Let's Get Creative

jade/enby/98'

[archtifex]

Horsegurl by John Logan, 2025

[segamascott]

[sailor--poon]

Its almost hot outside, im sad, my pp big. I long for hos now 😔

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

A whole lot of military films will be coming out soon. You'll see older ones showing up on streaming service and new ones soon to follow. Sure, a few are, in fact, very good movies. But here's the caution:

Any film featuring the US military is paid for by the US military. They have the final word on what comes out. These films are recruitment tools. Same applies to TV shows, and doubtless many will soon be showing up.

Do not be fooled by these films and shows. They are designed to bring in new recruits. When these are released, there is a surge in new people enlisting in the military. These recruits swiftly discover they were fed bullshit, but now they're stuck due to a contract. Going AWOL, away without leave, is desertion. You will be caught and put on trial for desertion, and they are not light with the sentencing.

Please, for the love of fuck, do not enlist with the military. You are cannon fodder. They do not care about you.

Recruiters are told to lie. To do whatever it fucking takes to enlist new people. Do not fucking fall for it.

These films and shows are recruitment tools paid for by the military. It's why they're so big, glamorous, and quickly made. Enjoy what you see, but don't sign up. It's a fucking lie.

[jadeswritings]

would anyone like to see my babies?

It doesn't have to be good it just has to be something you finish (I say through gritted teeth)

[jadeswritings]

vent poem. emptying out my mind palaces clutter drawer.

(at points in Poe's voice, sometimes Seuss)

the robots are taking all the water.

the country's gone to war.

there's diversity in space now,

but no money for the poor.

childhood in mid recession,

and spilt oil 'pon the shore.

adulthood; new recession.

a car with gas I can't afford.

and I drive that car around,

full of gas I can't afford.

and the foods gone too expensive,

so with coupons, start to hoard.

but hoarding comes with confrontation,

confrontation in my mother nation;

my mother's matron don't do confrontation,

So I do enough for for the both of us.

but confrontation I can't afford,

no, not with this life I can't afford.

and I've never really been onboard

with living life on their accord.

according to the board of score,

I should not go within the store,

for impulse lies, and impulse buys,

buys things which I can't afford.

and materials don't fix this slump,

my manic, panic spree.

but conditions fill this putrid dump,

with methane gas, for free.

microplastics in the water now,

in the food and in your pee.

microplastics in the babies now,

no babies then for me.

for who would bare a child now?

for government supply?

to look them in their little face,

and hear them wonder, why?

"why can't we drink from the tap?

where's all the water gone?

why can't we go to the store?

must we garden in the lawn?

do neighbors always point and stare

with all their noses in the air?

do they have to comment on our hair

and only act as if they care?

and could we travel over there,

to familys house for an affair?

well gas, I guess we can't afford.

hey, what's it mean, that word, "poor"?"

No babies then, not for me I guess,

no more children this recession.

no need for this fat upon my chest,

if only I could slightly lessen

the burden on my shoulders,

pushing boulders off the mountain side.

Sisyphean thoughts knaw at my brain

for far too many people've died.

cause in this life I can't afford,

to live a life with no one onboard.

then there's the gas I can't afford,

so no escape to travel towards.

because life isn't just yours to live,

to make use however you see fit.

if only I had had my way

I'd have been through and done with it.

but I'm not the only one with support

needs, needing to be met.

I've already suffered for this long,

and still haven't broken yet.

can something ever really break

if it was made incomplete?

maybe substance, maybe shaking

are within my recipe.

I can't imagine my mother's time,

her stress and how she'd leave it be.

so lonely, fleeing times of crime;

hiding from her memories.

work them hard, drink them away

for all this added strife.

drink them often, sex them away,

feel good for making life.

making life within a home,

because she cannot bear being alone.

bearing children by a man

who always leaves her on her own.

not really "on her own",

for that she'd have to be alone.

parting gifts with little faces,

never reflecting of her own.

maybe that's why she couldn't stop

spreading resources so thin.

maybe, just maybe, one little face

that didn't look like him.

our little faces couldn't fill her empty spaces,

emotions blocked in all the places

she couldn't look, feel or love,

but taught that to her little faces.

yet somehow she cannot make sense

of all her children hopping fence

for greener pastures than her own,

fleeing their one and only home.

because home isn't just some place,

but a feeling deep within.

home could be a person, so they say,

but not amongst our kin.

no, our bloodline's got spilt oil

along the shores of DNA.

no Dawn soap or recovery

efforts ever made it go away.

