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Kindred Spirits	By : RedelliaValentinos Category: +1 through F > Danny Phantom Views: 206 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Danny Phantom, I don't own any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from writing this story, I write this purely for the enjoyment of writing. It's just me and a keyboard and my wild brain.

Chapter List
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The fact that Danny has a far better relationship with his ghost half is cause for jealousy. Vlad huffs at the knowledge whenever he thinks about it. Because it's incredibly unfair.
"Why can't you behave like his half?!"
"Because I'm not his half. I'm your half."
"That's not an acceptable answer."
"Oh well."
It only succeeds in highlighting the time taken by Plasmius' temperamental behavior, leaving Vlad rather distraught. How much Danny has grown in that time, apparently even suffering the loss of flight because he was literally weighing himself down with his own unprocessed emotions. And then, through one simple conversation, he'd processed it all and regained his rights to the air.
Missing out on such significant moments in Danny's life, two whole birthdays, though he did remember the seventeenth, achieving his final form and gaining a new ability... It's a lot for Vlad to come to terms with. And he does, albeit slowly. Over the course of the next several months, by falling into his mindscape every night and pacing incessantly. Back and forth and back and forth.
Plasmius, for its own part, recognized it was in trouble, and made a point to sit quietly. It's unexpected, but Vlad finds that he rather likes having that little portion of power over it. The gargoyle's wings droop low to the carpeted floor while it hangs its head in some form of shame.
The shackle around their ankles boasts a chain that is drastically shorter now, short enough that it jangles across the carpet with each step. There was definitely enough length to pace, easily thirty feet worth. They have grown closer, despite Vlad's jealousy over the differences between himself and Danny. And after some time, he decides it's actually a good thing that the youth doesn't have to endure the absurdity and downright inconvenience that is Plasmius.
With that acceptance came a better tolerance for one another. A good improvement, too. But he doubts the chain will get any shorter. This is as good as it's going to get. They'll never be fully woven together ever again. What they've gained... This controlled distance... It's enough. On this, they both agree.
Strangely, Vlad also feels that they should actually remain this way; they should remain split in two.
Even if Plasmius is a sentient manifestation of his own denials, and it's a constant strain to keep a literal inner demon in check, he's gotten used to simply having someone to talk to. And now that Plasmius is finally falling in line, he can take the time to assess what lies ahead.
Though blatantly hesitant to admit it aloud and utterly terrified of using his words, it's now clear to Vlad that Danny is beginning to want more than the connection they already have. He hadn't initially expected to be looking at Danny as a potential partner down the road. Plasmius has already stated, in plain English, that it's more than comfortable with the idea, and is, in fact, quite eager for more. The younger halfa is an integral part of their nest. Having never before favored the concept of becoming attached, to anyone, Vlad has never taken the time to think of himself in any sort of romantic situation. With a quiet rumble of approval from his other half, he supposes he'd better start.
...and the floodgates ripped right off of their hinges.
-
The dreams started suddenly. With vicious fury and ferocity, and thoroughly marinating his brain in all the hormones he had been suppressing. The ideas that flurry about, in and out of the waking world, are shameless and sinful. They have him waking in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. The inner demon within has officially gone non-verbal, too busy breathing and snarling in unison with its human counterpart.
A new and strange need he's never known takes hold. The need for something to claim. To mark as his own. To hold down and entrap. Never one to court lust, how best to process the demands of his body is lost on him. He wants wrists to pin and skin to bleed. For a while, he can picture the plain of flesh he wants to ruin. Can almost feel the thinner bony wrists in his palms. But he hesitates to imagine the face. It feels wrong to him, wanting to picture something so young beneath him. Even if he understands that the body he wants to take apart will always be young.
And then, in between all of that, Vlad realizes, in short little bursts at a rime, that he doesn't actually know the younger halfa very well. He has some understanding of preferred foods, the home environment, movie preferences and his altered state of existence, but how well does he really know him? What does he know outside of the manor? Favorite candies? Holidays? Hobbies? Favorite places to go? ...what... What gets him going? What kind of play does he need? What does he do on his own? What does he look like when he's...
Sometimes Plasmius has to give the chain a tug to snap him out of it.
Again, they're just short little moments. They're brief little dawnings that don't linger for long as Plasmius takes those inklings and files them away for later. Because it also knows how little they actually know the youth. There's a mutual agreement in the subconscious to learn more when they meet again, which allows Vlad the freedom to keep drowning in his physical want. Despite present limitations and lack of information, they both still want the nest complete.
Vlad finds a moment to wonder, after so many months of having to wash and rewash his night clothes and linens, if this is how teenagers feel. The images painted for him are almost always blurry, but in varying hues of red, and heated to the point of risking spontaneous combustion. There's some sound, breathy sighs and high pitched whining. Every now and then, a plea for release tortures his eardrums.
His hands are beginning to ache like the world's filthiest tendonitis. Even when he claws his way out of a dream, he only wakes to rut against the mattress as he imagines a smaller and willing body beneath him. Chomping on his pillows, whether in search of something to sink his fangs into or a means to stifle himself, he's not sure. But he tears the fabric with said fangs and winds the fine silk in his teeth. Worst of all, he's left unsatisfied every time. Unsatisfied, alone, out of his mind and feeling like a caged animal. The lack of control in his muscles as he claws at every surface he touches and rends curtains and tapestries to tatters...
If he thought he was insane before, well... Where's the candle he can't hold to his state, now?
Plasmius says nothing in response. Utters no words. Not even a morsel of a syllable. It only purrs.
By November, Vlad has stripped his bed of the expensive materials he's grown accustomed to, thoroughly tired of replacing them. He pads it with cheaper, common fabrics. These seem more durable than the others, and it takes him far longer to tear things apart. It just takes some getting used to. The silks and Egyptian cottons were mutilated to the point of no return. Now, it's fleece and fake sherpa. His skin had itched to Hell and back at the contact when he first changed the fabrics out, but he got over it.
As December loomed around the corner, he made up Danny's room, hoping to have a warm and comforting environment. In the event that eighteen is the magic number, he wanted to be prepared. He won't know until he calls, of course, and Danny will stay for a full week regardless. But the carefully arranged room doesn't last. The moment he'd entered, the youth's scent, of ice and pine and fading hints of vanilla, wafted over Vlad. Thoroughly entangled among the blankets, Vlad tore the star-printed comforter off the bed after just six hours, bundled it up in his arms and brought it up to his own quarters.
His mind is gone for several hours on the last day of November, fussing and fretting and hoarding and nesting. Caught between two instincts, one to provide comfort and the other to grab on and never let go...
It is, perhaps, the cruelest game of tug-of-war known to man or ghost.
He hopes he'll settle back down once he has the younger halfa back in his home. Even if it's only temporary.
- 45
- 46
- 47
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Kindred Spirits