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Danny's parents surprised him when they found out he was Phantom; they were fully on board with it. Immediately threw out their old findings to start making new ones and declared the GIW their mortal enemies.
In return, Danny helps them with their studies. Mostly it's Anthropology these days, but there's still some biology that needs to be done.
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♢ — @bogachs said: a final kiss shared while holding your dying lover. (what if i say.... dying Lone, for karma) EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: KISS & TELL PROMPTS
MORTAL CREATIONS DIE. That is what they do and that is how the laws of the system that govern this universe run. They are born, they live, and they die. Dottore stares at the crimson staining the ground and suddenly remembers the first creature he ever dissected at a tender age most would deem far too young. It had been a pretty songbird, as yellow as the sun that was clearly not from the desert. It must have escaped its cage upon the wagon of a traveling merchant. It did not know how to survive, its breast stained red with claw marks as it laid upon a sea of sand. EVEN SO, HE HAD THOUGHT IT BEAUTIFUL. Was it not best to appreciate it by understanding it fully? To understand how its feathers worked compared to those of the soaring vultures, or the shape of its beak, how its tiny bones compared to skeletons found in the sands and the muscles attached, what it had ate? He does not know why this ancient memory surfaces now after so many centuries. Pantalone is nothing so weak as a songbird. BUT HE WAS AS AMBITIOUS AS IT HAD BEEN. For that little songbird had flown far, far from where the caravans traveled for Dottore to find it still fresh. It had freed itself and thrived against odds, for it was not heat or being somewhere it was not adapt to that had killed it, but something else. Both laid before Dottore, beautiful in their demise.
But the songbird had sparked curiosity and delight. This sight before him does not.
Something Dottore cannot name is coming into creation in his chest as he tosses his mask aside to clatter away upon carpet and drops beside Pantalone. Something he doesn't know is seething, burning, flares and surging through his system like an intravenous injection of Kannazuka jellyfish venom that continuously floods his system. HE WON'T ALLOW FOR THIS. And if the gods or the shades think they can stop him, then they will be sorely mistaken. Dottore is selfish and he does not give up what he has claimed as HIS. He will not let it be dragged out of his hands or allow for the fragile tie of morality be severed so easily. He won't. He has broken countless rules of this world already, what is one more to his endless list of crimes that condemn him?
" You're not allowed to die, Vincent. " Dottore's voice is calmer than even he expects, but not the peaceful kind of calm. This is an ominous calm, the calm in the eye of a devastating hurricane that is decimating everything in its path, the calm that comes with the fall of a guillotine, of the stillness of quicksand as its surface settles again while its victims perish beneath the surface. CRUEL HANDS TURNED DELICATE ; Dottore carefully, amorously, gathers Pantalone into the security of his embrace as he rests on the ground with him. He cradles his lover's head, fingers curled into soft locks while his other hand applies pressure to the most alarming of the bleeding wounds. ( And all of these little signs whispers that something very bad and very dangerous will happen should the worst come to pass. If the world thought him a monster now, it would be beyond comprehension what he could do in the aftermath. ) IS THIS GRIEF? A clinical part of Dottore's brain cannot stop the quiet recognition of a change in heartbeat, of newfound tension that makes him feel ready to snap. He does not know loss in a way that has ever mattered. Not like this.
He hunches down, hovering over Pantalone's face as he drinks in every detail of him in this moment. " Remember what I told you? " It is a gentle prompting that Dottore seals with a consuming kiss upon delicate lips. They're too cold for what they should be. It was a survival tactic ; the body reduced blood flow to nonessential areas, lips included. He does not care. He kisses Pantalone with a sharp-edged possessiveness that serves as a claim as the memory replays.
It had been one of the rare occasions of a slow nights together, one spent relaxing upon the bed and indulging in the comfort of touch and presence, lamplight bathing the room in warm lighting. In that time, a question had been uttered from serpentine lips that Dottore had not sought to truly reflect on (but had, quietly, contemplated in secret). But he remembers it. He remembers raising his head as the weight of the question hung in the air and moving to cage Pantalone against the backdrop of fancy pillows and silk sheets and blankets, gold eyes staring up at him with greedy enthusiasm. He remembers , he remembers. He remembers the blasphemous scoff, the SNEER on his own lips and the shadows that must have made his red eyes all the more vibrant to the man caged by him - " Who says I would ever ALLOW for you to die? ", faces so close their breaths mingled, lips ghosting across each other with wandering hands trailing over his skin and scars and marks. A threat, A PROMISE. He remembers well the sinful encouragement wrapped in questions urging him to spill his blasphemous plans to ensure PANTALONE WOULD NOT BE A PRISONER TO DEATH. Pantalone had fed a madman as the papers would say, letting silent thoughts be brought into the warm light of their room for the first time. Such acknowledgement made them real in a way they had not previously been, solidified as Dottore shared his ideas between possessive, demanding kisses. He let the possessiveness and the selfishness sweep through the words, laid bared in all its ugly beauty for Pantalone to inspect and know of. HE HAD KISSED HIM THEN AS HE DOES NOW. He says what he had said then.
