#tw food horror

[felinecryptid]

Chasing Pasts in Shadows

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

please pay attention to the tags, there's some heavy stuff going on

Mr Reyes was a balding, rotund man in his fifties, who greeted them, showed them around the garden like a realtor and finally invited them into the parlour (A parlour!) to have some tea. Will was currently sat on the long couch with Mike crowding him in towards the right armrest and eyeing the plates suspiciously and worrying the rip in his black jeans . Max took the armchair nearer Mike, picking up one of the sandwiches. Mr Reyes took the last armchair, settling in with a sigh. “Oof. Bad knees, these days. I'm not as young as I was, back in the eighties,” he chuckled, “but you kids don't have to worry about that yet, hmm? I should hope not. Well, take whatever you’d like to eat and you can ask away,” He leant back into the plush of the chair.

Will nodded and reached in for a grape. ”Mr Reyes, before we start, if at any point of time you feel uncomfortable answering questions, do let us know. We want to know as much as possible about the case but not at the cost of your mental health. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good. Max, hand over the recorder, please.”

Max passed it to Mike. Will reached out for it, electricity racing up when his hand briefly brushed against Mike’s. He fought down a shiver, clicking it on and placing it on the middle of the table, among the delicately arranged sandwiches, fresh fruit and cheese and crystal glasses of sparkling water. “Just say your name and age, we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Javier Reyes and 53.”

“Mr Reyes, you called us to investigate some disturbances in, um, your house. Could you please elaborate?” Will asked, chewing on his grape. It was delicious.

“Oh, what do you want to know about?”

“When did they first start?”

“About 10 months ago, I was in the kitchen to get a drink, I think, at 2 am in the morning, because the mini fridge in my room had broken down a few days ago. The entire house had blown a fuse, and some of my appliances short circuited before the fuse. Old faulty circuitry in an old house. So, I was getting a beer from the refrigerator, when the chandelier started swinging, just enough to be visibly moving. I thought nothing of it, going back to bed. Things progressively went worse from there,” Mr Reyes said. Will could see his fingers clenching hard.

“Worse how?” Max asked, reaching for another plate of sandwiches. “These are delicious, by the way.”

“I’m glad, Ms. Mayfield,” Mr Reyes smiled, his eyes losing a bit of their edge. “About your question, well, it didn't get bad right away. At first, it was swinging chandeliers, knives out of the wooden block, on the island or just my phone dying even if I charged it all night,” Mike, Max and Will glanced at each other. What the fuck? Mike mouthed silently.

Just keep listening, Max mouthed back.

Mr Reyes didn't notice their little conversation, continuing, “then I started finding the knives in increasingly weird places, like the library, behind a book I was thinking of reading, in the bath where I could have cut my foot on it, once I found a meat cleaver on the bedside table. I couldn't sleep again for the rest of that night,” Mr Reyes cut off, shivering. Will felt like it, too. Meat cleavers near his head? Will would run, screaming and never looking back.

“Are you okay, Mr Reyes? We can take a break if you like,” Will asked.

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s relieving to get this off my chest. I was so happy when I saw the Facebook ad,”

The what? Facebook? What the fuck was Lucas doing?

“If you are sure,” Will nodded.

“I heard footsteps, first on the floors above or below me, then it got closer, I heard it outside in the hallways, in the room adjacent to the one I'm in, and it always walks towards me. They start silent, barely audible, getting louder and louder til I'm sure there’s someone on the other side. Just there, looking, standing, staring. It’s gotten even closer since the last few days,” Mr Reyes' face was frozen in an expression of confused terror. Will felt sorry for the man. Mr Reyes seemed so optimistic, so happy. No one would ever think he was going through a horror film all the time.

Mr Reyes went on. “The footsteps are always coming from where I can’t see. I was making and eating dinner the day before, when the dreaded sounds came up, thud, thud, thud, behind me,” Mike inched closer to Will, a movement so minute, Will would have missed it if he wasn’t attuned to every single part of Mike. “I whipped around, sure I’d see the intruder, a squatter or something, but there was no one. Nothing. I decided I’d call someone, maybe a priest to have a look around the next morning. I threw away the rotting pb&j full of maggots-”

“Wait, rotting pb&j?” Mike asked, perplexed.

“Oh, yeah. It's been happening for some time but food goes bad the moment I take my eyes off them. It rots away like it's been sitting there for days. Liquified and maggots crawling through them,” Max set her plate of sandwiches down, a bit green in the face. “I'm not sure how that is happening, but I don't eat here anymore, my friends take me out for meals.”

