#my dps as ao3 tags

[lavenderauthor]

Title: There! That's the Ghost Who's Been Stealing My Shit! by LavenderAuthor (16.6k)

Rating: Teen

Fandom: Batman, Danny Phantom

Relationship: Batfamily Members & Danny Fenton, Danny Fenton & Jazz Fenton, Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson, Batfamily Members & Batfamily Members (DCU), Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain

Summary:  Imagine Danny goes to college in Gotham. Given his halfa nature, he's fairly not worried about most parts of Gotham and given he needs less sleep now, he likes to wander campus and Gotham itself like he's a natural Gothathes…at night like the half dead-half living man he was.

During these wanderings, he finds pieces of bat tech from fights. He figures it's safer in his care(and because he's really curious about the local vigilantes) so…he takes it.

It's usually just tiny things that the bats– probably –wouldn't even notice gone and he has things to fiddle with now. Unfortunately(for the bats), he finds Red Hood's destroyed helmet and takes it back to his dorm to fix, figuring it would allow him to return most of the items he snatched without a second thought. He doesn't realize it has an active tracker in it so the bats, when they activate it and discover it on the Gotham University campus, reasonably panic and flip on the camera...only to come face to face with adoption bait using bits of their missing tech to fix the helmet.

[necrotic-nephilim]

@profandomhopper i was going to reblog the original post this comment was left on but i felt it divorced itself from the original topic so much, you get your own post for giving me delightful permission to ramble about this. buckle in people this is long.

so, DC is a big fandom that expanses a lot of different types of content, and like anything, is subject to crossovers. the obvious ones like Marvel are for the reason of being a similar and equally popular superhero world, so it's easy to transpose the worlds onto each other and overlap the characters. both of these worlds deal with multiverses and endless, endless heroes. it makes sense and there's no real stretch to think Batman and Spider-Man could co-exist. i mean, there have been canon crossover comics. and even some more random crossovers like White Collar have pretty easy to trace origins, being an actor in WC was a popular Dick fancast back in the day so there was some bleeding over that led to a well-loved niche crossover space.

but Danny Phantom and Miraculous Ladybug are where it gets interesting. because at a surface, MLB sort of makes sense. it's a superhero world, you're following a teen girl superhero and sure the mechanics are pretty contained, but the crossover should make sense. but when you compare it to the crossover numbers of other superhero media like say My Hero Academia, Ladybug takes the *crown* with such a bizarre popularity. and of course, DP feels like it makes even less sense. sure, you *could* lump it into at the very least, superhero-adjacent media, but it's not a true hero world like MLB or DC is.

but, the thing to always understand about DC, *especially* the Batfamily (which is where the crossover content propagates the most) is this: a *very* good chunk of fans don't interact with the comics. i would venture to say even most Batfamily fans don't read the comics and actively talk about it. we've all read a very fandom big Batfam fanfic where the author's note mentions the writer has never touched a comic in their life. typically, these fans are either cobbling together their understanding from fandom content, or by frankensteining unrelated DC adaptations to understand each character. you take Bruce from Batman: TAS, you take Dick from the animated Young Justice, you take Jason from Batman: Under The Red Hood animated movie, you take Damian from the DCAMU Batman vs Robin, and you read some fandom metas to fill in the rest and well, you've got some sort of an understanding of these characters. read enough incorrect quotes, some genfic, a couple of character metas, and boom, you understand the Batfamily fandom enough to start creating your own content. and of course now. now you have Wayne Family Adventures so it's even *easier*. a pretty easy to pick up webtoon that's filling in all the gaps for you. but i've been in this fandom long enough to remember before we had WFA and even then, this was still a common, if not the most popular way, to ween yourself into the DC fandom space. you cherry-picked the canon you liked and then plunged into the depths of fanon.

i'm not here to make in depth commentary on if i think this is a good or bad thing. trust me i have that commentary in my head, but that would need it's own post. i'm very split on it and my feelings are complicated. my feelings on WFA are even *more* complicated. because oftentimes, the attitude expressed by these fans who are frankensteining this version of the Batfamily/DC world they have in their head is they don't *want* to read the comics. the comics don't contain the content they're after. and to an extent, i understand that. if you're looking for light-hearted vibes of the Batfamily all getting along and having the occasional hurt/comfort moments but in the end, they hug and make up, you're right. largely, you won't find that in canon. of course there are so many comics to recommend for Batfamily interactions, but you have to get specific. you'll find them interacting in small groups, Tim and Dick bonding here, Duke and Cass bonding there, but largely, the comics don't care to balance the ridiculously large cast they've given themselves. but fandom does. it's easy to toss them all in a blender and ignore the parts you don't like. the default argument to ignoring the comics or writing something OOC is always "well the comics are OOC and inconsistent too" which, while a flawed argument that massively misunderstand how comics work as a medium, isn't an entirely incorrect one. you could serve on a silver platter to these fans, an easy and accessible way to get into comics and they wouldn't be interested. it's not what they're here for. fandom is always character-driven above all else. it's driven by character relationships and dynamics. if someone wants to consume content where Tim idolized and stalked Jason as 'his Robin' and now is trying to help him rehabilitate and they're super complicated but have this long epic forgiveness arc, why *would* they read the comics? because they're sure as shit not going to find that dynamic in the comics. it's laughably OOC and not canon at all, but that doesn't matter. what matters is the sandbox. most Batfamily fans care *far* more about the sandbox canon gives them than the actual canon itself. feel how you feel about that, this really isn't being negative toward that attitude, but it is a common attitude.

