#because it doesn't express what I want it to how I want it to

[ariaste]

So I was nodding along almost the whole way through, I was saying "Yeah!" and "Oof, I feel that, I can relate," until I got to:

"be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial" and "you must insist upon her [...] because she may still not yet know how".

And... yeah, no, kinda lost me there. Now, don't get me wrong! It is perfectly valid if you're doing those things essentially as kink (or not-really-kink-but-kinda-uses-the-same-tools-and-skillset) -- that is, you and your beloved have sat down and talked about her discomfort and her difficulties, and the difference between actual discomfort and cognitive dissonance at the concept of having nice things for herself, and how SHE wants you to recognize the distinction (and what signals SHE can give to provide cues in cases of ambiguity), and she's given you express permission to do the Being Forceful thing in pursuit of doing nice things for her and insisting or persuading her into accepting them -- AND y'all have talked about how she can communicate effectively when your insistence and persuasion isn't just not landing right for some reason or when it's actually starting to cross a line. If you've done all that: great, godspeed, I love your love. Make her accept all the compliments and adoration and the nice things she deserves! Your crusade to love her properly is righteous and just!

However. The vast majority of us across the spectrum of transness have experienced people crossing our boundaries, infantilizing and condescending to us, assuming that they know better than us about what we want, and ignoring our quiet, hesitant attempts to push back in small ways as we try to establish a foothold and figure out how much space we're allowed to take up. So... idk, putting "be forceful" and "insist because she may not yet know how" right next to solid, sound advice for all situations like "be patient, be generous" as if they are equivalent in meaning and impact and importance just... rubs me the wrong way. I think OP is absolutely speaking coming from a place of love and positivity, but... this needs caveats.

Because man-oh-man I have personally experienced this kind of thing from both sides: Just because you know that something is going to be good for someone doesn't mean they're going to appreciate having it forced on them. Just because you're absolutely sure that someone will be delighted by something doesn't mean that you're always going to be right.

Suppose the nice thing that someone (let's call them Tye) is doing for their partner (let's call her Mia) is... taking her out to her favorite Italian restaurant. Suppose Tye does this every week without fail, and they feel great about it because Mia loves this restaurant and she deserves to be treated like a princess. But what happens if one week she's bored of it, or not in the mood for Italian food? What happens if she says, "Hey, maybe we don't have to go today... I don't really need all this, what if we just eat toast and eggs--" and Tye says, "NO NO. NO, I LOVE YOU AND WE'RE GOING! YOU DESERVE IT!!!" Y'know what I'm saying??? That's not actually about loving Mia anymore, that's more about Tye getting off on their own heroism. And Mia is once again having to shut up and make herself small.

If the goal is to love your person and give her space to grow confident enough to accept and embrace all the love and wonderful things she deserves, the strategy of forcefulness and insistence COULD actually end up being counter-intuitively DISempowering if it is not explicitly consensual: It is removing opportunities for her to practice communicating her own needs, choosing happiness, and valuing herself where other people can see. It is reinforcing the lesson she has already learned from the rest of society, which is that her self-knowledge and boundaries are inferior to the wants and goals of the people around her.

Having a partner who is so passionate about loving us that they INSIST on giving us the things we secretly long for even when we're scared and shy of accepting them ourselves (and that they always telepathically know exactly what is going to be the perfect thing even before we know it ourselves, and they never once make a mistake in reading our mood when we come home tired from work, and they're always able to seamlessly adjust their plans to accommodate our whim)... It is a lovely fantasy. I will not deny that it is a very lovely fantasy and that I too would like to go to there. That sounds FANTASTIC.

But at the end of the day you are loving an adult human being and "no means no" must remain true even if you think you perceive a glint of longing in her eye (unless modified rules of consent have been established and ratified between you prior to this). Absolutely be patient, be generous, be loving, be attentive and proactive. But also you also gotta be okay with backing the hell off sometimes. You gotta be humble enough to acknowledge that sometimes you might be projecting your own past self's longings, rather than looking at the person in front of you with clear eyes. Create a space where it's safe for her to come out of her protective shell instead of dragging her out of it before she's ready. Encourage her to set her own boundaries, and express appreciation when she does so, especially when the boundaries are ones you disagree with or are personally inconvenienced by.

You cannot force a person to move faster along their journey of loving themself. Having someone insist on giving you love (and I'm once again speaking from experience here, as someone who has been on both sides) can sometimes end up making the beloved feel more guilty, more self-conscious, and more aware of their own "failures" and "deficiencies". To the person trying to do that style of love, it probably IS purely in good faith, but to the person receiving it, it can sometimes come across as a constant implicit reminder of, "I'm not doing it right, I'm still not doing it right, and everyone can tell. No matter how hard I try I still can't do it right, I hate myself even more now."

OP absolutely hit the nail on the head with everything about, "I had to stop [negative self-thoughts], I had to start [taking care of myself], I had to learn [those skills], but more than that I had to learn to ask[...]. it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train." 100% cosigned. That is exactly it -- training muscles. You can be someone's spotter and cheerleader, but you can't lift the weights for them, and forcing them to lift more than they're ready for often hurts more than it helps. Communicate! Establish a culture of consent even outside the bedroom! And continue to be patient even when it turns out that progress is not a straight line without any stumbles!

so many of the transfems i know spent their time pre-transition performing a kind of lifelong exercise in self-deprivation, the goal of which was to find out exactly how little a person needed to live. they starved themselves, dressed carelessly, shunned friends, and hollowed themselves out so as not to be burdens on anyone but themselves.

i see it now, too, in the girls around me. i'll ask if they want care – a home-cooked meal, relaxed company, sex without the expectation of reciprocation – and they say no, no, thank you, i don't need it; what would you like, what do you want, because in their head they're still doing that awful calculus, still training themselves to disappear in the eyes of the people around them.

i don't think i'd have died without transition – not in the conventional sense, at least – but to take that leap, i had to stop thinking of myself as a human experiment in fuel-efficient living and start nurturing the anemic, atrophied flame of desire in my heart. i had to learn to eat well, to exercise, to style myself beautiful, but harder than that, i had to learn to ask the people around me to work on my behalf in order to enrich my life and give me the things i wanted.

and i did it; i learned. and it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train, and every day i get better at accepting gifts with the hungry gratitude i never learned in my years and years as a sad, scared, lonely boy.

so be patient with the trans girls in your life. better than that: be proactive, attentive, generous; be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial that so many of us once learned to rely on.

and if you are so lucky as to love a trans girl, you must insist upon her. you must insist upon her happiness, her comfort, her pleasure, and her rest, because she may still not yet know how to make those demands for herself. if you can devote any amount of energy to becoming an engine that nurtures the flame of even a single tgirl then there is a place for you in trans heaven, which as far as i'm concerned is the only one worth going to

[loveemagicpeace]

🧚🏻‍♀️Astrology Notes🌊

People with 1st house placements are really good at presenting themselves. You are very good at expressing yourself. For ex.: Jupiter in 1st house- You have a lot of wisdom and knowledge. People like to listen to you. They see you as someone who is smart and has a lot of knowledge. It gives you confidence and a sense of freedom, especially in terms of how you look. You can be very careless, and you don't care what others think of you. Uranus in 1st house- u have unique approach to life and in a way that u look or dress. Sun in 1st house- u will always shine no matter what and u can also be in a spotlight a lot. You have a certain pride that you carry with you. Saturn in 1st house- You have a lot of maturity and things you've experienced. U can have sometimes hard time to express yourself. Mars in 1st house- Your energy is very noticeable. You are almost never afraid of anything.

12th house Synastry -Sometimes it feels like the person is reading your mind and sometimes they do exactly what you think. You sometimes feel like the person is taking something away from you. Example: you're watching a podcast in the evening that you really like and the next day that person posts the same podcast. There's always some kind of connection between you that's hard to explain.

Aquarius Venus-I often see them getting divorced or having unpredictable relationships. But divorces with this sign are quite common, in fact they are much more so than with someone who has Venus and Capricorn (they are very serious and cautious in love and it takes a long time to actually open up and build a life with someone). Aquarians can sometimes be more reckless and at the same time open to new things and if they feel the energy then they will quickly enter into a relationship. They also know how to get over someone quickly. Life goes on and so do they.

Sagittarius moon-they usually always have a belief in something whatever it is. They like something they can emotionally connect with. They will usually always look for a way that will fulfill them emotionally and give them some meaning. And they take a long time to get over something emotionally even if it doesn't seem that way. The trick with them is that they don't show that much emotion on the outside, so people often think they are very chill and cold.

2nd house is house of inner feelings, comfort, luxury, music, movies, food, what kind od food u love to eat. People with many planets here are more devoted to food and wanting to be comfortable. And they like to take the easy way out. They don't like to walk or do something for too long. They don't like to change their environment.

7th house stellium means there are many things you have to find out about yourself here. You can spend a long time searching for your personality. Thats why u can actually come off as a fake a lot of times. More than someone who has 12th house placements.

Countries ruled by Scorpio: Bavaria, Morocco, Norway, Syria. The places it rules are usually muddy streams, quiet ponds, swamps, vineyards, operating rooms.

Countries ruled by Libra: Austria, Argentina, China, Egypt, Japan, Tibet. The places it rules are harbors, golf courses, the tops of buildings, lobbies, closets, tables.

Countries ruled by Aries: Bulgaria, England, Denmark, Germany. The places it rules are hilly, dry, fireplaces, ceilings, hearths, rooms in the east and prominent corner buildings facing east.

Countries ruled by Cancer: North Africa, Netherlands, Paraguay, Scotland, New Zealand. The places it rules are: streams, springs, lakes, laundries, kitchens, homes.

If you want to sleep well, you can look at your 12th house and the moon. Because that will tell you where you will sleep better and which side is good when you sleep. Moon in Cancer means you’re highly sensitive to emotional and environmental changes. You likely sleep best when you feel safe, emotionally nurtured, and in a cozy, familiar environment. If something is emotionally off, it can disrupt your sleep, leading to vivid dreams or even insomnia. Mars in the 12th house, which means your sleep isn’t always restful. Mars here can create restlessness, active dreams, or even sleep disturbances because Mars is an action-oriented planet placed in a house of subconscious energies. Your dreams may be intense, symbolic, or even feel like past-life connections. Fire Moons (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius)-Might wake up in the middle of the night, especially with intense dreams.

Mercury in the 12th – Overthinking before bed, talking in sleep, or receiving messages through dreams. Jupiter in the 12th – Spiritual or prophetic dreams, dreams of foreign places or guides, may wake up feeling inspired.

People ruled by saturn have one side that is devish not meant in a bad way. But if you hurt them you will face the other side of them. Many people do not know that capricorns are very strong and that they can also be vengeful but their revenge is silent.

A lot of people when they have north node transit in 11th house & south node transit 11th house -they delete social networks or use them less. At that moment, you often feel that it is not something you connect with anymore. I also often notice that gemini rising & sagittarius rising delete social networks because they want to live their lives differently. Also, many people with virgo rising do not connect as much with social networks.

If you have Venus in Gemini you must have an intellectual rapport with someone before your affections begin to blossom.  Basically, you have a lighthearted attitude toward love. Intense, heavy emo- tional commitments are like an anchor around your neck.  This position of Venus also stimulates a careless and free hand for spending money.

Venus in Leo are able to attract warm feelings on the part of others. You are extravagantly affectionate and generous, buying expensive gifts for those you love and praising them to the skies in front of other people. Needless to say you are drawn to the world of theater, and many of you are blessed with superb creative gifts. Though self-indulgent and pleasure-seeking, you are capable of making a great self-sacrifice for the happiness of some- one else.

Jupiter’s position in your chart indicates how outgoing and genial you are, whether you attract money and possessions, and in what career you will have the most luck.  Jupiter signifies the good things that come to you easily and with little effort. Jupiter can also be too much of a good thing, for its influence can make you extravagant, lazy and luxury-loving, profligate with money, and blindly optimistic. If things fall into your lap too easily, you never develop strength of character or spiritual wisdom.

Jupiter in Cancer-You are imaginative and sympathetic, and do well in creative pursuits. Old things have a special appeal to you. Anything involving food and drink also brings luck; many of you make successful chefs, restaurateurs, and cookbook writers.

Jupiter in Leo- You think big, are ambitious, and have a penchant for grandeur and extravagant display.  In professions where this is useful, such as the entertainment industry, the world of fashion, and high-powered selling jobs, you are predestined to succeed.

Jupiter in Aquarius- You usually find good fortune through your friends and unexpected opportunities. You are also endowed with a special aptitude for music. Many Jupiter-Aquarians become well known in that world. Aquarius is also the sign of the future, and as a native of this Jupiter position you tend to be successful in professions of the modern era— television, computers, electronics, aviation, and the space industry.

Jupiter in Pisces -are singled out for success in social or religious work, politics, and philanthropic organizations. Work that involves travel over water brings other opportunities into your life. You also have a deft touch with animals, would make a fine veterinarian, and many of you have lucrative businesses breeding horses, owning cattle ranches, and raising cats and dogs for show .

