Sarah

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Extremely online (yes, I will spam your dash)

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ I overshare and romanticize everything

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ A big Fangirl — crazy one

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Always horny af and dramatic

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Acting like a child

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ I usually change themes, get used to it

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ open book — just ask ♡ Won’t mind if you spam my inbox

Hobbies ;

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [ In love with acting • Photography enjoyer • I play guitar, ukulele, bass and piano • Writing books & fanfics (NSFW sometimes. okay, most times.) • Reading books (literal bookworm) ] ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

My music taste ;

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [ The Neighbourhood • Lana del Rey • Two Feet • Sophie Woodhouse • Saint Avangeline • Cigarettes After Sex • One direction • Labrinth • Harry Styles • M83 • Tyelr, The Creator • Kendrick Lamar • The Last Shadow Puppets • Arctic Monkeys • Melanie Martinez • Panic! At The Disco • Mother Mother • Måneskin • The Weeknd •Kayne West • Mindless Self Indulgence • Nirvana • Agness Obel — And anything that matches my vibe ♡] ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

Fandoms ;

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [ Star Wars • Shameless • NHL • DC • One Direction • Twenty One Pilots ] ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

Fun facts ;

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ [ I'm a huge mugs collector • I love puzzles • Sudoku enjoyer • I love stickers so much and stick them everywhere • Headphones are my must-have • Chicken nuggets lover • Nicotine addict • Online extrovert/real life introvert ] ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

Bestie: @33maxverstappen33 💗

Today's the day. Exactly a week ago, you were sitting comfortably in the living room, reading a book, when your father showed up. None other than Carmine Falcone, the biggest mafioso in Gotham, ruling with an iron fist. You glanced at him skeptically over your book, listening with curiosity to what he had to say. And at that moment, he announced that in seven days, he’ll be hosting a dinner. But not just any dinner. Some man would be there, someone he needed to discuss business with. And since you were his only daughter, the symbol of his family’s power, you were expected to be there.

He went on about how important this meeting would be. That you needed to dress nicely, behave properly (which meant sitting quietly) and be polite. Of course, at that moment, you nodded obediently. It was obvious you’d do as your father asked.

A week passed.

You were standing in front of your wardrobe, searching for the perfect dress. It couldn’t be too flashy, but not overly fancy either. Sure, it was an important night, but not enough to wear a ball gown. In the end, you chose a black, body-hugging dress. One that perfectly accentuated your slim, shapely figure.

You stepped back from the wardrobe doors and tossed the dress onto the bed in the corner of your room. You took off your loose T-shirt and shorts and were left in just your underwear. You tilted your head to the side, inspecting your body in the mirror. Cotton white panties and a sports bra definitely wouldn’t do with this dress. Without hesitation, you slipped them off and rummaged through the drawer for a pair of black lace thongs. The delicate lace brushed against your skin as you pulled them out. You bent down, lifting one leg to slide it through the opening, then the other, until the thong settled perfectly on your hips. Adjusting the thin fabric, you turned toward the bed, walked over, and grabbed the dress you had tossed there earlier.

Holding the straps, you gave the dress one last look. It was perfect. You slid it onto your body, the soft fabric grazing your bare nipples. As it settled, it created a generous neckline, the loose material draping over your chest. Satisfied, you studied your reflection in the mirror.

At that exact moment, there was a knock on your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you murmured, and the door opened.

Your father stepped inside, dressed in suit and classic tie. “It’s time, darling,” he said.

You immediately moved toward him and held out your hand. He took it, and together you left the room. Holding your hand gently, you walked down the stairs. 

Finally, he let go and turned left, leading the way into the main hall.

You widened your eyes, scanning the room for the mysterious guest. You didn’t even know who your father, Carmine Falcone, was meeting for business. He hadn’t bothered to tell you. Honestly, you were there purely as a weapon. A witness, a symbol of family pride.

The two of you sat side by side at the head of the long table. “Remember, don’t speak. Be a good girl,” your father said.

You immediately nodded and nervously bit your lower lip. You tried to keep your composure, but you knew what awaited you. Usually, the people your father did business with were sleazy old men. Fat guys in suits making dirty deals, involved in the same shady business as he was.

Suddenly, the sound of the door opening drew your attention. And then he entered… Jeremiah Valeska.

Surprise crossed your face. You knew Jeremiah. Of course you did — who doesn’t? For a while now, Jeremiah had been wreaking havoc all over Gotham. His reckless plans often clashed with your father’s. And now, it instantly made sense why he was here. The explosions he caused undermined everything your father had worked so hard to achieve. He’d managed to secure a deal with the mayor concerning control over part of the city and Jeremiah was boldly sabotaging it.

Jeremiah walked into the room confidently. He was dressed in an expensive, definitely flashy suit, polished shoes with the same eccentric style. Around his neck was a colorful tie. His hair was styled exactly like the photos you’d seen in the newspaper. Yes, you’d read about him in Gotham’s papers. Jeremiah was an interesting character. A talented architect who had taken a dark turn, making dangerous, shadowy choices. He immediately caught your attention, especially with his appearance.

His pale skin, like the fine porcelain you kept in your display cabinet. His green hair, perfectly styled, slicked in front with one loose strand falling onto his forehead, tousled at the back. His sharp, angular eyebrows. And those dark, burgundy lips that looked… almost delicious.

Jeremiah sat down right next to your father. “Pleasure to see you, Mr. Falcone,” he said, extending his hand.

Your father reacted immediately, taking it and shaking firmly. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Valeska.” “Oh, just Jeremiah,” he replied.

Their business meeting began.

“Jeremiah, you do realize you’re destroying a part of the city that belongs to me, right?” Falcone asked. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve been watching the city for a long time, and I plan to destroy as much of this decaying dump as I can. I think the city is rotten, and it needs to be torn down to make way for something new.” “I see…”

“Mr. Falcone, please understand one thing. This isn’t personal. I care only about control… and Bruce Wayne. That’s why I won’t stop blowing up bridges and buildings, even if they belong to you,” Jeremiah said.

Then you noticed his gaze shift to you. His bright green eyes locked onto yours. A shiver ran through you. His stare was so direct, as if he could read your thoughts. And you were thinking about him. About him and what he had just said.

His words didn’t scare you. You’d lived too long in this world, seen too many dark things, for mere explosions to faze you. But he… Jeremiah, he affected you. That gaze of his, piercing and intense, made heat pool low in your stomach. Despite the deep neckline of your dress, you could feel sweat prickling across your skin. 

“We’ll do this, Jeremiah…” your father said, reaching under the table and pulling out an object. A small bag, stuffed full of cash. “I’m offering you a substantial payment to stop the bombings in my territory…”

Jeremiah suddenly erupted in laughter, a manic, unhinged laugh that made you flinch. He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on his stomach.

When he finally settled, still chuckling softly, he grabbed the bag of money from the table. Sliding a hand inside, his fingers danced over the stacks of bills. “I’ll take the money…” he said, ending his laughter, his tone suddenly serious.

“Excellent…” “But I want your daughter too,” he added, his gaze snapping back to you.

Your heart skipped. Your mind raced, struggling to process the words you’d just heard. At first, adrenaline and fear collided inside you.

Your father furrowed his brow, but showed no surprise. Carmine Falcone knew Jeremiah well enough to expect the unexpected. His face remained stone, fingers resting firmly on the table.

“What exactly do you mean?” his voice was calm.

Jeremiah leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you again. His green eyes gleamed in the dim light, almost hypnotic. “I don’t need to explain, Carmine. I think she understand…” His voice was low, melodic, with a teasing lilt.

You couldn’t look away. Every gesture he made was precise, every movement deliberate. Your breath quickened, though you tried to remain composed. Heat rose to your cheeks, your heart thundering in your chest.

“Jeremiah… you can’t…” you tried to whisper, but the words stuck in your throat.

“Oh, but I can…” he replied, a smile both inviting and unsettling. “I want you to be… mine. Even if just for one night. Or longer, if you wish. You don’t have to say anything now…”

Your body reacted instinctively, warmth spreading through your belly, elbows bending slightly as your hands nervously traced your thighs. You knew it was forbidden, dangerous but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

Your father exhaled softly, shaking his head slightly, taking a deep breath. Jeremiah’s smile widened, his hands resting lightly on the table as his fingers tapped against the wood.

“Oh, Carmine… this is going to be fun. Let’s see just how well-behaved she can be.”

“All right. She’s part of your payment,” your father replied. “Wonderful! Sold,” Jeremiah said, grinning.

Your cheeks burned even hotter, your knees trembling on their own.

You hadn’t even fully processed his words when he suddenly stood. “Well…” His voice cut through the quiet of the hall like a sharp knife. “I think our meeting has come to an end, Falcone.” His green eyes locked onto yours so intensely you could almost feel them burn your skin. “And you… you’re coming with me.”

Your father muttered something under his breath, but Jeremiah didn’t even glance at him. You were furious. Desperate, almost on the edge of tears though they wouldn’t come. You were angry at your father for allowing this, for handing you over to Jeremiah so easily, without protest.

His confident stride brought him closer to you. You didn’t get a chance to speak. To resist. Because he simply took your hand. And together, you walked toward the exit, where his car awaited in the driveway.

Your lips were pressed together, muscles taut, heart hammering in your chest. Jeremiah, on the other hand, didn’t stop talking. Not once.

“You see, Gotham… this city is sick, soaked in filth and lies. Every corner, every street, everything is steeped in fear, hypocrisy, and lust for power. People think they can control the chaos, but chaos… chaos always wins. My role? To bring order through destruction. To tear down the old foundations so new ones can rise. Bridges, buildings… symbols of corruption and deceit all must fall. And you… you are different. You are pure, girl. Untainted by all this. That’s why I want you near me. Because you understand. You feel what I feel. You feel the desire, not for power, not for money but the desire for absolute, pure control that no one can stop. And don’t worry… I won’t hurt you.”

His words washed over you like a tide. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He was speaking for both of you. Every sentence pierced exactly where you’d never allowed anyone before. He spoke of chaos, of Gotham, of himself and at the same time, he looked at you as if each word was meant only for you.

The drive passed quickly. Jeremiah didn’t stop talking. Occasionally, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as if checking to see whether you understood, whether you felt the same way he did.

Finally, the car stopped in front of a massive, dark house, clearly his domain. Tall, ornate iron gates opened before you. Jeremiah stepped out first, holding out his hand for you.

“Welcome to my world…” he said.

You both stepped inside the house. Jeremiah led you confidently up the stairs to the upper floor of his domain. Each step seemed to resonate in your chest, and his hand on yours sent a strange, unsettling warmth through you.

“You know…” he began, his voice low, melodic, tinged with that signature, slightly manic tone, “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. Really… I’ve been watching you ever since you first appeared in Gotham. I knew this meeting with your father would happen. And I knew that when it did, I’d ask for you. Because you’re… special.”

Your steps began to slow, your heart racing faster with each beat. You didn’t want to stop, but something in his voice, in his gaze, made you hesitate at the top of the stairs. Jeremiah paused beside you, tilting his head, his green eyes glowing in the dim light.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered.

“Oh, you want it… very much…” he said, as if reading every hidden impulse, every thought you’d never admit to yourself.

Before you could respond, you felt his closeness. He leaned toward you, so near you could feel his breath against your skin. His hand moved to your face, fingers tracing gently along your jawline.

Then his lips met yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, all-consuming. At first soft, exploratory. Then gradually, it grew more intense. His tongue brushed yours delicately, teasing every nerve in your body. You felt yourself pulled into his rhythm, every shift, every flick of lips and tongue eliciting an instinctive response. Your knees softened slightly, your hands searching for contact, your breath growing uneven.

His hands roamed your hips, pulling you closer, so close you could feel his chest against yours. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, yet drenched in passion and a tension that almost burned through you.

The kiss became more fervent, more demanding. Jeremiah guided your lips, subtly asserting dominance, showing that from now on, every breath you took was his to command. He wouldn’t let you pull away and you didn’t want to. The rest of the world seemed to vanish, leaving only his lips on yours, his hands on your body, and that dangerous, electrifying shiver coursing through you.

Your hands instinctively went to his neck, fingers tangling in his green hair as Jeremiah drew you even closer, pulling you fully into his pace. 

When you finally pulled away from each other for just a brief moment, his eyes still lingered on you, intense and unyielding. “See…?” he whispered, running a finger lightly along your lower lip. “You want this already. You know it. And I want it too. Badly.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Jeremiah, still right beside you, let his gaze roam over your body before settling on the neckline of your dress. His green eyes sparkled dangerously, and a slow, deliberate smile curved his lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

“So tempting…” His voice was low, yet full of confidence. “Do you really think I didn’t notice? This dress… you put it on for me, right? Just to tempt me.”