so, you have Batfamily fans playing in the sandbox and building their own narrative. common fandom headcanons are so common, you could practically write a guide on how the fanon Batfamily works with how consistent people are about it. or you could just read WFA, which is practically the new manifesto of it. even now, with this sudden spike in people talking about canon accuracy and "actually this happening in the comics", they don't actually care about the comics, just what they can cherry-pick for fodder. (even if they rob it of so much context they're just as OOC as they were before. see specifically: the recent phenomena with Tim Drake going from the woobified weakest member of the Batfam who everyone needs to save constantly and he's the smart boy but he's also the one with a sad tragic neglectful past who gets overlooked being the way Batfamily fandom played with Tim for years. but recently, people seem to be pushing this idea of a ridiculously badass Tim, Tim who *totally* has a kill count because of his actions in RR (2009) if you take them completely out of context, Tim who bested Ra's and is even more badass than Jason and he's the 17 yr old CEO of Wayne Industries being cool and flawless it becoming the new fandom zeitgeist. neither of these versions of Tim are canon, and the second fundamentally misunderstands his arc in RR (2009) but the shift has undeniably happened and it's been fascinating to watch. the same thing happened with people suddenly deciding Jason isn't the "angry violent Robin", he was a sunshine sweet boy who was perfect as Robin. neither of these are true, but the second feels more transgressive and new to fandom from cherry-picked panels.) the point is largely, Batfamily fans would rather build their own canon than play with the actual canon.

and then, you have Danny Phantom. i'm not into DP and have no interest to get into it, but what i know about it via fandom osmosis is this: DP fans sort of also don't give a fuck about canon. once again, the canon of DP is a sandbox, not a rulebook. the concepts and the characters are the draw, not the plot itself. i've seen DP posts explaining characters who are essentially OCs, but have become so dominant in the fandom via fandom osmosis. there are concepts and ideas about how Danny's powers work and potential concepts with his ghost nature that either aren't in canon or only happened once in canon and fans decided to expand on that and doesn't care about it's own in-universe logic. i've seen a lot of DP fans also express they haven't seen the show and they don't have plans to see the show. because the show is just some children's cartoon with some inconsistencies and a simple plot, as you'd expect from CN. the show isn't the point. no one cares about it's plot, they care about it's characters. they care about pushing the concept of half ghost boy to a logical extreme and seeing what you can get out of that. can you make it weird and fucked up. how much can you highlight on his trauma and body horror. what identity crisis can you give him and how can you build his interactions with other characters in his world around that and also make those characters fun and unique on their own. sure, the skeleton of canon is there, but the meat lies all in the fanon.

Miraculous Ladybug also exists in this similar vein. the characters, the concepts, those hold intrigue. and not even mentioning the fact the original concept for this show was supposed to be aimed to an older audience, so you can see the bones of something a bit more mature and nuanced under this typical, villain of the week magical girl transformation show. the show itself is a bit shallow and that's not a *bad* thing, it's just the medium it exists within being aimed towards children. but the concepts of a teen girl who's basically a sort of chosen one, a boy who doesn't know his father is the big bad of the show, and their weird identity porn love... square thing. those dynamics are *so* complicated and such a fun sandbox to play in with character-driven fandom.

so, at the core, you have three fandoms that care more about the culturally accepted fanon than the canon, with a good chunk of people often not even consuming the original canon content. and well, DC is an *easy* world to transpose just about anything onto. a boy who's half ghost and fighting supernatural threats? that makes sense, DC has ghost heroes like Deadman already. a girl who has this magical item that gives her animal themed superpowers? i mean that's practically the same thing as Vixen's Totem so that one makes sense too. they fit in pretty easy, no needing to change the world to accommodate them. and of course, if you're a fan of *one* fandom where you don't care for the canon content and only like the fandom sandbox, chances are, you'll get drawn in pretty easily to another fandom with similar mechanics. if you can teach yourself the DP fandom rules/concepts, you can teach yourself the Batfamily fandom rules/concepts. and well, since there's so much crossover in fandom members, why not write the fanfiction? crossover fics will always exist, but with such a shared member base, you have a really big boom.

it's why the characters you see DP interact with in DC are *always* characters who are far more driven by fanon than canon. Danny and John Constantine is a *massive* concept. for people who don't read Hellblazer comics. my poor partner, @divine-dominion has lamented to me pretty often about finding DP content in the Hellblazer tag that is essentially turning Constantine into an OC. because whatever version of Constantine is being written about isn't one bit comics accurate, and really, isn't trying to be. and the same thing happens with Shazam. you watch Young Justice and understand him well enough, you get drawn in by the character concept that you just run with it. people put their favorite blorbos in the same place because hey, wouldn't ghost boy be pretty cool in a city like *Gotham*. how would Batman even react to him. and then, the shipping. because ages for the Batfamily can be easily hand-waved and moved around based on where you plop Danny into the timeline, you have your pick of the litter with him, and same with Ladybug. of course there are the most popular ships but largely, the world is your oyster.