if you can't remove the leaking pipe

best just to switch it off.

maybe trade habits that leave you shaking

with ones that only make you cough.

but of course, it's never just a cough

not every day for years and years.

what's broken now is really off,

can't trust my own eyes and ears.

not that I've trusted much at all,

not kin nor friend; not spring nor fall.

all much too hot or cold it seems,

and in the mirror, most of all.

my matron flies from pole to pole,

most likely just like hers before.

or maybe it's foreign chemicals

from her patrons foreign war.

and her domestic chemicals

run throughout my DNA,

I inherit her ups and downs,

my little sister? CNA.

because nobody is all good or bad,

and there's always give and take.

she gave the best she could,

unless she made a huge mistake.

like making little faces,

and expecting something more

than oily habits on the coast

of all their poor, neglected shores.

as she hopped from pole to pole,

she left me near the borderline.

to tell me that it's not her fault,

done no offense, she's done no crime.

no crime but being lonely,

being sad and feeling blue.

for all the shit she had endured

"would you rather it was you?"

well no I wouldn't, yes it's true

I wouldn't want to live like you.

to feel so alone and feel the need

to propagate a family tree

from poison oak and rotting bark,

grafting darker, tortured marks.

along all sides, from all around;

plant with no good sides to be found.

a hybrid planted on the border of

too much and yet never enough.

not a lonely rotting plant

but a shell of random stuff.

and with all the water having dried

and many look-alikes have died

and fungus that distorts the sights

in hopes of changes of the mind.

but magic spores can't seem to fix,

in fact it's only gotten worse.

no new, grand, life-altering shifts,

just reminders of the curse.

curses of loneliness and empty holes,

inability to fill them.

growing jaded, angry, cold

like their children's children's children.

now I keep one eye open, all the time,

ears open, hyper aware.

safety comes in numbers but

no one's got the spoons to spare.

be the change you want to see

and well, if it were up to me?

we'd all just uproot ourselves and

finally we'd be free.

for there's no escape or exit plan

when fascism is right at hand.

my hopes run dry, so why even try

to till the soil and try again?

part of the problem? for sure.

problem of the part.

the part that never agreed to start.

start showing up and do my part?

my part is passive, aggressive start.

my start with casual violence,

violent care and violent words.

words if only I had shared

might have broken through the curse.

but burden kin with extra junk,

when life is already hard enough?

this is just how families are,

no comparison to call their bluff.

so I'm alive every day, and the days go by

with new, fresh water from my eyes.

and news that fries the nerves in me,

but at least, on paper, I'm safe and free.

until the State starts checking phones,

and coming into all our homes.

"the enemies within" the lines

drawn on paper by other guys.

guys who never had to wonder,

if their bright and shiny futures

would be tainted by the bloodshed

of their victims of The Others.

and the people choose to fight the wars,

for country, family, college, cars.

and the jobs leave us on read

and I'd feel so much better dead.

but I am not the only one,

nor the worst off at that.

hell, I'm basically one of those guys

for refusing to step up to bat.

to do what's right and rightly do

for somebody who is not true.

if no one's coming to save me,

how the fuck can I help you?

because the robots are taking the water,

and I am still my father's daughter.

and the wars are moving farther,

much more than my mother's father's.

between micro plastics and macro counts

and all that we consume,

no one's coming to save us,

unless it's over zoom.

zooming out of the big picture,

and from all the way in space,

we're fed images of science

and humanity's hopeful face.

because four went to space

I should extend the grace,

as if day after day

the 1% slows their pace.

like they aren't testing out ways to

escape what they've made

and leave us in this place.

they write checks that we pay.

but we dance and we sing and we watch and we learn,

until every professional has taken their turn

being exposed for the worst things that I've ever heard

but forgotten just as quickly, replaced by absurd

new things about other people,

wash, rinse and repeat.

they know you'll buy tickets and fill all the seats.

art is escape, but you can't escape art.

who cares if they're wicked? they're pretty and smart.

all art isn't equal, in goodness or bad.

popular art is consumable, generic and sad.

and your heros are villains,

your role models, victims.

art imitates life,

which is stranger than fiction.

so do what you can,

which is not much at all.

and when I'm guilty enough

I still answer their calls.

because as distressing as they are,

no matter how far I may roam,

these aging, miserable people

were the first places I called home.

because houses are overated,

and I am, after all, jaded.

as much as I hate it,

i pick up the phone.

the houses get sold,

but truth be told,

you can never leave your broken home;

because you are your home,

made of flesh, blood and bone.

and you haul it around

until you're dead and you're cold.

or dead and warm, yes I should warn;

that flaws can thaw the stench of death.