“Mr Reyes,” What the fuck, Will asked, “Do you have any other place to stay for a while? All of this sounds like it’s very intense for you-”

“Oh no, Mr Byers, I can’t leave this place, not after- not after my dear Emily…” Mr Reyes choked up. “I can’t bear to leave this place, no. If I stay over at a friend’s, she won't come to me. She talks with me in my dreams, asks me how I am, we do things we normally do, like cooking together, reading in the library, kissing me, but if I don't come home, Emily doesn't come to me, only the sound of footsteps, getting closer,” A tear dropped down Mr Reyes’ face. Will felt unsettled. The things he was describing did sound like a true haunting, but what if it wasn't?

“Mr Reyes, I think it'd be good for you to take a stroll in the garden, get a breath of fresh air,” Will spoke up. “I insist.”

Mr Reyes slumped, breathing heavily. “Alright,” He said, after staring at his shoes, for what seemed like an eternity, “I'll take a short walk outside,”

Will turned back to the others the moment he left. “How are you guys holding up? If this case is true, it'd would be the biggest one yet, financially and paranormally,”

Max looked at Will. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

“It’s not that, I suspect other things as well,”

“Will,” Mike said, so softly near his ear, Will nearly jumped out of his skin. “I don’t think he's lying,”

“What do you mean?”

“Max, you can feel it right? It’s so heavy around him, It is coming off in waves,” Mike stared at the door Mr Reyes exited from.

“It’s still here though,” Max said. “If he was being haunted, then the intensity of the energy would cease the moment he left, but it didn’t.”

“But it’s different, they are not similar,”

“You mean there are more than one entities in this house?”

“It doesn't have to be an entity, Byers, it can be a object with history as well,”

“But this doesn't feel like an object, it feels separate,” Mike sighed loudly. “I don't understand.”

“So I was way off when I thought it was schizophrenia.”

“You thought it was schizophrenia? Have we not done this shit like a thousand times?” 

“Well, sue me, I was thinking of his mental health, Max. It has happened before, when it was just El, Mike and me.”

“Okay, okay, Max, calm down, Will can’t feel the traces so it’s not his fault. Will, thank you for looking out for us, I, uh, we appreciate it.” Mike looked at Will, eyes soft. Will felt his cheeks heat up.

The door swung open and Mr Reyes walked in, his face noticeably calm.

“I feel better now,” He took his seat. “We can continue.”

“Mr Reyes, can you show us the food thing?”

***

things are escalating, what is going to happen?

thank you for reading!!

once again this was only betad by grammarly and hemingway editor so please lemme know if there are any errors or weird dialogues bc english isnt my first language and some of it looked funky to me.

some more lore that i can't figure how to put in the story w/o infodumping

el's full name is Janelle Hopper

will and el are still step siblings

lonnie is out of the picture

el is hopper's bio daughter

el was never experimented on and she grew up a happy normal life bc hop and joyce got together when will and el were about 5

mike, will and el met in kindergarten, just like in canon

the only reason el has this backstory is because i personally want el to not have a trauma filled life

next part should be up tomorrow, same time ie 1800 IST, spam me with messages if i don't update ✨✨

tell me what part you liked!!

[and-stir-the-stars]

another fnaf one-shot (aka my excuse to further traumatize Michael), this time for THE dire consequences au

tw: food horror, descriptions of injury, blood, victim-blaming, vomit

word count: 2,749

Michael stared blankly at the space his little brother had been moments before.

“Evan… you– you remember being alive, don’t you? You know that I can’t… keep doing this, right?” 

“Evan, I– I’ll come back. You know I will. I always come back. I won’t leave you ever again, just… please open the doors. Then we can– we can play outside, yeah?”

“That weird sound was, um… it was my– my stomach, Ev. I’m hungry–” The words drowned in a half-muffled sob that Michael couldn’t quite hold back. “I’m r-really hungry, Ev.” 

The hunger wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the thirst, though. At one point, Michael’s mouth had gotten so dry that just moving his tongue had felt like razors stabbing the interior of his mouth, and every swallow and shaky inhale had been sandpaper against the lining of his throat. At that point, Michael had finally gotten over himself and drank from the awful-tasting rainwater– what he hoped was rainwater, at least– that leaked into this room from the ceiling. 

Michael had been here for… what? Two days? Three? Four? The Afton wasn’t all that sure anymore. He’d had a watch– you needed one when you worked the kind of jobs Michael Afton did– but it had gotten smashed when Evan… when Evan had…

And there weren’t any clocks in the room he was trapped in, either. Or windows. 

