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faeriekit · 11 months

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Health and Hybrids 👽👻💚

[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.]

[Here's part one or whatever. If I feel like making more I'll make more and/or post it to ao333333.]

💚👻👽👻💚

The world is on fire, and Danny is burning.

The GAV is in shreds; wherever he’s crashed, there’s no way to determine up or down. He’s entombed in wreckage. Everything is on fire and everything burns, and it takes Danny all his strength to peel himself from where he’s contorted around the driver’s seat chair, to drag himself through the twisted metal and shards of glass with nothing but his hands and his tears.

He hurts.

It hurts so badly.

He crawls, because he can’t tell if he has legs or a tail right now, and is too afraid to find out he can’t walk by injuring one of his legs permanently. It’s hard to see through the smoke and the tears. He can’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe even if he wanted to.

There are instincts unique to being dead. Danny can’t tell up or down, and he can’t tell where he is or remember how he got here, but his core tugs him towards somewhere dark. Somewhere cool. Somewhere enclosed, even—even better, so Danny can curl up and sob in peace.

Danny wedges himself into a dark corner, curls himself up as much as he can, and lets himself drop into his core.

Something is touching him somethingistouchinghimsomethingistouchinghim—

Danny pops out of his core with a scream. No words. No coherency. Everything hurts, and all he can do is scream.

Someone is touching him. The thing touching him is body-shaped. Human-shaped. Danny screams higher, louder—some part of his hindbrain knows that if he screams for real then there won’t be a human but there will be guts and gore and blood, but Danny’s too tired to scream for real, and too weak. His scream is only enough to send the human sprawling back instead.

More humans take the place of the first. Danny keens, fights back a sob—when another tries to rouse him from his hiding spot with an exposed hand, Danny flashes his teeth.

The human flinches, but doesn’t go away.

Danny feigns a fanged bite. The figure jumps back. Good.

He’s too weak to run. He’s too weak to walk through the walls of his hiding spot and dart away. His visibility flickers—probably how a human found him in the first place. He’s so tired. Everything hurts. But if he looks dangerous and acts dangerous, maybe they’ll leave him alone. They have to leave him alone.

Please, please leave him alone.

They don’t.

There’s something in his face. Danny doesn’t recognize the shape immediately, but eventually something clicks: a loop on a stick is a catchpole. The strangers are trying to capture him.

He’s so afraid of something else around his neck. His whole body racks with shivers. He can’t run. He can’t bite. Please, please, please—

It doesn’t latch to his hand. It latches to his wrist.

Danny is only peripherally aware of being dragged onto his knees, of being dragged into a container. By the time the doors shut in around him, his mind is empty of anything that isn’t fear and pain, pain, pain.

He drops into his core.

Danny wakes up in a container.

It’s not the same container. But all containers are the same.

Danny screams. The soundwaves vibrate the glass until it shakes, slamming against the floor until cracks form in the concrete beneath him.

Still, no cracks form in the container. When he wails a second time, there’s no strength behind it. He just sobs.

He’s alone. He’s alone and he’s contained and no one is coming to get him. His transportation is in pieces. He’s injured and he’s scared. He’s so scared. Everything hurts. He wants to hide in his core and he wants to run away and he wants to slither through the wall and he doesn’t have the energy into any of it.

Danny curls up in a corner, hopes he’s left alone—or better, released—and hides.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears a click.

…But he hears a click. Danny peeks open an eye.

There’s…food. He thinks it’s food, anyway. Oatmeal? It’s in a bowl and it’s beige and it’s on a tray on the ground.

Danny sniffs. …The last captors hadn’t offered him food. They hadn’t thought he’d had needs, or that they ought to feed him.

It’s a miserable, aching feeling when he thinks this is a step up.

There’s a flimsy plastic spoon on the tray. When Danny jumps on the bowl, devouring the contents as quickly as his body will let him, the spoon goes down the hatch with the gruel.

Danny falls back asleep in the far corner of the container miserable, cold, in pain, and injured. But he falls asleep full.

It’s a luxury to not be hungry.

There’s a click.

Danny ignores it. He’s not hungry. He’s sleepy. His body is trying to conserve calories and metabolize new ones. He doesn’t want to wake up.

The oatmeal goes uneaten.

There’s a click. Danny’s eyes crack open.

