen.

“Sure, whenever ur rdy.”

Allison’s heart raced. She could hardly believe how easy this was turning out to be. Step One in her plan was to get his phone number. There was no way she could use her voice—it would instantly give her away. So, she played it safe, claiming her microphone wasn’t working.

“Mic’s acting up, but we can still chat. I’ll text you while you talk, okay?”

Sebastian’s response was almost immediate again. “No prob, just text me what you need.”

Perfect. As Sebastian talked, Allison typed out replies, keeping her tone light, playful, and just ambiguous enough to avoid any hiccups. When the time was right, she asked for his phone number, casually slipping it into the conversation. And to her astonishment, he gave it to her without a second thought.

She saved the number into her phone with a triumphant grin. Now, she could communicate with him over SMS, a method that wouldn’t leave traces on your shared Discord account. You would never know.

After the call, she meticulously deleted her messages from the chat log, erasing any evidence of the conversation. As far as you were concerned, nothing had happened. Step One of her plan was complete.

Next came Step Two: becoming Jelly.

This was trickier. Streaming with him was out of the question—her voice would give her away in an instant. But meeting him in real life? That was feasible. The conversations between you and Sebastian had already established a close connection. With the right approach, she could use that trust to arrange a meeting. And once they were face-to-face, she could play off any discrepancies. If he questioned her voice, she’d simply claim it sounded different online—people always sound different on streams compared to real life, right? A small white lie could smooth over any potential issues.

There were, of course, many risks. Loopholes in her plan that could unravel everything. But those were problems for later. For now, she was closer to her favorite male streamer than she had ever been, and the excitement of it all was enough to blind her to the potential consequences.

With his number now saved on her phone, the rest of the plan would unfold piece by piece. She would step into your life as Jelly, leaving you none the wiser, and in time, she would have everything she ever wanted: a way into Solace's world.

Three more days passed, each one feeling like a delicate balancing act. Allison was playing a dangerous game, and with each day that passed, she risked you finding out about the meeting she had secretly arranged with Sebastian. But fortune seemed to be on her side. You were too busy with work and meetings to even think about streaming, and Sebastian—thankfully—hadn’t mentioned anything about the upcoming meeting in your Discord chat.

Allison kept a close eye on your conversations, her heart pounding every time a new message popped up. But Sebastian was smooth, careful, never slipping up. He didn’t breathe a word about the meeting. For all you knew, everything was normal.

Finally, the day arrived.

Sebastian sat at a café, one you and he frequented, though today felt different. He was nervous. You’d never actually met in person as Jelly, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Yet, there he was, scrolling through his phone, waiting for Jelly—or at least, who he believed to be Jelly.

He glanced up as the café door opened, and there she was—Allison, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She had taken extra care to look her best, wearing a simple but flattering outfit, her hair styled just right. Those bright blue eyes seemed to mesmerize Sebastian the moment he saw her.

“Solace?” Allison said softly, stepping up to the table. Her voice carried a slight tremble, an artificial nervousness she’d rehearsed a hundred times.

Sebastian blinked, almost taken aback by how different she seemed in person. But then again, people always seemed different outside of the digital world. He quickly put his phone aside and stood up, his usual cool demeanor melting away into something softer—more vulnerable.

“Jelly?” he asked, his voice hesitant, searching her eyes for confirmation.

Allison nodded, her heart racing with excitement. She could barely contain the thrill of it all. She was Jelly now.

She was the one meeting Solace.

“We finally meet, Solace!” she exclaimed with a bright smile, sliding into the seat across from him. “I bet you have so many questions.”

Sebastian smiled awkwardly, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his jacket as he sat back down. “Yeah, uh, I didn’t expect you to look like this,” he said, clearly unsure of himself. “Not that it’s a bad thing. You just… sound different in person.”

Allison waved off the comment, laughing lightly. “I get that all the time. Microphones distort voices, you know? Plus, I use filters on streams, so that probably explains the difference.”

Sebastian nodded, seeming to buy the excuse, though there was still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. But as they began talking, Allison skillfully shifted the conversation away from her voice, steering it toward their shared experiences online, inside jokes, and mutual admiration. She was careful, always staying just vague enough to keep up the illusion while feeding him just enough details to make the connection feel real.

As the minutes ticked by, Sebastian’s nervousness eased, and the lovestruck expression that Allison had always seen in his streams began to return. He smiled more easily, laughed at her jokes, and even leaned in closer, as though they were long-lost friends finally reunited.

Allison couldn’t believe how easy this had been. She had successfully stolen your identity—your streaming persona—and now, she was sitting here, living out a fantasy she had dreamed of for years. Sebastian, the elusive and mysterious Solace, was completely smitten, and he had no idea that the real Jelly wasn’t sitting in front of him.

As they continued their conversation, Allison couldn’t help but think about the next step. She had pulled off the meeting, but what would happen when you found out? How long could she keep up the charade? Those were problems for later. For now, she was basking in the glow of Sebastian’s undivided attention, his love-struck gaze focused entirely on her.

For a brief moment, she almost felt guilty. Almost.

But then, as Sebastian laughed at something she said, the guilt washed away, replaced by the thrill of being so close to him. She had worked too hard to let this slip away now.

This was her moment.

The meeting stretched into the late evening, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting a warm golden glow across the quiet streets. Both Sebastian and Allison had enjoyed their time together—more than she could have hoped for. Every laugh, every shared story had deepened the connection she had stolen, making her feel like she had truly become Jelly in Sebastian’s eyes.

As they walked to her apartment, the quiet streets only added to the sense of intimacy that had built throughout the day. Sebastian, for all his usual aloofness, had softened during their time together, his affection becoming more and more obvious with each passing minute.

When they finally arrived at her door, they stood facing each other, a comfortable silence settling between them. There was affection in Sebastian’s eyes, the kind that glittered with possibility. He had always been mysterious, hard to read, but now, standing so close to him, Allison felt as though she had finally cracked the code. She had done it. Her plan had worked perfectly.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” Allison said, her voice soft as she looked up at him, her heart beating a little faster. “I had lots of—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Sebastian’s lips pressed against hers, soft and warm. The kiss was gentle, slow, filled with an affection she hadn’t anticipated. His hand slid up to her cheek, cradling her face as though she was something delicate, something precious. For a split second, Allison’s mind went blank, overwhelmed by the sensation of Sebastian kissing her.

This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To have *him*—the real Solace—in her arms, to feel his affection, to steal that connection she had coveted for so long?

But as the kiss deepened, a sliver of doubt crept into her mind. Was it enough to be *Jelly* in his eyes, knowing that she wasn’t the person he thought she was? Could she keep pretending, living in this stolen fantasy?

Sebastian pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her skin, his gaze soft and full of emotion. He smiled, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheek. “I’m glad we finally got to meet, Jelly,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

Allison forced a smile, her heart pounding. This was everything she had wanted, everything she had planned for. Yet, in that moment, as Sebastian stood there, looking at her with such sincerity, the weight of her deception pressed heavily on her chest.

“Me too,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. “Me too.”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Get Her Back 4/4 (Word count 7.3 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The knife still juts from the table.

She touches it often, fondles the handle like it's her lover.

Days pass, and König escapes her stare with raised shoulders and poorly disguised hurt in his eyes. She feels his eyes on her every single time she's not looking.

He breaks into her room every night, but she never wakes up to his presence. The only thing that tells her the man's been there are the fresh flowers on her table next to the knife.

He brings her flowers every morning, just like he promised, and she keeps the blade there to remind him that he's still in her heart. It's like a silent conversation, and it stabs her stomach full of pain.

On the fourth day, he returns her panties. They're covered in dried cum, and at first, it makes her feel disgusted. Then her heart flutters, a warm feeling settles deep inside her stomach when she imagines him jerking himself off to her underwear amidst his knives, with despair and longing coating the air.