Michael was limping around the room’s perimeter now, cursing the lack of windows. Michael thumped the hand of his good arm against the walls as he moved, listening for any sound that would indicate a weak point and looking for any cracks or leaks or anything that would suggest he might be able to tear the unusually strong walls down with his bare hands and escape. He didn’t know how long he would have until Evan came back. 

“You can’t be hungry, Mikey; we’re playing a game now. Don’t you want to play? Don’t you like playing with me? You said you did. Were you… lying?” 

“Fine. I have something we can play that will make us both happy! Just wait, Mikey!” 

Michael’s perimeter check proved useless. He didn’t find anything, but deep down, he had already known that he wouldn’t. With nothing left to do but sit at one of the decrepit tables littering the room, Michael shot a despairing look at the heavy steel doors barricading the thresholds. He didn’t know how many nights Michael had spent in the last year with that specific brand of heavy, impenetrable reinforced steel doors keeping the monsters out. Now, instead of keeping the monsters out, those same doors were keeping Michael pinned in like a drowning rat. Michael wanted to laugh at the irony, but all he could do was bury his face in one hand– just one hand because he couldn’t even move his other one, a bitter voice pointed out in the back of his mind– as stuttered breathing rattled in his chest. 

Michael flinched, his hand flying away from his face at the sound of something crashing onto the table before him. 

“Be right back!” Evan chirped before disappearing again. 

Michael rubbed his hands under his eyes to stop his tears in their tracks, making his skin burn at his hasty and overly aggressive administrations. He took a few moments just to breathe, and ignored the oppressive silence ringing in his ears as he forced the corners of his lips upward. His lower lip wobbled dangerously, and Michael sank his upper teeth into the chapped pink flesh to rectify the slipup. The smile felt… stiff, but hopefully it looked real enough. 

Michael managed not to jump as much this time when Evan materialized beside him. 

Evan dropped something else on the table, something that fell with a sickly, wet-sounding slap. Michael didn’t get a good look at what it was before Evan reached across the table and grabbed something he had dropped off earlier. 

“Normally these are set up on the tables here. I hid them, though,” Evan whispered, like he was telling Michael a secret. “I didn’t like looking at them. They made me sad. But this will make it okay, I think.” 

Michael’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he didn’t stop Evan as the little kid put the red-striped party hat on Michael’s head. Though, he couldn’t stop himself from wincing when Evan released the elastic string keeping the hat in place with just a little too much force and the elastic band stung against the bottom of Michael’s chin. 

Evan picked up a green and blue striped hat for himself. Michael worried for half a second that the hat would phase straight through Evan’s head, but the eight year old put the hat on his head with no problem. 

“Wh-what’s all this for, Ev?” Michael’s gaze travelled across the table, taking in the party hats and the brightly colored– and dusty– paper plates and cups. Just seeing the plates was enough to make Michael’s stomach gurgle painfully, and the Afton shot a nervous glance at his brother. 

Evan didn’t seem mad, though. If anything, his smile widened. “A party.” 

“What kind of– party?” Michael plastered the smile across his face to hide his stutter. 

“Guess!” 

“I don’t know,” Michael said as Evan handed him a cheap plastic noise maker. “A– A tea party?”

“No, silly. It’s a birthday party.” Evan put a pink plate and cup in front of Michael and grabbed a purple one for himself. 

“A… birthday party.” Michael’s mouth went painfully dry as he stared down at the noise maker in his hand. 

“Mm-hmm! You’ll like it, Mikey, because you can’t have a birthday party without cake!” 

Michael stared at his little brother’s eager smile, absolutely dumbfounded, because… exactly where the hell would Evan have managed to find cake here, in a building that had been completely abandoned for years? 

Then Evan reached over and grabbed… something off the table before throwing it onto Michael’s plate with a wet slap. Maybe it was the close proximity, but somehow, the smell didn’t hit Michael until right then. It was awful– like something rotting, musty and sharp– sharp enough to sting Michael’s eyes until they watered. 

Michael stared down at the– something– in abject horror. It was slimy, as though covered in mucus, and was growing mold. Most of the mold was a dark, deathly green, but spots of soft white mold grew on it as well, like a sheen of fresh snow or frost. But Michael didn’t notice the worst part until he stared down at his plate in horror for several long moments: the mess on his plate was moving; it writhed as though in pain. The molding mass shifted on the plate, sections of white splattering against the playful pink as though lurching toward him. Maggots, his mind supplied a moment later. 

