Archive of Our Own

Jeremiah’s panicked mind trips and stutters over itself like an old, cracked record and his footsteps echo loud, too loud, too loud off the concrete walls as he runs through the winding corridors of his home. 

He’d spent years planning, building his fortress, his supposed pinnacle of safety, only for it to be utterly useless when it came to serving its purpose. His mazes, his brick and mortar, they were meant to keep his own personal big bad wolf out and yet, here Jeremiah is. Running away like the cowardly little piglet he’s always been. 

He ignores how that last thought sounds like it comes from a bastardization of his own voice.

Jeremiah’s plans had worked, at first. Jerome was where he was supposed to be: locked up where Jeremiah could keep an eye on him and know where he was at all times, somewhere his brother would rot away and Jeremiah wouldn’t have to worry about him ever again. He could finally breathe a sigh of relief and live life like a normal person. 

But like all things that involved Jerome, nothing ever seemed to go according to plan. 

Frankly, Jeremiah almost feels stupid for ever having believed that this maze would keep him safe. He should have expected Jerome’s cronies, should have made preparations in case they came after their leader. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t. Jerome had always been charismatic, a deadly mix with his talent for manipulation. It wasn’t surprising that he was able to get two of Gotham’s most wanted to work for him, let alone that he’d managed to inspire a literal cult dedicated to him. 

Jeremiah was so foolish to think he’d had the upper hand on Jerome. It was a mistake he’d made so often as a child and it seems he’s never learned. 

He doesn’t know where Gordon and his partner are and he doesn’t stop to worry about them either. They can’t protect him from Jerome, that much is explicitly obvious. Hell, they can’t even protect themselves from Jerome. Jeremiah just hopes they can at least keep Ecco safe, maybe snap her out of Jervis Tetch’s hypnotism.

And if they can’t.. well, Jeremiah certainly won’t be mourning them, not that he would have even thought of doing so to begin with.  

Jeremiah’s side cramps painfully and he stops, leaning heavily against the wall. He wheezes, loud and harsh, his lungs and his legs burning. He cannot afford to stall like this, Jerome could be hot on his heels for all he knows, but God, he can’t do this. He should have listened to Ecco whenever she suggested he go on a run with her through the mazes. He’d turned his nose up at the suggestion every time but now.. 

Gunshots echo in the halls behind him, jolting him. Fear bolts alive in his chest and it spurs him back into action. 

Was that the one of the cops? One of Jerome’s men? Or… -- something cold slips down his spine at the thought -- was it Jerome, so close to catching him already? 

Relief floods him when he sees the purple glow from the neon exit sign up ahead, and a shaky, disbelieving laugh breaks from him. Hope blooms in his chest. He can’t believe it. As soon as he gets out he’s going to steal the GCPD car, he’s going to slam on the gas and get far, far, away, and Jerome’s never going to find him again, he’ll make sure of it, Jerome--

Jerome rounds the corner. 

His grin is too wide, his eyes bright, manic, predatory. There’s a gun in his hand and Jeremiah is more than well aware that it is loaded. 

Jeremiah skitters to a stop, only just managing to keep up right. His breaths come in short, panicked bursts and he takes a step backwards, staring at his brother. 

This is it. It’s over. 

Jerome’s going to blow his brains out and use the splatter as finger paint. He’s going to pull Jeremiah apart, rip him open and play with his innards like he always talked about doing when they were children, like he always did to any poor, unfortunate animal he got his hands on. Sometimes he’d even make Jeremiah watch.

“Brother!” Jerome crows, stalking towards Jeremiah, looking all the part of the predator that he is, that he always has been. “Been awhile, huh, precious boy?”

Jeremiah doesn’t run. As much as he wants to, he knows he can’t. His feet feel like lead and his chest feels like it’s going to collapse in on itself. It’s pointless anyway; Jerome would catch him. Jerome always caught him before. 

Behind him, he can hear footsteps and the pressure in his chest builds. It’s not the GCPD, he knows this. They would have been barking out orders for Jerome to put his gun down. It’s Jerome’s men, that incestuous freak Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane. Jeremiah knew of them, had done some basic research on them as soon as he’d heard Jerome was being sent to Arkham again. 

There had been an uncomfortable twist in his gut he hadn’t been able to shake once he’d learned the three of them were going to be in the same institution together. It hadn’t boded well back then, and Jeremiah is for once in his life, loathing to be right. 

Jeremiah blows out a quiet, shaky exhale, turning his gaze to Jerome, who has now wandered far, far too close for comfort, the gun pointed at Jeremiah’s chest. Being in the same building as Jerome was already too close for comfort, but now he’s close enough that Jeremiah could reach out and touch him if he were feeling particularly stupid. 

Jeremiah opens his mouth to speak and Jerome crowds even closer to him, eyes glinting, cutting him off. “You look good, baby bro.” He reaches up and Jeremiah flinches when Jerome’s gloved fingers condescendingly pinch the apple of his cheek. “Got the whole innocent schoolboy charm going on. It’s cute, really suits you, even though we both know it’s a load of bullshit.”  

