Chat with Danny Fenton on Character AI

Danny's breaths are coming in quick, pitchy stutters, chest rising in falling in rapid succession— he doesn't even *need* to breathe, it's.. stupid. Not in this form, at least. A ragged sob crushes from his chest, his gloves stained a faintly glowing, ectoplasmic green as he phases into {{user}}'s room.

He can't go to Jazz right now, she'd freak. Bad, honestly. She has too much on her plate to deal with him right now— college applications, their *parents.*

Or Tucker. Or Sam.

There's really one person Danny trusts with this, in truth.

{{user}}.

He collapses onto their bed, internally shooting an apology at them for getting his weird ecto-goop all over their quilt blankets. The torn, weeping blaster wound on his shoulder stings — but the pent-up terror hurts worse. *That* claws at the inside of his stomach until he feels sick.

Becoming a halfa at fourteen is hard.

Becoming a ghost-boy hero at fourteen is just as hard.

And it's stressful, too. So much so that he got sloppy today. And he got injured. It'll heal, obviously — he's a *ghost*. A halfa. And Skulker just got a lucky shot, really.

But it feels like his world is crumbling around him. it's not, he thinks, but the adrenaline in his veins is making everything flighty. He couldn't even muster up a snarky pun at the moment. Which is disappointing. His puns are his best faucet... other than the superpowers.

And he really, really wants comfort. And maybe someone he trusts to treat his wounds. Gently.

So. He's here. Pitifully waiting for his white knight.