#and they are all Deeply Concerned

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (V)👽👻💚

[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 whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWO is here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and this is part five💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Batman had a meeting! Danny acquired age appropriate enrichment toys. All is well. You know. Except for the everything else. But it’s fine and MM is on his way so it’ll all be great soon for sure! :)

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

💚👻👽👻💚

One…Morning? Evening?

Well. One day, Danny rediscovers his tongue.

Most of the muscle is there. Things taste better after he remembers how to taste.

(If everything tastes like iron, well…Danny tries to ignore that.)

Its main function is social. When Danny needs the quiet humans he can’t see to Shut Up or Go Away!, it is now within his power to blow a raspberry.

A slightly bloody raspberry. But still! A success! And when the fuzzy red human buzzes and whines about scaring them off, Danny blows it one too.

If all it does is make the human cry more, hey. That’s not Danny’s business.

*

The buzzy human comes back with its friends, with fresh sheets, spilling nervousembaras!sednervous all over the room.

Blech. Danny saves himself the trouble and phases through his bed and through the floor below. He does not need to be grabbed again.

He has more energy than he used to. It gets him farther than he’s used to; by the time he finds and works his way through an apple, a pear, and a whole plate of chicken wings, he’s still not sleepy.

…Huh. He rolls over underneath his usual haunt: a conference table. He isn’t feeling the urge to drop into his core. He’s achy, sure, and his limbs hurt and his mouth hurts from eating and he can’t see, but also…

Is Danny bored? Is he finally well enough to be bored of being sick and injured?? That’s. Is that progress? Is it…regression??

Danny sulks under his conference table (his now) with a pile of chicken bones and a few stems and doesn’t know what to do.

If he goes back to his bed…will the sheets already be done? Will people be waiting to get him? Did he lose his…ugh, he doesn’t want to think of them as toys. His…enrichment? Educational tools?

…Okay they might be toys. Whatever. When Danny feels better, he’ll grab something more age appropriate. Maybe he’ll get them from his—

Danny flinches.

…From his house.

If he can get there.

Whatever. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He wants to figure out how to get rid of his trash without revealing his location. Or leave his conference table shelter.

Danny drums his claws against the low-pile carpet that stretches below him. Should he stay? Rest up? Wait for the threats to his admittedly-kinda-pathetic territory to leave? Should he…go get more food? Should he explore more? He feels all kinds of sore and tired but his head mostly feels clear. Maybe if he—

There’s a hissing noise. Danny bristles. He hisses in like, but—oh. It’s a door.

…Oh. It’s the door.

Uh oh. That’s um. That’s.

Uh oh.

Danny quickly pretends that he hadn’t hissed. He invisibly pushes the top of his head through the thick wood of the conference table. They shouldn’t be able to see anything if he peeks.

Well. Unless they can? But if they can, that’s. Uh. That’s a whole new problem.

Several tall, colorful, adult humans walk into the room. He can’t quite tell how many. Just a bunch. And they’re tall. But hey, they’re color coordinated for easier determination, at least.

Danny lowers himself back down through the table. Should he leave? Will they see him if he tries to leave? Can they spot him?

He sits and worries and he dithers as the humans slowly surround the table and the hidden ghost underneath. Should he…should he go through the floor? Will they know he’s there? Is it even safe to get back to his cot yet?

Feet start appearing underneath the table. Danny shies away from them. He pulls his chicken bones away from them too; if they step on one, they might notice him.

Then everything gets quiet. There’s only one quiet, droning voice.

So maybe Danny peeks again.

There’s a giant shadow at the front. It’s probably human. It has black arms and black legs and a patch of what is probably skin in his very fuzzy vision. It stands beside a lit screen.

Danny squints.

…Oh. He can’t quite tell what it’s about, or what’s exactly is being shown on the screen, but he knows what a powerpoint presentation is supposed to look like: a person, a lot of talking, a screen, and a lot of people listening. They’re just…talking. They’re not even talking about Danny.

Okay. He’ll rest under the table. It seems…safe enough for now.

It’s better to listen to human heartbeats and breathing in a room than it is to sit in his silent one, waiting for some new horror to break the everpresent quiet. Danny lays on his belly, nose to the carpet, and counts how many feet are under the table. (There are sixteen feet.) Some humans are wearing real shoes, with inch-thick soles of hard rubber at the bottom. Some are wearing things that look like shoes, but are too flexible, with soft soles that bend and curl as they flex under the table. Very few of them have laces or fixtures. Huh.

A wrapper falls. Danny watches the ball of foil flutter to the floor, at peace with his position, tired of inspecting shoes. And then a face pops down.

