#the thought of jerome listening to CPR | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tristansarchive · 2 years ago

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NSFW-ISH FLASHFIC! PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Summary: Jeremiah's a workaholic and it doesn't get any better when it comes to a life of crime. His twin's always coming up with new ways to handle it — some got better results than others.

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Taking a slow, deep breath in order to calm himself for what felt like the fifth time that very same day, Jeremiah found himself itching to massage his temples but stubbornly refrained from it — wouldn't do to show how utterly done he was. - "Recapitulating, as you've seemed to pay little attention."

He meets the eye of every one of the idiots his twin swears by to be the most reliable of his cult, ones that showed the least problems following orders; they evaluate his figure with thinly veiled distrust — can't quite trust him farther than they can throw him but it's not as if he really cares, couldn't ever feel threatened by the same people that polished Jerome's white leather boots with their tongues. Ecco's just a few steps behind him too, playing with one of the throwing knives he had given her — a birthday gift, she had requested new weapons after all — while resting against one of the walls, stepping over the ancient, crumbling wallpaper.

Not able to resist it, he tilts his head and throws the most condescending grin he can muster at them, a test to his usual passive-aggressiveness but they were not helping their cases by keeping him in this place for longer.

In front of him, the map of the city stays spread and stuck to the wooden table by rainbow-colored pins he had organized across the districts, threads of orange and purple linking each. He points at the one currently stabbing the smiley face drawn by the docks, visualizing the warehouse he had in mind. - "Keeping a low profile is of utmost importance for the time being, and so I've arranged routes for two separate groups to leave as soon as Jerome—"

A cell phone goes off right then, interrupting him, and he's just about this close to reaching for his holstered pistol and shooting whoever had the audacity, when he recognizes the familiar, awful tune — with which he was tortured often — that had been programmed into his own device for one very specific menace in his life. Talking about the devil.

I save dick by giving it CPR

Put my mouth on it like CPR

Let's make porn and watch it on VCR 🎶

Shamelessly, he raises a finger at the dead-silent crowd and feels for the pocket in his striped coat's lining, wrapping his fingers around the ringing phone and pulling it out and open to his face, unlocking the screen with a quick press of the password — only to shake his head in exasperation at the contact name that had also been changed.

He debates whether he should or not answer the call, knowing how long they could end up taking by experience — a bafflingly cliché trait of theirs, that equally inconvenienced and soothed — but as much as he wouldn't particularly mind hearing Jerome's latest opinion on whatever cartoon he was watching that morning, he still had much to do; it wouldn't take long for the GCPD, even as half witted as they were, to figure why their followers had stopped acting like headless chickens and if there's something Jeremiah refused to let happen, was to be predicted.

So he presses mouth thin in slight discontentment and sets the notifications to vibrate, aware of the consequences of this action. There was no reasoning with his twin, he knew very well, but it was for the benefit of them both — perhaps Jerome wouldn't see it that way, but that was just fine by him; some bridges he'll have to cross instead of bombing, he supposes.

Clapping his gloved hands together loudly enough to bring his nosy guests — none of them doing a good job of appearing uninterested — back to their current predicament, he stifled a smirk at the yelp coming from behind him. Such a gossiper, that woman. - "As I was saying, the signal agreed upon at the last meeting will serve as the cue to each group retrieving the..."

❖|❖

You have 10 unread messages on voicemail.

Jeremiah could only stare in disbelief, not having been quite prepared for what he was seeing.

Of course, he wasn't new to Jerome's incessant complaining and naive he was not — a few strong worded messages were fully expected from his twin, specially since he found catharsis on poking at Jeremiah's guilt over their years apart. But he had fed the belief that even the ginger's predisposition to ranting had its limits, those which he had clearly underestimated.

It makes his grip on the device a little tighter, fills him with a sort of anticipation. In a way, it's a treat — he had left their bed while Gotham's sky had still been a dark indigo, no stars to be seen; dropping extra ammunition in the current hideouts and installing a couple fail-safes were precautions that they had discussed during dinner and he wouldn't have felt secure in their progress otherwise, not when he remembered about his twin's last failure and where it lead them. Which had the unfortunate effect of rendering him sleepless — and then unable to wait for a 'good morning' kiss, a look at Jerome's endearingly drooly face had been all he got.

