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 : 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 Six: Curiosity & Confessions
The morning feels... ordinary. Or at least, as ordinary as it can be when you live with a demon.
The television hums in the background, flashing between news reports, reality shows, and the occasional drama that Jake pretends to hate but lingers on for just a little too long. Sunlight filters through the windows, soft and golden, casting a warm glow over the living room. The scent of coffee drifts through the air, mixing with the remnants of breakfast, settling into the quiet rhythm of the day.
And Jake is here.
He’s sitting at the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, looking completely at home despite the fact that he shouldn’t be. His arm is draped over the back of the couch, fingers occasionally tapping against the fabric like he’s absentmindedly keeping track of time. His golden eyes flick toward the screen every so often, watching the news with mild disinterest, before flipping through channels without asking for permission, like he already knows you won’t stop him.
And you don’t.
Because you’re too busy thinking. You’re too busy noticing.
Noticing how he has seamlessly integrated himself into your space, how his presence no longer feels intrusive, how you no longer flinch when he invades your personal bubble. Noticing how he is here.
And you don’t question it—not out loud. Not yet.
But the thought lingers. Why is he still here?
Demons fulfill their contracts. They stay until their obligations are met. That’s how this works.
So why does it feel like Jake isn’t in a rush to leave?
Why does it feel like he’s making himself comfortable?
Why does it feel like he’s lingering for reasons he hasn’t said?
The thought makes something tighten in your chest, something you don’t know how to name, something you don’t know if you want to name.
So you shake it off.
You let it sit in the back of your mind, ignored but not forgotten. And instead, you focus on the one thing you have been wanting to ask for a while now.
Jake doesn’t flinch when you break the silence.
"What exactly do demons do all day?"
He hums, tilting his head, fingers still tapping lightly against the couch. "Depends on the rank."
You raise a brow. "Ranks?"
He nods. "Higher demons oversee contracts, lower demons cause mischief. Middle-rankers like me? We get the fun jobs."
You don’t miss the smirk tugging at his lips, the way his golden eyes flick toward you, waiting for you to ask. So you do.
"And what exactly is a fun job for a demon?"
Jake leans back against the couch, stretching lazily before answering. "Tempting humans. Making deals. Ensuring your kind makes bad decisions." He grins. "Turns out, you don’t need much help with that."
You roll your eyes. "Rude."
"It’s a talent."
You huff, taking a sip of your drink before continuing. "And what happens when a human makes a contract with a demon?"
The question shifts something in the air. It’s small, subtle, barely noticeable—but it’s there.
Jake sets the remote down, his expression shifting just slightly. "Depends. Some sell their souls. Others ask for things that come with... consequences." His voice dips, turning quieter. "Demons are bound by the contract, but humans rarely read the fine print."
Your stomach tightens. Because there is something unspoken in his tone, something weighty, something that lingers between the words.
And then—you ask the question that changes everything.
"And what about you? Have you ever… taken a soul?"
The silence that follows is thick.
Not tense. Just... heavy.
Jake doesn’t answer right away. His golden eyes flick toward you—not sharp, not defensive, but measured. Considering.
"I don’t take what’s not given."
His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.
Because you believe him. It doesn’t sound like an excuse nor a lie.
It sounds like a rule. A choice. Something he decided long ago.
Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. Because you had assumed.
Assumed that demons—all demons—did what they wanted without care, without guilt, without restraint. Assumed that Jake, for all his arrogance, for all his teasing, for all his smug confidence, was just like the stories told him to be.
But now?
Now, you aren’t so sure.
Now, you are realizing that there are things about him you don’t understand. You are realizing that Jake is not what you thought he was. The realization settles between you, thick, unspoken.
And for the first time, Jake is the one who looks away first. He reaches for the remote, flipping the channel without a word.
And just like that—the conversation is over.
But the weight of it stays. That’s when you realize—you don’t want to dance around it anymore.
You have a wish.
Tonight, you’re going to use it.
Later that night, when the apartment is quiet, when Jake is distracted, when the weight of the earlier conversation lingers in the air like something unfinished—
You speak your wish into existence. Without giving him time to react.
"I wish that the demon before me would be compelled to reveal the single biggest regret in its entire existence... and then forget they ever said it."
The moment the words leave your lips, you feel the magic take hold.
Jake freezes. His body tenses. His golden eyes widen—just for a second—before they glow. The reaction is instant, uncontrollable, something even he cannot fight.
Then, in a voice you have never heard before—
He speaks. His voice is not teasing. His voice is not cocky. His voice is not Jake.
"I regret trusting a human."
Your breath catches.
Jake’s face is blank—not guarded, not hesitant, just blank, like the words are being pulled from him without his control, like he is only realizing what he’s saying as the words leave his mouth.