“No… no, it’s not like that…” You denied it immediately, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. You whispered the words, but deep down, you knew it sounded hollow under his piercing gaze.

Jeremiah’s smile widened, and his hands began to move. One hand reached for the fabric of your dress, sliding it gently upward. You felt his fingers brush against your thigh, grazing your skin lightly.

Before you could react, his hand moved higher, slipping between your legs. Your breath hitched, and your hands clutched the stair railing instinctively, trying to restrain the sensations his touch was igniting. A soft gasp escaped you, surprised by the intensity of a feeling that was both terrifying and thrilling.

Jeremiah leaned even closer, his face brushing your ear. “You see… I know you want this. Your body’s showing me.” His fingers moved deliberately, exploring every inch of exposed skin. 

“Don’t be afraid…” he whispered, his voice dripping with certainty and dominance.

Every word cut through you, making your body respond against your will. Your body pulsed under his touch. His fingers still moved slowly and you felt a fire spreading through every nerve. And he watched you, like he could read every hidden impulse.

Your body trembled as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing you with dangerous precision. Every movement stole your breath and sent your heart hammering.

“I want you so badly right now…” he whispered, his voice low, hoarse, thick with need. Your eyes found his, green and predatory, locked onto your face, your lips, your body. And those hands, controlling every twitch, every shiver.

“I’m going to scream…” you whispered, your voice shaking, heat pooling inside you, fear and pleasure intertwined.

Jeremiah didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. His eyes gleamed as he leaned closer. “Scream… scream if you want. There’s no one here but me.” His voice was a low.

Then he leaned even closer, his lips finding your neck. Slowly, so slowly, he began kissing the most sensitive spots. Soft skin beneath your ear, the line of your collarbone, until he reached the place that made you gasp involuntarily. Each kiss was deliberate, confident, yet gentle exactly where you craved it most.

Your body responded on its own, hips lifting slightly toward his hands, breasts tensing under the fabric of your dress, knees trembling. Every move of Jeremiah’s fingers pressed against all your nerves, each subtle shift, each sliding touch sending waves of heat through you that were impossible to contain.

“I know exactly what you want. I know how your body reacts, and I can give you everything you need.” His hand stayed between your thighs, stroking you subtly yet firmly, while his lips remained on your neck, sliding down toward your shoulder, gently sucking and teasing the nerves. Making soft moans escape you with every touch, your body shivering under his control.

Your hips moved instinctively toward him, and Jeremiah noticed immediately. His fingers slid deeper, brushing against your pussy through the thin lace of your panties. Every gentle pressure sent shivers racing through you, your breath uneven, punctuated by quiet gasps.

“Oh please,” you whispered, trembling with need, a touch of shame flickering through you, meaningless against the fire building inside. Your voice was fragile, full of want, and Jeremiah’s lips curved into a knowing smile, as if he had anticipated every reaction.

“Please what?”

“Touch me…” you whispered.

His hands grew surer, more precise. He slid his fingers over your pussy, finding every sensitive spot, teasing your clit through the lace. Each stroke made you moan louder, hips pressing into his hands instinctively, your fingers clutching the edges of your dress.

His fingers began massaging you slowly, pressing against your clit through the fabric. Every movement perfectly matched your body. You couldn’t hold back the moans, quiet at first  but growing desperate with every passing second.

His thumb moved slowly, up and down your clit, increasing the pressure in rhythm with your moans. Each stroke made your hips move on their own, pressing against his hands, as if your body had surrendered completely to his control.

“Yes… just like that…” he whispered, leaning in so his lips hovered near your ear. “I can feel how badly you want this. I want you to let me give you what you’re craving.”

You felt your body pulse under his touch, your clit responding immediately. His eyes met yours, as if seeking silent consent you didn’t need to give. Jeremiah’s fingers slid again over the lace of your panties, tugging the fabric aside until finally the thin cloth revealed your wet pussy. A rush of cool air hit your heated skin.

At first, he touched you only with the pads of his fingers, exploring your wetness and warmth. Your clit was slick and swollen, glistening with your arousal, each stroke leaving a sweet, sticky trail behind. Jeremiah smirked at the corner of his mouth and slowly slid a finger between your folds. First just the tip, slender and confident. Your body shuddered instinctively, hips lifting higher, a moan escaping before you could stop it.

When his finger found the center of your wetness, it pressed inside, slowly stretching the muscles of your entrance. He circled the opening, first barely, as if testing you. Then with increasing certainty, pressing against the walls of your pussy until you felt them grip him tightly, smooth and wet, almost drawing him in. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured. His second finger joined slowly. First just half an inch, then more. He entered gradually, as if savoring every second of this pleasure. You felt your pussy wrapping around him, your inner walls clenching and tightening on his fingers with a gentle pressure that amplified every push.

His movements were methodical, fingers deep, setting a rhythm, pulling back almost to the base, then pressing in again with even more confidence. His thumb began to circle over your clit, delicate, precise rotations pressing exactly the spot that made your whole body clutch the edge of the stairs. 

Your moans grew louder.

“Please… Jeremiah…” you begged, voice trembling. He sped up.

Your pussy was tight and soaked, drawing him in with every movement, the folds of your walls gripping his fingers, contracting and relaxing in rhythm. You felt your chest rise and fall, your clit pressed firmly by Jeremiah’s thumb, while two fingers probed and explored deeper. Each slow, deliberate thrust brought you closer and closer to the edge.

When the orgasm began to build, your muscles clenched around his fingers even tighter. Jeremiah didn’t slow. He drove his fingers with intent, circling your clit with his thumb, pushing you to the brink, then once more until finally your body gave in. Waves of overwhelming pleasure washed through you, letting out a loud, shattering moan, hips jerking into his hands, your pussy practically swallowing his fingers whole.

“Now you see how much I can give you?” he whispered with a quiet laugh.

Jeremiah’s fingers shifted again, teasing your clit and the inside of your pussy, stirring another rising wave of pleasure. You moaned louder, clutching his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer. His fingers suddenly withdrew, and you shivered at the overstimulation.

“I’m yours. I’m sold,” you whispered, your body still trembling under him.

Let’s start with this… he’s not one to admit it, but he is a sexoholic. Jeremiah will use any possible situation to take you. It doesn’t matter where you are. Restaurant? There’s a bathroom. Library? There’s always some empty aisle or hidden corner. At home? Oh God — nothing can stop him there. He’ll take you on the bed, on the couch, on the kitchen island. Bathroom? His favorite. He’s really into bathroom sex, especially under the shower.

Jeremiah doesn’t have a specific body type. He likes everything. He doesn’t really mind having more of a body to hold, either. If anything, he actually prefers bigger thighs and maybe a little bit of stomach. He gets hard just at the thought of his head being squeezed between thighs while eating you out like you're a dessert.

He likes it rough. He fucks hard. He’s not gentle at all. Spanking, biting, rough fucking, that’s his thing. Hickeys? He’s a big fan.

But he does make love sometimes. It’s his way of saying “sorry” or just letting himself be soft with you. And when he does, he’s almost unrecognizable. Kissing all over your body, sweet-talking you, his touch suddenly gentle.

Jeremiah is usually noisy in bed. Like, really noisy. He’s the type to moan a lot. When he slides in, he throws his head back, already letting out a curse under his breath. While he’s fucking you, he’s constantly whispering, muttering curses, talking to you… but most of all, he moans. Low groans with every movement? Yeah, that’s him.

His favorite positions are definitely doggy style and cowgirl. He loves taking you from behind. He has full access to your ass. That’s why you usually end up with bruises the next day. Fingerprints, sometimes even the shape of his whole hand, after all the slapping and rough grabbing.

But cowgirl? Oh God. He literally gets hard at the mere thought of you on top of him, riding him like a good girl.

Cowgirl is heaven for his breast kink. Watching your boobs while you bounce on him? Literal heaven. He’s constantly touching you, kissing your breasts, biting your nipples…anything, just to have his hands on you and play with them.

Jeremiah would be disgustingly smug about making you lose control. He wants to see you shaking, crying, begging, and then he wants to act all calm like he didn’t just completely ruin you. The worst part is how pleased he gets when he knows he’s done it.

He love overstimulation. The kind where you’re already sensitive and he just keeps pushing, keeps dragging it out, keeps asking if you can take a little more for him. He knows exactly how far he can go before you start falling apart.

He cums inside you. No condom? He doesn’t care. He loves breeding you. The thought of filling you completely with his seed is what gets him even harder. That’s why he’s actually against condoms. 

Pills? He’ll buy them for you, just so he still has the option of filling you up. And when he actually does, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s getting hard again, just from the sight of his seed slowly leaking out of your used hole.

Aftercare is very important to him. It’s like his own little ritual. Something he does every single time. After fucking you rough, he always takes care of you. Cleans you up if you’re too exhausted to even bother getting out of bed. If you’re able, the two of you take a shower or a bath together.

And if you’re up for it… another round in the bathroom…just like I said, he loves bathroom sex ;)

When you broke up with Jeremiah, he took it well. There was a stoic calm written all over his face. He took a step back and said: “If that’s what you want.”

So you left. You started a new life. And Jeremiah? He genuinely tries to be “better” after the breakup. He reads books about relationships. Works on himself. Controls his tone of voice, his gestures, basically everything. Even starting to be obsessive over it. But he’s not doing it to move on. Only so that next time, he won’t lose you. Because he knows you’ll come back to him.

This man only seems like he’s doing “fine”. Jeremiah misses your scent, your lips. On the day you were supposed to come by the apartment — the one you used to share — he deliberately took some of your clothes (including your underwear, favorite thongs), just to have a piece of you once you were gone.

Jeremiah fantasizes about you when you’re not there. He touches himself using your panties he took earlier. He's a dirty motherfucker.

That’s also when he starts coming up with ideas on how to get you back. And that’s how he lands on the idea of accidentally running into you.

You thought you’d never see him again after the breakup, but this is Gotham. Your meeting happens in a library, when you have to return The Picture of Dorian Gray after finishing it.

A book Jeremiah chose for you.

He was already there, waiting in the exact aisle he knew you’d walk into.

When you run into each other, it’s awkward at first. You feel a little embarrassed. And him? He starts flirting with you like nothing ever happened. Starts telling you how he’s changed. For you. And somehow… you give in.

Ever since you broke up with Jeremiah, you hadn’t had sex and you were painfully pent up — so you kiss him. Jeremiah takes it as confirmation that you’re already his again. But… you always were.

And just like that, you both end up in his apartment and have intense, passionate sex. And honestly? It might’ve been the best sex of your life.

“I changed for you,” he says as he finishes inside you. “I love you.”

In that moment, you realize you can’t live without him.

This all started as a stupid joke.

A memory from the night before:

Mickey was sitting there with a beer in his hand, thinking. Or, well, trying to. It was like every single sip came with its own separate thought forming in his head. Which, honestly, was pretty standard whenever he was drinking.

Ian sat across from him, doing pretty much the same thing. Well… except the thinking part. His head was blissfully empty, and he had no intention of filling it with anything. That was kind of the whole point of drinking for him, to loosen up, to forget. Simple as that.

Mickey, however, had other plans.

“I got an idea,” Mick slurred.

Ian groaned immediately.

“Oh no. Here we go.”

“Hey, just fuckin’ listen to me for a second, Jesus, Ian.” Mickey paused, dragging in a breath like he was about to deliver something life-changing.

Which only meant one thing. Mickey had come up with one of his genius ideas.

Last time he’d had one of his drunk “epiphanies,” he’d tried to convince Ian to shove a tiny Christmas tree figurine up his ass. Claimed it looked “like it’d feel good,” since it was shaped like a butt plug. Then, when Ian said no, Mickey had straight-up burst into tears, sobbing about how he was “never gonna see Ian get fucked.”

So yeah. Ian had reasons to be concerned. Still, despite every instinct telling him not to, he sighed and decided to hear his boyfriend out.

“Just so we’re clear,” Ian said, already bracing himself, “nothing’s going anywhere near my ass, Mick. Don’t get your hopes up. No Christmas miracles.”

“Yeah, yeah, speaking of Christmas, and not sticking shit up our asses…” Mickey started, waving his beer a little for emphasis. “What d’you say we show up to Christmas dinner in those inflatable gingerbread costumes?”

Silence.

Mickey took a slow sip of his beer, a smug, proud-as-hell grin spreading across his face like he’d just come up with the greatest idea in human history.

Ian stared at him.

“Are you serious? We’re having dinner at my place.”