Jeremiah grimaces and only just resists the urge to bat Jerome’s hand away. He’s not that bold nor is he that stupid, especially not when Jerome has a gun on him. Shrugging off Jerome’s touches as a child had never ended well; he imagines that much hasn’t changed. 

“Jerome-- how- how did you find your way through the maze?” 

Jerome scoffs. 

“We might not look the same anymore, bro, but, uh,” he flicks his tongue over his teeth, extended lips quirking upwards even further. “We still think the same. You know, for the most part.” He absentmindedly moves the gun to gesture to the corridors around them when he adds, “Oh, and I used to watch you draw these stupid things all the time when we were kids. I paid attention.” 

His lips pull into a sneer. 

“But you didn’t think of that, did you? Noo, no, you always believed you were the only one with any brains. Really took a lot of the shit our bitch of a mother said to heart, didn’tcha?” 

Jeremiah doesn’t answer him, choosing instead to avert his eyes. He frowns. Jeremiah had hated Lila just as much as Jerome did, had thought horrible things about her that he would never air, but he never would have killed her. She was a despicable excuse of a person and even worse as a mother, but he doesn’t think killing her was right. 

He ignores the part of him that balks at such a thought, the absurdity of it all. You were happy he killed her, she deserved it, it hisses at him. Don’t play righteous now. 

He ignores it. He ignores it. Stomps it down and smothers it. Smashes it like he wanted to smash a bottle of gin over Lila's skull.

When Jeremiah’s eyes hesitantly settle on Jerome’s face again, his smile is enough to make Jeremiah’s skin crawl. And as always, Jerome isn’t done talking. 

“You wanna know what it sounded like when I drove that axe into her for the first time? The tenth? The twentieth? How she looked, lyin’ there, with her head hanging on by just the tiniest little bits of skin and muscle?” 

Nausea twists in his gut and Jeremiah swallows heavily. 

“Stop it. I don’t want to hear any of this.”

Jerome looms in closer, head cocking like a dog, and his glasgow smile is even more unsettling up close. ”You don’t? Ah, shucks, baby bro, that’s just too fucking bad now ain’t it? You’re gonna hear about it.” 

The hand not holding the gun makes a return to Jeremiah’s face, and Jerome condescendingly pats him on the cheek. Jeremiah can’t help but flinch away from his touch and Jerome titters in unadulterated glee. 

“We got a lot to catch up on, after all. There’s a lotta things you missed out on. Lots of things you weren’t around to see.” 

Jeremiah resists the urge to grimace. Jerome isn’t being subtle by any definition of the word. It’s not surprising -- subtlety is not a talent Jerome ever had -- but still, his words pluck and prod at the knife that’s been buried in Jeremiah’s chest for over a decade now.  

Jerome must see something on his face that Jeremiah wasn’t able to hide, because he falls into a peal of giggles. He shifts closer so that he can lean on Jeremiah, and Jeremiah wants nothing more than for Jerome to stop touching him. 

He missed Jerome’s touch so much. His touch is pain and joy all in one. It burns and scalds even as it soothes.

His creaking giggles soon die off and Jerome still looks tickled when he looks over to his companions, waving the gun at them dismissively. “You two-- go take care of our old friend Jimbo and his frumpy friend, would ya? Get rid of ‘em, I’m tired of those two poppin’ up everywhere. 

He looks back and his eyes meet Jeremiah’s, his head tilting once more. His smile means something that Jeremiah can’t place but he knows he hates. It’s familiar and it’s not, all at once. 

The knot in his gut twists even tighter.

“College boy and I got some things we gotta discuss in private. Ya know, family stuff.”

They both obey and Jeremiah is quietly relieved when they round the corner of the corridor and disappear. Being alone with Jerome is a terrifying thought, but Tetch’s eyes had focused on him just a little too intensely, a little too hungrily for Jeremiah to be anything but relieved to see him go. 

Once they’re gone, Jerome tucks the gun somewhere inside his coat. That too wide grin is back again and oh, how Jeremiah hates it. He looms closer, backing Jeremiah up against the wall and the latter swallows nervously.

“Jerome, what are you--” 

A gloved hand claps over his mouth and Jerome tuts. 

“It’s okay, baby bro,” he says, in a tone that sounds like it’s supposed to be soothing and is anything but. “You know, I spent a long time thinkin’ about this day, about what I was gonna do with you, what I was gonna do to you when I finally saw you again.” 

Jerome regards him, dark, raptorial eyes searching Jeremiah’s face and something like pleasure sparks in them at the fear and confusion he finds. He grins, sharp and toothy and it makes Jeremiah’s insides twist even tighter. 

“About how I was gonna kill you.” 

Jerome’s free hand comes in contact with Jeremiah’s chest and Jeremiah’s breath hitches, both from the contact and from his words. His muscles tense as Jerome slowly, ever so slowly, slides his hand downwards and then suddenly, sharply, he digs his fingers into Jeremiah’s stomach. His cheshire grin widens when Jeremiah can’t subdue an anxious whimper. 

