Pine :D

Just a lemon shark learning how to draw. + Avid enjoyer of DP fandom bc everyone here is awesome! - 🦈

[pineconewithapencil]

HELLO! tis I, Pinecone. Or cookie on other social media…

I am a u s t r a l i a n 🇦🇺 18 - she/her

I like the half dead guy, hes cool.

I fricken Love hollow knight

Art tag: #artcone

Er my art style is inconsistent cause it’s baby’s first time branching and experimenting. Some art will be better than others, whatever

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[starry-bi-sky]

*points at bruce and danny in 'late at night when the nightingale sings'* THESE TWO MFERS MEAN SO MUCH TO MEEEE

no thoughts head empty just these two socially inept fools finding family in one another. like yes you go you funky little death omens stole that one from a comment on the fic, so if you see this you know who you are, discover that family isn't only tied in blood.

bUT onto less mushy stuff: these two being shenaniganizers; tomfools. Bruce realized that Danny didn't actually know he was Bruce Wayne and instead of going "oh actually im bruce wayne" he went; "hrm... how long can i keep this going until he realizes...."

like. i think they deserve to be the sillies. just utter goobers the both of them. like, danny makes the wittiest side comments, dry quips, under his breath towards Bruce while they're out in public (Danny covering his face with a face mask) and Bruce is trying not to laugh. Meanwhile if Bruce makes one sly comment about someone to Danny, Danny's gonna collapse with laughter.

Bruce plays straightman in most of their bits, he has the best fucking poker face. But also I firmly believe he does actually enjoy Danny's puns. Look me in the eyes- look me in the eyes. Try and tell me that a man that willingly agrees to call a car "the batmobile" even after his eight year old ward grows up (thus negating the need to go along with his antics) doesn't enjoy a good, well-placed pun. Look me in the eyes and try to tell me that. That's right you can't.

He's gonna spit out a well-placed pun in the driest, most boring Batman Voice Ever one day while he's getting ready for patrol, and Danny's gonna fucking die of laughter. He's gonna lose his mind. Bruce is going to have a half-dead sickly teenager laughing his lungs out in the chair. That's a new core memory right there, every time Danny thinks about that he's gonna start giggling.

just!!! these two making each other laugh! That's so important to me. So so much. I nEED Danny to get Bruce to smile and laugh and I need Bruce to make Danny do the same. Danny's all snark and sass and Bruce is all deadpan and dry quips. Do you all see my vision.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[starry-bi-sky]

ty for contributing to the wasteland that is appreciating bruce as a parent and first child danny🙏🙏🙏

It’s a battle out here soldier but I am strong, like winter bear. Also I relate so hard to Bruce in a lot of ways and I think his initial concept is really neat. He tries his damn hardest, and he has so much hope for his city that it’s really admirable.

And as much fun as it is to poke fun at him for his questionable parenting and hypocrisy, there’s always the line of too much that the fandom tends to cross quite often, just as much as they do with the clone and ghost king stuff. Bruce is just as much of a good parent (or at least a trying one) as he is a bad one, and people tend to ignore his good qualities for the sake of a joke. His character is centered around the fact that he cares, he’s just truly shit at communicating it — which, cheers bro, I’ll drink to that.

And there’s already a ton of batfam prompts and aus out there where Danny shows up when the whole colony is already adopted, which means most of the attention goes to Danny bonding with the other siblings and having very little to do with Bruce. He’s kinda just. There. Whether that be as a prop or an antagonist or someone to point and laugh at. Which, I can’t blame people too much for — the cast is so big it’s hard to keep track of relationships and stuff.

However, I think it’s important for Danny to have some form of relationship with Bruce too and not them just be strangers, especially in a familial/platonic setting where Danny is joining the family.

They share a handful of qualities that I think would mesh well together — Danny’s canonically a pessimist while Bruce is a diehard optimist (you kinda have to be to be a hero in a place like Gotham, and he wouldn’t be Batman if he wasn’t) and they both believe in giving people second chances and have wells of compassion to tap into. Danny’s clever and resourceful, and one of his main character traits is that he’s got an iron will.

All in all, good dad bruce go brrrrr and oldest son danny is the perfect, underutilized concept to explore exactly that without distractions. I think they could get along like a house on fire, if given the opportunity.

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[starry-bi-sky]

The world blurs into a mess of oil smears as Danny's stolen away into Gotham's smog-smudged skies and sickly yellow light, and he clings onto the shadow of a man he met like a lifeline. It is a lifeline for all he cares, as they get further and further away from Vlad.

Half his face is smudged into the man's body armor, and Danny's only partly aware of the blood he's smearing onto the... fabric? The material -- on his shoulder. He's got half a mind to apologize. He doesn't.

Instead, through the loud whistling of the wind, Danny mutters a string of slurry, delirious "thank you's" on a repetitive loop. He's not even sure if he can be heard, but the terror in his heart turns into pained relief anyways.