For anyone else, it might be a chilling thing to wake up to: to open eyes to the sight of a brutal tactical knife, freshly picked forget-me-nots and some cum-stained lace. But for her, it's a loving attempt to remind her who she belongs to. It's also a sign that the man is trying to let her go and finally obey her wishes to be left alone.

And she doesn't want to be left alone.

He promised she would never be alone.

On the fifth day, there's no flowers, there's nothing. She starts her day with a horrible, awful bawl. Then she puts on a black dress. It makes her look odd, like she's in mourning, but it also gives her… power, somehow. Even if it's another cute kind of cotton babydoll dress, it makes her look more austere.

“König, wait.”

She chases him down this time: runs to his retreating form that stops the instant she calls his name. He’s tense when she walks the last steps to him and hugs him from behind. The familiar scent of tea tree and gasoline and sweat and guns bring a visceral memory of madness to her mind. It’s an ambrosia of crude virility, and she's missed him, God, that she's missed him.

It's also safety. Because no matter what anyone says, he is the only one who knows her, sees her, sees right into her core, her very soul.

He slowly places a hand on hers, the arms that embrace his narrow, treelike middle.

"Engel…"

The voice comes out tight and strained. He caresses her hand with hesitation and swallows.

"I'm confused.. I don't know what you want me to do."

"Come with me," she whispers in his back. He has no gear on, and she can feel his abs through the black shirt, the way his shoulder blades flare against her cheek with shallow breaths. "If you want…?"

"Ganz sicher."

She takes him by the hand and guides him to her room. People look at them with pity and dread, and she feels like they’re in high school where people were divided into groups of popular and unpopular.

She knows where she and König would’ve belonged. Where they belonged now…

And she just doesn't care anymore.

When the door to her room shuts behind him, she feels a little tug near her heart. She had nearly forgotten how big König looks inside her little room, the space she has tried to turn into a cozy home even though she doesn't view the base as her home like the soldiers do. It's just a place for her to reside in when she's working.

But he does not fit into a normal society like she does. The base must be the closest thing to a home for him. Not every elite soldier is a lunatic perhaps, but König certainly couldn't find any other job in the modern world that would cater to his needs without sending him behind bars.

But he was supposed to kill only in the field. Only somewhere far, far away.

Why did you do it?

Why…?!

That's what she meant to ask when they're behind closed doors, but something quite different comes out instead.

"Did you miss me…?"

She stands before him, holding her hands in front of her, looking probably quite silly clad in black.

"I've been in hell ever since I left, Engel."

Christ have mercy…

Normal men just didn't talk like that.

"Will you forgive me?" He looks her up and down, but the calm, proud posture, the way he holds his chin high behind that dark shroud tells her he's not used to begging. She has a feeling that this question is asked only because Soap suggested it would be a good idea to apologize for making her so upset.

"It's not me you should be–" She sighs. "Look… That man had a wife. König, I think he had a kid and everything."

His eyes are covered in a veil of disinterest only she can pierce. There's actually so much going on behind that odd, distanced stare. But what’s horrifying is that he clearly doesn’t agree with her on this matter.

"I kill people every week," he declares. "Just not in the break room."

His logic leaves her wordless for a moment. The officer was not an enemy, he was not part of some foreign military, his only crime was that he was in a hurry…

She has barely even opened her mouth to speak before he finally defends himself.

"How do you know his wife is not secretly happy with the news?"

The question is like a bucket of ice dipped in her head. She had prepared herself for almost anything but this. König only tilts his head and narrows his stare.

"Would you want to be wife to that kind of man?"

Her mouth opens on its own; her jaw would fall to the floor if it could do such a thing. His worldview unfolds before her in full, and it should disgust her: but all she feels is an odd thrill in her stomach from realizing this man is not only possessive; he's also fiercely traditional.

"He just spilled some coffee on me," she whispers in soft, tender horror. "He just happened to have a bad day."

"How many times a week did he have a bad day?"

The defense is solid, even if it's preposterous. The man was rude and disrespectful, yes. To everyone, every day, probably continued the abuse at home, too. But he didn't deserve to be killed for it. Still, König doesn't seem to find any fault in his way of thinking.

"I can tell when people are evil," he crosses his arms over his chest as a final note.

Evil…

Evil.

She's left blinking, then she finds her tongue again.

"You can't just… deal punishment like that," she huffs.

"Why not?"

Jesus Christ…

His arms are still over his chest, and he looks… so big, so powerful, like an omnipotent being.

Probably thinks he is.

"Will you go to jail?" She changes the subject because arguing with this kind of man seems futile. Downright hopeless.

"No," he says with perpetual calm. "Would you want to see me in jail?"

"...No."

He finally unravels his arms and takes a few steps toward her. That swaying lounge is intoxicating and seductive, even when he doesn't mean it as such. It's just the way he walks, but it makes her woozy.

"Engel. You are too… kind for this world."

More odd arguments are laid out before her, more confusion and love and pain. He raises a hand to touch her arm and make his point clear. The weight of him is heavy and adult, his military clothing is in blaring contrast to her tiny, childish dress.

"You don't understand it now, but perhaps someday you will."

The man looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with her. She's a child in his eyes, but something in this lunacy tells her she's dealing with a child, too: a boy who no one ever loved.

"My little angel. Always wearing pretty dresses," he says more softly now.

"I'm not an angel."

"Yes you are," he rules without effort. "And you look good in everything. But you shouldn't wear black."

"Why not…?"

"Because you belong with flowers."

Her heart aches, her eyes prick with burning tears. He's self-aware, that's for sure. He knows what he has done to her, what he is doing to her. And he wishes to spare her from him.

"I thought you liked black," she peeps, her mind and will and defense breaking.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand brushes down her cheek, then cups her chin softly. That same hand must be ironclad when it grips his enemies and brings them to his blade.

"I like this dress," she tries to quarrel, voice shaking.

"And I know a knife that would go perfectly with it."

His eyes are warm. There's even a passing sadness in them. She's relatively sure that he's not talking about butterfly knives any longer – she's almost certain that König hasn't gifted his weapons to any other human being on this earth.

“How about we take off that pretty little dress now, hmm?”

The time for the compulsory explanations is over in his mind, and it’s time for sex. He knows that his exile has ended, that whatever liminal space they walked in for a few days wasn’t enough to rid herself of him. There’s no turning back anymore, and he looks at her with amused hunger when she obeys his suggestion which is, in truth, a command.

Her fingers do not shake anymore as she undresses for him, but a shiver goes through her guts: that stare is a look from beyond. He’s a madman, and falling more in love with her every day, even if the only way he knows how to love is by stabbing people with his cock or his knife.

“Lie down,” he gives her more orders when she stands before him with nothing on.

It’s futile, completely futile to pretend that she doesn’t want this. It’s almost like an act, the way she slowly and demurely obeys his command. In reality, she wants nothing more than to be devoured by him.

He takes his clothes off while she waits for him on the bed like an injured bird. He rips, then throws his gloves off like they have done something naughty, all the while his gaze is fixed on her. She has missed the sight of that faint hair on his abs, missed that broad chest, missed how his muscles bunch even when he gets out of a shirt that weighs practically nothing in his hands.

The long, veined cock flies out from his pants with a demanding bounce that makes her swallow. They form an odd pair on the floor: her little dress and his huge woodland camos. His eyes are surrounded in black paint under the eternal mask, but otherwise, he's the palest man she has ever seen.

Her breasts rise and fall with aroused breaths as he settles himself beside her, naked and blazing. His cock is pure fire when it gets trapped between them, and he's already drooling hot precum on her thigh.

He's gentle, kind of. Slides a hand over her shivering stomach, palms one breast, then takes a nipple between his fingertips and gives her a pinch.

“Did you miss me too?”

The hood makes him look like a hangman, and he’s infuriatingly patient now. She expected him to rail her like a sex toy right after the door was closed.

"Yes."

He releases her, and the callous descends with a gentle, deliberate caress to her waist.