“I thought about stabbin’ you riiiight here and cutting deep.” He jerks his fingers sideways. “Seein’ if any fun bits come spilling out, or if you were really just so much of a gutless coward that it would just be blood and nothin’ else.” 

The fingers covering his mouth suddenly force their way inside, and Jeremiah jerks his head back, trying to escape with nowhere to go, garbling a protest. The glove is thick and uncomfortable in his mouth, sticking to the top of his mouth and to his tongue. The taste is even worse, gunpowder and cotton and God knows what else Jerome has gotten his hands on as of late. 

Jeremiah winces when Jerome grabs his tongue between two of his fingers, panic flitting over his face when Jerome slowly, slowly pulls it out of his mouth as far as it can go. He makes a panicked, anxious sound, his hands balling into nervous fists at his sides.

Jerome twitches.

“Or I figured, maybe I’d cut your lyin’ tongue out. Let you drown in your own blood.” Jerome’s still smiling, but it’s a mean, nasty smile. There’s no humor in it. “It’d be fitting, ‘cause after all, it’s what got us here in the first place, Miah.” 

The childhood nickname makes Jeremiah’s heart clench painfully. It sounds so wrong coming from Jerome now, sounding like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth instead of sounding like the affectionate nickname it had been. 

“But don’tcha worry that pretty little head of yours. I’m not gonna kill ya, I changed my mind. ‘Cause after all, what would I do without my precious baby brother? I missed ya!” He breathes a giggle but Jeremiah can’t hear a drop of humor in that either. His words don’t comfort Jeremiah in the slightest. Death seems far more appealing than anything Jerome has in mind, Jeremiah is very much sure of that.

“Besides, that’d be too easy. Death ain’t a real punishment, and oh, you can bet I’m gonna punish you.”

He leans closer, and his voice is suddenly ragged and angry when he speaks again, nothing like the faux sweet croon he’d been speaking in before. “Gonna punish you for what ya did, for all those horrible little stories you would tell. Crying when I played a little too rough, running to mommy dearest and Uncle Zach and lying to them, hiding when they beat the shit out of me because of the things you said.” 

Jerome’s eyes narrow, teeth bared in an angry snarl and Jeremiah can’t help but flinch once more. 

“You turned everyone I ever loved against me. And then you just fucking ran away, like a coward.” He releases Jeremiah’s tongue but his hand doesn’t go far, wet gloved fingers sliding along Jeremiah’s jaw in a mock affectionate hold. The touch stings just as bad as his words do and an age old guilt surfaces in his chest. Unable to look Jerome in the eye, Jeremiah averts his gaze. 

Jerome may have never tried to kill him, but he had hurt him more than enough times. 

Jerome was a cruel child, a bully who liked to play the meanest pranks on Jeremiah and say the most horrible things, who loved to scare him and make him cry. Butchering and carving up any little creature Jeremiah had taken a liking to and leaving the bloodied corpse for him to find, locking him in whatever dark, cramped, confined space he could and laughing as Jeremiah sobbed and begged for him to let him out, and so much more that still had Jeremiah waking in a cold sweat even to this day. 

He still can’t sleep in the dark, too afraid of what he might find waiting for him in the shadows when he opens his eyes. Bad things always happened in the dark; in the dark of Zach’s trailer, in the dark of Lila’s bathroom, in the dark of his own room. 

“I didn’t lie,” Jeremiah lies, his voice soft and weak. “All those horrible -- those sick things you’d say to me, that you’d do to me. I was scared.” 

“You and I both know that if I’d wanted you dead, golden boy, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Jeremiah flinches again. 

Even for all his gorey little thoughts he would croon in Jeremiah’s ear as they’d lain in their rickety little bed at night, Jerome had never acted on them. Telling Jeremiah about them was just all part of Jerome’s sick little game, all part of the fun. Jerome always wanted to scare him, but even if Jerome had never acted on his thoughts, Jeremiah had always suspected that he wanted to. He could always see it in his eyes, the way Jerome had looked at him. Like a predator, waiting for any sign of vulnerability to strike. Like if Jeremiah so much as tripped, Jerome would be on top of him to rip him limb from limb. He was scared, terrified of what Jerome would do to him. He’d needed to act before it was too late, had to protect himself in some way. 

So he did, and it hadn’t taken much. Far less than Jeremiah had thought it would. 

Crying to Lila about Jerome holding a knife to his throat had been the final straw, and she’d pulled him out of bed the next morning -- quite literally. The memory of Jerome’s confused half asleep face morphing into anger when he saw their mother snatching his brother out of his arms is still fresh in his mind. As is the memory of Jerome’s cries as Zach beat him on the trailer steps for trying to pull Jeremiah back from Lila. He hadn’t forgotten the feeling of Jerome’s hands tight on his ankles either, the desperation-fear-anger-confusion in his eyes when Jeremiah’s own had met them. 

He’d been safe from Jerome after that, at the orphanage and then with the Wildes, but he’d never been able to escape the longing, the guilt that would burn him from the inside when he laid in his bed at night. 

Alone. 

Jeremiah had never slept alone before. 

