#reader acrobat

--- The circus had always been your sanctuary. To others, it was a fleeting spectacle of wonder and thrill, but for you, it was home—a place where misfits and dreamers could belong. The bright lights, the raucous applause, the smell of popcorn mixed with sawdust—it all felt alive, humming with an energy that made the world beyond its gates seem dull and meaningless.

You had grown up among the chaos, learning to flip, twist, and soar through the air like it was second nature. You were the star acrobat, the one people came to see defy gravity with impossible grace. Your name was whispered in awe by audiences who couldn’t believe how someone so small and agile could perform such daring feats.

And then there was Jerome.

He was the fire to your ice, the chaos to your calm. While you danced on the tightrope and swung from the trapeze, Jerome lit up the crowd with his manic grin and mischievous antics. He was the clown, the joker, the unpredictable spark that kept the audience on the edge of their seats.

From the moment you met him, you knew Jerome was different. He had this magnetic energy, this infectious laugh that made you forget about the darkness that lingered behind his smile. His jokes were sharp, his wit even sharper, and his ability to read people was uncanny. But it was the moments behind the scenes, away from the spotlight, that made you love him most.

After performances, the two of you would sneak away to the top of the big tent, where the stars stretched endlessly above you. You’d share secrets, dreams, and stolen bottles of cheap liquor, laughing until your sides hurt. Jerome would tell you stories about his childhood, his mother, and the things she did to him—the things no one should endure. And while he told those stories with a laugh, you could see the pain in his eyes.

You wanted to protect him.

But Jerome didn’t want protection. He wanted revenge.

The night he killed his mother was etched into your memory like a scar. You found him in the back of the tent, his hands trembling and blood splattered across his face. The knife in his hand glinted under the moonlight.

“She deserved it,” he said, his voice eerily calm. His eyes met yours, searching for judgment, for condemnation, but you gave him none.

Instead, you took the knife from his hand, your own trembling slightly as you tucked it into your coat. “You’re right,” you whispered. “She did.”

From that moment, your bond was unbreakable. You helped him clean up the scene, hiding any trace of what had happened. You didn’t ask questions or voice doubts. Jerome trusted you, and you wouldn’t betray that trust.

When he joined the Maniax, he came to you first. “I’m putting together something big,” he said, his grin stretching wide. “It’s gonna be chaotic, insane, beautiful. And I want you with me.”

You didn’t hesitate. The world had never been kind to people like you and Jerome—misfits, outcasts, freaks. If the world didn’t want you, then you’d burn it down together.

The Maniax were everything Jerome promised they would be: chaotic, ruthless, and unforgettable. You helped him plan their stunts, using your acrobat skills to pull off feats no one else could. The two of you became Gotham’s nightmare, a pair of wildcards that left destruction in your wake.

But then came Theo Galavan.

The moment Jerome fell, his laughter echoing as blood poured from his neck, the world seemed to stop. You screamed his name, running to his side as he collapsed. His hand gripped yours, his pale lips curled into that familiar grin even as life slipped away from him.

“Don’t... forget me,” he whispered, his voice weak but still laced with that undeniable charm.

And then he was gone.

You stayed by his body until the GCPD dragged you away. They called you an accomplice, a danger to society, and locked you in handcuffs. But you didn’t care. Without Jerome, nothing mattered.

They sent you to Arkham, and that’s when the real nightmare began.

---

Arkham was a different kind of hell. It wasn’t the loud, chaotic kind that Jerome had thrived in. No, this was quiet and insidious, the kind of place that seeped into your soul and tore it apart piece by piece.

You had been thrown into a cold, empty cell, the iron bars a cruel reminder of how small your world had become. The walls were a sickly shade of gray, lined with deep scratches and the occasional bloodstain left behind by those who had already lost themselves. The air was damp and heavy, filled with the muffled screams of inmates and the occasional laugh—low, unhinged, and chilling.

