Work Text:
As Bruce Wayne flipped the page of a dusty book on the couch in his father's study, he did everything to pretend he wasn't dead inside. He had almost killed Jerome Valeska a few days ago; almost stabbed him to death with a glass shard from the house of mirrors. He couldn't look at himself in a mirror for too long, or else he'd feel overcome by the urge to break it and stab himself with a shard instead.
So he tried to keep his mind occupied. He and Alfred had begun training twice daily in order to fill some of the time. For the rest of it, Bruce read books from his father's vast collection, trying to discover why it had been on the shelf in the first place. What drew his father to reading it, and what convinced him to keep it? It was a little game Bruce played with himself, the best distraction he could manage. But the green of Jerome's eyes remained just beneath the surface of each of Bruce's thoughts. The rim of blood around his eyelids.
The phone on his father's desk rang, its shrill tone jerking Bruce from his already weak concentration. He stood, wondering who would call at this hour, especially considering that few had knowledge of the study's private phone number. Bruce rounded the desk and picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hiya, Brucie," the voice on the other end breathed.
Bruce's expression hardened. "Jerome."
"Aw, so nice to know you remember my voice. It's not as pretty as it used to be, but it's got a nice rasp to it, don't you think?"
"Why did you call me? And how did you access a phone?"
"Details, details," Jerome replied. "It's not hard to find a phone when the boss man leaves every night to fuck his mistress in the motel down the street."
"I'm going to hang up, Jerome, and call Arkham to tell them you're out of your cell." Bruce knew on some level that he was bluffing.
"Oh, you won't do that!" Jerome giggled. "And spoil the fun? I haven't even told ya why I called."
Bruce sighed, taking a seat at the desk. "Why did you call, Jerome?"
A pause.
"I wanted to hear your voice."
Bruce's heart raced. He couldn't unravel the intentions behind Jerome's statement, but the possibilities made his breath hitch.
"I miss ya, darling," Jerome said. "You were really something the other night. You gave me a run for my money."
"You weren't hard to defeat," Bruce replied firmly, willing his voice not to waver. His cream-colored turtleneck sweater clung to his neck, as if it were slowly choking him, while he waited for Jerome's next words.
"Well, I was working with a stapled-on face," Jerome said. "In case you were wondering, they're gonna sew it back on for me in a few days. Right now it's still staple-ville for me."
Bruce said nothing.
"How did it feel to hit me, Bruce? To feel my face move under your knuckles, hmm?"
"Is this why you called me? To ask how it felt?" Bruce rebutted.
"I already told ya, I miss ya," Jerome sighed dramatically. "Now, answer the question, Bruce."
"It felt good," Bruce said with an unexpected amount of honesty. "I felt like I could have killed you."
"Why didn't ya, then?"
Bruce hesitated, then responded. "I couldn't have that on my conscience, I suppose."
"You're such a good boy, aren't you, Brucie?" Jerome drawled. Bruce's stomach turned when the words good boy left the maniac's mouth. It stirred something within him that he didn't like. "Always playing by the rules."
"Maybe if you played by the rules, you wouldn't be in Arkham with a cut-off face," Bruce retorted.
"Ooh, you've got a little bite to ya. I like it."
"I'm going to hang up now, Jerome," Bruce declared, though he made no move to lower the phone from his ear.
"Except I know that you won't do that. Because if you do..." Jerome snorted. "Well, let's just say boss man's in for a surprise when he returns to his office."
Bruce swallowed. He couldn't tell if Jerome was bluffing or not, but he couldn't afford to take that chance.
"Okay," Bruce said. "I'm here. What do you want?"
"I want you to imagine something for me," Jerome replied. "Remember when you were on top of me in that house of mirrors, Bruce? Holding that shard above my neck, ready to strike?"
Bruce felt sick to his stomach. "Yes."
Jerome chuckled. "What if I told ya that I was hard underneath ya in that moment?"
"What?" Bruce must have heard him wrong.
Jerome's chuckle grew louder and lower. "Feeling your ass on me as you decided whether I lived or died really did something to me, darling."
Bruce didn't reply. He couldn't. His mind clouded suddenly, and his turtleneck gripped his neck like a strong, freckled hand.
"I bet you felt it, too," Jerome continued. "You probably just tried to ignore it, didn't ya? I wish you had shown me that ya felt it. Because then we coulda had more fun."