It's embarrassing, that he can almost hear Jerome's irritated comment on his disappearance act just by looking at the number but still miss his voice, all of the baggage that came with the hoarse quality to it — but he had learned to enjoy what it did to him.

Seated in one of the chairs Ecco had promptly fetched for him, he takes off his hat with a sigh and holds it to his lap as he presses the device against his ear, glancing at the cultists still assessing the map alongside his proxy — not quite comfortable enough to put his twin's probable tantrums on speakers. Those were for his ears only(specially if it's targeted at him).

The first of them goes just as he imagined.

"Miah, ya fuckin' asshole... couldn'tcha wait 'til I was done with ya? Leaving at who the fuck knows when in the night- I'm tackling yer ass when ya show up, smartypants."

It takes a surprising amount of restraint to not snort loudly at him because he had clearly just woken up when it was sent and if possible, his speech poured thicker than usual; he hums in what he figures is the agreement he would've replied with to appease him and lets his eyes fall shut, savoring the background noise of the TV and something being cooked while his twin cusses him away.

He realizes, midst the transition from the first to the next message, that he hadn't eaten anything since waking up. Aside from coffee, of course.

"Ya should know my helpful followers always tell me when yer calling up for meetings. I could go in there~"

Hmmm, in hindsight he genuinely wishes his twin had. Truth be told, Jeremiah couldn't have explained in simpler terms what the escaping-abducting cycle route implied for the upcoming scheme and yet, still at the very ending, he received the odd blank stare here and there. With Jerome, he was sure they would've wrecked their minds to try and understand whatever their messiah threw at them instead of expecting him to do all of their jobs for them — but he digresses.

The third message, though. Took him a minute.

"Been watching one of those old movies with the rich fellas dressed all snobby, reminded me of ya." - there's a clacking sound that becomes clearer when he pauses, then comes a dramatic sigh. - "Yer so annoying about this kinda stuff but I'm not gonna lie- it's got charm. It's like some vintage clown chiq with all the over the top suits in crazy colors and makeup, I wanna see ya on a stage."

It brings Jeremiah back to a conversation they had, back in the Wilde State — and right after he had told his twin of what he had planned for Gotham. He remembers the words he had used in that recording he had left for detective Gordon: "Jerome's dead. Long live me."

He had recited it — like a chant, a reminder — and it had been bitter, angry, liberating, wonderful. He wanted to have as much power as Jerome achieved, be the star of a show that had relegated him to the bleachers but it also hurt something awful that he'd to do it alone.

But as things turned out to be, every now and then it clicks in his overworking mind that after so long — he'll be two again, have Jerome with him and when the curtains fall at the climax of their spectacle to reveal who's been behind the newest surge of vindicating chaos, the smoking gun will be on his hand, his dear twin right by his side; laughing at a terrified audience, observing with curious eyes as he does it all in his name. And if this city survives them, they'll exchange roles, repeat their steps for as long as they fancy— again and so forth.

It's enough to have him feeling like there's no space within his ribcage for the expanding of his lungs, his heart taking over every inch. Love for him had always been like this — and not so coincidentally, towards the same person — but while he recognized the aching and overwhelming euphoria, he never quite got used to it for better or worse. It took over his senses every time, turned him into an entire new creature or maybe unlocked another side of him.

Shaken, he decided he needed to listen more and Jerome didn't disappoint in the next.

"Aren't ya getting bored? I mean nothing against my own people but... none of them like ya. But I do, Miah~"

His lips twitched, a smile taking over without his permission as he rolled his eyes. He had a point, after all.

"Well, I'm! so! bored! I'll forgive ya for leaving me if ya show up right now and kiss me. It's my favorite pastime, ya know? Smooching yer sugar plum lips."

Jeremiah doesn't make it a habit of physically showing his true feelings. Ask Ecco, and she'll tell that in all of the years they've known each other — an impressive amount, by the way — he very rarely expressed too strong of an emotion in front of her, going so far as to project a lack thereof and ever since he went through his... change, he had been able to perfect it into an art and signature of sorts. He's not the emotional type, so to say.

"Ah, I bet these aren't helping ya concentrate... Oops! My bad, dolly."

