Librarywent - Tumblr Posts
@librarywent asked why’d you kill your mother, jerome? from bruce
He stares at Bruce for a long moment before he finally breaks the silence with a loud cackle. “Since when do you care about why?” He didn’t think Bruce Wayne was the type to care about why criminals were committing crimes. He thought Bruce was the type to want to lock them up as fast as possible. Apparently, he’d thought wrong. “I killed her cause she was a bitch.” He doesn’t owe Bruce the truth, but he gives him a tiny portion of it anyway. “And cause she didn’t like my jokes.”
@librarywent said i’m not talking to you! from bruce
He’s making an offended face even before Bruce finishes talking. “Wow. Way to hurt a man’s feelings, Brucie.” He grins, reaching out to tap a gloved hand against Bruce’s cheek. “What did I ever do to you?” That’s a rhetorical question if Jerome has ever heard one. He thinks a better question would be what hasn’t he done to Bruce. He can’t help it, though. Not when Bruce gets so riled up every time. And certainly not when he looks so pretty whenever he does. “Aw, come on. Cat got your tongue?”
@librarywent asked can you get to the point? from bruce for jerome
“No.” He can’t help his grin when he says it. “Bruce, someone has to teach you the value of a good story, and I think it’s only fitting that I’m the one to do it.” He gets up and settles himself next to Bruce, still grinning at him. “I doubt Jeeves is any good at telling stories. I mean, come on. When’s the last time you heard a good story?” He’s getting farther and farther from the point the more he talks, which is good. He wants to see how much he can ramble before Bruce figures it out.
@librarywent asked what do you want, jerome? from bruce
He doesn’t really know why Bruce is asking. They both know what he wants. He hasn’t changed since he woke up, except for the fact that he had to staple his face back on. But his wants haven’t changed. He tilts his head to the side and stares at Bruce, assessing him slowly. “Isn’t it obvious?” He thought it was. “I want to kill you.” Theo had killed him for trying to kill Bruce. And so Jerome wants to kill Bruce just to prove he can do it. He wants to kill Bruce to see what’ll happen to Gotham. He wants to kill Bruce so he can watch the light leave his eyes. And if he can kill Bruce after he manages to bring that darkness he knows is lurking somewhere in the billionaire to the surface, he’ll consider it a win.
Being dead, Jerome is coming to realize, was a goddamn bitch. He can’t remember anything past Theo stabbing him in the throat, even if he’d much rather forget about that. At least he got his face back from Dwight. At least he’d plunged Gotham into a (hopefully) permanent nightfall. Jerome would never admit it, but it had been one of his lesser plans. He thinks he deserves some sort of credit for coming up with it so quickly, though. It had been the only was he could think of to ensure he got to see Bruce.
That had been the other thing on his mind when he woke up: Bruce Wayne. He remembers wanting to kill him, and he remembers Theo stabbing him, and since Theo is dead (again, apparently), Jerome is free to focus on Bruce. And really, it’s Bruce’s fault that he’d died. If Theo hadn’t told him to kill Bruce, Theo wouldn’t have killed Jerome. Jerome is only doing the logical thing.
Bruce has gotten bigger since Jerome last saw him. He’s taller. Jerome is pretty sure he’s still taller than Bruce, so that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t look any different other than having gotten taller, though. He still carries himself the same way, though he seems a little more sure about himself since the gala. There’s a haughty edge to him that wasn’t there before. Jerome wants to see if he can destroy it.
He giggles at the question, grinning gleefully at Bruce. “Bingo! Y’know, I wasn’t expecting you to be this smart, Bruce. Does that come with the dead parents or is it just cause you’re getting older?” He glances around the empty living room with a frown. “Hey, where’s the butler? Didja sack him?” He doubts Bruce has fired his butler, but the lack of said butler is making Jerome a little suspicious. His eyes narrow. “Is he on the phone with old Jimbo?” That’s the last thing he needs right now. He just woke up! He doesn’t want Jim Gordon ruining his fun before he gets to have it.
“C’mere.” He grabs Bruce by the back of the neck and hauls him in, close enough that he can see Bruce’s eyelashes. He leers at him. He’s gotten older, yes, but he’s also gotten prettier. Jerome doesn’t want to think about how many Gothamites are throwing themselves at Bruce Wayne’s feet. It makes his lip curl. “You got a girlfriend?” The question slips out before he can stop it and he grimaces. And then he grins. “Boyfriend? Anyone? Come on, there’s gotta be someone. Pretty boy like you, there’s gotta be someone eager to please.” He wiggles his eyebrows as he says it, still grinning maniacally.