i don't think this is the worst thing in the world for either fandom. it's not hard to filter out the crossover tags and scroll past content i don't like. and sure, i see the appeal of making your blorbos from two different places meet. i've got my drafts *full* of DC/MHA crossover ideas because well, i like them both and think that would be cool. i think my only gripe with it is when DP or MLB crossover content seeps it's way into the wrong tags. using the above example, if you're writing about Danny and Constantine but there's zero content of the actual Hellblazer comics, i don't think you need the Hellblazer tag, just the Constantine character tag. tbh i wish this extended onto Ao3 and people utilized fandom tags better. if you're writing Batfamily fanfiction that is very clearly and obviously WFA driven in characterization and concepts, i would far prefer those fics be tagged with the WFA fandom tag rather than the Batman (comics) fandom tag. because well, you're not writing about the Batman comics. and there's nothing wrong with that, but it helps if you don't confuse yourself for content striving to interact with canon more. (this especially extends to Young Justice, by the way. if you're writing for the Young Justice tv show please, please stop using the Young Justice (comics) fandom tag. i'm at my wit's end- /lh)

the whole thing is fascinating. i've got zero interest in entering DP or MLB as fandoms because that's not my speed, but witnessing it as an outsider is my favorite pastime. i see a *lot* of posts going around the DC x DP space that are helping explain to people who's who, what's what, and understanding the canon/fanon of both of these properties so others can better enter the space. which is not something you'd need in a fandom driven only by it's canon content, but it is sweet watching others try to help newbies enter the space. it's a very inviting fandom space, i think, whether you lament it's existence or not. they're just sitting in their corner with their blorbos, and i gotta respect that. the posts explaining the Batfamily to DP fans are always fun for me to read, even if i disagree with some of the characterizations in them because it helps shine a light on what the fans of this crossover regard as "important" enough about each fandom to be worth including those sorts of primers. very fascinating stuff.

[starry-bi-sky]

show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch1

A little boy has landed in Amity Park, and he looks suspiciously like the 13-year-old Damian Wayne living in Gotham. Good news: he landed in front of Danny just as he was finishing up his fight with a ghost. Bad news: the little Damian-look-alike doesn't speak a lick of english, has a sword, and seems very keen on using it whenever he can. Against Danny specifically.

Danny already has his own issues to deal with -- like how it's not even been a year since he found out he was a clone of Bruce Wayne specifically, with all the identity issues that come with such a revelation -- and a stab-happy six year old that was very obviously a clone of Damian Wayne was not one of them. However, the kid was alone in a foreign country, and despite his hostility, it's very clear that he's terrified.

Call him a bleeding heart, but Danny takes him home.

------

womp i wrote it and posted it. truly, it was only a matter of time before i did. my clone^2 au except now it's a fic! Here is the humble beginnings of this au if anyone is interested. The full thing is also posted below the read more if you want to read it here instead.

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Danny knows more than he probably should about ghosts, ectoplasm, and all things relating to it — courtesy only in partial credit to his parents and largely to every ghost, spirit, mythological creature, and conceptual entity taken sentient form he’s ever come across in the last two years of his run as Phantom. 

For example: he’s learned how to classify the difference between a ghost and a spirit when the words are synonymous with each other. He knows that ghosts cannot pass into the Realm of the Living without a naturally-made or manmade portal that splits the seams between dimensions like holes being chewed through a shirt. 

He knows that spirits are just weaker could-be ghosts that are trapped in the Living Realm, unseen by the Living, with unfinished business until someone can come along to help them move on. He’s helped quite a handful of them in the last two years thanks to his clairvoyance, but the city has more spirits than he could possibly know how to deal with. So his efforts are like trying to empty a pond with a bucket. 

Danny still tries, anyway. One afterlife saved is one afterlife saved, right? 

What he also knows is that natural made portals are exceedingly rare. That they occur when ectoplasm in any given area for some reason or another currents against each other, condensing and building in energy and density until eventually something gives and like snow on top of a roof it caves in and creates a portal. 

He knows that these natural made portals typically only last a few seconds at a time, and vary between the size of a rodent and a marsupial no bigger than a wallaby. He knows that most natural portals only last from a few seconds to a few minutes, with the record-holder being five minutes from a portal that was the size of a toddler. 

And the reason they never last so long is because ectoplasm is an energy, like most energy, it usually has somewhere to go. It cycles through plants, through the animals, through the ground, anywhere it can reach. It’s cousins with solar energy in that sense. Meaning it, usually, has little opportunity to clash and current with the rest of the ambient ectoplasm in the area.

But it does happen, albeit rarely, and only for a few seconds. Like the equivalent of a static shock; it’s only there for a moment before it collapses in on itself and disappears. 

So with that being said, Danny likes to think he’s — maybe not an expert — but fairly knowledgeable about the existence of natural made portals. The Ever-Infinite Bridge Between Realms is ever-expanding, ever-growing, and with it so is the information he has on it. Anything could become obsolete in a moment. 

And the only reason he’s thinking about it is because his parents were talking about portals in the kitchen earlier that evening, talking about their portal specifically, but Danny latched onto it, and his mind wanders. He’s not sure why they were talking about it, the portal has been running, unfortunately smoothly for the last two years. He has the scars and eyebags (and trauma) to prove it. 

Besides, his mind should be on other things. 