If you're shivering, you're alive,

take it in stride.

at least you can still see your breath.

[jadeswritings]

Second half

When I was a sad and lonely child

I always felt like I was stuck;

Inbetween two points, never just somewhere.

A perpetual midlife crisis.

Because if we never know when we die,

how will we know when we've reached our half way point?

11 wasn't it, 22 came and went.

No mater now many scars we have to show for it,

11 was just a shitty year.

14 might have been it,

With club 27's last call in four more moons.

Sure there's more to see and do,

But just because I have the time doesn't mean I'm going to do anything with it.

Some people think a good second half is worth it,

But I don't think so.

Even if the next 27 years were the best of my life,

I'd be haunted by the ghost of my jealous inner child.

I doubt you can undo the harm of the past,

And I doubt my ability to solider on.

War is hell and soldiers are evil,

The ground I sit on is tainted.

I think there's honor in knowing when you've had enough.

[claracaboozle]

Icarus

A million and one poems have been written on Icarus

Paper wings covered in paint,

The pen and ink of every lost soul

Was it worth it? Did he smile as he fell?

Am I worth it? Am I worth it if I fail?

The ocean swells high -

Fly, Icarus, fly!

The sun’s rays bore -

Soar, Icarus, soar!

Is the flight what we crave,

Or the crash into the wave-

We write what we fear

And we fear the failure

We sensationalize the fall

No one mourns the failed mentor

His son’s neck snapped,

Wax seared into his back,

Feathers welded to his mortal frame.

Surely it is dying we cannot escape -

Not this slow plod of tired feet,

The unsensational dizzying emptiness

Of a life spent well within our means.

Surely life pales in comparison to

wax

wings

melting

to

Icarus

swiftly

falling

Center not the crafting of wings,

That intellectual achievement –

Center not the escape from the tower,

Imprisonment finally abandoned –

Center instead the moment Icarus fell

The triumph before the splatter

The inescapable pull of gravity.

Center not Daedalus, who for all his wisdom

Could not save his son from doom

Could only watch while at the first taste of freedom,

Icarus fell.

Think not on the father left without his only son

Think not on he who may never invent again

Think not on how his life's works were turned against him again

And again

And again

Build a labyrinth only you can escape

And be placed in a tower so you'll never escape

Build wings so you can escape

But only you can escape

Everything you build holds a lonely boy at its center

And it eats him whole

Devouring and desperate

You are left to kneel beside the body of your child

And watch his lifeblood drain away

Mixed with salt and ash.

Everything you build holds a broken boy at its center

It is, after all, the only thing you know.

November 1st, 2025

[fanpolls]

If you make fan creations, how would you feel if a journalist showed that creation to a creator, actor, or someone else involved with the media?

I would be happy

I would be neutral

I would not like it

I would not like it + would delete the fanwork

My reaction depends on which fanwork / what kind of fanwork

I would have another reaction

Results

Voting ended onApr 7

[tokkibean]

nothing reveals typos better than the ao3 publish button. who needs spellcheck honestly

[gyllenhaalstories]

i’ve read almost ALL of your writings ( theyre so so good btw ) , any other blog you’d recommend for more jake content ? 😋😋😋

hi, anon! thank you so much for reading my fics and for the sweet words! that's so kind of you!!! 💖 currently, the two active writers in the fandom are @emma-frxst (masterlist) and @peacefulwriter88 (masterlist) and they're super talented! i highly recommend that you check them out, especially if you're looking for detective loki content. they have two great series dedicated to our beloved detective! you can check out @rebelliousstories and @jadeswritings as well. they have posted stories for various characters during seasonal events which is so fun. i have this post from 2024 where i tagged other authors (i think only one of them has deactivated, so the rest of the content should still be available).

i've been struggling to find the concentration to read and unfortunately i've been slacking on my duty as a reader to promote these awesome writers. hopefully the stars align so i can get some reading done soon. i'm sure there's something you will like within those recommendations, thank you for stopping by! 🥰

[jadeswritings]

feeling empty inside;

but full of the wrong thing.

like a cookie tin with sewing needles,

or coffee can with old oil.

would you rather it be an irrelevant, empty vessel?

does filling it with something else mean it's full again?

would it be better to just throw it out?

[i-will-write]

how i sleep knowing i write shitty fiction but at least don’t use chatgpt

[erinsangel]

i don’t wanna be alone.

