Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You wake up to the familiar dimness of your Arkham cell, a soft, oppressive gray that filters through the narrow window high above. The air is damp and heavy, carrying the scent of stone and something metallic that lingers in your throat. It’s the kind of night that makes you question whether the sun has risen or if it ever will.

The mattress beneath you is thin, offering little comfort against the unyielding steel frame of the bed. You shift slightly, the coarse blanket scratching against your skin. The chill of the room seeps into your bones, a constant reminder of where you are. The walls around you are bare, save for the deep scratches and etchings that map the tortured minds of those who have come before you. You can still hear the freaks scream their hearts out. You shudder.

Your eyes drift to the other side of the room, to the figure lying still in the opposite bed. Jerome. Even in sleep, there is an unsettling energy that clings to him, a quiet chaos that radiates from his very being. His face, partially illuminated by the weak light, is a mask of eerie calm. The red hair that frames his face is wild, contrasting sharply with the pallor of his skin. You can almost see the shadows of his madness dancing across his closed eyelids. You sigh and make your way over.

"Jerome," You speak, biting your tongue. You seem afraid of your own voice, grabbing onto his shoulders to gently shake him awake. "Get up. I think there's a rat in our cell."

You watch him as he stirs, movements choppy, slow, and deliberate, like a reanimated puppet. Before you know it, his eyes are fluttering open. He sits up abruptly, scaring you out of your wits, with a mask of forced cheerfulness. 

"Mornin' Sunshine," He gives an exaggerated stretch, and you let out a breath. You witness his body convulsing with involuntary twitches, a malformed dance of sinew and bone. You call them his spasmodic jazz hands. Apparently being resurrected isn't all sunshine and rainbows.

You feel a surge of irritation at his unpredictable movements. Of course, he wouldn't just move quietly. 

"Scooch." Is all you manage to say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the anxiety gnawing at you. His response is immediate, exaggerated, a mockery wrapped in courtly tones.

"As you wish, Your Highness," he says, his grin widening as he shifts over, that involuntarily gag making another appearance from him. A pang of something bubbles up inside your chest, and you brush it off as disgust. Every stupid interaction with him is a reminder of the chaotic undercurrent in this shit hole. You don't belong here.

You slide yourself next to him, eyes still heavy with sleep. He slumps hard against the headboard, shuffling into place. It's an awkward position, but not entirely uncomfortable. You used to hate curling up next to him like this. You really wished for it to be anybody else. You weren't sure why you even did it.

You stand at the edge of the cafeteria, the din of mealtime chatter filling the air, when a collective hush falls over the room. Your gaze is drawn to the center, where Jerome has climbed onto one of the tables, arms outstretched like some demented messiah. His voice rings out, clear and commanding, each word dripping with an infuriating charisma that captivates the room. You used to think Jervis would be the only showman you'd ever meet. You were wrong.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today's feature presentation!" he announces, his eyes gleaming with manic delight. "Watch as I, the great Jerome Valeska, perform some...miracles of madness." He punctuates his words with a bone-chilling smirk, that makes you sick to your stomach. The other inmates cheer, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear, feeding off his chaotic energy. You remain at the back, arms crossed, anger simmering beneath your skin. Why does he have this effect on them?

He begins to spout a series of ramblings, each more nonsensical than the last, but somehow it all makes sense in the warped reality of Arkham. "You see, my friends...we're all just puppets on strings," He pauses, teeth glinting under the light. "But don't you worry, I've got the scissors!" He mimics cutting strings with his fingers. You feel your fists clench. You don't belong here. But he does. You feel like an intruder.

Despite the loathing that coils in your stomach every time you look at him, there's something grounding about his presence. In truth, you're afraid. You don't know how he isn't. He basks in it all. 

He wraps an arm around you, half-asleep. You watch him smack his lips, rather annoyingly, but beside yourself, you feel warmth in your stomach.

You don't belong here. But he does. And he's clinging onto you, out of everyone.

You briefly thank whatever god is up in the sky, for pairing you with the one person whose a real reflection of your surroundings. It's not a friendship, not really. And even if it was, you wouldn't acknowledge it. Not even as his hands tighten against your waist and softly snores into the nape of your neck. 