“Evan…” 

“You can’t have a birthday without cake.” Evan scooped some of the moldy mess from the table with his hands. “Lucky us, they had some in the kitchen still.” 

Michael shuddered as maggots slipped between Evan’s fingers and wiggled on the table between them. As Evan dropped the “cake” onto his own plate, Mike stared at him in stupefied horror. Did Evan really not… see the obvious problem here? Michael would have an easier time believing Evan had picked up a couple of rats that had died in the cupboard years ago than believing the disgusting mess in front of them had ever been cake. 

Evan returned Michael’s stare with a pout. “You have to sing.” 

“I– sing? What?”

“Happy Birthday!” Evan huffed through his nose. “Duh. What else? You’ll sing it for me, won’t you, Mikey? You’ll sing me Happy Birthday, this time? Please?” 

Michael’s lips parted, but the protest died on his tongue. 

“Please, Mikey?” Evan whimpered. 

Michael’s tongue darted over his chapped lips. Not that it did any good. “O-Of couse I will.” 

The pitiful sadness vanished from Evan’s face, replaced with a smile. In the back of his mind, Michael couldn’t help but think the smile on Evan’s face looked just as desperate as the tear-filled frown from moments before. Michael shoved the thought away. Evan deserved every moment of happiness he could get. And this was the least he could do for Evan, wasn’t it? The very least. 

“H-Happy birthday to you…” Michael winced as the words cracked upon his dry tongue, but Evan didn’t seem to notice. “Happy birthday to you…”

Evan’s eyes never once left Michael’s face as the older sang. Evan’s lips silently formed the words Michael sang as though savoring every word and basking in the evidence that his older brother was here for him and singing him Happy Birthday, like Mike was the loving brother Evan had always wanted. So… why did watching Evan mouth along the words make Michael feel like a ventriloquist dummy going along with whatever actions and words his puppet master demanded of him?

“Happy birthday, dear Evan; happy birthday to you.”

Evan sniffled. 

Wincing, thinking Evan was about to cry, Michael moved to reassure and comfort his little brother. But then Evan smiled up at him. 

“See? Th-that wasn’t so bad, was it? My birthday c-could have been this ha-happy the first time around…” Evan rubbed at his eyes with another sniffle, but the smile was still stretched across his face. “Now we can eat the cake.” 

Before Michael could even process the six simple words, Evan grabbed a fistful of the maggot-infested mold and shoved it in his mouth. 

“Evan!” Michael practically jumped out of his seat in horrified panic. Was Evan trying to make himself sick?! …Could ghosts get sick?

Evan’s smile dipped momentarily. “It’s okay. You kept saying you were hungry; you can eat now.” 

Michael’s stomach churned violently as Evan scooped another handful of mold into his mouth. Maybe ghosts couldn't get sick, but he could.

“Ev, I-I can’t eat this,” Michael whispered. 

“Why not? It’s my birthday cake. You… you don’t like it?” Evan asked in a small voice. His shoulders hunched up around his ears like Michael had yelled at him.

Michael’s resolve crumbled as Evan stared up at him, his light green eyes shining with tears. “It’s… not like that…” 

“I don’t understand,” Evan whimpered. “I thought you wanted me to be happy. You kept complaining that you were hungry and ruining our games. But now you won’t eat? Why? Because now I want you to? Do you hate me that much?”

Michael’s fingernails dug into the tender skin along his palm, and the Afton focused desperately on the sharp pain to ground himself. “I-I’m sorry, Evan, I am. But you don’t– I can’t–” 

Evan trembled as he looked up at Michael. Not an ounce of understanding passed Evan’s features, only a confusion and hurt so profound that Michael couldn’t bring himself to keep protesting. 

Michael swallowed hard, dutifully ignoring the painful lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite get rid of. Dark brown locks of hair fell over his face as he glanced down at the putrified lump of mold before him. His hair obscured his view of the revolting mess slightly, but that didn’t stop acid from burning at the base of Michael’s throat at the mere thought of touching that thing, let alone putting it inside of him. 

His gaze darted across the table, half-heartedly looking for any silverware– really, he just didn’t want to look at Evan or the horrifying sludge right in front him– but came up empty. Looked like Evan had forgotten to grab any in his excitement for his ‘birthday.’ 

