five-rivers

[five-rivers]

me, a normal danny phantom phan: you see, this is a joke because there are no normal danny phantom phans. we're all creating and engaging in fan content of a cartoon that ended 18 years ago. dissection fics are not only a thing, but they are a huge part of this phandom's fanfiction consumption. on my last fic, i had to make a tag called, "danny is actually having a good time (for once)" because i knew no one would believe the fluff tag by itself. we're so far gone that wes weston isn't just a thing, but a thing that people new to the phandom assume that they must have missed when they watched the show. along with that, valerie is never called the red huntress, and paulina's never called sanchez, but we've gaslighted everyone including ourselves into believing that these things are completely canon. whenever i see "phantom planet compliant" as a tag i get personally offended. like how dare you follow the canon ending of this nearly 21 year old tv show that i watch once every couple of years.

[five-rivers]

could i ask you to tag your body horror posts? it does kinda squick me out even in mild cases, which would be a shame bc i'd have to blacklist your writing tags and i love your work :(

I will try to remember to do so. 😔

[five-rivers]

Ooooh what about the ectoplasm within slowly dissolving Danny’s human side over time

It isn't just Danielle, you know.

The progression from firm flesh to soft green ectoplasm. The drip of solid things gone liquid. The hissing sublimation as more volatile components turned straight into gas.

What is happening to Dani is what haunts your nightmares, but you knew all these things far before. Her transformation is just more obvious, more striking.

There was an expression on her face, when you injected her with the ecto-dejecto, that you see in the mirror, even now. You've learned to give yourself the injections between your toes, so the needle-marks don't show. You wear socks all the time, and shoes most of the time, even in your own room. The veins are green up to your ankles. They will go further.

You remember Vlad's 'perfect' clone, and how he woke, ever so briefly, to stare into your eyes. You remember the exact green of the puddle of ectoplasm that was all that was left of him. You remember the way it bubbled and frothed as it evaporated.

You know that when you saw him, you saw yourself. Not that day, or the day after, or even many days on, but someday. Someday soon enough.

But what you don't know is how to tell Dani that you don't know which one of you will go first and which one of you will have to watch.

[five-rivers]

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[five-rivers]

An anonymous asker requested a fic where Danny was eaten and reborn. Hope you enjoy. :3

.

In the Infinite Realms, the closest thing to death was rebirth. There were, after all, very few things that could die twice, and they could not die permanently.

That being said, there were many ways to be reborn. By forgetting one's past, like those who drank from the Lethe. By being exalted into something higher. By being reduced to something lesser. By changing, as the butterfly in its cocoon, or a larva fed on honey. By the force of one's own awakening power, or by the manipulations of another. By curses. By blessings. By incautious wishes. By consumption.

In the Far Frozen, there was a great dragon. An ice wyrm. It sported elegant horns, proud antlers, a flowing mane, and sharp teeth. Ice like diamonds gleamed from its hide, nestled within fur and feathers both. Its wings and legs were small, compared to its great length, but it had many of them, all of them tipped with talons of ice. It brought clouds and snow in its wake, and, when it was angry, blizzards and thundersnow.

Some stories claimed that it could, if it chose, take the form of a noble-featured man or woman, and speak on things like science and poetry with the ease of one who had studied those disciplines for lifetimes. Others framed the dragon as a monstrosity, a violent beast made for destruction. Still others had it as a simple force of nature, born of the Realms.

Every one hundred years, the fiercest warriors of the Far Frozen would hunt it - an endeavor that might last years in and of itself - carve its meat from its bones, mount the antlers, and feast. Then, they would place those bones on a frozen river and bury them in snow, so that it would reform, gathering that snow and ice and turning it into flesh.

That hunt would begin soon. The dragon had been spotted, and each of its antlers had the requisite one hundred points.

Danny, flying to the Far Frozen because he'd caught a cold that was messing with his powers, knew none of this. Most of the time, he got over colds within a day or so, if he caught anything at all. He was worried that this was some kind of ghost sickness.

But he wasn't thinking about that right now, even as he passed over the floating icebergs that made up the Far Frozen's borders, because he had more immediate problems.

"Whelp!" shouted Skulker from somewhere behind him.

"Ghost boy!" trilled Technus, from not much further behind that.

They'd started chasing him about half an hour ago, and they were persistent. Whenever he thought he'd lost them, they'd found him again within minutes. One of them must have picked up a reliable tracking tool, because they weren't this competent on their own, usually.

Well, Technus might have been. That ghost knew how to think out of the box.

Danny could probably beat them, even with them working together, but he didn’t want to fight. He wasn't in Amity Park, where he had to if he didn't want the city in ruins, and with his powers acting up--

A missile streaked by him and he banked, knowing that wasn't a miss. Sure enough, it exploded ahead of him, knocking him out of the sky and into an iceberg.

"Ha! Soon, I will have your pelt at the foot of my bed!"

"And my plans for WORLD DOMINATION will be unopposed!"

"Oh my God," said Danny, shoving them both back with a wave of snow. "Just because I'm not there downstairs mean people will just let you take over the world! It's like all the times you've attacked me in social studies means nothing to you!"

A net dropped on Danny. Then, it shocked him.

"How do you like my new drone--"

It was like a dam breaking. Danny's control was already frayed thin, and he was always weak against electricity. He screamed, and that scream turned into a frost-touched wail, ice growing into huge crystals around him. He didn't stop wailing so much as he ran out of energy, dropping to the ground, his vision wavering and his transformation rings flickering around him.

No. No, no, no. If he lost consciousness and his transformation both, he'd... Well, he didn't know if he'd freeze to death, but he didn't want to test it. He forced the transformation rings away and his ghost form seemed to... settle, somehow. He slid down to rest among the bases of the enormous ice crystals he'd made and closed his eyes. He'd worry about that... later.

Danny regained consciousness to the feeling of something - someone? - shaking him. No, someone rolling him over. And rolling him over again. He grumbled, not sure why Jazz was so insistent he wake up and less sure why his bed suddenly felt like the floor of a meat locker.