Uranus in 2nd house-You tend to have an unusual source of income or your money oppor- tunities pop up suddenly and unexpectedly. Antiques, curios, and collectibles are lucrative for you.

Jupiter in 2nd house-you tend to make money easily and have a talent for financial dealings. Other people are attracted to your expansive ways and you often benefit through social contacts. Traveling or the travel industry is another source of wealth for you.

Moon inn 3rd house-You tend to think emotionally and have a strong imagination. You dislike routine and your life is marked by many short trips. You have a good memory, often change your opinion. But you can also be very moody.

Sun in 4th house-You take pride in your home and family; from the time you were young you had a deep need to establish roots. One or both of your parents was a dominant influence in your life; in some cases you had to struggle for independence.

Mercury in 4th house-Your home is often a place of study or work, and the work you do may lead to changes in your residence. Your parents and early home life stimulated your curiosity to learn.

-Rebekah🧜🏼‍♀️🍀

[aureatelys]

as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.  

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him—  the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

+1

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon

[isaisliterallyhim]

heyyyy love your fics <333

can you do sugar daddy Kaiser who's always been rude and rough with reader but one day when he realises he's falling in love with them he's really gentle, asking how they feel and praising them? if possible can you do fluff along with nsfw???

ahh hii anon!! thank uu i appreciate ur words <33 anywayss i love the plot ohh gosh ygs r so creative omg

"And all I wanna do is stay with HER"

ft. michael kaiser . sugar daddy! kaiser . ooc! kaiser lol... . ness is in the story omg! . is ness ooc! too... . yes ness is ooc asw . character development.? . eventual smut . sex gulp... . piv ! . afab! reader . mistreated! reader ... . fluff asw . unreliable narrator

wc: 1.0k

"she's annoying." kaiser grumbled, taking a sip of wine. ness looked at him, "[name] cares about you that's why." the magician tried to lighten the mood. clearly, it didn't work.

"she just wants fucking money." he retorted. ness frowned, "can't you look at it in a positive way.? at least she's trying. take a look at all the others you've had."

that sentence had kaiser reflecting for a bit. "huh. i suppose you have a point for once, ness." the prodigy felt himself get a little flushed. "you're treating her so rough, how often does she even ask for money.?" ness continued. "don't be so harsh man! she's trying..."

the emperor tsked. "if she's so 'perfect' you take her then." he grumbled. jeez this guy is really helpless man... ness looked at kaiser disgusted for the first time.

"keep acting like that and she's bound to become who you think she really is." ness thought as he picked himself up and left kaiser to his thoughts.

later within the night, kaiser found himself scrolling through your photos after sending you some money (oh need that.) it hit him you were gorgeous. pretty face with a kind heart.. he was going to go insane.

the more he scrolled the more he admired your beauty. you radiated an aura that he just couldn't place his finger on. perfection was a word too vague to describe it.

shaking his head, he set his phone down. hands on his head, he was wondering. what the literal hell was he doing.? all he's ever done was treat you like shit because he had such horrendous experiences with others.

i mean, you were like the others. you were just there for the money... and attention i guess. but there was something more to it. he was just to blind to see it. (tf r ur glasses for mihya bro.)

it was late — hella late. 2:32 A.M.? there's no way you'd come over right? so what the heck were you doing at his door in a matter of moments?

kaiser opened his door, surprised. "you — you actually came?" he asked, somewhat in disbelief. "i'm right here aren't i, dumbass.. plus you called." you shrugged.

the satin on the bed somewhat wrinkled as the both of you sat down. "um, so why'd you want me to come ove-" you were quickly interrupted by an apology. "[name], liebling. i'm sorry. i'm sorry for my behaviour, how i treated you. scheiße, i'm so fuckin' sorry."

he held your visibly smaller and softer hands. his hands feeling quite the opposite. you were kinda a dumbass, "wha — michael huh...?" you shook your head giggling, "what are you apologizing for?"

his gorgeous blue eyes stared into yours. "don't act coy with me, [name]. you don't need to forgive me. i'll do whatever for your forgiveness. please. do you want more money? gifts.? flowers..? wha.. god. what do you want?!" kaiser asked desperately.

you looked at him with a deadpan expression. god, has this man ever been treated alright.? "mihya, i don't really want anything. yea i mean i love money i mean — who doesn't love money. but i'm not here solely because of money." you sighed.

"yes, you have money is definitely a positive trait but, you have more to it. money isn't the only thing that makes you lovable." you continued to ramble. his hands released yours. you were caught in his embrace.

"mihya.?" you whispered. kaiser knew how scary it was to love someone. the amount of devotion you must give. the time and effort. one wrong move? it could all crumble.

his embrace got tighter, you were tensing a little bit up. was he gonna beat you like what the heck is goin' on?! he knew you were always running away from love, 'cause your daddy never gave you enough :((

hey, same for him as well, no? "meine liebe." kaiser breathed, "let's try again together. i'm done with the 'you deserve better' bullshit. i have the choice to be better and i'm taking it."

he loosened his embrace on you, hands on your shoulders. you met his gaze. all it could scream was blue of desperation. not going to even lie, most dedication you've seen in your whole life.

you were still skeptical — hell, i can't blame you! you've been mistreated all the time by partners, getting taken advantage of... what change is this rich and attractive man going to do? he has the money, the women ugh... thinking about it made your head hurt.

"what do you say, liebling. let me show you.?" he leaned in, mumbling into your ear. hah! as if you'd believe what he said and give him a chance.

kaiser would be lying if he said he didn't regret making up with you earlier. he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss you. hell! every bit of fiber within him missed you! his lips on yours, oh gosh. he's going crazy. :c

a little while after what was supposed to be a sweet make out, he found himself aligning his tip to your slit. you had glossy eyes as you stared back up at him. he had you pinned onto the bed...

"are you sure?" he asked stroking your stomach, his hands then tracing your curves. "fuu-uck. you're perfect." he mumbled. you nodded in response.

as he buried his length into your warmth he swore he got sent to heaven. "sh-shit.. scheißescheißescheiße...! please you're made for me..." he continued, his lips once more pressed onto yours.

nah, at this point his cock was stretching your opening... it hurt. kaiser broke off the kiss as he groaned, "you take me so damn well.. i'm sorry for being so horrid to you."

you were practically crying, was it cause the sex was good? cause of kaiser? you didn't know! "m-hya.." you sobbed out so sweetly. it was kaiser's last straw.

your walls were sucking his member in man..! how could he not..? your noises could kill him oh gosh! one last thrust and his length was kissing your womb :c "i'm sorry meine liebe, i-" the emperor didn't even get to finish his sentence as he finished in you <3

he pulled out just to push his fingers back in. admiring your form and expression. maaaan, kaiser couldn't ask for a better girl >< dawn came, so did kaiser, 'cept he n you came multiple times :3 kaiser could make it better. all he needed was just one more day with ya.

— ©isaisliterallyhim, 2025

tags !! : @twijaxx ♡, @kyvkc

a/n: hey guys.. hey anon.. guess who's finally back heh... my writers block actually fried me so bad its diabolical man.. yes i lost motivation half way along w the plot tbf i had this in my drafts for 2 weeks or smth... i'm so sorry if this wasn't what y'all wanted ill cook for the future ones ;-; not proofread btw good GAWDDDD if kaiser was my sugar daddy man.. money and hes hot YES PLSS (no im nawt shallow but tuition fees are booty bro yall cant blame me.) yes this is all yap ALL MY NOTES ARE YAP OK </3 but um.. yay ilygs a lot mwa mwa <3

[apatheticsunday]

Idk, but I literally can't stop thinking about this lol

Like imagine Danny thrown into Gotham because of something-something-portal-shenanigans and suddenly he's a kid on the streets of Crime Alley. And there's this dude who's definitely half-dead running around shooting bad guys' kneecaps and gesturing threateningly with his gun to a particularly bat-shaped shadow while shouting about something. Whatever, Danny's not one to judge.

None of the other Crime Alley residents seem to care, either, just muttering amongst themselves: "Hood's at it with the Bat again?" "Yeah." "That's like the third time this week." "Apparently Hood didn't go to family dinner again." "Yeah, that'll do it."

Anyway, Danny tries to stay under the radar because clearly he's in another Haunt but it's kind of difficult when there's rumors of a new homeless kid who floats when he walks and can fly through walls.

So, yeah, Red Hood hears about this ghost kid and thinks, what the hell. Might as well figure out if he can help Danny "move on" or whatever. Maybe because Crime Alley is his territory and maybe, just a little bit, because Jason understands how how terrifying it is to die young and alone.

Danny suddenly bumps into the half-dead helmet guy everywhere. At the library? Helmet Guy is there speaking with a redheaded woman in a wheelchair. Danny's (kind of) shoplifting some food from the gas-station? Helmet Guy is violently telling off a robber (ironic, considering Danny is also technically robbing, sans the gun and ski mask).

He's literally so done when he flies through the roof of an abandoned building he found and sees Helmet Guy! Sitting on the ledge of his abandoned building! It's his favorite because of the super old gargoyle statue, how could he not like it, c'mon! (It's also Jason's favorite, although he'd never admit it's because it reminds him of hiding beneath Batman's cape on a similar ledge so many years ago.)

The secret's out so Danny - who's had his fair share of being hunted and stalked, was thrown head-first into a reality where he doesn't even know if he exists - just snaps, "What do you want from me?? Are you a freakin' creep?? Why can't you just leave me alone??" Because he's literally a kid. He's tired, scared, alone, and hungry. He misses his parents, Jazz, Sam, and Tucker.

And Jason... kinda sucks at the whole "comforting a ghost kid" thing. He's an angry something-year-old with serious daddy issues, he's defensive and what he says comes out with biting sarcasm or spiteful rage half the time. He still makes disturbing comments ("Remember that time you left me to fucking die? I think I can have the last cookie, old man.") to Bruce just so that he can watch the twinge of grief-guilt-pain in his expression because the resentment never fully went away. How is he supposed to talk to this kid?

He does, though. Tries to talk about how he understands because he died, too, and it was terrible. It was painful, scary, lonely, he felt betrayed by the people he loved - the people who swore to protect him. And it works! Of course, Jason doesn't know that talking about a ghost's death is very, very personal and basically akin to drunk girls sobbing in a bar bathroom together. That's basically a lifetime bonding experience right there.

Danny is horrified because holy Hells, this guy's pre-ghost life sucked. What kind of sicko beats a kid to death with a crowbar? But also -

"You actually got a grave?"

"Why? You want one?"

Yes. Yes, he does. He never did get a proper burial; his family never knew he died, so nobody grieved him. Nobody decorated his headstone with flowers, nobody whispered about missing him, and his Ghost feels that - absence, I guess. Even if Danny is technically still in "his" body, the body he was born with died.

And Jason's like, this is it! This is what'll make the ghost kid move on! (Tbh, this feels like fairly reasonable request. Jason half expected needing to hunt down and kill a couple people.)

Cue Jason in Central Park or something because Danny's like, "You can kind of see the stars through the smog over here!" Just. Digging a kid's grave. It's a little disturbing, but it's actually crime-free (not a lot of gas-stations for Joker's cronies to rob). And, hey, if Jason squints, he really can kind of see the stars. As long as the kid's happy.

And Danny is!! Because he has his own grave, just for him, and his Ghost finally settles for the first time since being thrown into this smog-filled city where he can't see the stars (he lied earlier, he was pointing to satellites, but it made Jason smile so he didn't correct himself). And as Jason gently puts a couple of pretty rocks they stole from the vicious geese at the Park's pond at the head of his grave, Danny thinks maybe everything's not so terrible.

(Several moments later, Jason asks, "So is this it?"

Danny's like, "What?"

"Are you moving on?"

"What."

"I thought you'd, y'know, feel complete. Move on or whatever?"

"I mean maybe for a full ghost, but I'm a half-ghost so I'm technically still human. It's nice to have a grave, though."

"You're human??")

Commence my Jason-adopts-Danny HC!!

Something something Danny learns that Jason died and crawled out of his own grave.

Danny, to Jason: You actually got a grave?

Jason: Why? You want one?

He doesn’t notice how this could potentially sound like a threat from an outsider’s perspective.

[haeoflii]

I feel like people rarely talk about how the yuus in the manga are counterparts/opposite of their respective Disney villains.

For example: (these are all from my memory so take it with a grain of salt)

Yuuken, the vice captain of his kendo club, is well respected among his fellow first years because he encourages them to do their best. People respected him so much that he was considered the reason the club did not disband. He was supportive of his juniors and was even willing to train one of them late into the night to help them improve.

While on the other hand, Riddle, who is the dormleader of heartslabyul, is disliked by the first years because he uses fear and control. Not only that, he expects utmost obedience and respect from his dormmates. He also gives out severe punishments towards those who break the Queen’s rules, no matter how insignificant they may seem.