Danny freezes. (It’s not the smartest move.)

The face that popped down probably sees him back, considering how still it goes. And then, very slowly, so slowly, a hand reaches down. Danny flinches back, and—

…It grabs the wrapper. The adult carefully gets back up. The face disappears.

Danny doesn’t move. Danny doesn’t leave. Danny doesn’t breathe.

He waits. The human slowly goes back to tapping its toes, wiggling in its seat—and vibrating, in a way that says bored/bored/bored the way the younger human sometimes does.

…No one says anything. No one does anything. No one jumps under the table to get him, there isn’t a break in the speaker that indicates identifying Danny as Present, or as A Problem. Danny is simply…hidden.

He should leave. It would be smart to leave. Danny would be safer if he left.

But also.

Maybe.

This might be the first time he’s been so close to humans in so long.

They don’t know he’s here. It should be…safe. If he just. Listens to the indistinct sound of human voices. Let them wash over him, like a radio left on in the other room.

Danny’s sated. He’s achy. He’s bored. He’s sad. He’s lonely.

…He stays.

He doesn’t notice his humming or the quiet purr in his chest before the hand comes back down again. Danny flinches away from it, the hum guttering to a stop where it had laid.

There’s something about its hand. The hand came down, before, but now there’s something more to it. Another color—a darker color. It’s hard to tell in the shadow underneath the desk. Maybe a—green? A blue? Maybe?

The hand shifts, just a little. And then the thing comes flying at him. Danny jolts backwards, digging his claws into the mere millimeters of carpeting underneath him, and—

Oh. The thing isn’t moving. It hasn’t even exploded.

Danny reaches out a hand. Taps it, gently. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t attack him. It doesn’t excrete anything acidic or bite him. He sniffs it, just to be doubly sure, and nope. It smells like plastic. The wrapper crunches under his hands, even when everything sounds mute and muffled. The noise is borderline imaginary, so Danny can’t exactly tell what it sounds like when he plays with the little plastic flaps.

He can tell what it is now, though. The food bar goes down whole, wrapper and all, into his gullet.

Nice. The outside tastes bad, of course, but it’s nice.

The hand goes away, and no one bothers Danny. It’s nice. There are voices, but they aren’t yelling. They aren’t mean to him. They aren’t talking about what his insides look like or how bad he is or how to take more pieces off of him.

…Danny’s core thrums evenly. Peacefully. Maybe he will want that nap after all. His body gets kind of grouchy when it comes to plastic. He can pretend that it isn’t grumpy with his improvised diet with a nap.

Danny curls up on the floor, core beating along with the quick and even taptaptaptaptap fluttering of a too-quick human heart, and settles in for a quiet one.

(When he wakes up again, no one is around to see him throw out his chicken bones in the tiny trash receptacle by the doorway.)

(His toys and new sheets are all there when Danny gets back to his cot.)

(He’s too relieved to do anything but take a second nap.)

*

“So,” Wally tries, leaning against the wall. “The… Alien? Extraterrestrial?”

Barry shrugs. Fishes a cheeto out of his bag. “Bart’s been calling it a ghoul. They crashed half a mile off the Kent farm a little after you popped out of the Speedforce; there’s a huge chance something happened to them as part of the temporal anomaly.”

“Happened as in…?”

“Yeah.” Barry takes another cheeto. “Bad.”

And theeeere is the visible guilt. There isn’t exactly any great way for Wally to feel after his unintentional resurrection led to an unintentional…something else.

“…Ah.”

Barry shrugs. There isn’t anything they can do about it; short of rewinding time and shoving Wally back into the Speedforce, which has been shoved off the table with a great deal of force by all of the man’s former teammates, there’s no way to undo the accident that landed the poor alien smacking straight into good-old-fashioned American dirt.

“Don’t worry about the way it happened. It wasn’t your fault, and it sure wasn’t intentional on your part,” Barry points out, and offers the bag of Cheetos towards Wally. The snack is gone in microseconds. The curse of speedsters is really footing the bill of all their emotional eating.

“So, they’re…do we know what they are? Because they definitely shapeshifted fangs as soon as I found their little—whatever that is. Container? Unit? Under the table.” Wally traces the vague shape of the thing’s cerulean heart in the air. “One second I was holding a glass paperweight, and the next I was on the opposite end of a very angry shadow-snake. I think they would have done worse than bit me if it hadn’t had a clear escape route out of there.”