He drags Bruce back towards the window he’d broken to get in, and he pulls him up onto the sill. “Say goodbye, Brucie,” he coos. “Dunno if you’ll see home again.” Jerome isn’t planning on it. He’s planning to make an example of Bruce, to kill him in such a way that no one will ever dare to double cross him again. “But! If it makes ya feel better, we’re gonna have some fun before ya die.” He smacks a kiss to Bruce’s temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it good for ya.” Jerome cackles, jumping backwards out the window and landing with a soft thud onto the dewy grass below. “Now,” he says as he dusts himself off, “get in the van, darlin’.”
The lights go out, sweeping the sinister city in shadows as far as the eye can see. Wayne Manor is no exception, the estate is silent for a few moments before the shrill sound of the study's telephone disrupts the eerie air. Bruce hesitates, padding soft and steady steps against the floorboards — ever creaking, forever haunted — towards the device, but its call stops suddenly. Bruce pauses. A hush covers the room for only a few seconds before a slow, sinister laugh severs the momentary illusion of peace; heavy footsteps grow louder as a figure emerges from the dark: the supposed-to-be-dead Jerome Valeska. Bruce freezes, holding the undead's gaze as if staring down the mythical Medusa; made a statue, frozen in fear, he was brought back to their last interaction — he could feel the sharp kiss of the knife, pressing harder and harder against his soft skin, beads of warm crimson peaking from parted flesh; he felt Jerome's grip tighten, his warm breath against his ear; a scared child, he closed his eyes tight, wishing for his parents, wondering if he was to return to them soon. When he returns to the present and Jerome's image only continues to crystalize, Bruce's certainty began to blur. This had to be a dream — a nightmare — a delusion even. He too was human and had been struggling with insomnia for years now. As the poltergeist neared, Bruce's heart drummed against his ribs. No, he watched him die — he was inches away as Theo Galavan drove a blade into the Jerome's throat — his crimson, Cheshirian grin still haunted his dreams. Moonlight distorted the shadows that danced across his figure, until finally a new facade was revealed: his face had been made a mask and reclaimed, a red thread outlined his countenance, held together with crude, scattered staples, a number of which threatened to snap whenever Jerome smiled too wide. The meat of his muscles peaked out, red and raw, from his distorted expression making Bruce's heart drop into his stomach. He worries he might retch and holds his breath. Bruce averts his gaze, at last making an attempt to flee. Finally, forcing his body to cooperate, he managed to take a few steps away. Though it was for nought, as the taller teenager easily dispelling the distance between them. A firm grip grabs Bruce's chin and forces him to face Jerome's grin. He closes his eyes and tries to rip away from the larger's hold.
"Am I making you feel sick?"
He couldn't breathe. No. No, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not afraid anymore. Bruce shakes his head violently, raven orbs glaring at his captor. He swallows the fear that climbs up his throat. "Here to finish what you started?"
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑. / @notefinal
@librarywent ( bruce wayne )
Jerome is no stranger to getting arrested. He knows what the handcuffs feel like against his wrists, and he knows that it’s only a matter of time before he picks the lock and breaks out. He won’t be getting sent back to Arkham. Of that he’s certain. He still doesn’t know why Jim brought him back to the GCPD, but he’s not complaining about it. The more time he’s here, the less time he’s in Arkham. And the more time he has to plan his breakout. He’s not stupid. He knows he can’t run with all of the cops here, but that hasn’t stopped him before, so maybe he’ll just sprint for the door.
He glances around at the cops in the precinct. He recognizes Bullock and Jim. Everyone else is a stranger. Except Bruce. He blinks. What the fuck is Bruce Wayne doing at the GCPD? Jerome stares at him. And then, when it becomes clear that Bruce isn’t paying attention to him, he whistles. “Bruce!” He tries again. “Brucie!” Jim is glaring at him. Jerome just grins. “Didja miss me, dollface?”
Where are we going then? The question makes Jerome’s unnaturally wide smile stretch even wider. “You’ll see.” He shifts the van into drive and pulls away from the manor. He’s practically vibrating with excitement. He’s very pleased with himself for managing to pull this off. After a few minutes of tense silence, Jerome sighs dramatically and flips the radio on. He hums along to the song spilling from the speakers, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the beat. “Loosen up, Bruce. This is gonna be fun.” It’ll be fun for Jerome, at least. And that’s all that matters. He cackles as they continue on to their destination, his laughter mixing with the music to create an odd cacophony of noise.
