#Cross-Correlation

[floatinggarden24]

https://www.folkd.com/entry/133095-sewage-treatment-with-floating-gardens-sustainable-technology/

[starry-bi-sky]

bruce and danny being fuckign nerds together,,,, they are being the BIGGEST nerds. geeks. if you will

these losers are color-coding the most inane bullshit. they are making diagrams for things you've never even thought of. they are having the time of their lives

"what are you two doing?"

Danny, sitting criss-cross on a table, hunched over a spread of papers and a bunch of different jello cups, his back is gonna hurt SO much: color-coding jello

Bruce, sitting in a nearby chair, also criss-cross, scribbling on a graph paper: hm [agreeing]

Alfred, already exasperated and SO fond: may i ask why? and on what parameters?

Danny: we're basing it off which flavors are the most mentally stimulating and for which subjects :}

Alfred, SO fond: ah. i see.

Danny, snapping his head over to Bruce and leaning over: wh- no-- no. Buzz, I told you: lemon-flavored jello stays strictly in the 'smelling salts' category--

Bruce, still writing on the graph paper: mn. no.

Danny, nearly sprawled across his back, faux-outraged: strawberry is NOT good for math-- you fucken HEATHEN--! Give me that pen!

Bruce, did that solely to rile up Danny, now trying not to smile: hnm.

[blueberry-starsss]

TW: Animal Gore and Blood

Sunday Best

>

>

Something about the thought of Sock having some form of religious trauma and him getting his family ostracized from the church. As if this kid didn’t have a shit ton of issues already.

[concreteburialplot]

You think I'm sellin' out? 'Cause all I know I'm sellin' out Are shows that give me all the adoration I demand

I don't hide what I am, I know exactly who I am I am an entertainer who's above where he began

Come one, come all Where the creatures of the dark gather answering the call

For a show that knocks the baddest And the meanest off their feet

For a show that keeps them coming back here Every single night

For a show that's gonna make the masses Scream, and shriek, and shout

They'll hang on to every fucking word There's never any doubt

Rebuilt, reborn From the fires of the scorned

I don't let the scars define me, They're the badges I adorn

What we had is dead and buried I don't let it keep me down

'Cause now I am the ringleader And you're the clown

-The Ringleader // PARANOiD DJ

[snobgoblin]

Okay so I'm about 90% sure The Danny in that DC post is actually Danny Phantom (DP X DC is a pretty popular crossover) which makes this so much funnier cause if you don't know Danny Phantom is half ghost. He died but also didn't (I think some headcanon it that he actually died and resurrected simultaneously so many times he just kinda got stuck in the middle of being alive and dead)

And also he's commonly both drawn with white bits in his hair & also very commonly headcannoned as a trans male so

x OH MY GOD??????? absolutely incredible information thank you

[quaranmine]

If you can't get a friend to go with you, why don't you just go by yourself? It will be fun and I'm certain nothing terrible will happen /j

No but please don't actually go by yourself lmao...

Surely I wouldn't face any problems at all on the sketchy washed out dirt forest service road that everyone in reviews says is closed half the time in an area with more than likely no cell service ??? 😁

[seismologically-silly]

i. understand.

the question is.

can i make anyone else understand too

[its-just-hyper]

And from worms to psychosis, I am once again reminded that there is a chance I have schizophrenia and I’ll never truly be rid of that line of thought until I’m like. Thirty.

[faetealights]

i gotta be shot

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[jade-zzz]

INTERMEZZO

( platonic batfam x neglected reader)

SUMMARY : The family reels under a rising tide of public backlash. As headlines vilify their pursuit against crime, an unexpected solution is offered: reaching out to Bruce's estranged firstborn, a figure trusted by the people, ultimately forcing the family to confront their past. TRIGGER WARNINGS ! Child Neglect. No other warnings at this moment.

a/n : this is just me spitting out an old idea i had, most likely wont become a series or a p2. but a lot of neglected reader stories start off with them young and uninvolved with the vigilante scene and i was like 'oh yeah, let me make reader a badass crime fighter so they have a chance against these crazies. if this was longer it would eventually continue into batfam becoming yandere but theres none of that here dw Interactions and Reblogs encouraged!

The Batcave was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the Batcomputer’s multiple monitors. A sickly blue light flickered over the dark, cavernous space, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch in every direction. The screens were awash in a flood of headlines, each one a blade dipped in poison. Bruce sat motionless before them, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line, as if the words themselves had weight enough to crush him. The same phrases repeated over and over, like the beat of a relentless drum:

“Vigilante Justice: A Dying Breed?”

“Do vigilantes cause escalation in criminal activity?”

“Batman’s War Against Crime: Our Cost”

Each headline felt like a knife twisting deeper, the rot of public opinion spreading faster than a wildfire. The truth, it seemed, no longer mattered—only the perception.

