Where Are We Going Then? The Question Makes Jeromes Unnaturally Wide Smile Stretch Even Wider. Youll

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

@s-unfleur liked for a starter ( alfred & erik )

“Look,” Alfred starts, his hands clasped behind his back as he comes to a stop in front of Erik. “I won’t ask you again.” Alfred Pennyworth is not a stupid man. He knows appealing to a man like Erik is futile, and yet here he is, trying to appeal to Erik. He doesn’t think it’s going to end well. “Normally, I wouldn’t be here. I’m perfectly content to let you rot in jail, or wherever it is they’re gonna cart you off to. But I made a promise. So, Mr. Lehnsherr, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me why you killed those people. And if you don’t, I’m going to make your life very, very miserable.”

Cameron finds the box a lot sooner than Jerome was expecting. It puts a little wrinkle in his plan, but that’s fine. He can still carry it out. He glances at the box and then at Cameron, frowning. “No.” The only movies Jerome had access to at the circus were old ones, and Arkham doesn’t have much in the way of entertainment. “Come on. Grab it and let’s get out of here.” They don’t really need the box, it’s more about what’s in it, but Jerome will let Cameron think they need the box.

He pulls Crane’s fear toxin from his jacket and smashes the vials against the side of the window sill. Hopefully it’ll spread through the whole house. He hopes Jonathan wasn’t expecting a report. He’s already out the window by the time the toxin starts wafting towards the ceiling. “Gimme the box.”

"Box." He repeats, more for himself in confirmation than anything else. Cameron is good at this -- he WILL be, he HAS to be. Can't let the new 'friend' he met on a whim, down and out, can he? No. He has a name to make, a face to splay on America's Most Fucking Wanted maybe -- if that's even a thing anymore with how many Indian Hill monsters are running around.

The blond wets his lips with a quick slide of tongue as he slinks into the warehouse. It only takes about thirty seconds of searching, maybe a few off-- but Junior eventually manages to find an adequately sized box aforementioned by his partner in crime. "Ooh-- is this it?" He calls over, hunkered down in between some crates and tarp covered material. It was nestled in with some hemp-looking sacks and hidden under a batch of what looked like imported pickles. Is that even a THING?

"You ever see that movie Seven?" Cameron asks idly, chuckling soon after as he seems to quote said movie -- "Whaaaaat's in the boooox?" God, he hopes Jerome has at least seen or heard of the damn movie or he's going to feel super awkward.

There’s nothing wrong with what Robin’s saying, but Loki bristles at her words anyway. “This isn’t a lot of work.” In the grand scheme of things, it’s barely any work at all. “You can believe whatever you like.” He folds his arms across his chest and stares out at the skyline, glaring daggers at the horizon. “I don’t care.” A lie, but he’s good at lying. He’s not the god of mischief for nothing, after all.

@notefinal said: “ No, I don’t care about anything at all. ” / loki to robin

"...I find that hard to believe."

No one has ever really accused Robin of being an optimist. But she has her moments. Looking over the skyline, she keeps her voice carefree. Playful. Last thing she wants is to come across as condescending.

"This is an awful lot of work for not caring about anything. That takes some kinda feeling."

He laughs softly at Ennis’ words. “That so?” He can’t quite fathom being the death of anybody, let alone Ennis Del Mar. It’s not something he’s ever considered, and it’s not something he wants to start considering. Especially not now. Thinking about Ennis dying, even if they’re joking, sends a chill through him. Jack may not know much, but he knows he doesn’t want Ennis to die. He also knows that’s probably a big thing to know at this point in their—whatever this is, but he knows it. Thankfully, he’s saved from that line of thought by Ennis moving closer. Jack blinks, his gaze dropping to Ennis’ mouth for a second before he looks up again. “Wouldn’t dream of it, cowboy.”

𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 , 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 to die by overconsumption. of jack , at least. he hears jacks' words despite being spoken under his breath. in so many frames of mind , he's sure they could be on the same page. should be. and probably are. ennis thinks on this for a moment. he always does — think before he speaks. too much for his own good. no word comes easily out of his own lips. ❝ you'll be th' death of me then. ❞ he owes him some shard of his own soul , he supposes. this place feels too much their own to admit anything less. he leans over to jack , whiskey in his veins and only half creating the heat he feels there. lips hover some centimeters away from his companions'. ❝ don't make me regret you. ❞

current wishlist

anything with bucky during his time as the winter soldier or immediately following the end of captain america: the winter soldier

anything with riff in his hunger games verse

anything with any of my fandom verses

anything with noah

anything with riff immediately post canon, especially if your muse was the one to get him to a hospital because chances are he’s going to be incredibly angry with them

anything with either of the valeska twins

anything with my muses from the prestige

anything with art during his time at stanford or during his canon. i typically write him post canon, but i love getting to write him during canon as well

anything with tashi and patrick, either during or after their canon. please keep in mind that they are awful people who have absolutely no remorse for their actions