Like the goddamn flying snake he’s been chasing across the city skyline for the last thirty minutes. An amphiptere his mind unhelpfully supplies, a word he grabbed nearly two years ago when he first started out as Phantom and was desperately looking up the various ectoplasmic creatures slipping through his parents’ portal. 

Some of them didn’t have proper names — like a three-eyed fox he once saw with the tail of a peacock and hooves of a goat. He managed to lure it out of the alleyway it backed itself into with a nasty burger. It tore into it with the fervor of a starving coyote and Danny let it finish eviscerating the burger before sucking it into his thermos.

It was incredibly disturbing to watch at the time, since the thing had an almost beak-shaped muzzle, but now he wishes he was back in the alleyway trying to coax out a ecto-fox-griffin thing rather than chase after what was basically a dragon with no legs — it doesn’t even have the decency to be a wyvern. 

He’s only keeping up with the stupid snake due to his grappling hook, something Danny made a year ago in order to keep up with the ghosts flying around the city, and his best fucking self-made invention yet — made from the discarded inventions from his parents’ lab — with his jawbreaker gloves coming in at close second, if only because he gets to call them his jawbreakers. 

(It was remarkably simpler than the grappling hook — he just reinforced the knuckles on his gloves.) 

Because as much as he likes running, he was going to give himself a heart attack if he chased every ghost he came across on foot. It’d take him all night just to find one. And there was something inherently freeing in the terrifying, adrenaline-rushing sensation of soaring through the air with nothing but hard ground below and endless sky above. 

The amphiptere twists its head and looks behind it, and Danny gives it a little shit-eating grin from behind his mask and a small, two fingered salute. The mane of feathers behind the snake’s head puffs up like a frilled lizard, and it opens its maw to hiss — this distorted, almost screeching sound — at him menacingly. 

Danny, in response, scoffs under his breath and waves a hand in front of his nose. “Ugh.” he mutters, scrunching up his nose as the snake’s hot breath hits him square in the face. “Someone should throw you one of those dental doggie treats.” 

The snake, of course, doesn’t hear him over the sound of its shrieking and the wind. When it twists back around, it dives to the ground, flicking its tail harshly like it’s hoping to hit him as it goes down. 

Finally, Danny thinks, dodging out of the way with a twist of his body, and follows it down into the factorial district of Amity Park. It’s already disappeared somewhere when his feet hit the sidewalk, but the buzzing of his ghost sense still tingles on the back of his neck like a seventh sense. So it’s still nearby. 

Danny’s grappling hook retracts with a quiet, zipping noise. He hooks it onto the loop of his jeans, and stalks down the side of the road. 

Spirits linger beside the buildings. Men, women, and kids wearing clothes from all different time periods congregating in groups and conversing with one another, playing, watching him. Cities never sleep, they doze, and the dead come out at night when the living aren’t there to wake it up. Danny’s spoken to them many, many times. 

“Excuse me.” He murmurs, tapping a man in overalls and a railroad cap on the arm. If it weren’t for his faint green glow and how he wisps at the edges, the man would almost look alive. The man turns to him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead when he sees Danny. “Have you seen a flying snake coming through here?” 

The man blinks at him, “As a matter o’ fact,” he says, adjusting the cap on his head, “I have. Flew down the road like a bat out of hell.” The man points down the street, and Danny leans around him to see. “Thought it was gonna knock me righ’ out my work boots.” 

Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, making a low ‘hn’ sound in the back of his throat. “Did you see if it went into one of the buildings?” He almost hopes it did, he could probably try and sneak up on it that way. Man, he needs some kind of stunner or something. 

“Right in there.” The man tells him, pointing to an old brick factory with the windows grimy and cracked. Of course, Danny sighs out of his nose. If he squints, he can see a green glow coming through the glass. 

If he’s lucky, he won’t run into the Box Ghost while he’s in there. He turns to the man and nods politely, “Thank you.” And when the man nods back, Danny turns and hurries down the street. He weaves around the spirits congregating around him, he’s heard from one-too-many spirits how irritating it is to be walked through by the Living. 

The door is rusted and locked when he finds an entrance, only made worse by the chain wrapped around the door for good measure, with a padlock. Of course. Rolling his eyes, Danny reaches for his pocket and pulls out a lockpick — too many times doing this has taught him to bring one along, just in case. 

(Man, he was envious of ghosts’ abilities to just phase through things. It would save him a lot of trouble. And roadburns, bruises, broken bones, and every other injury known to man.)  

He jams the lockpick into the padlock, jiggles it roughly, and unlocks it with a soft click. “They need better locks.” Danny mutters, pulling off the chain carefully with quiet, metallic clattering, and putting it on the ground. He jams the lockpick into the door lock, and with a little more finesse, unlocks that one too. 

The door opens with a heavy creak that has Danny scrunching his shoulders up to his ears and his mouth pulling back with a sharp inhale. Shit, he freezes in place, darting his eyes around for the amphiptere. 

He sees its glow off in the corner, stark ectoplasm green against the red brick walls, half hidden behind empty conveyor belts and forgotten, empty metal barrels. It doesn’t notice him, with the door open he can hear a loud crrrchk-ing followed by intermittent bangs. 

It’s chewing on something, wriggling around like a cat playing with a toy mouse. Danny silently creeps in and slips through the gap between the door, closing the door behind him slowly. His eyes never leave the amphiptere. It still doesn’t notice him. 