Their similarities are that both of them are serious (?) leaders who only want the best for their juniors. One uses encouragement while the other uses punishment.

As for Yuuka, she's really sociable with other people and gets along with her judo members at her school. She's someone who is really diligent. She's also someone who is similar to Jack. She believes in competing fair and square, and not using underhand tactics to win.

While Leona doesn't really get along with most people and is considered "lazy" by some people. He's willing to do anything when he puts his mind on it, even if he's playing dirty and hurting others who are in his way, to achieve his goal.

Their similarities are they're confident in their skill and they're both passionate in their sports (judo for yuuka and spelldrive for Leona). Both of them kept on fighting even though they were heavily outmatched (Yuuka vs leona's OB and Leona vs Malleus)

Yuuta is a compassionate young talented chef who cares for the wellbeing of his friends. He doesn't just eat food as a necessity but simply savoring the whole experience of eating. He also has this almost innocent look to him. He's willing to help others without expecting anything in return.

Azul, is a sketchy scheming businessman who paved his way to the top through hard work from a younger age. He keeps track about the amount and the nutrition of food when he's eating. He also has this shady scammer vibes. Everything that Azul does is fully calculated and ensures it only advantages himself while leaving the other party fruitless.

Their similarities is that both of them are raised by a parent who runs a restaurant. Both are foodies/have a knowledge about food. Both are hard-workers. Both are intelligent and a strategist (yuuta figuring out how Azul's um works and planned the whole "destroy Azul's contracts"). Both are pretty persuasive(?) (yuuta: Jack and Leona)

Since I've only seen pictures of her, my guess for the new Yuu is that she's someone who is free-spirited, cheerful and maybe a bit of a troublemaker.

Yuuna/Yuina is a gyaru. Gyarus are known for being non-conformist and rebelling against Japanese social (freeing herself from the patriarchy and Japan's expectations on women). Her outfit and overall appearance is very loud, vibrant and stands out. Gyarus are usually known to be cheery, loud and not afraid to speak their mind.

Jamil is someone who longs to be free but doesn't do anything about it (until book 4 but for the entirety of the time he's not letting kalim do anything himself and making him incompetent). He is someone who tries not to stand out too much and stays in the shadows despite wanting to be in the spotlight as well. Jamil is reserved, negative and bottles his thoughts and feelings up.

Their similarities is that both of them want to break free from societal norms and the expectations that were placed on them just because they happen to be born as a woman/as a servant. Both want to be able to express themselves and be their true selves.

these are just theories as well as it's written for fun so don't take what I wrote too seriously!!!

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

//the slightest of shaking you

Sonic's ego is actually used for the delight effect on his friends hhhgh your killing me with wholesomeness/j

I wonder though, is there's ever any nonverbal platonic methods aspecSonic could have developed?

Aroace Sonic pt 8 (no they're not dating)

Sonic’s got all kinds of ways of showing affection. Obviously there is more than just these, it’s just all i doodled last night before passing the heck out in bed hgLKJSDF

1. Sonic usually moves away if anyone expresses active verbal dislike of his physical affection; Knuckles is the exception to that rule. He would genuinely throw Sonic through a wall if he actually didn’t like what he was doing, no words required. But Knuckles is touch starved! He doesn’t know how to do this whole physical affection thing, and most everyone else is kinda nervous about crossing boundaries with him so it means he gets very little touch. Sonic notices that and instead of drawing attention to it, he just invades personal space like the gremlin he is and no one questions it, chalking it up to his usual antics. Knuckles gets a safe place to get the physical affection he needs without worrying about how it looks and Sonic gets to love his friend, it's a win-win. (Rouge is p much the only other person chill with touching Knuckles casually since she’s just comfortable with physicality and not the least bit nervous around him.)

2. Speaking of Rouge she and Sonic are very silly with physical affection because Rouge is extremely comfortable expressing herself physically and Sonic is chill with p much any small gestures because its just another way of showing affection. Platonic cheek kisses and aggressive flirting are pretty normal for them! They find it funny to fluster other people this way.

3. Sonic will very randomly just plant his hand on someones face if they're standing close enough. No context, no warning, usually they're not even part of the conversation that's happening and he doesn't move it off unless they move it themselves or it's time to leave. (He does this whenever he notices someone zoning out or look like they might be lonely since they aren't part of the main conversation to make them know someone else notices they're there and cares.)

4. Sonic's physical affection is so incredibly casual that if you're around him long enough it kinda starts to fall of your radar and you just stop noticing when it happens, (i.e Tails.) It's much more common than his verbal compliments so it ends up pretty commonplace. Physical touch is actually his first go-to unless the person is really touch-averse.

5. Falling asleep on people is his ultimate weapon because they're less likely to try and escape if he's asleep (cat sleeping on lap rules sorry.) The other reason is because they're free to be as soft as they want without worrying about him using it to gloat at them later. (A lot of stuff this dude does is hecka strategic.)

[toastedpotatoes]

"What's all this about?" asked someone behind him during a lull in his routine. Their voice carried the distinct lilt of the Folk (good) and an air of extreme exasperation (slightly less good).

Jal turned to face them, cooking implements still in his hands. "Finally—I mean, it would sure suck if—"

"I heard you the first time," said the newcomer, voice tired and dry as dead bark. "And we do understand sarcasm."

"Oh," he said. There went his plans. "Um. Take me anyway? Please?"

They stood facing him a long while, their expression reading visibly as why do I have to deal with this? even in the moonlight.

He must've got stuck with a dud or something. Weren't the Folk supposed to be... magic? Ethereal? Something greater than what amounted to little more than a sharp-eared person with lichen in their hair?

They sighed. "First of all, if you wanted us to take you, why did you bring iron?"

"Oh," Jal said for the second time. He looked down at the pots and pans. "I wanted to get your attention."

"Well, it worked. It also made an incredible racket. Put them away now."

He hesitated—he wasn't exactly eager to lay down his best defense against things like them—but this was his best chance at getting out of his life. He set them down outside the mushroom ring.

"Second," they continued, "why did you decide that the best time to do this was the middle of the night?"

This he had an answer for. "Well, you lot always dance in circles under the full moon, don't you? Figured now would be a good time."

They sighed again, muttered something about sky folk messing everything up, and said, "Not always."

Jal was getting impatient. The night was too chilly, he honestly should have been in the fey realms by now, and instead here he was getting interrogated by some house brownie. "So can you take me or not?"

"I can," they replied. "Doesn't mean I will. Why're you so eager to get abducted anyway?"

"Why's it matter?"

"It matters because I'm the one deciding if you get to go or not. And I'm being rightfully suspicious of the weirdly-excited-to-get-kidnapped human here."

He looked around for anything else he could do besides spill his life story to one of the Folk. There were still the pots and pans—if he could grab one quick enough—but they noticed him looking and their eyes flashed green in the moonlit dark and suddenly all the knots in the surrounding trees were blinking, watching, watching—

"I want a new life!" he cried, not missing how the trees snapped back to normal as soon as he spoke. "I want a fresh start! There's nothing left for me over there anyways. My home's evicted me, my friends've all left, and I can't face anyone there anymore, and—"

"You do realize that none of this necessitates banging bowls together in a mushroom circle, right?"

"They're not bowls, they're—never mind. Just—I can't stay here anymore."

They thought a moment. "Go back to bed."

"No!" He didn't even have a bed anymore. He didn't have anything left to lose. This was his only chance.

"Give me your name, and I'll take you."

Okay, maybe he had one thing left to lose.

"I'm not that dumb," he said, ignoring the highly doubtful look he received. He rifled through his pockets for—

"Thirty dollars?" he offered.

Their eyes narrowed at the bills he held out. "I don't need your money, and it wouldn't be enough anyhow."

"Thirty dollars and I don't leave all this iron in your precious forest."

They deliberated on this, periodically glaring at the lovely assortment of metal noisemakers he'd brought with him. "Fine. Deal. Pack up your clanking mess."

"Yes!" He gathered up his things and took their proffered hand, giddy enough that it was about five seconds before he realized they were leading him away from the mushroom ring, not into it.

"Wait," he said. "You said you'd take me."

"Never said where," they replied, calmly, and for a moment it felt like the trees had eyes again.

"Wait—but—where are we—"

"Relax," they said. "Just the nearest inn. You really need to go to bed." They picked a twig out of their hair. "And so do I, to be honest."

"OH BOY, IT WOULD SURE SUCK IF THE FAE TOOK ME!" cried the man banging pots and pans together in the middle of a mushroom circle.

[dokyumms]

nobody else matters

pairing: idol!wonwoo x nonidol!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 582

cw: anxiety, large crowds/paparazzi

a/n: this was a request sent by @yoongznme ! i personally don't have anxiety myself, so i did a little research, but it still may not be totally accurate. it was fun to try writing something new though! hope you enjoy ♡

click. flash. click.

cameras go off in quick succession, rapid bursts of white light flickering every second. it's all too bright, too fast, your eyes wavering over at every flash.

voices layer over one another- laughter, quick exchanges, calls from the photographers- you can't tell.

you shift on your heels, fingers curling around the thin strap of your purse. you don't belong here. it's obvious in the way people glance past you, their attention snapping to the real attraction- your boyfriend beside you.

wonwoo fits into this world with ease, lips pulling into a smile at a passing photographer and acknowledging a model you might've seen on a magazine somewhere. you, on the other hand, give unsure nods to those passing by. it feels like you're an observer; a guest at a party where you don't know anyone.

being in milan only makes it worse.

conversations circulate around you in a blur of italian, you don't get time to even attempt to interpret them, the words slipping out of your grasp before you can process them. every now and then you pick up on something familiar, a name or brand of some sort, but it only reminds you of how lost you are. you try to keep a neutral expression, hoping no one asks you anything and that you don't look as out of place as you feel.

wonwoo's used to this, the crowds, the cameras, all of it. he's done it hundreds of times before: posing, shaking hands, letting the weight of dozens of eyes settle on him without flinching. but then you catch it.

the slight tremor in his fingers as he adjusts his cuff.

it's small, barely noticeable. no one else sees it. not the photographers, not the executives murmuring his name, not the other celebrities who come to greet him. but you do. you've felt it before- the quiet unraveling under your skin, the way the body betrays the mind.

it becomes clearer when he gives you a glance. you can see the unease in his eyes, almost pleading for you. photographers try to capture what they see as a lovely moment between a couple while you try to figure out what to do.

it's becoming too much for him, he starts to fiddle around with the ring on his pinky, a reminder of how he got here in the first place. he's still looking at you though.

you want to help him, even though you're feeling a little anxious yourself. as you reach for his hand, there's a voice at the back of your mind. maybe this is the wrong choice, there's too many people around, you're too exposed. but with another peek at him, you pull him into your palm, untangling his hands.

looking back at him, you can see the tension start to slowly fade as your thumb rubs slow circles on the back of his hand. his breathing evens out a little, not focusing on the continuous flashing in front of him.

you give him a look, asking him if he's okay without needing to say the words. he nods, smiling at you gratefully.

as you both turn back to the cameras hand in hand, he leans to whisper into your ear, "thank you, love."

you know that this will all be posted on social media, the intimate moment you both shared, but it doesn't matter, you can dwell on it later. because nothing else mattered in those few seconds except you and him.

[drdemonprince]

I see you post against the global blackout on insta and I understand the sentiment, that it doesn’t make a difference but actually we’ve got major Palestinian civilian advocacy groups saying This is what we’re doing and why, and it feels like the West goes “oh there’s no point let’s not bother”. But in actual fact it’s Something. Which is better than nothing. It’s so easy for us to say it’s not worth it. Because we don’t want to give up a day of paid work, social media and online shopping. But when people in Palestine and the major charities actually on the ground working with them want this, isn’t it actually a show of solidarity regardless of our views on it, the actual impact, and our own in inconvenience? Regardless of impact.

Not shopping for one day isn't all that inconvenient. I don't know about you but I have no buy days all the time. It's not much of a sacrifice, if a person wants to do it and feels that it's a good exercise or symbolic or what-have-you, they should do what they feel is right. But showing respect to a people and a cause means being willing to discuss tactics, express disagreement, identify whose political ideals are in alignment with yours, and convey what one personally thinks is right.

Just because a person is Palestinian doesn't mean that their political ideology or theory of how political change happens aligns with your own, or with any kind of leftist politics. There are a great many Palestinian public figures who are not in any way revolutionary or liberationist. The majority of the charities that exist in Gaza are created and controlled by people in imperial countries, and all these charities operate with harsh restrictions placed upon them that limit how challenging to the existing status quo they can be. Many of them have explicit policies of normalizing the apartheid regime.

And just because a person is affected directly by the genocide doesn't mean they have expertise in tactics or economics -- in fact, it is outrageous that the entire Western world is relying upon a people who are actively being genocided, still, to give us our marching orders and plan our wing of resistance for us. Solidarity isn't just standing around waiting for a people in crisis to tell you what to do. It's organizing and tacting action, lending your support, your expertise, your money, your time, taking a stand for something, asking questions, suggesting alternatives, proposing new acts, participating actively in resistance on every level.