[achillesinhighheels]

Whole time this me

[brainstreams]

Ways That Fear Can Show Up (Without Saying “Fear”)

When it creeps: • Foreboding — the air feels wrong before anything actually happens. • Ominousness — silence that feels almost... purposeful. • Misgiving — your instincts tugging at your sleeve, whispering, "Don't."

When it hits fast: • Shock — your brain blanks • Startled— your heart slams, you inhale • Panic — thoughts fracture; your instincts beg for escape

When it lingers: • Tension — jaw locked, shoulders up near your ears. • Anxiety — background noise that lingers in every thought • Dread — knowing something bad is coming and having to wait for it.

When it turns physical: • Shivers — cold crawling up the spine. • Sweat, dilated pupils, skin gone pale — your own body betrays you. • Weakness — knees like jelly, grip unreliable.

When it overwhelms: • Terror — too big to think around. • Horror — something has gone wrong. • Paralysis — body refusing orders.

When it distorts reality: • Paranoia — patterns where there are none. • Suspicion — every sound feels intentional. • Unease — the sense of being watched without proof.

If you liked this, a small Ko-fi tip would mean a lot. No pressure!

[gyllenhaalstories]

STRAWBERRY CHAMPAGNE — ELWOOD DALTON 🍾 

summary: an unexpected upgrade from the hotel room you booked takes you directly to... the king size bed of a ufc champion!

pairing: ufc!elwood dalton x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol/they're both tipsy, flirting with some smut (fingering, squirting). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 4560

gifs credits: @/stephendorff ; @/davidayer / divider credits: @/saradika-graphics

tag: @jakegooglyeyes ❣️

notes: some very unnecessary plot and some very necessary tipsy dalton who wants to make sure you go to sleep with a smile on your face. happy valentine’s day! i’m sending you all so much love. ❤️ thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

"Dalton, hey! Hey, huh…" You paused at the weird sound that attacked your eardrum. You had to pull your phone away from your ear for a second or two. "Dalton? What the fuck is going on?"

"I’m in the shower."

Well, that explained why he sounded like got torpedoed into a tsunami. You shook your head, there were worst things he could do… Like asking for his sparring partner to hold his phone with one hand so Dalton could punch the other while you discussed brand sponsorships. Or when the poor nurse at the hospital was asking him not to FaceTime you when she sewed stitches through his brow bone. Or the very infamous time he was busy with special ‘company’ at his house yet he picked up your call to have a little chitchat amongst the symphony of moans. Sigh. The highs and lows of being the publicist of the most notorious fighter of the UFC.

"What’s up?" Dalton asked, when you went silent for a bit. "Shit." He cursed loudly. "Got shampoo in my eye."

This was not helping the case of your pounding headache. "I can’t get to my hotel room." You rubbed your temple with your free hand while you explained the details of the situation. Something got mixed up with the reservation unbeknownst to you until just now as you stood by the front desk of the hotel, desperately trying to get the key. A genuine accident, the manager swore. The hotel was already jam packed with fans and press eager to attend the next big fight, there was nothing they could do aside from listing the other hotels in town that could take a last minute guest in.

"Why are you so stressed out?" Dalton answered bluntly. "That’s not a big deal —"

"Not a big deal?" You basically shrieked.

It was his turn to save his hearing abilities from your reaction.

"We need to prepare you for the press pool, we can’t do that if I’m on the other side of the fucking city." The front desk employee pulled out an iPad to show you one of the options they found for you: a questionable looking motel by the highway. It could not get any worse.

"It’s not a big deal." He repeated. The pleasant scent of the hotel soaps was not strong enough to waft through your phone and to calm you down from your very valid crash out. "I’ll handle it."

"The press?" You scoffed. "You can’t take them on without me. You know they’ll want to bring up all the shit you said about your next opponent the second they can get a camera in your face…"

"This isn’t about Jax." Dalton concluded dryly, leaving no more room for arguing. He did not want to talk about him right now, not after what happened at the weigh in. "This is about you. I’ll take care of it."

*~*~*

"There you are." Dalton greeted… The bucket of ice that contained one of those expensive Moët champagne bottles. He did not greet you first, of course not. He knew you would be exploding in his face the second he looked in your direction, so he took his time. He let the room service employee bring the full order inside, he dragged your ridiculously heavy suitcase and bags into the living room and, most importantly, he generously tipped the employee. No doubt about it, this tip appeared to be larger than a whole week’s salary.