"I thought they were different." His voice is quiet now, distant, like he isn’t in the room anymore. "I thought they wouldn’t betray me."
Something cold and sharp lodges itself in your chest.
"But they did."
Your stomach drops.
Jake exhales, his golden eyes unfocused. "And I learned that demons don’t get second chances."
The words hang in the air.
Heavy. Unshakable.
And then he blinks. His body relaxes. And you watch—heart pounding, breath uneven—as the magic washes over him, erasing the moment from his mind.
His golden eyes refocus, flicking toward you lazily, like nothing just happened. Like he hadn’t just revealed the single most painful thing in his existence.
"What?" He raises a brow. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
You cannot speak. Because you remember and he doesn’t. Because now, you are the only one who knows.
And Jake?
Jake will never know what he just told you.
You should drop it. You should pretend you didn’t hear what he said.
But you can’t. Because it stays.
Because you cannot ignore the weight in his voice, the ache beneath the words, the way his golden eyes darkened with something too heavy for him to name.
So you ask.
Soft. Careful.
"What did you mean by that?"
Jake freezes.
It’s subtle, quick, but you see it. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his knee. His golden eyes flicker—not glowing, not sharp, but guarded.
He smirks.
"What are you talking about, angel?" His voice is smooth, too smooth, like he’s buying himself time, like he’s already backpedaling.
But you don’t let him.
"You said you regret trusting a human."
Jake’s smirk falters—just barely, just for a second. Then it returns.
"Did I?" He tilts his head, feigning confusion, but there is tension in his posture now. "Doesn’t sound like me. I don’t regret anything."
You don’t blink.
"Liar."
Jake goes still.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He lets the silence stretch, lets it breathe, lets himself consider if this is something he is willing to share.
He exhales. It’s sharp, controlled, but not enough.
"It was a long time ago." His voice is quieter now, lacking its usual teasing weight. "Before I became what I am now. Before I—before all of this."
Your breath catches.
"Before you were a demon?"
Jake hesitates. Just slightly. Then he nods.
Well, this is bigger than you expected. Because Jake wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always what he is now.
"I was human once."
The words settle in the air between you. You don’t speak and if you do, he might stop.
Jake leans back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back—but there is nothing lazy about the way his fingers dig into the fabric, like he is grounding himself, like he is holding onto something invisible.
"I had a family." His voice is slow, careful, as if he’s reaching for a memory he hasn’t touched in a long, long time. "A younger sibling. A home. A life that was… normal. As normal as things could be back then."
Jake doesn’t speak like someone recalling fond memories. He speaks like someone remembering the way something was lost.
"We didn’t have much, but we had each other." His golden eyes darken, his gaze unfocused, staring at something you cannot see. "And for a while, that was enough."
"But life isn’t fair." His voice dips lower, softer, more bitter. "Especially not to people like us."
"Someone made a deal."
The words hit harder than they should.
"Not me. But someone close to me." His fingers tighten slightly, his jaw clenching. "They were desperate. They wanted a way out, a better life. And they thought…"
Jake stops himself. Then, after a long, painful pause—
"They thought they could trust the demon that offered it."
His golden eyes flicker, his expression harder now, sharper, filled with something raw. "They didn’t read the fine print."
You swallow. "And what happened?"
Jake laughs. But it is not amused.
"They were tricked." His voice is even now, controlled, but you can feel the weight beneath it. "The deal cost more than what they were willing to pay. And when it came time for payment… the demon didn’t care that they had regrets."
A pause.
A slow, aching pause.
"They died, angel."
Your heart clenches.
Jake exhales, slow and measured, but you see it now.
The anger.
The bitterness.
The guilt.
"I tried to stop it." He lets out a sharp breath. "I tried to fight it. But humans? We don’t win against demons."
A bitter chuckle.
"And then I died too."
The words land softly, but they shake something in you, something deep, something raw. You don’t react at first—not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t. Because Jake has never spoken about his past like this. Because this is not the same demon who taunts you, teases you, smirks lazily from across the room like nothing in the world can touch him.
Right now, he looks like something did.
The golden glow of his eyes is dim, unfocused, as if his mind is caught somewhere between then and now. His posture is different—his usual arrogance stripped down into something quieter, something more vulnerable. His fingers tap idly against his knee, too controlled, too rhythmic, like he is forcing himself to stay in the present, like he is not used to telling this story out loud.
"Jake..." Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, as if saying his name too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.
He doesn’t look at you right away. And then he does.
His golden eyes flicker toward yours, and there it is—that moment of hesitation, of realization, of knowing that you are going to say something he does not want to hear.
So he looks away.
"Don’t." His voice is low, softer than usual, but steady. "Whatever you’re about to say—just don’t."