“I know,” Mickey shot back instantly, eyes lighting up. “That’s why it’s gonna be so fuckin’ good.”

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose, even setting his beer down like this situation required his full, undivided disappointment.

This was too stupid.

And what happened next? Ian and Mickey ended up in the Christmas aisle at Walmart, hunting for costumes.

Ian didn’t even know how it got to this point. They just woke up that morning, and somehow, yesterday’s ridiculous idea had already been set in stone, no arguments allowed.

“What d’you think of this?” Mickey held up the package with the inflatable gingerbread costume printed on it.

“Let’s just get this over with, Mickey,” Ian muttered, grabbing the second costume from the shelf and tossing it in the cart.

“There. We got it,” Mickey grinned like a total idiot.

Christmas Eve came way too fast. Like, way too fast.

Ian stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at himself in that… thing. Inflated, brown, with white squiggles that were supposed to be icing. His face showed through the tiny circular hole, and his expression was pure, unimpressed grimace. He looked like a walking joke. The absolute worst kind of joke.

“I am not leaving the house like this,” he muttered.

From the living room came the rustle of plastic and a muffled curse.

“Too late, Gallagher!” Mickey shouted. “I’m already in it, and I swear, if I have to show up alone, I’m dumping your ass!”

Ian sighed heavily and stepped out of the bathroom. He headed toward the living room where Mick was… and froze. There he was, standing in the middle of the room. His costume was slightly crooked, one “icing button” suspiciously low, and the tiny fan on the back buzzed like an old vacuum. He was staring at Ian with absolute seriousness.

“What’re you looking at?” he barked. “I look fuckin’ awesome.”

Ian couldn’t take it. He snorted, which quickly escalated into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my God…” he clutched his stomach. “You look like a fucked-up gingerbread man.”

“You look like his retarded little brother,” Mickey shot back, the corners of his mouth twitching.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other, laughing like complete idiots. Then Mickey clapped his hands together.

“Alright, enough fuckin’ around. Let’s go.”

And so it happened, they went.

And when they reached the Gallagher house? Ian completely lost it. He wanted to turn around, run back, just ditch this absolutely fucking stupid idea. But it was too late. The door swung open. First, they were hit by warmth and the smell of food. Loud talking, laughter, someone yelling from the kitchen, someone else arguing in the living room. Classic Gallagher chaos.

And then they stepped inside. And everything went silent. Literally. Like someone had pulled the plug on the entire house.

Kev froze mid-sip. V stopped talking mid-sentence. Debbie looked up from the table with a face that basically said, what the fuck am I seeing? Carl slowly raised his head, squinting as if trying to sharpen the image. Lip was the first to turn. He looked. He froze.

“…no,” he muttered after a moment, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Tell me this isn’t real.”

Ian wanted to die. Just like that. Sink into the floor, disappear, evaporate, anything.

Mickey, on the other hand…

Mickey looked around at everyone, puffed up, proud as hell, that permanently pissed-off face contrasting with the stupid grin of a gingerbread man.

Then he yelled across the whole house:

“MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS, ASSHOLES!”

A second of silence.

Carl was the first to crack.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” He doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. “YOU LOOK LIKE COOKIES STRAIGHT FROM HELL!”

And then chaos took over. Kev started choking on laughter. V leaned against the counter, gasping for air. Debbie covered her face with her hand, but you could still hear her laughing. Lip watched them for a beat, silent, then snorted and shook his head.

“Jesus… I knew you guys were fucked up, but this? This is a whole new level.”

Only Fiona wasn’t laughing. She stood a little away, arms crossed, looking at Mickey in silence. Half embarrassment, half disbelief. Mickey noticed immediately and narrowed his eyes.

“And what the fuck are you staring at? Never seen a gingerbread man before? It’s fuckin’ Christmas!” Mick shot back.

Someone in the back snorted even louder. Fiona closed her eyes for a second, like she was gathering the last bits of her patience.

“I wanna know how this happened. Who made him do it? Blink twice if you need help,” she said.

Ian shot Mickey a deadpan look.

“I’m not blinking, can barely see through this costume anyway.”

Carl stepped closer, circling them like they were exhibits in a museum.

“It moves,” he said with fascination, poking Ian’s side.

“Don’t touch me!” Ian growled, hopping awkwardly, which only made the costume buzz even louder.

Eventually, everything settled back into… normal-ish. Well, almost. The laughter didn’t stop completely, it just changed form. No longer the initial explosion, the shock. Now it was a constant background giggle. Someone would glance their way and snicker. Another would shake their head in disbelief.

And they stayed. In those fucking costumes.

Trying to sit at the table was a disaster. Ian got stuck halfway because the plastic belly wouldn’t fit between the table and chair. Mickey tried to “just squeeze in,” which ended with him almost toppling a chair and yelling at everyone like it was their fault.

Finally, they were sitting more next to the table than at it. Sideways, crooked, completely pointless.

Eating was a battle. Ian tried to spear something with his fork, but the sleeve of the costume was too wide, the plastic kept scraping against the plate, and the tiny fan in the back buzzed louder every few seconds, like it was mocking him. At some point, Mickey just gave up on utensils.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, trying to eat with his hands, which only sparked another round of laughter from everyone.

Later, when the food was gone and the bottles were multiplying faster than the conversations made sense, everything started to blur even more. The lights were dimmed, someone had put on music, someone was dancing in the background, someone else had passed out on the couch.

And Ian just sat there, slumped in his chair, exhausted, sweating under the layers of plastic, his cheeks pink from the booze. He looked over at Mickey. Mick was leaned against the wall, also a little faded, still in his costume, still stubborn but calmer.

Their eyes met.

And suddenly, they both burst out laughing. Just like that.

“We’re idiots,” Ian muttered.

“Yeah.”Mickey shrugged.

“But worth it,” Ian added.

BONUS:

Ian is usually the one waking up first. Not because he wants to be productive or anything. He just does. And the first thing he notices is Mickey still asleep next to him, completely knocked out. And yeah… he gets distracted pretty fast.

Ian’s also the one who gets morning wood more often, and instead of ignoring it like a normal person, he just… doesn’t. Because why would he, when Mickey’s right there?

So he starts slow. Pressing closer, half-draped over him, like he’s still asleep. Testing the waters.

Then come the kisses. Lazy at first, against Mickey’s shoulder, his neck… lingering a little too long to be accidental.

When that doesn’t wake him up fast enough, Ian gets worse about it. He’ll drag his lips up to Mickey’s ear, breathing warm against his skin, maybe even biting lightly just enough to get a reaction.

Mickey does wake up. He just refuses to acknowledge it.

He’ll shift a little, grumble something under his breath, trying to pretend he’s still asleep but his hand instinctively tightens on Ian’s arm anyway.

“Morning,” Ian mumbles like he’s innocent, like he hasn’t been actively trying to wake him up for the past five minutes.

Mickey just groans into the pillow. “The fuck do you want…” But he doesn’t push him away. Not even a little. 

Ian takes that as permission. He keeps nudging, pressing closer, practically clinging at this point. Half teasing, half genuinely needy, like he needs Mickey’s attention right now or he might combust.

Mickey tries to ignore him. He really does. Pulls the blanket over his head at one point, like that’s gonna stop Ian Gallagher of all people. It doesn’t.

Ian just follows, slipping under the blanket with him, still kissing along his jaw, his neck, completely relentless.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Mickey mutters, voice rough with sleep, but there’s no real bite to it. And then — yeah, he snaps.

One second he’s pretending to be asleep, the next he’s grabbing Ian by the back of his neck, pulling him down, clearly done pretending he’s not affected. “Could’ve just said something,” he grumbles, even though they both know Ian did, just not with words.

That’s how it usually turns into morning sex. Basically their routine at this point. (Thank God Ian once bought, like, a month’s supply of lube and keeps it in the drawer)

Mickey fully wakes up the second Ian slides in, no matter how half-asleep he was a moment ago.

Mickey’s moans? Yeah… they’re heaven to Ian, especially first thing in the morning.

And when they’re done, Ian always makes sure to clean Mickey up, like it’s just part of taking care of him.

And when Mickey yawns later in the day, he acts like it was completely Ian’s fault. Like he was just peacefully sleeping until Ian came along and ruined everything. (Not that he regretted the morning sex, of course)

Meanwhile Ian is smug as hell for the rest of the day. Like, stupidly smug. Walking around with that little grin Mickey pretends not to notice.

And if Mickey calls him out on it? “What?” Ian shrugs. “You love me.” Mickey just rolls his eyes… but doesn’t deny it.

One day Ian decides to drag Mickey to a bookstore. All because, apparently, he needs a new edition of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Like the world’s gonna end without it.

The second they walk in, Mickey immediately walks away to find something normal — aka horror.

Except… he gets lost.

Somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, Mickey Milkovich ends up in the Dark Romance section.

He’s never even heard of that shit before. So obviously, he grabs the first book he sees.

I mean — it says dark. That’s his thing, right? Murder, blood, creepy shit… not whatever the hell this is.

Next thing you know, Mickey’s holding the filthiest damn book ever written, flipping it open right to the dirtiest chapter possible.

And yeah — it’s a sex scene.

But not the soft, candlelight, “I love you” crap. Nah. This shit is rough. Possessive. Unhinged.

Straight up smut. The kind Mickey’s never seen in his entire life. “He grabbed her by her throat, humping her from behind...”

And that’s where it hits him. Oh. Oh, fuck.

Yeah. Mickey Milkovich just got hard reading porn in the middle of a bookstore.

He snaps the book shut like it personally offended him and speed-walks outta the aisle, trying to find Ian before this gets any worse.

And when he does? “Fuck, man, check this out.”

Ian takes one look at the page Mickey had open a second ago and just freezes. Cheeks red. Eyes wide. Completely short-circuiting.

Like yeah, Ian knows this kinda stuff exists. He’s not stupid. He’s just… never actually read it. “What am I looking at, Mickey?”

He takes the book, keeps reading… and suddenly he’s way more invested than he wants to admit.

Meanwhile, Mickey’s standing there, fully turned on and not even hiding it. “I think I found my new favorite genre… Fuck, we gotta roleplay this shit at home, Ian.”

Ian slowly looks up at him like he just lost his mind. “You want me to… what, fuck you with a gun, Mick?”

Mickey snatches the book back like yeah, exactly that, flipping to read more. And now he sees how dirty this shit is.

“Fuck… is it bad that I’m hard right now?” he mutters, half a groan.

Ian just smirks, that dangerous, teasing one. “Oh, it’s very bad.”

Your relationship with Jerome was toxic, but deeply romantic. Full of passion and a love that only the two of you knew how to show. To anyone on the outside, your love didn’t look healthy — well, it wasn’t. But you loved each other fiercely.

Jerome could be unpredictable. One look, one smile, and your heart would go haywire. You felt more alive with him than anyone else.

It was you who decided to end it. And it was all because Jerome was crossing the lines. He killed for you, and because of you, many people. Just one crooked or lewd look in your direction was enough for him to murder. Even torture his victim before the kill.

At first, it didn’t bother you. In a twisted way, it even felt “romantic.” You believed Jerome did it out of love. But when the body count kept rising and the reasons became more and more trivial, it started to frustrate you.

Jerome became possessive. He controlled every aspect of your life. When you left the house, when you sat alone in your room, you were always being watched. Cameras, his loyal men… anything to know what you were doing at any given moment.

Jerome didn’t handle the breakup well. He was angry. He laughed through his rage, asking you why you were leaving. “Do you have someone else? You don’t want me anymore? Maybe my actions aren’t enough?”

Yet, he let you go. Even so, for a long time, you still felt watched. You had the constant feeling that no matter where you went, he was there. In the shadows at night, as you walked down a dark alley, or just around the corner in broad daylight.

Even though you broke up with him, your love for him didn’t fade. You hoped that eventually, you’d forget him. But Jerome had dug too deep into your mind, he had become a part of it.

You still feel his presence in every chaos, in every sudden explosion of emotion around you.

It didn’t take long before you started seeing him again. At first, it was subtle. A shadow in the corner of a café you frequented, a glimpse of him across the street. Jerome wasn’t dependent on you, not in the traditional sense, yet he couldn’t stay away. He sought you out, deliberately, almost daring you to notice him, showing up exactly where he knew you would be. And he never tried to hide it.

He began leaving small gestures, reminders of the love that never truly died. Your favorite white tulips, carefully chosen, left where he knew you’d find them. A small note. It was his way of saying: “I’m still here. I still love you. I’ll do anything to bring us back.”

Jerome promised to change for you, for the two of you. And even though part of you feared it was just another game, you couldn’t deny the pull. 

The truth is, you never stopped loving him...