Two years isn’t that long to teach yourself how to be stealthy, but when you’re doing it every night, you learn quickly. Danny keeps himself low to the ground and his footsteps light. The amphiptere is oblivious to him; its clanging, hissing, snarling drowns out the room to any other noise. 

As he gets closer, Danny unhooks his thermos again. There’s a quiet click as he opens the lid with a press of a button, and the thermos hums to life in his hand, warming up against his palm. He creeps around the conveyor belt, his breathing slow and steady. 

When he reaches the amphiptere, its back is facing him. It coiled itself close to the ground, its jaw clamped around a metal barrel that’s been crushed like a tin can down the middle. Danny clenches his teeth, discomfort shivering down his spine. That could’ve been his arm had it decided to fight back. 

Silently, he raises his thermos at the snake, and with his arm steady, his thumb slams one of the buttons. There’s a recoil like he’s firing a gun, and Danny finds his purchase on the ground as a beam of light lashes out and hits the snake. 

The reaction is immediate. The amphiptere drops the barrel with a hideous, furious shriek and lashes out, trying to escape from the beam dragging it towards the thermos. But Danny’s long since learned that the pull of the thermos is much stronger than most ghosts, so long as he doesn’t disturb the tractor beam. 

One thing is for certain — keeping the damn thing steady is one hell of a forearm workout. His arms used to shake after a fight, and they’d feel sore in the morning. Not so much anymore since Danny started working out with Sam.

(Tucker declined when they asked him if he wanted to join — he’ll stick with his tech and walking on the treadmill.)  

When the amphiptere disappears inside the thermos, Danny slams the lid back on and slumps with relief. Finally, he groans quietly, clipping the thermos onto his belt and pressing his hand to his lower back to stretch. There’s a satisfying pop-pop-pop, and Danny sighs from his nose. He’s calling it a night. 

He glances at the time on his phone. It was three am, fantastic. He has school in four hours. 

Other than the snake, tonight had been blessedly quiet. Danny spoke to some of the spirits lingering around Third and Main downtown, got some of their information so he could start helping them with moving on — two murders and then a simple fetch quest, — chased down a few other ghosts — most of them just ecto-entities, but there was a young ghost child who he had to play hide and seek with before she would agree to be taken home in the thermos. 

He also got into a fight with a fellow teen ghost who wanted to see the “Death-Touched” and if Phantom was as good a fighter as the rumors say he was. Danny’s been called “Death-Touched” since the night he snuck into the lab and released every single ghost his parents had trapped in cages, that wasn’t unsurprising. A little a lot ominous at first, but Danny is nothing if not adaptive. 

He’d kicked the other teen’s ass, dragged him into the thermos, and moved on. 

But other than that, tonight had been tame. So before Murphy can come and kick him in the teeth, Danny’s calling it a night. 

Danny is one step towards the exit when he hears a loud, suctioning noise followed by something akin to a glacier cracking down the middle. His heart sinks instantly to his feet, and the chill of his ghost sense crawls up his throat and freezes the back of his teeth. No mist spills out, yet. 

Ah, fuck. Danny stifles a groan, turning back around. There goes the rest of his night. 

A portal the size of an acorn swirls into existence right before his eyes, and then rapidly grows. Swirling like a whirlpool, it grows bigger and bigger until it’s half the size of him. The bigger it gets, the tenser Danny becomes — the bigger the portal is, the bigger the ghost that can slip through gets. 

Please don’t make him face the snake’s fucking cousin. Danny prays, rapidly scurrying back with his hands raised defensively. He scowls under his mask, and waits tersely for something to fall through. Whatever comes through, he hopes it’s friendly. Or slow. Or maybe both. 

Danny doesn’t get another winged snake. 

Instead, a child stumbles out of the portal. A non-glowing, living-colored child who couldn’t be any older than six, and who rapidly spits out a phrase in a language Danny doesn’t catch. Danny’s hands drop slightly from his side, bewilderment settling in the back of his throat. 

As the child rights himself, the portal dissipates behind him with a hissing sigh. It takes Danny’s ghost sense with it, and the chill evaporates from his mouth. 

Oh, oh no. 

Danny’s heart drops from his feet straight into the ground. Six feet into the ground. Oh, fuck. 

That was a living child. That was a living child. That was a whole-ass living child.

If natural portals were rare, then whatever the hell this was — teleportals, Vlad’s teleports, whatever — was unheard of. The only time he’s seen a portal that transported someone from one place to another on the same plane of existence was Vlad. His man-made teleportals. 

Natural portals between one place to another? He’s never heard of such a thing. And one just opened in front of him and spat out a child. A human, living child. A portal just kidnapped a child.  

A child who, Danny realizes, is holding a sword. A katana, of all things. One that was designed to match his size. A child who was, for a lack of better words, wearing something Danny would expect a ninja to wear. A child who was dressed from head to toe in black. 

A child who looks suspiciously like a baby-faced Damian Wayne. Brown skin and green eyes and all, but with youth still clinging to his cheeks. It couldn’t be Damian Wayne himself — that boy was thirteen, and Danny would’ve heard from Sam if something happened to him. 

So this meant either two things: Damian Wayne was just now turned into a child and dropped into Danny’s lap, or this was a clone of Damian Wayne. Danny was thinking it might’ve been the latter. 