Something cold caught on the collar of his suit, and then there was a ripping sound. Danny flailed himself awake, losing most of the upper half of his suit to the dragon's claws. Then, he froze, trying to process what he was seeing.

That. That was a dragon. A huge dragon.

Unlike what many of Danny's enemies thought, he wasn't an idiot and he knew when to run from a fight he couldn't win. He made the snap decision to turn human and phase through the iceberg so he could get away.

But, when he called for them, his transformation rings didn't come.

Danny's transformation required power. Energy. Usually, when he approached the lower threshold of that energy, his body would flip him back to the lower energy state of 'human.' But he'd resisted that instinctual, automatic flip, this time. If he were not in the Ghost Zone, he would likely be having trouble staying both visible and solid.

He didn't know that, of course. This situation had only been made possible by a combination of poor sleep, illness, his growing ice powers, and incredibly poor luck.

When the dragon resumed its attempt to peel him with its claws, Danny decided to go with plan B: scream for help. However, he only managed a pitiful rasp. He'd wailed too long and too hard and, well, he was sick. Losing one's voice wasn't exactly an unusual symptom of a cold.

Plan C was fight, but that went about as well as Danny had thought it would. That was to say, it didn't. But he had to do something, and he wasn't going to just let the dragon eat him, which had to be what was going on here, right?

It pinned him down and dragged off the rest off what remained of his suit by the boots. Then, it immediately went to work on Danny's t-shirt, pants, and underthings, which were made of far less sturdy material and shredded easily.

Even for a cold core ghost, being naked in the snow like this wasn't pleasant. It was less pleasant when the dragon started licking him. Danny wriggled and squirmed, anything to get out from under the dragon's claws and away from its tongue, but it was through and careful, seeming to want to get every single part of him.

The tongue was wider than Danny was tall and covered with large, knobbly bumps that slid across Danny's skin like ice. It was wet. It dripped with thick, clinging saliva that smelled faintly floral. It stuck to Danny, making his skin feel slimy and tingly everywhere it touched, like some of his parents' more gooey weapons. Whatever it was, it wasn't made mostly of water.

Then, when Danny was completely covered from head to toe, the dragon let go and breathed on him.

The saliva on Danny's skin froze instantly into a hard, clear layer. His cold core - still developing and often forced to be in much warmer environments than it liked - thrilled at the effect, much to Danny's general discomfort and displeasure.

The dragon flipped Danny over and breathed again, making sure that side of him was also frozen. Then, it started licking him again. All over.

Only once three layers of saliva-ice had been deposited did the dragon open its lips wide and close them around Danny.

The dragon was large enough to hold Danny in its mouth easily, trapped between soft tongue and rigid roof. It turned him over several times, and Danny could feel the ice around him continue to build. The tongue licked and touched and almost played with him. And then, it swallowed, pressing him back into the dragon's throat.

So. Danny had been swallowed before. Not when he was also immobilized and so weak, but it had happened. Most ghosts that tried to eat him, he had found, were not actually designed to eat things. Not in the way that living things ate things. Their throats and 'stomachs' were little more than voids, with little structure.

The fact that this wasn't like that, that the dragon's throat was seemingly made of strong, constricting muscle that pushed him down with rippling squeezes was... concerning. The ripples were slow, but steady, and the pressure of each of them was immense. Danny could feel it through the ice.

It was... not soothing, exactly. Being eaten wasn't soothing. But it was sort of like being hugged by something very large, and being held still... being worn from being sick... being in the dark... It was a regular motion, and one that conspired with the temperature to be very physically comfortable.

(If his cold was caused by something like being too hot, Danny was going to throw a fit.)

And then, with little warning, Danny was extruded into a larger pocket of flesh. He dropped a few feet, then hit something liquid and glowing. He sank down into it and floated for a few minutes.

Then, the folds of flesh around him - the dragon's stomach? - contracted and the liquid began to drain.

Once it was empty, the temperature in the dragon's stomach warmed just enough for the layer of ice on Danny's skin to start to slough off... And to take with it a layer of Danny's skin.

In ghost form, Danny was just as plastic as any other ghost, and his skin reformed quickly over his ectoplasmic muscle. It prickled.

But, now that he wasn't frozen solid, Danny was in a position to actually try to escape. He tried to call energy to his hands, but his powers still weren't responding. He tried to kick and punch his way into at least giving the dragon indigestion, but the walls of the stomach absorbed all the attacks. Then he tried to scratch and bite, but the skin was too tough. Before he could try a different method of attack, the walls of the stomach contracted again, forcing him into a fetal position.

And the stomach started to fill up with liquid again.

Now that he was no longer encased in ice, Danny could tell that the liquid was thick, viscous, blue, and far, far below the freezing temperature of water. It made his new skin feel fragile, delicate, almost... crispy. It was freezing, he realized, it, and the layer of muscle immediately under it, trapping him in this position even as the liquid rose and the stomach relaxed and cooled, freezing a thicker layer around him.

Then, the liquid drained away and the stomach contracted again. And Danny lost another layer of ectoplasm, his body morphing to accommodate the loss. This time, he could also detect a pervasive, low-pitched, vibrating hum all around him. The dragon's core, maybe? Even as Danny started to struggle again, the liquid returned and the stomach relaxed.

And it happened again. And again. And again. Each time, Danny lost more of his substance and his struggles became weaker and weaker, until they stopped entirely, his resistance exhausted. He was still half-human, and he needed sleep more than most other ghosts, but even without that, continually reforming himself so that he wasn't just raw meat was tiring, and the hum of the dragon's core had taken on a distinctly hypnotic cadence.

Danny's body's automatic repairs started to grow... lazier, for lack of a better word. Sloppier. Details were left out. Shapes were smoothed over and made simpler.

And then, just when Danny was starting to nod off, the stomach spasmed and pushed Danny - and the stomach liquid he was marinating in - off into a separate, spherical chamber. It was small enough that even Danny's much reduced form felt cramped.

There was a tickle, near his abdomen, and Danny blearily looked down, through the distortion of the liquid, to see a spiderweb-thin line connecting his navel to the outside of the sphere. As he watched, it grew thicker and thicker, and he could feel his remaining strength flowing out of him along its length.