Sometimes the loneliness and guilt would get so bad, so painful, so choking that Jeremiah would often wonder if he’d made the right decision. 

The guilt never went away and as much as he tried to smother it and lock it down, it had only grown over the years. Especially once Jerome’s name became a well known one throughout Gotham. 

He’d broken down about it to Ecco more than enough times after one too many drinks. It was all too much; Jerome killing their mother, Jerome terrorizing and killing people, his performance at the Wayne benefit, his death, his rebirth, kidnapping Thomas Wayne’s son and attempting to murder him at a carnival not unlike the circus they’d grown up in... Jeremiah had felt guilty, responsible for it all.

He still does, in a way. 

He can’t help but feel like he’d caused this, this Jerome, no matter how much Ecco had tried to convince and reassure him otherwise. She’d told him that he’d been a scared, abused child, and he’d done what he could to get away from a horrible situation, and that he wasn’t responsible for Lila and Zach’s actions, that they were adults who should have known better than to treat the twins like they did. And rationally, Jeremiah knew she was probably right, but.. 

Jerome had been a scared, abused child, too. 

And Jeremiah had left him, abandoned him to suffer under Lila and Zach’s hands alone. For eight years. Until Jerome wasn’t able to take it any longer and he did something about it too, only with far bloodier results. 

It’s quiet for a moment, Jeremiah momentarily buried in his own thoughts and Jerome staring at him, watching his expression, gleefully eating up the pain he can see written all over Jeremiah’s face. 

“I gotta say, you really do look good, Miah,” Jerome says, bobbing his head in and inhaling loudly from somewhere around Jeremiah’s neck. His heart flutters nervously in his chest. “You smell good too,” he mumbles, and Jeremiah jerks when something wet and slimy slicks up his throat -- Jerome’s tongue, Jeremiah belatedly realizes with some horror -- stopping just under his jawline. 

Jerome’s breath puffs out against the wet spot when he laughs, hot and moist, and a shiver works through Jeremiah at the sensation. 

“And you know what? You taste even better.”

There’s a change in the air around them and Jeremiah can’t put his finger on it, isn’t sure why it makes the ball of anxiety in his gut wind even tighter. 

His answer comes in the form of scarred, chapped lips suddenly slamming onto his own, and Jeremiah chokes out a cry of surprise that’s swallowed up by Jerome’s mouth. Jerome’s hands cage his wrists and smack them harshly against the wall, his body pressing against Jeremiah’s own so close that it almost seems that he wishes to crawl into Jeremiah’s skin and make a home for himself there. 

His stomach twists when he realizes he doesn’t completely hate it, long buried feelings bubbling to the surface, feelings that Jeremiah has choked and suffocated under for years. 

We’re brothers. This is wrong, this is so wrong. 

But Jerome has never once in his life cared about what was wrong, and Jeremiah knows that voicing his thoughts would get him nowhere. It would only make Jerome laugh, or worse, encourage him further. Or, far more likely, both. 

As if he could read Jeremiah’s thoughts and as if he were eager to prove a point, Jerome’s tongue bullies its way past Jeremiah’s lips and Jeremiah muffles a squeal. Jerome hungrily licks into his mouth, greedily mapping out every centimeter of flesh he can, and he makes the foulest, debauched sounds as he does. And it’s sickening, but Jeremiah can’t find it in himself to fight as much as he should. He struggles weakly against Jerome’s hold -- bony fingers tighten around his wrists as a result -- but the muffled whimper that Jerome drinks down isn’t one of fear. 

The fact that Jeremiah had made such a sound makes him feel like a disgusting, sick pervert. But the worst part, the most strangling, sickening part, is that it's not an unfamiliar feeling. He and it had become horribly well acquainted once Jeremiah had hit puberty and all he’d been able to think about was Jerome’s hands on his body. 

But despite those feelings, Jeremiah doesn’t want this -- at least, not like this you don’t, a voice in his head whispers -- and he knows Jerome doesn’t care about that either. 

Jeremiah knows this, because he knows Jerome better than anyone else ever could, and given this fact he thinks he should have expected the hand releasing his wrist and the fist slamming into his gut. 

He doesn’t. 

Jerome’s raspy giggle rings in Jeremiah’s ears as he chokes on the air forced from his lungs, and he sinks to his knees with an agonized sound once Jerome releases his other wrist. It hurts, it hurts, and Jeremiah is extremely grateful he’d chosen to skip lunch that day. He groans and clutches his stomach with both hands, head bowed and back curled as he tries to curl into himself as much as possible. 

Jerome has a proficiency for punches that make you feel like you’re dying, like you’ll never get back the air he’s knocked out of you, like he’s ruptured your organs and your body cavity is filling up with your life’s blood. Jeremiah’s known this since childhood and it doesn’t surprise him that it’s yet another quirk of Jerome’s that hasn’t changed. 

“We’re runnin’ on borrowed time here, broski,” Jerome’s voice comes from above him, and his obnoxiously pristine white shoes move closer into Jeremiah’s line of sight. He almost wishes he’d had something in his gut when Jerome punched him; it would be a satisfying dig to puke on and soil them, though he’s sure it would end in his grey matter painting the bottom of them too as Jerome caved in his skull for having the audacity to ruin his shoes. “So you’ll have to excuse me if I skip that soft shit. It’s not like you deserve it anyway, but ya know, I just got so caught up in the moment.”