You stood there, in the hotel suite that felt so spacious you could get lost in it. Your foot anxiously, and angrily, tapped on the floor, as you coughed to get Dalton’s attention.

"Told you I’d take care of it." He replied, you caught sight of the sly grin on his lips.

After your call, Dalton had explained to the hotel manager that they could just transfer all of your belongings to his suite where you would be staying until further notice. All it took was one long elevator ride to make most of your worries vanish into the void. Most of them, you were not sure that Dalton would hold back and not throw an uppercut at the first dumb journalist to ask him about Jaxon Harris. That upcoming fight had him on edge. But you could cross that bridge when you would get there.

"You’re welcome." Dalton joked. You did not need to thank him with words, that sigh of relief of yours when you sat down on the couch was more than enough.

You relaxed on the plush cushions and took in your surroundings. You got goosebumps at the thought of staying the night at the very questionable motel that the staff showed you. You appreciated the desperate attempt at making your situation better, but it was a miserable failure.

Dalton gave you some time to cool off, he knew you would start talking soon enough anyway. You did lots of talking — too much to his liking, at least sometimes, but he did not mind it. He disappeared into the bathroom to finish up what he was doing, coming back with a towel in his hands to dry his damp hair. If he had the decency to cover himself with a bathrobe for room service, he did not extend that respect to you. He came back, wearing only a pair of black briefs.

He caught it, that quick turn of your head as you looked the other way.

"Nothing you haven’t seen." He mused. A statement that carried a plethora meanings. Through your work. Through your personal lives. You had witnessed Dalton in all of the positions imaginable: from getting his cup perfectly fitted to his groin all the way to unexpectedly finding him with a series of one-night partners he probably forgot the name of before he even got them undressed. He knew you did not like to bring up the other (much more fun) times you saw him so scantily clad, it always brought heat to your cheeks and made you lose all your senses... He did not mind it either. In fact, he loved knowing he could still get you all flustered just at the thought of those several passionate occasions you both found yourselves in.

"Doesn’t mean I want to see it now." You replied with attitude.

"Yeah, right." Dalton gave you one of his signature smiles as he presented the platter of strawberries that he ordered, encouraging you to grab one.

"Strawberries and champagne?" You mocked with a mouthful of fruit. "That’s so Pretty Woman of you."

He quirked an eyebrow at you, staring for a moment too long. "Yeah, very pretty woman indeed." Dalton put the platter back on the coffee table, turning his attention to the bottle of champagne that he popped open effortlessly. No cork breaking through a window, not so much foam that it made a mess on the floor…

But it sure did make a mess on your blouse. "Elwood!" You scolded him in a shriek as the cold bubbles soaked the material of your clothes.

He scrambled to apologize, offering the towel he used to dry his hair so you could wipe the mess he made while he poured a flute full of bubbles for you. "We both need to loosen up, don’t we?"

Your attempt to clean yourself up fell in vain. You gave up, on this mess, on this entire mess of a day. You accepted the champagne with a defeated laugh.

"So…" Dalton let out. "Did you have something planned for tonight?"

You stared at him, incredulous, while you mentally went through the schedule. Fittings, photoshoots, training, physical health and blood tests… There was nothing left on Dalton’s schedule. Unless you were forgetting something, which you could not afford to do considering how much Dalton needed you to manage most of the tasks that did not take place in the octagon.

"Beside moving in with me for the weekend," he teased you about your unexpected sleepover in his suite.. "Did you plan a date or something?"

Oh, right. Today was Valentine’s Day. A couple sips of champagne gave you the guts to answer as bluntly as you could. "Where on Earth would I find the time to go on a date when I have to babysit you all day every day?"

Dalton’s smile faded as guilt painted his tan face. Guilt, yes, but something else laid under there… Relief, perhaps? He would be lying if he said he was not glad you were spending this special day with him… You were too busy tilting your head back to swallow the last sip of champagne to notice the shift in his reaction.

You thanked Dalton with a nod when he poured you some more champagne.

Silence fell between the two of you while you drank and snacked on the juicy berries. Dalton studied you — well, he studied the progression of alcohol in your system. First came the brutal honesty (which happened a second time as you lashed out at him again over your struggle with the hotel manager). Then followed the much more fun part. During after parties that usually followed his victories, you’d be singing karaoke and ordering humongous amounts of food to share with his entire entourage, you’d go around thanking everyone for their hard work in preparing him for a good fight… His favourite part was when you’d pose for photos with everyone, just so Dalton could wrap his arm around you a little tighter than necessary before you pulled away and made a beeline for the bathroom to throw up.