It's also important to keep in mind that the calls we see that come from Palestinians the most often are the ones who have been elevated to the status of Influencer or Head of a Nonprofit-- with all the competing motivations and financial and social incentives that involves. We are not hearing from a lot of Palestinian people on the ground who lack a sizeable platform, who do not have internet or phone access, and whose organizing and resistance take forms that are not social media friendly. The call to "listen to Palestinian voices" is a lot more complex than simply doing what a person on social media -- even a number of popular figures! -- has to say. No person or group can speak for a whole people, or a whole movement.

I believe that taking a single day off from shopping is appealing because it asks so little. It demands almost no organizational work or effort from Americans. It's inert and ineffectual, provably so, but something a person can pat themselves on the back for doing and then go back to their day. It's like almost every form of "activism" that has been promoted on social media for years now -- and it's telling that people won't learn, won't build the infrastructure necessary to make something more dramatic or longer-lasting happen, that members of the imperial core just keep sitting around on social media expecting other people to tell us what we should do to end the imperialism and genocide we are complicit in.

We need to do a whole lot more than not shopping for one day, and we need to do a lot of things that cannot be posted about on social media.

[lsunstreakerl]

part ten of the maxiel corporate au! (do I need to change the name? things are getting complicated here. the day I write a clearly monogamist fic that's not the real sunny anymore)

heads up: both explicit content and violence in this one. the violence is somewhat mild, but it's still there.

it's the daniel and rico section, obviously, which is how this ended up being 3k. whoops. Max POV, Daniel POV.

Max double checks the list in his hand, waving behind him as he steps into the elevator. He's been doing good today- focused on his work, somewhat put his foot down with Daniel, and he's been exchanging messages with Rico during his brief breaks.

He leans against the wall as the elevator starts its ascent. He knows what he's actually going up here for- it'd be difficult not to.

He's trying not the think about last time, the way he'd been shoved down onto the desk, Daniel's hand pinning him. It'd be embarrassing to already be hard coming into the office, but he's rapidly headed that direction, hot under his shirt collar.

He's worrying at the paper in his hands, fingertips running across the folds and creases. He'd taken a picture of it, because he doesn't want to lose it or drop it anywhere.

There's the now-familiar pleasant chime of the elevator doors sliding open, and then Max is making his way down the hallway- a left, a left, and a right- to Daniel's office door. He knocks, rolling back onto his heels as he waits.

"Come in."

Max slides the door open, slipping inside. Daniel's staying late as well, and his curls are messy, like he's been running his hand through them. He looks about as tired as Max and the rest of the finance department feels.

And apparently also how they look, because Daniel raises an eyebrow at him and whistles, low and long.

"Damn, there a war going on downstairs? I didn't realize I'd be dragging you from the frontlines, babe."

Max makes a so-so motion with his hand, shrugging. He's too tired to feel flustered, not quite up for the normal cat and mouse game talking to Daniel always feels like.

"Might as well be, sir. I don't think anyone's a fan of Netco at the moment."

Daniel scowls, capping a pen with more force than necessary.

"Tell me about it, christ."

Max takes a few steps forward. There's an open space on the desk, and Daniel hasn't gestured for Max to come over, but-

Everyone is tired. Max doesn't mind sticking to routine.

The pleasantly surprised expression on Daniel's face when Max deftly steps around his knee and hops onto the desk is more satisfying than Max anticipated.

Daniel's shoulders relax, hands coming down to spread his fingers across Max's thighs.

"Taking initiative, Maxy?"

Max tilts his head to the side, leaning back on his hands.

"We have performance evaluations coming up, sir."

Daniel laughs- a real one, which Max is learning is different from the ones he'll give over the phone.

"Glowing marks for you babe, I've only heard good things."

He reaches up, tapping lightly at Max's jaw.

"Real pretty face too."

Max isn't sure if it's the sleep deprivation, the pleasant feeling he's had all day, the pent up horniness, or a combination of the three- but he's feeling bold, twisting his head to capture two of Daniel's fingers in his mouth, running his tongue over them.

Daniel makes a surprised noise, pressing them against the inside of Max's cheek.

"Yeah?"

Max hums, spreading his thighs on the desk. He wants.

Daniel presses down on his tongue before withdrawing his fingers, pushing his thumb into Max's bottom lip.

Max makes a soft noise, waiting for an instruction, but Daniel seems mildly captivated. He's not doing anything.

If Daniel wants Max pent up and horny all the time, he's going to have to deal with the consequences. Max slides off the desk, folding down onto his knees between Daniel's legs, looking up at him.

Daniel's eyes are wide and entranced, hand gently falling into Max's hair.

"Maxy, what's gotten into you?"

Max rests his cheek on Daniel's thigh, his own hands held neatly in his lap. He's not sure how to answer- just knows he feels more settled in his own skin about everything, feels less like he's in free fall than he did before.

The knowledge that he'll be calling Rico after helps. Even if he does feel weird when he's done with Daniel- and he usually does- Rico will make it better.

Max doesn't really want to answer though. He knows what he's up here for, and so does Daniel, even if the energy is different this time.

Daniel laughs softly, fingers absentmindedly carding through Max's hair.

"Okay babe, we can do that. But I've got to actually get some things handled, and you really do need to go back to work after- so how about we try something different, yeah?"

Max blinks, waiting.

"I need that list, sweetheart."

Oh, right.

Max carefully pulls it out of his pocket, handing it up to Daniel. There's a moment where Daniel's fingers brush over the back of Max's hand, heat shooting through him.

"Thank you."

His other hand pulls Max's head up a bit, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Can you be good if I give you something to keep your mouth occupied?"

Max is confused for a moment before realizing, cheeks flushing as he nods. Daniel pats the top of his head.

"Good."

He rolls forward, and Max has to scoot further underneath the desk to accommodate. It's darker, noise muffled through the thick wood- his head is spinning.

Daniel's fingers nimbly unclasp his belt, and then he's pulling his cock out, letting Max wrap his fingers around the base.

Max gives a few experimental licks at the tip, but Daniel's hand tightens in his hair, tugging.

"I said be good, babe."

Max makes a soft noise, sinks a few inches down. Daniel's fingers tighten again before relaxing, smoothing gently over his hair in a way that almost feels apologetic.

Max can feel his shoulders sinking down, muscles relaxing as he takes Daniel further down his throat. His mind is starting to float away from him, blurring at the edges of his consciousness in a way that Max is learning he really likes.

Daniel's hand is heavy on his head, and Max can faintly hear him speaking above him, but it's not at him, so he doesn't think too hard about it.

At some point- Max isn't sure how long it's been- he can feel drool starting to pool at the bottom of his mouth, and he doesn't even think before he swallows.

Daniel's voice hitches above him, fingers squeezing. Max winces, because he hadn't really meant to do that.

He does his best to behave after that, letting Daniel's voice wash over him from above, eyes drifting closed. It's not quite like sleeping- but it's relaxing.

He doesn't even realize that Daniel has stopped talking, lazily blinking his eyes open when Daniel's thumb brushes across his hairline.

"Maxy, how you doing down there?"

Max makes a soft hum. Daniel's half-hard, and Max is only duly aware of his own arousal.

He leans his face into Daniel's hand. It's surprisingly nice, being like this with him. So far most of Max's time with Daniel has been overwhelming, a blur of embarrassment and pleasure, but this is different- he feels like putty, resting between Daniel's legs, holding his cock in his mouth.

It's slowed his brain down, eased the tension out of his shoulders and spine.

Daniel's fingers slide back into his hair, and then he's pulling back, his other hand reaching down to support Max's head.

"C'mere babe."

Max goes easily, blinking against the bright light as he shuffles out from the desk. His legs are asleep, buckling under him when he tries to stand.

Daniel's quick- gets his hands around Max's waist, bringing him back up and into the air, settling him on the desk again.

Max feels boneless, eyes hazily watching Daniel's. His face softens, one hand coming back to Max's thigh.

"Yeah, I think that's enough for today."

Max isn't sure how long he sits there- he feels like he's been out in space, and he's trying to come back down to Earth. Daniel keeps one hand curled around his hip, but he's rolled closer to the desk, still navigating around on his monitor.

Max finally starts to shift, rolling his ankles carefully as feeling comes back to them. Daniel's eyes flick up to his from where he's been intently reading an email, the edge of his pen caught between his teeth.

Daniel grins, squeezing his hip.

"Feeling good?"

Max thinks about it for a moment- he is. He really is- more than he thought was possible, considering they didn't really do anything.

"Yes sir."

Daniel's smile is softer than Max is used to, not quite as sharp as it's been before.

"Catering is just about here, if you're ready to head back downstairs."

Max feels his eyebrows furrow.

"But sir, you didn't-"

Daniel cuts him off with a soft squeeze.

"It was what I needed, babe. Good job."

The praise flickers at the pit of Max's stomach, turns into something warm and gooey inside of him. He wants more of it.

Daniel's hands still hover by his waist as Max slips off the desk, but his legs are more stable now, supporting his weight.

"Thank you, sir."

Daniel tilts his head, looking like there's something else he wants to say- but he just shakes it softly.

"I appreciate you bringing the list up."

Max nods, and then he's leaving Daniel's office. He doesn't go back down to the fourth floor- gets out at the 5th instead, where everyone has gone home for the night.

He steps into one of the employee bathrooms, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"Max?"

"Hi, Rico."

There's a low noise from Rico on the other end of the line, and then the background chatter on his end fades away as Max hears a door shut.

"You sound good."

Max feels good- better than he ever has after Daniel before. He hums, eyes drifting shut as he pins the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

"It was gentle today. He didn't actually fuck me though, which was weird."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I just kind of stayed under the desk for a little bit. I feel like I took a power nap, honestly."

"That's good. Sounds like he took care of you for once. You feeling good too?"

Max nods before he remembers Rico can't see that.

"Yes, I'm very relaxed. But it's nice, being able to talk to you."

Rico makes a soft approving noise, voice dropping lower.

"Glad to hear it. You did such a good job for us both, being good for Daniel like that. I'm proud of you."

Max leans his head back against the wall, letting the praise smolder low in his gut, seeping warmth into him. First Daniel, now Rico- Max is going to develop an ego if they keep this up.

"He's catered us dinner for the department, since we're all having to stay late tonight."

"Yeah, that's nice of him. I have a match tonight, so I won't be home, but you're more than welcome to stay at my place, okay?"

"Oh- thank you. I might do that, it depends on how the rest of the night goes."

"Always available, Max. I'm never going to be upset if I come home and you're there."

Max hums. He needs to go back downstairs- his brain is starting to kick back up, running smoother than it had before. There's a couple reports he wants to go over again.

"It'll just be a surprise then. Have a good match, Rico. Take 'em for all their worth."

"Hell yeah."

------

It's dark out when Daniel finally logs out, scrubbing his hands down his face. He's not worried-

He's a little worried.

The official VIP invitation to a local match had caught him by surprise until he saw who it was from, and now he's moderately concerned for his life.

Or his teeth, at the very least. It's inspired him to get an appointment set up with his dentist, but if he loses a few he's not going to be happy.

He shakes out his hands, standing from the desk. It'd been a surprising change of pace with Max earlier- Daniel really had intended to be less... tender, about the whole thing. It's a strictly sex based arrangement, so it's entirely inconvenient that he's suddenly started noticing the freckle on Max's lip, or his stupid little slack emoticons, or the way he'd looked so trustingly up at Daniel from under the desk.

Max isn't interested in anything from Daniel beyond that, and Daniel shouldn't be interested in anything from Max. He has a feeling that Rico is about to beat that message into his skull.

Literally.

------

Daniel... sort of forgets about the looming threat above his head. He gets caught up in the lights, in the showmanship- he's always been a fan of fights, and being in such a good seat really is exciting for him.

He remembers the moment they announce Rico. His blood ices over, sweat beading at the back of his neck. Rico is huge, and he's exactly as jacked as Daniel expected him to be.

He gets a bit lightheaded- hears the match start, watches with blurry vision as Rico tears through his opponent like butter.

There's a moment where Rico turns, eyes catching Daniel's for a brief moment- right before he hits the other man so hard Daniel feels sympathy whiplash in his neck.

There's a ding of the bell, and then Rico is definitely looking at him- blood smeared on his teeth, lips stretched into a grin.

Daniel feels a shiver run down his spine- maybe it's the last of his self preservation finally deciding he's a lost cause and jumping ship. If Daniel was street smart, he'd be hightailing it out right now- wouldn't even give Rico the opportunity.

Unfortunately, he's not. It's a well known personal failing- he's got a good eye for business, but sometimes common sense likes to skip him.

So he follows Karim back down the hallways to the setup rooms, waiting patiently after Karim leaves. Part of him wants to ask him to wait with him, protect him from getting beat to a fucking pulp, but-

Karim is part of Rico's team, and that would probably just end with two people hitting him instead of one.