Jason’s figure loomed above them, leaning casually against the railing of the upper level. His arms were folded tightly, muscles tensed in a way that seemed natural to him. The flickering glow of the monitors cast eerie highlights across his face as he surveyed the headlines with squinted eyes. “I gotta admit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “This one... actually makes a few decent points.”

“Don’t start,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp but tired. He was sitting on the stone steps, his hand running through his hair in a frustrated motion. 

Tim, seated at the foot of the steps with his legs folded cross-legged and a tablet in hand, was already knee-deep in data, scanning through analytics with practiced ease. Empty energy drink cans—some familiar, some strange—littered the ground around him, a quiet testament to his dedication to stay awake for this situation. "They’re using our own cases against us," Tim said, his voice low and serious, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Even if we are the good guys, that only goes so far. Gotham knows we’re willing to work outside the law.”

The sharp clicking of keys echoed in the cave as Barbara’s fingers flew across the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Every keystroke seemed like a futile attempt to dam the rising tide of bad press. But for every article she deleted, two more appeared. "I won’t be able to keep this under wraps for much longer," she said, her voice tight with frustration. “Gotham Gazette ran the story last night, but now it’s on CNN, Forbes, The Times. The commentators are tearing it apart.”

Barbara paused, scanning an article that flickered on her screen. “It’s all cherry-picked data,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re drawing correlations without even attempting to prove causation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But people are desperate for a reason to turn against us.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Bruce’s. “And that’s what they want. Someone to blame.”

From the dark corner near the Batmobile, Damian’s voice cut through the tension like a dagger. He had been silent until now, observing from the shadows, his figure barely visible in the dim light. “They don’t want truth,” he said, his tone cold and detached, almost predatory. “They want a scapegoat. And Father”—his eyes flicked to Bruce, his expression unreadable—“is the easiest target.”

No one dared to disagree.

The Batcave settled into a thick, suffocating silence. The low hum of the machines filled the space, a soft, mechanical murmur that only seemed to highlight the oppressive quiet. From the cavernous walls, water dripped steadily, each drop a tiny echo in the vast emptiness. Above them, the city pulsed with life—its towering lights burning bright against the ink-black sky. Below, however, the family who had sworn to protect it sat, bound together by blood, sweat, and the weight of their shared past, in a silence heavier than lead, an unspoken acknowledgment of something that had shifted irrevocably.

Bruce stepped away from the console, his movements slow and deliberate. He stood for a moment, staring at the glowing screens before him, his face drawn, his expression unreadable. “We’ve survived worse.” His voice, when it came, was low—raspy, like it had been dragged through the years with him. Yet there was something different now. This wasn’t just another crisis. It wasn’t just the press or another criminal on the streets. This hit too close to home. This was a reminder of his very beginning, of the fragile thread that connected him to the man he had once been.

‘Armed robbery, double homicide, has a taste for the theatrical, like you.’ The words Jim Gordon had spoken to him long ago echoed in his mind, the memory of that first case—a playing card left behind, like a message that would haunt him forever.

Barbara’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. “But we haven’t mended worse,” she said, her gaze not leaving the screen in front of her. “This one’s different. People used to think of us as the lesser evil. Now, they’re starting to wonder if we’re just another form of crime.” The words struck Bruce harder than he cared to admit. She wasn’t wrong. In their attempt to be Gotham’s saviors, they had come to embody something far darker in the eyes of the public. They had always lived in the shadows, but now those shadows were threatening to swallow them whole.

Alfred, standing near the table with a tray of untouched tea—its warm fragrance drifting through the room—cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "Perhaps what’s needed," he said carefully, his voice measured, "is not another war fought in the shadows, but a reminder that others still stand with you."

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, his gaze narrowing, as if weighing the butler’s words. The others followed suit, their expressions unreadable, waiting for Alfred to elaborate.

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce’s voice was edged with uncertainty, something he rarely allowed to show.

The butler gave a small, measured nod, his hands setting the tray down with the practiced grace of someone who had spent decades in the service of this family. "I believe, Master Wayne, that what the people need is reassurance. A bridge. Someone they trust. A voice they still believe in."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "There’s not exactly a waiting list of pro-vigilante influencers out there, Alf."

“On the contrary,” Alfred said, a quiet confidence in his tone. "There is one. Someone still admired by the people. A symbol of protection, not fear. They’ve worked openly with first responders, collaborated with officials, stayed in the public’s good graces and operated within the law..."

Tim blinked, his mind struggling to process the thought. “In Gotham?”

Dick’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “Wait… you’re talking about—?”

Bruce’s expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. But the question hung in the air, unspoken, like an invisible thread tugging at the edges of his resolve.

