Locks Eyes Narrow. I Own These Woods. He And Mother Own These Woods. And Im Not A Man. Im A Boy. He Doesnt

Lock’s eyes narrow. “I own these woods.” He and Mother own these woods. “And I’m not a man. I’m a boy.” He doesn’t like the idea of being a man. His father is a man, and his father broke Mother’s heart. If that’s what men do, he doesn’t want to be a man. His eyes narrow even further as Honey continues to speak. They’re not making any sense. Lock doesn’t like it when things don’t make sense. Lock doesn’t like a lot of things, but he especially doesn’t like it when things don’t make sense.

“I don’t want to give you anything. I want you to leave.” He’ll kill them if he has to, but he’s feeling generous today. He’ll give them time to leave on their own before he kills them. He shouldn’t, but he will.

ONCE BROWN EYES ARE STAINED with yellow. The colour sprinkled through like stars. Soon, they would take another shape. Soon, they would no longer appear human to the eyes of the manboy before them. SOMETHING WITH A SNOUT, perhaps ? Something with teeth sharp enough to tear flesh, for certain. ❝ Man owns nothing. ❞ They snarl, certain of their words. ❝ Only that which they make, but even that is borrowed from the land. ❞

Who are they ? An excellent question. What do they want ? An even better one. Honey tilts their head, and squints their eyes. ❝ They call me Honey, or nothing at all. And what I want is unknown even to me, but I know it is not anything you can give. ❞

it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.

plotting call! please have an idea of what you want to plot when i approach you.

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

Dodge blinks, a little caught off guard by the question. He hasn’t really eaten at the diner. He works there, but most of the time he brings a lunch from home, or he just doesn’t eat until he gets home. “I, uh. The cheeseburger’s pretty good. Or the onion rings.” He gives her a slight smile and goes back to wiping down the counter. He doesn’t know why she asked him that. Obviously it’s because he works here and knows what’s good and what’s not, but Dodge has never been good at not being suspicious. He’s trying to work on that, though.

› GENERAL STARTER CALL , accepting , @notefinal .

" do you have a favorite? " ... and it's asked so casually , if dodge and kristen aren't nearly strangers [ he said his name a few minutes ago. SHE NEVER SAID HER NAME ] . she's just looking over the menu , aviators still on her face. a question asked like he's a friend and she doesn't know how to make up her mind at the moment.

Alfred doesn’t pretend to know what goes on in Bruce’s head, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. And if Bruce is spending more time with the Justice League than normal, there must be a reason for it. And if there’s a reason for it, Alfred will be informed. Hopefully. He knows all too well Bruce’s penchant for secrecy. “While I am sure Master Bruce has his reasons,” he starts, hands clasped behind his back as he looks over at her, “I am also sure that he will inform us of those reasons as soon as he can.” Alfred will be informed. He’s not so sure about her. But he doesn’t say that. There’s no use riling her up again.

@notefinal said: “ Come now, is that any way to talk to me? ” / alfred to gotham

For a moment, she looks legitimately chastened. Draws back, brows furrowing over too-familiar eyes. It's quickly chased away by amusement. Something closer to her normal self-possessed mien. Still, she inclines her head. Slight, but clear.

He may not be of Gotham, originally, but that's only more reason for him to have earned her respect.

"But you agree. It's untenable. It was one thing for him to join them for emergencies, but this?"