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The chest behind Bruce’s back was warm and hard and the heat radiated waves through him, bringing a flush to wherever it could reach on his skin. He didn’t even have his clothes off yet. He barely understood where he was. Everything was soft and purple like May flowers, a fuzzy haze over Bruce’s psyche.
He did understand, though, that Jerome Valeska was muttering against his ear and Jeremiah Valeska was pressing tender kisses down his stomach and his crotch. Which. Well. It wasn’t ideal. It was impossible to comprehend, so Bruce made a pathetic whining noise and squirmed, trying to pull himself away, but his hands wouldn’t come free from whatever restraints they were under.
“Baby boy’s awake,” Jerome cooed, nuzzling the crook of Bruce’s neck and sliding a hand up his sweater. “Jesus, we must’ve done a number on ya. Dosage was too heavy.”
“Hello, Bruce.” Jeremiah looked up and beamed before he pressed a firm and gentle kiss to Bruce’s lips. The lipstick was coming off Jeremiah’s mouth, painting Bruce in sticky colors instead. “We thought, you know, it is your birthday, after all, so it was my idea to—“
“Watch yourself, bro,” Jeremiah said, his voice sharp as his fingernails bit into the skin on Bruce’s stomach. Bruce let out a tiny gasp, tensing up. What the hell was going on? “I think you’ve got it a little mixed up. I pitched this. So you can thank me, Brucie, not this fruitcake, for letting us so graciously take your virginity.”
“I. . . I’m not. . .” Bruce’s voice slurred, marring any conviction he could’ve had. “I’m not a virgin.” Was he? He couldn’t remember. The clubbing phase was such a blur.
Jerome laughed and dragged his hands up to Bruce’s chest. Jeremiah’s soft, warm lips pressed against the dip of Bruce’s collarbone, careful fingers stroking the crease of his hip. It was horrifying, the idea that two bloodthirsty, psychotic (blood-related!) murderers had somehow sneaked him into Jeremiah’s bunker and were probably going to do whatever they wanted while he was asleep, but it was so. . . pleasant. It felt affectionate. Bruce thought vaguely about how disappointed and confused Alfred would be over this.
“Alfred’s going to. . . He’ll be upset,” Bruce mumbled, his face hot and red. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because we love you, Bruce,” Jeremiah said, looking up and tenderly stroking his thumb over Bruce’s mouth. “I love you the most—“
“Slow your goddamn role,” Jerome growled as Bruce heard the familiar click of a switchblade behind his back. Bruce swallowed hard. “We made a deal, pretty boy.”
“You never said I couldn’t tell him that,” Jeremiah snapped back at him, almost petulant. “The only agreement was which side was who’s.”
“You aren’t getting one at all if you don’t shut your fucking mouth.” Jerome’s hand moved to Bruce’s front and palmed his clothed cock, nipping the back of his neck. Bruce let a tiny cry escape from his painted lips, his back arching slightly.
“That’s my side,” Jeremiah hissed, snacking Jerome’s hand and pulling at Bruce’s trousers himself, undoing the button and zipper. “Wait until he’s undressed.”
Oh, God. Bruce felt blindsided on a never-ending loop, even though he knew full well what was going to happen, because of course this was going to happen; why else would Jeremiah Valeska be taking his pants off for him?
“Do I get to bite your fingers off once he’s undressed?” Jerome said, seething, spitting spite in his tone as his fingers worked at Bruce’s wrists, undoing whatever had bound them together. It lasted only a second before the knife won over patience and tore the restraints before clattering to the floor. “I’ll tear you open like I’ll do with him. Never said I was above that.”
“You’re disgusting,” Jeremiah said, rather breathless. His eyes shone bright as he watched Jerome, paying more attention to him than Bruce, which, well. It was his birthday. Bruce was allowed to be kind of annoyed, disregarding the absurdity of this situation. “Would you? Is that an empty threat?”