Shuddering, Michael pulled his hand away from his lap and inched closer to the plate. He determinedly did not look as he grabbed some–

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmy–

Michael had done a lot of gross and deranged things in his life– he had been a teenage boy for a long time, after all– but no amount of eating worms on a dare or putting salt on slugs or skinning and gutting things while hunting with his friends could have ever prepared him for the disturbingly moist feeling of mold on his skin, the squish as his fingers closed around the mold, the way the dampness clung to his fingers like old syrup on the side of a bottle, or the itch of maggots wiggling against his skin and slipping between his fingers, or for that godawful smell. The vomit rose from the bottom of his throat and filled his mouth. Michael felt dizzy as he held the vomit in his mouth long enough to raise his fingers to his lips and pretend to eat the filth. Hoping Evan wouldn’t notice, Michael dropped the mess back onto the plate as quickly as possible and swallowed his own vomit back down, wincing at the acid searing his mouth and throat. 

“Mmmm…” 

Michael hummed in ‘delight,’ hoping against hope that Evan wasn’t paying enough attention to notice what he had done, or the disgust still written plainly across his features. 

Michael should have known better. 

The despair on Evan’s face gave way to anger as he glared between Michael and the pink plate. “You can’t do that! You have to actually eat it or it won’t mean anything, Mikey!” Evan launched up from his seat so fast, his chair went flying behind him with a loud crash. “Why are you doing this?!” 

The whites of Evan’s eyes began to glow, and Michael’s eyes widened in fear. “Evan, wait–”

“I thought we were having fun– I thought you came here because you wanted to be with me– why do you keep RUINING EVERYTHING, MIKEY?!” 

Electricity fritzed through the room with enough intensity to make Michael’s nerves tingle and his hairs stand on end. Michael didn’t have enough time to react before Evan screamed, and Michael’s throat tightened under a bruising force as though someone had their hands wrapped around his windpipe. 

Eyes widening, Michael frantically tore at the space around his throat– even his broken arm jerked upward in his panic, making the Afton’s vision go red as pain exploded through his nerves at the jerk of his twisted appendage. As much as Michael struggled against the force choking him, though, there was nothing physically there for Michael to rip off. He could do nothing but wheeze as he clawed at his own throat fiercely enough to draw blood. Tears leaked down his face and, far too quickly, the pressure in his chest from his lungs begging for air increased and increased until the pain in his chest overcame the tight squeezing around his throat. 

Then, just as Michael’s vision began to darken, the pressure around his throat ceased. Michael gulped down oxygen, practically clawing it out of the air, but each breath burned his tortured throat and led Michael into a coughing fit that hurt his throat and chest worse than being choked almost to unconsciousness. 

It took Michael an embarrassingly long time to realize he was sobbing as his good hand hovered protectively around his throat, as though he could do a single thing to stop that awful pain from happening again. 

Michael blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision without using his hand to wipe away the tears. 

Evan was still glaring at him. Hands clenched, lip wobbling, tears streaming down his face. 

“I d-don’t hate you,” Michael cried. He wished he wasn’t openly sobbing, but he had better things to waste his frighteningly limited energy on than keeping his eyes dry– like keeping his head up so he didn’t face-plant from exhaustion and pain directly into his plate of ‘cake.’ 

“I n-never h-hated you, and I– I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Michael flinched as two small arms looped around his neck. He almost shoved Evan away out of instinct, but belatedly, he realized Evan wasn't trying to hurt him anymore. It was just a hug. Evan, the little brother Michael had missed so much for so long, the little brother Michael was fucking terrified of, wrapping him in a hug. 

"I didn't want to do that," Evan whispered. "I wish you would stop making me so mad."

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Evan…"

"It's okay," Evan said softly. "Just eat your cake, now, Mikey. Cake makes everything better." 

He had to maneuver his arm so it wasn't pinned under Evan’s hug– and bite back a whimper as the movement jostled his broken arm– but Michael reached for the plate again without any thoughts of complaint. 

@dire-kumori @catwithacupofcoffee

[ruporas]

dragon meat, you, and me

[dovewingkinnie]

sew the mouth of your zombie wife shut, now she can't bite you

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Someone was trying to ritually sacrifice me and I had to keep finding ways to escape and get out of it. I succeeded when I baked some of the best tasting bread in the world and ate it with the person trying to kill me. It distracted them long enough for me to wake up and I wish I could’ve taken the bread with me.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXVI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny has another hashtag breakdown! Diana helps mediate. Stinky Dad and the Alien Guy observe.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

“His control over his emotions slipped during the interview,” J’onn sighs, hovering alongside Bruce as they carry down the hall.