------

Daniel's fiddling with the rings on his fingers when the door swings back open again, and then Rico is stepping in.

There's a wet towel around his neck, pink spots on it from where he's been wiping blood off of his split lip. He kicks the door back shut behind him, eyeing Daniel. His eyes drag across him slowly, and Daniel shifts where he's sitting on the counter, uncomfortable.

Rico huffs a laugh, tossing the towel onto one of the counters as he leans back against the door with his arms crossed, blocking the only exit.

"What, don't like being looked at like a piece of meat?"

Oh.

Daniel has a feeling that charisma isn't going to serve him well here- he averts his eyes.

"Look at me."

Rico's voice is low and dangerous, and Daniel's looking back at him immediately, heart pounding. There's adrenaline hot in his veins, but nowhere for it to go.

Rico steps forward off the door, moves right up into Daniel's space. His back is flat against the wall, large fingers coming up to grip his jaw tightly. Rico is a burning line of heat in front of him- Daniel feels tiny in his shadow. If someone opened the door, they probably wouldn't even be able to see him- it makes him feel like a prey animal, like he wants to roll over and show his belly, hoping and praying that it's enough.

He lets Rico move his chin up, meeting his eyes.

His heart has never gone this fast in his life.

"You are one lucky bastard, that Max likes what the two of you have going on. If it was up to me, I'd fucking leave you here in a trash bag."

Daniel swallows, afraid to move. Rico sneers down at him, split lip glistening with fresh blood.

"But I don't like how you're doing it, so here's what's going to happen, yeah? You're going to step it up-"

His fingers grip tighter for emphasis, jerking Daniel's head slightly.

"-and do it right. If you keep using him and tossing him away, I'll leave you in so many pieces they'll give up looking for you. Got it?"

Daniel nods, eyes wide. He can do that- of course he can do that, he's realized that he wants to do that.

Rico tilts his head, eyeing him appraisingly, and then suddenly there's a thick thumb in Daniel's mouth, pressing down meanly on his tongue-

Daniel whines.

Rico scoffs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You're going to be a good boy now when you fuck Max, yes? Treat him nice, take care of him after. He tries so hard to behave for you-"

His thumb curls behind Daniel's bottom teeth, yanking him forward into his chest so that Rico can look down at him.

"I think it's time for you to put in a bit of effort as well."

Daniel breathes shallow through his nose, nodding. He can do that, he can-

Rico pulls his thumb out, pushing Daniel back against the wall as he turns away.

"I don't want to have to have this conversation again Ricciardo- I won't be as nice the second time."

Daniel slumps back against the cool concrete behind him, face flushed. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and his eyes are wide as he tracks Rico moving around the room, pulling a hoodie over his head.

Rico looks back over at him, impassive.

"Handle yourself, and get the fuck out of my building."

Daniel has never listened to someone quicker.

[ffleurist]

🕸️ 029 . a delicate balance

synopsis you confront him about his hidden identity as spider-man, leading to a vulnerable moment where he admits his struggle with love. as the emotional connection deepens, a strange unease fills the room when the nurse lingers with an unsettling gaze. wc 1667

the hospital room hums quietly under the dim lights. kaiser leans against the pillows, mask discarded, revealing the exhaustion etched into his face. you should leave, visiting hours ended long ago but you can't. not when his usual cockiness has given way to something softer.

"you should go home," he murmurs, but his hand finds yours. his grip is weak, but the warmth sends a flutter through your chest.

"not a chance," you say softly, brushing a strand of blonde hair from his face. "you'll start climbing walls again the second i’m gone."

he huffs a weak laugh. "tempting."

for once, he doesn't fight your care. when you adjust the bandages, he just watches you, quiet and unguarded. it's that silence that pulls something raw from him.

"you really stayed," he says after a pause, voice softer. "even after everything."

"of course i did," you reply. "what, you thought i'd leave you to flirt with the nurses?"

a ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. "jealous?"

"don't push your luck, kaiser."

“mihya.” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

“what?” you ask, not sure if you heard him right.

“earlier... you called me that. please, say it again.”

you pause, your heart suddenly racing at the vulnerability in his voice. “mihya,” you repeat softly, unsure of what’s happening but feeling an unexpected pull.

his gaze softens, and for a moment, it feels like the world around you fades. he looks at you, eyes wide with something raw and unspoken, as if he’s just let down a wall he’s been holding up for so long. “nobody has given me a nickname before.”

“well then mihya, let me be the first.”

his smile fades, and something more serious lingers in his gaze. "i'm not used to this. someone staying."

your heart aches at his honesty. without thinking, your fingers curl tighter around his. "well, you better get used to it. i'm not going anywhere."

his eyes soften in a way that makes it hard to breathe. "good," he murmurs, head tilting slightly toward you. "because if you left, i'd probably do something reckless."

"like what?"

"like this."

before you can respond, he leans in, brushing his lips softly against yours. the kiss is light and hesitant, like he's afraid to break whatever fragile thing has settled between you but when you don't pull away, his hand moves to the back of your neck, deepening it just enough to make your heart stutter.

"you're a terrible influence, spider-man."  you whisper, your forehead resting against his and just for a moment, the danger outside the hospital walls feels a little farther away.

“but how did you know? what gave it away?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“your tattoos, mostly,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady. “and your injuries. you weren’t as careful as you thought. i’ve been thinking about it a lot, and everything started to fall into place. it all makes sense now.”

he looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. then, he exhales slowly, the weight of the silence settling between you. “you always were sharper than i gave you credit for,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before meeting your eyes again, the tension in the air thickening.

“i didn’t want you to know,” he admits, his voice quieter now, raw with unspoken fears. “i didn’t want to drag you into this mess.”

you stood away, your voice soft but resolute. “i’m already in it, whether you like it or not.”

he looks back at you, a mix of uncertainty, something softer, yet equally dangerous. "and what if I’m not the person you think i am?” he asks, his words heavy with something deeper.

“not this again, but then we’ll figure it out,” you reply, your gaze unwavering. “but i’m not walking away. not now.”

a flicker of vulnerability passes through his eyes, and he’s silent for a long beat. then, his lips curl into a faint smile, though it’s more weary than anything else. “you’re stubborn, you know that?” he says, almost in awe.

“maybe," you say with a small grin. "but i don’t mind being stubborn about this."

“i was bitten by a radioactive spider, and ever since i saw you at the stadium, i knew i had to get to know you better. when you caught me with the hoodie soaked in blood, and i watched you rush an injured man to the hospital, in that moment, i just… fell for you. i let myself get too close, too attached and i was already in too deep. but knowing the kind of man i am, one without the love of a family, one who finds solace only in soccer, i had to pull away. when i was spider-man, i felt invincible, like i could do anything. i felt reborn. i thought that with spider-man, i could love you and protect you. but instead, i just ended up putting you in danger.”

his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of his confession. you’re speechless for a moment, absorbing everything he’s said. slowly, you step closer, your voice quiet but steady. “you’re not the only one who’s afraid of getting someone hurt,” you reply, your eyes meeting his. “but running away, pushing me away, won’t keep me safe. it’ll just keep me distant.”

he looks at you, his eyes searching, as if trying to gauge whether he can trust what you’re saying. “to be honest with you,” he begins, his voice raw with vulnerability, “i don’t know how to love. i’ve been searching for it my whole life, and when i finally get close, i just push it away, and i—”

“mihya,” you interrupt softly, stepping closer. “stop rambling. i told you, i’m here. i’ll teach you how to love but only if you’ll let me.”

he stares at you for a moment, a mix of disbelief and hope flickering in his eyes. he opens his mouth, as if to say something, but the words seem to get stuck, as if there’s something holding him back.

then, suddenly, a third voice cuts through the silence.

“ahem.” the nurse clears her throat, and you glance up, the sound sharp in the otherwise still room. there’s something unsettling about her tone—too calm and too composed for the situation. “miss, you should really head home.”

you feel an odd chill in the air, a slight shift in the atmosphere, but you push it aside. still, the nurse's eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though she’s studying you, almost calculating.

you glance over at mihya, who seems equally taken aback, his eyes flicking between you and the nurse, a frown forming on his face.

“righttt,” you mutter, trying to shake off the odd feeling, but the weight of the moment hangs in the air. “i’ll let you rest. we’ll finish this conversation later.”

he gives a small nod, his eyes still locked on yours, but there's an unspoken weight between you now. as you turn to leave, you feel his gaze follow you, the tension lingering in the air. “take care on your way home, mein Schatz.” 

the nurse watches you leave, her gaze too steady, too sharp.

you pause, turning to face him, the sound of the german term of endearment catching you by surprise. his gaze is gentle, almost tender, as if he’s offering you a piece of himself he’s rarely shown.

"don’t think this is over," he adds, his voice carrying both a promise and a hint of vulnerability. “i’ll be waiting for you once i recover.”

you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, a promise you want to believe, but the eerie feeling from the nurse’s gaze still lingers. you give mihya a small nod, trying to push past the unease. "i’ll be careful," you reply, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you.

even as you stood outside the door, the nurse’s eyes remain fixed on you, too steady, too sharp, like she's watching you leave for a reason. you turn to walk down the hallway, but with every step, that unsettling feeling grows, gnawing at you.

you pause, the weight of the moment pulling you back. something doesn't feel right.

turning back around, you find yourself walking back towards mihya’s room, feeling a strange pull to go back. when you step inside, the room is empty—mihya’s bed is untouched, the nurse gone as well.

but there’s something else.

the window is wide open. the cold night air rushes in, making the room feel even more hollow. you step toward it cautiously, noticing the curtains swaying slightly as if someone just left.

your eyes flick to the window, and that’s when you see it—a faint green flicker from below, glowing just beyond the edge of the building. you freeze. it’s almost imperceptible at first, like the shadow of a lightning strike without the thunder. another flicker—this time brighter, stronger. a green light cutting through the darkness.

your breath catches in your throat. the air around you feels heavier now, the chill from the window mixing with a rising sense of dread. you step closer to the window, peering out carefully, but the light vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the dim, cold streets below.

was it just a reflection? a trick of the light?

no. there’s no mistaking it. the green flickers came from the direction of the alley behind the building—too controlled to be random, too deliberate to ignore. your mind races, the pieces clicking together. it’s him. the green goblin.

what just happened?

your mind races, but you can't quite piece everything together. and yet, the echo of mihya’s words remains, a quiet promise hanging in the air.

 “i’ll be waiting for you once i recover.”

despite everything, you feel like you can’t walk away just yet. not when you just got him back.

series MASTERLIST

notes from lily ❦⋆ : i have no words.. lol

TAGLIST

@mixolya @x3nafix @96jnie @tamashithe2nd @cookielovesbook-akie @yuiearyi @noomimi @stargirljas @jhsluvv @lotusofia @livelaughloveshidou @swagkittybear @axquella @passw-0-rd @hwaassaa @saeglazer @tofumiarchives @justanotherweeb666 @metaphorically-here @ravenbc @levihanmyotp @rybunnie @adrnmyknight @etherealrin @shosuki @90s-belladonna @wwastro @shr00mfairy @pan-kojiwa @pctterheadd @shumeow-h @deadlydollsstuff @renchai @nomyimi @beomn @heartmaddie @orphicarchive @sky-casino @8x9d @hanmastattoos @biscuitsx [tell me if i missed out anyone]

© ffleurist 2025 do not plagiarise, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[mirrorcatcreditcard]

Eurylochus held true to Odysseus' words about love, and nobody really acknowledges it.

They are perfect foil for each other.

Odysseus' struggle to keep his crew alive and ultimately ends in their deaths and his fleet's destruction.

Eurylochus' struggle to keep Odysseus alive and the crew safe ultimately ends in his brother being stabbed and heart break.

Every song and scene they have together has them take separate paths to try to reach their results.

"Remember Them" — Odysseus is filled with pain and haunting memories, and Eurylochus tries harder to tell his captain to be cautious because he saw what happened. They're hurting. This pain will manifest in two different ways.

(placeholder so the posts don't mesh together)

"Luck Runs Out" — Odysseus is blind to his own arrogance and overconfidence while Eurylochus, singing for himself and the crew, reminds him that the powers above are dangerous. The captain sees this as mild insubordination; Eurylochus sees it as the only way to be able to express his concern but agrees to stop publicly doubting his king.

"You rely on wit and then men die on it" = why can't you see that you are not the "neither man or mythical" you claim to be

"Puppeteer" — Eurylochus finally starts a song, a significant development, to confess something to his king because he knows what he has done wrong and wants to be honest and upfront. Odysseus dismisses him due to the problems in his mind and what he thinks is priority. The second-in-command knows how saving people always seems to go and tries to sway Odysseus to cut off the metaphorical lizard tail. Odysseus is haunted by the deaths that have already occurred and wants to hold onto any crew member that he can.