"W-what do you mean?" Bruce wanted to shoot himself after asking such a stupid question, but his body was hot and his groin was stirring and he couldn't understand why he wasn't able to think straight.
"The moment I knew ya felt me under you, I woulda grabbed you by that cute little sweater and pulled you down to me. Woulda kissed your pretty lips, Brucie."
"You would have kissed me?"
"Well, the best I could've, ya know, with the face and all," Jerome replied. "All that blood in your mouth, Bruce, blood that you caused. What would you have done?"
"I would have pulled away, of course!" Bruce fought his body's reaction, tried to wade through the fog in his brain to see clearly.
"Would you have killed me then?" Jerome's voice was taunting.
"No."
"Then I woulda pulled you right back down." Jerome chuckled. "Woulda grabbed you by the hips and ground you down on me."
Bruce's breath hitched again, and this time he knew that Jerome heard it.
"You like that, huh? The thought of your cute little ass grinding against my cock?"
"N-no." Bruce was only making a fool of himself at this point, he knew that. His cheeks burned when he realized that the more he tried to deny what his body was feeling, the hotter his skin burned.
"Liar," Jerome giggled. "I bet you woulda started moaning against my mouth in a matter of seconds. I can smell the virgin on ya, you woulda been so desperate for me already."
"I'm f-fifteen! Of course I'm a virgin!" Bruce defended, but again, his cheeks seared with the realization that every defense was further burying him in a hole of his own shame.
"Fuckin' tease, that's what you are," Jerome chided. "Bet I coulda turned you into a little teenage whore in a matter of minutes, if you'd let me."
Bruce's breathing was heavy; he knew Jerome could hear it through the phone. He took a hint from his past self and said nothing in reply.
"Aren't you gonna ask how I'd turn you into a whore in a matter of minutes?"
"No."
Jerome chuckled. "Well, I'll tell ya anyways. First I woulda pushed you off me, and I woulda ran out of that mirror maze and grabbed my staple gun. Woulda stapled my face back on."
"I'd have escaped by then, I wouldn't be there when you got back," Bruce replied.
"Oh, but you would bee. Ya see, before I left I woulda told you to be a good little boy for me and stay right where you were."
Bruce whimpered, then he slapped his hand over his mouth as if it would have made a difference.
"Oooh, you like that, don't ya, Brucie? Being big bad Jerome's good little boy?"
"N-no."
Jerome snorted. "Still trying to deny it, huh? It'll feel so much better if you just give in. I bet your body's hot right now. Bet your dick is hard in your khakis. You are wearing khakis, aren't you?"
Bruce glanced down at himself, and cursed himself silently for being so predictable.
"I woulda come back to that house of mirrors to find you rutting against the ground, trying to get any relief you could," Jerome continued. "You wanted so badly to get off, cum in your pants and escape before I came back, but you weren't successful, poor thing, because ya knew nothing could satisfy you like my cock."
A strangled moan fought its way up Bruce's throat, and he leaned back in his chair, defeated.
"Fuck, Brucie, I'm so hard for you right now. Are you hard, darling? Are you hard for me, too?"
Bruce didn't even need to look down to know his dick was straining against his pants, desperate for release.
"Y-yes," he admitted. Jerome groaned into the phone, and the sound set Bruce off.
"Touch yourself, Bruce. Don't feel bad about it. Just be a good boy for me and stroke your cock while thinking about what I'm telling ya."
Bruce moaned, allowing himself to, he was too far gone to argue. He held the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he reached down to undo his pants and pull his cock from his boxer briefs. He whimpered as he wrapped his hand around it, guilt, shame, and arousal mixing together into a toxic concoction in his stomach.
"Good boy, you're touching yourself for me, aren't ya?"
"Yes, Jerome," Bruce breathed.
Jerome moaned into the phone. "Since you weren't successful at getting yourself off against the floor, I woulda taken pity on you. Woulda pressed you down into the ground by your face and pulled those pants offa you. I bet your ass is so pretty, darling. Bet it would look so beautiful stretched around my cock."
Bruce whined. "P-please!"
"See? I knew I could turn ya into a whore in a matter of minutes."
Bruce choked out a sob; Jerome was right, Bruce really was just a whore, if he could have him unravelling at the seams with his voice alone. What was wrong with him?
"I'd take my time opening you up. I bet Gordon and your butler would have been searching the fair for ya right about then, but they wouldn't find us in there. Not yet."
"Jerome!" Bruce moaned.
