not-so casual batman fan

Rules: keep your ai content/usage away, if you like batcest please don't send/request content of it, always reblog the tws

I HAVE AN OLD DOG AND I'M SCARED OF LOSING HIM STOP SENDING ME ASKS ABOUT DEAD/DYING PUPPERS

Odd One Out (original no pack au)

An Omega Without A Pack (elseworlds)

Some ficlets

Fic links to ao3

Fanarts (gifted)

Humans Are Space Orcs: JL Edition

Miscellaneous

Mini AUs

They don't hurt the most, but they linger. A reminder of what has been taken from you.

I am dealing with my legs progressively getting worse, I knew it was likely when I got my diagnoses.

But I had to go to the shop up the road today, and it's really hit me hard that I can no longer take a five minute trip up the road without my phone, because I might not be able to get home.

I have to have a back-up, now.

Excuse me.

EXCUSE ME.

Casualty: me.

Incident report: onion.

Heavy-set boots don't make a sound as the Bat slowly moves through the hallway, white lenses cataloguing every inch of every surface, waiting for his progress through the facility to be interrupted.

He's made it into the bowels of the compound with a bone-chilling amount of ease, his decades of experience lecture his progression, pointing out all the glaring, neon signs that this is a trap.

He knows.

But he came here for a reason.

Only one door populates the long stretch of corridor, and he comes to a stop in front of it.

The slightest breeze of cool, filtered air brushes over the bare lower half of his face, and he narrows his gaze at the slightly ajar stance of the door.

Definitely a trap.

Carefully, batarangs poised at the ready in each hand, he nudges the door open with the toe of his boot, and ducks through.

Empty.

The Batman creeps further into the labatory, head on a swivel, looking for any clue as to what he is being guided into, but puts away his weapons. It seems he is alone.

Rows of cabinets line the walls of the relatively small room, filled with all sorts of chemicals, and an array of lab tables divide the room into two, a strong line down the middle. None are particularly tidy, he notes, cataloguing their chaotic surfaces, but that is not out of the ordinary for a lab, he can say from personal experience.

He stops, to take a look at one such collection of papers, thumbing through creased pages, and hums under his breath. The sketches on some pages, the strings of formulae on another, entire stacks of scribbled out, incomprehensible notes.

Nothing out of the ordinary, but something about them pings a memory, to Tim's experiments, years ago, now.

He hums again, flicking his eyes over to the fridges standing unassumingly at the side of the room.

Blood.

Dozens of vials of blood.

He picks up one rack, lifting it higher to inspect it, and narrows his eyes at the labels.

B.W. Batch 32.

An alarm blares in his mind, and he silences it. He knew he was being led here, and chose to go along with it.

This fascility, this labatory, these experiments...it's all to do with him.

As if it was just waiting for him to make the discovery, there's a loud, haydraulic hiss, followed the the gasp of air releasing, and Batman whips around, hand going to his belt, and—

Nothing is there.

He scans the room just to be sure, and allows his eyes to catch on the now-visible lid to something, stretched up to the ceiling.

Still ready for an assault, the Bat slinks over to the far end of the lab, eyes fixed on that container, wondering what could be inside....it.

Oh.

Batman stares down at the container, studying the lure that brought him here.

He's not entirely sure who laid down this breadcrumb trail for him to follow, and isn't sure it matters.

Clearly they know him well, which is more of a threat.

He looks away, frowning.

Can he take it? It might not be the wise choice anyway, but considering he doesn't know whether or not it's a weapon, that makes it even more unwise.

And yet...

He looks back at it.

He can't just leave.

Right?

"Sorry, Damian," he murmurs, hoping his youngest—not so young anymore—son forgives him.

The door flies open, and Batman steps in front of the container, watching the oblivious scientist waltz in.

"Got your bottle, Terry, how are..."

The chipper voice cuts out as he makes eye contact with the impassive lenses of the Bat, who tilts his head, watching.

"Shit." The bottle slips from shaking hands, and the scientist stumbles back through the door they came from, turning tail and running, a scream of "HE'S HERE!" ringing out after them.

An alarm blares through the room, the lights turning red, and Batman scoops up the little, swaddled body from it's barely-even-a-cot, lifting it close to his chest plates. It doesn't seem bothered by the sudden racket, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes, and Bruce smiles down at him, lifting a clawed finger to stroke the plump cheek.

"Hello, Terry."

I am talking about the people deliberately labelling "british slang" with a revamped definition. I will hold up my hands and say I did not know about the AAE roots, and will explain the blurred lines, as it became rapidly popularised (to our feeds) in a boom on tiktok and similar platforms at the same time as several other portions of british culture were shipped over to the US and promptly reshaped, the song Common People as an example.

I, for one, have seen people specifically label it "british slang" used in the same context, but with AAE roots I was unaware of, I see how the confusion may have occurred, given the lack of credit often attributed to AAE origins.

I’m reading Batman: Zero Year and thought this panel was funny and the colors are so pretty so thought I’d share >:3