Ian loves reading. He’s secretly a bookworm, and only Mickey knows it.

He reads for ten minutes before bed, sometimes right in bed as he drifts off.

Ian’s favorite genres are definitely psychological books and poetry… maybe some classic romance, like Jane Austen or Emily Brontë (Mickey never lets him live that down).

It’s hard to believe, but Mickey reads too — occasionally.

He’s all about horrors, thrillers, or anything drastic and scary.

When you catch Mickey with a book in his hands, he’s quick to deny it. Like he always says: “Readin’? That’s for folks tryin’ to be smarter than they are.”

But for real, he loves that Ian is a bookworm. Not just books in general, but him — his ginger boy who knows his literature.

Sometimes Ian quotes lines to Mickey, romantic stuff that he doesn’t even get. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love… I love… I love you.”

Sometimes Ian asks Mickey to roleplay some scenes from the books he’s reading. Mickey always bursts out laughing but then goes along, acting like a damn puppy, repeating the romantic lines after Ian.

The first book Mickey ever read was The Shining by Stephen King. That’s when he discovered his favorite writer and genre.

He’d walk around the house talking about random scenes, making Ian listen to him.

 When Mickey got a new King book for his birthday, he literally jumped around the house like a kid who just got a jar full of candy.

Ian is completely in love with special editions. He admires the covers and treats his books like sacred objects.

And of course, Mickey laughs at that… (though secretly, he does the same with his horror books)

It had been a long day. Especially since it ended with a fight.

Some guy looked at Mickey the wrong way and got punched for it. 

Unlucky for Mickey, the guy knew how to fight. He was good at it. Really good. Mickey got knocked out. Took a few hits to the stomach, the face and a kick straight to the groin. Because apparently just getting the shit beaten out of him wasn’t enough. His balls had to suffer too.

Yeah, yeah, I get it. Shouldn’t have started it, — he thought as the guy spat on him before leaving. — Still don’t regret it.

Now Mickey was home. He’d just walked in. The first thing he did was strip off his blood-stained clothes and toss them somewhere into a corner. As soon as the shirt was gone, a chill ran down his back. Sweat cooling against his skin. He ignored it, walked over to the fridge, and pulled out two beers. Both cold in his hands. The bottles knocked against each other with that sharp glass clink.

He headed to the bathroom. The moment he stepped inside, sunlight reflecting off the mirror hit him straight in the eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, blinking against the temporary blindness as he took a step forward.

He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at himself in the small mirror.

Black eye. Split lip. And yeah, probably a broken nose. Blood was still running from it. Hard to tell if it was fresh or just mixed with sweat on his face. The bruise already looked like it was gonna stick around for a while.

Mickey exhaled and set the beers down on a small shelf. His hand felt stiff from the cold. Ignoring the slight numbness in his fingers, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He glanced at it for a split second, reading the name, then tossed it onto the sink.

Finally, he stripped off his pants and underwear. Now he was completely naked. Goosebumps spread across his skin. The small window in the corner of the bathroom was slightly open, letting in a faint draft.

He stepped up to the bathtub and turned the tap. Water immediately started running. He slid his hand under the stream to check the temperature and jerked back when it burned him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed.

Like getting his ass kicked wasn’t enough.

He turned the tap toward cold. The water shifted, cooling down. He held his fingers under it again, closing his eyes as he exhaled. The lukewarm temperature felt… good. Almost soothing.

Mickey straightened up, grabbed the beers and the cigarettes again. He set the cigarettes on the edge of the tub and held both bottles in his hands, positioning them in that familiar way, one cap pressed against the other, then a sharp push. The cap popped off instantly. The second bottle he set down on the floor, right next to the tub.

That was when he stepped in.

His legs sank into the warm water. Slowly, he lowered himself down, sitting, letting his body adjust before sliding deeper. His head came to rest against the edge of the tub, his body loose, almost weightless in the water. Finally, he reached over and turned off the tap. The water already up to his waist.

Eyes closed, head tilted back, he brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it. The bitter taste of beer filled his mouth. A few swallows, then his arm dropped back, elbow resting on the edge of the tub. The bottle dipped slightly into the water.

His thoughts started drifting. He was slipping, sinking into it, because it felt too good.

“Mickey.”

A familiar voice echoed from another room.

It was Ian.

But Mickey didn’t hear him.

“Mick,” the voice called again.

“Mikhailo.” 

That was Ian’s last attempt.

After that, he stepped into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, so he slipped in without a problem. He had a feeling that’s exactly where he’d find him.

And the first thing Ian saw when he crossed the threshold was Mickey. Beer in hand, half-submerged in the water, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

He immediately noticed the state he was in. Blood still running from his nose. A black eye. Scratches along his cheek. He looked like he always did after a fight, so Ian wasn’t even surprised. He knew Mickey. With him, this was normal.

“Who’d you fight this time?” Ian asked.

Mickey flinched, like he’d been yanked out of a trance, nearly dropping the bottle. Turns out he’d felt so good he’d almost fallen asleep in the tub. His thoughts had drifted off completely.

“Jesus, man! Ever heard of hello?” Mickey snapped, pushing himself up slightly in the water.

He adjusted his position, not even realizing when he’d slid deeper in. Took a quick, irritated sip of his beer.

“I called you three times, Mick,” Ian replied. “So? Who was it?”

Ian leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Some guy outside the store. Kept staring at me like he was asking to get his ass kicked.” Mickey took another sip.

Their eyes met. Silence settled between them for a moment. Ian didn’t bother commenting. He knew how Mickey was. Impulsive. Reckless as hell.

Suddenly, Mickey leaned forward, reaching out of the tub with his free hand to grab the second beer from the floor. He held it out toward Ian, tilting the bottle in his direction.

“Here. Take it.”

Ian pushed himself off the doorframe and walked over to the tub. He grabbed the bottle, instantly feeling the cold against his palm. Twisted the cap off without trouble, brought it to his lips, and took a drink.

Without hesitation, he sat down on the edge of the tub.

His gaze settled on Mickey’s body. At first, just the upper half. His collarbones, his chest, the tattoo. Ian swallowed hard, the bitter taste of beer lingering on his tongue. He’d barely taken a sip, and already he felt off. Like he was drunk.

And it was all because of Mickey.

Slowly, shamelessly, his eyes drifted lower. Pausing for a split second on Mickey’s abs, on the sharp lines of muscle. The V-line beneath the water’s surface looked way too tempting.

And then Ian’s gaze dropped further.

“Are you seriously staring at my dick?” Mickey asked suddenly.

“I’m training my imagination,” Ian shot back instantly, not missing a beat.

Mickey snorted, a quiet laugh slipping out. He reached for the pack of cigarettes, pulling one free along with a lighter. Without breaking eye contact, he slid it between his lips, flicked the lighter, and lit it.

He exhaled immediately, a thick cloud of smoke drifting between them.

The smell of tobacco hit Ian a second later.

“Imagination, huh? And what exactly are you imagining?” Mickey continued, staring straight into Ian’s sharp gaze.

“I’m imagining…” Ian tilted his head slightly, that smug look already there “…how fucking good your body is. How goddamn tempting your dick is, Mickey.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey let out a low laugh, taking a drag from his cigarette. “And what would you do with it? In your imagination, of course.”

“Hm… let’s think…” Ian hummed. “You know, I’ve kinda got a craving for something salty.”

The tension between them snapped tighter.

Ian kept staring at Mickey with that cocky little smirk, and Mickey? Mickey looked almost stunned.

“Gallagher, don’t say shit you can’t back up.”

Mickey was already getting hard. His cock twitched, lifting slightly. Even under the water, Ian could see exactly what was happening. His gaze kept drifting down, then back up to his eyes, over and over again.

“Who said I wouldn’t?”

Ian leaned forward, setting the beer bottle down on the floor. Then, slowly, he slipped his other hand into the water.

His fingers found Mickey’s leg almost immediately.

At first, it was light, just brushing over his knee. Teasing. Testing him. Maybe trying to get under his skin.

It didn’t take long before he pushed further.

His fingers slid between Mickey’s legs.

Mickey inhaled sharply through his cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke. His fingers trembled slightly as Ian’s touch turned more intimate. Long fingers moving higher, slipping between his thighs until they brushed against the tip of his cock.

Mickey let out a quiet breath at the contact.

He was trying to hold back, trying to get a grip on himself, on everything building inside him. But he never could. Let’s be honest, Mickey sucked at controlling his emotions.

Especially when it came to Ian.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Gallagher,” he said, voice low, almost like a threat.

Suddenly, he set the nearly empty bottle down on the edge of the tub and shifted his position. He wasn’t leaning back anymore. He sat upright now, back straight, head tilted slightly to the side, closer to Ian’s face.

“I like it,” Ian replied.

“Fuck…” Mickey licked his lips, restless.

Without thinking, he stubbed the cigarette out, just dropping it into the bathwater and stood up.

Ian laughed under his breath.

Of course. Mickey had no control left. Not even a little. Not when Ian was pushing him like this. Not when he was this hard.

Mickey stepped out of the tub and stood right in front of him. Completely naked. Water dripping from his body, pooling beneath his feet. His cock fully hard now.

“You wanna suck me off? Go ahead. Do it,” Mickey said.

For a moment, nothing. Ian didn’t answer. Just kept smiling, eyes moving between Mickey’s face and his cock.

Then, slowly he stood up. Face to face. He lifted his hand, placing it against Mickey’s cheek, and then kissed him.

Hard.

Deep.

Almost aggressive.

His lips pressed into Mickey’s, pulling him in, swallowing the kiss. He sucked on his lower lip, bit down just enough to make it sting, like he was trying to feel as much of him as possible. 

His other hand slid down, gripping Mickey’s ass, fingers tightening hard. Enough that it might leave a bruise.

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathed out.

His hard cock pressed against Ian’s stomach. Mickey shifted slightly, grinding against him, seeking friction. Muffled sounds started slipping from his lips, still busy with Ian’s mouth. 

Ian’s hand suddenly tightened on his ass, holding him firmly in place. Keeping him from moving, from grinding against him any further. Because he had a feeling if Mickey didn’t stop, he’d come right there and Ian had something way better planned than that.

Then, with sudden force, Ian pulled back, hands moving to Mickey’s hips. He shoved him backward until Mickey hit the edge of the tub.

Ian didn’t waste a second. He dropped to his knees in front of him. Holding onto Mickey’s thighs, he adjusted himself, settling in. His hand slid off Mickey’s still-wet body for a moment, only to return. This time wrapping around his length.

“Jesus… you look unreal,” Mickey whispered, looking down at him.

Because this, this was rare. Usually it was Mickey on his knees, not Ian. Usually he was the one sucking him off.

Now the roles were reversed. And Mickey wasn’t complaining.

Ian’s hand tightened at the base, slowly starting to move. Small, steady motions that made Mickey throw his head back. His hands gripped the edge of the tub behind him.

It hit him all at once. That sharp, electric feeling shooting up from his cock, straight up his spine. His legs trembled slightly. His eyes squeezed shut, brows drawn tight, lips parted like he was already on the edge of breaking.

Mickey was loud. And Ian loved that.

“You’re hard,” Ian muttered, picking up the pace just a little.

Mickey mumbled something under his breath, already too far gone to form anything coherent.

Then Ian leaned in.

His lips brushed softly against the head of Mickey’s cock. Just resting there at first, barely moving. Testing him. Feeling the reaction.

He didn’t last long like that. Slowly, he pressed a kiss to it. It was so sensitive, so hot, that it felt like Mickey might lose it right there. 

Without thinking, Mickey’s fingers tangled into Ian’s red hair, gripping tight, just to stay upright. Just to ground himself. Because Ian’s mouth on him like that, it was too much.

A slick bead of precum slipped out, landing right against Ian’s parted lips.

Ian let out a quiet laugh, his warm breath sending a shiver through Mickey’s whole body. Without hesitation, he slid his tongue out, slow and deliberate, licking it up. Tracing the head carefully, pressing the tip of his tongue right where more kept leaking out.

“Mm… told you I was craving something salty,” Ian said with a grin.

Mickey trembled again.

Ian glanced up for a split second and the sight almost wrecked him. Mickey’s cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, head tilted slightly to the side. His lips parted, uneven breaths slipping out, chest rising and falling.

Yeah. That did something to him.

Without warning, Ian took him into his mouth, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing.

All of it, the want, the hunger went into it. His tongue wrapped around him immediately, moving, licking, sucking, even grazing him lightly with his teeth.

Then, slowly, he took him deeper. Until the head hit the back of his throat.

He pulled back just as quickly, almost all the way off, like he was considering stopping but instead, he pushed back down again.