Bruce grunts. He isn’t quite capable of complicated speech yet. The teenage alien crying, too scared to let even the internationally-favorite, universally beloved Wonder Woman hold him without screaming…a person he already knew would take care of him…

J’onn continues, nevertheless. The thin privacy of his mind aside, Bruce has always appreciated the Martian’s understanding of Bruce’s oft-shifting moods. “His memories of his home and his family were tied up with extensive pain. I would continue under the assumption that his human family turned on him after discovering his nature—there may have even been collateral damage to others around them at the time.”

Bruce breathes in. Bruce breathes out.

“He thought himself akin enough to humans to be betrayed when he was seen as an 'other'. He knows that he is far from home, he knows that he has been targeted for his non-human traits and abilities, and he has reasons to think that he may not return again—what they are, I could not tell, but the sentiment was clear. This escape was purposeful, as was commandeering the vehicle he used to do so. He is alone. He is scared.”

“Known or unknown threat?” Bruce growls, not quite up to elongating his bite into a full sentence. J’onn is more than skilled enough to skim lightly over the words, and match them to Batman’s pointed fury.

“Our patient is familiar with the threat. I could not recognize the insignia or acronym from his memories, but they had enough resources to keep him captive and alive—without food or water. Likely, for a lengthy amount of time.”

Bruce’s near-running stride slows to a stop. J’onn, ever-patient, floats to a standstill beside him.

“No food,” Bruce confirms, just to make sure he heard correctly.

J’onn nods.

“No water.”

“There was an alternative method used to keep him alive, although the details weren’t significant to him in his flashback. The method may have been possible due to his minor healing ability, or something unique to his species.”

No food, Bruce thinks. No water. Kept alive as a function. Worried that he’s meant to be used as a weapon, kept in isolation, afraid of what humans in uniform might require of him for help.

This isn’t just torture. It is, specifically targeting a half-human entity, entirely purposeful dehumanization.

Of a child.

Of a child.

Bruce inhales. Bruce exhales.

This is not something that will be solved short-term. He has to keep an eye on the long-term goals for this teen—safety, recovery, reassurance, and reintegration.

Doable. All he has to do is break larger goals down into reasonable steps.

“Update the pediatric psychiatrist that Dr. Martin referred him to on the details.” Bruce’s demand comes out as flat as it gets. It is hard, when he’s stressed, to make his words hit with any intonation. Everything he forces out is precise. To the point.

J’onn nods. “I will.”

“This is personal medical information, to be accessed only on a need to know basis.”  

J’onn floats slightly higher, something relaxed in his face. This is a significant gesture, meant to remind everyone involved that this is a child, not a resource, and not a mission to be solved. This is a patient. “Understood.”

“If you pass this on to Diana, do it in person. Minimizing documentation…” Bruce falters. There isn’t a strong, authoritarian way to phrase how he feels about being someone to store clinically cold information about a boy who had likely been imprisoned, if not actively experimented on, if not actively tortured. How he needed to minimize behaviors that would exactly model what was done to the boy by his captors.

A smile flickers over J’onn’s expression. It’s suitably fleeting, but it comes and it goes—and it’s extremely polite of him to emote so visibly for Bruce’s sake. He makes sure to project his appreciation as best he knows how—blindly, without a telepathic sense to know what J’onn will and will not see.

“Understood, Batman.”

Bruce grunts.

They split at the end of the hallway, each dedicated to their own tasks.

J’onn will inform the medical team of what triggers may affect their patient’s long-term recovery and the quality of their stay. He is a thorough and patient coworker, and Bruce is grateful to have him on his side.

Bruce, in the meantime, has a favor to ask of Alfred and Dick on their way back into Gotham; more importantly, this is a favor he has to ask of Alfred’s employment-provided Costco card.

*

There’s something new in Danny’s room.

He transfers himself into the wheelchair to look at it, scrambling down the bed the way the physical therapist taught him to—the new thing isn't at bed height, but it is pretty low, and it has a door that he could probably reach from seated height or standing.

The square thing’s door swings open.

Inside are…little water bottles. Canned juices. Those mushy fruit-filled bars, and something so obviously wrapped in a yellow Fig Einstein wrapper that even the gibberish non-English is super clear.

There’s a bunch of things. Just. So many; and all in a few different types, too. The whole thing is filled with so many choices.

…Huh.

There are disposable straws in the door. Danny has to borrow a nurse’s ID card to open the can tab in the end, and his unwrapping of a straw is more than a little shaky, but Danny takes his medication with a mango-pineapple juice blend instead of his usual cup of water, and he’s perfectly fine with that.