"Then you're the first who ever did."

She just might be the first woman he's gentle with, too, and she cannot help but think if it's because of what she said just before he killed that poor man. If the last piece of the puzzle locked in place when he realized how much she admired him. If her confession also made him stake his claim in the loudest possible way, announcing everyone that he's her protector.

It's not her fault that the man's dead, but she should be ashamed: she's wet already when the murderer's fingers delve further down to meet her folds. He disappears somewhere in her wetness, and her thighs rise and drift apart to give him full access.

And it's always like this: she spreads legs for him with a helpless, longing stare, he takes in what belongs to him with dark, pleased hunger.

He finds her clit in no time, drags his thumb over it, and she gasps. Her breaths come quick now, her nipples are shot to the sky and her back is already arching when he delves down and slides one finger inside. It's long and lean, and her cunt grips him like they have been apart for four weeks instead of four days.

He sighs under the mask, just from her greedy response. She wants to touch him too, but doesn't dare to move when he's looking at her like that. He starts to finger her gently, first with one, then two digits while attending to the tight nub on top. And he's good with a knife, quick with his hands, so what did she expect?

But she’s also sad and mad. Because he definitely knows what he’s doing. And it makes her think…

"Have you had a lot of women..?"

Her question is a mouse's whisper. His fingers halt inside her; they spread her with delicious torture.

"A few," he says. "Back in Austria."

He buries his face in her neck and nuzzles his way to her ear. The bag of darkness is soft and hot, but nothing compared to his heated whisper.

"But they were nothing like you."

He punctuates the declaration by curling the fingers inside her. She bites her lip to stifle a filthy, needy moan. He even grinds his hips against her: that cock is like a heated spear against her soft thigh, and more cum oozes out to trickle down her leg.

"How many men have had you, Engel?"

He doesn't ask: how many men has she had. She may not be his plaything, but she is his possession. In his mind, she belongs to him and only him, no matter who has come before. But the murderous passion with which he waits for her answer makes her flustered, and she bolts her mouth tight in an indication that she will not disclose this information.

"Gut. Don't tell. I would kill them all."

Oh.

Oh…

"Would you like that…?"

"No," she whimpers.

"Yes you would."

“I don’t–I don't want you to–”

“Shh.”

He’s working those fingers smooth and quick, and she’s already leaking on his hand, probably on the bed, too… The room is filled with sighs and whimpers and sobs as he fucks her with slick, wet sounds. She's close the edge in mere minutes, but he won’t let her finish.

Instead, he pulls out just when she's about to tighten around him.

"Why-why did you stop?"

"Angel... Take me in your mouth," he rasps, breathless too despite trying to disguise it. She briefly wonders if this is some sort of a punishment. That perhaps she’s ordered to give him a blowjob just when she’s about to come – after all, she has dared to keep him waiting for days.

But that’s not the case, it seems, as she moves with heavy limbs to fulfill his wish.

"Nein… Other way around. I want to taste you."

The perverse suggestion in the break room turns into a reality as she realizes what he wants to do. Her heart is pounding when she crawls on top of him to meet that leaking cock. How exactly is that thing even going to fit inside her mouth?

A sudden shyness takes her as her thighs are forced into a wide-legged spread from straddling the broadest man on earth. She's exposed to the cold air only for a second before his breath hits her. The shortest shadow of a stubble on that usually clean-shaven chin meets her soaked cunt with hunger.

“Ah… Take it– in your mouth,” he moans orders to her folds, and her cunt clenches immediately, just from hearing that accent and that voice.

She moves to give him a shy lick, sweeps a tongue over that tip to clean him from all that precum. He goes tense under her and breathes heavily when she wraps her hand around him, wraps her mouth around the weeping slit.

He tastes of salt and sin, and the minute she tries to take more of him in, he groans with a dry throat. It's a hot, broken breath that travels straight inside her. It’s too much – the position is far too stimulating, it’s over the top wicked.

And then he starts to lick her. It messes up the blowjob that has barely even started. She knows his hood must be almost completely off, otherwise he wouldn't be able to breathe.

"Take a bit more, Engel," he urges between the long slathers that already sound lewd. There's simply no way to take it fully in, he’s far too long for that. The last thing she wants to do is gag on him. But she does a good enough job, tries to concentrate on breathing through her nose as she goes as deep as she can.

"That's…more like it…"

It’s a relieved notion somewhere behind her before he continues with the agonizingly slow licks. Fat and flat-tongued, the work of a famished man. For someone who's so clumsy with social interaction, he’s infuriatingly good at giving pleasure to women. The tip of his tongue grazes her clit, and causes a muffled moan – her mouth is full of him but she just cannot help herself.

And arms of steel close around her middle the minute she whimpers on his cock. They pull her closer to his face – he wants to hear her make noise, then, and her will to compete arises. She wants to make him moan too. She ups the pace, flattens her tongue on him every time she retreats…

"Where did you learn to–nnh…"

She nearly laughs at his surprise, at their silly little competition. He's shocked, probably jealous too, of her past and the imagined cavalcade of men who may or may not have been inside her mouth before him. She swirls a tongue around the tip every now and then, wraps her lips tight around him, and goes even deeper.

"Verdammte Scheiße.. I'm not going to last long…"

Strong thighs around her power up, and he has stopped licking her altogether: he's just panting in her pussy and holding on to her hips while waiting for the upcoming wave.

"You know what to do, ja?" He pants that question like she doesn't know he's about to shoot a load on her tongue soon.

"Don't make a mess," he shares advice with a sly tone to his voice. "Unless you want to clean after…"

He gives a short laugh as if the joke is funny. As if that's a clever thing to say to a cleaning lady. It makes her grip him harder, and he's close, so close: he's not even moving anymore, everything's just completely rigid under her body and inside her mouth.

"I'm fucking–cumming…"

He spills with a long groan, moans against her cunt, cries inside her with pain. The seed is hot and heavy, it shoots right down her throat even in this position. She does the best she can to not make that mess, but it's hard work when a giant cock pulses in her mouth.

"You're perfect, angel," he sighs behind her, tries to feed more of himself inside her mouth by rolling his hips.

The praise makes her pump and suck him even more, get every last drop out, and a tremble goes through her lover. She has to take support from the bed until the earthquakes recede. His cock is a clean mess after, and she's a mess too: overworked, and shy, and victorious.

They're both left panting: she tries to catch some breath there between his thighs after everything, but she's not allowed to rest and recover. The grip around her middle pulls her back, and a breathless man trying to lick her like it's the end of the world is not only far too much, it's unbearable. She's already overly sensitive and needy from the four days of barren grief.

"It's too much…" She tries to tell him, but he won't listen. If anything, it only spurs him on.

"König, I can't," she wails softly while resting her head on his thigh.

"Yes you can."

A feverish tongue dips inside her as deep as it goes. It forces her legs apart, she spreads herself all over his face completely unwillingly. There's no mercy for her as he flicks a tongue over her clit, plunges a tongue inside her as deep as it goes, returns to the nub again – does it again and again and again like it's some secret code meant to break her.

"You like that, huh?" His rough voice is muffled by her cunt, he sounds both parched and wet.

"Hm? Talk to me," he demands an answer although it should be obvious that she's losing her mind from his treatment.

"Yes," she mewls while being spread so crudely wide for him. "I… I love it…"

"Hah. You sound like a little cat," he laughs, pleased, then gets to it again. She's so close now that she can feel the growing waves. Her thighs are not just shaking, they're trembling.

"So pretty and so wet," he comments between the licking and dipping, voice covered with smoke from all the lust. And he's hard again, too: right next to her face, and she could cry actual tears – what if he plans on fucking her too after this? It's too much, she can't even take this, she can't…

But she does.

Her back starts to arch just before the orgasm. She's not weeping yet, but every noise she makes sounds like she's crying her heart out.