Jerome’s words are not only condescending -- Jeremiah doesn’t think Jerome is capable of speaking without being condescending -- but confusing as well. Jeremiah prides himself on his intelligence, but intelligence can only count for so much when it comes to someone as unpredictable as Jerome. 

But given the kiss, Jeremiah thinks it shouldn’t be so surprising that when he lifts his head to look up at Jerome, a confused, gaspy “what..?” spilling from his lips, he’s faced with the sight of Jerome’s gloved fingers yanking down the zipper to his pants. 

Realization clicks into place, and Jeremiah's heart stops at the same moment his aching stomach drops. 

“No.. no, nonono- Jerome, you wouldn’t--” He would. They both know this. “-- don’t, please don’t!” Jeremiah falls back on his rear and skitters backwards, the fabric of his pants and the bottoms of his shoes scuffing against the concrete floor as he desperately tries to escape. 

But he doesn’t have far to go, and Jerome follows him with a few lazy steps, and Jeremiah’s back hits the wall for the second time since Jerome found him, only this is so much worse. He has to look up at Jerome now, and he feels even more like trapped prey than he did before. It doesn’t help that Jerome is grinning down at him, wide and toothy, like he’s thinking of gnawing Jeremiah’s flesh from his bones. 

The feeling gets worse when Jerome pulls his cock out, and Jeremiah isn’t surprised to see that he’s hard.

Jeremiah wants to bring his knees to his chest and bury his face in them, to hide away from Jerome and hope he goes away like a bad nightmare. But of course that wouldn’t do anything. Hiding away from Jerome never does anything. 

A sound between a cry and sob bursts from Jeremiah as Jerome’s fingers suddenly knot in his hair and yank him forward, his free hand wrapping around his cock so that he can rub the head of it mockingly against Jeremiah’s lips. Tears swell up and spill over, and any effort to pull his head away is thwarted by Jerome’s painful grip in his hair. 

“Ya put a lot of words in my mouth, baby bro,” Jerome croons, tracing the velvety head of his cock against Jeremiah’s lower lip. “And at first, I was gonna put a bullet in it, but I thought of somethin’ a lot better to put in yours.”

Jeremiah would prefer the bullet over this. 

The sentiment must show on his face somehow -- or maybe it doesn’t, Jeremiah can never really be sure what amuses Jerome sometimes -- because Jerome giggles and moves the head to the middle of Jeremiah’s lips, and presses. 

“Why don’t ya be a good boy and say ‘ahhh’ for me, Miah?” He presses again, fingers curling in dark ginger locks. “Let’s see if you inherited any of those good dick suckin’ genes from mommy dearest.”

Revulsion rises in Jeremiah, and he very determinedly keeps his lips pressed together. He’s terrified and there are tears sliding down his cheeks, but he refuses to be complicit in this, no matter the sick feelings for Jerome that lurk in his heart and in his brain. 

You’re not even fighting him. You’re just sitting here, letting him do this to you. You enjoy it, that voice sneers, and Jeremiah wants to tear his own brain out. You're getting what you've always wanted. Stop sniveling like a child and admit it.

Jerome, unaware of Jeremiah’s internal crisis, seems to enjoy the small amount of disobedience. His eyes light up and he giggles again, using his grip on Jeremiah’s hair to give his head a rough little shake as if he were trying to rattle the thoughts out of Jeremiah’s skull himself. “Are you seriously gonna try the tough guy act? It doesn’t really suit ya. But that bein’ said, I don’t mind a bit of a challenge.” 

Jerome’s fingers move from his cock to Jeremiah’s face, and for a heart pounding moment Jeremiah thinks Jerome might break the lens to his glasses and send the shards into Jeremiah’s eyes. He’d ‘joked’ about it enough when they children for it to be a legitimate concern. 

He makes no effort to blind or maim Jeremiah, though. Instead, he pinches Jeremiah’s nose shut between his thumb and his forefinger and waits. 

And soon, as happy as Jeremiah would be to let himself suffocate so that he wouldn’t have to live through this, survival instincts kick in; his struggles are fruitless and Jeremiah has no choice but to open his mouth in a rough gasp for air. 

His lungs have barely expanded before Jerome’s cock is being shoved into his mouth. 

Jerome's cock slides against his tongue, hard and hot, until the head hits the back of Jeremiah's throat and he gags violently. Jerome's hands keep him from retreating, the one that had been holding his nose now grasping the back of his head and keeping him in place. Jeremiah is trapped with nowhere to go, no way to get this offending cock of his mouth. The knowledge that it's Jerome -- his brother, his twin, his other half -- doing this hurts more than anything physical Jerome could ever do to him. 