[toxooz]

🍔 borgir 🍔

[kerrosin]

Because apparently I can't do anything without deadlines, I participated in @extremetimedchallengeexchange ! It was super fun, but I really need to do something about this deadline addiction .../j

Witchcraft SMP! Coven makes a pie!

And here's the fic!

[gins-stim-emporium]

WARNING : this board is based on an analog horror series and may be unnerving or disturbing to some!

self indulgent PHEN-228 (“the boiled one” phenomenon) stimboard !!

milk bottle / hibiscus tea / candles

sheep fursuit / 🐑 / lamb plushie

book / strawberries / sunset dragons

[and-stir-the-stars]

This is absolutely not what happened but my knee jerk reactive thought to the “birthday cake” was… what if it was like, the remains of his own arm? Do you think he’d get hungry enough to try auto cannibalism?

auto-cannibalism, huh? looks like i can knock another thing off on whump bingo lmao

That would genuinely be so... horrific. I feel like there are two ways it could happen: either when Mike's arm gets crushed in the door, it doesn't just get crushed but gets physically cut off and locked away on the other side of the door until Evan goes to grab it a few days later, or Mike's arm is still attached (or possibly got cut off but stayed inside the room rather than getting locked out), and Mike is so hungry and it's really the only thing around...

Either of those scenarios leads back to the same question: Would Mike willingly eat his own arm to survive when Evan asks him to, vs Would Mike choose to eat his own arm just to satiate his hunger?

And my answer is... I don't think he would. Not because the idea of eating his own arm grosses him out (it DOES gross him out, but if he really wanted to survive, I think he'd get over it, just like he gets over eating the moldy mess to make Ev happy). I don't think he'd eat his own arm to survive because, deep down, he knows it would only prolong the inevitable.

At a certain point, Michael knows he's going to die here. He doesn't want to die and leave behind his mission to right his father's wrongs, or to leave behind the few things left in this world that he loves, or to die and hurt Evan when his big brother "abandons" him again. But no matter what he does, he can't survive in these conditions. Eating his own arm to survive might give him a few more days to live, a few more days to suffer, a few more days to let Evan have his playmate, but... no matter what, he's going to die. Again, he doesn't want to die and he wants to avoid all those previously mentioned cons to him dying, but... he IS going to die, and the one thing Mike can do now is choose not to prolong his suffering; the one sliver of "dignity" he has left is choosing to die now rather than later, since the choice to live has been ripped out of his hands and hopes.

[lunar-stims]

stimboard for ME because its MY!!!!!!!!!!!! birthday today :3c including stuff i love

💜|🍰|🐈 🧁|🎂|🎁 🖍️|🎉|🩸

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price on the Steve Allen Show (1956)

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I just wanted a fucking candy bar from Aldi's but got trapped in a cinema with one of my teachers who was trying to kill me.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XVII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here PART FOURTEEN is here PART FIFTEEN is here PART SIXTEEN is here and we're limping into part 17...

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Two! Words! In! English!!! And a television? Hardcore!

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny can raise his head now.

Only a little. It still hurts his neck for a while after. But his arms and his head both rise, now. His fingers curl, now, too.

The result is that Danny can now watch and change his own television channels. No more news! Now it’s all Food Network, all the time, baby. The result is that sometimes the doctors tending to him get distracted by various pasta dishes, but also. Danny is also distracted by various pasta dishes.

And roast chicken.

And fried potatoes. Every potato ever, actually.

…It makes eating his oatmeal a more awful ordeal.

“Aw, dyrling, na þa sæd egean,” the lady says to him, spoon at his lips. Danny weakly moves his arm towards her, but only manages to hit her elbow with the heel of his thumb. “Inne cwic tima, gise? Hiere þa læce.”

Danny is pretty sure his face is a nightmare to look at at the moment, but he still makes the world’s saddest expression at the lady, because she hasn’t blasted him or hit him or even sedated him yet, and he needs something. Anything.

He’s pretty the lady makes an equally sad look under her medical mask, but Danny is hungry and he’s tired all the time and he’s sad and he wants a cheeseburger. Or fries. Or…or anything at all!

Danny’s look gets progressively sadder, and the lady gets progressively sadder to match, and then they’re both just looking at each other so very sadly until a doctor physically has to cut between them to reach for Danny’s green-speckled blankets.

Ugh. Great. Now he’s cold too. He can’t quite muster a glare, but the doctor gets an extremely stern squint from him for their “help”.

The only response Danny gets is a half-strangled laugh. That is not the response Danny needs. He needs immediate respect and a Nasty Burger number two special.

And a new blanket.

