ribcage ink

this is the tattoo I got on my ribs for syd barretts’ 70th bday.

Making Homes in Ribcages

Do not fall in love with people like me.

I will take you to aquariums, and parks, and museums,

and kiss you in every memorable beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting bitterness in your mouth.


Do not fall in love with people like me.

I will sing loudly and terribly to songs that you don’t really like but you’ll listen to anyways because my sincerity makes you laugh.

That song will come on and your heart will shatter because that off-tune rhythm matched perfectly with your heartbeat and you didn’t even know it.


Do not fall in love with people like me.

I will hold you close at night, my arms gripping your sides because I can’t fall asleep unless I’m holding something close to my chest.

When your bed is empty you’ll shiver and the cold will set in because a drool stain on your shirt was nothing compared to the tear stains on it now.


Do not fall in love with people like me.

I will show you off, compliment you often, and love you with absolutely everything I have in this piece of shit heart of mine, so that you’ll know exactly who’s fault it is when I leave,

and you’ll hate it.

Because I was yours and only yours.


I will destroy you in the most perfectly beautiful way possible.

And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.

I came up with this in the span of half an hour just now, all because I imagined Jerome sucking on a candy cane. Oops. ———–

“Jerome…. Fuck…”

“Better watch your mouth, gorgeous.”

The redhead draws a freckled digit down the side of your ribcage, circling the inked letters you bore of his initials. Ever the loyal dame you are to him. A smirk overpowers his mouth, but he’s caught off guard as he sees you still briefly, your arm out stretching before he can stop it. You lay a splayed, opened palm slap across his cheek, daring him to say watch your language again. Pissing him off with a yank to the big dog’s chain.

His green eyes darken considerably, features screwed up. You taunt him with a leg locking around his waist, pushing him flush against your already naked chest. “What? Hmm? You don’t want me to hit you this time, baby? Can’t take it?”

His fingers wrap around your throat, tugging you up with him as he rolls up and off you. He’s snarling, baring those pearly white teeth that have you licking your lips in response. “God, I want to taste your anger, Valeska. What I wouldn’t give….”

He’s shoving you, hard, hands now on either side of your head. Hovering, he’s close enough that that single red piece of hair rests between your eyebrows, his mint stained hot breath on your mouth. The muscles in your neck strain against the watering hunger you felt. This need to fucking taste him. Just a little bit. You could beg, couldn’t you? No, not yet. Things are just heating up high.

His response to your words, to the last minute you two shared is to sink his teeth painfully into your lower lip. You feel the skin give way to the intrusion of his bite. And then he’s laughing, oh he’s laughing. That slow chortle, that echoing word. “Ha. Ha. Ha.” spreads from his mouth onto your own. He licks the blood away after, muttering how he’s tempted to spit it back into your mouth and hold you down until you choke on it.

“You have no idea how much I wish I could slit your throat with my new toy for your behavior, Y/N. Very bad girl. But then again, your father was a domineering drunk, wasn’t he? The apple of his eye is rotten to the core.”

You know he’s baiting you. You roll off the tension at his remarks. It’s what you two do. Always treading this dangerous line between taunting and terror. You feed off it. He gets high from it. It’s fucking disgusting. And you crave it, you crave it more than any god damned thing in this god forsaken city of Gotham.

Jerome Valeska is your Achilles heel, and you won’t have it any other way. You hum in response, letting him have this one. He always does this thing with his pretty mouth when you placate him, and you have this rush for it tonight. Your lips purse in his favorite pout of yours, your hands settling at nape of his neck to comb through that lush fire red hair. Christ, the hair alone made you have to clench your thighs together. You pull once, twice, your mouth hovering over Jerome’s defined jawline, your teeth scraping the flesh until it rebounded with an angry red mark.

“Can I come, baby?” A kiss to that red mark is delivered. “Use you until I feel good, Jerome?” You note his intake of sharp breath at your pronunciation of his name. Your careful, respectful manner as you use it to ask him. “I promise I’ll let you hurt me after. Whatever you want, daddy.”