Flying always makes him feel better -- the chill, the pressure, the weightlessness -- and it feels even better now. For a moment he can forget that Vlad stuck blood blossom extract into his veins. He sighs out, eyes closing, and almost regrets it when blood covers his teeth.

His reprieve is broken a cruel, few moments later when they land on a rooftop with a sharp -- at least to him -- drop, and with it so does his stomach. The hand splaying against his back jostles him curtly.

"Hey," The shadows whisper, Danny blinks his eyes sluggishly open, and blearily sees the white reflectors of the man's eyes looking at him. "Keep your eyes open."

"Sorry." He murmurs, nose scrunching up as nausea roils unpleasantly in his stomach. He licks his lips again, his blood is drying on his skin, and it feels like paint sticking onto him. It's uncomfortable. "The wind f'lt nice."

They're running across the rooftop, the jostling movement only makes him feel worse. But the shadows said to keep his eyes open, and Danny figures that's a pretty smart idea considering Danny's predicament. But he's going to vomit if he keeps looking at the world spinning around him...

He makes a mental compromise and buries his face into the crook of the man's neck, clawing at his shoulders to try and keep purchase. He latches his fingers onto the cape and despite his trembling arms, refuses to let go.

Danny only turns his head when there's a sharp pain in his lungs, he presses his forehead into his shoulder and coughs blood over his pauldron.... oops. "Sorry," he repeats, voice hoarse, "'m gettin' blood on you..."

"Hn. It'll come off." He's told, and Danny blinks lazily again, nodding curtly. The man's voice sounds nice, as raspy and soft as it is. But before he can tell him that, they're in the air again, the wind whistling in his ears.

Danny relishes in it, but keeps the thought in the back of his mind. Up until they land again, and as another wave of sickly nausea and pins-needles pain washes over him like the tide, he blurts out; "I like yr'voice."

...He doesn't get a response back.

Danny drifts in and out of consciousness, with the Night jolting him awake every so often with a sharp, quiet reminder to keep with him. Danny doesn't bother deigning a real verbal response to that beyond wordless grumbles and mumbles. A few times he stops to cough up his lungs -- even once gagging on air like a cat trying to spit up a hairball. Nothing comes out, and Danny is more embarrassed and exhausted than he is anything else. He wants to vomit, but he's terrified of what might come out if he does.

The man picks up greater speed after that.

Eventually they leave the roof to the stars -- as hidden as they are amongst the sickly clouds -- and drop down into an even darker alleyway than the one Danny found the horned man in. They land on something, and the man slides them off onto the ground.

There's a gentle hissing sound, and Danny opens his eyes just as the man places him in a leather seat and straps him in. "Wh're w'goin?" He asks, lolling his head to the side to peer up tiredly.

"Somewhere I can help you."

Danny already knows he was doing this to help him -- the man wouldn't have taken him away from Vlad otherwise. But still, he can't help the tears pooling up in his eyes and beading on his eyelashes; threatening to drip down his face and mix into the blood.

There's a lump in his throat that he swallows down with a side of copper, but he manages a smile. He can't get the words out, but he hopes the man can see the hope in his eyes.

[starry-bi-sky]

Just as it was in the air, the drive to wherever they're going is a mess of orange-streetlight smeared blurs and rapid-passing buildings. Danny keeps his head rested against the door, forehead pressing against the cold window, and breathing slowly through his mouth.

From his unfocused peripherals, the man -- of whom with the passing lights, Danny can see is dressed as... some kind of bat? Honestly, not the weirdest thing he's ever seen. -- routinely keeps glancing over at him. He's never seen someone grip a steering wheel so tightly.

"Do you know what your godfather poisoned you with?" The man eventually asks, his voice just as soft and raspy as it was in the air.

It takes Danny a moment to realize he spoke at all, his brain sluggishly catching up to his ears. "Hrm?" He blinks, lifting his head. Danny regrets it immediately, his vision swims nauseatingly and blurs dangerously. He rests his head again. "Oh. Y'h. A flow'r called blood bloss'um."

They pass a streetlight, shining just enough light that Danny sees the Bat-Man's lips purse. Danny's mouth opens, but he makes no sound, his mind trying to find the words he's looking for. "I'z- it's extinct."

He huffs a laugh just as the man snaps his head to look at him, regretting it with a sharp cough and a feeling of dust in his lungs. Weakly waggling his fingers to make jazz hands, Danny slurs; "Shcience."

A coughing fit overtakes him then, and without the adrenaline of flying and running away from Vlad to distract him, the ache and burn of consistently coughing returns and hits hard and sharp. He's been stabbed before, and somehow this still hurts more.

(Well, one is being stabbed. The other is the result of a toxin made from a flower specifically evolved to eat ectoplasm. Something Danny is 50% made of.)

Whining low and through grit teeth, Danny turns and curls back up into the corner of his seat, arms boxing over his head as if that will make him hurt less. Tears spring into his eyes, and he tries to use the feeling of breathing to distract himself.

If he's still breathing, everything will be okay.

Wherever they're going, he hopes they get there fast.