Because Mickey was addictive.

And those sounds he made? They only made it worse. Softer than you’d expect. Almost sweet. For a moment, it was like the dangerous, sharp-edged Mickey Milkovich disappeared completely.

“Oh fuck, Ian…” Mickey gasped as Ian took him all the way down.

All of him.

His entire length buried in Ian’s mouth, his throat tightening around him. Hot, wet, overwhelming.

Ian held there for a second. Testing him.

“Ian—”

Ian laughed, and the vibration sent straight through Mickey, pulling another broken moan of his name from him, this time completely incoherent.

Finally, Ian pulled off to take a deep breath. But it only lasted a couple of seconds before he went right back to it.

This time, slower, more controlled.

He moved with a kind of lazy precision, taking him halfway, over and over. His hand slid down, cupping Mickey’s balls, playing with them lightly as he kept going.

Mickey was already close.

His eyes were squeezed shut, lost in it. His cheeks still flushed, maybe even more than before.

Ian picked up the pace. His head started moving faster now, shifting slightly side to side, sucking him with sharp, deliberate focus. His cheeks pressed in along his length, his tongue working around him, circling the most sensitive spots.

Mickey’s whole body tensed.

A tremor ran through him. His legs barely holding him up, his cock twitching hard. He was right there. Right on the edge, everything blurring together.

And then…

Without warning, he came.

A loud, broken moan ripped out of him as he doubled forward, fingers tightening hard in Ian’s hair, pulling.

Ian let out a low sound around him, not pulling away, just swallowing, taking everything Mickey gave him.

All of it.

When he finally pulled back, he made sure to clean him up too. Tongue dragging slowly, deliberately, not wasting anything.

Then he leaned back slightly, breathing heavier now, looking up at Mickey.“See?” Ian said, voice a little rough, a smirk tugging at his lips. “With you, I don’t even need imagination.”

You and Jeremiah had known each other long before Gotham ever started becoming part of his grand design. Before the headlines. Before the police began lowering their voices when they said his name. Before something appeared in his eyes that you could no longer call simple ambition.

Back then, he was just Jeremiah. Quiet. Strange. The boy who always stood a little apart, as if he were watching the world from behind an invisible pane of glass.

You met him by accident or at least, that’s how it seemed. The library. Late afternoon. Nearly empty hallways and the same table by the window where you always sat to be alone. You didn’t even notice when he began showing up more often. First just in the same room. Then at the table beside yours. And one day, he simply sat down across from you, as if that seat had always belonged to him.

He wasn’t pushy. That’s why you didn’t reject him.

He spoke calmly. Precisely. He never lost his train of thought, never stumbled over his words. When he explained something, you understood immediately. When he talked, you listened, even if the topic didn’t interest you. He had a way of making everything seem logical. Ordered and simple. 

Over time, you caught yourself looking for him. Realizing your days were beginning to arrange themselves around the moments you might see him. He always seemed to know when you were having a bad day. He would appear beside you exactly when you were the most tired, the most fragile, the most vulnerable to someone’s presence. And he always said the right thing.

At first, it was comforting. Around him, everything felt safe. Stable. He carried a certainty you had never possessed yourself.

Later you began noticing the small things.

The way he remembered absolutely everything you told him, even the things you had forgotten. The way he could predict your reaction before you even had it. The way that when you disagreed with him… he never argued.

He never raised his voice. Never pressured. He simply talked until suddenly you realized you were agreeing with him, even though moments earlier you had been certain of your own opinion. And the worst part was that you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment you stopped thinking independently.

You began catching his words in your own thoughts.

His way of looking at people. His judgments. His cool, mathematical conclusions about the world.

You said “I think” less and less. More often, it became, “Jeremiah said that…”

And that was what terrified you.

You remember that one evening perfectly, the moment you understood. You were sitting side by side while he explained why one of your friends wasn’t worth your attention. He didn’t insult them. Didn’t criticize directly. He simply… analyzed. Took a person apart piece by piece, as if they were a problem to solve. And you listened. 

Until it hit you that you weren’t even trying to form your own opinion anymore.

You looked at him differently then. Not like someone close. Not like someone you trusted. But like someone who was slowly rearranging you in his mind according to his own design.

Jeremiah noticed immediately.

That was the first time you were truly afraid of him.

Not because he was aggressive. Precisely because he wasn’t. Because he said it all with absolute conviction. Like a fact. Like something undeniable.

You cut contact not long after. You stopped answering his calls, changed your routines, avoided places where he might see you. For a few days, you had the strange feeling he was somewhere nearby, that he would appear out of nowhere like he always did.

But he didn’t.

And that was worse.

Because sometimes at night, you woke with a hollow feeling in your chest, as if someone had vanished from your life and left behind a space you didn’t know how to fill. You wondered if you had hurt him. If you should have stayed. If, had you not left… things might have turned out differently.

And then the stories about him began to surface.

About his new life. About his plans. About how much he had changed.

You found yourself wondering whether, if you hadn’t pushed him away, he would have remained that ordinary, quiet boy you met in the library… and never become Gotham’s most terrifying criminal.

At least now, all those thoughts were coming back to you.

You were still standing in the bathroom. Steam from the shower hung heavy in the air, settling over the mirror in a milky haze. You slowly dried your skin with a towel, though the motion was more mechanical than necessary. Your mind was somewhere else entirely. Drops of water still slid down your shoulders, over your collarbones, along your stomach, leaving cool trails you felt far too vividly.

It was late. Outside, the city had gone quiet, somewhere in the distance a car passed, its sound fading almost immediately. Normally, at this hour, everything here was peaceful.

You carelessly towel-dried your hair, pulled on your sleep shirt, and turned off the light. When you opened the bathroom door, you weren’t thinking about anything in particular. Just habit. Another ordinary evening.

Then you stepped into the hallway.

And stopped.

The living room light was on.

For a second, you thought you must have left it that way, that you’d simply forgotten, like you had many times before. You took one step, then another, bare feet against the cool floor.

When you saw the armchair you understood something was wrong.

Someone was sitting in it.

Your body reacted faster than your thoughts, your heart struck painfully against your ribs, your breath catching halfway. You stood frozen at the entrance to the living room, as if even the smallest movement might make it more real.

Jeremiah.

He sat comfortably, almost casually leaned back, as though he were in his own home. One leg crossed over the other, hands loosely folded over his knee. He was looking straight at you.

He looked almost as you remembered. Calm. Composed. In his eyes was the same attentiveness, the same focus that once felt like concern. Only his overall appearance had changed. He no longer looked like an ordinary man but like a true criminal. His skin was pale. His lips carried a dark, wine-colored tint, his brows sharply defined with strange pointed ends — almost as if he were wearing a theatrical mask instead of a real face.

Your stomach tightened.

“Good evening.”

He said it quietly, almost gently, as if you had met by chance on the street, not as if he were sitting in your living room in the middle of the night.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mind tried to catch up with reality, but it lagged seconds behind. The front door was locked. You were sure you had locked it.

He noticed where you were looking. A faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Locks are more symbolic than people think.” He paused briefly, his gaze moving over you slowly, carefully, as if making sure you were truly there.  “I missed you.”

And that frightened you the most. Not that he had broken in. Not that he was in your home. But the way he said it so naturally, as if years hadn’t passed between you. As if you had never left. As if, in his world, your departure had never been a decision, only a pause he had now decided was over.

You stood in the doorway, rooted to the floor. For a few seconds you truly tried to convince yourself it was only an illusion. That you would blink and the chair would be empty again.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t disappear. He watched you calmly, almost patiently as though he knew your mind was desperately trying to catch up with reality.

“Jeremiah,” you finally managed. “What are you—”

Your throat was dry. The words came out quieter than you intended, more breath than voice.

“What am I doing here?” he finished for you. “I just wanted to see you.”

He said it so casually, as if he had come to return a borrowed book rather than break into your apartment. He even tilted his head slightly, observing your reaction. Just like always.

You began to tremble and not because of the thin fabric of your shirt or the shorts barely reaching your knees that you were wearing.

It was something deeper. The trembling had nothing to do with the temperature. Your body remembered him faster than your mind did. Your heart pounded so hard you could hear the pulse in your ears.

“I won’t hurt you. Don’t worry.”

He still hadn’t stood up. He didn’t need to. His voice alone made your fingers tighten on the fabric of your shirt.

“You’ve changed,” you said suddenly.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“But you know what hasn’t changed? My love for you.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

“What do you mean by love?” you asked, your body going rigid.

Jeremiah leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze sharpened, more focused, more intent.

“You see… love isn’t about feelings. It’s about obsession. I know when you wake up. I know you play the guitar when you’re sad. I know how many scars you have on your thighs. I’ve been watching you for months. I’ve heard every lie you told yourself at night. You don’t have to love me now, that’s alright. Love appears when fear disappears.”

The air seemed to thicken.

You froze at the mention of the scars. God — you had once been close, truly close, even in your worst moments… but you had never told him about them.

Your fingers instinctively curled against your thigh on the fabric of your shorts.

“How did you know?”

“Because I pay attention. I watch, I see. Do you think you hide it that well? You’re an open book to me.”

There was no accusation in his voice. That was the worst part. He sounded… proud. As if he had discovered something important.

“But I—”

“It’s pointless to hide from me. I’ll see everything anyway. Don’t you understand? You’re already mine,” he said.

You swallowed far too loudly. Suddenly the scars beneath your shorts seemed to burn.

“Why are you so nervous? Because I know your secret, darling?”

“You don’t know shit.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, but your voice trembled.

“That’s what you tell yourself at night, when the razor feels so good? I know nothing, hm?” He laughed softly. “I saw the blood on your bedsheets when it soaked through the bandages and you had to scrub it from the mattress. I counted the bandages in the trash.”

Your fingers went numb instantly.

Jeremiah suddenly stood from the chair and walked toward you. He was so close you could feel his breath against your skin.

You hadn’t even heard his footsteps. He was simply there, in front of you. Too close. Your back nearly hit the wall as you instinctively stepped away.

“You think God sees you? No… He ignores you. But I see you.”

For a moment the apartment fell into dead silence. You could only hear your own uneven breathing and the ticking clock in the kitchen.

“You don’t have to hide from me. And one day, you’ll thank me for saving every broken piece of you.”

“The scars…” you stammered. “Do they disgust you?”

Your eyes glossed with tears before you even managed to close them.

“Disgust me? No, darling. Now I’ll take care of you,” he answered.

“And if I don’t want that? If I want to keep bleeding?” Your voice broke as you said it. Tears began slipping down your cheeks like a child’s. The first drop landing on your hand before you even realized you were crying.

“I won’t allow it. If you even try, I’ll find you before the blood touches the floor. And then? You’ll wake up in my bed, every vein held shut by my hands, every scar on your skin kissed by my lips.”

“Every scar?”

Your voice was barely audible.

“Every single one. I’ll trace them with my tongue, learn each line like poetry. Because every cut you made was a scream… and I finally answered it.”

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs.

“Then do it. Kiss them, touch them, love them.”

You whispered it meeting his eyes. Your fingers trembled, your breath uneven as he stood right in front of you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body.

And that was when you realized the worst part wasn’t that Jeremiah had found you.

It was that some part of you wasn’t sure you truly wanted to stay lost.

For a moment, Jeremiah looked at you. He was so close you could see the smallest details. The tension in his jaw, the slow movement of his pupils as his gaze lowered just beneath your eyes.

Then, without warning, his posture changed. Slowly, almost carefully, as if afraid a sudden movement might startle you, he lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

You didn’t even have time to react. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your breath catching high in your chest. You hadn’t expected that.

Jeremiah slowly raised his hands.

He didn’t touch you immediately. For a fraction of a second he hesitated, as though giving you one last chance to step back. But you didn’t move. You stood frozen.

Then he gently took the hem of your shorts and pull it slightly higher.

Your body tensed instantly at his touch.

Cool air brushed your thighs, and then you felt something entirely different, the warmth of his breath. Jeremiah paused close to your skin, as if he wanted to remember this moment, as if it wasn’t about urgency but presence.

Then he placed the first kiss.

It was light. Almost imperceptible. Like he was touching something fragile that might break under too much pressure.

Your fingers instinctively tightened on his shoulders.

Another kiss landed a few centimeters away. Then another. He didn’t rush. Each one separate, deliberate, as though he was truly focusing on every line, every unevenness of your skin.

Your knees trembled.

Your hand lifted to his head on its own, you hadn’t planned it. You just suddenly needed something to hold onto. Your fingers slipped into his hair, soft and warm beneath your fingertips. Jeremiah froze for a fraction of a second when you touched him, then very gently rested his forehead against your thigh.