"Slow down, slow–down, please…"

She's a one-woman choir of tight pleas. She tries to muffle them by burying her face somewhere in his thighs and musk. The tongue dips in and out like he's a machine and not a man, and the first wave hits unexpectedly, like a searing, white-hot blade.

"A–ah!"

The climax swallows her, she starts grinding against that face without meaning to. He only laughs and buries his nose and tongue deeper into her slickness. The arms around her hold her like iron bars, his breaths hit her along with his tongue like she's strapped to a torture device.

Her cunt is sloppy, and throbbing, and he is a torturer, licks her even when she's lying on top of him in ruin: a devastated, trembling heap of a woman who's lost everything.

"Stop–König, you need to stop…"

Her weak whispers do nothing. His tongue sweeps her from front to back until she's crying on top of him. Frail fingers try to claw his thighs but grasp nothingness.

When he finally relents, he does it with another laugh. Then he gives her a last lick: a total bully, snorts a chuckle when a tremble goes through her entire body from just that single, fat sweep.

"Mmm. That was good. Right?"

"M–mh…"

There are tears in her eyes, but not one comes out. Her pussy throbs and winks with the aftershocks, and his hand moves up and down her back like she's that little cat.

"You're mean," she sobs. Complains.

"Heh… you didn't like it?"

"I did," she sniffs, and his hand moves to caress her thigh.

"I know you did. I know you. Everything about you."

He sounds merciful at last, pats her leg softly.

"Come here. I'll take care of you."

When she turns and crawls back to him, his mask is fully in place. He receives her with open arms and speaks more softly than ever.

"I have to take care of you after. Isn't that so?"

"Yes…"

She holds onto him, because he's the only thing that's solid in her world at this point. His aftercare is the most tender thing she has ever known: her hair is being caressed gently, the tension in her neck and back is soothed with long, loving strokes. He buries his mask in her hair and inhales her after-sex scent like it's a whole offering of incense.

"Angel. You feel like… like it's my birthday."

His statement brings another round of tears to her eyes. Instinct tells her that birthdays might've been the only happy days of the year for this man.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He sounds worried when she's so quiet and timid again. Her heart settles slowly into a warm pool of love, she presses herself against him with fervor, and he squeezes her in turn like she's the most perfect birthday present ever.

"No."

I really needed that.

I need you…

"I will never let you go again," he promises. "Never. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers. "I don't– I don't want you to go."

"Little one. I'm so glad I found you."

He takes her palm and uses it to brush away the hood from his lips. The violent edge is always taken away after sex, and the devouring is gentle, the passion is blunt. His kiss is soft; sweet.

"König…" She's raw and bare in his arms, her adoration reflects back to her from his blues. "Why did you pick me?"

"You're the one who picked me, Engel. I just answered your call."

He takes in the effect this truth has on her, then takes her breath away with another kiss. A small giggle erupts in the lazy afternoon as he threatens to crush her with a bear hug. Her hand steals its way further under the mask: she meets smooth skin and a collection of even smoother bumps.

"Why can't I see your face..?"

"It's not a pretty sight," he sighs. "Father liked to cut me when I was little."

The laziness leaves her body that very instant. The man is detached, distant: as if he's sharing something trivial, the city he grew up in or his favorite subject in school.

She doesn't know whether to feel pity or terror, but what he says next sends even more ice down her spine.

"Now I cut those who are evil."

Everything starts to make perfect sense.

Why he was bullied at school, why people fear him. Why disrespectful, cruel men deserve to be knifed and why women and wives are angels. Why he wears a mask.

It's not sound reasoning, but it is a strategy, perhaps. Survival… A defense mechanism.

And offense is the best defense…

She had been right: this man is incurable, only in ways she could never have guessed.

Afterwards, he shows her his knives.

His room is full of them: combat knives, throwing knives, bowie knives, daggers, bayonets, balisongs, two machetes, a kukri, knives she doesn't even have a name for… There's swords and sticks and a riot shield. There's only one bed, nothing more, not even a nightstand.

And the room is also full of guns.

Assault rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, handguns; there's scopes, tripods, gloves, gas masks, a ghillie suit, pouches, plate carrier vests, magazines, grenades, even a launcher.

The room is filled with violence.

And she didn't know what she expected.

Some "Hot Gun Babes" wall calendar and a few pocket knives? That he would play by the rules and keep weapons and gear where they were stored instead of in his fucking room?

He gives her his third gift that pairs well with her black dress, or any dress, for that matter. Another knife, but not the kind he kills people with, nor the flimsy kind used for entertainment purposes.

She receives an automatic switchblade, simple but pretty. The double-edged blade looks almost feminine, the way it curves into a sharp, dainty tip. The handle is made of sturdy, polished wood; it's incredibly beautiful and so dark it's nearly black. The knife is only a threat when it's flicked open: all in all a piece that isn’t what it seems.

"Hier. Good little blade. Would take it wherever I go."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you, Engel."

She kisses him after his gift. She kisses the white scar on his jaw, lifts the mask a bit more, and he doesn't stop her. He doesn't stop her, not even when she finds more keloid cuts and kisses them too.

And he's… simply a man.

There's a human under all that darkness.

It's not a pretty sight, perhaps, but for those scars, she couldn't love him more.

"You're not afraid of me," he sounds surprised when she takes in the violence done to his face with tenderness in her gaze.

"No."

He's speechless. The barricade covering his eyes is permanently broken, and she can see him, all of him.

She falls to her knees and opens his pants, gives the man another round of love. He looks at her with pain and pleasure; a pale, adoring god. Strokes her hair gently while she gets drunk on him like a succubus, wants him to spill that white on her face and all over her pretty black dress.

"Cum on my face, König."

She looks at him with angel eyes while saliva and drool make a rope from her mouth to his throbbing cock. But there is nothing left of the celestial, nothing more than a sweet, fallen angel, and a safe space just for her and him.

"Please…?"

Ruin me.

He hesitates a few seconds, then grabs his cock in an iron fist like it's heavy artillery.

"Whatever my angel wants, she shall have."

. . . . . .

He brings her flowers every morning and fucks her every night.

Sometimes he catches her when she's outside in the sun, reading a book or watching the clouds. He carries her off to the woods and takes her against a tree like they're the first man and woman on the earth after tasting the forbidden apple. They share a few hushed laughs and more than a few desperate kisses under the hood, then he brings her back to earth, straightens her dress like a gentleman before leaving to have a date with death.

He takes her out to eat sometimes, takes her to the shooting range. Calls her his little Wildkatze when she takes a liking to one of his shotguns. He takes her hand when they stroll through the grass and sings an old love song from his homeland. He has a beautiful voice, especially when he forgets he's in company. Or perhaps she's just special like that…

They share a secret language in the base. Whenever he sees her, he draws his knife and throws it in the air ("I miss you") or twirls it around ("The things I will do to you tonight…"). Sometimes, he just places a hand on the handle of the cruel blade. That stands for 'You're mine'.

It's the closest thing to I love you before either of them have spoken the actual words. Or then it's the closest thing to I love you he's capable of.

She gives him a small smile in return, puts a hand in her pocket and fondles the gift she carries everywhere she goes. He knows it's a nod to his secret messages. It stands for 'You're my everything'.

She keeps the switchblade with her even when she's wearing a dress after work. Red this time, the color of passion.

She wants to surprise him: König always comes to her before nightfall, but this time, she wants to go and visit him. She wants him to take her in the middle of black steel and acrid gunpowder while she's dressed in blood.

"Be a darling and fix me a cup of coffee, will you?"

She's stopped by Phillip Graves of all people. Another man who has never paid her any attention. Apparently, red cloth is the same thing for evil men as it is for the enraged animals in bullfighting shows.

She does stop, but she doesn't obey his wishes. She just stares him down like he's filth: another thing she thought she could never do.

I'm not your coffee girl.

"C'mon honey. I've had a bad day." The man only seems to feed off from her silent scorn: like it's some dark game they're playing now. "You could make it so much better."