He should break it.

He couldn't make himself move.

He closed his eyes. So. He'd really been eaten. Successfully. This was, he thought, a really annoying way to go.

.

"Hold," said Frostbite, raising his hand. The dragon was nestled in a hollow in the ice far below them, curled in on itself over and over. It seemed to be sleeping, making this the ideal time to attack. Yet, there was something off. Something different from the usual hunt, from the many times Frostbite had seen the dragon before. Then, he spotted it. "We must stop the hunt."

"But Chief--!" protested Sleetfall, the youngest of the tribe's hunters.

"Hush," said Snowdrift. "Listen."

"Look," said Frostbite. "Do you see what it holds between its foreclaws?"

"Ah," said Snowdrift. "Yes. I see."

"What?" asked Sleetfall. "All I see is a ball of ice."

"Ah, you were not yet an adult when this last happened," said Frostbite. Even though Sleetfall was both young and eager, it had been long enough since they come of age that sometimes Frostbite forgot. "It is not a ball of ice. Or, it not only a ball of ice. That is an egg. Someone has been eaten and waits to be reborn within. We must respect the great dragon's role in their rebirth."

He could see in Sleetfall's eyes. They did not want to stop the hunt, the first with such storied prey. But the youth's shoulders slumped and they nodded. "But, Chief, who even would it have eaten? None of the tribe have been missing."

"I have my thoughts," said Frostbite. There were very few visitors to the Far Frozen. "But, come, do not be so grim. A dragon child is cause enough for celebration, even if they do not join the tribe." He patted Sleetfall on the back. "Think about what you could teach them."

Sleetfall brightened. It was well enough. Even if it was Phantom in that egg, he would have much to learn and much to relearn. A rebirth was, after all, still a birth.

[five-rivers]

Hey there! I'm so glad I found u again. I was wondering where the uh the fic where Danny and Clockwork find each other in a magical ghost mascarade ball where no one can tell who anyone is no matter how obvious it is.... uh yeah that one, where is it?

I think you're looking for this one!

[five-rivers]

since it seems a bunch of people sent stuff with things coming through Danny's skin, I thought I might give you an optional alternate prompt to go with instead of the one I last gave you: Danny's bones turning pliable or growing into new shapes.

"Daniel."

You jump. You'd recognize that voice anywhere, but you didn't expect it here, now, in the middle of the street. You look around quickly, furtively. Has anyone noticed a ghost talking to you?

No, no one has noticed, because time is frozen and there is a gear-shaped medallion sitting heavily on your chest. You look up at Clockwork sheepishly, not really sorry for your reaction, per se, but embarrassed for it nonetheless.

Clockwork raises an eyebrow. You blush.

"I, um, I haven't broken the timeline again, have I?" you ask, because that's a legitimate concern in your life. Death. Half-life. Whatever.

"No," says Clockwork in a way that makes it clear that it wasn't for any care on your part. "I have come to request your help."

"Oh," you say, surprised. Certainly, he has a right to ask, after all he's done for you. It's just that you have no idea what you could help someone who could control time with. "Sure. What with?"

"You should ask that before you agree to help," says Clockwork. He waves his staff and a a portal opens up behind him. "Come, it is easier to explain if you first see."

You transform with a thought and join him by the portal.

"After you," he says.

You blink a few times, your eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing you notice is a large clock. It is shaped like a bell curve and overall looks a lot like a shelf clock. It is, however, easily twice as tall as you are at its highest point. Glass doors near the bottom reveal a space that's a room in and of itself, full of gears and weights.

The strangest thing, however, is what it's made of.

"It that--?"

"Bone? Yes," says Clockwork. "It is known as the Bone Clock." He lays his hand on its surface. "It has been broken for some time."

"What is it for?"

"Occasionally, a death must occur at precisely the right moment - or, it must not occur at a particular moment. These deaths are rare, and it is rarer still that the death is one that belongs to a thinking being. But when they occur, it is the Bone Clock that nudges their time into the right position."

You swallow. "What, um, what was--?"

"The last time it was used?" asks Clockwork. "You are wondering if it was used on the occasion of your death."

"Um." He isn't wrong, but you aren't sure if you should ask that.

"There wasn't nearly so much chance involved in your creation," says Clockwork. Before you can ask what that means, he continues. "A better question is what it would be used on next."

"What is it going to be used on next?" you ask, obediently.

"Even a fraction of a moment can make the difference between whether or not a death results in a ghost," says Clockwork. "Between whether a thought is held, or let go. Between whether a a person remains or passes on."

"Is-- Clockwork, is someone going to die?"

"People die all the time, Daniel."

"I mean, what you're saying, what you're talking about, is someone I know going to die?"

"Eventually, everyone dies."

You give up. There's no way you're going to get a straight answer out of Clockwork on this topic.

"So, the thing you need help with is fixing it?" You can't help but notice, after all, that all of its mechanisms are completely still.

"Yes. The materials are not easy to source. Many of the gears require very specific bones."

Although your grades don't reflect it, you aren't actually an idiot. "You're asking me to give you my bones."

"Rather, I am asking you to grow the gears from your bones. Your bones themselves will remain."

"So, they'll..." You find that you are hugging yourself, running your fingers over your shoulder blades. "Grow in me?"

"That is where they must come from, if they are to work."

"And this... it's important that it works, right?"

"There are workarounds, even if the Bone Clock is not repaired. They would be unpleasant."

You look up at him. "More unpleasant than this?"

He gazes back, his red eyes glittering deep within his hood. "That is a matter of opinion. For certain people, yes."

You take a deep breath. "Okay. What do I need to do?"

Clockwork smiles and ruffles your hair. You blush, swat away the hand, and immediately regret doing so.

Regardless, he reaches over your head and opens the doors of the clock. You go to step forward, but he stops you.

"Are you certain?" he asks. "This will be painful."

"I've been hurt before," you say, with something like a smile.

He nods and presses a key into your hand. It is small and white, with coppery fittings, the same as the clock. "The hole is in the back wall."