Throwing up the alcohol and your emotions, as you would pour your heart out in tears and (more often than not very valid) complaints… That was the state of drunkenness you tried your best to avoid.

And Dalton would help you do just that tonight. He wanted you relaxed and comfortable, not drunk and upset. As soon as he realized that you had reached that sweet spot, he tried to take your half empty glass from your hands. But, instead, he knocked the champagne flute and made more of it rain down onto your clothes.

"Again?" You whined and reached for the damp towel.

But Dalton grabbed it first. "I’ll take care of it." These were the magic words of the night, it seemed.

Your arms fell limp by your side while you let Dalton dab at the liquid that fell on you for the second time.

He was gentle, so careful in fact that the champagne had time to soak in the fabric of your clothes before he could even try to wipe them. Needless to say, it was pretty pointless except for the fact that it made for a good excuse to get closer…

You did appreciate that, for once, he wanted to clean up the mess rather than relying on you for it. It was your job to keep him in order, on a line as straight as his outbursts of cockiness would allow you. But, right now, you let him take care of it. Of you. "After I’ll shower to clean up, I’ll steal the bathrobe." You announced.

With a smirk, Dalton retorted. "Whatever will I do? I’m sure the hotel will run out of bathrobes just because you stole mine." The sound of your laughter felt warm, like it tingled from his ears and all over his body. It made his hand slip a little under your blouse, for which he apologized quickly.

"It’s fine." You shrugged it off.

"Nothing I haven’t seen, right?" He repeated his words from earlier and, like clockwork, heat bloomed on your cheeks.

You failed to give him a witty response, or any response at all. You looked at Dalton, he was sitting even closer to you now, as if this couch was not big enough to fit the two of you comfortably.

He gave up on cleaning up the rest of the champagne with a towel… "May I?" He asked for permission, while leaning in and aiming for your neck.

"Uh huh." You nodded.

He groaned, pleased to have received your approval. His lips peppered light kisses on your neck. They grew more insistent as you relaxed under his touch. "It’s my favourite champagne, but…" Dalton murmured while his mouth trailed down the column of your neck. "It tastes better on you."

That sent a shiver down your spine.

Dalton would rather blame the champagne bubbling in his veins than admit that he had been dying to do that today, to feel you under his mouth. He let his lips reveal what he was not bold enough to say before he came up with a silly question just to hear your giggles once more. "Did they do that in Pretty Woman?"

"Not after the champagne and strawberries, no…" You tilted your head to the side to give Dalton more room to work with and he happily obliged. "They discussed her hourly rates."

"Right." He remembered enough of the movie to put the pieces together. "Wanna discuss yours?"

You scoffed. "You’re walking down a very inappropriate path."

Dalton laughed too, conceding that you made a good point. "Will you report me to HR?"

"I’m pretty sure that I’m HR." You admitted, he agreed. "I’m basically your manager, your publicist…"

"My alarms, my hair stylist…" Dalton played along, listing more of your responsibilities.

"Can’t forget that I do your social media, that I hook you up with brand deals, that I had to teach you how to tie your shoes when you broke a finger…"

He could not contain his laughter as he remembered that time he broke his opponent’s arm in three places while all he got out of this fight was a finger bent a little weird. Dalton was now kissing your chest, exploring as much of your skin as your bloused allowed before you unbuttoned it for him. He paused, though, to make sure he would not cross a real inappropriate line. "I meant it, I’ll make sure you get a raise."

You certainly would not say no to that kind of offer. "I’m getting kisses and a raise?" You arched an eyebrow playfully.

"Oh, please. You know you’re getting a lot more than kisses."

"You do have a very notorious reputation."

"Especially with you."

"Especially with me." You echoed, guiding his head back up to yours for the heated kiss you had been both craving for.

Dalton’s hand replaced his mouth, caressing your chest and gently kneading your breasts over your clothes. Each of your little hums of pleasure encouraged him further. He unbuttoned your blouse, he unhooked your bra, he helped you to slouch comfortably on the couch so you would be nicely presented and accessible to him.

"Hold on, wait." You abruptly stopped this make-out session to get rid of your pants as well, leaving you in a pair of panties that looked ridiculously flimsy in Dalton’s (pratically expert) opinion.

But let you keep them on for a very good reason. "That’s probably the only piece of clothing I didn’t get wet with champagne."

You chuckled, bringing him back in for more love touches.