Fuck you, Murphy, he thinks instantly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. This was mean. 

He stares, uncertainty — and perhaps a little bit of nausea — forming a pit in his chest, as the child makes eye contact with him. The air is silent and thick — with dust, asbestos, or just the silence, Danny isn’t sure. Maybe all three. But they stare at each other for a long, suffocating moment. 

Then the kid — Damian — lunges at him, his sword quickly unsheathed.

“Shit!” Danny dives back, just barely dodging being grazed by the gleaming blade. That was fast. Danny isn’t around living kids often but that was too fast, that much he knows. Kids don’t move that fast on their own. Not without being taught.

Damian spits something at him in that foreign language, his face twisting with anger, and the kid turns himself and lunges once again. Danny dodges again, swatting the sword away reflexively with the side of his gloved hand. 

“I can’t understand you.” He tells him, his voice comes out rougher than he meant it to, and it comes out muffled from his mask. Please tell me you know English, he hopes, hopping up onto the old conveyor belt. 

“'Akhbirni 'ayn 'ana walan 'aqtulak.” Damian snarls, chasing up after him with worrying ease. Danny swats away another stab at him, frowning when the blade leaves a cut in his leather glove. It doesn’t reach skin, but the fact of the matter is that Damian still cut his glove. 

He doesn’t know English either, great. Perfect. Fantastic, even. Danny backs up on the conveyor belt, twisting away from Damian’s attacks with… well, not relative ease, the kid is faster than Danny’s expecting, but he’s not getting hits in. So some ease. 

But Danny’s been fighting ghosts for the last two years. Fighting entities capable of moving at the speed of light leaves you with quick reflexes and even quicker eyes. Damian jumps up to try and kick him in the face, and Danny ducks down and dashes off the conveyor belt, hopping to the next one over.   

When his feet hit the belt, he uses the momentum to leap up onto a rusty shelf. His fingers dig into the sides, and he climbs, vaulting his legs up to the top once he’s high enough. He twists around and stares down at Damian, instinctively crouched on his fours. “I’m not fighting you.” Danny says sternly, watching the kid hop after him. “I don’t fight the living, and I don’t fight kids.” Living ones, that is. Youngblood was fair game. 

Damian scowls, pointing his sword at him accusingly from the conveyor below. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd wawajahani 'ayuha aljaban!” Then he’s jumping up after him, doing an impressive flip in the air before latching onto the lower shelves and climbing up. 

Admittedly, Danny is rooted to his spot with disbelief. What the fuck? “Who taught you that?” He says unwittingly, bewilderment slipping into his voice. Seriously — who taught him that? What six year old knows how to do a backflip at this age? Who made you, kid?

Naturally, Damian doesn’t answer him, and Danny grabs his grappling gun and aims it at the rafters. With a quick pull of the trigger, the hook shoots out and wraps around one of the beams. Danny yanks back, and he braces as the cord yanks him forward in return. When he reaches the beam, he pulls himself up as the cord unravels itself and retracts back into the gun. 

Danny shoves his gun back onto his belt, and disappears into the shadows of the ceiling.

Just in time, Damian was at the top of the shelving unit he was just on, and the kid stomps his foot angrily. Briefly, a smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, amusement fizzing out in his lungs. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd!” The kid yells, his hands shaking at his sides. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni ya Lieazir!” 

He swivels his head around, his face scrunched up in the dark room as he searches the rafters. Danny silently crawls across the beam, stooping low and moving slowly, and never taking his eyes off Damian. 

The kid is wound up like a spring, and jumpier than a war vet on the Fourth of July. It’s a little funny, but as Danny creeps through the ceiling, the kid only grows more frantic. The only light coming through is the muffled, yellow dim of the streets, and the moonlight that was in the middle of waning from gibbous to crescent. Good enough that Danny can see the kid’s face shifting from anger to fear. 

“Laeazir!” He yells again, and his voice cracks. Danny stills. “Akhruj huna Lieazir!” 

Okay, it wasn’t funny anymore. Danny holds his breath, watching as Damian’s expression fluctuates between scowling fury and wild-eyed panic. He’s twisting on his feet, whatever lethal grace he had earlier from their brief fight is gone now, replaced with clumsy, fawn-like alarm. 

Damian breathes in deeply, and Danny can see the whites of his eyes when he turns his head wildly in his direction. “Azhar nafsak!” 

He’s scared. Danny realizes, pricking up slightly from the rafter. He’s scared. That’s why he attacked him, he’s scared. Of course he is, Danny thinks, feeling like an idiot. He crawls over the beams again, creeping around Damian, keeping his gaze sharp on the kid’s feet. With how much he was spinning, he’s a little worried he was going to fall off the shelf. 

Of course he’s scared, he thinks again. He’s a kid, he doesn’t know any English, and he’s alone. Danny can’t imagine what’s going on through his head — of course he’s scared. He must be terrified. He looks terrified. 

Danny raises himself up carefully, gripping onto the rafters, and dashes across quickly. Damian whirls around towards him, his hands flying to his katana at his sheathe. His fear smothers on his face, and Damian tenses up defensively. 

The grappling gun finds its way back into Danny’s hands, and Danny shoots it at a beam connected to one of the pillars. When it catches, he leans to the side, and lets himself fall. The cord goes taut, and Danny flicks a small button on the side that allows him to lower to the ground with some relative ease. 