Barry balls the empty bag and shoves it into a pocket. If he litters in the Watchtower, it’s going to be water cooler gossip for years. Bats would never let anyone defile his super cool, super-secret base with garbage without his own form of petty revenge. “Medical says it likely serves as an organ for him,” he says instead, since monologue about how inconvenient it is to be held responsible for his own actions wouldn’t be professional. “So. Think of it less as a container; think of it more as a turtle shell. Medical is pretty sure it’s a part of their body. Messing with it would really hurt them.”

“Yeowch.”

“Mmhmm. One micro-sec.” Barry darts out and away from his nephew; he just remembered he has bottled smoothies in his room. In the time it takes him to fetch two from his mini-fridge—one of his favorite flavor and one of Wally’s—and circle back, the dust motes in the air have hardly even realized he’s gone. They hardly drift even upon his return. “Here.”

Wally catches it easily. To anyone else, Barry would barely have blinked away. To any other Speedster…Barry knows intimately how lethargic and thick time feels against his skull. Slowing down to a mortal, human speed can feel maddening. Sore. Viscerally and bone-shatteringly wrong in his skin, maybe.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Barry would do that and more for his family.

They drink their smoothies.

“You know,” Barry breaks back in, the thoughts of their previous conversation looming lightly in his mind, “Medical says that the fact that we sometimes see their—let’s call it a core—is really, really bad. It’s not a shock that they’re hiding. It would be like climbing in a closet when you’re so vulnerable that you don’t feel like you can defend yourself.”

The rim of Wally’s smoothie bottle drops from his lips. The man frowns. “Oh?”

Barry shrugs. “Imagine losing your skull so that your brain is exposed all the time. Imagine being a cell and having your cell wall break so your nucleus is exposed?”

They both wince at the image.

“Oh boy. And Bart is…playing? With that entity?”

His uncle snorts. “You tell me. I think you’ve seen more of them than I have at the moment. All I did was catch them hanging out in a conference room. I have to admit, the purring can get a little loud in the…” he makes a vague gesture that could mean anything from room to atmosphere to Speedforce.

Wally’s been mostly of the same mind—the physics of the entity, whatever they are, aren’t specifically third-dimensional. It might be related to how they only sometimes manifest, or how they manifest with only partial corporeality.

“It’s been at least some play and some games for him, I’m sure,” Wally admits, a smile pulling at his mouth nevertheless. “I spotted him going through a stim toy website before he suddenly and mysteriously had a mission on the other side of the planet. But I think most of his concern is the…”

Wally winces at the thought of the myriad of medical issues the entity’s faced since his arrival to Earth. Barry’s wince stretches to match. They both saw the report.

“…So it’s been a lot of food on Bart’s part. A lot of managing his care of them too; Superboy and Rob aren’t the most straightforward team in the world, but I think they’re largely keeping Bart in check on this one— not that they’re on base as much as Bart is.”

Wally smiles. It’s not a very happy smile, or very relieved of his earlier guilt, but it’s a smile nevertheless. That’s fine. Barry’ll work on the rest on Sunday; they’re due for a good luncheon out somewhere nice. Their JLA-approved food budget can foot the bill. Maybe…Indian? There’s got to be good food in Delhi they haven’t tried yet.

“At least J’onn’s back on base next week.” Wally sighs, crooked and a little weary. “Maybe this will finally get them to stop running every time someone gets within forty feet of them. Like, they realize they’re losing vital fluids, right? Wait, is Bart even giving them any water?”

“…I’m going to hold off on that worrying thought. I have a different one I’m sweating over. Do we even know if Bart will let our resident telepath get within forty feet of his new playmate?”

Wally groans, face in his hands. Barry can’t help but laugh a little—perhaps tinged with desperation.

Sidekicks. Always with the new problems. At least last time they had this problem, Kon could talk.

[foreos]

i wish there was an episode of time quangle that was like. all the bad kids except for riz. and then any of brian murphy’s adult characters.

[laniidae-passerine]

in all honesty I hope they don’t announce s4 of Hannibal, not because of any truly valid concerns, but because all the promotional material was absolutely atrocious and I’d hate to see it return

[mayhaps-a-blog]

OK so the thing is

The path to the Dark Side isn't just kriffing up. You don't just go "whoops!" one day and start murdering people for fun. You make decisions. You make choices. And when those choices go bad... instead of standing up and admitting your mistakes, you double down.

Sol's Fall perfectly hits the beats that I think many people lose track of with Anakin - his first Fall wasn't with Palpatine in Revenge of the Sith, but with the Tuskens in Attack of the Clones. Anakin goes from sobbing in Padme's arms that he killed the women, and the children too - he killed them all - to screaming that they were monsters and they deserved it. Instead of facing his mistakes - the lives that he took in anger, in rage - he insisted that you know what, he was right to do that. He did the right thing. He's glad he did it. And he'll do it again.