He loved you like this: assertive with what you truly needed, clear with your intentions of where you wanted this to go. Dalton was right there with you, craving the feeling of you that you both indulged in rarely. It was surprisingly easy to melt in this fire of desire with you, but the aftermath remained complicated. You worked together, professionally. But you also worked together very well, personally.

Your hips pressed against his hand, as it slipped under your panties. His hand was warm, heavy and strong yet it touched you with all the delicacy he could muster in this moment.

"Look at that…" Dalton invited you to pay attention to the way the damp fabric clung to the back of his hand. "Seems like I made it wet too after all."

You kissed the smirk off his face until he allowed your tongue to slip into his mouth.

Dalton hungrily swallowed your sweet moans when he started pressing his middle finger on your clit. The pressure increased, it was joined with teasing circles that only made you react stronger.

You did not want him to stop.

Dalton did not want to stop either. He wanted to feel you, more of you. He wanted to feel his fingers glide through your folds, coated in your arousal. He wanted to feel your walls flutter and claim him when he pushed a finger in… Adding a second one when he worked you open enough for it. For him.

"That feels really good." You murmured, locking eyes with him to the best of your ability because your lashes tried to stubbornly flutter closed.

"I know it does, baby." Dalton’s fingers pushed in and out of you, filling you up deliciously. He pulled your thigh over his lap, opening you up more for him.

You held on to his strong arm while his thumb joined in on the action, rubbing on your clit again. You moaned, you sighed, you gasped. You let out all of the noises that Dalton was desperate to hear from you. Heat pooled low in your belly, bubbling like the champagne from earlier.

Dalton knew that he was touching you good, just how you liked it. Although… He switched things up a bit. His forearm flexed at the change of gesture, his fingers curled at a different angle. He was just as determined (and just as confident) that he would make you fall apart any minute now, but he was getting greedy. Like a champion who could not stop winning.

"Oh my God! Oh… Fuck!" Your nails dug into the flesh of his arm. Your eyes rolled back and your jaw dropped open in bliss.

Dalton kissed the corner of your mouth, groaning at just how good you were being for him. "Give me a little more, that’s it…" You were getting so loud, your pleasure was all he could hear. "You feel it, huh?"

He tried to talk you through your imminent orgasm, but your ears started ringing and you could not hear anything beyond the rapid beats of your heart. It was truly unfortunate that you tuned out some of his sweetest words of praise, but he was fingering you too good not to lose your senses.

Dalton’s fingers curled and pressed within you, his arm kept doing the perfect motion while his thumb added just the right amount of friction and stimulation that you needed. "You’re so close… I know you want to give it to me…"

The sensations built strong and fast, a hot flash ran through your body. Even though all you had to do was sit there and be pretty for him, it was exhausting to receive this much pleasure. But you selfishly pulled every ounce of ecstasy out of Dalton in this moment. He wanted to give you an explosive release, and you would not move from this couch until he did just that.

"There you go, just like that… Yes!" Dalton groaned again, right at your ear.

The two of you witnessed the same beautiful thing: you coated his palm with your pleasure until it dripped down his wrist. He made you squirt on the hotel room floor, he made you squirt all over his hand. Your pleasure bubbled out of you the same way the champagne did when he popped the bottle open.

"You look so fucking beautiful when you make a mess for me." Dalton dragged a line of kisses from the shell of your ear to your lips. He moaned, too, as your walls fluttered around his digits as you came down this high. He withdrew his fingers from inside of you, but he let his palm rub over your core until the tremors subsided from your limbs.

You both sat there, panting and chuckling at the scene. Dalton waited patiently, not forcing you to make any type of move whatsoever until you recovered. You thanked him with a gentle, lazy squeeze of his arm. After a few minutes of pure, blissful silence, he spoke again.

"I’ll grab another towel. We need it." Dalton announced, taking in, one last time, the sight of your skin glistening under the dim light of the living room. You both had spent more time messing around with the alcohol rather than drinking it… Yet, he did not have a single regret about putting that expensive bottle to good use. And he certainly did not regret all the exciting stuff that ensued. His gaze lingered on your breasts, on the way your discarded clothes still have wet stains from with the champagne he accidentally poured on you and on the way you looked so beautiful for him. Messy and so fucking pretty.

"Yes." You replied to suggestion of the towel.

He stole a quick but rough kiss from your swollen lips. "And a condom."

"Yes, please." You repeated to the second, and most important, thing he said.

Dalton disappeared further into the penthouse, grabbing the necessities for what would come next. One quick stop into the bathroom, another into the bedroom he was looking forward to bring you in after this first round.