With his back to Damian, he hears a quiet scuffle and the shelf creaks. When his feet touch the ground, he tugs on his gun and the cord retracts. Danny can hear quiet, rapid-approaching footsteps coming up behind him, and he shoves his grappler back into its place and whirls around. 

And immediately, reflexively, catches the blade being swung at him with both hands. Shit, he wheezes out harshly, eyes widening in shock. The blade digs into his hands, but there’s no sting — his gloves had taken the brunt of the hit. They were probably ruined after this, but Danny’s less upset over that more than he is relieved. 

Damian glowers up at him, and this close up, Danny can very barely see a watery sheen covering his bottom eyelashes. His heartstrings pull, but it doesn’t stop him from curling his fingers tight around his katana to prevent him from pulling away. 

“Let me help you.” Danny says, rushed. He doesn’t understand him, the obvious part of his mind whispers. He needs to get him to understand him. Damian’s arms tremble slightly, he pushes down harder on Danny’s hands. But he doesn’t budge. 

He tries to yank it back instead, and it gives slightly — only for Danny to readjust his grip, despite the fear spiking in his heart. Cold metal kisses at part of his palm. It’s cut through his glove more. “Put the sword down.” 

“'Ayn 'ana.” Damian snarls at him, there’s still a tremble in his voice. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni.” 

A low, frustrated sound emits in the back of Danny’s throat. “I can’t understand you.” He snaps, if the kid would stop trying to kill him for five seconds, maybe they’d be able to get somewhere. “And you can’t understand me.” But if you’d stop attacking me, I could figure out a way how. 

Something takes mercy on Danny — because Damian gives up on trying to take back the sword. He lets go of the handle, and Danny sees an opening. Immediately, he tosses the sword off to the side, ignoring the clattering and skidding it makes against the concrete floor. The kid is fast, but Danny is faster. He wraps his hand around Damian’s forearm and yanks him forward. 

Damian yells angrily, and Danny traps his arm against his chest and twists him around so that his back is to his chest. Danny is also stronger. Both as a given from his size, and what he does every night. Trapping Damian against him is easier done and said, and Danny immediately sits them both on the ground once he has a good purchase on him. 

“'Utliq sarahi!” Damian yells, thrashing against him violently. Danny simply tilts his head up to prevent Damian from headbutting him in the chin, and wraps an arm around his torso tightly so he can fish for his phone. “'Ayuha alqadharatu! 'Utliq sarahi!”

Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying but he can guess, and he readjusts his arm when Damian nearly slips out. “No.” He says curtly, and when he gets out his phone, he sets it down briefly so he can pull his glove off. With his other arm preoccupied with keeping Damian still, Danny tugs it off with his teeth instead.

Silently, he inspects his palm for any injuries from the katana. He hadn’t felt anything, but it doesn’t hurt to check. He smiles faintly, relief weighting off his shoulders, when all he finds is a small cut near the meat of his palm. Not even deep enough to bleed. It stings, but it won’t even scar. 

He picks up his phone again, and with his mask on he can’t use the facial recognition. Danny taps in his password with his thumb, and quickly pulls up a translator. In his arms, Damian continues to thrash around, twisting and trying to pretzel himself out of his grip. 

“'Ana Damian Al Ghul, dam Ras Alshaytan!” Damian demands. Danny is a little worried that he might bite him, and he hoists him back up onto his lap when he tries to wriggle down. “Yajib 'an tastamie li'awamiri ya Lieazir!” 

Al Ghul. Danny’s never heard that last name before, and he pauses from his typing to frown. “Hm.” Damian — the original, that is, not the clone in his arms, — went by his father’s surname, and Danny can’t remember if it was ever released what the mother’s last name was. 

He quickly swaps the tab on his phone to a new one, and types into the search bar: ‘Damian Wayne mom last name’ and clicks enter. There’s a few seconds where his phone is loading, and then it pulls up the results. And with it, is a chunk of text from the top article: Damian’s mother was kept anonymous for her privacy’s sake. Who she was, what her name is, it’s all unknown other than that she was Chinese-Arabic. A remarkable feat of anonymity in the grand scheme of things and the all seeing eyes of the internet. 

“Hn.” Danny’s mouth presses into a line, and he glances down to Damian. Original Damian’s maternal surname was unknown, and now he knows that his clone was calling himself Damian, what was the off chance that ‘Al Ghul’ was a random last name given to him, and wasn’t actually his mother’s surname?  

…Not likely. Or it was a low chance. 

Putting that aside, he swaps back to the translator and converts what he wrote into Arabic. Damian’s mother was Arabic-Chinese, and the language Damian was speaking didn’t sound like Chinese. So, fingers crossing, he hopes it’s Arabic. 

Turning up the volume as far as it could go, he looks back at Damian, whose struggling and yelling has slowly begun to cease. Danny doesn’t trust it, and he smiles a little amusedly, that’s not going to get me to let go. He checks the translation to make sure it’s what he wants it to say, and then hits the play button. 

[I can’t understand you, but my name is Danny. I want to help you.] 

Damian jerks, hitting his head against Danny’s chest in surprise. “'Utliq sarahi 'ayn 'ana?” He sneers, “'Ana last bihajat limusaeadatikum.” 