He’s eyeing you now, those pupils blown so wide you feel your throat parch, your body reacting all at once. Fuck, he really is beautiful. Despite what he does, how his bitch whore of a mother tried to do to him, he’s beautiful. And he’s yours. He entrusts only you and you alone to break him. But you can’t ever break him. You are two halves of a whole.

You kiss at his nose, causing you both to smile against each other’s mouths. You know he’s agreeing, his cock giving away his unspoken answer. You draw a hand down between you two, giving him a squeeze through the fabric of his slacks. Reaching up into his silk robe, you retrieve the candy cane he had been teasing you with earlier. Drawing it from his pocket you give it a defined slow lick, your finger curling around the shaped top in strokes.

Jerome doesn’t take his eyes off you. Mesmerized. Ready. You bite your lip, your taste buds engulfed in the copper of the broken flesh. You slip a hand into the panties you wore, falling against Jerome for more friction. You’re panting as you give into yourself, that slick sound circling around the room, wrapping around you and Jerome Valeska. You whine a little, pushing the sleeve of silk up his arm until it’s caught on his elbow. You lift up the limb, those freckles decorating this beautiful man in ways otherworldly.


You inch up, letting one hand stray to rip open the top of his robe, your breasts immediately pressing into his chest. You watch his nipples harden at the change in temperate, and you waste no precious time in laying your own over his. Back to the task at hand, you straddle that freckled arm, mounting it. Your sex is pressed up against the underside of Jerome’s wrist, his erratic pulse point against your heat spurring your into slow, aching thrusts. He is yours. Fuck. He is. And he’s agreeing, you hear him, see him as you let yourself catch his gaze. You’ve said it outloud.

You remember the candy treat, taking your fingers off holding onto Jerome’s forearm, you push aside your panties, taking in the arousal that spills out, thick. Jerome clenches his teeth when you douse the candy cane with it, pressing it to his lips after, sucking in the other end. You balance yourself with your left hand wound around him, fingers pulling that ginger hair, starting to ride over his arm again, rutting your clit into his pulse point, panting against the overwhelming need for this man.

Your mouth drops open against Jerome’s, /needing/ to tell him. “You make me so wet, Valeska. So fucking wet for you. Always.”

And his voice is husky, ragged as he retorts to you. “Say it, Y/N. I need to hear that filthy mouth now, gorgeous.”

You comply, rolling against him until there was no longer any air that wasn’t shared between you two left.

“Hold my pussy, Jerome. Fuck, please?” Those long fingers unravel and cup your lace clad sex as you continue riding Jerome’s arm. Not. Enough. Fuck. More.

“Squeeze my god damn throat, Valeska! Now!”

His other arm extends to grant your wish, those knuckles bending as your air bottoms out, your vision catching swirls. You laugh, tossing your head back, arched out and riding Jerome. You were taking your pleasure right now. Owning it. You own him and he owns you. This ignites you until you’re whimpering pathetically, right there. That rumbling current slamming into your belly, pooling inside your heat. Your heart is beating faster, Jerome’s breathing labored, watching you ride him like it is the most magnificent show in Gotham to him. No, on earth. His eyes dance with consist enchantment.

“Go on, gorgeous. Come on. Let’s get you there.” He’s punching out two fingers until they’re inside of you. And you’re coming undone, that wave causing you to collapse against his hand, your throat constricting when you cry out through your orgasm. Jerome catches you against his shoulder, both your chests still flush together. He brushes his fingers through your hair, about to say something when the bell of your room is buzzed more than once.

“Lack of fucking manners in this city,” Jerome huffs.

You grin lazily, lifting the candy cane with the slightly shared edge, scolding him first for his language, but your idea making up for it in hindsight. His eyes grow dark, taking the object as you give your suggestion.

“Didn’t you mention something about wanting to slit a throat?”