“I never make empty threats, Miah.” Bruce shivered when Jerome’s voice dipped low and rough, his helping hands pulling Bruce’s sweater off. “You want me to touch you? I’ll touch you. I’ll take your heart out.”
This really was disgusting. This shouldn’t have been the least bit erotic and it should’ve been a veritable nightmare in hyperrealistic detail, but it made Bruce’s cock twitch, his breathing quick and falling out of even rhythm. How could he think about a veritable nightmare when he was pressed between two bodies? Ridiculous.
(Whatever drug they’d given him had to be illegal. Bruce almost definitely could’ve had them prosecuted, but that would’ve made him a victim.)
(Bruce could get out of this if he wanted to.)
(He didn’t.)
Bruce was nothing but bare skin and so was each twin. The same bodies, the same long, slender, pretty fingers. Jeremiah was pale and dull, just as much a member of the undead as his brother, but less colorful, except for pearly eyes and candy lips. Bruce turned his head to Jerome, the scarred, living horror of a young man who’d haunted him for years. The man who’d forced him into a bizarre theme park to cope with circus trauma, of all things. The man he’d almost killed.
“You’re prettier than him,” Jerome breathed, kissing Bruce’s forehead, stroking his hair. “So, so much prettier. My little golden boy,” he said, pressing a kiss to Bruce’s lips. No teeth, no pain, no grit, not this time. “I had you first, y’know. Never forget that.”
“But you fell in love with me, Bruce, you know that,” Jeremiah said, quickly and harshly. He slipped easily between Bruce’s legs, forcibly turning his head to face front again. “You’d never be able to fall in love with him. I’ve never tried to hurt you. I could never really hurt you.”
“You—ah—“ Bruce moaned as he felt Jerome’s hand, warm and slick with saliva, curl around his cock, stroking up. “Y-you tortured me. You tortured Alfred—“
“What’s a little torture between soulmates, Bruce?” Jeremiah cut him off, sounding needy, stroking Bruce's nipple between two fine fingertips. Jerome laughed, dark and rough as his free hand splayed over Bruce's stomach, pushing him in closer, a thin, chapped mouth against Bruce's ear. Bruce was a bundle of oversensitivity and nerves, feeling small and emasculated against Jerome's chest, folded up and singing like a sick baby bird. His body wanted to open up to it so badly, begging please please please and arching into the tiniest touches, into Jerome's hand and Jeremiah's mouth.
"Think it's time to deflower the prince of Gotham?" Jerome asked Jeremiah, low and sort of lazy, his teeth tugging on Bruce's earlobe as punctuation. "Before he comes on himself?"
"I think you just don't understand foreplay," Jeremiah said, snotty in even the most inopportune and unusual of times, his hand joining Jerome's on Bruce's cock. Bruce clenched his teeth and tried to swallow back the high-pitched sound that made an escape attempt. He saw Jerome push his own fingers past Jeremiah's lips and Jeremiah sucked on them greedily, eyes fluttering shut.
“How often do you two—?” Bruce started, dissolving weakly when Jerome twisted his hand and gripped tighter, the fingers that weren’t so busy pulling with a lollipop grace out of Jeremiah’s mouth, a string of saliva dripping towards the mattress in Jeremiah’s serial-killer-inspired bedroom. The sentence wasn’t worth finishing anyway, because Bruce would most likely just end up vomiting. (How could his body be reacting to any of this?)
Peals of laughter erupted from both of them, sounding one and the same, making them as identical as they never wanted to be. Jerome snacked a wet kiss to Bruce’s shoulder. “A boy can’t just kiss and tell, Bruce.”
“What’s that about actions speaking what again?” Jeremiah said, looking glittery as he lifted his hand from Bruce’s cock, taking him by the arm instead and pulling him forward. Bruce let out a sharp, pitchy breath as he landed on his stomach across Jeremiah’s body, the skin against skin making a new, fiery blush color Bruce’s face. He heard some slick sound, Jerome spitting on his palm, and another hand under his midsection to pull Bruce up at an angle.
