Vincent/Jerome. NC-17. ~2300 words. Hatesex.
Jerome has never had anything so noble as a point to prove.

One night when they haven’t yet become us and Jerome still stubbornly clings to meals poured into a glass and served on ice, he says, “I used to fuck in-valids like you, you know.”

Vincent doesn’t look up from the notebook filled with every moment of Jerome’s life. The chances that someone at the company will know enough to spot a lie are slim but the charade must have no holes save those not even science can fix.

“They would near cream themselves for a chance to get on my perfect dick,” Jerome goes on, smoke curling from his nose and mouth, wisps of disdain. “My eyes are still prettier than yours. And my lips, and my hands, too.” He touches his mouth, the smoke twining silkily about his fingers, and Vincent pretends he doesn’t see. “I bet you would kill to have a cock as lovely as mine.”

“Believe it or not,” Vincent says, offhand and casual as if Jerome’s constant scathing monologue doesn’t make his gut sour with the same vicious resentment that’s been eating him alive for nearly all his life, “I like mine just fine.”

“You would.”

Vincent says nothing. There’s no point. But Jerome has never had anything so noble as a point to prove and he picks up right where he left off. “There’s a market for ones like you. Not so bad but bad enough. Maybe I fucked you once.”

“I think I’d remember,” Vincent says, the neat and graceful sprawl of Jerome’s handwriting blurring in front of his eyes. Tugging his glasses off, he rubs hard at the bridge of his nose, willing the ache away.

“Yes. Yes, you wouldn’t forget that.” The ice clinks in Jerome’s glass. “You couldn’t ever forget me, even if you wanted. I think maybe you would try in that desperately reaching way of yours. You would try and try and try again, and it wouldn’t do you any good at all. I’d be inside your head, fucking up your mind as wonderfully as I’d fucked your ass, and you’d come crawling back begging for just one more taste of me.”

A rush of prickling heat turns to sweat that gathers at the nape of Vincent’s neck. “Shut up, Jerome. For once in your life, just shut up.”

“No,” Jerome says, a low spiteful grate. “Show it to me.”


“Come on, show me,” Jerome says, as if all Vincent really needs is a little push. He flicks ash to the floor the same as Vincent imagines he’s kicked in-valids out of his bed. “Get it out. Get your dick out.”

“Fuck you,” Vincent spits, so unlike him it catches him fully by surprise.

Jerome too, but only for a moment. From one to the next the shock fades, becomes a slow alligator smile that fits so perfectly on his perfect fucking face. “You’re afraid. You know you won’t measure up.” He laughs, clear and lovely and cruel. “Keep trying, you never will.”

Vincent carefully sets the notebook down. His voice doesn’t seem his own when he speaks. There’s rage boiling beneath his skin and he’s had a lifetime of practice in hiding it, but it seeps out of him now, festering and ugly and so cold it burns. “You’re afraid I will.”

Jerome barks out another laugh.

“You are,” he says, and stands slowly, making a show of it, each step careful and precise as he crosses the room to look down at Jerome. “You’re so desperate to hold on to the idea that you’re better than me.”

“I am,” Jerome says, but his eyes are wide, wild, his hand not as steady as he’d like to believe as he takes a draw off his cigarette. “I am better than you. I’ll always be better than you.”

Planting both hands firmly on the arms of his wheelchair, Vincent sinks slowly down to Jerome’s level. As cool and heartless as the world they live in, he says, “Stand up and prove it.”

Jerome flinches as if struck. His breath hisses between his teeth as the sick burn of guilt crawls up the back of Vincent’s throat. Vincent jerks away, an apology at the ready because that was unnecessarily brutal slap to the face not even Jerome deserved, but Jerome catches him by the collar, yanks him straight back down as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. The glass hits the floor, spilling melting ice across the hardwood and cracking clear down the middle. “Don’t you fucking dare say it,” Jerome snarls. “If you ever fucking say it, I’ll leave you. I’ll leave you and take your pathetic little dreams with me.”

“Let go.”

“You need me.”