Apparently he’s been asleep for a while, because there are three bowls of uneaten oatmeal on the ground, waiting for him. All are in varying stages of crusting over.

Whatever. Free food. Danny wolfs it down anyway, and tucks himself back into his corner. He’s almost him-shaped again. His human traits are slowly returning, cell by cell, piece by piece. He can almost feel the fractures he knows he’ll have in his legs!

…Wait. Wasn’t his container opaque?

It’s…not anymore. The walls are clear. Danny can see—or, well, until he gets his eyes back, can sort of feel—the room around him, and the trace presences of the beings who occupy it.

It’s a lab. Danny knew it would be, but his core still drops down, down down. He had been praying he’d never see a live specimen lab ever again. He certainly hadn’t wanted to see yet another one from inside the cage.

Humans come and go from the lab. Most are in white coats and pants, but they’re not GIW. Or, well, they’re probably not GIW, anyway, considering that they’ve been feeding him. The guys in white never think of his needs, since they don’t care if he Ends or not. There are monitors that fuzz and warp in his not-vision with details he can’t make out on screen, but knows instinctively that the monitors pertain to him.

And to his capture.

There are some visitors in odd colored suits. They talk. The colorful ones don’t approach him, but they…watch.

No one approaches. Good. Danny will bite them if they do.

With the see-through window, Danny can see the bright-suited blob shove a tray of food through a slot in his container.

It doesn’t fall to the floor, though. There’s a little mechanical thing that brings the oatmeal and flimsy spoon to a safe rest on the steel floor.

…Alright. Bone appetite. Danny’s hungry, and food is food. He pours most of the bowl straight into his stretched mouth and scrapes the rest in with a spoon.

More of his wounds are sealing. Healing. His core doesn’t throb so horribly with pain. The cracks in his soul are smoothing out. With consistent food and rest, Danny will be able to actually mount an escape.

Good. Danny licks the flecks of meal from the edges of his mouth. Good.

When he naps, this time, it’s on purpose.

Soon he’ll be healed enough to leave.

The clear window doesn’t go away. Danny’s poor sight doesn’t improve, but he can see people come and go. Danny’s never truly left alone. There is always at least one brightly-colored human around (or one dark, silent human), and an assortment of white-coated scientists milling about.

The clear window lets them see him, presumably. If Danny wants to escape, he’ll have to be careful not to be seen.

Quietly, so quietly. Danny slo-o-o-owly amps up the resonance of his core.

There are cameras. There must be. There are always cameras. Disrupting the electrical flow in and around his container is essential to getting himself out of sight.

The lights flicker. The human milling about all flock to monitors, silent voices coming muffled through the see-though walls of the container. Danny reels in his resonance just a touch—whoops.

But no one is looking.

Something twinges in Danny. Well…no one is looking.

Very, very quietly, Danny peels a relatively safe amount of ectoplasm away from his core. A Danny-shaped shadow forms, and, yeesh, does he really look that bad?

Whatever. There’s no time.

Danny turns himself invisible. He slips through the walls of his container, and leaves the lab to explore the base.

#the JL: uh. what the hell is this #the JL: I guess we can...it looks vaguely humanoid? Should we assume it's sentient? Let's get it to medbay— AH IT'S GONNA BITE ME #JL: Feral Baby Jail. STAT.#another Everyone in DP Is Dead Or Otherwise Inaccessible AU™#dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom #dcu #dcu crossover #cryptid!au #tw injury #tw medical #I guess #There are VERY enthusiastic doctors on hand at all time WAITING to slap a bandaid on him as soon as they figure out communication #in the meantime #allergen friendly nutrient gruel it is baby!

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ghouljams · 5 months

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your post about Gaz's chronic pain reminds me about my spouse and our friends who are military veterans and the kind of chronic pain they all cope with. Like if the military is good at anything it's good at creating disabilities. My spouse has chronic back pain from falling off jets on multiple different occasions, I can only imagine what kind of pain poor Gaz deals with falling from Helicopters and stuff.

Honestly I'd be more shocked if they all didn't have some sort of injury they've learned to cope with. Like Soap being partially deaf in one ear because of an explosion he messed up on. Or Ghost dealing with shooting nerve pain because a particularly nasty scar got pulled wrong while he was stretching or moving too quickly.

