#tbge

“It's fine,” your parents would say, when they catch you at the top of the stairs one day, “They're nothing more than energy, they have no hearts, no feelings, no beliefs. Come see what we do. Come see who we are.”

And you do. Because what else can you do when you are young and the only people you can rely on are them? You watch these things, slither and writhe in their cages, huddling in corners and flinching at shadows. It sure seems like they have more than your parents believe, but you are young, and unknowing, and trust that they know more.

You grow, you distance yourself from your guilt, the terror that eats away at you when you consider the truth of things. You've grown, evolved, moving down the stairs slowly, bit by bit. Another inch, another foot, another step. Until you come to find yourself watching instead of listening. Your eyes unblinking as your parents tear and rip and sink their arms up to their elbows in entrails—ignoring the vile screams of the dead.

You can understand them. You know what they scream and beg and plead for, even before your death, before your end, you have known. Perhaps it was a matter of being exposed to such terrors at such a young age. Perhaps it is all the times you've felt ectoplasm run across your skin, sinking into your pores, while you help clean the lab. Or perhaps, it is simply the way you were born.

Maybe, something was always wrong with you. Maybe your parents were no factor. Maybe you were always destined to be something other, something monstrous, unthinking and unfeeling, carefully packing away your emotions into small boxes to deal with later—and then never touching them again.

You've seen the way your sister looks at you. The carefulness in her gaze. She thinks you're too close. She thinks your parents were wrong. And perhaps they were, but it's been so long, and you know no other way to be. She leaves you when she turns eighteen. “It isn't you,” she says, when she's met with the unanswered questions in your eyes. It's a lie. You know it is. You don't want her to leave, but you know the condition of her staying is one you cannot meet. You cannot change the innateness of who and what you are, no more than a storm can, thunderheads upon the horizon that will not die. So she leaves you, alone, in this house that reeks of death and violence and madness. You stew in it, simmer in it, soak in the dark, because that is all you can do.

Your parents never seem to change. They remain as who they always were. Which only lends credence to the thoughts that maybe upon your very conception you were corrupted, twisted, flaking with vile inhibitions. Whenever you try to voice these concerns, your friends simply think you're referring to your gender, they don't hear the darker tone underneath. The hungry thing you must feed, lest it grow into something you cannot control.

Despite it all—how it infuses itself into your very being—no one seems to notice now that your sister is gone. No one sees the caustic temperament breeding within you.

You can still taste the electric current on your tongue, no matter how many times you've scraped your toothbrush across your gums, it remains. Like the hunger that threatens to take control of your twisted fingers, it remains. It fuels you. You need it. Without this taste for flesh, you are nothing. Your power is nothing.

This crown laid upon your brow has dipped below your chin and you must hold your head high or risk its iron thorns burying into your flesh.

You sunk your teeth into the once and future king, dear boy, and now you must face every consequence you have wrought. The terror that eats away at you, the desires that haunt your dreams, the hunger that bleeds from your eyes. You cannot fight it. Your actions bury their fangs into your flesh... but you prefer the burn of it to the nothing from before. Your tightly packed boxes turn to ash—you've never even opened them. You never even felt all there was to feel. And you don't even know if this bundle of nerves deep in your gut is regret—

#ywlma is a character driven, redemption-based fic where Dash is full of guilt, Danny is full of rage, and Dash sparking up an unlikely friendship with Phantom seems to help them both more than they want to admit. Also Dash is a monsterfucker, just sayin'. I have more info for it here and the fic is up here! Also you MUST look at all the cool art for it here!

#twdd is a weird, short lil one-shot I wrote because I am obsessed with HGSN and this post triggered something in me. (Basically Danny = 'Hikaru' and Tucker = Yoshiki. Because gay.)

#tbge what if I made a ghost king au really super fucked up and threw in A LOT of Tokyo Ghoul-infused ghost hunger issues? Imagine a teenage horror movie where Sam and Tucker have to figure out how to survive the one person they always thought they could trust.

#rth is a three-part GrayGhost fic I am cooking up with a LOT of body horror, Danny getting fucked up by the portal accident, Vlad being a menace, and despite them dating, niether of them knows the other's secret because ✨️angst.✨️ I plan to start working on it after I'm done with ywlma.

#psychic wes au is a dumb idea I had where Wes is less a conspiracy theorist trying to out Danny and more that he's the only one who can see what Danny really is and is utterly terrified and truly thinks he's out to trick and hurt people. Danny though, not understanding how scary he is, starts deliberately fucking with Wes and being intentionally creepy. Which obviously leads to conflict in a fun way. :)

#dead ringer is a short Supernatural crossover in which the Winchesters find a young unsettling kid Danny in a haunted house and have to figure out how to remove a ghostly noose from around his neck—and it's a ghost that seems to be attracting more evil shit than they can handle. (I thought it would be fun to do DP in the style of SPN. It isn't good, but I'm having fun!)

For The Danny Phantom-Shaped Receptors In My Brain - if you like creepier/darker DP fics then take this link and flourish!!!