You feel yourself sink back into sleep similarly. You feel you fear and adrenaline calming down at the prospect of someone who knows this place inside and out, being right beside you, a person who knows virtually nothing.

He is a grotesque extension of this place, and in a perverse way, of you too.

Chapter Text

"What's eating ya?" His voice calls.

"...Huh?"

"You look like someone just shot your dog right in front of ya." 

You watch Jerome pace around the small cell with relentless energy. His eyes flicker with a wild intensity, a mix of frustration and anticipation radiating off him in waves. Every so often, he glances at you, his gaze sharp and searching, as if expecting you to provide some form of entertainment or distraction. You, on the other hand, sit by the narrow window, foot tapping a soft rhythm on the stone floor, your thoughts tangled with the impatience of waiting for someone. The room feels like a pressure cooker. 

You tut at him, ignoring his childish questions. You still stare out the narrow window of the cell door, not paying any attention to him.

"Uh," He continues, "You're not thinking of leaving me are you? Cause I'm attached to you, ya know?"

You watch his face scrunch, hypothetical lingering. His bluntness never ceases to surprise you. You know exactly what he means, but the question comes out beside yourself in petulant defiance.

"What?" You squint your eyes at him, and sounds more like an exasperated snap. He raises his hands in mock defense.

"Well, sheesh. Just checking up on ya." His voice takes on that gruffness it always has. He plops himself down on your bed, and you feel it sink with his weight. You stopped caring about his issue with personal space awhile ago. "What'cha thinking about?" He repeats, curious. 

You figure it's useless to lie with him. He can read you like a lie detector. 

"Selina's coming over to visit. She's gonna have to sneak in though. I'm worried."

You watch his face morph into one of sour displeasure. It's always strange, watching him when his smile is completely wiped away. You hear him let out a dramatic groan, fully reclining on the mattress with an obnoxious creak. He lounges beside you, and his gaze flickers towards you, then away, as if he's trying to mask his apprehension.

"So, uh, Selina's coming by later, huh?" He drawls the name, testing it out on hid tongue. You've only mentioned her once or twice. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, his body language tense, despite his attempt to appear relaxed. With a forced smirk, he adds, "Guess you'll be having all the fun while I'm stuck in this charming establishment." But his eyes betray the insecurity lurking within, a silent plea for reassurance that he tries to bury beneath layers of bravado. His fingers tap impatiently against his knee, his jaw clenched in a tight line as he feigns disinterest in your plans for the day.

"Jer-"

"I just find it funny, ya know?" He cuts you off, tone embittered, but a smile reappearing on his face. It's sarcastic and frankly disturbing. Remnants of a manic chuckle begin to start, and you hold your breath. He's not going to let this go. "How she always manages to find her way back to you, like some stray cat. Must be nice, having someone so loyal." His words hang heavy in the air, a not-so-subtle jab at your relationship with your best friend. Jerome thinks he's your best friend. Or your best something, at the very least.

You run a hand over your face. He keeps ranting. He can never just shut up. 

"Jerome, It's not like that."

He feigns innocence, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Of course, of course," he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's probably just a friendly chat about how to expertly tie knots or pick locks. You two can catch up on how many burglaries you've both pulled off together! Or maybe it's just to compare who's better at climbing fences?" 

You briefly wonder how you even ended up in this conversation. 

"I just need to talk to her about something important." You stick your nose up, and realize it's maybe not the best choice of words. He expects you to come to him about all things important in your life or otherwise. His hands are in his lap, and there is a weird smile on his face that looks more like a snarl.

"Oh, I'm all ears. Do tell. Is it about your little rendezvous with Hathead? Or perhaps you've finally decided to confess your undying love for me?"

It's neither, of course. But your chest tightens at his mention of Jervis.

"Can you please just-"

He cuts in with a theatrical gasp. "Oh, don't tell me you've found someone new! My fragile heart can't bare the thought of you leaving me for another. Who is it this time? The mailman? The pizza delivery guy?"

At this you finally let out a snort, giving up on attempting to interrupt. Silent frustration radiates off you in bits and pieces. He notices your jaw clenching, and finally relents. He's impossible. This behavior isn't necessarily unusual from him though. You grit your teeth, trying to maintain your composure in the face of his relentless mockery.