-Hot mess rambler Anon

Yes yes yes yes yes 141 with Chronic injuries they're lying about to medical staff.

Gaz absolutely has joint pain from falling out of a helo. You can't tell me that hanging from that rope didn't fuck up his back a little. Didn't give him an inner ear problem that makes him nauseous at high altitudes. He absolutely is hurting when there's bit pressure changes, downing a few aspirin at breakfast just to cope with the day's exercises. Strikes me as a very "suffer in silence" sort of soldier. Maybe complains to Soap about his back hurting.

Soap definitely has a good ear, caught too many explosions in the side of the head to have everything fully functional. It's not bad enough to take him out of the line of duty so he doesn't say anything. Price makes sure to stand on his good side when he gives orders. The 141 learns BSL and excuses it as field practical. I think he has some nerve damage in his fingers from shocking himself, snipping himself on wires, just the wear and tear of working in demo. It's not anything he needs to report except when he gets a tremor and swears at his hand until it stops.

Ghost catches the worst of it. Definitely nerve damage, the kind that makes it hard to move on bad days, that sort of twinges on good days. He's got a menagerie of chronic injuries. Joint pain, muscle pain, scar tissue in his lung, sticky ribs. But it's the mental wounds that are worse: he can't stand flashing lights, has nonverbal episodes, is bad in crowds. Other things too, I think he has a nervous stomach, I think he has texture issues and certain smells that trigger him. He can't break his routine or he- He just can't break his routine, it's very important that he doesn't break his routine.

Price too has injuries. His knees aren't what they used to be, his smoking is starting to catch up to him, some days he's thankful for desk work. He's dislocated his shoulder too many times and sometimes it sticks wrong and he gets pain for hours. Very grit your teeth and bear it for himself, but if any of his boys complain he puts them on bed rest. Similar to Soap I think he has some hearing loss, bombs and bullets will do that to you. You'll never catch him in medical, not unless he's dragged there barely conscious.

#ghoul speaks #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley cod #ghost cod #captain john price #john price mw2 #johnny soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #kyle garrick mw2 #kyle gaz garrick #gaz mw2 #injury tw #yeah I think they're all a little fucked up medically speaking

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lilixloveswhump · 2 years

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This is your psa that not all of your writing has to be medically accurate

No, you shouldn't put alcohol on that wound. But it'd be a lot more fun to read and write if you did. So go ahead, and don't feel bad for doing so.

Bring your character back from the brink of death, give them injuries they shouldn't survive. Miracles do happen, after all. You're not a bad writer for not writing like a med student.

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump trope #whump prompts #whumplr #caretaker #wounds #medical whump #injuries #injury whump #fatal injury #writing advice #writing

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sminkus · 2 months

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AMA knives fell on me

FAQs: Q: How did this happen? A: Knives fell on me bcoz they were improperly stored (aka NOT MY FAULT)

Q: Did it hurt? A: Nothing hurts at first

Q: How big was that thang? A: Wound was 2.5" long and 1cm at its widest

Q: How did you feel? A: The thing about having your arm slashed open by a falling knife is that everyone around you is a lot more freaked out about it than you are. You end up being the calmest person while you are actively bleeding. You eat an Oreo and drink some water then wait for your friend to come walk you to the student medical center. Several people haphazardly bandaged up your arm, and no matter how much they deny it, you're pretty sure it's gonna need stitches. You go to the student health center and explain what's going on. A nurse sees you and gets the expert on sutures to come in. He takes one look and tells you that you're going to need stitches. You feel some validation that you were right. They tell you it's been ten years since your last tetanus shot, so they're gonna have to give you one. They numb the wound and the sutures expert sews you up so neatly that another medical professional comes in to admire it. The last stitch was in an area that didn't get numbed so that one hurt. And then you got a tetanus shot. And then you go to Trader Joe's. Also the whole time you were so so scared because your shirt read "a boy without a pussy is like an angel without wings" and you really didn't want the nurses and suture guy to acknowledge it.

Q: What will you do with your newfound fame? A: Convince more people to have a sex change.