----

("You're a hero, right?" The boy said, but the way he said it made it sound like he was only asking as a formality. That of course Bruce was a hero, it was obvious.)

(He didn't know how to tell him that no, he wasn't. Then he didn't have the time.)

Bruce's hands would be shaking if it weren't for the white-knuckle grip on the car's steering wheel. Every time he focuses back on the road in front of him, his eyes are drawn back towards the boy coiled like a ball in the passenger seat.

He can't tell if it's rage or fear that's making his arms tremble.

The boy -- Daniel, if the voice of his godfather was to be believed -- is small. Bruce could wrap his thumb and forefinger around his wrist, and he's positive they would touch. A waifish, slip of a thing, and Bruce thought he'd been small as a child. His clothes -- simple, unremarkable; a hoodie that hangs off his shoulders and a band shirt he doesn't recognize -- look too big on him, and Bruce wonders if Daniel even knows he's shivering.

This was not how Bruce thought his night would be going -- he was following a lead on Falcone and his people. Now he was rushing back to the cave with a boy who couldn't be any older than fifteen, a boy who was dying of poison because of his godfather.

Hurt and fury bubbles beneath his ribs.

(Who does this to a kid?)

He glances at Daniel again. Messy, sweat-slicked black hair clings to his forehead, and gathers around his ears. It looks like it hasn't been cut in months. He's unnaturally pale, and Bruce isn't sure if his paleness is from the poison, or his natural color. It highlights the dark circles beneath glassy blue eyes, peering unfocused and teary out from lidded eyes.

The blood dripping off his chin is damning and stark against his skin. Some of it is half-dried against his cheek, but most is a horrifying dark red and wet, staining down his throat and into his shirt. Every time the boy coughs, Bruce fears that blood will spill from his mouth next.

He breathes in shakily, and swerves around a left corner. The boy moves with the momentum. Bruce throws his arm out to catch him, and keep him in his seat, the boy jerks, and grunts quietly.

Guilt turns the back of Bruce's neck red. That, and embarrassment. "...Apologies." He murmurs, retracting his hand quickly. Daniel blinks slowly, Bruce nervously keeps an eye on the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

He's pulled away when, much to his surprise, the boy smiles. It's weak, barely even there and trembling like the rest of him, but glazed in fondness. "S'ok'y." Daniel mumbles, blood sticking to his mouth as he slumps back into the corner. "M'dad drove the same way."

...There were a lot of questions there. But the hurting, discomforting squeeze of Bruce's heart turns his tongue to lead. His throat swells shut, grows a cancerous lump, and keeps his lungs thick. "..Hh."

(What does he say to that?)

A silence, ugly, falls over them again for a few minutes more. Bruce should keep the boy talking -- it's confirmation that Daniel was still alive, still breathing, Bruce hasn't failed yet -- and yet, he can't think of a single thing to say.

They're coming close up on the cemetery, Bruce turns down the road leading to it. His eyes flick to Daniel again. The boy is staring at him, the sickly yellow streetlights catching shadows on his face, leaving a glow lingering in his eyes.

(In his lazy eye, his mind tricks him into seeing a corpse. Bruce suppresses a flinch, and looks over again.)

(Daniel is still breathing. Good. Good. Good.)

He breathes in shakily, something dark and angry rearing its head once again. Who does this? Who does this? He grits his teeth, biting back the scowl pulling on his face.

("You're a hero, right?")

(No, but for now he can pretend he is.)

----

They end up in a tunnel somewhere. Danny's not quite sure where, but the road gets bumpy and the uncomfortable, rough jostling brings a groan out from him. His eyes pound in their sockets, the discomfort ricocheting to this temples and circling to the back of his head.

His head lolls, and Danny shoves it back against the seat with a thud, ignoring the dull pain it rings through his skull. "Are w'there yet?" He asks, blood spilling into his mouth that he tiredly tries to spit out. He's done with drinking it instead.

The numbness he'd been so graciously left with was starting to fade now, returning back to a burning, rhythmic soreness spreading through his limbs. It clustered up around his joints, feeling like pins and needles in his fingers and down his spine.

Bat-man guy grunts shortly, shifts the gearshift into a new position, and glances over to him for the nth time that night. "Almost."

Almost. Almost was... good? Probably. Hopefully. Danny doesn't give a response, just nods mutely.

The car comes to a stop some minutes later, parked in a wide open space with LED lights spread erratically through the floor that hurt Danny's eyes.

Bat-Man barely has the car in park before he's flying out of his side. If Danny didn't know better, he'd have thought the man had phased right through the metal. That's not what happened, and he watches the guy zip around the front of the car to his side.

He's barely understood that he's even gotten out of the car before Bat-Man has Danny's door open. He jolts involuntarily, sitting lame in his seat as Bat-Man gets him unbuckled and pulled out of the car.

The lights are still painfully bright in Danny's eyes as Bat-Man pulls him out, and he whines involuntarily, tilting his face inward to hide it against the armor-weave.

"--sleep at a reasonable-- dear god! What happened!?"