Jeremiah tsked, stroking Bruce's hair with a somewhat-sticky hand even as he started grinding his hips against Bruce's thigh. The composure he maintained was remarkable, but his lips still parted with heavy breaths and his face was flushed, finally giving him some color. Jerome rolled his eyes as he shoved Bruce's legs apart. Bruce couldn't help but feel like he wasn't properly communicating his feelings, not even with his own body, because he felt himself grind back and he heard the moan fall from his mouth, stained lips open and begging for something more. Jeremiah kissed the invitation and it felt like true love, cold lemonade on a summer day.
"Jesus, if you love him so much, why don't you marry him?" Jerome said, whiny and obnoxious for the sake of it as he pressed his finger into Bruce, working it in to the knuckle. It was barely anything, but it still burned and stretched and Bruce almost choked at the shock of it, biting down on Jeremiah's lip by accident. He tasted copper and he felt Jeremiah's cock twitch as Jeremiah grabbed at his hair, pulling at the roots. A sound muffled itself against Bruce's mouth. Bruce tried to move his hips and adjust himself to the pressure inside him while shivers ravaged his spine, but Jerome wouldn't let him recover. He slid his finger in and out, trying to open Bruce up a little bit.
"You're fuckin' tight," Jerome panted, his other hand wrapped around himself as he pushed another finger inside Bruce. Bruce broke the kiss to hiss through his teeth, clenching up, fingernails digging into Jeremiah's bedsheets. It hurt, it hurt, he was in total, utter agony—
Until he wasn't. Jerome crooked his fingers up and stroked a spot inside Bruce that made his limbs weak and another kitten moan escape from him, loud and unavoidable. Jeremiah looked smitten, kissing Bruce's cheeks, nose, forehead, wherever he could reach. Bruce briefly wondered what he, himself, looked like right now. (Probably like a mental patient with a high fever.)
Jerome slowly but surely made Bruce into a malleable toy. He spat on Bruce's reddened hole and Bruce made a sound that was definitely not a squeak, but it definitely did incite a chorus of giggling that Bruce would've punched out under literally any other circumstances. No one was supposed to laugh that much during sex. Were they? (How stupid was it that he didn't even know?) It didn't matter, because, somehow, the Valeska twins were still thoroughly goddamn exhausting and frustrating and begging for strangulation during no matter what they were doing and even worse together. Even worse when Bruce tried to spread his legs wider, clinging to Jeremiah and letting out a sob when the oversensitivity was driving him insane. "Jer—Jerome—"
"Oh, I love it when you do that," Jerome whispered, rubbing Bruce's hip, kissing his back. "Say it again. I wanna hear that every single day."
Jeremiah's lip curled in a snarl and he pushed himself up on his knees, his hand still holding tight to Bruce's hair like a lifeline as he tugged him back up. He pressed the head of his cock against Bruce's lips, precum smearing over them. Blanching, Bruce opened his mouth to ask a simple question, but he couldn't get out more than a "wh" before Jeremiah used the separation to push his cock inside.
"Now he can't say anything at all." Jeremiah licked his lips as he maintained Jerome's gaze, rolling his hips forward. Bruce almost gagged, grabbing at Jeremiah's thighs, his eyes spilling over as he was engulfed. Jerome scoffed and spat again, getting his palm wet again before he slicked himself with it.
"You're gonna fill up his little whore mouth with that old thing 'cause you're jealous?" Jerome said, grinning. "Doesn't become you, baby bro." He gripped Bruce's ass in one hand and guided his cock with the other, sliding the head inside Bruce's already-abused hole. Bruce felt noiseless, voiceless, limbless. He felt like a pincushion with a dripping dick, squirming and inexperienced and sore before anything really began, saliva dripping in threads from around Jeremiah's cock.
