House of Crazy | Jerome Valeska
Warnings; mentions of death/ murder, threats, crime
Theo bowed his head down as his maniac eyes stared into your eyes, attempting to intimidate you. But that wouldn’t work, it never did, you’d have thought he’d have grown wise to this now. He only came here when he wanted something, all you had to do was await for him to reveal what that was.
“The Maniacs.” At the name, you began chewing your gum, unbothered by the title as you sat behind your desk. It was the same old, psychos on the loose in Gotham. “And I want you to write an article on them, showcasing how threatening they really are to the society.”
“Your band of idiots are already feared Galavan, they don’t need any more press. They’re already on the news, surely that’s more ideal than appearing in a paper.” At the quirk of your brow, Theo gave an airy chuckle, as though he was humoured by your perspective.
“Miss (Y/L/N), I don’t think you understand how this works.” It was no secret to you that the politician was rotten, there weren’t many men in positions of power that weren’t corrupt in some way. The only one that had denied any illegal terms was the detective, Jim Gordon. He was a good apple, almost too good for what the streets of Gotham deserved. “The roles are, I tell you what to do, and I won’t get Tabitha to shoot you in the head.”
It was a threat, however it didn’t make you tremble in the slightest. This wasn’t the first instance in which he came here and threatened you, but your new employer would not have taken kindly to his raging behaviour. Not everyone got what they want, and this mentally disarmed man had to realise that.
“Look man, I don’t work for you. Falcone is my boss, and I’ll give him a call, see what he says about me writing a segment. But I’m not making any promises, and if that is a problem for you, Victor can be here in a minute to ensure you keep your hands to yourself.” Giving a bite to the end of the pen that was in your hand, Theo huffed out his nose, clearly unhappy that this time he didn’t hold the upper hand.
“Fine.” He eventually agreed, tugging at his tie as he impatiently waited for you to pick up the phone. This was a way to spread their wrath, through the beautifully crafted words of (Y/N) (Y/L/N) in the Gotham Gazette. His plans always worked, this one must. If not, and you could see it in his expression too, he would perform a tantrum. And that was something that nobody wanted.
The day had come to go to the secret criminal’s apartment, Falcone had gave her the all clear, deciding to up her salary after making a joke about Greenberg taking a bite out of her flesh. And so Theo called a meeting in the dining area, requesting each of their attention.
He himself was distracted, Barbara kept giving him sultry eyes. Her cause of action was to distract him, to overpower him with her sexuality. It was no secret that the woman that murdered her parents had control issues, she was a freak for it. But that said, all of the convicts in this room were freaks. Madmen who obeyed him in exchange for their freedom and his protection. It was a win win, and would be a much larger one once you had written your account and published it in the newspaper.
Walking into the space, you felt all of the crazed eyes on you. Some pairs were analysing how you stood, what your weaknesses were and how to use them against you. Others, particularly male ones, but not all, were inspecting each dip and dive in your body, thinking about how sweet you’d taste of the bones.
However one of those sets of eyes were a memorable emerald, they belonged to the redhead, Jerome Valeska. You had heard about how he had killed his mother, brutally, for the nonstop whining, shagging and beating, you had even wrote a small piece accounting the crime. At the time, you had felt a tad of sympathy for the boy, understanding that he must have gone through a difficult start. But you didn’t deposit all of your pity onto him, murderers would only use that against you to make you their next victim. It was common logic.
“This is (Y/N), she works for the Gotham Gazette, she is here today to collect information that can be used to help your reputation. I am trusting none of you to kill her, she is our guest, and an ally if we can prove that we will be good for her business.” Theo’s hand came to rest on your shoulder which you kept relaxed. Your reflexes wanted to tense and brush his grip off, but you refrained from doing so. It would not be wise to show that you were uncomfortable, it was duty to pretend that you weren’t affected by the contact or scouring eyes.