“I said, let go.”

“You want to be me,” Jerome says, holding on tighter, twisting to choke. “You want me.”

A knot of thorns sticks in Vincent’s throat as he fists the front of Jerome’s shirt, hauls him up out of the chair. He kicks it away, leaving Jerome no choice but to cling to him or fall. Jerome’s knees are bent, nearly touching the floor, his legs so useless to him now.

“No,” Vincent says, no safe outlet for the fury that’s taken over, “you want me to want you. You’re the one that wants to fuck me, but you can’t. But I can be you.”

Jerome grunts when Vincent lets him go, catches himself on his hands. He’s still so strong but he doesn’t see it, strong in a dozen ways Vincent can never be and all he can do is stare at what he’s lost.

He looks up, his smile as sharp and stinging as Gattaca’s needles. “So be me, Vincent.”

Vincent drops to one knee, grabs Jerome by the hair and yanks his head back. If they’d met before, if Jerome were still Jerome and Vincent would never be anyone but no one, Jerome wouldn’t kiss him. And even though Vincent wonders what his mouth tastes like, if he’s bitter with more than just vodka and ash, he doesn’t kiss him either. He tears open Jerome’s shirt and then his slacks, baring the hardness of his belly, the soft curve of his cock. Jerome hisses when he bites, twists a hand in his tie to hold him there and he bites harder, ruins the smooth pale lines of Jerome’s chest and stomach with a mottle of red.

“If you’re going to fuck me, fuck me,” Jerome snaps, covering Vincent’s mouth with a hand to shove him away. “You’re not afraid to use my body for anything else, what’s so different about this? What’s so fucking different?”

Shoving Jerome down (and he goes easily, doesn’t fight; this is what he wanted), Vincent roughly takes his cock in hand, gives it a hard tug. It stays warm and soft, thickening only briefly when he bites again at the hard muscle of Jerome’s chest.

Jerome laughs at him. “You stupid shit, do you honestly think I can feel that? I can’t move my bloody legs, what makes you think I’m going to get it up for you?”

Embarrassment, shame, guilt, they all taste the same on the back of Vincent’s tongue. He imagines this is what Jerome’s mouth tastes like, sour and wretched.

“Go on, here you are,” Jerome says, shoving at his slacks. “Get these off, get my legs up. What the fuck are you afraid of now?”

Vincent sits back, his tie slithering through Jerome’s uncaring grip. He shakes his head, starts to say he can’t, he was wrong to let it get this far, and Jerome’s laugh slices through his words as sharply as it slices through his belly.

“I’m not completely broken, not completely useless, not like you.” Jerome catches Vincent’s belt and undoes it with a quick wrench. “You don’t see me rolling around here in a puddle of my own piss, do you? Do you see shit on my sheets, nappies in my hamper?” He palms Vincent’s cock with no hesitation, not a hint of uncertainty, and Vincent sways forward at the sudden rush of blood and pleasure. His smile cuts the breath from Vincent’s lungs. “You’re right to be afraid. You can fuck me as hard as you like and I won’t feel a thing, but you will. You’ll love it. You’re already addicted to being me.”

“You’re lying,” Vincent says, but he’s already bent to bite at Jerome’s belly again, already taken him back in hand. He cradles soft flesh in his palm, runs his thumb beneath Jerome’s foreskin and strokes the head, tells himself the flutter of Jerome’s eyelashes is from that and not the kiss he presses to Jerome’s side. “You have to feel something,” he says, not really sure any longer if he’s talking only of the physical or something more. “You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t.”

Jerome cups the side of his face, thumb hooked inside his bottom lip. “Suck me and see for yourself.”

The knot that had been in Vincent’s throat has fully unravelled now, slunk back down into his gut to twine with the lust that twists up his insides with a terrible lurch. He stares down at Jerome’s cock, barely beginning to imagine what it would be like to take it into his mouth before he learns the reality. Soft, warm and vulnerable, like nothing he’s ever had before, and he squeezes his eyes shut when he realises he likes it. It’s so easy to fill his mouth, to breathe in the scent of Jerome’s skin and not worry if it’s good for Jerome, if he’s sucking too hard or if he’s going to choke from having it thrust down his throat.