Oh, forget the lights. Danny turns his head and braces against the brightness -- and his tilting, whorling sight -- to see who else was here. He sees an older man with a cane standing near one of the tables.

"His godfather poisoned him." Bat-Man growls, Danny nods heavily. "I need my antidote kit. Alfred, I need you to stay by him, make sure he doesn't start choking if he throws up."

The older man -- Alfred? Scoffs, and when Bat-Man passes by he follows after him. "As if you need to ask me. But where do you even plan on putting him?"

Without answering, Bat-Man shifts Danny until he's being held in one arm, and then approaches a metal table covered in nuts, bolts, and half-finished gadgets and gizmos. Without blinking, Bat-Man uses his free arm to shove it all off the table with a crashing, clattering, banging sound.

Then he lays Danny down.

The metal is freezing, sinking through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, and Danny turns his head to watch Bat-Man. In the process, he catches a glimpse at Alfred's expression -- and the sheer exasperated affront written on his face forces a laugh out of him.

Bat-Man's hands still from where they're tilting him onto his side, and Danny covers his mouth with his hand to stifle his giggling. "Sorry." He says, trying to catch his breath. "th'look on his face was funny."

The Alfred man sends a look at the Bat-Man when he glances at him, one eyebrow arched, before stepping over as Bat-Man gets Danny full on his side. Bat-Man disappears down somewhere, his footsteps echoing through the room.

"I hope he knows that he'll be picking all of this up when we're done, because I am certainly not." Alfred says stiffly, procuring a pristine handkerchief out of thin air. One of those nice looking ones that are probably made of like, butterfly silk.

Danny almost smiles, but Alfred starts reaching for his face, so instead he suppresses a flinch. There's a pause, before Alfred's hand glides over his cheek. Despite the callous padding on his palm, his touch is resoundingly gentle.

He cups Danny's jaw, and starts wiping the blood from his face.

...Oh.

Danny blinks uncomprehendingly up at him. He hasn't felt an actual affectionate touch in months. Vlad tried to be, but every touch to Danny's skin felt oily; disgusting. Danny wanted to scrub at the spot every time he pulled away.

So this was like warm sunlight on his face, and he hums low and pleasantly. "Tha'feels nice." He mumbles, relaxing unconsciously.

"I would hope so, young man." Alfred-guy says, folding his already blood-stained handkerchief in half for a cleaner square and moving to clean the blood from his throat. "All this blood couldn't have felt pleasant."

No, no, Danny thinks slowly, not that part.

"May I ask for your name?" Alfred asks before Danny can correct him. "It's not every night that the young master brings someone back with him."

Danny stares. "Danny." He says, "Mnh... just Danny. M'godfath'r calls me Daniel, an' he poisoned me."

Alfred nods, and pulls his handkerchief away. It was stained right through with blood. Danny cringes with shame. That probably won't come out. "I wish we were meeting on better circumstances, Mister Danny. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His good midwestern manners kicks in, and Danny nods curtly. HIs head spins in revenge for the movement. "Y'too, sir."

Bat-Man reappears in that moment, clearing off a space on the table across from them with a kit of various bottles and vials and other doodads that Danny's too unfocused to recognize.

He watches him yank off the vambraces wrapped around his arms, and then the gloves on both his hands. Alfred brushes the hair off his forehead, gathering Danny's attention again.

"If you don't mind, how did you two meet?" He asks, Bat-Man glances over his shoulder at them both, but says nothing. There's a clattering of bottles before he bounds off again down a tunnel. Danny takes that as his sign to explain instead.

"All'y." Danny says, shifting when the pressure on his shoulder grew too uncomfortable. His stomach flips, and he freezes in place to breathe in slow. He swallows dryly when the nausea passes. "Um-- I w'z runnin' from Vlad, an' I saw him in one 'f the alleyways."

Bat-Man reappears again with more things, and starts messing around with his collection of bottles and tubes and whatever -- probably to fix an antidote.

...Would he even be able to make one? Fuck, Danny hadn't thought of that. Blood Blossoms interact with him differently.

He forcibly keeps his breathing even, and zeroes in on Alfred. "I thou' he was a hero, n' I was right. He is." He smiles, and Alfred's expression softens out.

Danny breathes in sharp, pain ricocheting up his spine. "He's-- mine, at least."

[starry-bi-sky]

Nausea hits Danny like a steamboat. Or maybe a train. Or one of Skulker's punches to the gut -- either way, one moment he's laying on his side, half-conscious and trying to watch the Bat-Man putter about his little detox station as Alfred diligently kept Danny's sweat-soaked forehead dry and his face free of blood. Then the next, a sensation he can only describe as his stomach trying to wring itself inside out claws desperately through his gut.

In the way only the feeling of being about to vomit can bring, Danny has a moment of clarity, and he shoots up from the table as the back of his throat hollows open and he gags wordlessly. "Bucket." He retches, holding himself up on violently shaking arms as his vision begins to swim again. "B'cket, I n'd a buck't."