Holding your head high, your sight caught a glance at the redhead, who wore a grimace that assumingly was supposed to be a smile. He was different from the rest, not only by age, but by his mental capacity. It was visible that he had sustained childhood trauma, and that he thought that every adult, not only the ones in this room, misunderstood his vision. He was a fanatic, he could monitor a ticking clock and care no less if it was the timing remaining on a bomb. The world was a cog, the maniacs, whether it be the ones that he was forced to reside with, or ones that followed him on the street, were the ones that tipped the scales and controlled the workings of the machine.
“Do we have any takers to go first?” At Theo’s enquiry, three hands shot up into the air, clearly desperate for recognised attention. The first was well manicured and struck, belonging to the blonde woman with a crooked yet alluring smile. A gap parted her front two teeth, it was as though from her menacing look of interest, she wanted to sink them into you, however not to devour your flesh which was the reasoning behind Greenberg’s raised arm, but to devour you sexually. That thought sent a stinging shiver up your spine, wanting to delay your time alone with her for as long as humanly possible. She was a killer, hell they all were, but her face presented it to be too sinister for your likening.
As said, Greenberg had his grubby palm upheld towards the spotless ceiling of the Galavans’ penthouse. His chubby fingers wiggled in a crude wave as he caught your unsettled glance reach him, as though he was attempting to hide the hungry monster inside of his body with a faux politeness. It was a part of Gotham knowledge to be aware of his crimes, somehow magnetising the interest of women and biting chunks of meat from off of their bones. He weighed no regret for his appetite, if anything, the time he was exiled into Arkham, the more he happened to crave the supplements of his cannibalistic diet, desiring the blood from within the feminine bodies to run delightedly through his lips. His carnal habits were beyond unnerving, reinforcing your preference to stay comfortably away from the beast.
Last was the handsome redhead, whose body was lounged carelessly atop of the furniture, his face perceiving boredom, his eyes interpreting a newfound curiosity. Jerome Valeska, the boy who killed his nagging, abusive, circus freak of a mother. There was nothing particularly special about his act of violence, mothers of unstable children had their lives ended all the time, however a legacy of potential had surfaced from his first stolen life. He was performer, a man to reckon the stage with his maniacal antics, to force the crowd to applaud him in the wake of his deadly tricks. A cog, he would turn the tables for the future, succumbing Gotham into madness, revealing his vision to those who thought of him as nothing above the average criminal. For some unknow purpose, his exterior drew your intrigue in; you wished to map out the insides of his impulsive brain, understand his methods, fornicate from the wisdom that his revelations gifted you. There was a lesson that you could learn from the convicted clown, you weren’t sure what it was, but his motive made you believe that he could open your eyes. To the truth, to his reality.
“I’ll take the Joker.” That nickname spiralled to your head, it was possible to imagine him with a stretched Chelsea grin and whitened face, the thought made the corners of your lips upturn in the slightest movement. It was hardly noticeable, but no matter, Jerome’s all seeing eyes caught the flicker of amusement.
The grin that you imagined sprawled upon his lips at the name, clearly recognising that it was he that you were describing. His cheeks must have hurt from the harsh usage of the muscles in his face, but he cared nought. He was just pleased, as the showman of the terrible crowd, that he was the first choice, he was the boss. Finally, someone from the outside could see it, as though they were a prophet of the insane, having categorised all three from least threatening to most.
“Very well.” Theo replied, holding no issue against (Y/N) using Jerome as a object in the public’s eye, he was doing the exact same thing to the boy. And soon enough, the benefits of the boy would be reaped to a complete end, he may as well be getting other advantages before that heroic time came to.
Jerome was quick to let out a laugh in the face of Greenberg, who snarled at the resident comedian. (Y/N) was hardly surprised by his actions, until he walked by her dragging her by the hand through the apartment, abandoning his groupies and the man that had him extracted from the asylum. “Good luck.” Theo bid her, visibly understanding why he had earnt no reply. She was swept away, literally, by the GCPD’s most wanted, there was hardly a second of breath that she had to catch.
The feeling of Jerome’s hand guided upon her own made (Y/N) flinch, it had sent an exhilarating spark through her palm that transcended through the rest of her body. She wasn’t sure whether she liked the feeling or not, but alas she had no choice to disconnect from him, his grip was iron like, it felt as though he would never let her go. A part of her resented that idea, but she was here for a job, not to let loose and become infatuated with a sociopath.