Jeremiah coughs weakly around Jerome's cock, a miserable whine following it. He ignores the pleased sound Jerome makes as a result. His lips are stretched and his jaw is already starting to ache. Jerome's grip on his hair isn't weakening either, and it stings his scalp horribly. Jeremiah keeps his eyes clenched shut through all of it. He wants to block this out, wants to go numb and braindead. He doesn't want to look at Jerome while Jerome violates him. 

"Hey." 

The hand at the back of his head moves to give him a light slap in the same spot. 

Jeremiah ignores him the best he can, and gets a harsher slap as a result. He flinches.

"Hey. If ya know what's good for ya, you better not ignore me when I'm talking to you. You of all people should know how I get when I'm ignored. " He gives Jeremiah's hair a harsh yank, making him whimper. "Open your eyes. Now."

Jeremiah whimpers a second time and regretfully obeys, cracking his eyes open and directing his gaze upwards. Jerome is looking down at him of course, the irritation and annoyance covering his marred face bleeding into pure satisfaction when he sees that Jeremiah's eyes are open. 

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" His hand trails from the back of Jeremiah's head to his face, gloved fingers sliding against every scrap of skin he can reach. They come to a rest on the side of his cheek and it's a bastardization of a gentle touch. Jeremiah wishes he had the courage to bite Jerome's cock off and make a run for it. Jerome smiles, extended lips pulling wider and wider. "Unlike some other things." He jerks his hips pointedly, shoving his cock further into Jeremiah's mouth, making him choke as Jerome giggles at his own joke. 

"Now, you're gonna suck my dick, and you're gonna suck it good. And if you do a good job, baby bro, then maybe I won't give ya a smile to match mine."

Fear pulses through Jeremiah at Jerome's words, his fingers clutching the blood orange fabric of his pants over his thighs. He knows Jerome isn't joking, isn't exaggerating. He'd do it; shove a knife past Jeremiah's lips just like he did his cock and carve him a matching glasglow. 

He doesn't expect to feel Jerome lightly tracing his cheek, stroking him like a beloved toy. 

"Would kill me to mess up these chubby little cheeks," Jerome muses, "though I think it'd be fine." 

Jeremiah tries to beg, tries to say 'please don't', but he obviously can't; his mouth is far too full. It just comes out as a pitiful, muffled sound. Jerome ignores him, using his hold on Jeremiah's hair to forcibly tilt his head, pulling back slightly and angling his hips at the same time as Jeremiah cries miserably. The new angle makes Jerome's cock press against the inside of Jeremiah's cheek. 

"You'll still be pretty." 

The remark draws Jeremiah's attention and he looks back up at Jerome. It takes him a moment to remember what Jerome's talking about before it clicks. Ah. The matching scars. 

There's an odd look on Jerome's face, though. He's still smiling -- he always is -- but it's not wide and sickly mirthful. It's more subdued, the thinnest show of teeth. His eyes are dark and full of pure possession. There's something else there too, something buried deep beneath that possession, that Jeremiah can't entirely place. It's familiar in a way, reminds him of their days as children, but he can't put a name to it. It doesn't make him feel any better, though. Jerome's hungry gaze still makes him feel horrified and sick. 

"Pretty,” Jerome repeats in a mumble, his thumb stroking over the bulge in Jeremiah’s cheek. “You always were a pretty little thing, weren’t ya, Miah?” 

The compliment was agonizing to begin with and is even more so now, and Jeremiah warbles a distressed noise from around Jerome’s cock.

Jerome's smile widens at the sound, full of glee and satisfaction. Salt being rubbed into the open, bleeding wound. 

“I’d love to take my time with you, baby bro.” Jerome’s fingers flex in his hair. “Pull ya apart, break ya down, drive ya fucking mad. You’d be makin’ all sorts’a pretty noises for me.” Jeremiah tries not to whimper in fear. He knows that’s just what Jerome would want. “Honestly that’s the only thing that sucks --” He snickers at his own accidental pun and Jeremiah wishes he could hate him. “-- about this. I can’t make ya scream for me.”

He readjusts Jeremiah’s head, holding him still with the grip on his hair as he slowly starts to thrust his hips, sliding his cock rhythmically into Jeremiah’s mouth. “I guess there is always next time, though,” he says around a pleased sigh. “We got a lot of time to make up for, after all.” 

Jeremiah gags again, and he’s not sure if it was Jerome’s cock hitting the back of his throat over and over or if it was his words that caused it. 

Jerome’s cock hits the back of his throat again, Jerome’s moan resonates in his ears, and Jeremiah lets his brain run on blank slate autopilot. He stares up at Jerome’s grinning, marred face with empty eyes, and he’s not sure how long it lasts, or how long Jerome uses him. And Jerome does use him. His fingers are tight in Jeremiah’s hair and he’s fucking into Jeremiah’s mouth as if he were nothing more than a sex toy. But Jerome’s slurred, moaned words keep him hooked to the fact that he’s a person, and that Jerome is using every chance to remind Jeremiah just who he’s doing this to. 

“You’re doin’ so good, baby bro. Taking- taking my cock like a fuckin’ pro. Mom would be proud.” 

Jeremiah wants to hate him. There’s spit dribbling down his chin and sliding down his neck, wetting the collar of his suit. 