At first, you tried to hold on to the memories of Jerome, replaying them in your mind like a lifeline. You remembered the way he laughed, that wild, infectious sound that made everything feel less terrifying. You remembered the way he’d tip his head when he teased you, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

But memories couldn’t shield you from the reality of Arkham.

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks blurred into months. The guards were cruel, their eyes cold as they sneered at you, calling you names like "freak" and "Jerome’s little pet." The other inmates were worse, their madness consuming them entirely. Some tried to hurt you, others tried to drag you into their delusions, and all of them reminded you that sanity was a fragile thing.

You fought it at first, clinging to the hope that Jerome would have wanted you to stay strong. But every day in that place chipped away at you. The laughter you once loved became a haunting echo, distorted and cruel. The Jerome you had adored began to feel like a ghost, slipping further and further away.

There were nights when you’d curl up in the corner of your cell, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you whispered his name over and over, hoping he could somehow hear you. “Jerome,” you’d murmur, your voice cracking. “Come back to me.”

But the walls of Arkham didn’t care.

The doctors tried to "fix" you, strapping you to chairs and feeding you pills that dulled your mind. They asked you questions about Jerome, about the crimes you’d committed together, and they always looked at you like you were broken beyond repair. Maybe they were right.

You began to lose track of time, the endless monotony of Arkham swallowing you whole. The person you once were—the fearless acrobat who soared through the air—was gone. In her place was a shadow, hollow and lost.

But even in the darkest moments, a small, flickering hope remained.

Somewhere, deep down, you refused to believe Jerome was truly gone. He had been larger than life, a force of nature that couldn’t be extinguished. Death couldn’t hold someone like him, could it?

That hope kept you alive, even as the rest of you crumbled.

Then, one night, everything changed.

You were lying on the cold, hard floor of your cell, staring at the cracked ceiling as the sound of distant screams echoed through the halls. Your mind was foggy, your body too weak to care. But then you heard it—a laugh.

It started faint, almost imperceptible, but it grew louder, sharper, and unmistakable.

Jerome.

You shot up, your heart pounding as you stumbled to the bars of your cell. For a moment, you thought you were imagining it. The sound was too good to be true, too perfect to be real.

But then the heavy clang of boots echoed down the corridor, and you saw him.

Jerome Valeska, alive and grinning like the maniac you had always loved. His hair was wild, his clothes stained with blood, and his eyes burned with a fiery intensity.

“Miss me, doll?” he drawled, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.

Tears welled in your eyes as you pressed yourself against the bars. “Jerome?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“In the flesh,” he said with a laugh, spreading his arms theatrically. “Thought I’d let you rot in here? Not a chance.”

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you sank to the floor, your head spinning. He was here. He was alive.

Jerome stepped closer, his grin softening as he crouched in front of your cell. “Hey,” he murmured, his hand reaching through the bars to cup your cheek. “I’m back, and I’m not leaving without you.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch as tears streamed down your face. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt alive.

“Get me out of here,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Jerome’s grin widened. “With pleasure.”

He pulled out a crowbar, slamming it against the lock with reckless abandon. The metal groaned and splintered under his force, and within moments, the door swung open.

Jerome grabbed your hand, pulling you to your feet. “Come on, doll,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Let’s blow this joint.”

Your legs wobbled, but you clung to him, letting his strength guide you. The alarms blared as the two of you tore through Arkham, leaving chaos in your wake. Guards shouted and scrambled to stop you, but Jerome was unstoppable, his laughter echoing through the halls like a war cry.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

---

The cold night air wrapped around you like a shroud as you stumbled out of Arkham’s gates, Jerome pulling you by the hand. You blinked up at the stars, your vision blurry and unfocused. It was the first time in months—years, maybe—that you had seen the sky.

“Oh, look at her!” Jerome’s voice cut through your haze, sharp and maniacal. He threw his arms wide, spinning in place as he cackled at the heavens. “The big, beautiful, filthy city of Gotham! Did you miss me, baby? Because Daddy’s home!”