You enter the clock. It is eerily quiet in here. You look back. Clockwork is closing the glass doors. They click softly.

You shiver.

It isn't far to the back wall, and you find the keyhole easily. You put the key in and turn it. Then, you turn it again. And again, and again. There is an awful ratcheting sound overhead. Dust and small slivers and chunks of bones rain down on your head, and you shake it, to get them out of your hair.

You cannot let go of the key.

Something pricks along the backs of your ribs. Something like a cramp radiates up your arm. You realize, perhaps too late, that you did not ask Clockwork how long this would take.

You realize, also, that the gears directly overhead have lowered themselves. The lowest touches your shoulder, then rolls down to rest against your back. Its teeth fit nicely between your ribs.

There is something wrong with your ribs. Or perhaps something right. You can feel bone growing there, like the worst possible growth spurt.

The extra bone starts off as tiny lumps, then slowly expand outwards. You feel your skin separate wetly, ectoplasm smoothly flowing back.

They press into the teeth of the gear touching you, meshing. The rest of the gear is first built, then extruded, pushing against you and the gear. You, of course, give out first, dropping to your knees with a groan. Your bone doesn't just grow, it warps, flexes, and bends in order to make the necessary shapes.

Then, the last part of the gear separates from your ribs and the gears lift away, clunking and clicking into place far above you.

The formation of the large gear had occupied you, but there are other gears growing from your bones. Some of them are small enough to be nothing more than a needle of pain through that area. Others, though, are large enough to start tearing the skin above them. Two of them, near your left knee, have meshed with one another, locking its position.

Now, gears from overhead descend to meet the new gears and lift them back overhead. The way they emerge, especially the smaller ones, reminds you of pimples popping. The teeth of the gears on your skin and in your flesh feels like the deepest of massages. The floor beneath you becomes puddled with ectoplasm, your body unable to reclaim all of it.

You wonder, how long will it be before every surface of bone has had at least one gear sprout from it.

And then-- It is not just gears, that a clock is made of. It needed levers and rods, too, and your bones happily provice them as well.

But, then, the rate at which your bones grows new things dwindles, stops, and as the last piece is pulled away, your hand slips from the key. You push yourself up off the floor and hover for a minute, uncertain. You are no smaller than before, and not noticeably thinner, but you still feel lighter.

You flit towards the doors before the smoothly-ticking Bone Clock can change its mind. Clockwork is waiting for you, and he ruffles your hair as you come out. This time, you let him.

[five-rivers]

TUE memes

[five-rivers]

since it seems a bunch of people sent stuff with things coming through Danny's skin, I thought I might give you an optional alternate prompt to go with instead of the one I last gave you: Danny's bones turning pliable or growing into new shapes.

"Daniel."

You jump. You'd recognize that voice anywhere, but you didn't expect it here, now, in the middle of the street. You look around quickly, furtively. Has anyone noticed a ghost talking to you?

No, no one has noticed, because time is frozen and there is a gear-shaped medallion sitting heavily on your chest. You look up at Clockwork sheepishly, not really sorry for your reaction, per se, but embarrassed for it nonetheless.

Clockwork raises an eyebrow. You blush.

"I, um, I haven't broken the timeline again, have I?" you ask, because that's a legitimate concern in your life. Death. Half-life. Whatever.

"No," says Clockwork in a way that makes it clear that it wasn't for any care on your part. "I have come to request your help."

"Oh," you say, surprised. Certainly, he has a right to ask, after all he's done for you. It's just that you have no idea what you could help someone who could control time with. "Sure. What with?"

"You should ask that before you agree to help," says Clockwork. He waves his staff and a a portal opens up behind him. "Come, it is easier to explain if you first see."

You transform with a thought and join him by the portal.

"After you," he says.

You blink a few times, your eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing you notice is a large clock. It is shaped like a bell curve and overall looks a lot like a shelf clock. It is, however, easily twice as tall as you are at its highest point. Glass doors near the bottom reveal a space that's a room in and of itself, full of gears and weights.

The strangest thing, however, is what it's made of.

"It that--?"

"Bone? Yes," says Clockwork. "It is known as the Bone Clock." He lays his hand on its surface. "It has been broken for some time."

"What is it for?"

"Occasionally, a death must occur at precisely the right moment - or, it must not occur at a particular moment. These deaths are rare, and it is rarer still that the death is one that belongs to a thinking being. But when they occur, it is the Bone Clock that nudges their time into the right position."

You swallow. "What, um, what was--?"

"The last time it was used?" asks Clockwork. "You are wondering if it was used on the occasion of your death."

"Um." He isn't wrong, but you aren't sure if you should ask that.

"There wasn't nearly so much chance involved in your creation," says Clockwork. Before you can ask what that means, he continues. "A better question is what it would be used on next."

"What is it going to be used on next?" you ask, obediently.

"Even a fraction of a moment can make the difference between whether or not a death results in a ghost," says Clockwork. "Between whether a thought is held, or let go. Between whether a a person remains or passes on."

"Is-- Clockwork, is someone going to die?"

"People die all the time, Daniel."

"I mean, what you're saying, what you're talking about, is someone I know going to die?"

"Eventually, everyone dies."

You give up. There's no way you're going to get a straight answer out of Clockwork on this topic.

"So, the thing you need help with is fixing it?" You can't help but notice, after all, that all of its mechanisms are completely still.

"Yes. The materials are not easy to source. Many of the gears require very specific bones."

Although your grades don't reflect it, you aren't actually an idiot. "You're asking me to give you my bones."

"Rather, I am asking you to grow the gears from your bones. Your bones themselves will remain."

"So, they'll..." You find that you are hugging yourself, running your fingers over your shoulder blades. "Grow in me?"

"That is where they must come from, if they are to work."

"And this... it's important that it works, right?"

"There are workarounds, even if the Bone Clock is not repaired. They would be unpleasant."

You look up at him. "More unpleasant than this?"

He gazes back, his red eyes glittering deep within his hood. "That is a matter of opinion. For certain people, yes."

You take a deep breath. "Okay. What do I need to do?"

Clockwork smiles and ruffles your hair. You blush, swat away the hand, and immediately regret doing so.