For fuck's sake…

Here is a man who disrespects everything about her: her position as a cleaner, her value as a woman, her rank as a shy being who is too kind for this world. She's simply a doll who doesn't know how to kill, who doesn't know how to say no. This man however, won't take no for an answer.

"I'm not here to serve coffee," she says with pure ice.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And I'm off duty, too."

"Thought we could have a little chat, you and I."

"Why?"

"You seem like an interesting woman."

He seems pleased with the fact that for some reason, she's still here, that he has her attention. Thinks he's winning her over with some yucky flirting.

"And wearing a red dress like that…" He tsks, as if it's a crime for a woman to wear red. "Red can drive a man crazy, darling."

She understands why she has been invisible to everyone except König up until this point.

Because deep down, she knows if she would carry herself in full, show herself to the world as the woman she truly is, she would instantly attract love, and power, and hunger, and lust.

"I'm going to go now, sir."

"Tell you what. You serve me that coffee and I'll let you go."

She catches sadism in that stare. And to think she had always found Graves to be somewhat… arrogant, perhaps, but not cruel. The man obviously has a Napoleon complex, but he was not supposed to be sadistic.

How wrong she has been.

She knows she could just get out of the situation by filling that mug the bastard can't fill himself because of some stupid need to have a powerplay moment with an innocent little girl who happens to wear red.

But she doesn't want to. König would have ripped this guy's head off by now.

"I'm off duty," she repeats.

Fuck these men who are always looking for a plaything.

Graves rises from the chair. She's both cold and sweaty by the time he has taken a step, two, three.

But men are a bit stupid sometimes.

They think dresses don't have pockets.

When he takes the fourth and last step, with joy-tinged cruelty in his eyes, she flicks the knife out and open, and simply stabs him in the supposed direction of the organ called heart.

It feels thrilling, pure power: to sink that knife there and catch a man – a soldier of all people – unawares.

So this is what it feels like…

The hurt in his stare doesn't necessarily come from pain, but from the realization that he has made a huge miscalculation.

He looks down at the small knife that will be the end of him, then at her, the woman he thought was just a simple, shy cleaner he could bully into submission.

"You fucking–bitch," he gasps. Weakly.

By the time she pulls the knife out and stabs him again, she's somewhere far away. It hits him in the stomach, and he still doesn't do anything about it, and that's the moment she finds pity, and mercy, and horror.

She turns and stumbles, then runs from the room, unsure if the thump on the floor behind her is real or imagined.

"You fucking whore…!"

The shout is real enough though, and she runs, runs, with a sharp little knife in her hand for what seems like an eternity. That flight is a prolonged medieval torture moment that ends in front of König's door.

Her titan is as calm as ever when he opens the door, and tilts his head when he sees she's breathing fast.

"I think I killed Phillip Graves," she informs with eyes wide.

He blinks, then immediately looks at her hand, the knife, the blood. She goes to him, lifts a hand to his shirt in a desperate attempt to find support. There's not even that much blood. She thought killing would be much messier.

König said it would be messy.

"I… He…"

Her hands won't even shake. All her senses are blown wide and sharp, she sees everything, hears everything, but her hands won't shake.

Is she a psychopath?

"I killed Phillip Graves," she repeats, looks at his chest, clutches at the knife, clutches at his shirt.

The door behind her closes, and König takes hold of her shoulders with warm, warm hands.

"Well done, Engel," he says with such joy, such unbound pride that it snaps her back into reality.

Her jaw starts to tremble, her teeth clatter, she raises her eyes to him…

"He… He wanted coffee, and to talk, and he liked my dress, and–"

"Did he touch you?"

He asks it like it's far more important than what she has just done. She has to shuffle through her memory, but she finds no recalling of Graves laying a single finger on her.

"No."

He was about to. Right?

He was. He threatened me–

"Don't shed tears for him," König says as he looks down at her with mesmerized awe and infatuation. "I can promise you he doesn't deserve them."

Then he hugs her, squeezes her and just holds her, and she's still holding on to the murder weapon.

What will everyone say? What will my friends say?

"My little angel is good with a knife," the titan laughs proudly somewhere high above her.

People have killed each other since the dawn of time.

These things happen.

I'm not the first murderer on this planet.

"My poor little… He was a bad man, Engel. I promise you that."

It's not a big deal. He was a killer too.

He could've died in the field…

"I'm going to jail," she whispers on his shirt. She wants to let go of the knife, but fears it might hurt him or her when it falls.

And she remembers she's not dealing with normal people.

"They will kill me for this," she says with distant realization.

"No they won't," he strokes her hair like she's the best pet he has ever had. "I will take the blame. It was my knife, ja?"

She pushes herself away to look at him, then nods slowly. Her jaw just won't stop trembling.

"Good girl," he pulls her against him again, so fondly that it forces out a whimper.

"Mh."

"Come here," he coos while already holding her so impossibly close. He's surprisingly good at this: at comforting her. Or then it simply feels uncommonly good to have someone sturdy to hang on to while her life and identity are falling apart.

"I'm not sure if he's dead," she whispers when the embrace lingers on. König breaks the hug immediately.

"You didn't confirm the kill?"

She must look like a shy cleaner again, because his resolve is stone cold and solid.

"Engel, I will go and finish it. Where is he?"

She tells, because he would find out anyway. He would start a manhunt and cause even more ruckus.

But when his hand reaches the doorknob, when he's already about to go and finish her crime on top of taking the full blame for it, he turns.

"Do I have your permission?"

Her jaw slowly stops trembling, and a soft sweetness spreads through her heart. The elite soldier, the mass murderer, asks for her permission.

She is more than just special…

"Yes," she whispers, and he gives her a curt nod before storming out the door.

And he's not living in the 21st century.

Instead, he walks in the world of gladiators, rages in a blood-drunk arena, lives in a time where killing was the norm. He solves problems with physical force: it's just that simple. There is no complex society, there are no rules other than the rules of the heart and the loins.

Anyone who disrespects her will get the blade, anyone who might take her away from him will make him do whatever is in his power to prevent it.

And he has the ultimate power: the power of violence.

He comes back surprisingly clean: only a tiny speckle of blood on his camos and some vivid-colored grime on his hands.

"Done."

She nods with solemn silence. She's done, too. Done with everything, because everything's gone. No matter how high the sun is, she will walk in darkness from now on.

"I believe you Engel. He swore he didn't touch you."

And God.

She might be special, but a dying enemy's, a man's word is more worth to him than hers. As if she would try to protect Graves from his wrath by lying.

And Graves wasn't even dead…

But he is now. Probably tortured too to get the truth out about not soiling her with his paws.

"Did anyone see you..?"

"No. But they will know it was me."

It's another gift to her. Another murder. And her purity, intact, in exchange for a compliment, a testimony of his character during a lazy coffee break. For a few kisses on his scars of abuse. For letting him fuck her like a beast.

Her gifts are burning tears, soft flesh and tight little cries…

His gifts are cold, black steel, hot, white cum and a stream of crimson blood.

"Thank you…"

"I would do anything for you." He bows his head, a little nod to inform her that he is hers to command. "Anything you want, just ask."

She's at home in hell, filled with guns and knives and a fallen god. She knows he will take her again tonight, just like he has done every night in the past weeks. In every position imaginable, grunting, howling, panting, laughing how sweet she is, asking if she likes what he is doing to her. She has always whispered yes through tears of hot joy.

Sometimes, they come together and their gazes lock, and it feels like drifting into a starless space with him. He strokes her hair and coats her with whispers of love before they fall asleep. They always curl up together in the cover of womblike darkness, with soft little smiles on their faces, safe from all evil.

"Can you keep me safe…?"

It's a sad little question, but she doesn't feel weak. She knows he is lost in her too: especially when she's wearing a dress the color of blood, especially when she looks at him like he's her God.

"Please keep me safe."