"There's no length I wouldn't go if it was you I had to save. I can only hope you'd do the same." He does not know that Eurylochus being able to doubt him so much and remind him of mortality is him sticking his neck out. He's closer to Odysseus and has a tighter bond, but he can still be punished for lack of obedience. He breaks the rules for Odysseus, and all the man sees is a rule-breaker due to familiarity. He's doing the same every time he speaks.

"It's a game of wits, but you don't have to play" = reminder, Ody, that we can leave and keep trying

(In between) Notice we don't hear Eurylochus as a strong voice w/ the crew since Odysseus hushed him on Circe's Island. I believe this is significant. He doesn't speak until he can reveal his sins.

"Scylla" — Eurylochus can finally let the news off of his chest, but unfortunately for him, three songs ago his captain decided to become a monster. Odysseus, betrayed already and knowing he must sacrifice six men includes his right hand in the torchbearers lineup, but someone steals the torch. This series of actions has Eurylochus suspect/know the plot while noticing his captain did nothing but resign himself.

"Leaving them feeling betrayed, breaking the bonds that you've made..." A double meaning. The right-hand left his captain feeling betrayed. The king left his brother-in-law feeling betrayed. The entire crew is in pain and has had enough.

Note: All of Scylla's lines have multiple meanings, but I'll be here all night if I try to dissect each one in this post.

"Mutiny" — The sacrifice is the final straw for Eurylochus. He held back before because Odysseus' goal was to keep them alive and go home, but there's none of that here. He demands an answer but cannot be given one. With regret, he does the only thing he can think and fights Odysseus, hoping to beat him and make him finally come off his high horse or false near-god ideology or beat sense into him at the very least.

Zoom to the future, Eurylochus cannot lead the men on his own with his own will and has lost hope. Odysseus begs him not to make any rash decision, but he kills the cow of the sun god and shocks himself out of the depressed and desperate haze he was in.

"Don't make me fight you, brother, you know you'd have done the same" = if you were in my position, would you not sacrifice for my sister?

"If you want all the power, you must carry all the blame" = you cannot appeal to my empathy to cover up your mistakes anymore, brother

"I'm just a man." It's ironic that the only time he uses this line for himself reflects Odysseus' blindness in a different way. He speak almost like he's in a trance and is driven by his instincts. Odysseus says he's just a man to protest his emotions and needs and ultimate choice to throw away lives because he needs his goal. Though many comment jokingly on Eurylochus not deserving this line, I think this is his own way of being shown to connect to his captain before the shit drops.

"Thunder Bringer" — Eurylochus says the least during this song. His solitary lines are calling for his captain, his brother, his friend one last time and admitting to himself and Odysseus the inevitability of his choice he already knows is chosen. In Neal Illustrator's depiction of this particular song, it shows the crew surging forward at the betrayal as Eurylochus stays behind with a lost and broken look. That hurt resignation is the last thing we see from Eurylochus for the rest of the musical.

Oh my gods, these are the perfect antagonist and protagonist duo, and I love them together dearly.

[winterlico]

SEVEN DAYS WITH A DEMON — SJY

⋆.˚ pairing : demon!Jake x fem!reader | status : on going

Summary : You thought summoning a demon for seven days would be temporary. You were wrong.

⋆.˚ word count : 6.3k

Genre : Fantasy, Romance, Comedy, Light Angst, Fluff

⋆.˚ warnings : 18+ joke (implicitly), harsh words, making out, LOTS of teasing (buckle up)

⋆.˚ a/n : English is not my first language and this is the first time i uploaded a fanfic, i'm sorry if there is still a lot missing words. If you want to be tagged, comment here!

❛ feedback & reblogs appreciated! ❜

Night Seven: The Final Wish

The television hums quietly in the background, flickering between news channels, late-night talk shows, and commercials that neither of you are paying attention to. The apartment is dim, bathed in the glow of the screen, casting long shadows against the walls.

You are both sprawled on the couch, slumped against each other like it's the most natural thing in the world—Jake’s body warm against yours, his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his golden eyes fixed on the flickering images but his mind clearly elsewhere. And yours? Yours is nowhere near the television either.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting like this, tangled together, neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. It should be comfortable—it always is. But tonight, the air feels different. Heavy. Like something is about to happen. Like something is changing. Your fingers grip the edge of the blanket draped over your lap, your breath slow, measured, as if holding it steady will keep the thoughts from crashing into you all at once.

Because tonight is the last night.

Tonight, he’s supposed to leave.

Your throat tightens at the thought, your stomach twisting with something you refuse to name. Seven nights. That’s all you were given. Seven nights with a demon who has done nothing but infuriate you, tease you, unravel you. Seven nights where he has become more than just a summoned being bound by contract—more than just a temporary presence in your life.

And now?

Now, it's over.

Jake shifts beside you, and when you glance at him, your breath catches slightly. He isn't watching the TV anymore. He's watching you.

His golden eyes flick over your features, slow, careful, like he's committing every detail to memory—the way your lips part slightly as you take a shaky breath, the way your fingers curl into the fabric of your hoodie, the way your chest rises and falls just a little too unevenly. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his jaw tightens slightly.

He's thinking it too.

He should be relieved. He should be eager—this is what every summoned demon waits for. The contract is nearly fulfilled, the bond will be severed, and he will be free. And yet—he hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said anything about it. And the weight of that realization settles deep into your bones.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until finally, you break it.

"Jake." Your voice is quiet, hesitant, but it’s enough to make his golden eyes sharpen, locking onto yours with unnerving intensity.

He doesn’t speak.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to say the words that have been sitting heavy on your chest all night. "This is our last night."

Jake doesn’t react right away. He just watches you, unmoving, unreadable. But something flickers behind his eyes—something dark, something restless.

You inhale shakily, your next words barely above a whisper. "Will you forget me?"

Jake's expression shifts, just slightly, but enough for you to notice. His lips part, his breath hitches for the briefest second, and then—his voice drops lower, softer. "Demons don’t forget."

Your chest tightens. You exhale slowly, gripping the blanket between your fingers. "So… what happens now?"

Jake tilts his head slightly, golden eyes searching yours, and then—he smirks. But it’s different this time. It’s not teasing. It’s not arrogant. It’s something else. Something heavier. "That depends on you, angel."

Your heart stumbles. You know what he means.

This is it.

Your final wish.

Jake leans in slightly, his voice dipping lower, rougher, almost desperate. "Tell me what you want."

You want to be selfish. You want to keep him.

And so—you say it.

"I wish you could stay."

The words leave your lips in a whisper, barely audible, but they shatter the space between you.

Jake freezes.

His golden eyes widen, lips parting slightly as if he wasn’t expecting you to say it—like the very idea is unbelievable. Then—something breaks.

A deep, aching longing cracks through his expression, raw and unguarded, something desperate clawing its way to the surface. His fingers twitch against his knee, his breath hitches. And then—he moves.

Fast.

Before you can react, before you can say another word, his hands are on you. His fingers are warm, solid, desperate as they find your waist, pulling you in with a force that steals the air from your lungs. And then—his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s raw. Uncontrolled. Devouring.

Jake kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s drowning, like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into this moment. His hands grip your body like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he’s grounding himself in the reality of you. A soft gasp escapes you, and Jake groans in response, tightening his hold. One hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head just right as he deepens the kiss.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, closer. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

His tongue flicks against yours—teasing, testing, taking. A shiver runs down your spine as you arch into him, the heat in your stomach coiling tighter, spreading, consuming. His breathing is ragged, uneven, wrecked. His hands move lower, pressing, gripping, claiming.

He pulls back. Not far. Just enough to look at you.

His forehead presses against yours, his breath heavy, golden eyes dark and burning. His thumbs trace slow, lazy circles against your skin as if he needs to memorize every inch of you.

He whispers.

"Angel," his voice is hoarse, almost broken. "You have no idea what you’ve just done."

Because some contracts aren’t just words.

Some wishes are stronger than magic.

And some demons—no matter how many centuries they’ve lived—find themselves falling for the one thing they never thought they could have.

A home.

A love.

You.

And this time?

This time, neither of you are letting go.

The air is thick, too thick, suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature and everything to do with what just happened.

Neither of you have moved.

Jake is still close—too close. His golden eyes burn into you, his breathing uneven, his hands lingering just a little too long on your waist, like he's forgotten how to let go. Like he doesn’t want to. And you? Your body is still buzzing, shaking, alive in a way that makes you feel too aware of everything—of his warmth, of his weight, of the fact that this isn’t a game anymore.

Something has changed. Neither of you know what to do about it.

Abruptly—Jake lets go.

Not smoothly. Not like the smug, arrogant demon you’ve gotten used to. Not like he meant to. He steps back too quickly, too suddenly, like something inside him just snapped, like he can’t trust himself to be this close to you any longer.

His hands twitch at his sides, his jaw clenched too tight, his chest rising and falling too fast. He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply, golden eyes flickering with something he doesn’t want to name.

You stare at him, your own breath still shaky, your lips still tingling from the way he had kissed you—the way he had taken, devoured, wrecked. And yet now, standing just a few feet away, he looks like he’s the one falling apart.

And you realize—he’s trying to run.

"Jake," you say, softly, carefully, like one wrong move will make him vanish completely.

His golden eyes snap back to yours immediately, and for just a second—just a fraction of a second—you swear he looks... uncertain. But then, the moment shatters. His expression shifts, a smirk tugging at his lips, the familiar arrogance slipping back into place like armor.

"Careful, angel," he murmurs, his voice dropping low, casual—too casual. "Say my name like that again, and I might start thinking you like me."

The whiplash is so strong, you almost choke.

"Are you serious right now?" you snap, still breathless, still shaken, and yet here he is—acting like he didn’t just kiss you like he was never going to get the chance again.

Jake grins, sharp and lazy, but his fingers are still twitching. "What, did you expect pillow talk?"

He tilts his head, golden eyes gleaming with mischief, but something else lingers underneath it—something real, something raw. "Maybe a confession? Should I tell you how I’ve been dreaming of this moment since the second you summoned me?"

Your breath catches.

Jake notices and suddenly, that lazy grin tightens. His fingers flex at his sides again, his body still tense, like he’s barely holding something back. Like he’s trying too hard to act unaffected.

So you do something reckless.

Something that makes his composure snap.

You step forward until the space between you disappears. Until you’re close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that he has to look down at you, close enough that there’s no way for him to ignore what’s happening between you.

Then, in the softest, most nonchalant voice you can manage, you murmur—

"Jake."

And just like that—he’s gone.

Not literally. Not yet.

But the mask? Destroyed.

He exhales sharply, his entire body tensing. His golden eyes darken, his smirk faltering for just a second before he grabs you again.

Not like before. Not in some rushed, desperate way.

This time, his fingers skim along your jaw, tilting your face up, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that feels different. More focused. More deliberate. More... dangerous.

"You," he murmurs, his voice rough, strained, softer than you’ve ever heard it before. "Are going to be the end of me."

The weight of those words settles into your chest, into your skin, into the space between you. Before you can respond—before you can even breathe—he leans in.

Not kissing you. Not yet.

But close enough that you feel everything.

His nose brushes against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your jaw, like he’s savoring this moment—like he’s memorizing it.

Like he’s terrified of what it means. In a whisper—so soft, so unlike him, so wrecked—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. The air burns.

Jake is still too close.

His nose brushes against yours, his breath warm, slow, deliberate, teasing. His golden eyes are locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there’s no more amusement there—only heat, only something heavy, something dangerous, something wrecked. His fingers stay on your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to keep your eyes on him, just enough to keep you trapped in this moment, just enough to make it impossible to look away.

And then—he says it.

Soft. Low. A command wrapped in velvet.

"Say my name again."

The words send a violent shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your stomach so tight, so unbearable, you forget how to breathe.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Not yet.

He notices. Of course, he does.

His smirk returns, but it’s different now—sharper, more dangerous, more certain. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow, lazy, taunting. His voice drops even lower, barely a whisper now, but still dripping with control.

"Come on, angel," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, golden eyes flickering with something wild. "I know you can do it."

You swallow hard, fingers curling into the fabric of the couch, nails pressing into the cushions to ground yourself, to keep yourself from completely falling into whatever this is. But Jake? Jake isn’t letting you go anywhere.

And that’s when you realize—he’s testing you.

He wants to see how far he can push you.

And you?

You don’t want to lose. So, you push back.

Your lips barely move, barely form the shape of his name, but it’s enough.

"Jake."

The second the word leaves your lips—he’s gone. Not literally. But the last bit of restraint?

Destroyed.

Jake moves fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re sitting there, taunting him, teasing him, testing him.

The next?

You’re on your back.

Jake is above you, over you, pinning you into the couch, his hands gripping your hips, his body pressing against yours so solidly, so completely, there is nothing else left but him.

His golden eyes are wild now, dark, dangerous, wrecked beyond belief. His smirk is gone—completely gone.

And his voice. Low. Rough. Desperate.

"You have no idea what you’ve just done."

The moment his lips crash into yours, you forget how to think.