Regardless, he reaches over your head and opens the doors of the clock. You go to step forward, but he stops you.

"Are you certain?" he asks. "This will be painful."

"I've been hurt before," you say, with something like a smile.

He nods and presses a key into your hand. It is small and white, with coppery fittings, the same as the clock. "The hole is in the back wall."

You enter the clock. It is eerily quiet in here. You look back. Clockwork is closing the glass doors. They click softly.

You shiver.

It isn't far to the back wall, and you find the keyhole easily. You put the key in and turn it. Then, you turn it again. And again, and again. There is an awful ratcheting sound overhead. Dust and small slivers and chunks of bones rain down on your head, and you shake it, to get them out of your hair.

You cannot let go of the key.

Something pricks along the backs of your ribs. Something like a cramp radiates up your arm. You realize, perhaps too late, that you did not ask Clockwork how long this would take.

You realize, also, that the gears directly overhead have lowered themselves. The lowest touches your shoulder, then rolls down to rest against your back. Its teeth fit nicely between your ribs.

There is something wrong with your ribs. Or perhaps something right. You can feel bone growing there, like the worst possible growth spurt.

The extra bone starts off as tiny lumps, then slowly expand outwards. You feel your skin separate wetly, ectoplasm smoothly flowing back.

They press into the teeth of the gear touching you, meshing. The rest of the gear is first built, then extruded, pushing against you and the gear. You, of course, give out first, dropping to your knees with a groan. Your bone doesn't just grow, it warps, flexes, and bends in order to make the necessary shapes.

Then, the last part of the gear separates from your ribs and the gears lift away, clunking and clicking into place far above you.

The formation of the large gear had occupied you, but there are other gears growing from your bones. Some of them are small enough to be nothing more than a needle of pain through that area. Others, though, are large enough to start tearing the skin above them. Two of them, near your left knee, have meshed with one another, locking its position.

Now, gears from overhead descend to meet the new gears and lift them back overhead. The way they emerge, especially the smaller ones, reminds you of pimples popping. The teeth of the gears on your skin and in your flesh feels like the deepest of massages. The floor beneath you becomes puddled with ectoplasm, your body unable to reclaim all of it.

You wonder, how long will it be before every surface of bone has had at least one gear sprout from it.

And then-- It is not just gears, that a clock is made of. It needed levers and rods, too, and your bones happily provice them as well.

But, then, the rate at which your bones grows new things dwindles, stops, and as the last piece is pulled away, your hand slips from the key. You push yourself up off the floor and hover for a minute, uncertain. You are no smaller than before, and not noticeably thinner, but you still feel lighter.

You flit towards the doors before the smoothly-ticking Bone Clock can change its mind. Clockwork is waiting for you, and he ruffles your hair as you come out. This time, you let him.

[five-rivers]

since it seems a bunch of people sent stuff with things coming through Danny's skin, I thought I might give you an optional alternate prompt to go with instead of the one I last gave you: Danny's bones turning pliable or growing into new shapes.

"Daniel."

You jump. You'd recognize that voice anywhere, but you didn't expect it here, now, in the middle of the street. You look around quickly, furtively. Has anyone noticed a ghost talking to you?

No, no one has noticed, because time is frozen and there is a gear-shaped medallion sitting heavily on your chest. You look up at Clockwork sheepishly, not really sorry for your reaction, per se, but embarrassed for it nonetheless.

Clockwork raises an eyebrow. You blush.

"I, um, I haven't broken the timeline again, have I?" you ask, because that's a legitimate concern in your life. Death. Half-life. Whatever.

"No," says Clockwork in a way that makes it clear that it wasn't for any care on your part. "I have come to request your help."

"Oh," you say, surprised. Certainly, he has a right to ask, after all he's done for you. It's just that you have no idea what you could help someone who could control time with. "Sure. What with?"

"You should ask that before you agree to help," says Clockwork. He waves his staff and a a portal opens up behind him. "Come, it is easier to explain if you first see."

You transform with a thought and join him by the portal.

"After you," he says.

You blink a few times, your eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing you notice is a large clock. It is shaped like a bell curve and overall looks a lot like a shelf clock. It is, however, easily twice as tall as you are at its highest point. Glass doors near the bottom reveal a space that's a room in and of itself, full of gears and weights.

The strangest thing, however, is what it's made of.

"It that--?"

"Bone? Yes," says Clockwork. "It is known as the Bone Clock." He lays his hand on its surface. "It has been broken for some time."

"What is it for?"

"Occasionally, a death must occur at precisely the right moment - or, it must not occur at a particular moment. These deaths are rare, and it is rarer still that the death is one that belongs to a thinking being. But when they occur, it is the Bone Clock that nudges their time into the right position."

You swallow. "What, um, what was--?"

"The last time it was used?" asks Clockwork. "You are wondering if it was used on the occasion of your death."

"Um." He isn't wrong, but you aren't sure if you should ask that.

"There wasn't nearly so much chance involved in your creation," says Clockwork. Before you can ask what that means, he continues. "A better question is what it would be used on next."

"What is it going to be used on next?" you ask, obediently.

"Even a fraction of a moment can make the difference between whether or not a death results in a ghost," says Clockwork. "Between whether a thought is held, or let go. Between whether a a person remains or passes on."

"Is-- Clockwork, is someone going to die?"

"People die all the time, Daniel."

"I mean, what you're saying, what you're talking about, is someone I know going to die?"

"Eventually, everyone dies."

You give up. There's no way you're going to get a straight answer out of Clockwork on this topic.

"So, the thing you need help with is fixing it?" You can't help but notice, after all, that all of its mechanisms are completely still.

"Yes. The materials are not easy to source. Many of the gears require very specific bones."

Although your grades don't reflect it, you aren't actually an idiot. "You're asking me to give you my bones."

"Rather, I am asking you to grow the gears from your bones. Your bones themselves will remain."

"So, they'll..." You find that you are hugging yourself, running your fingers over your shoulder blades. "Grow in me?"

"That is where they must come from, if they are to work."

"And this... it's important that it works, right?"