He comes to her carefully, answers her summons. She's pulled into a familiar embrace, and she doesn't even think about Graves anymore: she thinks about whether König will take her on the bed that smells of acid sweat or on the wall next to the gun rack.

"Always, Engel. I promise."

She holds the most powerful weapon in her tiny little hand. A dark, fallen titan who has risen from the depths of the earth to pledge himself to her, body and soul, while her innocent little dresses flutter in the wind and make everyone believe she's a victim. But she doesn't feel sorry.

Because it's just like he said.

They belong together, she and him.

🖤 🖤 🖤

Taglist:

@ghostinvenus @konigsleftkidney @stillinracooncity @valenspuppy @koionthewalls

[aromasphere1]

Transform your home into a captivating oasis with our premium scent diffusers. Experience the power of delightful aromas as our stylish diffusers infuse your space with invigorating scents. Eliminate unpleasant odors and create a welcoming ambiance that sparks joy. Enhance relaxation, boost productivity, and improve indoor air quality effortlessly. Discover the perfect scent diffusers for home, and indulge in a sensory journey like no other with our exceptional scent diffusers.

[amber-aromadiffusermachine]

Nowadays, more and more people choose a high quality of life, and the aromatherapy diffuser, is an embodiment of improving the quality of life. For example, a buyer commented:

-I had been looking for some way to make my home smell like those high end hotels that always smell so good and came across this. I decided to give it a try. I was so excited to get it set up and opened it as soon as I received it. I did have a few questions but the seller was so friendly and quick to reply and I got it set up in no time. Instantly, the smell filled my two story home and it smelled phenomenal. Every time someone enters my home they immediately tell me it smells amazing and ask what I’m using. A few have even gone and purchased this diffuser and love it just as much as I do! This really is awesome and better than those plug ins or candles. I love that I can set it all up on the app and set schedules for when I want it to turn off and on and to control the amount and strength of the scent. Couldn’t be happier with this product!

-This model worked pretty well on spreading the essential oil smell without needing extra water and using surprisingly little oil in itself.  It works for a decent size room and honestly it did not require me to do very much.  I did not have to refill too often.  I just had to do some initial adjustment and it was good to go on its own.  This is a fairly big device.  It is not something you can mount.  It does have grip on the bottom so it does not slide and it also balances well.  Short of knocking it over like a glass of water, this will have no issues with falling.  One thing I will say is that it does require certain oils and they are not the cheapest.  That being said, it does not use up the oil quickly at all.  If you were to use essential oils with water, you would actually run out quicker than if you use this which is surprising.  You essentially save money in the long run with this device.  This device is nice in that everything is easily automated and programmed to your liking.  I can actually control the device with my phone which is nice.  It will tell me if I need to do anything such as add more oil.  This device is not battery powered and it does need to be plugged in to work.  The on board screen is nice.  It gives you the basic information while you phone will give you additional information.  It is not noisy at all which is great.  You can even program days where you want it to be more active.  The scent is not extremely strong so it is not over using the oils.  It is prone to scratches though on the glossy front.  There are controls on the device itself if you do not want to use your phone.  Please note that it is only connected to your device via bluetooth.  It is not a wifi device.  The instructions are not bad.  Overall this device does a good job in utilize the essential oils without burning through the oil or causing it to be too strong.  It is VERY low maintenance and easy to setup for the most part.  You really only have to do the initial setup but once you are done it is good to go.  It is not a smart device where you can connect it to your alexa but it honestly would not really need to.  You set it up how you want and can adjust accordingly.  It also disperses really well.  The sides are prone to scratching but it looks pretty nice.  You could place it anywhere in the room but it just needs to be near and outlet.

-

I am all about scent in my home. I have 2 dogs as well and I have and do everything to make my home smell good...candles, wallflowers, reed defusers, airwick you name it. This was easy to put a small amount into the container. Set the amount you want to blow out. It blows out a long puff of smell that lingers for quite a while, then re-puffs at the set time.

I was going to buy the Hotel collection but did this instead. I just bought 3 more to place in my bridal shop- it works really well!

[johnypage95]

Scent machine for business:-

[electro-mechanical]

Thinking about scent, and the way a person's musk and sweat combine with the residue of shampoo and laundry detergent and deodorant to create a smell that is unique to them. A combination of organic and synthetic, innate and deliberate. The story of their natural body and the care they put into it.

Thinking about robots, and the stories their scent might tell. Brass and ozone. Fine steel dust from their component parts rubbing together when they move. The hot air venting from their cooling system. A particular brand of machine oil.

Thinking about the way a person's home smells like them, and the way some people smell like home.

Thinking about holding my cherished bot, breathing in the scent of a fresh coat of carnauba wax, the lingering traces of soldering fumes and isopropyl alcohol. Inhaling stories of their construction and of their programming and of my love for them.

[captain-hawks]

Muahahahahahaha~ Let’s give our Iwa some attention; Iwaizumi and bathroom

familiar

hajime iwaizumi x f!reader

The timing has never quite been right for you and Iwaizumi—until a run-in with your ex at a wedding changes everything.

wc: 2.6k

c: 18+ only, best friends to lovers speed run, hurt/comfort, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (f!receiving), cum eating, past infidelity (not iwa)

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND - PART V

“Tell me what you need.”

Your nostrils burn from the cloying, floral scent that hangs heavily in the air of the oversized bathroom as you sit atop the sink’s white marble countertop, head leaning back against the ornate mirror.

Iwaizumi squeezes your knee when you don’t respond, his callused fingers gently grasping the bare skin exposed by the slit in your dress—if only by consequence, rather than a conscious choice. 

“A time machine,” you mutter, voice thick as you blindly reach out for the box of tissues you spotted near the faucet when you walked in. 

A hand brushes against yours, followed by the soft press of the thin, white square against the hot, angry tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“That’s above my pay grade,” he grumbles, “but I can go punch him if you want.”

You choke out a watery laugh, your fingertips colliding as you take the tissue from him and dab at the corners of your eyes before crumbling it into a ball. 

In hindsight, you should have known your ex-fiancé would be at this wedding, given the unfortunate amount of mutual friends that the two of you share. But of all the brash moves, you certainly weren’t expecting him to walk in with the woman he cheated on you with. 

You don’t miss him, not really. Not since it became abundantly clear he’d been fucking his personal assistant for most of your relationship. Not since you realized everything you thought you knew about him was a lie. 

It’s embarrassment and anger that fuels the remaining tears still threatening to traipse their way down your cheeks now, tears that soak into the new tissue Iwaizumi’s already patiently holding below your eyelashes.

“To be fair, I always wanted to punch him,” Iwaizumi mutters under his breath. 

Embarrassment, anger—and regret for the long-buried feelings for your best friend that now stands before you, his brows furrowed in annoyance and concern in equal measure.

It’s always been there between the two of you, this heady, dizzy feeling—charged and humming like the atmosphere on the brink of a rolling thunderstorm.  

But the timing’s never been right. Not back then, when relationships and school and sports and jobs were endlessly in the way. And certainly not now, when you shouldn’t even be hidden away crying in this obnoxiously fancy bathroom with Iwaizumi in the first place—not while he’s dating one of the bridesmaids. 

He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, too, because—

“You should probably go find—“

“—we broke up.”

You blink at him several times, caught off guard both by the admission and the unwavering way he’s staring at you now.

Well, you had thought it was odd that you didn’t see them interact at all leading up to the reception.

“Why?”

He inhales slowly before he responds, “She said I was too involved in what’s going on with you.”

A wave of guilt washes over you as you think about how he was the first person you told what happened—in the middle of the night when you got home early from a trip and found your side of the bed occupied.

The way he didn’t even ask before getting into his car and driving across town to pick you up.

The feeling of your fingers desperately clasping the sleeve of his sweatshirt on the sidewalk as you pleaded with him not to storm back into the apartment, the sight of his clenched fists.

The steady, reassuring warmth of his arms around your tired, shaking frame as he held you close against the passenger side door of his car when your trembling fingers couldn’t pull the handle. 