“This is my room, make yourself comfortable.” He released her from his clasp, shutting the door behind (Y/N) as she walked suspiciously into the murderer’s confines. It was fairly an ordinary box, there was a katana thrown discarded on the floor, open with its silver side shining up at the ceiling, but that was it. The sight was kind of disappointing, she had expected more life to be within the walls, like a body or such.
Shaking away the cycle of her imagination, (Y/N) sat in the desk chair, whereas Jerome dived onto the bed as though he were a child. It was such an infant like act, but it showed that he was in tune with his inner self, he hadn’t let his wretched hag of a mother force him to grow out of his temper tantrums and amusement.
(Y/N) pulled a notepad from the inner pocket of her coat, holding it upon her knee as she awaited Jerome to situate himself. He stared back at her, taken aback from the beauty that Theo had brought to his abode. She almost had him drooling at her feet, but if he were to do so, she would have to prove herself, prove that she wasn’t the average woman that walked the streets at night with a can of pepper spray.
“How do you feel now that you are no longer in Arkham?” It had the reputation of being a madhouse, even the staff weren’t sane. They were either corrupt or crazy, it hardly seemed like a coincidence that such men and women were hired to monitor the life behind the bars.
Jerome didn’t take long to answer, it was an easy question. “Like the machine continues to turn, my purpose is returned, I am restored to the streets to cause a wreaking of havoc, no one is capable of putting an end to my legacy.” He was quick to jump back into conversation as he himself wanted to enquire about the maiden before him, he had his own stack of questions that were piling up to the ceiling. He’d go insane if they weren’t answered, although he digressed himself as the epidemy of sanity itself. “Now tell me, how did such a lunatic end up working for a newspaper?”
At his return in discussion, the woman’s eyes widened, as though she had been caught in a crime. That had never happened, being caught she meant. “I’m afraid that question is invalid, I wouldn’t consider myself anything but normal. An average muck in the mud, a critic to the public eye, for which I only am for payment.”
“She’s a liar as well, how intriguing.” Jerome’s cheek came to rest on his fist as he stared amorously at the woman. “I thought you were nothing more than a thief and a killer. There was a story that reached my ears, whilst I was in Arkham, regarding an employee of Don Falcone. She had a cover, a job to pass the time, but during the night, she had hobbies. Ones that Jimbo Gordon wouldn’t approve, she studies the crimes of other villains, upstaging them remotely. She perfects their crimes, there is no fault in her method, only perfection and precision. You look quite like a perfectionist to me…”
Air had left (Y/N)’s lungs, as she sat entranced by Jerome’s tale of tongue. He had heard of her doings, she was criminally famous, a figure of excellence and preciseness to those behind bars. And if they knew, it would be no difficulty for her boss to be aware of her free time activities, and he still hadn’t fired her or thought of casting her into the hands of the authorities. That must have meant that Falcone held some respect for her extraction of crimes, and their committed corrections. This left so many thoughts, a publishing of possibilities at her type writing fingertips. She had already made an introduction to the underworld of wanted men and women, there was more that she could accomplish. Perhaps she could tidy up her own personal doings, fixing every tiny detail that she thought could have improvements.
“It’s an art.” Was the simplest connotation that she could give the arising villain. “Nothing can’t be improved, if my mother was still breathing on this planet, I’d have the opportunity of defying everything that got you here, but better of course.” A sprawl of amusement crossed Jerome’s face at his victory, proud that she would even consider such a terrible act so openly; she was as crazy as him, however she’d kept it contained for the public eye, holding a cover over her face so that nobody would suspect her of being a professional at the conflicts against the law. “That’s sort of my signature, but you already knew that. And whatever Gallavan has planned, well, I’ll eventually upstage that too, causing him obscene jealousy and self-hatred for how he could have done so much better.”