#titless since 2020 #forgive 🍃#tw knives #tw injury #tw medical

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anicomicqueen · 7 months

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The sketch for this has been sitting in my folder for like a year....^^'

It's time for me to release it into the wild

I believe I had been reading some sickfics for Wild at the time and, well, I know I just missed Sicktember, but here (@ whoever is out there in the wild)

Have a Wars who fell asleep watching over a feverish Wild during the night

I like to imagine nightmares and a fear of people leaving him were somehow involved but that's just me

(Was a blanket cheating? ... Yes. It very much was)

#linked universe #lu warriors #lu wild #warriors and wild #warriors & wild #knight bros #warriors is the team medic #be it injury or illness #fight me #(please don't actually though)#anicomicqueen #my art

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silicacid · 2 months

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Mohammed Salama was attacked directly with a missile with Saleh Aljafarawi and in critical condition

#palestine #nasser hospital #nasser medical complex #never forget #another hospital #another journalist #free palestine #free palestine free palestine free palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza #injury

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bansenshukai · 1 year

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1.17.23 - returning to my original purest reason for art making (to draw shirtless anime men)

#kakashi #scribbles #my babygirl #ilysm. so tragic he has no ass #i hc him as lean but fairly built thanks to his insane training regimen #i like to think he naturally tends to have that body type where he cannot keep muscle on. but he has managed it by sheer brute force anyway #he hates forced bedrest bc the muscle just melts off and it takes so much work to build it again #+ repeated use of chidori -> scarring (konoha's medical division is pretty good but not good enough to fix such a severe repeated injury)

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the-magpie-archives · 2 years

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Like many of you, I am fascinated with the state of Jonathan Sims head archivist of the magnus institute London... In particular, his ribs! Many focus only on his missing two, but there are many more things to consider!

Jon's a fragile guy, I mean it's pretty much his whole canon appearance! For a man like him to be thrown around like a ragdoll for pretty much his entire time as archivist, he'd certainly have suffered more than a few broken ribs!

To contribute even more to the damage, after the unknowing, Jon was found with no pulse and not breathing, meaning he would have undergone CPR for at least 20 minutes. And trust me, THAT BREAKS RIBS.

Aside from bones, I can't imagine Jon's lungs are in the best state either. He's a long time smoker, was exposed to dangerous amounts of CO2, and survived a massive explosion followed by a collapsing building. Needless to say, these sort of things make it hard to keep lungs healthy!

Despite all the pain and horror, I like to think that Jon managed to stay looking at least relatively put together, so picture this:

A polite, slightly awkward office worker comes into your clinic. You decide that to diagnose properly, you'll need to do a chest X-ray! He's distracted, but readily agrees. After the brief wait, you get the images back, and see THE MOST FUCKED UP CHEST YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. A horrifying amount of healed fractures, warped and re-broken; two ribs are just straight up gone, both lungs scarred beyond survivability, and somehow this guy is just sitting there. Alive, as far as you can tell.

The man remains composed, and smiles politely as you stare at the X-rays, and you begin to think that maybe those aren't acne scars across his face.

#Overall I would just love to do a full medical examination on him... God it'd be fascinating.#Man's using otherworldly life support to keep his corpse up and walking #But seriously Google 'healed rib fractures' if you don't already know what they look like‚ shits interesting.#tma #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #Jonathan Sims #the archivist #The unknowing #jared hopworth #tma the flesh #tw injury #tw doctors #tw graphic description

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astrolavas · 1 year

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random Hunter headcanon GO!

AHH OKAY one of my random hcs is that hunter's smile is kinda asymmetrical/lopsided/wider on the left side cuz of his scars, especially after thanks to them. i imagine they'd significantly pull on his skin and could even affect nerves and definitely some range of motion, so-

sorta like this:

#i think it'd be very charming and neat :) but also sad cuz of the Reason for it OOF........ but charming. little dude #the owl house #hunter toh #in general i also feel like his scars are gonna significantly affect him cuz like. they cover a LARGE area. realistically they would #he has lots of experience with scars and injuries and knows how to deal with it all #cuz he rather didn't have access to a healer but needed medical attention a LOT so he defo had to learn how to patch himself up on his own #but also... i can imagine that with all of his responsibilities at the coven properly taking care of scars wasn't exactly his no.1 priority #so i like to think that if he gets a palisman woodcarving mentorship from the clawthornes dell will give him some advice #cuz he has a lot of experience with that himself as well and truly understands what hunter might be going through re: scar-related issues #anyways........ gah #hunter #toh hunter #hunter noceda #my toh talk #my sketches #my art #? kinda #nicole answers #Anonymous

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yawnderu · 3 months

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Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

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zarla-s · 7 months

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I imagine that with the Medigun healing wounds like, instantly, that Medic cleaning and dressing a wound by hand would be a unique experience. Kind of nice in its own way! Depending on the circumstances.