As if that single gesture meant more to him than everything you had said so far.

The kisses grew slower. There was no urgency in them, no demand, only a strange, almost reverent attentiveness. Tears began to fall down your cheeks again, but now you weren’t crying violently. It felt more like something inside you was breaking… and at the same time calming.

Your fingers unconsciously tightened slightly in his hair.

Jeremiah moved a hand to your hip, not holding you in place but steadying you when he felt you losing balance. For a moment his forehead rested against your skin.

And for a while nothing else happened.

Only his breath, warm and even, and your trembling hands buried in his hair.

He didn’t look like someone who had come to take control of the world. He looked like someone who had found the one thing he truly couldn’t bend to his will and instead of destroying it… chose to stay beside it.

You were still leaning back against the wall, as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. Your fingers hookup in his hair, and only after a moment you realized you weren’t trying to push him away at all. Your hand wasn’t rejecting him.

It was keeping him there.

Jeremiah slowly lifted his head. He still didn’t stand. He remained kneeling in front of you, his gaze traveling up along your figure until it met your eyes. There was no triumph in it. Not even satisfaction. There was certainty.

As if he had known from the beginning this was how it would end, that you wouldn’t run, wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t shove him away. Your hand still rested on his head, and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, leaning his temple against your hip. Then the weight of the situation hit you all at once.

Your heart beat fast, uneven. Not from fear, not entirely. It felt more like an emotion you didn’t want to name, because then it would become too real.

You should push him away.

The thought came clearly. But your fingers only shifted slightly in his hair.

Jeremiah took a quiet breath, as though that tiny movement was enough to crack something inside him. He slowly raised his hand and carefully wrapped his fingers around your wrists and only then he stood. Slowly. Inch by inch. You didn’t step back, even though your back already pressed against the wall. He was close again, so close your breaths began to mix.

His forehead rested against yours. For a moment he said nothing. He simply breathed with you, matching your rhythm like he once used to and the memory struck you harder than his presence. Because your body remembered that feeling. The calm you once found with him.

He stood so close there was barely any air between you. You felt his breath on your lips, completely calm compared to yours.

“Jeremiah,” you whispered right against his mouth. It was so dangerously close. A million thoughts ran through your head, including kissing him. Your heart pounded in your throat, and the silence around you was so thick you could hear every breath you took.

“Shh… let’s put you to bed,” he said almost gently.

Before you could protest — or agree — his arms were around you. One slipped beneath your knees, the other around your back. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. Your arms instinctively went around his neck. What surprised you was how natural it felt. How your body adjusted to him on its own, your cheek resting against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat and that undermined your defenses the most.

He said nothing as he carried you down the hallway. His steps were steady, quiet, as if he had always known this apartment. He pushed the bedroom door open with his hip and stepped inside without hesitation.

He laid you down on the bed slowly, carefully, as if he feared you might break with a sudden movement. The mattress dipped under your weight, and your fingers still clutched his shirt, unwilling to let him pull away. Jeremiah leaned over you. For a moment, he simply watched. Your hair fanned out across the pillow, your eyes wide open, your breath uneven. His hand lifted and very slowly brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture was almost tender and that made it all the more disorienting.

First, his forehead rested against yours, and your eyelids fell on their own. Then his lips met yours. The kiss wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t greedy. It was slow, as if he were trying to memorize every second. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb tracing the damp trail of a tear. When he deepened the kiss ever so slightly, your fingers tightened on his shirt. You breathed shallowly. He kissed you with a feeling you couldn’t name. As if the kiss itself wasn’t the point, but confirming that you were really here.

He finally pulled away, very slowly, without retreating completely. His forehead still pressed lightly to yours.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he murmured. Your fingers slid from his shirt to his hand.

“And when I wake up… you’ll still be here?”

Your eyes were heavy now, but still fixed on him with the uncertainty you couldn’t hide. Jeremiah squeezed your hand gently, and for the first time, his voice sounded almost soft.

“Yes.”

He didn’t withdraw his hand. He sat beside the bed, still holding your fingers, his thumb moving slowly, rhythmically over your skin. Your breathing gradually evened out. And the last thing you felt before drifting off to sleep wasn’t fear. It was his hand, which never let go, not even for a moment.

Of course it was Scott’s idea.

Because whose else could it possibly be? Definitely not Sam’s. He had barely been convinced to go along with it in the first place.

Yesterday evening, Scott had walked into your room holding Sam by the hand. His best friend since childhood. Yours too, actually. The three of you had grown up together on the same street, spending endless afternoons inventing all kinds of ridiculous imaginary games the way kids always do.

They stood in the doorway of your room. Scott with a grin stretched wider than usual across his face, while Sam stood beside him with that familiar grumpy expression, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Your mom must have let them both into the house and told them to come upstairs. That had happened plenty of times before. Usually for one of two reasons — either they were bored, or one of them had come up with something.

This time it was definitely the second option.

You were lying on your bed with a tiger-print face mask spread across your skin, your hair twisted into a loose messy bun on top of your head. Old, worn-out shorts hung low on your hips and a baggy T-shirt draped over your frame. Scott announced enthusiastically that he had an idea. A weekend trip to a small lake house in the woods.

You’d been there before. Quite a few times, actually. You knew the place well and honestly, you loved it. You, Sam, and Scott had created so many amazing memories there together. 

So you didn’t hesitate for even a second. You jumped up from the bed with a burst of excitement and started bouncing around the room like an idiot. Even Sam’s sour expression softened into a small smile at the sight of you.

Within an hour, you were already packed.

After hearing about this brilliant plan, you had immediately begged your parents to let you go. Of course they agreed. Sam and Scott were practically like sons to them. They trusted them completely. So with calm hearts, they placed you in their care without much hesitation. The moment they said yes, you hugged them tightly before running straight back to your room and pulling your small pink suitcase out of the closet. You packed an absurd amount of clothes, honestly wondering how on earth you even managed to fit all of it inside.

You were far too excited to fall asleep that night. You tossed and turned in bed for hours, unable to close your eyes because of the anticipation buzzing through your chest. And when you finally did manage to drift off, morning came far too quickly. You had to get up ridiculously early. Sam and Scott were supposed to pick you up at five in the morning so you could start the drive.

So you hurriedly got yourself into a somewhat presentable state, stuffed the last few things into your suitcase and an extra bag. Because somehow you kept finding more things you needed to bring and the pink suitcase had long since stopped being enough.

The moment you heard a car horn outside, you knew they had arrived.

You ran quietly down the stairs, trying not to wake your parents, and rushed outside. Unfortunately, you slammed the front door a little too hard behind you, the noise echoing through the quiet morning.

The second you saw their faces, you broke into a wide grin. 

You handed your bags to Scott, who opened the trunk with one smooth motion. The first thing that caught your attention was the sheer number of beer bottles and cans stacked inside. You raised an eyebrow at Scott. He only shrugged with a crooked grin. Then he slid your things inside, placing them next to his own bags — which were covered in a ridiculous amount of pins.

And finally, you set off.

You stretched lazily across the back seat, not because you wanted to sleep, but because you wanted to watch the sky through the window.

The shades of pink and orange had already spilled across the horizon like watercolor paint spreading across a canvas.

“Don’t lie like that. If the police stop us, I’ll get a ticket,” Sam said.

Of course he was the one driving. Scott was far too busy entertaining the two of you during the ride to even think about sitting behind the wheel.

“Oh, don’t exaggerate. We’ve never seen a single cop on this road,” Scott replied.

“You say that every time, Sam! And I always lie like this anyway,” you laughed. Because it was true.

The road ahead stretched on for miles. Sam kept his attention fixed on the wheel the entire time. The first rays of the rising sun slipped through the trees lining the narrow forest road, filtering through the windshield and filling the car with warm light. You stayed sprawled lazily across the back seat, talking endlessly about whatever came to mind.

Eventually, you made it.

All three of you arrived at the lake, tucked away practically in the middle of nowhere. A dense forest surrounded you on one side, while the lake spread wide on the other. Another thick wall of trees rising beyond the water. 

You reached the cabin early in the morning. Barely eight o’clock, when everything around you was still slowly waking up.

The moment you stepped out of the car, cold sand pressed against the soles of your feet. Without hesitation, you took off running toward the lake just ahead. Before you even had time to think, you’d already pulled off your T-shirt and shorts, leaving yourself in the swimsuit you’d been wearing underneath. With a loud shout, you ran toward the water, calling Sam and Scott’s names as the cool morning wind brushed across your skin.

You glanced over your shoulder to see what they were doing. Sam stood beside the car, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing his slightly grumpy expression. Scott, on the other hand, was grinning widely. His hands were already busy pulling his shirt over his head. He tossed it through the open car window before immediately moving on to his pants. He struggled with the button for a second before finally pulling down the zipper. The fabric slid down to his ankles. He clumsily stepped out of one pant leg and then the other, nearly tripping over himself in the process. 

Once he was left standing in nothing but his blue boxers, he started walking confidently toward the water. His eyes practically sparkled. You laughed at the sight of him. The way he strutted toward you so confidently was honestly hilarious. 

Not waiting for him, you slid one foot into the lake, immediately feeling the cool water wrap around it. Then the second. The soft sand shifted beneath your feet as you stepped deeper. Each step felt like slipping into a completely different world, where the early sunlight danced across the surface of the water, scattering gold and pink reflections across the ripples. The scent of damp wood and forest plants filled the morning air.

Scott finally reached your side. The moment you looked at him, your smile somehow grew even wider.

“We’re insane,” you laughed as the water slowly climbed up to your knees.

Scott laughed with you.

You wrapped one arm around him and bent your knees slightly, lowering your other hand toward the water. Scooping some into your palm, you started splashing it around like a child, giggling. Somehow, without even realizing it, the water had already reached your waist. The lake moved gently around your bodies, leaving cool, fresh touches across your skin. Goosebumps spread over your sun-kissed arms as the chill wrapped around you.

Suddenly you glanced back over your shoulder.

Sam.

He was slowly making his way toward you. 

A small spark of excitement flickered inside you, hoping he would step into the water and join you and Scott in the splashing chaos.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Sam slowly turned to the side and walked onto the old wooden dock. He stopped near the very end of it, his black shoes planted firmly on the edge of the weathered boards. Sam stood there, watching the two of you. His jaw tightened slightly, reluctant but clearly following every single movement you made.

“Oh, Sam! Look, Scott’s already in the water. What about you? Are you just going to stand on the dock like some boring lifeguard?” you called out, your voice playful and teasing.

But somewhere deep down, you felt something inside Sam shift.

“I’m not Scott. I don’t need to do the same things he does,” he replied, his jaw twitching again.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that! You know how nice the water is!”

“It’s refreshing! Jump in, Sam!” Scott called before diving under the surface and swimming backward through the water, showing off a little. After all, the lake house belonged to his parents. He had been coming here since he was a little kid, learning how to swim in this very lake.

For a moment, there was silence.

No one said anything. Scott had swum farther out into the lake, and you were looking up at Sam from the water, watching his eyes wander across the landscape. Eventually, he looked down at you with a faint smile before pulling his shirt over his head.

A wide, satisfied grin spread across your face. You had finally convinced Sam to get into the water.

He stripped off the rest of his clothes until he was left in just his boxers, then jumped into the lake with a burst of energy. Water splashed everywhere, crashing into you and soaking you completely.

Your hair was instantly drenched. You didn’t care at all, though. All that mattered was the fun.

Suddenly Sam seemed like a completely different person. He started laughing and playing around in the water. In one quick movement he grabbed your waist and lifted you slightly above the surface, holding you steady in his arms.

“Sam!” you shouted loudly.

But you didn’t really care about the volume of your voice. There was no one else around anyway. Just the three of you. This whole place felt like it belonged to you.

Your hands rested against Sam’s broad shoulders, and a shiver ran across his skin at the touch. For a moment you found yourself staring straight into his eyes. But the moment was broken by a sudden splash beside you. Both of you turned your heads. Scott emerged from the water nearby.

“I’m gonna get out and bring our bags into the cabin,” he said. “You two keep having fun.”

Before either of you could respond, he was already swimming toward the shore.

It felt… strange.

Scott seemed different somehow. That bright grin he usually wore had disappeared for a moment while he was speaking. You were just about to protest, tell him not to leave the water, or say you’d come help him but suddenly you felt Sam’s grip tighten around your waist. He pulled you closer, lifting you a little higher as he spun slowly in the water. Small waves splashed around your bodies as he moved. You could feel the confidence in the way he held you, and for that brief moment everything else stopped mattering.