You spent that night in his bed, while he insisted on taking the couch. And in the weeks that followed, after you scrambled to find your own place, he hovered. He checked in on you frequently. He brought you food.

He—

It’s not like you can blame his girlfriend—

“So she—”

It’s obvious that Iwaizumi knows you well enough to anticipate your reaction, the way you begin to shrink in on yourself, because his voice is a little rough as he tilts your chin back up to look at him and says, “No, I told her that she could leave if she didn’t like it, because this isn’t going to change.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze has always been a heavy, tangible thing, but it’s particularly difficult to breathe under the weight of it now.

“What’s not going to change?” you ask quietly.

He leans in a little closer, standing between your legs, the inside of your thighs brushing against his hips. “The way I’m always going to put you first, whether I mean to or not.”

“Iwa—”

His eyes fall shut. “I hated when you started calling me that again.”

You’d started using his given name in high school, but the letters went quiet on your tongue in the years after, a forced wedge of distance.

A necessity.

It felt too familiar, more familiar than he should be to you, to your heart.

You didn’t realize how much it bothered him.

“Hajime,” you correct yourself.

A nearly imperceptible shudder runs through him, and when he opens his eyes, they’re filled with an emotion you can’t quite define, not under the duress of your rapidly beating heart.

“Tell me what you need,” he repeats, slowly and deliberately.

You.

It’s always been you.

Your fingers shake slightly as you reach out to grasp his tie, the silk smooth against your palm as you pull him closer.

“Hajime,” you whisper again, so quiet the syllables barely make a sound as they slide over your lips.

His forehead presses against yours, your noses brushing as he rasps, “You know I’d give you anything.”

A hot, heady rush floods your veins, and you press the heels of your feet back into the cabinet of the sink, if only to ground yourself as the honesty in his words scrapes against your ribcage. Releasing his tie, you carefully let your fingers linger against the side of his neck. There’s a sharp inhale of breath as your thumb makes contact with the hinge of his jaw, though Hajime’s own hands remain planted on the countertop.

The sound of your own given name is like a whispered kiss into the space that lingers between your mouths. “Tell me what you want from me.”

Hajime smells mint gum and that same goddamn body wash he’s been using since high school.

Your heart stumbles as you breathe him in.

“More than you can give,” you admit, voice wavering under the raw honesty of your words.

He laughs, and it’s a low sound of amusement that rumbles in his chest. “I doubt that.”

Heat and anticipation and disbelief swell rapidly in your chest, and it’s enough to find the courage to finally quell the traitorous, steady itch in your fingertips—which seem to be moving of their own volition as they card through Hajime’s soft, dark, messy hair. 

He sighs, and it spurs you on further, letting your hand drop to the back of his head to tug at the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. This earns you a groan that dances haphazardly down the notches of your spine. 

“Show me what you want, Hajime,” you tell him, swallowing thickly.

It feels disarmingly natural, the way his hands come up to cup your face, the stroke of his thumbs against the curve of your jaw. 

He’s so fucking handsome, it hurts. 

Turning your face to the side, you press a kiss to the tip of his thumb. “Please.”

Despite all the times you’ve imagined this, all the late nights spent staring at your bedroom ceiling, all of the hopeless scenarios you’ve kept tucked way like a well-worn note tattered to the bone at every groove—every little thing your mind has conjured up pales in comparison to the way Hajime’s lips finally come crashing into yours.

With one hand cupping the back of your head and the other sliding down to curl around your hip, Hajime kisses you like he’s wanted this just as badly as you always have. Like he knows every dip and curve along the shape of your lips.

Like he wants to swallow every last molecule that separates your mouth from his.

It’s all-consuming, the damp heat of his lips, the steady pressure of his thumb against your hip bone, the satisfied groan he lets out as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull yourself against him. 

His tongue skirts along the seam of your lips, slipping into your mouth as they part to deepen the kiss, and all of the want and need you’ve kept bottled up inside of you spills out into something hot and messy that scorches its way through your abdomen. 

Logically, some part of you knows you should probably talk about this somewhere, anywhere but this ornately fancy single-occupant bathroom during a wedding reception. 

But it’s difficult to pin down a single morsel of logic when the sole, unspoken object of your deepest desires is currently wrapping his tongue around yours as the large palm of his hand blazes hot where it’s pressing into the small of your back, the pressure of his fingertips burning through the fabric of your dress.

It’s an accident—the way you rock forward into Hajime when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, the breathy little moan that punches out of you at the feeling of his erection pressing into your hot core. 

But it’s not an accident when you do it again, purposefully grinding against him, the arousal simmering inside of you cracking open wide as he kisses you harder, groaning into your mouth. One of his hands makes its way up your side, caressing the swell of your breasts that’s been threatening to spill out of the top of your dress since you slipped it on earlier.

“You have no idea how distracting your dress is,” he growls, though there’s no real heat in the sound, only a desperation that curls around the edges of each word as he tugs the material down enough to expose one of your peaked nipples.

You have half a mind to complain when his lips part from yours, a trail of spit hanging between your mouths for a moment, but it’s a moot point when he leans down to swipe his tongue across the pert, sensitive bud.

“Fuck, Hajime,” you whine, fingers digging into his hair as he gently sucks, shameless in the way you rearrange the skirt of your dress to let the cotton of your panties press directly against the black fabric of his pants. 

But it’s still not enough to quell the fire in your veins.

“Hajime,” you whimper again, the sound almost embarrassingly needy as you hump the outline of his hard cock.

Hands grasp your hips, the air conditioning in the room cool against your spit-soaked nipple as he abandons it to press his lips to yours while he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“I need you to tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your mouth. “This stops where you say it stops.”

Fingers trailing along the back of his neck, you run your tongue along his bottom lip, too drunk on your desire to feel shy about the words that push their way past your teeth. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

He lets out a rough groan, taking your tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. Gently, he trails one finger down the length of your damp panties. “Like this?”

You shake your head, reaching a hand between your bodies to clasp his shaft, a fresh stroke of arousal unfurling inside of you at the size of it.

Hajime lets out a gravelly, disbelieving sound. “I don’t have a—”

All it takes is an exchange of breathless, needy reassurances about contraceptives and clean tests to find your panties stuffed in his pocket, the buckle of his belt clinking as he frees his cock from the confines of his pants.

He drags his fingers through your slick, dripping folds as you wrap a hand around his cock, stroking him and keening softly, muscles taut with anticipation as he groans over how wet you are.

“And so fucking sensitive,” he mutters when you tremble and moan in pleasure as he slips a single finger into your cunt, his thumb swiping across your throbbing clit.

He hardly fares any better though when you spit into your palm and resume pumping his curved, leaking shaft, his hips jerking forward into the edges of the countertop. 

Hajime must feel how tight you are, must know what a stretch it’ll be to plunge inside of you, because he’s deliberate in the way he adds a second finger, and then a third, working your quivering, wet hole open until you’re panting and whining into his mouth begging for it.

Everything inside of your flares white-hot when he finally sinks his cock into the dripping warmth of your cunt, his lips against yours the only barrier to stifle the full volume of the wanton moan that spills from your mouth as you dig your fingers into his shoulderblades and rock forward until he’s balls deep inside of you. The tight walls of your pussy expand and contract against the thick stretch of his shaft, your legs trembling with pleasure. 

You want to writhe on his length.

You want to feel the stretch of it everywhere.

You want him to fuck you so deep you feel it for days.

You want to come so hard on his cock you can’t move or breathe.

It’s inescapable—the full depth of this yawning pit of desire, years of dreams that have left you restless and aching for the one thing you can’t have.

Couldn’t have.

But now—

It takes your fucking breath away, the dichotomy of this moment. The way Hajime’s fucking you so hard, the counter groans with each pounding thrust into your wet cunt. The way he’s tenderly cupping the side of your face and looking at you like he’d give you the goddamn world if you asked for it. 