But how could you not?
How could you hear something like that—feel something like that—and pretend it didn’t matter?
How could you pretend that he didn’t matter?
The space between you feels too wide, too empty, too wrong.
Before you can stop yourself—before you can even think about whether this is a good idea or not—you move.
Instinct. Warmth. Comfort.
You close the distance, arms wrapping around him in a way that feels natural, like something you were always meant to do. Something he was never meant to expect.
Jake stiffens immediately.
It’s quick—a sharp inhale, a slight tensing of his shoulders, a flicker of disbelief that you can feel through the way his breath catches.
"What are you doing?" His voice is quiet, slightly uneven, like the words come out before he can think about them.
You don’t move.
"Hugging you."
Another pause. A slow inhale.
Then—softer, quieter, more uncertain than you have ever heard him—
"Why?"
Your arms tighten slightly, just enough for him to feel it, just enough to remind him that you are here.
"Because you need it."
Jake exhales—a shaky, uneven breath that he tries to cover up, but you hear it anyway.
"I don’t—"
But he doesn’t finish the sentence. Because, deep down, you both know it’s a lie.
Slowly, finally—He leans into you.
At first, it’s hesitant. His arms stay loose, his body still tense, like he isn’t sure if he should return the embrace, like he is still holding onto the instinct to pull away.
But something shifts. His fingers twitch, his breath hitches—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but you feel it.
He holds you back.
Firm. Solid. Tighter than you expected.
Like he is grounding himself in this moment.
Like he doesn’t understand why you are doing this, but he doesn’t want you to stop.
Like he is terrified that if he lets go, this will never happen again.
Your arms tighten in response, offering warmth, offering steadiness, offering something he has not had in a long, long time. For the first time, Jake lets himself be held.
Neither of you speak. Then softer than before, quieter, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud—
"I should have done more."
Your fingers curl slightly against his back.
"More?"
His voice is lower now, rougher, like he is pulling the words from somewhere deep. "I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve found another way. I should’ve—"
He stops. Swallows.
"I failed them."
Your chest tightens. Because you hate that he thinks that.
So you do something neither of you expect. You pull back just slightly—just enough to cup his face between your hands. His golden eyes widen, flickering with something unreadable.
Your touch is warm, steady, grounding. And when you speak, your voice is just as steady.
"You tried."
Jake doesn’t move.
"You fought for them. You did everything you could. That’s not failure, Jake. That’s love."
His breath stalls.
His golden eyes lock onto yours—uncertain, searching, like he is trying to find something in your expression that he doesn’t know how to name. Your thumbs brush softly against his cheekbones, the warmth of your touch melting something in him, something he wasn’t ready to let go of.
"You didn’t fail them, Jake."
He exhales—slow, shaky, uneven. Then he leans into your touch. Eventually, Jake shifts.
Not abruptly. Not like he’s trying to escape. Just… slowly. Like he doesn’t want to move, but he knows he has to. His arms loosen. His body pulls back—not too far, just enough to put space between you again.
His golden eyes meet yours, they look softer. Not broken. Not shattered. Just… softer.
Then he smirks.
Lazy. Arrogant. Almost normal.
"Getting attached, angel?"
You roll your eyes. "Oh, shut up."
But Jake doesn’t move and neither do you.
Because something is still lingering between you. Something that wasn’t there before. Something neither of you are naming just yet.
The room feels quieter than before, the air between you thicker, heavier, but not suffocating. Just... different. The weight of his past still lingers, a ghost that neither of you can fully shake, but for once—Jake doesn’t seem like he’s drowning in it.
You hesitate, watching him carefully, searching his expression for any trace of the sharp walls he usually throws up. But they’re not there. Not completely.
His golden eyes flick to yours, studying you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. And then, before you can say anything, before you can even think of breaking the silence—
Jake sighs. A slow, deep breath, like he’s shaking something off.
He moves. Not away, not out of reach, but just enough to lean back against the couch, head tilting against the cushions, arms stretching lazily over the top.
Like nothing happened. Like the past ten minutes weren’t something that neither of you will ever forget.
Like he didn’t just let you hold him.
And yet—his hand lingers. Just barely. Just a slight brush against yours as he moves, a ghost of a touch that he doesn’t pull away from.
"You’re warm, angel," he murmurs, voice smooth again, casual—but too quiet. Too real.
You blink. "Uh. Thanks?"
Jake chuckles, shaking his head.
And just like that, the moment shifts. Not erased. Just... tucked away.
But even as the conversation drifts into something else, even as Jake starts flipping through channels on the TV like he isn’t completely wrecked, even as he pretends that nothing has changed—
You both know it has. Neither of you say it. But you both feel it.
Tonight, you let it stay.
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