“Fuck, yeah. Takin’ it like you were made for it. Ya probably were. This sweet little mouth of yours was made for tellin’ lies and sucking my dick.” 

Jerome’s free hand presses against his throat, feeling it expand and contract as his cock slides down Jeremiah’s throat over and over. Jeremiah doesn’t think he’s ever choked and gagged so much in his entire life. 

“You like it, don’tcha Miah? You like havin’ your big brother’s dick in your mouth.” 

Jeremiah doesn’t, but the fact that his pants are getting tighter makes him out to be a liar. 

Liar liar liar.

Shame and mortification fill him, and he makes a muffled sound of pure anguish from around Jerome’s cock. The vibration makes Jerome loudly, snapping his hips and sending Jeremiah into another violent gag. Tears are pouring down his face, sliding and mixing with the saliva drenching his suit collar. He knows, rationally, that he can’t help being aroused, that it’s just his body’s reaction to stimuli, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Especially when Jerome notices. 

Jerome’s eyes drop lower and then they widen slightly. He looks delighted. His head cocks to the side and he giggles shakily, the sound off put by his heavy breathing. “Well would ya look at that. Does sucking my dick make you hard, Miah? What are ya, a fag or something?”

Jeremiah whines. He wishes he could close his eyes and pretend this is all a bad nightmare. He doesn't even have it in him to wonder if Jerome sees the irony in calling Jeremiah such a thing when he's doing this to him so happily.

“Sick little freak, aren’tcha? Dramatic too.” He shoves his cock down Jeremiah’s throat and holds, making a loud sound of distress rise in Jeremiah’s full throat. His hands come up to weakly push against Jerome’s hips, wide, panicked eyes looking desperately up at Jerome’s face. Jeremiah tries to take in ragged, desperate breaths through his nose, but it’s not enough, it’s not enough-- 

Jerome pulls back but doesn’t pull out, and Jeremiah coughs around his cock. He’s still not getting enough air, and he’s starting to feel lightheaded.  

“Crying and whining like the little crybaby you always have been when this is getting you off. I’m not surprised, though. You always did have a habit for using those crocodile tears.” 

Jerome’s thrusting turns violent and hurried after that, and it takes Jeremiah’s foggy brain a moment to realize what that means. Relief and terror fill his chest. Jerome is going to cum soon. This will be over -- maybe, hopefully -- but Jerome is going to cum. In Jeremiah’s mouth. Horror joins its companions in his heart when the thought makes his cock twitch in his pants.

He’s disgusting. Repulsive. Maybe he deserves this. 

Jeremiah doesn’t get the chance to prepare himself for it -- and to be fair, how could he ever prepare himself for such a thing? How could he ever have prepared himself for any of this -- because Jerome slams his cock down Jeremiah’s throat one more time, and much to Jeremiah’s distress, holds again, only it’s much worse this time. 

Jerome holds him there again, his nose buried in the thick patch of ginger hair at the base of his brother’s cock -- far too similar to his own, he’s going to shave all of his off after this, he needs to change as many of their similarities that are still left as he can -- and his throat jerking and struggling around the girth of Jerome’s cock. Jerome is still hurriedly thrusting his hips, working his cock into Jeremiah’s throat, his hand pressing harder, harder against Jeremiah’s throat. He’s moaning and hissing out curses and sick little promises from up above, and his words buzz around inside of Jeremiah’s fuzz filled skull like deadly hornets stinging him and filling him with venom. 

Jeremiah retches and gags violently -- he’s going to puke, he’s going to fucking puke all over Jerome’s cock -- but Jerome doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he seems to be into it, based on how his jaw goes slack with a loud, ragged moan. Jeremiah’s eyes flow over with even more tears and he finally squeezes them shut, a miserable, weak whine reverberating in his throat. 

Jerome apparently likes that too because he curses sharply above Jeremiah, and his hips jerk once, twice and suddenly he’s cumming down Jeremiah’s throat. 

Another horrible, violent gag is wrenched from him and he can’t take it-- his harsh sob is muffled and choked by the pulsing cock still in his throat and he’s sputtering and coughing, cum bubbling up through his sinuses and dripping out of his nose from the force of it all-- and it’s extremely unlikely but still in the back of his mind he thinks, I’m going to die like this, this is how I’m going to die -- 

And then Jerome backs off, pulling out with a perverse slick sound and letting go of Jeremiah’s hair, stepping back. 

Jeremiah crashes forward, only just barely managing to catch himself on his trembling hands as he retches once more before vomiting all over the corridor floor. He ignores Jerome taking a another hurried step backwards and his stupid, childish little, “gross.” The acid burns his throat and his nose, making him cough even more as he wheezes and dry heaves. 

“Well,” Jerome drawls, his voice teetering on breathless, tucking himself back into his trousers. “Super dramatic projectile vomiting aside, that was fun. Not a bad job for your first blowie-- well, I’m assuming your first, no offense but you don’t seem like you’ve been getting much action around here. Or like, ever.” He reaches down and ruffles Jeremiah’s hair and something inside of Jeremiah cracks at the harmless brotherly act after something so horrible and disgusting. 