The man, Alfred, lurches off to the side, and Danny's not quite sure where but he manages to produce a tin bucket out from thin air. just in time for Danny to snag it from his hands and empty out the contents of his stomach into it.

(There was hardly anything in it but his own bile and what little food he'd eaten today -- he hasn't had an appetite since he found his family dead in their beds, silent and peaceful as if all they'd done was go to sleep.)

(He knows not every death is created equal, some are simply clumsy, but still, it just felt cruel--)

When he's done, the little smoothie from hell he left behind is tinged red, and there's the distinct taste of iron on his tongue. It coats the back of his throat, and for a moment, Danny simply stares uncomprehendingly at it.

"Oh," he mumbles, feeling only a little better as his nausea's hotflashing fades and takes with it what little clarity he had left. His grip weakens, and the bucket loosens in his grasp. "Tha's no good."

From the corner of his blurring eye, the Bat-Man stops what he's doing to turn and look at him. Danny can finally see the wide, shock-blue color of his eyes; they look alarmed.

It's okay, Danny thinks, instinctively trying to reassure. Blood-and-spit still coats his bottom lip, as cotton returns to blanket over his brain. His mouth refuses to move however, his jaw feeling too heavy to allow him to make a sound. Alfred takes the bucket from his hands, and only then does Danny realize his soft swaying.

He and the Bat-Man stare at each other, something akin to fear in the other man's eyes, before he breaks the prolonged eye contact and returns to his antidote-making with a renewed vigor.

Alfred comes back into view, and with a kind hand, pushes Danny to slowly lay back down on his side. Danny does so silently, his arms trembling terribly. Alfred's hand cups his cheek, protecting his head as Danny became more vertical, and Danny can't help but tilt his nose inwards and press into the meat of his palm.

His mind is all over the place, low rumbling pain is beginning to set back in again, but Alfred's hand is warm and Danny so desperately needs the gentle touch. It's been so, so long.

Despite making all of his own inventions, Vlad's hands were too soft, too well-maintained, and every saccharine hand he ever laid on Danny was too tight, too possessive, too much. Too thick; syrupy. it felt like a leash threatening to wrap around his throat and chain him to the floor. Danny wanted to carve his own skin out from his body whenever Vlad tried to touch him.

Alfred's hands were rough and callused like his parents' were; toughened from years of hard work and handling machinery. He noticed it before when he was cleaning the blood from his face, but he was noticing it again now, and it was like sleep to the insomnic. Or like a balm to heartburn.

It's okay, Danny thinks deliriously, the reassurance he wanted to give the Bat-Man earlier washing over him instead. It's okay, he breathes carefully, it's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.

When Danny's finally laying fully back down, the hand on his cheek begins to pull away. The brief respite it gave to his muffled mind immediately combusts, his skin growing cold as his irrational peace crashes and burns at his feet.

His eyes -- since when had they been shut? -- shoot open.

No, no, no, wait, this is wrong.

An agonized whine slips past him, paining and hurting, terrified, and he latches out and leeches his hands around Alfred's wrist. "Don’t go.” Danny rasps, voice breaking in two. “Pl’se, ple’se, please. Don’t leave me. Pl’se don’ leave me.”

He claws at Alfred’s sleeve, trying to pull him closer with a low cry. Tears bubble and bleed onto his eyelashes, his core hums and he can feel the ectoplasm beneath his skin begin to buzz. No, no, no, he was doing so good. He was doing so, so good.

Like sharks smelling blood in the water, Danny can practically feel the blood blossom in his veins thicken. Behind his eyes, his mind conjures the image of a wolf lunging at an injured rabbit, and just as its glistening maw snaps down on the animal’s neck, agony ricochets through his lungs.

A sob beats out of his chest, and flowering pain burns through him like wildfire. Clawing maliciously, hungrily, through his nerves and sinew and bone, down to the keratin of his fingernails, and swallowing his head whole. Blood spills down his nose, and Danny cracks out another sob.

“Please!” He cries. He chokes on his lungs, and coughs violent and wet. Iron coats his tongue, and begins dripping into his mouth. Panic fills his head with static, the ectoplasm buzzes louder in his ears. Danny gags on blood.

He manages to latch his fingers onto Alfred’s shirt, scrabbling for the fabric even as the man swoops forward once again and wraps his arms around him. Danny’s propped up, and he pushes his face into the man’s collarbone with hysteric tears burning down his face.

“Don’— don’ leave me. Pl’ase, ple’se, pl’se.” He babbles, voice thickened in grief. Through his tears and blurring lashes, he peers up at Alfred, and catches the stern tightening around his eyes. Terror spins his head this way and that, and Danny’s grip tightens. No, no, no, he’s sorry, he’s sorry. He’ll be good.

More blood fills his mouth, and Danny’s everything is alight in stabbing, terrible agony as the blood blossom toxin devours him whole in renewed fervor. His fear feeds the ectoplasm, and in turn feeds the blood blossom. With another sob, blood spills down his chin and stains down his throat. He chokes, and tries throwing his head back — he’s going— he’s going to get blood on him.