You staggered, struggling to keep up with his chaotic energy. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest, but the sheer absurdity of the moment made you laugh—a weak, raspy sound that caught his attention.

He spun back to you, his grin stretching impossibly wide. “There’s that laugh,” he purred, cupping your face in his gloved hands. His touch was firm, almost bruising, but you didn’t flinch. You’d grown used to his theatrics. “I was starting to think Arkham turned you into one of those boring little vegetables.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Tell me, doll, you still got a spark in there?”

You nodded weakly, your lips twitching into a faint smile.

“Good,” he hissed, his breath hot against your cheek. “Because the world’s not gonna destroy itself, is it?” He straightened, tugging you close by your waist and spinning you both into a waltz, right there in the middle of the empty street.

“Jerome,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you tried to keep your balance. “The cops—”

“Are slow,” he interrupted, laughing as he dipped you dramatically. “And stupid! And oh-so-fun to mess with! Let ’em come, doll. We’ll give ’em the grand performance they deserve!” He twirled you upright again, his grin feral.

Before you could respond, the faint wail of sirens reached your ears. Jerome froze, his head snapping to the side like a predator catching the scent of prey. His eyes gleamed with manic excitement.

“Oh-ho-ho, they’re early!” he crowed, clapping his hands like a delighted child. “I was hoping for a head start, but this? This is even better!” He turned to you, his grin widening as he leaned in close. “Ready to run, darling? Or should we leave them a little... surprise?”

“Run,” you said quickly, tugging at his arm.

Jerome sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Fine, fine. Spoilsport,” he teased, grabbing your hand. “But next time, we blow something up first!”

The two of you bolted into the maze of Gotham’s streets, Jerome practically skipping as he led the way. He was like a child on a sugar high, darting down alleyways and vaulting over obstacles with reckless glee.

You struggled to keep up, your body weak and unsteady, but Jerome never let go of your hand. His grip was ironclad, a lifeline in the chaos.

Eventually, you ducked into an abandoned building, the heavy door slamming shut behind you. Jerome leaned against it, laughing breathlessly as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“That,” he said, pointing at you with a wild grin, “was fun!”

You collapsed onto the dusty floor, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. “You’re insane,” you muttered, your voice shaking with exhaustion.

Jerome’s grin widened. “And you love it,” he shot back, crouching beside you. He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your heart race. “You know, doll, I was worried Arkham might’ve... dulled your edges. But nah.” He reached out, tracing a finger along your jaw. “You’re still my favorite little freak.”

You glared at him, but the warmth in his voice made your lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “You’re the freak,” you said weakly.

Jerome’s laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls like a symphony of chaos. “Guilty as charged!” he declared, throwing his arms wide. “But hey, doll, who needs sanity when you’ve got... this?” He gestured around dramatically, as if the dusty, crumbling warehouse was a palace.

Despite yourself, you laughed. It was small and broken, but it was real. Jerome’s eyes lit up at the sound, and he leaned in close, his grin softer now.

“You’re beautiful when you laugh,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Like a little ray of sunshine in this big, ugly world.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you shook your head. “I thought I’d never see you again,” you whispered.

Jerome’s grin faltered for a moment, his eyes darkening. “Oh, doll,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You should’ve known better. Death? Pfft. That’s for boring people.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “I told you, didn’t I? You and me? We’re unstoppable.”

He pulled back, his grin returning full force. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together, “what do you say we paint the town red? And maybe... blow it up while we’re at it?”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. He was insane, unpredictable, and completely unhinged. But he was also Jerome—the boy you had grown up with, the man who had turned madness into an art form.

And you loved him.

So you stood, your legs still shaky but your resolve stronger than ever. “Let’s do it,” you said, your voice steady.

Jerome’s grin stretched impossibly wide, his laughter ringing out like a battle cry. “That’s my girl!” he shouted, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

The night stretched out before you, dark and full of possibilities. The world had tried to break you, but it had failed.

You were free. You were alive.