Also of course, it ain't me if I don't crossover my current hyperfixation with my ultimate current hyperfixation. So...
Degrees of Lewdity x ProjectMoon! (This post is full of me yapping as I explain each drawing, so I guess, be ready?)
First, I'll go hard with Whitney as R Corp. 4th Rabbit Team. The initial idea was that he reminds me so much of RHeath LMAO But eventually I love the idea because I think he'd go along with Myo well. Plus... Somehow imagining Whitney in Rabbit Team Hatchery shenanigans seems... Interesting.
Next is Eden. If anyone notice, I originally designed him based of 2 Abnos: Der Freischutz and Big Bird.
Der Frei was, of course, a nod to his title as a Hunter, and a marksman as well.
For Big Bird... Yeah definitely there's the Big Bird in DoL, yet I think temperance-wise, Eden does felt similar to Big Bird. A creature living in a forest, thinking they protect others by doing the action that definitely doesn't seems to be out of protection.
As for RRH, oh think about this: Being hunted down while getting marked. One by a hunter, and another by a wolf. Oh isn't it just reminds me of something...? Right
Funny enough, before I designed the school LIs properly, I reimagined them as The City's feathers.
"If they're living in the City and has to work with one Wing, which one they'll work on?"
I've talked about R. Corp Whitney earlier so I'll talk about the others!
Robin, L Corp. - I can imagine him with the pressing needs to survive under the weight of Bailey's rent ends up either being sent or signed himself up as an agent for L Corp. The Wing doesn't ask that much requirement as per Hokmah's story while the agent supposed to have a great pay (being a wing and all). Hence, I think he might work for L Corp.
Sydney, K Corp. - The idea was that after graduating, Sydney might follow Sirris path in science. Being the obedient child she is (as we sees on the game before they get corrupted), she probably choose to do what Sirris might do hence her as K Corp. researcher. Oh anyway, truly this is just a fyi that doesn't seems to be related to anything, I reimagined Harper as Dongrang in this scenario, with the whole Teary-Thing problem exist. Oh, lucky enough for Sydney to help producing K Ampule that definitely just as seen in the canon Limbus story. Just saying.
Kylar, W Corp. - This one actually a rather fun idea. This is set with the idea that Kylar work as the Clean Up Member, with parents that's definitely unaware with how their child work but nevertheless proud with him. They'd even use WARP Train solely to be sent off by Kylar each time, much to Kylar silent dismay. If only they know what Kylar has to clean up among the 6 seconds they went into the train... Read one of the reblog tag and yeah. It has to do with Love Town. And pretty much how Kylar had to regularly assemble his parents again and again each trip they made.
LCB! SYDNEY LET'S GOOOO!!!!
This idea came as I made my LCB-esque ID Card for Sydney. The idea of LCB Sydney's background was that it's pretty much what happened in the game, but make it The City-esque and seen from Sydney's eyes. It's fun imagining her as a Dieci Fixer who was caught in a complicated issue which she rather dip out from as she hasn't fully grow the backbone to face it yet.
Oh right, in this AU I reimagined Ivory as Abnormality and both Sydney and Kylar got their EGO. Sydney got their Longing Phase EGO (HE, Gloom) while Kylar got the Haunting Phase EGO (WAW, Wrath).
I actually had a draft of how the EGO works and its gimmick but let's talk it later on lol
When Yield My Flesh event is up on Limbus, my head doing the funny by thinking, "Damn... Jun Wren sounds cool..." then I remember Tingtang exist like jfgdjfgbjd HE FITS BETTER AS TINGTANG WHY DIDN'T I THINK ABOUT IT
ON A SIDE NOTE, I also had the thought on how Bailey MIGHT kills it as either a Kurokumo or a Middle. After all, Middle never forget... Just like how Bailey never forget your rent LOL
And last but not least: Sydney and Robin as L Corp. Agent!
Robin will be a high Temperance agent which work for Safety Team, while Sydney is the high Fortitude, high Prudence Disciplinary Team Captain.
Oh, if you do notice: I made Sydney's cross looks like Penitence EGO Weapon. It's actually based of this idea of how One Sin and WhiteNight's dynamic thematically fits Sydney the Faithful and Sydney the Fallen. The name of both Abnos' EGO Set-- "Penitence" and "Paradise Lost" respectively, both fits the image of each Sydneys. Hence, I draw them in both EGO Sets!
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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.
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i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.
He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.
And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.
And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.
Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.
Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."
There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.
It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.
Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.
At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.
"Do you like to do anything?"
Nothing. Just silence.
Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.
Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.
Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.
And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.
He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.
Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.
So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.
"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"
"Don't."
He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.
Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"
"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."
It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"
The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."
Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."
And they fall back into silence.
Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."
He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.
(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)
At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.
Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.
("Tucker told me once--")
("Tucker?")
("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")
(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)
(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)
It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."
The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."
The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.
When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.
Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.
"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."
When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.
Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.
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