Jake doesn’t kiss you like before. It's raw. Consuming. Overwhelming.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, holding, pressing. His body is solid, warm, heavy, unyielding. He kisses you like he’s never going to get another chance. Like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting for this longer than he wants to admit.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, pulling him closer, as close as possible. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Jake groans against your lips, deep and wrecked, his fingers tightening against your waist, his breath shaky, uneven. His tongue flicks against yours—teasing, tasting, demanding. A soft sound escapes you, and the second it does—he growls, low and pleased, his grip tightening, his body pressing down harder.

"God, angel," he mutters against your lips, his voice so rough, so wrecked, so unlike the smooth, cocky demon who’s been teasing you all week. "You feel so damn good."

You barely have time to react before he kisses you again, hungrier this time, rougher, deeper. His weight pins you down, his hands tighten, his lips move against yours like he’s losing himself completely.

And you?

You let him.

You arch into him, fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer, pulling him deeper into this moment, into you. His lips trail away from yours, down to your jaw, down to your throat, teeth grazing, tongue teasing, hot breath leaving your skin tingling, burning.

And then—he stops.

Abruptly.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, uneven, completely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his entire body tense, shaking, like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then—he laughs.

Low. Rough. Almost bitter.

"Shit."

You blink, trying to process anything at all.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. He exhales sharply, his fingers tightening against your waist like he’s trying to keep himself grounded, like he’s trying to understand what the hell just happened.

And then, softly—almost like he hates himself for it—he whispers,

"This wasn’t supposed to happen."

You stare at him, breathless, heart pounding.

And you realize something. He’s not talking about the kiss.

He’s talking about you.

Jake hasn’t moved. Not in the way he should.

His forehead still rests against your shoulder, his breath heavy, his entire body shaking with the weight of what just happened. His hands are still gripping your waist, still pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

His breath ghosts along your jaw, warm, slow, deliberate. His fingers slide higher, trailing up your sides in a way that makes you shudder beneath him.

He moves slowly. His lips find your jaw first, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the curve of it, his mouth warm, open, teasing. His fingers tighten just slightly, his body pressing down against you, making sure you feel all of him, every inch, every part of him that is holding back.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers tangling into his hair, your body arching just barely beneath him.

Jake notices and that’s exactly why he smirks against your skin.

"You like that?" he murmurs, his voice so low, so dark, it nearly wrecks you. His lips trace along your jawline, slow, lazy, dangerous. "You’re so quiet now, angel. Not gonna fight me this time?"

Your breath catches, you don’t answer. You can’t.

His lips are moving again. They trail lower.

Down the curve of your throat, down to that spot just beneath your ear, the one that makes your pulse hammer against your skin. He pauses there, pressing a kiss so slow, so deliberate, you swear you feel your entire body ignite.

You whimper before you can stop it.

Jake groans.

"God, angel," he mutters against your skin, his voice strained, wrecked, like he’s losing himself completely. "You’re killing me."

And then—he bites.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to make you gasp. Enough to make your back arch. Enough to make heat coil low in your stomach, burning, unbearable.

"Jake—"

You don’t know what you’re asking for.

But it doesn’t matter and he knows.

His lips part against your throat, his tongue flicking against the mark he’s just left, soothing, teasing. His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, pressing you deeper into the couch, making sure you feel him—every inch of him.

"Say my name again," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

You shudder. "Jake."

That’s all it takes.

He breaks.

He grips you tighter, his body pressing flush against yours, his mouth moving lower, tracing along your collarbone, down, down, down. His teeth graze your skin, his tongue flicks against every sensitive spot he can find, his hands sliding up beneath your shirt, warm, firm, desperate.

And then—he pauses.

Breathing heavy.

Shaking. Like he’s barely holding himself together. Like he knows if he takes this any further—there’s no going back. He curses, low and sharp.

Jake is still kissing you.

His lips trail lower, slower, hungrier, his hands tightening against your waist, pulling you closer, pressing into you like he wants to drown in the feeling of you. He’s groaning softly against your skin, his breath uneven, his body a furnace against yours. You don’t stop him.

You don’t want to stop him.

Because it’s too much, and yet, not enough.

Then—it happens. Suddenly. Abruptly.

Like a snap of magic in the air, like a thread yanked too tight before breaking completely.

Jake flinches.

His breath catches in his throat, his entire body going rigid above you, his grip on you suddenly unsteady. His golden eyes flicker, his smirk faltering, his lips parting as if he’s about to say something—but nothing comes out.

You blink, dazed, breathless, confused.

"Jake?"

Something shifts in the air. Something wrong. Something deep, heavy, old—something cold pressing in around the both of you.

Jake's entire body tenses. Then, suddenly—he’s not touching you anymore.

He yanks himself back, violently, like he’s been burned. Like the weight of what just happened between you has finally crashed down on him all at once. His hands tremble at his sides, his breathing is too rough, too uneven, too wrecked. His golden eyes flicker—not with heat, but with something else now.

Panic.

No.

Not just panic.

Fear.

That makes your stomach drop. Because Jake is never afraid.

Your chest tightens, your heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. "Jake, what—"

But he’s already shaking his head.

"No."

The word is sharp, rough, clipped, like he’s trying to shake something off. He moves fast. Too fast.

He’s off the couch, putting distance between you, between whatever just happened, between whatever he’s suddenly afraid of. His hands are in his hair, his jaw clenched too tight, his breathing too unsteady, his golden eyes flashing with something wild.

And for the first time since you met him, Jake looks truly, completely lost.

You push yourself up, your own breath still shaky, still uneven, still trying to make sense of what just happened. Your lips are still tingling from his kiss, your body still feels the weight of him, but now—now, there’s something else filling the space between you.

Something colder.

Something you don’t understand.

"Jake," you say, your voice softer now, careful.

He flinches.

Not visibly. But you feel it. Like a barely-there tremor in the air, like a ripple of tension across his shoulders, like something inside him is already pulling away.

And you hate it. You stand up, taking a step toward him, and that’s when he moves again.

He turns his back to you. Not lazily, not teasingly, not with the smug arrogance you’ve gotten used to.

But like he can’t let you see him like this. Like if he looks at you now, something will break. And you have no idea if it’s him or you.

"Jake, what’s wrong?"

Silence.

He inhales sharply, exhales even slower. his voice isn’t teasing. It isn’t playful. It’s wrecked.

"You don’t understand what you just did."

The words send a shiver down your spine. There’s no heat in them. No amusement. No arrogance.

Just—something else.

Something softer. Something terrified. And you realize—

Jake isn’t pulling away because he doesn’t want you. He’s pulling away because he does. Your heart pounds loudly, painfully, heavy against your ribs.

This is different. This isn’t just tension. This isn’t just desire.

This is Jake unraveling and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, your mind racing. But before you can overthink it, before you can let him slip through your fingers completely—

You move.

One step.

Another.

Until you’re right behind him. For a second—just a brief, fleeting second—he doesn’t move away. You reach out, your fingers hovering near his arm, hesitant. But before you can touch him—

Jake speaks again. His voice is quieter. Softer. And completely wrecked.

"If you don’t stop looking at me like that, angel…"

A pause.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Then—a whisper.

"…I won’t be able to stop myself."

The silence stretches.

Thick. Suffocating.

Jake still isn’t looking at you. His back is rigid, his fists clenched, his breath uneven, his entire body strung too tight, like he’s barely keeping himself together. The weight of his words still lingers in the air between you, heavy, impossible to ignore.

"If you don’t stop looking at me like that, angel… I won’t be able to stop myself."

You should step back. You should give him space.

But you choose not to. Because you know this isn’t what he really wants.

So, you do the opposite. You step closer.

Jake inhales sharply, his body tensing even more, but he still doesn’t move.

That’s all the confirmation you need. Your fingers brush against his arm—light, tentative, testing. A silent question. A plea.

And that’s when Jake finally—finally—snaps.

He turns so fast, you barely register what’s happening before you’re pinned against the nearest wall.

Not rough.

But not gentle, either.

Just desperate.

Jake’s hands frame your face, his golden eyes burning into yours, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely and utterly gone.

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is low, strained, full of something he doesn’t know how to say.

Your own breath catches, your hands instinctively gripping the fabric of his shirt, steadying yourself, steadying him.

"Then tell me," you whisper.

Jake exhales sharply, his jaw tightening, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.

And then—he gives in.

His lips crash into yours with no hesitation this time, no teasing, no holding back. Just raw, consuming, unbearable need. The kiss is hotter than before.

It’s not slow, not careful.

It’s deep, hungry, desperate.

Jake’s hands tilt your chin up, angling your face just right, his body pressing into yours so completely, so solidly, there’s no space left between you. His tongue slides against yours, teasing, tasting, taking, and the second you whimper against his lips, he groans.

Low. Rough. Completely wrecked.

"God, angel," he mutters against your mouth, his hands dragging down your sides, gripping your hips, pressing you further into the wall. "You have no idea what you do to me."

You do.

You do feel it. Everywhere.

The heat of his body, the weight of him holding you there like he doesn’t want to let go, like he won’t let go.

His lips trail down your jaw, down your throat, hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your entire body ignite. His teeth graze sensitive skin, his tongue flicks against every mark he leaves, soothing, teasing, driving you insane.

And then—he goes lower.

Your breath hitches, your fingers tightening in his hair as his mouth moves down, down, leaving a slow, lingering kiss at the base of your throat.

You shudder.

"Jake—"

His name leaves your lips like a breathless plea, and that’s all it takes.

Jake growls, low and dangerous, his grip tightening, his body pressing even closer, his lips tracing lower, his hands moving higher.

His breath is still heavy, his body still tense, still wanting. But he stops. His hands still against your waist, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his body shaking slightly against yours.

He laughs. Not cocky. Not in a teasing tone.

Something else. Something bitter. Helpless.

"Shit," he mutters, his voice rough, his breath unsteady.

Your fingers twitch against his back, your mind still spinning, your body still burning from where his lips had been.

"Jake," you whisper, and this time, he flinches.

You feel it like a tremor beneath your fingertips. Like something about to break.

"Tell me what’s wrong," you murmur, your voice softer now, careful.

Jake exhales slowly. He lifts his head. His golden eyes meet yours, and this time?

There’s no arrogance. No teasing. No cocky, insufferable smirk.

Just something raw.

"You," he whispers.

A pause. A sharp inhale.

Then—his voice drops even lower.

"You’re what’s wrong, angel."

Jake swallows hard, his grip tightening just slightly against your waist. His eyes burn into yours, unblinking, like he’s struggling to say the words, like he’s fighting himself even now.

And then, softly—almost like he hates himself for it—he whispers, "You make me want things I shouldn’t want."

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

And you realize—this isn’t about just tonight.

This isn’t about the kiss or the tension. This is about everything. Everything that’s led up to this. Every moment. Every touch. Every glance.

Jake isn’t just afraid of what happened tonight. He’s afraid of what you’ve become to him.

You don’t let him run.

Your pulse pounds. Not just from the way he’s touching you. Not just from the heat still lingering between you. But from the way he’s looking at you now.

Like he’s afraid.

Like he’s losing himself completely.

That’s when you know—you have him.

So, you move. You reach up, your fingers brushing against his jaw, tilting his face slightly, forcing his golden eyes to stay locked onto yours. He tenses, his breath hitching, but he doesn’t move away.

He lets you.

And in the softest, most certain voice you’ve ever used with him, you say—

"Then take it, Jake."

His entire body goes still. The air between you ignites. Neither of you are stopping. Your words still hang heavy in the air between you, coiling around the both of you like something living, breathing, waiting.

Jake stares at you now, golden eyes dark, still burning, still wrecked. His grip on your waist tightens, just barely, like he’s still trying to ground himself, like he’s still fighting the urge to just—

Take.

He e exhales, slow, deep, controlled. His fingers twitch against your skin, his jaw clenched tight, his body so impossibly still. And then—he smirks.

Slow. Lazy. But different this time.

"Careful, angel," he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked, full of something he won’t name. "Say things like that, and I just might listen."

Your breath catches. You know he means it. And for a long, stretching moment, you both just stay there.

Close. Too close.

He’s still pressed against you, his hands still warm, still holding, still wanting. Your pulse still pounds in your ears, your skin still tingles where his lips had been, where his fingers had traced.

And he shifts. Just slightly.

Enough for his lips to ghost over your jaw one more time, soft, deliberate, slow. Enough for his nose to nudge against yours, a quiet, lingering touch that feels more like a promise than anything else.

He pulls back to look at you again, really look at you. Something flickers behind his golden eyes. Something deep. Something undeniable.

Then—he grins.

And just like that, the tension shifts. Still there. Still burning. But settled now.

Controlled.

Waiting.

Jake exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps away, his smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. "Guess I should let you breathe now, huh?"

You glare.

"Shut up."

He laughs—warm, amused, easy, like he wasn’t just about to devour you whole. You fall back into rhythm.

The teasing. The banter.

But this time?

Something is different.

Jake doesn’t sit across from you anymore. He sits beside you.