The sun was climbing higher now, lighting up your skin and the water shimmering around you with golden reflections. The forest surrounding the lake seemed to quietly watch your small, carefree moment.

“Come on, let’s go help him,” you said finally, though your smile was smaller than it had been a moment ago. 

Sam swallowed, his own smile fading slightly.

“Yeah… go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Thankfully, about fifteen minutes after getting out of the water, you had more or less finished unpacking. By “unpacking,” you mostly meant stuffing the impressive supply of alcohol into the fridge. The moment you stepped inside the cabin, the familiar scent of old wood filled your lungs. The same scent you had grown up with. Suddenly memories rushed back, every moment of your life you had spent in this place. Your room had been left completely untouched. Even the cactus you had accidentally left there a year ago was still alive, somehow. Well… cactuses didn’t really need water, right? 

You carried your bags into your room and dropped them onto the bed. You didn’t even bother changing into dry clothes. Your swimsuit had already almost dried anyway, and you planned on going back to the lake soon. You just pulled on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of small shorts. The fabric quickly grew damp again from your still-wet swimsuit underneath, but you knew it would dry soon enough. 

Still, something about Sam and Scott’s behavior toward each other bothered you. For a moment you had the strange feeling that they might have argued. But that seemed impossible. They had been best friends for years.

You grabbed a towel and sunscreen from your bag before leaving your room. The wooden steps creaked softly beneath your weight as you walked down the stairs. When you reached the living room, you saw them both. Sam was sitting on the couch with his phone in his hands, clearly focused on some game judging by the concentration on his face. He had changed into swim trunks instead of his soaked boxers, and his hair stuck out in messy directions. Scott stood by the kitchen counter. He looked… distracted. His gaze was fixed somewhere in empty space. In his hand he held a can of beer, which he lifted to his lips, taking a slow sip.

“Jesus, you two should drink at least three beers each, because the atmosphere here is so thick you could cut it with a knife,” you muttered nervously.

Their behavior was finally starting to get on your nerves. Sure, Sam had always been a little different, broody, easily irritated, but now? He’d somehow become an even worse version of his worst self. And Scott, who usually acted like a golden retriever in human form, had suddenly turned into a complete jerk.

“What are you talking about?” Scott asked suddenly, and Sam actually turned off his phone.

“Don’t play dumb. You can see from a mile away that something’s going on with you two. I’ve known you for years. You’re acting like kids who just fought over a toy.”

“Scott and I just have a few things we haven’t talked through yet,” Sam replied, leaning his back against the couch.

You suddenly stepped forward, stopping in the middle of the room. Both Sam’s and Scott’s gazes snapped to you at the exact same moment.

“Oh yeah? Then talk about it now. Here. In front of me.” 

Silence fell. The kind of thick, sticky silence that really did feel like it could be sliced with a knife. The cabin’s wood creaked softly somewhere in the background, though that might have just been your imagination. Scott set his beer can down on the counter slower than he normally would, like it had suddenly become heavy as hell. Sam didn’t move from his spot, but his jaw tightened slightly. His fingers curled around the phone he was still holding, even though the screen had already gone dark.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. They looked at each other. Then at you. Then back at each other again. Like neither of them wanted to be the first one to speak. Like they were afraid that if they opened their mouths, something irreversible would happen.

“This isn’t a conversation for you. You don’t need to get involved in it.” Sam finally spoke. His voice was lower than usual, tighter. He lifted his gaze and looked at you in that way of his, the look that normally made you melt a little inside. But now there was something else in it. Something sharp. 

You let out a short, nervous laugh.

“Seriously? Because it kinda feels like I’m right in the middle of whatever this is. Since this morning you’ve been acting like you’re pissed at each other over something you can’t even name. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see it.”

Scott rubbed a hand over his face and sighed heavily before finally turning toward you. His eyes looked different than usual. Less amused. More tired.

“It’s not that simple.” His expression shifted slightly, more focused now.

“It’s never simple,” you replied quietly but firmly. “But you can’t keep me stuck in this and expect me to act like everything’s normal.”

Sam straightened on the couch. He set his phone aside and stood up, taking a step toward you. But he stopped halfway, like something was holding him back.

“What if what we have to say ruins everything?” he said suddenly, more to Scott than to you. “What if there’s no going back to how things were?”

“It’s already not the same,” Scott shot back sharply.

The words hung in the air. You felt your heart start beating faster. Something unpleasant twisted in your stomach, but at the same time you knew you didn’t want to run away from this anymore. You took another step forward, now truly standing between them.

“Then tell me the truth. Whatever it is,” you said more quietly.

Scott cleared his throat. For a moment he stared at the floor, like the wooden boards might somehow tell him what to say.

“We’ve known each other our whole lives,” he started slowly. “It’s always been the three of us. And it used to be… easy.”

He paused.

“And then suddenly it wasn’t anymore.”

“Because someone started looking at her differently,” Sam scoffed under his breath.

Scott’s head snapped up.

“Don’t pretend it’s just me.”

Another silence fell. This time it was heavier. Sam looked down, and for a second he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away.

“It wasn’t planned,” he finally said. “I didn’t want this. It just… happened.”

“Same for me,” Scott replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What happened?” you asked, even though the answer was already beginning to form in your mind. You looked at both of them, feeling everything slowly come together into one unsettling realization.

“That I can’t look at you like you’re just my friend anymore,” Sam said, his jaw tightening. “And it pisses me off that he—” he cut himself off for a moment. “That Scott feels the same way.”

Sam exhaled slowly. His voice was quiet now, but honest. Scott didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked straight at you.

“I didn’t want to put you in this position. I didn’t want to compete with him. But pretending I didn’t feel anything was starting to eat me alive.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest. You looked at both of them, two boys who had been part of your life for as long as you could remember. And yet now they stood in front of you like completely different people.

“We argued,” Scott added. “Because neither of us wants to be the one who backs off.”

You took a deep, shaky breath. Your thoughts were a mess; you couldn’t piece together anything coherent in that moment.

“Sam… Scott… you know I love both of you…”

“But as a friend!” Sam cut in.

“What if not?” you said quietly. “What if I feel something real and strong for both of you… something like love?”

“Wait— hold on, I’m trying to keep up here…” Scott suddenly stepped closer.

“I want both of you. Sam. Scott. I don’t want to choose. Why should I have to?”

You reached your hand out and grabbed Scott’s wrist. Then you leaned toward Sam and caught his wrist too, pulling him gently. Suddenly you were surrounded by both of them.

They were both taller than you, which made you feel small and almost defenseless between them but somehow, in that moment, you were the one in control. You could feel their hesitation, the confusion in the air as they waited for your next move.

“So… what does that mean?” Scott asked slowly. “We’re supposed to… share you?”

You looked straight into his eyes.

“If you’re both okay with that. I’m not forcing either of you into anything.”

“I’d do anything to make you happy,” Sam muttered. “Even share you with that idiot.”

“Hey!” Scott protested immediately.

A second later, all three of you burst out laughing. 

Your eyes moved from one to the other. But then, for a moment, your gaze lingered a little too long on Sam. His deep eyes, darkened by a faint line of eyeliner. The glint of the small piercing. His lips. Right now they looked dangerously inviting. Tempting. You couldn’t fight the rush of strange thoughts any longer, you gave in to them.

You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft. Barely more than a brush of lips. You let go of Sam’s wrist and lifted your hand to his cheek. His hand slid instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer to him like he wanted you all to himself.

But that wasn’t how this was supposed to work.

You were still holding Scott’s hand. That was what made you break the kiss. You leaned back slightly, taking a quick breath, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. For a moment you just looked into Sam’s eyes. They were glinting faintly.

Then you pulled your gaze away from him and looked at Scott. He was looking back and forth between you and Sam with that unmistakably jealous expression. 

A small smile appeared on your lips. You tugged gently on Scott’s wrist, pulling him closer. He leaned down slightly, and your lips met in a kiss. This time it was Scott’s mouth you felt against yours. His lips were just as soft… but somehow sweeter. It suited him perfectly. Warm, gentle, just like the rest of him. The kiss didn’t cross any boundaries either. It was soft and careful, nothing more than a light brush of lips. 

You pulled away after a few seconds and looked deep into his eyes. There was something there. Something sharp. Wild. Completely unlike the Scott you knew. A wide grin spread across his face.

“Damn,” Sam suddenly said. “Kiss him again. This time with your tongue.”

Both of you turned to look at him. Your face showed pure surprise. You couldn’t quite believe what you’d just heard. Sam looked almost desperate. His brows were slightly drawn together, his lips pressed tight, the small piercing in them catching the light. 

Then you felt Scott’s hand gently cup your cheek. He turned your face back toward him and kissed you again, this time deep and hungry.

The pressure was much stronger than before. His lips parted yours and his tongue slipped into your mouth. A soft sigh escaped you as warmth spread low in your stomach while his tongue moved slowly against yours. Your saliva mixed together and you instantly tasted the sharp hint of beer he’d been drinking earlier. You let out a louder moan into his mouth.

From behind you, you heard a low rumble from Sam.

“Scott,” he muttered, “kiss her like she deserves.”

Scott’s hand tightened on your ass while the other held your jaw. His mouth opened wider, his tongue pushing deeper as he kissed you harder. Your hands grabbed onto his shoulders, gripping tightly. So tight you could feel your nails digging into his skin. You couldn’t help it. It felt too good. Heat pooled in your stomach and a familiar wetness gathered between your thighs. Finally you pulled away from Scott, taking several deep breaths.

“God,” Scott murmured, breathless. “You taste incredible. Your turn, Sam.”

You glanced briefly at Sam.

A second later he grabbed your face and crashed his lips into yours so suddenly that a moan escaped you right into his mouth. His lips parted yours instantly and his tongue pushed inside just like Scott’s had moments ago. His mouth moved rhythmically with yours, soft sounds escaping both of you between breaths. You felt dizzy. Like you were floating a foot above the ground.

You finally pulled away from each other after the short but intense kiss.

“Take me,” you breathed. “Right here. Right now.”

Neither Sam nor Scott needed anything more than that.

Sam kissed you again immediately, while Scott stepped behind you. He brushed your damp hair aside and began kissing your neck.

You moaned into Sam’s mouth when you felt Scott’s lips press and suck against your skin, clearly planning to leave marks behind. For a moment you imagined your whole neck covered in them and the thought alone made another quiet sound escape you. Their hands wandered freely over your body.

Scott’s hands slipped under your shirt and brushed along your back, slowly moving to your sides until he wrapped his arms around your waist. His fingertips traced over your skin lightly before his hands slid down and found the still-damp fabric of your bikini top. His palms closed around your full breasts and squeezed gently.

You let out a soft gasp at the intimate touch. Sam broke the kiss. He looked straight into your eyes and suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, never once breaking eye contact. His hands rested on your hips, slipping slightly beneath the long shirt you were wearing, gripping the edge of your small shorts.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. Immediately, Sam tugged the fabric downward, and your shorts slowly slid down your legs until they fell around your ankles.

Scott was still holding your breasts, but eventually he let them go, his fingers sliding slowly along their edges before slipping out from beneath the fabric. Then he suddenly grabbed the hem of your shirt.

“Can I too?” he asked, checking if he could take it off you.

Of course you agreed. You nodded immediately, words caught somewhere in your throat.

Scott started lifting the material up, and you instinctively raised your arms so he could pull the shirt over your head and get rid of it. A moment later you were standing there without your shirt or shorts — only in your bikini. It was still soaked, the fabric cold against your skin. Your nipples were hard beneath the thin material, practically visible through the wet layer. You felt a faint heat creep across your cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassment. Just the rush of arousal and the overwhelming desire for both of them.

“Scott, sit her on the counter,” you suddenly heard Sam order.

He slowly stood up. You felt Scott’s hands lifting you into the air. Your feet left the floor, and a second later you were sitting on the kitchen island.

“We’re going to make you feel very good, sweetheart.”

Sam slid his hands lower, firmly wrapping them around your hips, and gently but decisively began untying the bottom of your swimsuit. The fabric slowly gave way beneath his fingers, revealing more and more of your skin, and you felt warmth and desire spreading through your whole body. Your breathing quickened, your heart pounding in your chest, and every moment of their touch and closeness felt more electric than the last.

When the final knot came undone, Sam slowly pulled your bikini bottoms off, sliding the material down your legs. Your thighs were now bare, and the warmth of his hands still lingered on your skin, leaving a pleasant trace behind. You felt fragile and completely desired at the same time, every movement of his sending small waves of trembling through you.