"I'd start with my tongue. You ever wondered how a tongue against your little pink asshole would feel? I'll tell ya: so fucking good."
Bruce whimpered, and he drooled a bit on his hand in order to lube up his cock as he stroked it to the thought of getting rimmed by one of the most notorious criminals in Gotham.
"You'd open up so good for me, Brucie. You'd already be begging for release from my tongue alone. But I would wrap my fingers around the base of that pretty virgin cock so you couldn't cum just yet."
"Please, Jerome."
"That's exactly how you'd be begging me for it, fuck."
"I want it," Bruce admitted, twisting his hand around his dick. "Want you."
"I knew you'd come around," Jerome chuckled darkly, his breathing heavy. "I'd work a couple fingers in ya then. My cock is so big, if I didn't prep ya right then you'd be split in half on it."
Bruce whimpered.
"I'd keep your head pressed into the ground as I entered you, making sure you felt like the whore you are as my cock entered your pretty little hole. Facedown in a hall of mirrors taking villain cock like you were born to. You'd see yourself, too, darling, in every angle those mirrors could offer. You could watch yourself come apart on my cock."
"Fuck, Jerome, please!" Bruce could barely think, his mind was glued to the images Jerome presented to him, gripping his dick roughly as he neared completion.
"I'd fuck you senseless," Jerome said. "All that cute clown makeup would be all but gone by then because of how much of a sweaty mess I'd make you. And that turtleneck would be choking you just right, hmm? Choking you so I didn't have to, so I could keep both hands on your little hips and fuck deep into you?"
"Yes, yes, yes..." Bruce repeated like a mantra, unable to ignore the way his current turtleneck was choking him now. He found himself wishing it was Jerome's hand. A hand that had taken lives. A hand he knew could never end his.
"Have you ever felt your prostate? You ever fingered yourself deep enough to feel it?"
"N-no."
"Fuck, you're really gonna make me break outta here and come show you how to be a proper cockslut, aren't you?"
Bruce could only moan in response.
"I'm not taking that as a no," Jerome chuckled. "When I'm in you, I'll be hitting it over and over, and you won't be able to handle it. It feels so good, Brucie. Wanna hit your sweet spot before anyone else. Promise me you'll let me. Be a good boy for me and don't ever finger yourself until I've fucked you, until I've ruined you for anyone else, even your own fingers."
"Fuck, Jerome!"
"Promise me, Bruce Wayne!"
"Fuck! I promise!" Bruce cried, unable to stop himself.
"You're so good for me, so good, fuck, fuck, Bruce!"
"Jerome!"
"Are you close for me? You gonna cum in your hand and wish it was my hand wrapped around you? Gonna always pretend it is from now on when you jerk yourself off at night? When your precious butler can't hear you moan my name?"
"Jerome--"
"Just like that, princess. Fuck, you are my little princess, aren't you?"
Bruce moaned, but he asked, "What?"
"Daddy's little princess," Jerome replied, sending shockwaves through Bruce's brain. "Fuck, wasn't even gonna tell you about that until next time, but I can't help it. Wanna fuck you so bad, Bruce."
"D-" Bruce caught himself, but he couldn't resist. "Daddy..."
"Fuck! I'm cumming!" Jerome growled into the phone. His voice hitched and he groaned repeatedly like a wave washing upon a shore, in and out, in and out.
"Jerome!" Bruce cried as he reached his own release.
He came over his hand and the edge of his father's desk, stroking himself through his orgasm, dreaming of Jerome sneaking in and taking him against the antique wood.
For a couple minutes, neither of them said anything. They breathed over the phone, and the reality of the situation began to settle on Bruce. He was so fucked up. Fucked up beyond repair.
"Ya know, when I first called, I figured I had about a twenty-five percent chance that you'd give in," Jerome said finally. "So glad you did. Now I know how desperate you are for me."
"We can't do this ever again. It's not right."
"Sure we can," Jerome replied. "Unless you don't wanna be my good little boy anymore? I guess I'll have to find someone in here who will--"
"No," Bruce cut him off, startling himself.
"Mmm, possessive little thing, aren't we?"
Bruce didn't reply; there was nothing he could say to deny Jerome's observation.
"Don't worry, Brucie, I'll see ya real soon," Jerome said. "You might wanna invest in some lube while ya wait. Might make playtime easier."
Bruce whimpered. "W-will you call again?"
"Who am I to disappoint such a good little boy?"