His arm draped over the back of the couch, his knee brushing against yours. Casual. Effortless. Like he belongs there. And when he steals your blanket—just to mess with you, just to see you huff in frustration, just to make you shove him half-heartedly—

He doesn’t move away.

Not even a little.

The morning greets you slowly, stretching through the curtains in soft golden light, casting warmth against your sheets. The world outside stirs lazily, the faint hum of distant traffic, the occasional chirp of a bird somewhere beyond your window, the quiet rhythm of a day beginning.

But none of it matters. Because the only thing that does—the only thing that exists in your world right now—is him.

Jake is still here.

The realization settles into your bones before your mind is even fully awake, a quiet, steady truth that lingers in the air between breaths. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded, golden eyes already on you—watching, waiting, unmoving. His hair is a mess, strands falling into his face in a way that looks entirely effortless, and his shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar, hanging loose over his frame as if he hasn’t bothered to fix it. And the smirk? It’s already there, lazy and knowing, like he’s been waiting for you to notice him, like he’s been waiting for you.

"Morning, angel," his voice comes slow and warm, wrapping around you like something indulgent, something meant to stay beneath your skin long after it’s gone.

His smirk deepens just slightly as his gaze drags over you, taking in the way you blink at him, still caught between sleep and disbelief. "Sleep well?"

Your body still hums with the weight of the night before, your skin still tingling with the ghost of his hands, his mouth, his breath against your throat. It’s too much and not enough all at once, the memory of him pressing against you, pinning you down, whispering things he shouldn’t have said but couldn’t stop himself from saying. And yet, despite it all—despite everything—you find yourself staring at him now, lips parting slightly before your voice finally comes, softer than you expect.

"You're still here."

Jake tilts his head, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable before he lets out a slow exhale, feigning indifference, but there’s something beneath it, something too controlled. "Where else would I be?"

And that makes you pause. Because you don’t know. Because you don’t have an answer. Because he was supposed to leave. Because this—whatever this is—wasn’t supposed to last past last night. Because this was meant to be temporary, fleeting, a moment stolen between two people who were never meant to keep each other. And yet, here he is.

Before you can say anything else, before you can try to make sense of why he’s still standing there like he belongs, he moves. Casually, smoothly, without hesitation. Like this is natural. Like this is just what he does.

He steps toward the nightstand, fingers brushing against the glass sitting there before he lifts it, turning back toward you with a motion so effortless, so painfully normal, it makes your chest tighten in ways you don’t understand. And then—he hands it to you. A simple gesture. A cup of water. Nothing remarkable. Nothing grand. But everything.

You take it slowly, fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment, and you swear you feel the shift, the way something inside him stiffens, the way his breath almost catches before he schools himself back into ease. As you lift the glass to your lips, as the cool water runs down your throat, you realize he’s watching you again. Not in the way he usually does—not with amusement, not with smug victory, not with teasing intent—but with something else. Something quieter. Something dangerous in an entirely different way.

The moment lingers, stretching between you like an unspoken question. And then, just like that, it’s gone.

Jake exhales through his nose, the smirk slipping back into place, easy and sharp. "Disappointed?"

His voice dips into something playful, something meant to pull you back into familiar ground. "Were you hoping I'd disappear before you woke up?"

You scoff, shaking your head, trying to ground yourself, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling into places you aren’t ready to confront. "I don't know what I expected."

He hums, stepping closer, resting a hand against the frame of your bed, his gaze flickering with something that shouldn’t be there. "Liar."

And you don’t deny it. Because you don’t know if you wanted him to stay or not. Because this is dangerous. Because this is so much more than it was supposed to be.

The morning drifts forward, slow and seamless, stretching into something neither of you try to define. Jake doesn’t leave. He doesn’t act like he has somewhere else to be, doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t vanish the way a demon should once their contract is fulfilled. Instead—he stays.

And you let him.

You don’t ask why. You don’t press, don’t demand an explanation. Because you know, somehow, he wouldn’t give you one. Because whatever this is, whatever is keeping him here, he’s not ready to name it either.

So, you fall into something that feels easy.

He steals your coffee. He complains about your choice in breakfast. He stretches out on the couch, arms behind his head, golden eyes watching you move around the apartment with something unreadable but steady, something lingering.

And when you sit beside him, when his arm casually drapes over the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, close enough that it would be so easy to lean in—

You don’t move away and so he is.

The morning fades into afternoon. The afternoon drifts into evening. And Jake? Jake never leaves. Not that day. Not the next. Not the one after that.

Days pass. Then weeks.

And somehow, without either of you acknowledging it, without either of you saying the words out loud—Jake just becomes part of your life.

He doesn’t sleep in another realm anymore. He sleeps on your bed. He doesn’t linger in the shadows, waiting to be called. He just exists here now. In your space. In your home. In your world.

Like he was always meant to. Like he was never meant to leave.

THE END.

back to the list ⋆˚࿔

taglist : @firstclassjaylee @tya0 @limerenceisserenity @lavendersloane @nodoubtily @rairaiblog

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⋆.˚ a/n : tmi, i'm tweaking SOO BADD when i write this chapter, ik i'm so so down bad for him ugh i can't help it

[valleyfthdolls]

Hello Neighbor headcanons: Maritza

Full name Maritza Chiara Esposito. I had previously gone with Elisa for a middle name, but I like Chiara. Pronouns are she/her- even though she's pretty masculine, I think she identifies firmly as female.

She and Enzo are half-siblings- they have the same dad and two different moms.

She takes after her mom in a lot of ways- spirited and passionate, a bit childish, not the most pragmatic or practical. (I headcanon this because their mom's design in the cartoon looks to be modeled after Maritza's book design so I think they're similar.)

She's neurodivergent, but I can't figure out how (ADHD maybe?).

Her current goal in life is to become a professional soccer player.

Taking from the books, I think she was friends with Mya and Lucy before they died.

Part of the reason she acts so tough is because she feels the need to compensate for the fact that she's seen as in need of protection and help from Enzo by her family- she wants to be taken seriously.

Years before the events of the animated series, around the time she was friends with Lucy (according to the math based on the ages in the book series, she would've been 8 at the time), she was also friends with- and in the same girl scout troop as- Finch. I think it's easy to assume what happened there.

Piggybacking off of her pilot design, she wears a headband under her hat because the hat doesn't do much to keep her hair out of her face.

She probably paints her nails sometimes, but either picks the polish off by accident, has it chip/come off when playing baseball (putting on and removing of gloves) or intentionally removes it because she thinks it's too girly.

Despite this, I don't think she's, like, self-conscious about being perceived as girly, it's just not how she expresses herself.

Although she doesn't really let on about it, she's particularly fond of Nicky. She teases him a little extra as a result, but he's not really bothered by this as he just sees it as Maritza's personality.

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

I don’t get why some fans of Yugo get mad or annoyed at him for disliking his own Sans. He’s been dealing with nonstop fans for years who only focus on the memes surrounding Epic!Sans. Yugo has even expressed regret over making his Sans just a walking meme in the past, and of course, that would take a toll on his mental state and how he feels about the character. When people say he should stop talking about it, they don’t seem to understand that others constantly bring it up to him. It’s his character, and he has every right to vent about it however he wants.

You’re absolutely right, Epic is Yugo’s character, and he has every right to do as he pleases in how he uses said character and feels about it. I don’t condone harassment, and am firmly against attacking a creator simply because you passionately dislike or like a character of theirs.

One of my qualms with Yugo about Epic is how they blamed all of their mistakes and “cringe” of Epictale as a whole and projected it onto Epic and claimed the character’s death and celebration of his end meant that Yugo was absolved of any discomforting behaviors or jokes.

When he still continues to do so, even with characters from Epictale he likes.

Silly and goofy memes, might not be everyone’s preferred taste but there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Memes are supposed to be silly and fun.

But then Yugo having to be convinced by their fans not to do NSFW commissions involving minors?

No no sorry, that’s not fair. Of course anyone who is broke would be desperate, and they’re just fictional characters, right? Whats the harm? No way does fiction impact reality in anyway.

Doesn’t that reasoning sound familiar?

And anyway, Yugo rejected it in the end. Of course that should be ignored then and any criticism of it is unwarranted.

My mistake. It’s still not fair. At least with Epic dead and gone, Epictale is free from anymore cringe and problematic anime tropes!

Again, I don't mean this as an attack on you or Yugo. It's a criticism, and one where my overall point is that my biggest gripe with Yugo isn't that I love his character and he doesn't. It's that Yugo seemed to absolve himself of all his shortcomings by projecting them onto Epic and therefore is free from error or criticism now.

Disliking that Red/Lara and Mettaton are in love with Papyrus who is seventeen makes you a hater. SEVENTEEN. They are literally centuries of years old, even in the remake. I know in reality, the age of consent varies per state in the USA and especially varies depending on country, with minors able to be married in some with their parents or guardians' consent, but still. It's uncomfortable. It's unnecessary. Papyrus could be shipped with Lara and Mettaton as an adult, as he is in Undertale by the fandom and in other AUs. But now with the context that Lara and Mettaton knew Papyrus since he was a child, it's disconcerting to imagine romance with any of them. Look, it's understandable for a creator to feel a certain way about their work and how it's interpreted. Especially in what they choose to do with their creations, in revamping or remaking things, and how they feel about it and choose to get rid of some things entirely.

For the most part, I enjoy Epictale and have read his brief Neutral!Frisk storyline. Yugo is a talented artist, and I adore Epictale and the characters and the great potential they all have and what can be expanded on it.

The old Epictale bore the same errs as many AUs within the UTMV fandom in its early years. Fantastic AUs with amazing concepts often had something problematic about them and this was sadly normalized. From the past Cream comics portraying SA as romantic or silly, to PJ's Daycare and the like also joking about minors/adults, SA and r*pe, SH, etc. Or it could be problematic with Frans or Fontcest, either in canon within the AU or played around with as concept. Epictale wasn't worst of them, nor was it the outlier in one of its characters joking about or portraying these problematic things.

Here's a big one: Underlust. It's not a masterpiece, and like many AUs, has so much potential. Unfortunately, there's so much that detracted from it that a remake or dismissal of most of its canon is needed if you want to find any enjoyment from it at all.

Same thing with the past Cream comics. At that point, the blog itself caused too much for its creators and they deleted it and made it non-canon entirely. I don't know what happened to the UL creator, but I assume something similar happened.

Sorry, back to Lust. I was not active in the fandom in its early years, I only witnessed glimpses of it and when I wanted to get into something, like Cream, it upset me too much and I left the fandom. In particular with Underlust, it makes me so sad because I was introduced to him through fanon first, where someone had an SA experience and used Lust as an expression of what it was like to go through something like that in his line of work. And it felt cathartic. Comforting. A character who could understand how I felt, who was was unconventional in their self-expression and yet happy and at peace with who they are, would be able to heal and find happiness regardless of what happened to them. But then I found the parts of his canon with Fontcest. And it turned out Lust had nothing like his fanon and it hurt. I could no longer enjoy the AU and ignored it entirely from then on. But Lust, today, is still so dear to me because of what he could be.

Yugo wants to move on from the past and be a better person. I think that's a noble endeavor. Anyone can be a better person and change. That doesn't make it easy, and it certainly doesn't mean that everyone will try.

And for the most part, Yugo seemed to make progress. Epictale in and out of its comics doesn't make any more jokes about sexual harassment as far as I'm aware. There are no harmful slurs used in a joking manner. For the most part, it seems Yugo made good on their word and is trying to move on from his past mistakes. Many creators of UTMV's past seem to do something similar, and I wish them all peace and commend them for trying to move on and be better. However, when Yugo crucifies Epic as the source of all his problems, and uses him as the symbol for burying the past and amending his mistakes, only to then make similar ones (far less severe than the ones he used to do, admittedly, but still concerning nonetheless) instead of using Epic's potential to make him be as Epic as his namesake, it doesn't piss me off, at Yugo or his fans. Fans won't always focus on what a creator originally wanted them to focus on. That's simply the nature of fandom. And memes are one of the most popular enjoyments of fans and is the most unifying act among them. But there would also be fans who love things besides the memes, who will work to enjoy and create what they can gleam from canon and expand on it, in art or fiction, with other characters in the story. So long as fans don't attack the creator, harass them, insult or demand they do more with their preferred character(s), I don't see anything wrong with this. It sounds like a regular community to me. No. It just makes me sad. But as you pointed out, it's Yugo's character and his right to do as he pleases. So, respectfully, Yugo wishes to have nothing to do with Epic anymore; I am all too happy to love him along with the fandom. Because to truly move on from the past, you need to accept accountability. I know Epic used to have problematic characteristics, be it in the noncanon comics or art, but it was a part of his character. I acknowledge that. And I want to move on. Remove the parts of the past that are bad, and instead of ignoring it, use it as a reference of what not to do, as a reference to be better and do better. I want to build on his potential and love him. Because Epic makes me happy, and I know he makes others happy too. Why not heal and work together to create something everyone can enjoy?