Alfred’s hand stops him, “None of that, Mister Danny.” He orders, sounding deceptively calm as he pushes Danny back against his shoulder. Danny tries to fight against it, but his strength has all but been consumed by the poison, and so he acquiesces with a high whine. “We're not going anywhere.”

Fingers find their way through his hair in an attempt to soothe; it does nothing to stop his snowballing terror, but it distracts Danny from the second bubble of blood pooling up his throat. “M’sorry.” He gurgles. Blood sputters from his lips, and joins the rest dribbling down his chin.

His tears block out his vision. “M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

He should’ve— he should’ve known better than to think he could find a way out of this. Blood blossom is blood blossom, and it’s been extinct in the living realm for centuries. But he just- he just wanted to get away, he wanted to hope. But they're not going to find him a cure, he’s going to die here and the blossom will destroy his core and he’ll cease to exist forever.

Another sob tears out from him, leaving its claw marks in his lungs as it verges on the edge of a shriek. “I’m sorry!” Danny wails, creating divots into Alfred’s shirt. “I don’ wanna go, please, I don’ wann’ go. I can b’ good, I prom'z'.”

Alfred’s grip on him tightens, and Danny barely hears the low growl vibrating out of his throat. “Master Bruce.”

“I’m almost done.”

He shouldn’t have bothered these people with his problems, he should’ve just— just found an alleyway to die in. Somewhere away from everyone else— but he didn’t, he had to be fucking hopeful. And now he was going to die here in front of people who didn’t deserve to watch—

“I’ve got it.”

Danny’s vision dots and blacks as Alfred suddenly moves him, and his hands scrabble for him as he starts to pull away. “No no no—” He slurs, more blood spitting from his lips. Don’t leave him alone, please.

The Bat-Man appears to take him instead, a vortex mass of black that sweeps an arm behind his back and pulls him back close. Danny’s fingers, shaking, weak, aching, latch desperately onto what of his cape he can reach. “Don’ wanna die.” He cries, burrowing into Bat-Man’s shoulder. He’s scared, he’s so scared.

A new hand cradles the back of his neck, and Bat-Man’s voice rumbles low like an incoming storm. “You’re not going to.”

There’s a prick in Danny’s arm, cutting through the dying haze of his mind. He nearly misses it, it’s nearly drowned out by the prickling, burning pain consuming him, but he feels it for a brief, singular moment.

Relief sludges through him seconds after, dousing water over his bones and tissue and chasing away the blossom’s ravenous hunger. It spreads through his arm; down to his fingers and up to his shoulder, following along his collarbone and out to weave through his ribs and lungs and heart.

He did it. Danny thinks deliriously, feeling his lungs and sinew attempting to stitch themselves back together as the injection stifles the poison and spreads down to his legs. He barks out a laugh — it hurts, and he regrets it within seconds, but not enough as he probably should. He did it, he did it, he did it.

The Bat-Man carefully pulls the syringe out, and only now does Danny register the old-familiar sting of needle piercing skin. And when it’s placed at Danny’s feet, the Bat-Man raises his hand again and carefully presses his hand — rough and calloused more than Alfred’s — to his jaw. Danny freezes, silent as a mouse, and lets the man tilt his head and press his fingers to his pulse, before using what strength he’s got left in his arms to fling them around Bat-Man’s neck.

The Bat-Man makes a startled grunt, and Danny tries to say something, but it comes out slurred and incomprehensible even to his own ears. So Danny just pushes his face into Bat-Man’s shoulder, smearing blood against the armor weave. He’s too exhausted and happy to feel bad, and he’s shaking so much that it’s only because the Bat-Man tentatively wraps his arms around him in return that he doesn’t collapse.

'Thank you, thank you, thank you.' Is what he wants to say, but he can't find the strength in his tongue to move it. He ends up choking on some sort of half-there sob, hoping that this alone can properly convey the sheer gratitude he feels. The arms around him tighten minutely.

---------------------

Bruce only loosens his hold when Danny's gone completely limp against his chest, and it's only so that he can shift the boy's weight onto one of his arms in order to check for his pulse again. His hand stays remarkably still despite the bone-deep trembling he can feel in his arms, and only when he feels the arrhythmic fluttering of a heartbeat against his skin does Bruce breathe out.

"He's alive." He murmurs, if only for the reassurance to himself. He was alive. Daniel was alive, for now. "Just unconscious." It was hard to say he looked alive. Danny became, somehow, even paler than when Bruce first laid eyes on him, and the blood soaking down his front didn't leave the mind to wander beyond the image of a corpse.

Bruce feels for a heartbeat again, just to be sure.

(He doesn't think he'll ever be able to wipe the image of Daniel wringing out a slur of apologies, thick red blood bubbling out of his mouth as he was actively dying, out of his mind. His hysteric sobs will haunt Bruce's dreams hand-in-hand with the rest of his nightmares. If he'd been a few minutes too late...)

