#adarkknightrises

[loislane-reports]

“Bruce!” Lois calls, jogging to catch up to him, her bag smacking against the side of her leg dramatically as she weaved through the crowds. She never traveled lightly. It was a curse but at least she was always prepared. “Bruce!” She offers him a bright grin. “I knew it was you,” She says with a huff of an exhale. She hadn’t really thought of what she would say if she caught up and it was indeed Bruce Wayne. Just like every other person she had run into — there was a moment where she was worried it was just a convincing doppleganger.

“Never thought I would be so happy to see you,” She says with a lopsided grin. “Mostly because I had heard Dami was here and have been in touch with Tim,” She nods. “Have you — been here long? Doing okay? Walk with me? I’m headed toward coffee, my soul is carrying me in the right direction to the nearest coffee, always does.” She chuckles.

@adarkknightrises

[flyingdgrayson]

@adarkknightrises

it’s been months, weeks piled onto weeks, days tumbled into mountains, hours weighing like brick tons of concrete down onto his psyche and he’s carried it because he’s had to, because he’s been trained to, because it’s what he knows and how he operates and sometimes he’s almost certain he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself if he wasn’t trying to lift the whole entire planet up anyway most of the time, but these particular months have been difficult simply for the uncertainty of them all. every heartbeat flooding him with questions, every midnight past burning a hole in his equilibrium-- once again, gotham left in his hands with no word of goodbye, no clue as to why.

and he’s done his best, but he’s here now, racing through hallways with a scrap of paper between his fingertips, a name and door number scrawled across the white of it, information he’s not necessarily supposed to have, a burning, tightening hope coiled around his lungs. he doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to be wrong-- again. he’s already had a dozen false positives, a dozen leads that ended in nowhere, a hundred suspicions he’s laid awake mulling over instead of sleeping. where is batman? it’s not the first time he’s been left with that question, but the number on the paper might just be the answer.

he gets to the correct door and knocks on the wood of it in a panic, harsher than he’d intended but the nerves all along his body won’t let him relax, everything buzzing in his ears, jaw clenched tight, muscles drawn taunt. he can’t unwind. not until--

not until it opens and he locks eyes with its recipient, his mentor, the man who’d raised him, who’d saved him, who’d shaped him into everything he is right now, everything he’s come to understand; bruce wayne, tall and strong and completely not-dead. the breath in his lungs catches sharply, holds, exhales, everything in him straining to let go of a million nightmares. don’t cry, dick. don’t hug either. he nods once, gaze dropping for a moment, standing there in the hallway. “i knew it.”

[kryptonianstars]

@adarkknightrises

nights in new york city are never silent, never calm, never dimmed, and in all honesty it reminds clark a lot of gotham, something about the way the streetlights hum, the way cars are always honking, people are always talking or shouting or wailing, the echo of police car sirens forever ringing down one street after another, and he wonders if bruce can feel it too-- if he can sense it. perhaps there are similarities in every major city of the US, perhaps there are similarities in every lined dimension, the veils of the universe strung up together by these paralleled audio tracks, as though sound and life are the threads that weave existence together.

clark listens to it all outside the government-issued apartment window, listens to heartbeats thrumming and pulsing all across the city, listens to conversations and arguments and confessions, listens to tires squealing, doors closing, a thousand, thousand televisions blaring, listens to it all like white-noise fuzz filtering through his ears, and reacts to none of it. he sits comfortably, legs crossed, arms outstretched across the rests, ocean blue eyes pinned distantly across the mainroom floor, and waits. waits and waits and waits, because for as long as the night howls on, the cries of the desperate begging for salvation, eventually he knows the dawn will come, he knows morning has to break at some point, and bruce will need to catch at least an hour’s worth of shut-down time before that.

sure enough, as soon as the atmosphere shifts and clark’s attention focuses on the inflating lungs and steady heartbeat of an oncoming presence, he stand and turns, makes his company known and obvious. he knows how much bruce hates surprises.

[daemonlegacy]

@adarkknightrises

the room begins as a muted blue, the hollow morals and shaded malevolent intentions ringing in the air as a stagnant white-noise against the brim of audible hearing, something nearly tangible, nearly gut-wrenching, nearly vomitous and heavy in the heat of damian’s stomach, leaving him with no choice but to clench his teeth and swallow down the rising bile, despise the pieces of himself that know these sorts of hallways, these sorts of shadows, these sorts of secrets. this is the life his mother had once preened him for, scalped and molded him to fashion through this exact kind of darkness, onyx eyes and hair and soul, the path before him laden with a concrete he hadn’t been aware could be broken for the longest time. he’s broken from it now but it still gathers around his ankles sometimes and he has to beat it off of him in order to breathe.