At the same time, Scott wasn’t idle. His lips moved along your shoulder, leaving soft kisses that sent shivers down your spine. His breath was hot, and every brush of his mouth against your skin only made the tension building inside you grow stronger. You could feel the way his lips and tongue moved in rhythm with your quickened breathing, making your body react almost instinctively.

Sam’s hands slid along your sides, feeling every muscle and every inch of skin while still keeping you steady on the kitchen island. His movements were confident and deliberate, and you let every touch spread through your body, feeding the desire building inside you until wanting both of them felt impossible to ignore.

Scott kept kissing your shoulder while his hands slowly moved toward your neck and back, pulling you closer to him as he watched Sam’s every move. Your breathing grew heavier and uneven, your heart pounding in your chest as your body trembled in anticipation of what they might do next, while still savoring every second of their touch and closeness.

Until now you hadn’t even realized your eyes had been shut tight. Only now did you slowly open them again, meeting Sam’s piercing gaze. His hands, which had been wandering along your thighs, suddenly gripped them firmly and pushed your legs apart, leaving you completely exposed in front of him.

For a moment his gaze lingered on your eyes before dropping back down between your legs. Your thighs trembled with the sudden urge to close them again, to hide yourself but his hands held them firmly in place. 

A quiet, low sound rumbled from his throat.

“Don’t cover yourself, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful. The very embodiment of beauty,” Sam said.

Scott’s hand suddenly moved again, settling back over your breast.

“So what are we doing with her, Sam?” Scott asked.

“Put your fingers on her clit,” Sam ordered.

Scott looked at Sam for a fraction of a second, as if making sure he’d heard him right. Then his gaze returned to you. It was focused now, darker than before. Slowly, he slid his hand down your stomach, his fingertips tracing a lazy, teasing path along your skin. You shivered when his hand reached exactly where Sam had told him to.

The moment he touched your clit, a quiet moan slipped from your lips before he even started moving. At first Scott only brushed against you lightly, as if testing just how sensitive you were. Then he began to massage you in slow circles. Each rotation of his fingers made your hips lift on their own, soft, broken sounds spilling from your mouth.

Sam watched for a moment, his jaw clenched and his breathing heavy. Then his hand moved between your thighs. You felt his fingers sliding between your wet folds, gathering the slickness there, exploring you slowly. You moaned his name when he ran one finger along you, then another, spreading you open for himself without any hurry.

“So wet…” he murmured lowly.

He didn’t give you time to respond. When he pushed two fingers inside you, he did it firmly and deep, making you gasp as your hands instinctively gripped the edge of the counter. At first he stayed still inside you. He even closed his eyes as your tight walls clenched around his fingers. Sam savored the feeling — the warm, wet, pulsing pressure tightening around him.

Finally, he began to move. His fingers started thrusting in a rhythm that immediately made the tension in your stomach start to build. Slow, deep strokes, hitting exactly where your body reacted the most.

Scott didn’t stop either. His fingers on your clit were moving faster now, firmer, perfectly in sync with Sam’s movements. You could feel them both taking control of you. One filling you with his fingers, the other pushing you closer and closer to the edge with that relentless, merciless pressure. Your moans echoed through the kitchen as your hips began moving on their own, chasing the rhythm of their touch.

“That’s it… give yourself to us,” Scott whispered right against your ear.

Sam sped up, his fingers working deeper and more confidently, while Scott didn’t slow down for even a second. Your whole body was tight with tension. You could feel Sam hitting your G-spot perfectly, his fingers curling inside you. Your walls kept clenching around him, making his fingers briefly stall each time from the pressure. Meanwhile Scott started moving faster, the careful circles turning uneven and quick.

Your eyes rolled back. You could feel that familiar, intoxicating sensation building inside you.

You were close.

“Sam… Scott… ” you moaned.

Scott and Sam exchanged a brief, knowing smile, then both focused entirely on you again. Sam’s fingers moved with confident, rhythmic precision, hitting your G-spot perfectly with every thrust, making your whole body tremble involuntarily, as if your body itself was seeking the ultimate stimulation.

Meanwhile, Scott accelerated his movements on your clit. You felt his fingers brushing the most sensitive spot, moving in sync with Sam’s fingers, hitting every inch inside you with flawless timing.

Your body began to shiver even more, your hips moving on their own, swaying with their rhythm. Your breathing grew heavy, your moans loud and uneven, and your heart pounded so hard you feared it might skip a beat. Every thrust from Sam, every rub from Scott sent waves of heat and pleasure through you, filling every corner of your body.

“Yes… yes… don’t stop…” you moaned, feeling the tension in your lower belly mount.

Pure pleasure began to take over. Your stomach tightened, muscles quivering, and you knew the orgasm was inevitable. Scott gripped your hip, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“Almost… you can do it…” he whispered hotly, his tongue grazing the skin near your neck, sending another shiver down your spine.

At the same moment, Sam increased the pace of his fingers, thrusting perfectly synchronized with Scott’s accelerating rhythm on your clit. Your hips seeking more stimulation, your moans filling the kitchen, echoing off the walls.

“I’m… I’m close…” you gasped between broken breaths, feeling the pleasure rise to its peak. Your world narrowed to just them, everything else ceased to exist.

Suddenly, your body convulsed, all the tension of the past moments exploding in one overwhelming wave. Your parted lips let out a loud, pleasure-filled cry, your eyes flicking briefly to Sam and Scott, seeking confirmation that they felt it too.

Your hips trembled, rising slightly, fingers clutching at any support, the pulsing spreading from your lower belly throughout your body, racing up your spine. Each contraction of your tight walls synced with your pounding heart, your inner muscles rippling in successive waves of ecstasy.

Scott continued to massage your clit, his fingers unrelenting, while his lips left hot kisses along your neck and shoulders. Each movement sent more shivers through you, moans escaping despite your attempts at restraint. Sam, deep inside you with two fingers, moved them with precision, hitting every sensitive point. His fingers bent inside you, triggering successive waves of contraction that rolled through your lower belly.

Finally, after several long, intensely endless waves, you felt the tension in your body ease. Your muscles slowly relaxed, the pulsing inside your core softening, your moans quieting, leaving you completely spent, wrapped in warmth and satisfaction. Scott held you close, leaving kisses on your neck, while Sam gently withdrew his fingers.

“Oh my God… that was… so intense,” you breathed, barely able to pull air into your lungs.

“You were amazing,” Scott replied.

“I’m glad we could compromise,” you said with a soft smile, your gaze fixed on Sam, who was staring back at you with a strangely hungry gleam in his eyes.

“I’m glad too… because we’ve got a whole weekend at the lake ahead. Together.”

Jeremiah always makes sure to keep up appearances. He dresses elegantly, walks with grace, and never allows himself to do silly things (but we already know that). His true face, however, is the one he shows only to you. Because who he becomes around you is a completely different person. His perfect mask suddenly falls from his face.

When you’re together, in his apartment, sitting on the couch or lying in bed, Jeremiah loves to cuddle with you. And he’s not the big spoon here. He simply curls up like a puppy next to you or even on top of you, resting his head on your chest or stomach. Listening to the beat of your heart. Playing with your hair while murmuring something under his breath. Telling you his strange fantasies until he falls asleep.

He mumbles and whispers things under his breath that are completely incomprehensible to anyone else, but you know it’s his way of saying “I love you” without words.

He enjoys taking baths together, but of course, everything has to have his twist. Before you even step into the bathroom, everything must be perfectly prepared. Candles all around, bubbles overflowing from the tub, soft classical music playing from a small speaker he placed earlier on the counter beside the sink. Jeremiah smiles wildly when you try to get out of the tub. He hands you a glass of your favorite wine and murmurs under his breath: “Don’t get drunk in front of me… unless you want me to make a mess of you in the tub.”

Jeremiah carries you around the house whenever you allow him. He believes you deserve to be carried. Like a princess. Because to him, you are a princess, someone he always takes care of.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he suddenly gets up, takes you out to the balcony, shows you the stars, and tells stories that sound like wild conspiracy theories but in his voice, you can hear genuine passion and fascination with the world… and with you. Because only around you can he be this authentic.

He cooks or prepares food in a crazy, unpredictable way just for you. Eggs shaped like hearts, desserts decorated with his strange symbols, drinks that look like chemical experiments. Around you, he allows himself private, absurd affection.

Jeremiah experiments with physical affection. He tickles you, blows on your neck, gives gentle “attacks” in the form of unexpected kisses. Around others, he would be theatrical or aggressive; with you, it’s playful and intimate interactions that only the two of you understand.

JEROME:

One day, during a silence that stretches on for a little too long, you tell Jerome that you’re interested in witchcraft. You do it in a very casual way, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

For a moment there’s silence, and then suddenly Jerome bursts out into loud, uncontrolled, almost manic laughter.

At first, Jerome mocks you for your interest. He mocks the gods. “Goddess of love? Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, snorts with laughter, throws out comments like, “So what, you talk to the air and suddenly everyone’s horny?”

But he stops laughing the second something answers. Not a voice or a miracle. Just the fact that people start emotionally falling apart after your rituals.

But then? Oh. My. God. Jerome is totally gone. Danger turns him on. Ritual knives? Candle wax running down skin? Bloody sigils? Jerome is fascinated. He watches like he’s seeing the best show in the world. “Fuck… this is better than the circus.”

He loves that your magic isn’t “sweet.” It’s sharp, risky, and dirty. Aphrodite isn’t pure, and he likes that. Jealousy, cruelty, whim, excess. Jerome loves that your goddess is toxic in the most beautiful way. “So she’s not well-behaved? Tell me more.” In his head, she sounds like the perfect patron for you.

He calls your rituals “foreplay with the universe.” “Come on, baby. Show me how you flirt with the cosmos.” And seriously — he likes to watch. The way you light the candles. The way you whisper. The way you focus so intensely that the whole world stops existing.

AND THIS IS WHERE THE FUN BEGINS. Jerome wants you to use your powers on him. Because he wants to feel you closer. He wants to feel hot wax on his skin, your touch, hear the spells from your mouth. Our boy is gone head over heels, and it’s no secret.

He laughs during the spells… until they start working. At first, cackling. Clapping. Sarcastic comments. And then sudden silence. Because someone who insulted you has an accident. Someone who dismissed you can’t stop thinking about you. Jerome just tilts his head then and says: “…okay. That was new.”

He gets jealous when others want you. Because suddenly everyone wants you. Jerome starts standing closer. A hand on your back. A stare that’s too intense. He can laugh at love, but sharing you? No.

JEREMIAH:

Jeremiah finds out on his own. Because he’s obsessively fixated on you, so he has to know everything.

And when he does find out? Oh, darling. He already knows everything about it. Jeremiah studies Aphrodite obsessively. And not “out of curiosity.” Because he HAS to know. Archives. Mythologies. Variants of worship. Contradictions. He reads everything that exists.

He respects the structure of rituals. Always. He respects your interest in it and your love for Aphrodite. He acknowledges every detail. Rules. Symbolism. Order. He never interrupts. Never touches anything without asking. And if a candle is standing crooked he adjusts it millimeter by millimeter. In his mind, magic without structure does not exist. And yours… is perfect.

Jeremiah may not be a fan of all those rituals, but he never laughs at your faith. Not once. Even if he doesn’t understand something, he doesn’t mock it. He sees that this isn’t escapism or an illusion.

He uses his devotion to precision and designs altars with you. Perfect symmetry. Colors chosen with mathematical accuracy. The arrangement of objects thought out like a city plan.

Jeremiah perceives Aphrodite as a force of manipulation and that fascinates him. Love as a tool. Desire as a weapon. Emotions as a mechanism of control. Exactly how he operates. Psychologically. He notices that your ways of acting are very similar, and he likes that, because it makes him feel an even stronger bond with you.

THIS is where it starts to get hot. Because Jeremiah starts to get jealous… of a goddess. He doesn’t say it out loud. Of course he doesn’t. But you can see it in his body language. The way his jaw tightens during rituals. When you start talking about her. He doesn’t respond to your constant monologues, he just listens and analyzes. But the questions start coming more and more often. “Does she demand anything from you?” “Does she ever leave you?”

The fact that you share your attention with something higher drives him insane. Because he wants you only for himself. And he can’t have that anymore. Even though you reassure him that you love him, that he’s the most important to you.

OH MYYYYYY!!!! Jeremiah completely starts treating your body like something sacred. He takes your goddess and your interest in witchcraft seriously, which makes you become a kind of… sacred element in his eyes as well.

At first he tries not to touch you. Well, he does, obviously, because he can’t restrain himself. But he does it with full awareness. With distance, respect, and control. As if he’s afraid of violating something that doesn’t belong only to him. Your body becomes, to him, an extension of the ritual. An altar. A symbol.