Alfred makes a curt sound, dragging Bruce from an oncoming spiral, and appears with a new handkerchief -- from where, he wasn't sure. "I'm not surprised he passed out." He mutters matter-of-factly, rounding around the table to Bruce and Danny's side. "Simply surprised by how long it took."

"Hn." Bruce plucks the handkerchief from Alfred's hand before he can clean Daniel's face, and begins doing it himself. They'll need to run some kind of DNA scan to figure out his identity, he hadn't given a last name. A blood test too. Danny said his godfather used blood blossom, an extinct flower, to poison him. Bruce wasn't sure if it was true, or just the delirious hallucination of a child trying to survive.

(And if it was true, then there was no telling whether the poison would have any long term effects on the boy. He'd been somewhat stable the entire time -- barring his rapid deterioration at the start when he heard the sound of his godfather's voice -- so his sudden, abrupt, decline had been both alarming and terrifying.)

Alfred arches an eyebrow at him, and plucks the syringe off the table to dispose of it. "May I ask what your next plan is, Master Bruce?" He asks anyways, expertly dismantling the syringe's needle and throwing it in the sharps container nearby. "I hope you don't plan on sending him on his merry way when he wakes up."

Bruce jerks, "What?" He looks up at Alfred, pausing from cleaning Danny's face to stare at him, quietly balking. He hasn't thought of what he was going to do yet, but that hadn't even crossed his mind. "No, I'm not." Not when he wasn't sure what the aftereffects of the poison were like. Not when the only person Danny could go to was his godfather -- the very man who poisoned him.

(And the mere reminder of it forces something hot and dark and angry to bubble underneath his skin, like a dark shadow skimming the surface of the water.)

No, no. Sending Daniel out when he woke up wasn't an option. Bruce would never sleep again if he chose that. But, then-- well, what was? He couldn't keep him in the cave; Bruce spares one glance around the decrepit, abandoned train station, and doesn't even need to consider it.

But the only other option he could safely think of -- one where Daniel would be left undisturbed and unfound by the rest of the world, somewhere no one would think to look, -- was the Manor. Except, if he took him to the manor, how would he explain how he got there? Any and all excuses led to tying Bruce Wayne to Batman.

He looks down at Daniel. Most of the blood has been soaked in by the handkerchief, if he tried cleaning off anymore all he would be doing is smear it around. With the blood no longer being the sole point of his attention, he could finally take in the rest of the child's face.

There really wasn't much to look at beyond, well, just how young he was. Baby fat still clung around his cheeks, and blood was soaked on the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck. Bruce hadn't noticed it earlier, too distracted with trying to do something to save him, but Daniel was as light as a feather. Lighter than he ought to be. Picking up his arm, Bruce silently wraps his fingers around his wrist, and presses his lips together when his fingers touch and then some.

Was he really going to prioritize his secret identity over the safety of a kid?

"Well?" Alfred's voice breaks through the thoughts in Bruce's head, and he snaps his eyes back up to the man who raised him. Alfred's brow is perfectly arched, and he stares at Bruce expectantly, awaiting an answer. "What is your next step, Master Bruce?"

[starry-bi-sky]

Reblogging to let people who may be perusing the reblogs: this is now available on my ao3! It's titled "late at night, when the nightingale sings" and the first chapter starts with this thread. I just posted the second chapter, like, five minutes ago.

"Late at night, when the nightingale sings"

[zillychu]

this man is about to put me back in the hospital

[rattling-bag-of-bones]

My lord I need you to make up your mind, where the fuck are we going

[mandalhoerian-deactivated202510]

my lord i think we're lost

[depresseddepot]

my lord????

[little-slice-of-eden]

*wheezing* please....My Lord....I just caught up

[thatdootdevice]

My Lord COME BACK?!

[warlockofagnesi]

MY LORD?? there is no way I can follow you there!

...all right My Lord [SIGH] I guess I will just have to trust you

[evaceratops]

my lord i WARNED you-

[big-condiments-official]

My Lord what happened to my boat

[ospreyonthemoon]

My Lord, the map

THE MAP, MY LORD

YOU FORGOT THE MAP, MY LORD!

[alienestrangement]

blood and organs burst from truck in Netherlands

[exitwound]

the aftermath

[ehyde]

“Grace! Why Eridian drawing on your words of encouragement, question?”

I’d never shown Rocky the cards and drawings that were sent with me before. “Eridian drawing?” I look at the symbol he’s pointing his texture gun at. “What do you mean?”

“Is simple way to draw Eridian. Like simple human next to it.” The simple human in question is a stick figure. And — rotationally symmetric, five equal limbs — yeah, I can see it. The Eridian stick figure equivalent. “Not possible for humans to know we meet,” Rocky says. 

“They didn’t,” I say. “On Earth, that’s how we draw a star.”

[rqbossman]

Out-of-pocket crossover

I'm just going to kick the hornets nest and say it: A Grace, Rocky, Jon, Martin road trip would eat with no crumbs.