“You’re not planning on recreating an act out of Greenberg’s book, are you?” It would be a delight to listen to (Y/N) refuse the idea, and from the quirk of her hitched eyebrow, he realised that he was right. That wasn’t the way that she swam through the tides of crimes, she’d select some that she saw promise in, rather than picking one that lacked logic, and was spurred by a fetish of hunger. At his humorous words, (Y/N) belted out a laugh of bellowing insanity, Jerome thought it was the most attractive thing that he had ever heard. Her job was dismissed as her pen and pad tumbled from her lap and unto the pristine carpet, long forgotten, and neither of the older teenagers could have cared less, not even if the ink spilled on to the material and Theo threatened to have their heads delivered to the GCPD to pay the bill.
“God no!” Her hand clapped down upon the meat of her thigh, noises of amusement still escaping her mouth and nostrils. “That buffoon thinks that he’s all that, in reality however he is no better than a lowlife going to extremes to feed himself. His hunger isn’t insatiable like ours, there’s nothing that interest me in that disgusting cockroach, he’s not unique. If anything he misses some lacquer to the routine in which he presents himself, he thinks he’s the boss, but each media that has captured his intentions can quite clearly see that he’s not the boss. You and I both know who takes that role in dominant position.”
Leaning forward, Jerome planted his pale hands upon her thighs, pulling her in less distance towards his face. His breath fanned across her lips, she could feel the tingle that was making her wanting to press their lips together in a collision, however she remained aboded, still as a statue as she allowed the suitor in crazy speak his mint breathed mind.
“Me.” At his simple, yet effective admittance, (Y/N) reached up, twirling the loose strands of his eye catching hair around her index finger. It was softer than she thought it would be, like silk between the curl of her skin. “I’m the boss.”
“You should remind Galavan of that sweetie, I agree with you. But that man is not to be trusted, he’s a shrew, hiding under a rock that is your little squad. His intentions are never clear, they’re not visions, potential and well adorned visions that you have J.” He liked the name that (Y/N) had dubbed his persona, it was simple yet memorable. She was unusually alluring, perhaps it was because she saw the possibilities that rendered his mind into a haze of a night, or because of her attractiveness. He wasn’t sure himself, but he was not complaining in any way or right, she was unique, her eyes weren’t blocked by the visor of the common perception of normality.
“On one condition.” It was a compromise that he was proposing, a revolutionary, incombustible idea that would benefit them both. (Y/N) hummed as she let her hands slide down his face, teasingly tracing his jaw with the lines of her fingers, until her held them tightly in his grasp, bringing her entire focus onto his intentionally forceful dialogue. “I will be the only one mentioned by name in your article, it will be about me, am I understood?”
“Crystal.” A smirk crept over (Y/N)’s face, completely and utterly okay with his structure to an independent reign in Gotham. It needed control, it needed somebody to open its misty eyes to the reality that it was evading. Everyone had a bit of madness looming behind their overall frontage disguises, and all would be revealed in time. Their true selves would shine through the eye opening light, until a dark night decided to crash the parade and cover the sky once more, protecting it from any farther eclipses.
As she began to raise her body to be standing, Jerome trailed his calloused, circus working, elephant dung picking hands up the expanse of her legs. They felt like rolls of silk under his fingertips, a material so fine and able to make disguises so divine. She ignited a keen interest from the young man, and so he stood beside her, clamping his hand upon her hard as steel hip, as though to refrain her from abandoning him.
“Where are you intending on going?” His tone sled seduction towards her, and so (Y/N) grabbed it with his teeth, or more so the lobe of his alabaster ear shell, blowing cool air upon the flesh once she pulled away. There was something sinister about the flash of mischief that was upon the writer’s face, but it was a gift, a beauty to behold.
“I’ve got an article to put together about a sociopath with mummy issues, so if you don’t mind...” A wink sent her on her way, no longer was she plodding in fear through the halls, confidence was apparent in her stride, and it left Jerome wanting a taste of it.
She was crazy, and he loved that, because they matched to all the extents. Nothing would hold them back from ruling the cold and dreary streets of Gotham, they’d manage it, it was to be a fact rather than just a dream of a couple of simpletons.