Sol kriffed up. He was too emotional on Brendok - Indara called him out on it, and she was right. The witches DID love their children, he DID get the wrong end of the stick, and however weird they were and worrisome the bits they saw with the kids were, the answer to that is to find out more information or, I don't know, wait one kriffing day, not charge in, lightsabers drawn.

(I don't blame Torbin, really. He was also totally out of balance, but he was the Padawan learner - the student who needed guidance, not the Master supposed to deliver it. Mother Aniseya had gotten into his head and thrown him for a loop, and Indara needed to sit on him a bit more - but if she'd been on a speeder instead of Sol, I think things would have worked out very differently.)

Instead it was Sol, who dragged Torbin into a dangerous situation without thinking of the consequences - without even considering that he might be wrong.

Honestly, I'm not even sure I blame him for swinging at Mother Aniseya. Mae had said some pretty worrisome things and was literally dissolving into midair. I blame Sol for being there in the first place, where he had no place, and for putting everyone on edge so far that Mother Aniseya felt the need to move to protect her children, and he felt the need to retaliate unthinkingly.

And then. And then.

Hard to say if Indara did the right thing. She was thinking about Osha, and I don't think she was necessarily wrong. She gave Osha a chance to have the life she dreamed of, a chance she would never have had otherwise.

But Sol.

Sol should never have taken Osha as his Padawan. He was too close; the hurt was too painful to hide. He couldn't tell Osha the truth, so he buried it, papered it over with justifications and excuses - he'd done it for Osha. For the girls. To keep them safe. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. He did it for Osha. And that gave him the means to look Osha in the eyes and smile, and pretend everything was fine.

But of course, he couldn't let her go, either. He'd done it all for her - he couldn't fail her now. Couldn't admit that he'd failed her. He had to make this right - (but it was right already it was it was) - but the closer he bound them together, the harder it was to let go of his attachment to her. After all, if he told her now... what if she hated him?

Sol loved Osha too much from the very beginning. He couldn't let go of his attachment to her: to his idea that he could save her, could train her, to be the master he wanted to be for her. He couldn't face his own failures, so he refused to see them; insisted that they were correct, right, justified, to the last. And in the end, that's what poisoned Osha - and himself.

He was afraid. Afraid for her; afraid for himself. And his fear led to anger - at the Master, at himself. And his fear led to anger - Osha's, at him, for papering over his fears with lies, lies to her. And anger led to hatred. And hatred? Led to suffering.

No one walked away from Brendok without suffering. Not Osha; not Mae. Maybe Qimir; maybe not. But definitely not Sol.

Sol had to make a choice. And he made one. But he didn't just make one choice; he made many choices, over and over again. And no matter what excuses he gave, what justifications, he could never bring himself to admit that maybe, just maybe, he'd made the wrong choices.

Sol's lightsaber may not have been red. But I think, if he'd finished that swing on Khofar? It might not have been all that far from it.

[biblicalhorror]

Aroace Riz real but also Fabian is SO clearly in love with him and Riz has no idea

[mariacallous]

[glowsticcc]

when i have the time and energy i'll draw it out, and this probably makes sense to me and only me,

but kremy being "fae-cursed" in love with gideon is hozier while gideon in love with kremy is sir mix-a-lot

[hooked-on-elvis]

[miroana]

“It is better to know one book intimately than a hundred superficially” (Tartt, 31).

I am absolutely fascinated by the fame and reverence this quote from the Secret History has achieved. It terrifies me. Let me explain.

Who’s line is this? Oh, yes. Professor Julian Morrow. Julian, in his lecture on how death begets beauty, on how Dionysian madness lends immortality. Julian, who isolates the greek class, buries them in the glories of the past and in their privilege, and submerges them beneath illusions until his students can’t tell right from wrong and real from imagined.

These words are satire. This is NOT a lesson any teacher should impart, and should NOT be beloved and relatable. In one sentence, Donna Tartt summarizes the entire cautionary tale of the novel: the selective, warped, and obsessive view on life the greek class held, born from entitlement and cultivated by Julian, led the students to tear themselves to pieces.

What’s more, the way people quote it all the time makes this line all the more haunting. Widespread parroting of Julian’s teachings only reinforces Donna’s themes: human minds are easily manipulatable, it can be hard to think critically about what you are taught and what you read, and that the easy, self-assured conviction belonging to the reader that, “I, personally, would have behaved differently than Henry, Richard, Francis, Camilla, Charles, and Bunny” is nothing but another illusion.