(from a fic i wrote with them going from casual sex to an actual relationship, be warned it is 18+ though)

[patreon]

#team fortress 2 #heavy #medic #heavymedic #blood #z art #meh not too happy with this one but there it is anyway #in the fic medic's naked but i gave him clothes for this lol #maybe went a bit crazy with the bite look i like drawing injuries okay leave me alone

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phoenixyfriend · 7 months

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Something something """canon""" age difference, modern AU where Rex actually is a decade younger than Anakin

And for Reasons, 34yo Anakin and 39yo Padme have decided to invite this Hot Young 24yo Who Just Exited The Military into their bed for a quick romp that turns into something of a longterm relationship that is sortakinda sugaring

………….just realized this makes Rex only [checks math] twelve or thirteen years older than the twins.

Which is very funny to me. These tweens are so unimpressed by the GI Bill college guy their parents are wooing. Is this supposed to be their new babysitter? A nanny? Wait, he's your boyfriend??? EW.

Such a weird age difference to have with your sorta stepkids

#rexanidala #rexwalker #anidala #rexidala #captain rex #anakin skywalker #padme anidala #skywalker twins #phoenix talks #modern au #age difference #star wars #the clone wars #Rex was probably medically discharged due to a head injury that required brain surgery (a la chip removal)#I want him to be a college dude. but also he's had a career already. sorta. It got cut short but it was a real contract with the military #but I want people ragging on Anidala for dating 'a college kid' and they keep protesting that he's 24! he's a veteran! he's on the GI Bill!#Rex Fett Is Old Enough To Make His Own Decisions Thank You #Rex is just like. okay then. you folks can have your age discourse I'm gonna go put on some swim trunks and be lifeguard for your 12yo twin #means I can get in their good books by being the adult supervision for the pool time they want to have #while also showing off some Nice Pecs for the hot rich older couple I'm dating

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faeriekit · 2 months

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Health and Hybrids (XIX)👽👻💚

[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 TWO is 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 PART SEVENTEEN is here PART EIGHTEEN is here...nineteen...oy vey.

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

Where we last left off... THE BART RETURNS! The earth rejoices! 🥳🎉 Physical therapy can be fun, even if it usually isn't!

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 learns a few more words with practice.

Foda is simple. If Danny is hungry, he can ask for foda. It sounds exactly like food, and when he asks, they feed him.

…Or they up his IV. Which. Danny’s tongue might still feel sore and nasty, but the doctors and nurses and millions of minders don’t seem that mad when he sticks his tongue out at them. Sometimes they even laugh.

They don’t even sound all that mean.

It takes Danny a good chunk of waking time for him to realize that he…probably is hooked up to something he doesn’t want to think about, since all the efforts of lifting and moving him haven’t resulted in a single bathroom trip since he woke up here.

Firstly: horrible.

Secondly: his legs are super, absolutely, positively immobilized, and if someone doesn’t give him enough medication quickly enough after it wears off, Danny is very aware that something is deeply wrong with them.

So. Uh. That’s…gross.

He learns bealo just as quickly. He isn’t sure what bealo means, per se, but when he says it, they up his medication until Danny can pretend he doesn’t have any legs again.

God niht is goodnight, unless Danny is feeling snippy, and then it’s just niht.

…The one lady who minds him always says the whole thing, though. Even when Danny’s mean. Like the one time he threw his rocket at someone.

Or the time he started ignoring everyone when they tried to touch him.

…Or the one time he tried to freeze his IV bag, and put everyone on alert because if he’d been human, that would have seriously hurt him.

“Sorry,” Danny’d whispered, even if it wouldn’t mean anything to her.

She’d patted his hand and meant it. Danny’d had to dry his eyes with his wrist. “Eall es wel.”

Anyway.

Danny hates being in the freaking bed every hour of every day. So when his “sitting up” exercises turn into “hey, let’s try the wheelchair” practice, Danny gets so excited-slash-nervous that he kind of feels like he’s going to throw up all the liquids he’s been injected with.