"There are workarounds, even if the Bone Clock is not repaired. They would be unpleasant."

You look up at him. "More unpleasant than this?"

He gazes back, his red eyes glittering deep within his hood. "That is a matter of opinion. For certain people, yes."

You take a deep breath. "Okay. What do I need to do?"

Clockwork smiles and ruffles your hair. You blush, swat away the hand, and immediately regret doing so.

Regardless, he reaches over your head and opens the doors of the clock. You go to step forward, but he stops you.

"Are you certain?" he asks. "This will be painful."

"I've been hurt before," you say, with something like a smile.

He nods and presses a key into your hand. It is small and white, with coppery fittings, the same as the clock. "The hole is in the back wall."

You enter the clock. It is eerily quiet in here. You look back. Clockwork is closing the glass doors. They click softly.

You shiver.

It isn't far to the back wall, and you find the keyhole easily. You put the key in and turn it. Then, you turn it again. And again, and again. There is an awful ratcheting sound overhead. Dust and small slivers and chunks of bones rain down on your head, and you shake it, to get them out of your hair.

You cannot let go of the key.

Something pricks along the backs of your ribs. Something like a cramp radiates up your arm. You realize, perhaps too late, that you did not ask Clockwork how long this would take.

You realize, also, that the gears directly overhead have lowered themselves. The lowest touches your shoulder, then rolls down to rest against your back. Its teeth fit nicely between your ribs.

There is something wrong with your ribs. Or perhaps something right. You can feel bone growing there, like the worst possible growth spurt.

The extra bone starts off as tiny lumps, then slowly expand outwards. You feel your skin separate wetly, ectoplasm smoothly flowing back.

They press into the teeth of the gear touching you, meshing. The rest of the gear is first built, then extruded, pushing against you and the gear. You, of course, give out first, dropping to your knees with a groan. Your bone doesn't just grow, it warps, flexes, and bends in order to make the necessary shapes.

Then, the last part of the gear separates from your ribs and the gears lift away, clunking and clicking into place far above you.

The formation of the large gear had occupied you, but there are other gears growing from your bones. Some of them are small enough to be nothing more than a needle of pain through that area. Others, though, are large enough to start tearing the skin above them. Two of them, near your left knee, have meshed with one another, locking its position.

Now, gears from overhead descend to meet the new gears and lift them back overhead. The way they emerge, especially the smaller ones, reminds you of pimples popping. The teeth of the gears on your skin and in your flesh feels like the deepest of massages. The floor beneath you becomes puddled with ectoplasm, your body unable to reclaim all of it.

You wonder, how long will it be before every surface of bone has had at least one gear sprout from it.

And then-- It is not just gears, that a clock is made of. It needed levers and rods, too, and your bones happily provice them as well.

But, then, the rate at which your bones grows new things dwindles, stops, and as the last piece is pulled away, your hand slips from the key. You push yourself up off the floor and hover for a minute, uncertain. You are no smaller than before, and not noticeably thinner, but you still feel lighter.

You flit towards the doors before the smoothly-ticking Bone Clock can change its mind. Clockwork is waiting for you, and he ruffles your hair as you come out. This time, you let him.

[five-rivers]

But, despite all this, you're still yourself. And that godlike thing is still itself. Despite what power you've been given (and you don't know how to use that power), you haven't been physically changed except for your new immortality. You are no stronger or smarter or faster than you were before. And the godlike thing is just as strong and smart and fast as it was before. And, and, it has access to things that might as well be magic for all you understand them.

But you can kill it.

And no matter how weak and stupid and slow you are, you won't stop until you do.

Thinking about the immortal snail coming to kill you thing but from the perspective of the snail.

[five-rivers]

Like, something has happened to you. Something you never asked for. You've been given life, everlasting. You've been given something that alien, incomprehensible beings that might as well be gods use to exert power over one another. You've been given a charge, to kill one of them. You are the only one who can.

Thinking about the immortal snail coming to kill you thing but from the perspective of the snail.

[five-rivers]

Thinking about the immortal snail coming to kill you thing but from the perspective of the snail.

[five-rivers]

Five-rivers - Tumblr Oceankat8 - Tumblr

Phantasmal Nights is a fantasy themed Danny Phantom zine available for preorder digitally, in print, and with merch! For more information on the zine, check out our pinned post. Preorders open Dec 13 – Jan 23.

Title: To the Ball!

Summary: Being the guardian of a magical forest is lonely work. In the absence of his human friends, Danny finds companionship in the shapeshifting dragon that rises from the river. When Dora admits that she longs for the joy and splendor of a good old-fashioned ball, he knows exactly who to ask to help fulfill her wish.

Excerpt:

No one would think so, but being a shapeshifting monster trapped in a magical forest could be boring, sometimes. Oh, to be sure, adventure could be found in every direction at all times, and his bond to the Woods gave him abilities and responsibilities he didn’t entirely understand, but Danny didn’t always want to be on an adventure, and the times the Woods themselves called on him were thankfully rare. Sometimes, he wanted to rest and relax, to hole up in his cozy little house, to be somewhere safe and calm.

[five-rivers]

Danny phantom au where Danny became radioactive from the portal incident (radioactive power source for it perhaps?) and those around him start to mutate and stuff due to the radioactive ectoplasm

perhaps they start slowly becoming ghosts, not even realising they’re dying, and just thinking they didn’t sleep too well

they slowly deteriorate as their bodies replace the dying cells with ghost versions, basically slowly possess Every cell around them, spreading like an infection

soon it reaches everyone in amity

those around Danny being the first group who go on to spread it, and Danny is patient zero

Short and sweet. :)

.

People aren't afraid of dead bodies for no reason.

Oh, a dead body won't leap up and attack you. Many would instead urge you to be afraid of whatever killed it, and that is not precisely unwise. But dead bodies are dangerous in and of themselves. They are full of bacteria. Diseases, waiting to happen as they rot. Humans know this, instinctively. They avoid dead bodies.

Danny was only half dead. His body looked alive. This wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't the whole story, and humans do not easily understand things by halves.

The people around him stayed close. They didn't know that they should stay away. They didn't know to be afraid.