But whenever Jerome brings out that cheeky, flirtatious attitude accompanied by his endless repertoire of sappy and quite insulting petnames — Jeremiah can sense his face getting warmer and he fights the indignity of averting his eyes to the ground, refusing to be bashful of all things. He knows exactly what his twin's doing, what this is meant to evoke and what's worse: he can't shut him up.

"But ya know me, I just can't resist ya. That's why I came back for ya, ain't that right? 'Cause I love yer kisses so bad, Miah."

Whispering lovingly to him through the phone, he sounds needy, tempting. It's unfair, that a few words from him can make his mind spin, blurry by the edges. 'Love' sounds so right in Jerome's tongue, as if he owns it by the very letters — he could never get tired of hearing him say it.

He loves him. It's intoxicating and biological. Every cell in his body does so, intrinsically. Sometimes it feels like it could consume him. If it hasn't already.

"Are ya blushing? I'd love to see it. Yer such a cutie, only sometimes though. When yer not a fucking pain in my ass." - Jeremiah can almost pinpoint the second the implications register before his twin gasps in delight at the opportunity to mortify him. - "Not that I mind, can make my ass sore all ya want, baby broski. And when yer trying so hard to not blurt out some creepy, loving shit while at it? I wanna squeeze ya by the prick, so damn adorable-"

"Boss?"

The higher pitched voice's close enough to gain his attention, causing him to almost jump in his seat and reflexively try to muffle the maniacal giggling coming out of his phone, firmly pressed to his chest while staring wide-eyed at who had called him— oh, Ecco.

Exhaling in relief, he allows his posture to relax and shoulders to fall minutely before immediately narrowing his eyes at her, irritation clear in every line etched to his frowning brow. - "Can't you see I'm busy?" - he tried to go for an unamused tone but it sounded a lot more murderous than he wished for.

If he focused on the noises coming from the device in his hand, he could almost hear the recurring whining resembling the various terms Jerome called him by. Ecco's gaze momentarily fell to his chest and he knew it wasn't just him.

Ecco giggles nervously. - "We're all finished, bossie! Tough nutjobs to crack, those! But you can always count on my skills, got'em on the palm of this hand!" - she swishes her right hand, wiggling her fingers with an excited smile. Jeremiah huffs, looking around and noticing that she had indeed done an impressive job of finishing their little rendezvous — there wasn't a single slacker in sight, presumably because they were already taking care of relaying instructions to the rest of their members.

Pleased, he nods in approval and rewards her the smallest of grins. She practically beams. - "Then I came to tell that we could get goin' and you were redder than my daddy when we told him we were outta beer— and squirming too! You getting sick? Got your pills in the car, if you need them!"

To his utter horror, he found himself unable to recompose from such a violent attack to his ego fast enough to reply with anything better than a rushed 'Thank you.' while standing up straight from his rickety chair and marching out the small apartment's door, (elegantly)making a run for the decaying bulding's ornamented elevator and taking its cabin for himself before Ecco could join him.

Had any of those imbeciles witnessed it as well, by chance? It's not for the matters of caring about their opinions, pfff— as Jerome had said, they reported everything to him, annoyingly so. And that would definitely set a precedent for many more voicemails to come, at the most inopportune times.

He turns at the flash of green and white he captures in his peripheral vision and finds a dirty, rusting mirror on the wall; even ruined as it currently is, the picture being painted is unmistakable. He can't unsee how the pale — porcelain-esque, Jerome had teased — skin gives away to a faint red, it clashes with the aubergine over the lips and bright blue of his eyes, though it does match his scarlet tie. It's just when he brings his hands closer — NOT to hide his complexion in them — that he's reminded of what he's holding in both of them: his white fedora and phone. The very source of his troubles, still playing his messages.

Hesitantly, he presses it against his ear once more.

"—gotcha all syrupy sweet on me, sunshine this and dearest that! And all I could think about was 'if I had known sucking yer cock in the morning like my life depended on it made ya less bitchy all those years ago I would've been saving a ton in mints'. But, Miah, waking ya up stealing yer breath's... fuck, it's delicious— I love to feel ya struggling against me~"

Jeremiah leaves the inconspicuous place, fashionable hat covering his ardent cheeks and coat luckily hiding any other… issues, he might be suffering from on his way to the goddamn car, fully intending to break a few traffic laws.

Beginning with texting while driving.

'Coming.'

A reply comes seconds later.

'Oh, you will be.'

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