When they arrive at the carnival, Jerome hops out and grabs a bag and a pair of handcuffs out of the back of the van. He shoves the bag over Bruce’s head and clamps the handcuffs around his wrists. “Come on, handsome.” He tugs Bruce from the van and shoves him in the direction of the carnival. “Don’t worry, you won’t be a baghead for long.” He laughs again, giggling as they get closer to the carnival.
When they reach the entrance, he whips the bag from Bruce’s head and tosses it over his shoulder with all the dramatic flair he can muster. “What d’ya think? Ya like it?” He drapes an arm around Bruce’s shoulder and shoves his face next to Bruce’s. “Hm? Come on, gimme something! I can’t work with silence, Bruce.” As he speaks, he leads Bruce deeper into the carnival, occasionally pausing to play one of the macabre games his followers had set up. He wins a stuffed octopus at one of them and proudly presents it to Bruce. “For you, darlin’.”
He fought the frown that threatened to form upon his facade — a mask of the young man he imagined his father would have wanted him to be: calm, collected and calculating. With a stifled exhale he regains his composure, returning his steady gaze towards his captor. If prodded about his passed parents upon their first meeting, perhaps the performer might have triggered a desired reaction. However, as the years without them neared the number with, Bruce forced himself to adapt to their absence. Not that he wasn't without his juvenile outbursts; when Alfred first forced socialization upon the grieving, self-isolating adolescent, he didn't make it a day before finding a fight with Tommy Elliott and his imbecilic entourage who found pleasure in rubbing salt in the young orphan's fresh wounds. He had learned two lessons that day: when to hold back and when to hit hard (and, that his father's watch was an excellent makeshift wrist wrap in a pinch).
His expression darkens at the mention of Alfred. Bruce's gaze flickers, falters, yet his lips stay sealed, sewn shut in stubborn defiance. Dark hues widen once more following the random intrusion of his personal life — or rather, the embarrassing lack thereof. Not that Jerome necessarily knew that. But before he could come up with anything cunning, Jerome had already thrown another punch. Pretty boy, Bruce loathes the deep scarlet that surfaces upon his cheeks. He scowls in response to Jerome's growing grin, jerking himself as far from the joker's touch as he can manage. This only tightens the gloved grip of the showman, however, and Bruce feels himself launched towards the night's cool call. His attention shifts and for a minute he leaves the moment, instead staring ahead at the shattered surface of the broken glass that webbed the destruction of Jerome's entrance. He found himself mesmerized by the shimmering shards of sharp glass that glistened against the backdrop of snow that began to gather. Bruce looked towards the dark sky above, charcoal clouds obscured the city in the distance molded into an enormous, ominous entity. For a few seconds, the sickle moon shone through the shadows, reminding Bruce of his mother's shy smile. Jerome could kill him here and now. And maybe Bruce should have egged him on. Maybe then he could return to his parents and be free of the showman's stunts. With closed eyes he could picture the ghosts of his parents with their arms open, ready to soothe him into the eternal silence. But it wasn't his time yet. No, not yet. Not here and not now. He staggered under Jerome's grip, his blush growing as he was easily overpowered and pulled every which way. He grimaces, giving the joker a rough shove but doing little to hinder the larger's hold. He hated this, how helpless he felt — it brought him back to that day, that allyway. A harsh voice in the back of his mind questioned the purpose of all his training if he could still be so easily subdued. You couldn't save them then and you wouldn't be able to now. Say goodbye, he shakes his head, messy raven locks obscured his expression. He's survived Jerome once and he'd do it again. He'd return home to Alfred, to his mission. But once again he fumbles, and his words bring forth a shudder. He can only imagine what the criminal considers to be fun. His mind immediately jumps to what weird things Jerome could possibly want to do with him. Having already probed his love life in the little time they've been reunited, Bruce's anxieties metastasized and wandered. I'll make it good for you, Bruce squirms in the arms of his infatuator and childishly attempts to wipe the touch of Jerome's lips from his temple. A warmth gathers and grows in his stomach — ravenous — spreading by the second. He tries to shake him away, alongside his growing need for affection and attention. For a moment, Bruce considers running. Whether back to the mansion or to the forrest that outlined his family's estate, he knows running from Jerome only meant he would take his aggressions out elsewhere, on the innocent. He holds Jerome's unwaivering, all-consuming gaze for a few moments before proceeding to the passenger's seat without much complaint (aside from his ever present scowl). "Where are we going then?" Bruce reluctantly relents.
@notefinal