They should have been afraid of what killed him, yes. But they also should have been afraid of him, because he carried that death with him. Slow, yes, but present.

Slow, slow... Slow enough, that Sam and Tucker couldn't say for sure when their eyes lost their pupils. Slow enough that the students at Casper High were convinced that glowing was something bodily fluids just did. Slow enough that no one in Amity Park could say when they'd stopped aging and started stagnating.

But not slow enough that Tucker didn't notice when he started to grow a third arm. Not slow enough that Sam didn't notice when moss began to grow up her spine. Not slow enough that Jazz didn't wake up in the middle of the night and vomit ectoplasm into the toilet.

And not nearly slow enough that, when Amity Park realized they were a corpse, rotting from the inside out, they could do anything about it.

(But slow enough that one not-quite-dead boy could tell exactly where the rot had started, and how it had spread.)

[five-rivers]

Soft body horror! Danny's parents theorized that ghosts' forms shift with their emotions, but Danny knew better: his ghost form shifted with his physical state, not his mental state. If he was hungry, his ghost form was a gaping thing with many teeth. If he was tired, his ghost form would shift to something soft and docile. If he was overheated, or freezing, or thirsty, or hyped up on too much caffeine, or in pain, or anything else that differed from baseline, his ghost form reflected it. The problem with that was, Danny couldn't always make sure his body was in a "normal" state when he had to transform, leading to several... incongruous ghost forms for the situation at hand.

You suppose you had some forewarning of this, being the son of ghost hunters. Your parents had, a few years ago, shifted from believing that ghosts had no emotions to believing that their bodies were inherently psychoactive, changing dramatically based on what they felt in the moment, with no sense of purpose, planning, or anything but their own pleasure.

Of course, this theory was thrown out as soon as ghosts that didn't shapeshift constantly started appearing in Amity Park.

(Regardless of theory, your parents are still adamant that ghosts are evil.)

Now that you've fought dozens of ghosts, now that you're half ghost, you know better.

At least, you don't think being hungry is an emotional state, and it gives your rows upon rows teeth, predatory instincts, and extra hands. Cold and hot aren't emotions, either, and yet both of them often turn you into something with blue white skin, pointed ears, lots of fluffy hair, and a hatred of heat. Something that, you are annoyed to note, does not help you with overheating at all and makes you hyper in cold weather.

As best you can tell, what, exactly, you're going to look like each time you transform is determined by the state of your physical, human body when you transform.

If you're thirsty? Dehydrated, even? Then you're either dry or something with gills.

Too much caffeine? You get what Tucker calls low-grade super-speed and your whole body becomes rubbery and bouncy.

Pain? That varied a lot, depending on what, exactly, was hurt and how, but it usually involved some kind of protective covering over the area.

It was... disconcerting, not knowing what your body is going to do, going to be, moment from moment. You think it would be worse if your ghost form changed while you were still in it. You can imagine - bones twisting, stretching, flesh melting, reforming-- It reminds you too much of your accident, the thing that started this. You are glad that this is clean. That you change in a painless flash of light.

However, you think you might like a little more than a guess about what you will look like and what powers and weaknesses you'll have when you transform. And, as a side note, you think it would be nice if ghosts didn't attack right when you're about to go to sleep. You'd like at least a few minutes of dreams.

You know that if you lie in bed any longer, trying to convince yourself to be more awake, you will instead convince yourself that you imagined your ghost sense going off. So, you transform, right there.

You are aware this is a mistake.

You rub your eyes and catch the sight of star-spangled pajamas, a far cry from the ratty t-shirt you fell asleep in. You pat them with rounded, too-soft, too-gentle hands. They are silky. Your eyelashes are too long, they make your eyelids feel heavy. You touch your face, and there is a raised area around your eyes, like a mask.

Something crashes outside. You sigh. You won't get any sleep if that keeps up. You-- Probably, at least some of your usual powers will work. You can make this work.

You float up, and blankets wrapped around your shoulders float up with you. Did you have--? No, these aren't wrapped around your shoulders, they are attached to your shoulders. They are part of your body. You can tell when you tug on them.

Cozy.

You look longingly at your bed, but bravely soldier on, phasing out through the wall. Then, you orient yourself. Where had the sound come from?

Somehow, despite your eyes spending more time closed than open, you spot Shadow first. You follow him back to Johnny, Kitty, and... Desiree? And the Lunch Lady? They're having an argument in the neighborhood park. Johnny's motorcycle is tangled in the swing set, but somehow that doesn't seem to be what they're arguing about.

Whatever. You don't care.

"Can you guys just," you say. You pause. You planned a rant, but it just didn't seem worth it, now. "Not," he finished, eloquently. "I want to sleep."

"If you wished for it," says Desiree, "you could have as much as you wanted and more."

You give her an unimpressed look. "You all know," you say, sinking down so you are closer to eye level with them, "that I can kick all of your butts..." You trail off, noticing how Kitty is staring at you. "What?" you ask.

"Ohmigod," she says, "ohmigod, Johnny, he's so cute right now. I want to take him home."

"Uh," says Johnny. "You do know that's Phantom...?"

Your feet touch the grass lawn of the park and collapse into a tail. This tail, you notice, is unusually thick, long, and plush, compared to your usual ghostly tails, and you sink down into it as if it is a pillow.

"If you guys just leave, then I won't have to fight you," you continue, unwilling to be distracted now that you've come this far. "So, just, like, go."

"You won't have to fight us, either, if you go," says Johnny.

"What?" says Kitty. "No, don't go, I bet you're so soft, right now, right?"

You blink at her, bemused. You didn't think she cared about things like that.

"Here, sweetie," says the Lunch Lady, who has snuck up on you while the others occupy your attention. She presses something to your lips. "Warm milk to help you sleep!"

Normally, You wouldn't drink anything given to you by Lunch Lady even if you were dared, but you've been surprised, and the second a drop of milk touches your lips, your stupid, traitor body decides it is exactly what you've been craving. You drink the milk in three long swallows, then you sigh and yawn.

"Oh, no," says Johnny, also yawning, "it's contagious."