None of the regular people try to lift him. Instead the lady does it herself, scooping Danny up in very strong arms, the golden cuffs on her wrists weirdly warm on Danny’s skin. When Danny’s settled, his legs sticking out real weird and his back kind of sore, he’s…out of bed.

He’s. He’s not in bed anymore.

And. Sure. It’s temporary, but it’s not the bed. Danny can wriggle, and he can sort of palm the wheels underneath him with the heels of his shaky hands, and he can see so much more of himself than he has in ages and ages.

For one. Both of his legs are in casts. That’s. Not good. He can’t feel it right now, but the sight of fully encased legs…

Well. If he can transform that won’t be a problem. If. If he has to escape. But it is…it’s super scary. He mostly remembers being captured, but the…the other people had been focusing more on his thoracic cavity and his face and head.

…So why are his legs so bad? Did something else happen?

(It did, didn’t it?)

(…Didn’t it??)

His hands shake, but there’s something to all that grip training, or else Danny wouldn’t be able to paw at his neckline to look down his own shirt. Or, well, his cloth nightie, anyway.

It’s good that he looks, since, well…his chest is glowing a solid green.

Whatever should probably be scar tissue. Uh. It…isn’t. There’re gouges down his chest and a crater where his heart should be that probably should be healing over, considering, you know, he’s not freaking dead at this exact second (mostly??), but. Instead of, like, healed flesh, or, say, his insides, there’s a transparent green…jelly… holding him together.

He can see how the green bounces with his heart beat.

...Danny drops the neckline of his gown. His breath comes in choking bursts, eyes pressed into his eye sockets—he feels sick.

He is sick. He has been sick.

The humans are keeping him here because he’s a freak of nature and he’s broken from head to toe and the Guys in White carved his flesh out of his body and opened him up like a can of cranberry sauce.

He presses his hands to his chest, to his stomach, just trying to breathe for long enough that he doesn’t throw up his oatmeal and occasional juice and IV nutrition onto the pristine floor of his sickroom. The people around him all make sympathetic noises that don’t help because he doesn’t know what they mean.

And then he feels something weird.

Not all the sensation in his fingers are back. It’s easier for him to feel impediments than it is to feel textures—something that blocks him from moving, rather than anything sensory-specific. He can usually tell when he touches fabric, because when he moves too far, it pulls tight around his hand. He can tell when he’s on something solid when his hand fails to go through it.

There is something solid sticking out of him.

Danny’s heartbeat quickens. It’s not. It’s. There’s something in him.

And it’s not—it’s so solid. When Danny brushes his hands against it, he can feel his skin and his flesh move with it, trying not to dislodge the thing embedded in him. It pulls at his skin. He doesn’t know what it is.

His fingers tremble as he tries to brush over the object through his gown, trying to figure out its shape from faulty touch alone. It’s like waking up to find himself jammed with needles all over again.

People are talking around them. Danny doesn’t try to listen in. He’s scared. He’s so scared. Something’s happened to him, and he didn’t even notice.

Some of it is—hard. There’s a crinkling sound when he moves. Danny manages to pull his gown neckline back again to catch something of a glimpse, and all he sees is plastic.

He doesn’t know what it is.

He doesn’t know who to ask. He can’t understand anyone and he doesn’t know if he trusts them.

They put something in him. There’s something embedded in him.

He thinks he’s going to cry.

Something touches his arm—Danny flinches. His core tightens with stress as he puts a metaphorical hand on the button, ready to run and hide at any notice.

It’s the lady. He knows her.

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know her at all. He can’t talk to her in any way that matters. She’s not a doctor. He doesn’t know why she’s here, or why she’s keeping him here.

She’s nice. She fed him. But is that all it takes to trick him? To make him compliant? Pliable?

She stops touching him when he gets scared, her eyes worried. She kneels—closer than Danny would like, probably, but she keeps her hands to herself. Danny’s heart races faster, out of order, starting and stopping and starting again like a bad engine.

“Eow eart wel?” she asks from his left arm rest, a common question, so softly. Danny doesn’t know what it means. “Eall es wel. Ænlic eow, ænlic me. Bruce bræð wið me?”

She takes a big, deep, breath. Her hand rises slightly over her chest, following an exaggerated movement. Don’t panic. Breathe. Breathe like me. One, two, three.

Danny’s breaths are more choked. More panicked.