Jerome pushed his hips forward and Bruce sank his fingernails into Jeremiah's thighs, his drawn-out groan stuck in his throat because it didn't have anywhere to go. Jeremiah swore, twisting Bruce's hair between his fingers, moving shallowly, probably so he wouldn't choke him out so effectively. Jerome wasn’t as kind, if you could call it that. He started rough, taking Bruce for his own, just using him as a vessel. Bruce’s head pounded, heavy with drugs, his body screaming and his gag reflex rebelling. It worked over Jeremiah’s cock, his throat making an effort swallow around it. The heel of Jerome’s hand pressed into Bruce’s back with another on his ass; it threw Bruce off and made him lose his balance, fingers clutching Jeremiah tighter.
Bruce choked and gagged when Jeremiah’s hand twisted in his hair and yanked his head down. Jeremiah didn’t pull back and just used the opening of Bruce’s throat to thrust deeper into him, going right to the base. Bruce felt his stomach heave and desperate fingers scratched at Jeremiah’s skin, nearly too late when Jeremiah finally pulled back enough for Bruce to get his mouth off.
“Oh, God, look at you,” Jeremiah gasped, enchanted as Bruce hacked and coughed, toxicity stinging his throat, tears beading in his eyes all while Jerome grabbed Bruce’s shoulder and widened the tear he’d made.
“Is he crying?” Jerome asked, his voice wrecked and dripping wet as he pulled at Bruce’s hair instead, trying to get a look at his face. Bruce moaned in mingled pain and pleasure that was broken off with another hideous cough.
“Not yet.” Jeremiah wiped away Bruce’s tears and let his cockhead smear over Bruce’s lips. Bruce discovered he somehow did have at least a microscopic bit of dignity left and he could refuse to let Jeremiah fuck his mouth so he wouldn’t really, actually vomit, this time specifically on Jeremiah’s dick.
“Y-you—ngh—you k-kept triggering my gag reflex,” Bruce forced out before “oh, fuck, fuck fuck oh my God” when Jerome changed his angle. It was deeper, striking a spot that turned Bruce’s insides to pure liquid. “W-would’ve thrown up.”
“Then isn’t it just so lucky you almost made me come before you had to stop?” Jeremiah said through his teeth, pulling open Bruce’s mouth with the hook of his thumb at the corner of Bruce’s lips before shoving himself back inside.
“You can’t treat him like that,” Jerome growled, fucking Bruce as hard as he could manage, skin hitting softer skin. “You’ll fucking—you’ll—deserve it if he pukes all over your dick.”
Bruce didn’t, but it was an even closer call. When Jeremiah came, it gushed. Hot, white slick fell from the corners of Bruce’s mouth and made his nose run, milky and salty. Jeremiah pulled out again, his breath heavy and heaving, and Bruce spit up the spunk in his mouth. His tongue fell past his bottom lip, his mouth left open as his knees and elbows shook, his psyche teetering on the edge. Jerome slammed his hips against Bruce’s ass and let out a sharp shout when he came. Bruce’s psyche fell and shattered, his cock spilling onto the bed without his hand anywhere near it.
Bruce’s entire body went completely slack. His arms and legs gave out and he fell flat on the mattress, landing in his own mess. He’d never felt so out of breath, so physically worn down in such a short amount of time. His skin buzzed from his orgasm. Bruce was spent and so, so tired.
Bruce knew he shouldn’t want to go to sleep, because he could’ve taken both Jerome and Jeremiah on and hunt through the bunker for strange, suspicious notes of grand gestures, weapons, bombs, poison, whatever the hell this little shop of horrors hid. This was important. This was an opportunity.
So why was he already curled up at Jeremiah’s side? Bruce’s eyes slid shut and he felt a hand brush over his cheek, loving and tender.
“You were amazing,” Jeremiah murmured. “Such a good boy.”
“I got him first,” Jerome reminded him as Bruce faded out again.
The opportunity would come later.
(Happy birthday.)