In the meantime, you relaxed on the couch. Careful enough not to move and bump against something that would make the champagne spill than you already did, but eager to get a bit of rest. Sooner than what you had hoped, you found yourself yawning loud and wide.

Your increasing tiredness greeted Dalton when he made his way back to you. He chuckled when you yawned again, he was starting to get worried you would hurt your jaw if you kept going. "I’ll take care of it." Dalton gently pushed your hands away so he could wipe your thighs dry.

You stood up as instructed when he was done with your inner thighs, letting Dalton clean you as thoroughly as he could manage.

A shower would do you good, but there was no way you would stay awake long enough to be rinsed down. "Falling asleep standing up like a horse, huh?" Dalton teased. Previous promises for more pleasure were put on pause. "You made it so easy for me." He mused, while he guided you to the bedroom with his hands firmly holding your hips to keep you walking in a straight line rather than a sleepy squiggle.

"Wait, what?"

He smiled. "You had way too much on your mind…" You could discern the mischief in his voice though you could not see it in his expression. "I didn’t have to fuck you dumb to shut you up. All it took was one little orgasm and you’re ready to be put to bed." Dalton paused as you sat down on the firm mattress. "Easy." He insisted.

You wanted to roll your eyes and give him the attitude he deserved, but your reaction got replaced by another yawn.

"Exactly." Dalton took your yawn as an agreement.

A small chuckle escaped your tired body when he winked at you.

He tossed the damp towel away, then he set the unopened condom on the nightstand. Dalton poured all of his focus on tucking you into bed. Sleep had already claimed your limbs: you needed his help to lift your legs up one after the other. You could not even get under the covers on your own, so he gladly handled that task too. Obviously, he finished by he squeezing you in nice and tight so you felt snug as a bug in the expensive bedsheets.

You freed an arm from under the cocoon of blankets that he worked so hard on. Your hand reached to grab onto his, pulling him closer.

"It’s okay, I’ll take the couch." Dalton immediately responded. "Might need to clean it first, though." He chuckled, but that sweet pout on your mouth changed his mind. "What is it?"

"You’re letting me go to bed alone on Valentine’s Day?"

He was impressed that you could put so many words together despite your exhaustion. "You’re right…" He was also impressed that you did not jump on the opportunity to hog all the bed and sheets to get the good night of rest you deserved. "Can’t be a dickhead on Valentine’s Day."

A victorious smile spread on your lips when he joined you into bed. You used the last bit of energy left in your body to roll onto your side and cuddle against him. The bed felt cold and comfortable, Dalton was warm and comforting. It was so easy to win against Dalton that you started to wonder if those big muscly guys on the octagon actually tried to take down this champion.

A few minutes passed before Dalton spoke again. "Hey."

"Hmm."

"I still owe you another round." The innuendo did not go unnoticed.

"More than one." You mumbled.

"Oh yeah? You’re feeling brave, champ?"

"If…"

He opened his eyes just so he could roll them. Of course, you had to slip in your terms and conditions as if he would put up a fight. You had worked with him for so long, you should know there was very little he would not do for you.

"If you behave and don’t make a scene."

There was very little he would not do for you indeed… Except that. When something, or most likely someone, made him angry; he just could not let go. Even if he tried his very best for you.

"If you do that," you pressed a lazy kiss on his skin before you settled your head on that same spot. "I’ll let you take me on a date."

Dalton scoffed at your bold demand, warmth flowed through his veins and pooled low in his belly at the thought of properly wining and dining you.

Perhaps it was the fatigue clouding your judgment and allowing you to forget how horrible of an idea it was to commit to this much more enjoyable part of your work relationship. Perhaps it could be nice if Dalton realized that coming back from a fight to a familiar face was better than to a nameless fan or stranger he picked up after the big events. Perhaps it was something that you both had secretly desired for a while without admitting it to your own selves let alone to one another… You did not think about it further for now, not that you could anyway. You fell asleep right as Dalton spoke his last words of the night.

"It’s gonna be the best Valentine’s Day of our lives." Dalton promised before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You would wake up to a bouquet of roses as big as the flower shops in town could manage to assemble. You would wake up to all of your favourite breakfast foods delivered to you by room service while he would be busy getting ready before the fight. Maybe, when no one would be looking, you would be sending Dalton off onto the octagon with a kiss mark of red lipstick under his shorts for no one else but him to see. For good luck, too.

And perhaps Dalton would order another round of strawberries and champagne to pick things up where you left them tonight.