(Having him would be enough.)

You’re so caught up in the moment, heart thrumming in your chest with too many emotions to grasp, you’re hardly prepared when the coil of tension in your gut unravels with the force of a whip, a shockwave of pleasure coursing through you as you go tumbling over the edge of your climax. 

“That’s it,” Hajime murmurs as he fucks you through it, fucks you through the messy, desperate kisses you slot against his mouth as you moan and whimper.

You can hardly think straight as your orgasm tapers off, your cunt still greedily taking in every inch of Hajime’s cock as he continues to thrust into you, but when his hips begin to stutter, the words leave you in a rush, “Come inside of me.”

Hajime’s thumb presses into the underside of your chin as he breathes heavily against your mouth, muscles tensing.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt as his pleasure reaches its peak, his cock pulsing inside of you as ropes of thick, hot cum spill deep in your cunt.

It takes a few minutes for either of you to find the wherewithal to talk, the room quiet save for the sounds of your labored breathing and the soft kisses he presses to the corner of your mouth. To the curve of your jaw. To the bridge of your nose.

Fingers toying with his tie again as he tucks himself back into his pants, you watch as he pointedly does not give you back your underwear, instead pushing the flash of material further down into his pocket.

“Don’t I need tho…” you begin to ask, but you trail off as Hajime leans down and spreads your thighs even further apart before bringing his mouth to your cunt and lapping a broad stroke through the pool of cum leaking from your folds.

[milkypompon]

Chapter 1 | Midnight Musings

pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader, implied Jake Lockley x Reader)

summary: Even after a year living with Steven and Jake in the headspace, Marc struggles to quiet the buzzing chatter. He finds himself frequenting Coffee for Two, a place where brewing roasts fill the air and the cookies are as sweet as the barista.

content: coffeeshops, fluff, innuendo (thanks to Jake), poor shy and tired Marc who just needs his drink

wc: 1.2k

a/n: HELLO Moon Knight luvers!! I'm sweeping out this fic since I've had it around for some bit!

Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Coffee Doodles Masterlist

< Previous || Next >

—

Working the closing shift has its disadvantages… and occasional perks. 

People weave in and out of the café from the crack of dawn, then scurry away when the moon is at its highest. Rarely did they stay to settle down on the rickety chairs late into the night, ever so eager to drag themselves home after a long day.

You hardly remember the customers’ faces, usually down-turned with a sour look of annoyance on their phones who impatiently tap their shoe on the wooden floors. 

The man in front of you with waves of hair swept back to reveal his gruff demeanor, albeit a ruggedly handsome one, wasn’t any different from the others. Yet, you try to catch his eye as he sends a text. 

“You work the late hours like me?” You ask and crack a smile, immediately regretting it after realizing how wry it must’ve appeared from your exhaustion. 

He merely grunts in confirmation.

You clear your throat and idly tap your fingers on the granite countertop. “What can I get for you then?”

“Just a cup of coffee. Make it black.” He retrieves a leather wallet from his jacket pocket and pulls out a few quid in exchange for the kick of energy he desperately needs. 

“Your name?”

“Marc.” 

You whisper his name to yourself before reaching beside you to grab a paper cup and scrawling it on there.

Marc watches you catch your bottom lip between your teeth in fierce concentration as you doodle a smiley face next to his name. He wonders if you did this for every customer or if it was a way to keep yourself awake.

Before you made your last mark, you saw him through your peripheral vision staring at you intently. Usually, customers appreciate the little pick-me-up from the drawings you made. You inwardly wince for holding him up. “Sorry, you must be in a hurry”. You quickly cap the pink Sharpie and toss it into a small ceramic pot filled with other writing utensils. 

Marc notes how some were more appropriate or journaling, like the bright glitter pens, than for work. But it was well-loved all the same since it was nearly flatlining from use. 

“I’ll have it out for you in a minute.”

He shook his head, the black locks of curls bouncing slightly. “No rush, really.”

You situate yourself behind the coffee machine, tinkering with the buttons and opening the wrinkled bag of coffee beans. The warm scent permeates the air, even more so when the brown liquid dribbles into the cup. You quietly sigh in relief at the simplicity of the process. You’ve had a fair share of blended and iced drinks often brought back to the counter by unamused customers, claiming that it didn’t taste the same as last week even though there was a clear-cut recipe list plastered in front of your face when you made their orders. 

You carefully fiddle the cap over the cup and hand it to Marc with a tired smile. 

Marc felt your fingers brush along his. It was warm, but he wasn’t sure if it was just from the coffee. Regardless, he nodded in thanks and was soon swallowed by the darkness as he left to sip his coffee at nearly 1 a.m.

The London weather constantly nipped at his fingertips. 

He curses under his breath and shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket. He longed to settle back into his flat and curl up into layers of blankets, which was truthfully a sorry excuse for warmth because of the godawful heater he just couldn’t find the time to fix. His mind drifted to your touch, it was light, brief if anything. But it sparked a warmth that a blanket or a cup of coffee couldn’t quite satiate. 

A snarky voice filled his headspace, Fuckin’ touch starved.

Marc rolled his eyes. Shut your damn mouth, Lockley. 

He crosses the road, not bothering to look left or right, there’s only him, the moon, and some bloke smoking a dying cig by a closed convenience store. When he squints he saw Steven picking at the loose threads of his shirt in the window. 

Quite a looker with a pretty voice. 

Marc sighs in response, Not you too. 

He takes one last gulp at the bitter drink before raising it over the tin can filled with other rubbish. The streetlamp’s yellowish light caught your handiwork on the cup, his name with half a smiley face messily written with your pink Sharpie. He chuckled at the unfinished doodle, remembering how your eyes widened when you realized he was watching you closely. 

Like a deer caught in the headlights, Steven remarked.

Marc chuckles at his words.

–

It was another closing shift. 

You begrudgingly accepted it from your coworker who reminded you with a smirk that the pastries behind the glass was up for grabs the moment you flipped the “closed” sign by the window. Anyone with half a mind would have sticky hands for the chocolate croissant dusted with powdered sugar. Just the thought of warming it up in the oven toaster as you wipe the counters and stocked the shelves with mugs made you a little hungry. 

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be eating sweet treats considering the time, but said sweet treats were going straight into the rubbish-bin if you didn’t house them in your stomach. 

You happily hum a familiar tune you heard on the tube while sliding the glass door separating you and your beloved reward for the hard work.

A pleasant jingle of a bell rang over the front door abruptly ending your monotonous tasks.

You toss your head over your shoulder. “Sorry, we’re closed—” 

The same man (Marc, was it?) nods down in apology for entering after hours. He truly was a man of few words.

“Oh! It’s you. I was afraid you were a customer with a complicated drink coming in at the last second.” You dusted your fingers down the seams of your apron and beckoned him inside. “But, it’s the same as last night?”

Marc runs his fingers through the tufts of his curls, the strands wrapping around each finger. You wondered what it felt like. The thought in passing rises to the forefront of your mind. It left as quickly as it came when you hear him call your name after reading it across the embroidered stitching of your apron.

The corners of his mouth turn up in amusement, hardly an exchange for pleasantries, but it was more than what he’d given before. He slides a few quid on the counter. “Yeah, coffee. Black.” 

You pluck your pink Sharpie and begin to write his name on it. After a few quiet moments of gurgling from the machine, you hand the cup to him. 

He furrows his eyebrows.

You quip with a grin. “Did I manage to mess up the easiest order known to man?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“You didn’t draw on it this time.”

You almost laugh but the serious crease on his face was a testament to his genuine disappointment. “Well it wouldn’t be very good service if I didn’t complete my job, eh?”

His eyes shift to the glass covering the pastries as if seeing something you couldn't. “You wanna talk about good service?” A playful lilt tugs at his voice, almost unfamiliar. 

Before you can respond, he mumbles a thank you and scurries out of the cafe. 

Did he just flirt? And… get embarrassed?

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