"Don't worry," He chimes with a small but harsh chuckle. It's demeaning. "I'll still be here, even when you're off gallivanting with your other friends. After all, who else is going to appreciate my...panache?" He talks, still theatrically, but with a darker tone. He practically spits out the bigger words.

You wait for his manic laughter to settle. As Jerome's barrage of sarcastic and eccentric jabs gradually subsides, a brief moment of calm settles over the cramped cell. His gaze softens, the playful glint in his eyes dimming as he leans back against the bed, seemingly lost in thought. With a hesitant sigh, you finally break the silence, your voice tinged with concern.

"...Are you okay?" you ask.

Jerome's facade falters for a moment, his expression shifting from joviality to something more contemplative. You hate it when he tries so hard not to be vulnerable.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he replies, waving his hand. His voice quieter than usual, betraying a hint of sincerity. "Just... you know how it is. Sometimes the voices in the old noggin can get a bit rowdy." He knocks his fist against his head, imitating a hollow sound with a roll of his eyes. He attempts a dismissive laugh, but there's a rawness to his tone that suggests a deeper turmoil beneath the surface. 

"You aren't seriously bothered about Selina, are you?"

"Bothered? Me? Why, the mere thought of her sends shivers of utter indifference down my spine." He makes a gesture akin to chills, and a brrrr noise. You roll your eyes. "I'm simply concerned about the boredom that will ensue in your absence. Who else will regale me with tales of there escapades? Certainly not the rats," He pauses, and you smile beside yourself. "They're terrible conversationalists." He notes, facade of complete seriousness. 

At your smile, you see something spark in his eyes. You open your arms for him on your bed. You never do that. He takes the rare invitation without a second thought, and holds you much too tight for either of you to really be comfortable. You don't seem to care, though.

You hold your breath, and count down the minutes until Selina arrives. 

Chapter Text

You grab his hand, beside yourself. He squeezes it tightly in response.

"You know, I must say, doll. It's hard to find a girl like you, who sticks with a guy like me. When we get out of here, you and me? We're gonna be legends." He's grinning. Any other day you'd shrug his words off, tell him to piss off. Not today. Today is the day of his infamous Arkham escape. You feel your heart beat faster, with each minute getting near.  

The sound of the guards shouting is heard from down the hall, and Jerome has to restrain himself from laughing at the commotion.

"How are you feeling, angel-cakes? Ready to get out of this hell-hole?" He asks. You purse your lips. You can't stop thinking about Jonathan or Jervis. Especially Jervis. The idea of him getting remotely hurt in this stupidly eccentric plan makes you sick to you stomach. You don't even remember what his last words to you were. You wonder if you should even care. Jerome squeezes your hand harder at your lack of response, offering something between a confused grimace and a smile. You watch his eyebrows pull together.

"I thought you loved it here. These freaks are your people."

He looks as though he's dramatically mulling it over in his head. His free hand finds a spot under his chin, resembling a poor imitation of 'The Thinker'.

"You're my people," He states. "Besides...These people are just dull! Sure, we all share a similar passion for chaos, but they're all too serious, too gloomy, no sense of fun! I want to make a lasting impression on the world!" He shakes his head, gesturing wildly. You sigh and drag your thumb along his knuckles.

"You just want to find your brother." You wave him off, and you wonder if it was the right thing to say. As you and Jerome huddle in the bed you've grown eerily accustomed to, the anticipation of the impending escape hangs heavily in the air. You glance at him, his familiar manic energy now tempered by a rare, introspective quiet. "Do you really think you'll find him?"

You think back to when he first told you about his fucked up circus life. You sat and you listened, before spilling your guts about your father. You had expected some sort of laugh. He just looked...slaughterous.

Jerome's eyes flicker with a mixture of hope and uncertainty, a vulnerability he rarely shows. He leans back against the cold wall, his fingers tracing invisible patters on your wrist, before switching to play with your hair.

"Eh, I'll try. I can't wait to get my hands on little ol' Jeremiah once more! I'd love to make him play a few games with me... And I owe him. For a lot of...trouble he caused."