and that’s what he’s doing now, that’s why he jumps too soon into the fray, ahead of batman’s plans, that’s why he hits too hard, loses the target too quickly, fumbles with the plot progression of their hunt; the man they’ve really come here for manages to slip through damian’s fingers and it’s infuriating, but his father is quick to rush after their quarry, while damian stays behind with the rest of the scum. at his feet, a man once accused and unlawfully acquitted of sexual misconduct, writhes and twists from the bootprint on his stomach, face thick and sweaty, his arms around his midriff, and damian ought to care about this human being, ought to show restraint and understanding, intuition, perhaps even sympathy– if this were an entirely different planet. because that’s what batman would want damian to do, that’s how he’s been attempting to raise the young ex-assassin.

instead however, minutes later, damian’s father finds him pinning the older man down to the ground, fists bloody and drenched, his tunic ruined, his teeth bared in a mean, desperate snarl, the growl coiling and scratching at his throat, his eyes pitiless and bottomless, cascading horrors down into the man’s eyes as he pummels him within an inch of his life– to a centimeter of his life– to a millimeter. damian’s irises may be onyx but his vision is scarlet, trapped into the growing mess of the man’s face, silently screaming that he could have been better than he was, he could have changed, not become this, this filth, this monster, this future version of damian’s own tragedy.

nothing and no one could ever possibly hate the ill-tempered robin quite like he hates himself.

[daemonlegacy]

@adarkknightrises

the room begins as a muted blue, the hollow morals and shaded malevolent intentions ringing in the air as a stagnant white-noise against the brim of audible hearing, something nearly tangible, nearly gut-wrenching, nearly vomitous and heavy in the heat of damian’s stomach, leaving him with no choice but to clench his teeth and swallow down the rising bile, despise the pieces of himself that know these sorts of hallways, these sorts of shadows, these sorts of secrets. this is the life his mother had once preened him for, scalped and molded him to fashion through this exact kind of darkness, onyx eyes and hair and soul, the path before him laden with a concrete he hadn’t been aware could be broken for the longest time. he’s broken from it now but it still gathers around his ankles sometimes and he has to beat it off of him in order to breathe.

and that’s what he’s doing now, that’s why he jumps too soon into the fray, ahead of batman’s plans, that’s why he hits too hard, loses the target too quickly, fumbles with the plot progression of their hunt; the man they’ve really come here for manages to slip through damian’s fingers and it’s infuriating, but his father is quick to rush after their quarry, while damian stays behind with the rest of the scum. at his feet, a man once accused and unlawfully acquitted of sexual misconduct, writes and twists from the bootprint on his stomach, face thick and sweaty, his arms around his midriff, and damian ought to care about this human being, ought to show restraint and understanding, intuition, perhaps even sympathy--if this were an entirely different planet. because that’s what batman would want damian to do, that’s how he’s been attempting to raise the young ex-assassin.

instead however, minutes later, damian’s father finds him pinning the older man down to the ground, fists bloody and drenched, his tunic ruined, his teeth bared in a mean, desperate snarl, the growl coiling and scratching at his throat, his eyes pitiless and bottomless, cascading horrors down into the man’s eyes as he pummels the man to an inch of his life-- to a centimeter of his life-- to a millimeter. damian’s irises may be onyx but his vision is scarlet, trapped into the growing mess of the man’s face, silently screaming that he could have been better than he was, he could have changed, not become this, this filth, this monster, this future version of damian’s own tragedy.

nothing and no one could ever possibly hate the ill-tempered robin quite like he hates himself.

[kryptonianstars]

@loislane-reports || @adarkknightrises

he takes a half-step back and ends up bumping softly against someone’s shoulder, careful not to put too much of his own weight into the atmosphere around himself, careful not to touch anything with any amount of power or depth, but when he turns and comes face-to-face with his literal nightmare, a picturesque vision of the one and only bruce wayne, dressed to the nines of course, with his hands lightly grazing across the arm of a very pretty brunette girl clark knows entirely too well to think she’d be interested in a guy like this, he wishes he’d hit the other harder.

because of course, who in the world would be interested in gotham’s favorite bachelor? a guy who owns half his whole damn state, his own family-spun conglomerate? a guy who can buy literally any restaurant he walks into? a guy who would be living on a yacht if he weren’t too busy currently living in a batcave?

he almost hopes he’s hallucinating somehow, hopes that something in the drinks has been dosed with a touch of supernatural to actually be able to affect his kyptonian biological makeup, hopes that perhaps this is all some terrible, heinous trick that the universe is playing on everyone, him especially, and that what he’s seeing at the moment, clear, perfect sky-blue eyes pinned to the twin set of them standing there like they belong together, is not what’s actually happening.

because otherwise he might actually break something.

“bruce wayne. you’re here. wow, it’s been a while since i’ve seen you, i didn’t realize you were going to be here… with…. lois.” just saying that out loud makes him want to find a bar of soap and swallow it. he’s trying to look at both of them while also not looking at either of them and it’s just making things worse.

[wearetracy]

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TONIGHT! Mandatory Brunch Meeting. GOTHAM. Watch it. #gotham #jeromevaleska #thejoker #dammit #legionofhorribles #adarkknight #adarkknightrises #wearetracy