Alfred’s lips curled into a faint, wistful smile, his voice gentle as he spoke again, almost as if recalling a cherished memory. “Yes. I am referring to your firstborn child, Master Wayne.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a sudden detonation of shock and disbelief that rocked the room. Damian froze mid-step. Tim and Jason exchanged a glance, eyes wide with uncertainty. Barbara shifted in her chair, almost as if waiting for someone to confirm that she hadn’t misheard. Dick’s throat tightened, a knot of guilt coiling in his chest. The past was a fragile thing, fragile enough that sometimes it felt better to pretend it didn’t exist. But in moments like this, the weight of regret bore down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into a well of emotion he had long since tried to forget.

Bruce remained still, frozen, his gaze distant. "They haven't been involved in family matters like this for years..." His voice trailed off, thick with the unspoken history between them. The bitterness in his words wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.

“And yet,” Alfred countered, his voice soft but unyielding, “they have remained exactly what this city needed from us.”

A long, heavy pause lingered in the room. The truth was that Bruce had not heard from them in years—not since they had left everything behind at eighteen, vanishing from the world they had known. Alfred had maintained a fragile connection, sending occasional messages through a burner phone, reminding Bruce of their existence whenever he saw their exploits on the news, despite his stubbornness to avoid all topics linked to them. But how long had it been since any of the family had tried to reach out? How long since anyone had even bothered to speak to them, beyond the occasional fleeting word, a distant acknowledgment of someone they once knew?

“People trust them,” Alfred continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “They believe in their methods. Their clarity. Their distance from... all of this.” He gestured around the cave, to the monitors, to the chaos, to the shadows. “If there’s anyone who could speak to your cause and be heard, it would be them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They wouldn’t want to be dragged back into this.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, his voice calm, “but perhaps they deserve the choice. After all, they didn’t walk away without cause.”

Another silence fell, heavy with the weight of years and regrets left unspoken. Bruce’s mind churned, searching for answers in the fragmented memories of a younger version of himself. He tried to picture their face, but the years had stolen the details—just a pair of small eyes peering up at him from behind Alfred’s legs when they had first arrived at Wayne Manor. 

“It might be nice,” Alfred added softly, almost as an afterthought, “to have them on your side again.”

A/N: feeling devious hinting towards something happening in the past but not mentioning it,, meanwhile reader is sitting on their sofa, watching the news as their prayers for their families downfall worked

[floral-alchemist]

In fencing there is a biological binary* that gives one group an inherent advantage over the other. At high levels the advantaged group has been shown to perform five times better compared to the disadvantaged group, as s direct result of their biology.

Specifically, left-handed fencers perform better on average than their right-handed counterparts.

This is because righties rarely have to fence lefties, while lefties are constantly fencing righties. There's a clear discrepancy of experience. And if a lefty fences a lefty, they'll both feel that they're up against an inverted opponent, so the disadvantage cancels out.

Left-handed people make up about ten percent of the population. Left-handed fencers make up about half of all high level competitors. The inequality is clear as day.

So, should fencing tournaments be divided by dominant hand? As a right-handed fencer, I say no. Sure, it bugs me that I rarely win against a left-handed opponent, but that's just how it goes. Any reasonable person does not begin an endeavor if they can't accept each outcome. And frankly, any outcome in sports should ideally be just doing your best and having fun.

Should fencing be divided by other physical and neurological traits? There are certainly others that make a difference. I've won matches thanks solely due to my height. I've lost plenty of matches due to my slow reflexes. I've lost a handful of matches due to not being very strong.

Some of the traits relevant to fencing have more of an impact than others. Some are correlated with different aspects of biological sex, though there isn't a strict causal relationship. Ultimately no physical trait is as relevant to the outcome of a match as hand dominance is, and while we can have our own opinions on the fairness of a cross-dominant matchup, the fact of the matter is it would be ridiculous to recategorize fencing by any of these traits--including sex--without first taking into consideration the discrepancy between right- and left-handed fencers.

*I call hand dominance a binary, but this is false. Just as sex and gender cannot be conceptualized realistically in binary terms, we should acknowledge that some people are ambidextrous or do not have exactly one right and one left hand.

[the-eclipsed-sun]

Apollo's eyes widened a bit as he heard his voice repeated back to him. His mind went to Echo, the nymph who was cursed to only repeat what was said to her.. but he didn't bring it up. All that was important right now was getting this kid out of these woods.

"Alright, that's.. that's good. I'm glad you're alright. We should get you out of here, this part of the woods isn't that safe." He extends a hand to help them up. "My name's Apollo."

open starter

You see a figure in the forest, lying down. They look like they're asleep, a rag is next to them (evidence of being cloroformed).

The person looks to be about 15, they have long, messy ginger/blonde hair. They have a multitude of scars and bruises.

They're wearing a stereotypical military school outfit.

What do you do?

ANYONE CAN INTERACT

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[seismologically-silly]

me working on my thesis today