You nod, unsure how to follow up. You hear the alarms sound out, blaring. The red light floods through the small cell door, and you know that in just a few minutes it will be showtime.

His nails dig into your palm, and you wince. He's just as nervous as you are. Fuck him.

"Aren't you...scared?"

"Scared? Pfft! Me? No way! Why would I be scared? I've never been scared a day in my life! What do I have to be scared of?"

Chapter Text

"Hold still, you idiot."

He kneels in front of your legs as you sit on the edge of the cot. He just laughs, that mindless sound. You think it would drive anyone else insane. The air is heavy with the familiar scent of dirty water and something more metallic—Jerome’s blood. You are gently dabbing at the cuts on his face with a torn piece of bed sheet. It's a poor imitation for gauze, but neither of you seem to care.

Jerome’s eyes dance with amusement, his trademark grin never wavering even as the pressure stings his wounds.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” he quips, tilting his head to give you better access. “You worry too much, doll. The bird barely scratched me.”

You scowl, dabbing a particularly deep cut a little harder than necessary. “Barely scratched? Jer, you’re bleeding everywhere." 

It's not an overreaction. He lets out soft groans and gags at the taste of blood, which he pathetically attempts to cover up with that damn shrill laugh.

"Kiss it better?" He requests, and you fight the urge to smack him. You groan, finger nails digging into the bed sheet.

You knew this would happen. He always is so...him. He has to push the boundaries over and over again. Sometimes you don't recognize him, and that's when you like him most. Other times he resembles that clown in the papers so picture perfect it makes you sick to your stomach. Even cleaning his cuts, you hate that you're the one he needs. He shouldn't find this much comfort in your presence. You shouldn't be cleaning him up, teaching and proving to him that he's right. You could never love him the way he wants you too.

"This is why I can't fucking stand you sometimes."

He laughs and gently grabs your chin, making you look at his face, his smirk widening.

"You know you loooooove me~"

"No, I don't." You say, adamant. "What if it was me, who got hurt?" You huff out, beside yourself. This stupid clown. Is violence really all he finds enjoyment in? 

His grin falters, and for a moment, you see something dark and intense in his eyes. Maybe you are afraid of him.

"Oh, doll, you're always worrying too much." He decides on, mirroring your huffing. "It would never be you. The idea of you getting hurt is so outlandish, even your sweet little brain can't even truly conceptualize the idea. You're funny, Y/N, I would never allow anything bad to happen to you." He continues, ranting. You blink at his denial. It makes you angry.

"You don't know that for sure, Jer. You're not god. I could die tomorrow."

He goes silent, recounting his words. His denial transforms into annoyance. You swear you can see his fist clench around nothing.

"As funny as your naivety is, it's boring how much you worry," He mimics a faux yawn. "So, I'm just going to ignore it. No more talk about you getting hurt. I won't allow it." He puts a stern look on his face, one of pure seriousness. He grabs ahold of your hands gently with his. You sigh. 

"There, all done." You lightly shove him when you're finished, he mocks stumbling backwards. Jerome’s grin returns, though it's softer now, affectionate.

"Well, aren’t you just my little nurse?” he teased, though there was genuine gratitude in his tone.

"Don't do this shit again." You say, firm, exhaling. You aren't even sure why you care. You shouldn't care.

He sticks his tongue out, pouting. Chuckling, he jumps back up from his position on the floor, and right next to you in the bed. He makes himself at home, stealing your blankets and pillow. You slip under the thin blanket, Jerome’s arm automatically wrapping around you.

"Goodnight, doll." He mutters, still wincing at the rough sheets against his cuts. You don't say it back.

You aren't necessarily sure what provokes it, and you don't want to talk about it. But as the silence fills the air between the two of you, as if on impulse- you turn, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to the cut on his cheek. 

You can't see his face, burying yourself in his chest. You feel like hiding. You don't want to face the consequences of your actions. You feel his lips turn into a smile against your head.

"Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” he murmurs, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You felt his grip tighten slightly, as if he's afraid to let you go. You cross your fingers that he won't bring this up in the morning, but you know it's futile.

"Shut up and sleep."

Chapter Text

You've lost track of the amount of times you've woken up like this.