[mossiistars]

ok

[rqbossman]

[sizvideos]

This campaign defies censorship in social media to raise awareness for early detection of breast cancer

[iamanemotionaltimebomb]

this is actually super fucking smartass of them

[snake-lady]

Reblogging as this is so important everyone! My mum had breast cancer and that shit is not nice so please check yourself ladies and gents! 💕💕💕

[tkthegoddess]

Always a reblog. 💋

[lyra-invisa]

I will forever reblog this when I see it because its so important

[wolfythewitch]

Do you guys wanna see the version of bloodymary im somewhat invested in

[wolfythewitch]

Imagine you float up from near death and some old guy is poking you in the face and humming

[wolfythewitch]

Okay wait one more

[pris-cas]

Lesson #18 Adrenaline

That came to me after watching a TikTok of some guy just jumping down a slope and being like “yeah checks out” after seeing it was sponsored by red bull.

First lesson Previous lesson Next lesson

Thank you to my super beta readers!

@xushibeetle

@the-asexual-winter

@stelosia

[itsgotgills]

It’s impossible to convince everyone to retroactively use the tag system properly but as a fix-it I’m going to start tagging all my non-crossover Iron Lung posts with #just blood if anyone wants to join me?

(no hate to hail mary but the shipping has eaten the smaller fandom alive & it’s legitimately impossible to search for anything else atp)

[itsgotgills]

what a great idea!

[beanswithbones]

what PHM fans see

what iron lung fans see

BROWSER ADDONS MADE TO HID FILTERD POSTS WILL CUASE YOUR SHIT TO LAG SO HARD BCS OF THIS!!! THUS WHY WE HAD TO MAKE A NEW ADDON TAG!!!

[divviren]

[zillyblog]

I'm vehemently against fandoms being shoved out of their own tag. Don't make a new tag, the canon tag is where you're supposed to be. You're only making it harder for new and existing fans to find the community they're looking for!

Do you know what the actual etiquette is? The one that's been around since Tumblr began? The one that's been followed dutifully up until the last few years?

Once an AU becomes so prevalent it starts becoming bothersome, YOU DON'T MAINTAG THE CANON FANDOM. Yes, this is a gray area when it comes to what constitutes as bothersome. Yes, bloodymary is WAY beyond that line.

Instead of bailing on the canon tag, SPREAD THIS MESSAGE. If someone refuses to follow this etiquette, BLOCK THEM.

You owe it to yourself, to your community, and to new fans who won't know the fandom exists in some obscure tag. Stand your ground and be vocal about this etiquette.

PS-- to the AU fans who insist they won't be found without the canon tag: yes you will. People subscribe to a tag when they know that's the fandom they want. People use the REGULAR SEARCH function to discover it. If your post has canon character or franchise names in it, or even non-canon tags, a regular search will display those.

Be considerate. Acting like an ass will only make possible fans hate your AU when it's shoved down their throats.

[zillychu]

Signed, the creator of the Gravity Falls Transcendence AU, which at one point started taking over the canon GF tag. Everyone in the community collectively understood and stopped maintagging the second it was even questionable. It's still easy to find us, we have literally lost nothing by not maintagging. Peace and love on planet earth

[musicforyourplants]

[boy-matt-deactivated20181204]

*slams reblog*

[ariesaav]

Klezmer dolphins.

[willcub-deactivated20180521]

I don’t know that I’ve reblogged anything faster in my entire tumblr life.  

[onceuponamirror]

honestly they’re better than the band that played at my bat mitzvah

[fractalindigo]

I like dolphins.

I love klezmer.

But as a former band kid, this made me die laughing.

[castielrisingabove]

I just keep thinking about how Ryland Grace used to be a regular at his local diner.

[ihavenoideawhatimdoing247]

i’m actually mad af that the omitted the part in the book where he FIGHTS with Stratt to get those three astrophage because he looks at the faces of his kids and the full weight of the situation falls on him. He full-out panics about what will happen to them if the sun goes dark. He NEEDS those cells because he has to DO something, contribute something, to precent his kids from bearing the brunt of humanity’s extinction in their 40s. i love the movie so much, but it makes me downright mad about what a frameshift that creates. Ryland Grace loves and is loved by people in his life, and to forget that is to shift his motivation for being involved with PHM in the first place.

[ihavenoideawhatimdoing247]

actually! not done! because they cut this scene, it also leads to a mischaracterization of STRATT. she leaves Grace those three cells against her better judgment—and gives into an emotional appeal!—because their motivations align and she knows it. He shows her he’s there for the same reasons she is: he loves people and wants to fight for their future. Stratt doesn’t need scientists who will “make people mad” or whatever she says in the film. She needs people who are willing to go after the chance to maybe, just maybe, have a shot at saving the world because they care about humanity. she needs people who are willing to go crazy lengths out of love, just like she is. and in that moment, Grace shows her that he will.

idk that whole scene is so foundational to me that without it, they both just feel like totally different characters. i adore the movie, but the book really says “the world was saved because two people loved it enough to try something absolutely batshit”. and i think thats beautiful.