You hear more yawns, but you don't know who's yawning. You've closed your eyes and rested your head on your hands. A few minutes later, someone lies down on the coils of your tail. Then so does another person, wrapping themselves in one of your blanket-capes. A third person cuddles you as if you were a stuffed animal. A fourth person just uses your tail as a pillow, the rest of them lying on the ground.

This, you think sleepily, is not ideal.

But, then, you are asleep, and you're happy enough with that.

[five-rivers]

Soft body horror! Danny's parents theorized that ghosts' forms shift with their emotions, but Danny knew better: his ghost form shifted with his physical state, not his mental state. If he was hungry, his ghost form was a gaping thing with many teeth. If he was tired, his ghost form would shift to something soft and docile. If he was overheated, or freezing, or thirsty, or hyped up on too much caffeine, or in pain, or anything else that differed from baseline, his ghost form reflected it. The problem with that was, Danny couldn't always make sure his body was in a "normal" state when he had to transform, leading to several... incongruous ghost forms for the situation at hand.

You suppose you had some forewarning of this, being the son of ghost hunters. Your parents had, a few years ago, shifted from believing that ghosts had no emotions to believing that their bodies were inherently psychoactive, changing dramatically based on what they felt in the moment, with no sense of purpose, planning, or anything but their own pleasure.

Of course, this theory was thrown out as soon as ghosts that didn't shapeshift constantly started appearing in Amity Park.

(Regardless of theory, your parents are still adamant that ghosts are evil.)

Now that you've fought dozens of ghosts, now that you're half ghost, you know better.

At least, you don't think being hungry is an emotional state, and it gives your rows upon rows teeth, predatory instincts, and extra hands. Cold and hot aren't emotions, either, and yet both of them often turn you into something with blue white skin, pointed ears, lots of fluffy hair, and a hatred of heat. Something that, you are annoyed to note, does not help you with overheating at all and makes you hyper in cold weather.

As best you can tell, what, exactly, you're going to look like each time you transform is determined by the state of your physical, human body when you transform.

If you're thirsty? Dehydrated, even? Then you're either dry or something with gills.

Too much caffeine? You get what Tucker calls low-grade super-speed and your whole body becomes rubbery and bouncy.

Pain? That varied a lot, depending on what, exactly, was hurt and how, but it usually involved some kind of protective covering over the area.

It was... disconcerting, not knowing what your body is going to do, going to be, moment from moment. You think it would be worse if your ghost form changed while you were still in it. You can imagine - bones twisting, stretching, flesh melting, reforming-- It reminds you too much of your accident, the thing that started this. You are glad that this is clean. That you change in a painless flash of light.

However, you think you might like a little more than a guess about what you will look like and what powers and weaknesses you'll have when you transform. And, as a side note, you think it would be nice if ghosts didn't attack right when you're about to go to sleep. You'd like at least a few minutes of dreams.

You know that if you lie in bed any longer, trying to convince yourself to be more awake, you will instead convince yourself that you imagined your ghost sense going off. So, you transform, right there.

You are aware this is a mistake.

You rub your eyes and catch the sight of star-spangled pajamas, a far cry from the ratty t-shirt you fell asleep in. You pat them with rounded, too-soft, too-gentle hands. They are silky. Your eyelashes are too long, they make your eyelids feel heavy. You touch your face, and there is a raised area around your eyes, like a mask.

Something crashes outside. You sigh. You won't get any sleep if that keeps up. You-- Probably, at least some of your usual powers will work. You can make this work.

You float up, and blankets wrapped around your shoulders float up with you. Did you have--? No, these aren't wrapped around your shoulders, they are attached to your shoulders. They are part of your body. You can tell when you tug on them.

Cozy.

You look longingly at your bed, but bravely soldier on, phasing out through the wall. Then, you orient yourself. Where had the sound come from?

Somehow, despite your eyes spending more time closed than open, you spot Shadow first. You follow him back to Johnny, Kitty, and... Desiree? And the Lunch Lady? They're having an argument in the neighborhood park. Johnny's motorcycle is tangled in the swing set, but somehow that doesn't seem to be what they're arguing about.

Whatever. You don't care.

"Can you guys just," you say. You pause. You planned a rant, but it just didn't seem worth it, now. "Not," he finished, eloquently. "I want to sleep."

"If you wished for it," says Desiree, "you could have as much as you wanted and more."

You give her an unimpressed look. "You all know," you say, sinking down so you are closer to eye level with them, "that I can kick all of your butts..." You trail off, noticing how Kitty is staring at you. "What?" you ask.

"Ohmigod," she says, "ohmigod, Johnny, he's so cute right now. I want to take him home."

"Uh," says Johnny. "You do know that's Phantom...?"

Your feet touch the grass lawn of the park and collapse into a tail. This tail, you notice, is unusually thick, long, and plush, compared to your usual ghostly tails, and you sink down into it as if it is a pillow.

"If you guys just leave, then I won't have to fight you," you continue, unwilling to be distracted now that you've come this far. "So, just, like, go."

"You won't have to fight us, either, if you go," says Johnny.

"What?" says Kitty. "No, don't go, I bet you're so soft, right now, right?"

You blink at her, bemused. You didn't think she cared about things like that.

"Here, sweetie," says the Lunch Lady, who has snuck up on you while the others occupy your attention. She presses something to your lips. "Warm milk to help you sleep!"

Normally, You wouldn't drink anything given to you by Lunch Lady even if you were dared, but you've been surprised, and the second a drop of milk touches your lips, your stupid, traitor body decides it is exactly what you've been craving. You drink the milk in three long swallows, then you sigh and yawn.

"Oh, no," says Johnny, also yawning, "it's contagious."

You hear more yawns, but you don't know who's yawning. You've closed your eyes and rested your head on your hands. A few minutes later, someone lies down on the coils of your tail. Then so does another person, wrapping themselves in one of your blanket-capes. A third person cuddles you as if you were a stuffed animal. A fourth person just uses your tail as a pillow, the rest of them lying on the ground.

This, you think sleepily, is not ideal.

But, then, you are asleep, and you're happy enough with that.