Shuffling around on uncomfortable sheets and a dirty mattress. Watching the moonlight pool in from a barred window. You tried to escape from it, once. You don't know what was going through your head. Jerome laughed, hands on his stomach, watching you frantically attempt to crawl out. It was useless. It was futile. Everything is when you're with him.

His weight pressed against you, arms around you. You blink at the ceiling.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night due to sheer discomfort. Today isn't one of those days.

Your eyes scan the room, the way Jerome shifts in his sleep next to you, the way his breathing distorts into something heavier and heavier. You attempt to turn your back on his form, rolling your eyes, smashing the pillow over your ears. You feel your heart race, and the feeling of something sticky and sweet pool between your legs. Fuck. You swallow, trying your best to stop listening in. To tune him out. 

But you can't ignore him. Not when he tenses up, not when he groans, smacking his lips and squeezing you tighter against him. Not when you feel his cock strain against you.

You feel him twitch against the mattress, and you can't break out of his grip. He shifts, as though gasping for air, and grunts beside himself. You feel something hard press against you, and you don't know why you haven't woken him up yet.

"Y/N," He speaks, and growls it out like a mantra. He's dreaming of you. The King of Crazy. The Clown Prince of Crime. Jerome Valeska, is dreaming of you. 

You fight the voice in your head, that wants to convince yourself how good that this feels. The power you have over him. Your holding his leash, and he is desperate for you. The feral, suggestive whisper of your name in your ear. Even in his sleep, you haunt him. Do you even know how good you are?

You stay silent, but feel your heart rate calm beside yourself. He's so...him. Every time. Every day. You hate it.

Yet, you grind yourself further in him, and you elicit a raw, hot groan of pleasure. You've gifted him with whatever permission his sleep-induced body needs. He takes it greedily, hands palming you for whatever he can get. You feel his fingers wander down to your pussy, feeling how wet you are. You feel his long digits slowly rub your sopping core, pushing and playing with your sticky center. He spreads you open, and hums to himself.

Still touching your folds, you feel him press up against your back. You feel his cock twitch against your tail bone, and you let out a shaky breath as he begins to thrust and grind himself against you, the two of you letting out soft grunts and mewls of pleasure. 

"Good girl," He whispers against you, "Such a good girl. Taking me so, so well."

He's asleep. He won't remember this in the morning. 

You can't help but hum, matching his lazy strokes against your back. Before you know it, his thrusts get harder and harder. He pins you against him, one hand rubbing your clit gently, and the other pinning your wrists behind you. Two of your hands, in one of his. 

You let out a soft moan, and you feel him stir. You close your eyes.

Don't wake up.

He pumps himself against you, wildly. It's rough, and you can feel his bruising grip. You wonder if he's this rough when he's doing the real thing. He probably would be. With you? The one he's wanted to sink his teeth into for so long. He'd destroy you. Break you open. Fuck you like an animal in heat. You wonder if he'd cum fast or not, after the wait. You wonder if he'd lay you down, treat you nice, before eating you out like his last meal. 

You're trying your hardest to brush the thoughts out of your head, but you were never good at thwarting your curiosity. 

That's it, curiosity. How you were with Jervis. Think of Jervis. Think of Jervis. You squeeze your eyes shut, as you try to stop the building bundle of nerves from the way Jerome desperately breathes against you. 

"Fuck," You breathe, arching into his fingers, and you hear Jerome growl again. 

"So...mmh-," He mutters, "So needy."

You feel the dam break, movements too fast for you to keep yourself from cumming. You let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a humiliated whine, and you feel him grin against you as he cums himself.

Jerome. Jerome Valeska. Jerome Valeska just came in his pants, cum spurting through the material and onto yours.

You swallow and sigh, soft. You still feel the aftershocks of your own orgasm, and the twitches of his dick pressed against you. 

Still asleep, He pulls you tighter against him. It's too hot. It's uncomfortable. But there's something in the way he clings to you, recklessly pulling on you. His hands reach for every part of you, tugging on your clothes, hair, and pressing gentle, worshipping kisses to your shoulder. You feel yourself exhale.

You close your eyes, before he comes alive. You choose to ignore his grunted out words of disarray, semi-waking up from his trance, semi-falling further asleep.

Fucking wet dreams.