“—Eall dæg?” the doctor asks the woman, but not Danny, and then he has to listen to everyone talking about him in a weird language without even pretending to ask for his input. It’s extremely annoying, and Danny half-considers falling asleep to avoid it. His gaze slides back to the television. He’s just as capable of ignoring everyone else as they are. He bets it sucks. He hopes it sucks.

They talk for a while, but then the lady takes the oatmeal away—and hey! Danny’s eyes widen and sting from the stretch. Uh. Maybe he didn’t think this one through. He’d still thought he’d get lunch out of this.

Um. He would like to continue to receive meals. But he’s watching her walk out with his oatmeal, which is the only human food that’s ever been given to him here, and…

Danny’s stomach cramps. It’s probably just anxiety.

He wishes he’d eaten the stupid oatmeal.

The doctor stays with him, setting the blanket into a laundry bin and checking over Danny’s body (ew) (gross) (nasty) for whatever they have to check on him, and Danny tries to go intangible at least four times during the check only to get oWOUCHOW jerks inside his core. At least one time, he flickers invisible. Not much, he thinks. Probably just an arm and the chunk of his torso.

The doctor pauses. Danny waits for things to (start to hurt) get worse.

“Mæg Ic?”’

…Danny doesn’t move. It hurts to breathe. Every time air scrapes through his nose and mouth, it burns a little more.

The doctor doesn’t move.

So they just.

Wait.

“Mæg Ic?” the doctor asks again.

They move very, very slowly. They touch him, and his—skin—and they rotate him to check underneath him. If they find something of whatever it is they’re monitoring him for, he gets wiped down with something gooey and wiped clean, and sometimes he even thinks they bandage him.

Danny wishes he had a bath. A whole, real bath. Where he could wash his own hair. And wipe off whatever this goo is.

When they’re done, the lady comes back in.

The sound of the door latching shut makes Danny flinch. Is she going to punish him? She walks to his bed. With her medical mask over her face, Danny can’t see if she’s visibly mad at him or not. She doesn’t look mad though…does she?

She stands to his good side, presumably so that Danny can see her. The oatmeal is back—it looks kind of gloopy, though, like it’s been badly reheated. The lady shows something to the doctor, who makes an irritated groan, and then they start talking to each other again. She cuts off to show him something, though—

Danny blinks. She’s showing it to Danny. He…looks down at it.

It looks like a mustard packet. It’s a black packet with yellow streaks, with writing on it with those letters Danny’s never seen before coming here, and it takes his eyes a second to focus on the package before realizing that there’s a little bee and pot on one end of the packet.

Oh. It’s honey?

Oh!

…Oh!!

Danny jerks upright, and, OW, and he definitely scares the lady and the doctor who rush to settle him but there’s honey?? Flavor??? His food can taste good again??!

He wheezes— and slaps a stinging hand onto the packet. “Pl’s?” he begs. He’d stopped begging in the old labs, no one there had listened to him—and he’d stopped begging for them to be gentle, to stop hurting him, to let him go. But for food. For food that tastes, Danny might do anything. Anything. “P’lease? Ple’se? Pleese?”

“Pleece?” the woman repeats, baffled. The word doesn’t mean anything to her; she’s only repeating the sounds. But Danny can’t stop begging.

“P’lease?”

“Pleece? Pleace?”

“Please?!”

“Awrite þis,” the woman mutters, and the doctor leaves. “Bist wel. Eom hebbjan eower wist. Es wel.”

And that still means nothing to him, but the lady gently lifts him up until his back can lay on the pillows, and he can sit more than lay. Danny watches in raspy silence as she rips the packet open and dumps the contents into the oatmeal. She stirs with gloved hands, ensuring that the packet is equally distributed. And then there’s a glob on her spoon, and the spoon to his lips.

Danny takes a bite. Tears well.

“Shhh,” the woman coaxes. “Wanian ma?”

Ma sounds kind of like more. Danny opens his mouth, and is rewarded with another spoonful.

He doesn’t start crying in earnest until the bowl is gone. But that’s alright. The lady finds tissues, somewhere, and he gets to look into her human-blue eyes as she carefully dries over and around his still-soft, green-edged wounds.

It’s a very nice gesture.

Danny sobs a little harder.

[hinamie]

Megumi is brought to beautiful rooms like this to suffer

may or may not be obsessed with @lyrebirdswrites' fic slaughterhouse it's been living in my head absolutely rent-free and I wanted to pay it homage <3

[risetherivermoon]

thinking about Francis and religion on this fine day...how are we folks?