But when she breathes, he breathes with her—even with every stutter in between.

“Hwæt es woh[O3] ?” the lady asks, so gently it’s almost a whisper. Her pointer finger hovers over his body, but doesn’t touch—and eventually, Danny figures out she probably wants to know where he’s hurting.

But he’s not hurting. He’s scared. There’s something inside him, and he isn’t sure what it is. He presses the heel of his hand to the object. He feels something rigid refuse to bend inside his flesh.

There’s something of recognition in the woman’s face. “Inne cwic tima,” she says, more certain of answers outside the room, and darts away,

Danny wants to bounce his bound leg. He feels awful when anyone is in the room with him, considering how little of them he knows, but, somehow, it’s so much worse when he’s actually alone.

When she comes back, there’s a second person who walks through the double doors with her, in blue scrubs with ducks on them. They wave to Danny.

Danny…blinks. He feels numb. It’s kind of a problem.

They take it in stride, though; in their hands is a blank board and a chunky marker. The cap comes off, the new person scribbles for a minute or so, and then turns the board around so that Danny can see.

It’s a…person. A rudimentary outline person, sure, with some visible bones and organs to fill in the person-shaped outline. Danny can recognize most of them from anatomy class, although those memories are more…personal, now. A little more painful.

The person taps on the board. The person points to Danny.

Danny frowns.

The person turns the board back around and makes some Pew, Pew, Pew! sounds with their mouth, occasionally opening and closing their hand over the board to match the noise. There’s some more scribbling. When the board turns back around, there’s a violent smudge of marker on top of the drawn person’s drawn intestines.

The person takes their covered pinky finger and erases a little neat circle of marker in the intestines, mostly favoring one side. They draw a little arrow from the hole to the general outside-of-the-person blank area. Then another circle, with a thicker circle inside.

Danny recognizes the object jutting out of him. Oh. This is how he got it.

The person—probably a doctor, Danny guesses, or the surgeon who did this to him—do these people even need credentials, actually?—hands the board over to the lady. They hold out ten outstretched fingers, marker under their arm, and make a show of counting every one of the outstretched fingers with the opposite hand. Then they take the board back.

And then, when they write on the board, Danny can actually understand what they say.

Or, well, it’s numbers! The numbers are the same as his—the line and a circle is clearly meant to be a ten, and the little x is a multiplication symbol— they draw a 10, as clearly and a brightly as it could be against a stark white board, and add a little x 7, probably to indicate a week; the result is ten suns times seven, or seventy suns.

Danny feels his heart bounce in his chest. Danny would bet a whole lot of money that the number is meant to be seventy days. There is an end point. It’s not that Danny is free to be subjected to random anatomical whims—there’s a goal here. This was purposeful.

The little circle-within a circle gets erased. The hole is scribbled through as if it was never there, and the person makes a weaving gesture with the marker that Danny is certain is meant to be sewing.

Tears prick at his eyes. The lady gets close by him again, but Danny lets her. His hands aren’t good enough for wiping tears the way he wants to, yet. Help and company are good.

She gives him a tissue from Danny's bedside table. He takes it with a whisper of a grip.

“Seventy?” Danny rasps, tearful. Hopeful. Terrified of hope. He practically jams the tissue into his eye sockets.

The lady’s eyes go wide. “Seventy,” she repeats, marveling.

It’s enough. Nothing is perfect, but it’s enough. And if Danny's allowed to spend so long in front of the space window that he falls asleep in his wheelchair, well. It's not like he was in charge of where they went.

#*hip checks through the door* hey losers! Guess who uses Arabic numbers!! Two earths!!#also if ANYONE is shitty about stoma bags or ostomy bags on this fic or in this chat I'm going to fight you. Lots of people have them.#they're usually a temporary procedure and even if they're not they're pretty normal and a lot of people have them. I knew at least one #like haha this is a body horror fic but ostomy bags are a REAL THING that people HAVE as part of their medical journey DO NOT be rude!!#So what we know of his injuries now: messed up legs. Messed up guts. Messed up chest. Is there more...? Who can say. 👀#health and hybrids #dp x dc #dcu crossover #tw gore #tw medical #tw body horror #dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom #incarceration to elopement to healthcare pipeline #His healing is speeding up and his language is getting better! When can we get a Diana POV?? <- me to me

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