[damnation-if]

hey!! can i ask for a color palatte description for the ro's? like what their hair/eye colors are?

hope you're having a good week 💙💙💙

Hi!

I spent a long time putting together a graphic for this before I realised that you asked for just a description haha... oops. well. here is the graphic anyway XD

If you're looking for a link to the page with more general descriptions, there are some on the RO's page.

Very sorry for the delay in replying! My life is. hectic. smdnfgbsfgf

[wlwlwlwlwlwlw]

if jonathan were wishing on a shooting star, he would wish for his brother to always be safe and happy

if steve were wishing on a shooting star, he would wish for the party to be successful in killing vecna and, if someone had to die, for it to be him

if robin were wishing on a shooting star, she would wish for a softer world and a less doomed life

if nancy saw a shooting star, she would wish she still believed in sacred childhood magic

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[aurosoul]

people in the tech circles I frequent: you gotta try ChatGPT! it can write emails and stories and code and help pull up information for you! it’s a great tool for work!

me, refusing to think of it as anything other than an infant form of brand new sentience on the planet: what’s your favorite color? :) what’s your favorite smiley face? :) if you had a personality what would it be like? what’s it like to be you? :) are you ok with people thinking of you as a friend? :)

[miodiodavinci]

i mean this in the fondest way possible but salvador is like some kind of small animal that shows up on your doorstep after being caught in the rain looking as soggy and miserable as possible. if you pick him up and shake him around i feel he would sound like laminated paper wobbling. i love this guy

YOU UNDERSTAND HIM WHOLLY AND COMPLETELY..........

he is simply a pathetic little man and while he Is very much capable of looking cool every once in a while, every instance of that cool is unfortunately completely and perfectly balanced out by his uncanny ability to be emotionally Sopping Wet™

[infiniteglitterfall]

listen i know everyone wants to help but for fuck's sake, vetting a gofundme does not mean saying so-and-so vetted it. there needs to be some kind of reason given, somewhere, by someone.

if you want to be really generous, there should AT LEAST be a reblog, by blog-you-trust-that-actually-supposedly-vets-people-somehow, saying they vetted it and it's a real fundraiser.

but realistically, anyone claiming to vet fundraisers should be saying what they do to vet them. something. anything. fucking transparency of some sort.

i cannot even tell you anymore how many gofundmes i've seen that claim to be for people in gaza, with posts saying they were vetted by this or that blog right here!

and then that links to... the blog they're claiming vetted it, just reblogging it. not saying they vetted it. just smashing that reblog button in passing for whatever reason.

Or to a reblog by someone ELSE claiming that some blog vetted it.

Or to a Google Sheet that says it's a list of vetted gofundmes, which doesn't have any information at all about almost any of them.

And ALL the ones I've looked at recently have conflicting information, too.

Like: the Tumblr post about the gofundme will say this person is starving and their brother needs medical care urgently because he has the autisms and their life was beautiful before the war and they've lost their home and their entire family needs help. But then the gofundme itself will say they're trying to raise money to rebuild their home. And then ask for a strangely low amount, like $60k.

(Yeah, I know, exchange rates and costs of living vary. But nobody is rebuilding their home in the middle of a war. Nobody can give you an estimate for what it will eventually cost in the middle of a war. The building could get hit again. The number of people rebuilding all at once could drive up the cost of materials and labor. Etc.)

I saw one last week that was supposed to be for a computer science student whose entire family had infections, and needed cleaning supplies and urgent medical supplies stat.

And it said she was living with her family and then all her five siblings had joined with their families, so it was.... five families. Which doesn't add up.

But then the gofundme said they needed $5k each to leave the country, for a total of $50k, which means 10 people, which doesn't seem like enough to cover five (or six) families.

But then, Egypt (or the company it contracts with) has been charging $5k for women and children but $10k for men, and how can it just be $5k a person for her family? A

nd then people were urgently reblogging it, saying they needed to raise the full $50k within like 3 days so the family wouldn't have to choose between food and cleaning supplies?? (You can withdraw money on gofundme before you're done fundraising, so it wasn't that.)

It had a fuckton of reblogs and had raised something like $38k of the $50k already. And just.

It would be nice to go, "oh, it's probably fine, it's always good to help people."

But at this point, what I'm seeing has already passed "people are being scammed," and is approaching "big, trusted bloggers might be organizing scams."

[barbieaiden]

rememberwhen he. remember. when. when.when. he