" I won't let you. " Dottore whispers the words as he breaks from the kiss, lingers close enough the movement of his lips can be felt with his declaration. AH, DOTTORE HAS ALWAYS RESPECTED THE REGRATOR'S FREEDOM. But Dottore is no selfless man. He is a monster that has always done what he wants first and foremost. Pantalone knew what he was and had wanted him all the same. Isn't that such an agonizing thought? It was like a needle pressed into the sensitive TRIGEMINAL NERVE for this to cross his mind now. He doesn't want this agony of feeling what can be taken from him. He doesn't think he would give it up even if the gods groveled at his feet to forget it. Somehow it is this particular thought, of being WANTED, that digs into his chest with the same intensity of a knife wound.
DYING DOES NOT MEAN DEAD.
Not yet.
Blood loss of this degree, Class IV, has a 70% fatality rate. He's wasting time that Pantalone does not have. Dottore lifts the ninth harbinger with ease, ensuring his head rests against his shoulder. The trek as a whole is forgotten other than checking the other's pulse and breathing until they were in the cold halls of the laboratory wing, an area colder still than the already chilled halls of the palace. Which operating theater? THERE IS NO HESITATION ON WHICH TO CHOOSE. He takes Pantalone to the one where the original Dottore had died, silent as Prime had loom ed beside him before calling to the others. Even now, Dottore will not let Pantalone go should he die upon the operation table. It is another thread to bind them together ; to share the same spot of death as if he can steal that way from any other place. HE DOESN'T LIKE THE THOUGHT OF PANTALONE DYING. He is not a fool to ignore the possibility. ( What will he then do? )
Something doesn't look quite right with Lone's eyes and the pulse is too low. But it is there, a stubborn little thing. " You're not allowed to die. " He snaps this time, foolishly because silly words do not change realities. It is an act too human, so terribly human. " I can fix this. And then you'll owe me big time for this even though I know you'll be far too proud to just say the words. " Dottore mutters, tearing though supplies to get what he needs and snarling at a subordinate to get the right blood type to start a transfusion while he works on the wounds. They'll need to be perfect or otherwise Pantalone will have his head. They need to be perfect even if he doesn't survive because that is what would be desired. There is at least comfort in the familiarity when there's too many new feelings gathering in his chest and his throat. Operating is calming. He won't let Pantalone die. By whatever means necessary.
Goretober day fourteen: Surgery
The scene of Sandstone dissecting Mal from the rp blog
Sandstone belongs to @itisindigos / @abyssal-indigo
Prompt from @bred-toaster 's list
so there's this biology teacher....
S/I: I can't donate my body to science. What if when they open up my body they say, "I'm sorry, but these are the stupidest organs I've ever seen."
F/O: I'm sure your organs are very smart, S/I.
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so did tobirama only dissect madara's head or did he just like. not bother identifying the weird piece of meat in his stomach or something
My minibang fic is mutichap so here we go for Invisobang 2022! For the minibang I was partnered with the fabulous and talented @astravis whose art will be posted along with the sixth and final chapter on Friday, so stay tuned!
(Chap two) (Ch 3) (ch. four) (five) (and 6)
BREAKING: NASA Lands Earths First Manned Spacecraft on Mars!
The creepy Fenton kid and the town's resident ghost hero go missing on the same day, and for weeks Amity Park is all abuzz about it. If the timing is suspicious, the doctors Fenton don't think anything of it. But Sam and Tucker think they can find Danny and bring him back. In fact, they're certain of it.
On a cold, steel table, in a certain lab, in a sprawling, labyrinthine, top secret facility, there is a boy named Danny.
[A tragedy following the wake of Danny's disappearance and the strange set of circumstances revealed between five points of view. But how did he get caught in the first place? And where did he go?]
Chapter 1: Space Case (Read it on AO3)
[Warning: dissection/vivisection, dissociation]
On a cold, steel table, in a certain lab, in a sprawling, labyrinthine, top secret facility, there is a boy named Danny. He is strapped down tightly with electrified restraints, his chest and abdomen cut wide open to make his insides easily accessible to the scientists examining him, a large needle lanced through his temple into his brain. Any other boy would be dead in Danny's condition. However, Danny is only half dead, and more importantly, he is half alive.
okay should a young child (7-8 years old) be intimately knowledgeable about the human body and how to dissect it (dissection in super basic terms, like take this out take this out etc.), or is that a sign of some kind of CSA or something
the context is that at 7-8 years old I was writing horrifically gorey stories about the murder and dissection of children my age (nobody I knew IRL bc I didn't know anyone else my age IRL) by older people