He chokes on a gasp instead as Jerome’s cock twitches, begins to thicken, and Jerome’s fingers flex on his cheek. It softens again a moment after he pulls away and he looks up, finds Jerome lazily watching him, arm tucked beneath his head and lip caught between his teeth.

“I was enjoying that,” he says. “You’re very good.”

“You said you couldn’t-”

“Did I? I’m sure I didn’t.”

Vincent swipes at his chin with the back of one hand. “All you do is lie to me.”

“All you do is assume,” Jerome says, low and smooth, his scorn so much worse without the harsh grating edges. “If you don’t do something interesting soon, I’m going to get bored with you.”

Vincent bites back a curse, hardly wanting to give Jerome the satisfaction, and rudely shoves Jerome onto his side. Jerome just laughs again, says, “That’s the spirit, come on now,” when he shucks Jerome’s slacks down to his ankles. Vincent pulls his cock out, spits into his palm and slicks it wet, the noise loud and vulgar in the condo’s wide open spaces. He hates how good it feels when he slots himself against Jerome’s broad back, nudges his cock between Jerome’s legs and Jerome turns to look at him, smug and knowing.

“Hold on to me if you want this to be good,” Jerome says, their mouths so close that when he speaks it flirts at being a kiss. “Have the balls to really use me for once without all your grand dreams as an excuse.”

Vincent shoves an arm beneath his head, pulls him close with a hand splayed high on his chest. There’s no hair on his body, not on his withered legs or between his thighs–vanity or genetic tinkering, a parent’s anticipation of an Olympic swimmer in the family–and Vincent presses his legs together hard enough to leave a bruise he will never feel.

Jerome moans for him when he thrusts, nothing but a mockery, but he tells himself he doesn’t care. He kisses the crook of Jerome’s neck, strokes along the graceful curves of muscle and fucks up into the soft warmth between Jerome’s thighs. He jerks when fingers graze the head of his cock, spreading more spit to ease the way, and the pleasure spikes so sharply he almost misses it when Jerome licks precome from the pads of his fingers.

Jerome still isn’t very hard but Vincent wraps a hand around him anyway, his rhythm stuttering when Jerome lets out a real groan. “I can’t come,” Jerome says, still struggling to hide behind tattered arrogance, “you can’t make the impossible happen just by trying harder.”

“I know,” Vincent says, the only shamed admission he’s willing to give.

“You sick fuck, sick degenerate fuck,” Jerome hisses, twisting awkwardly to bite at his mouth. “Kiss me. Kiss me.”

The inside of Jerome’s mouth doesn’t taste like shame or guilt. It’s not bitter with resentment, only vodka and the heaviness of cigarette smoke, and soon even that fades away to leave only the bland, completely unremarkable, completely normal taste of Jerome.

“What are you waiting for?” Jerome asks between the messy crush of their mouths. “Come if you’re going to. Remind me what it’s like to get my dick wet.”

Vincent’s hips stutter, his thrusts becoming as sloppy as their kisses. He pushes Jerome’s cock down between his legs, fucks against its softness and as filthy and sordid as he is, that’s what finally pushes him over the edge into orgasm. He smears Jerome’s skin glistening wet, uses his fingers to coat Jerome’s limp cock in his come from root to tip, cups his balls and paints those too.

Jerome slumps quietly against him and lets him do it, probably even watching but Vincent can’t risk meeting his gaze to find out. It’s long minutes later when Jerome says, “You’ll have to carry me to the bath. I don’t want your mess in my chair.”

Pressing his forehead to Jerome’s shoulder, Vincent closes his eyes and waits for the unsteady rattling of his heart to stop.


One Response to “Wretched”

  1. notraffic Says:

    Fantastic. Love your FFVII stuff–never even read Gattaca fic, though it’s my favorite film.

    Just fucking fantastic.

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