He sits back on his knees, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. He knows he must look terrible: his glasses gone, his hair disheveled and his face a wet, red, splotchy mess with swollen lips to match. He doesn’t even want to think about the state of his suit, the stains down the chest or the mortifyingly obvious wet spot on the flagging tented crotch of his pants.

Tetch and Crane break through the tense, suffocating silence, the louder of the two hollering about having to leave. They race past and Jerome looks after them, buttoning his pants like he has all day to do so, like this is the most casual thing he’s done, like he didn’t just rape his brother. “Those pigs really don’t know how to give up, do they?” He shakes his head and straightens his jacket.

Please leave, please just leave, Jeremiah thinks despairingly, putting his face in his hands. 

Dirty. He feels so fucking dirty. Disgusting. He’s never going to be clean again. Jerome has tainted him, poisoned him. Ruined him. 

He doesn’t look up when Jerome leans down, smacking an obnoxious kiss to the crown of his head, crooning a playful, “See ya real soon, baby bro.” 

He doesn’t look up after Jerome taps him on the same spot and childishly crows, “Tag, you’re it!” 

And he doesn’t look up after the sounds of Jerome’s footsteps and cackles fade and the door to the exit opens and slams shut behind him.

Jeremiah sniffles loudly and spits on the floor, wiping his hands down his face and shakily climbing to his feet. His throat feels like thorns have ripped across it and his nose burns horribly. He swipes his sleeve across it and ignores the substance now smeared across the fabric. He leans against the wall and pulls himself together the best that he can, running a hand over his hair to smooth down the torn at locks. It won’t be enough to hide what happened, he knows, but he has to regain some form of control. He can’t bear to let anybody see what Jerome had reduced him to. It’s unacceptable. 

Gordon and his partner find him not long after Jerome leaves, and Jeremiah’s not sure if he’s relieved or upset that Ecco isn’t with them. She’s the closest thing he has to a friend now, but he can’t bear the thought of her seeing him like this. It’s already bad enough that these two incompetent fools are seeing Jeremiah at his lowest.  He pretends that he can’t see how Detective Gordon looks at him, eyes scanning over Jeremiah’s face and body, and he pretends he can’t see the horrified and disgusted look on the cop’s pale face when he realizes just what had happened in their absence. 

Gordon’s face is far easier to ignore than his hand is, though. Half raised with fingers twitching, like he so badly wants to reach out and touch Jeremiah, to try and comfort him maybe. 

It’s nothing short of laughable, and the very idea of this useless pig trying to do something now, trying to touch Jeremiah, is enough to make him want to retch, sob, and rip the offending limb off all in one. 

“I believe an order of protection is what you should be offering me right about now, Detective Gordon. Not your hand,” Jeremiah manages as he straightens his tie, cutting the detective an unimpressed look and holding back the urge to flinch at how utterly ruined his voice sounds. 

Jim frowns and lowers his hand back to his side. “I- yeah, yes, of course. I apologize. If you’ll just come with us Mr. Valeska, we’ll put you into protective custody until this whole mess with your brother is sorted out.”

Gordon’s voice is softer, more gentle, and it makes Jeremiah bristle. It’s nothing but salt in the still fresh, still bleeding wound. He doesn’t need their pity, nor does he want it.

Some form of distaste must show on Jeremiah’ face, because Jim's frown deepens and Jeremiah can hear him blow a quiet sigh through his nose. The pity is still there, lurking in the depths of those irritatingly blue eyes, and Jeremiah is tempted to make another barbed comment. 

But he’s tired, so, so tired. He doesn’t have the energy for this, not right now, not so soon. 

Gesturing down the opposite end of the hallway, away from the neon purple hue of the exit, he clears his throat. 

“Shall we then, gentlemen?” 

His voice doesn’t sound any better, any less ruined, and it’s all Jeremiah can think about as he leads the two men back through the maze to his office and to the entrance, as they load Ecco up into the police cruiser beside him, and as he stares out the window at the moving trees. 

Gordon and Bullock are mumbling quietly to themselves upfront, Ecco is still unconscious beside him, and Jeremiah utters a cracking sigh. He moves to take off his glasses but realizes he still doesn’t have them. Somehow that makes everything feel worse and he sighs again, rubbing his fingers over his suddenly wet eyes. 

He can’t stop hearing about Jerome’s voice, Jerome’s laugh. Can’t stop feeling Jerome’s touch on his skin, in his hair.

Jeremiah digs his fingers into his eyes until he sees bursting little lights behind them. He swallows heavily and he can still taste his own vomit, can still taste Jerome’s cock and Jerome’s cum. 

He’s never wanted a drink so fucking bad in his life. He aches for a better taste on his tongue, for the soothing burn and numbness. 

Jeremiah thinks about how his voice would sound if he were to speak again, and maybe his voice sounds fitting for how he feels. 

Ruined voice, ruined body, ruined soul. 

Ruined little boy with a ruined mind. 

Just like he has been ever since he was seven years old and wondered what it would feel like to kiss his big brother.