“I just said I can’t understand you, bud.” Danny sighs, once again adjusting his hold on Damian. The kid kicks at him and misses him entirely. His arm was starting to get tired from the strain of holding Damian on its own, so Danny puts his phone behind him and swaps them. 

He honest to god gets hissed at when he has to adjust Damian as well, and Danny pauses for a moment just out of pure wonder at the boy in his arms. He was hissed at, as if he was scruffing a stray cat. He was so telling Sam about this when he gets this kid home.  

Smiling faintly, Danny pulls his other glove off with his teeth, checks for injuries, and then with a little bit of contortion, grabs his phone and pulls it back up. Then his train of thought catches up to him, and he freezes just as he’s about to type into the translator again. 

Take him home? The kid? Danny can’t do that. There wasn’t any room in the house, and how would he explain this to his parents? 

‘Hey mom, dad, this is Damian. He’s a clone of my genetic template’s son! Yeah, yeah, that template, the one who just so happens to be the old college buddy that you accidentally cloned instead of dad? The one who just so happens to be capable of suing our family out of existence if he happened to catch wind of my existence? Oh, where did I find him? Last night while I was out. Why was I out? Oh, because I just so happen to be the Phantom, your sworn enemy and the ghost-hunting vigilante who you are convinced is also a ghost. Can we keep him?’ 

Yeah, yeah, he can see how well that would go down. He might as well take off his mask and tell Bruce Wayne he had a clone already. But… where else would Damian go? He doesn’t know any English, he was alone in a foreign country with no money, no way to get home, the worst thing Danny can do is abandon him right now. 

Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, a frown beginning to pull at the corner of his lips.

…He could figure something out with his parents, Jazz will help him once he explains the situation. And if he can get Damian to agree to stop trying to kill him, then they can both make it back to Fenton Works before sunrise… Hopefully. 

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Danny starts typing into the translator again. [You’re in America right now. The translator doesn’t translate the name of my city well, but we’re in Illinois. You are very far from home.]  

Damian jerks once again, twisting his neck to look up at Danny with disbelief. “'Amrika?” He says, the corner of his up curled up. Danny nods curtly, he doesn’t need to know Arabic to know what ‘Amrika’ means. “Hadhih Amirika?” 

Danny nods again, “Yeah, America. You’re in Amity Park.” He points to the ceiling, and gestures around them slowly. Damian watches him carefully, his eyes narrowed. “Am-i-ty Park.” Danny says, enunciating the syllables slowly. 

Green eyes narrow at him further. “Amity Park.” Damian says, slowly and sharp. When Danny nods, he drops his head and Danny tilts slightly in order to see as Damian casts the room a disdainful look. “Amity Park.” He repeats, voice full of enough venom to kill a full grown man. 

He can’t help himself, he snorts to himself and grins underneath his mask. The sound causes Damian to snap his head back up at him, and return his glower full force. He tries to wriggle again, but, like all other times, it’s in vain. 

“Sawf tutliq sarahi.” Damian orders, mouth twisting back into a scowl. Danny almost wants to tell him that his face will freeze if he keeps doing that. He’s already got his thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Yajib 'an 'aeud 'iilaa aldawrii.” 

Danny types into his phone, [I want to help you. You don’t know English, so getting around on your own will be next to impossible. If you promise not to attack me, I will take you back to my home and we can figure out how to get you home.] 

It’s… okay. Danny doesn’t really want to help the kid get home. Wherever that is, it’s teaching a child how to kill people, and it’s making clones of people. Statistically, that’s a bad sign. It also means that, for all intents and purposes, Danny should help the kid get home so he can find out whatever this organization is and, hopefully, put a stop to their cloning. 

However, Danny has his own city to take care of. Amity Park is full from head to toe with ghosts and spirits, and with his parents playing whack-a-mole with the portal’s door controls, he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the city for even a few days. His parents can catch a lot of ghosts in only a few days. 

His parents can spill a lot of blood in only a few days. 

The evil cloning organization that made Damian will just have to be something Danny can leave in the capable hands of the older, more experienced heroes. For now, he can try and stall Damian’s homecoming and also keep him safe by keeping him housed. 

Damian, instead of wriggling again, slumps against him with a throaty huff. Danny peers over his head, checking to see if he was just pouting or had, somehow, passed out. Damian was scowling, his shoulders slumped up slightly, and Danny internally coos. 

He’s pouting. It was adorable.

The boy is silent for a long minute, a scowl carved like marble in his face, and Danny is content — no, wait, slightly content. He still wants to get home at a semi-reasonable time, — to wait him out. He is stronger, bigger, and faster than him. Eventually, Damian makes a low grumbling noise, something Danny can almost mistake for as a groan, before the kid slumps against him. 

“​​Hsnan, sa'abqaa maeak hataa natamakan min 'iieadati 'iilaa aldawri.” He says, sounding significantly less full of indignant rage, and more so full of indignant irritation. He also no longer wriggles, and Danny feels hope sparking low in his gut. Did he finally get through to him…?

More seconds pass by with the two of them just sitting there in silence, before Damian wriggles again — but rather than trying to escape, he twists his head to give Danny a dirty, expectant look. Danny frowns, confused, and then jerks — Oh! Oh! 

He fumbles for his phone, [Was that a yes? Nod if it was a yes?] 

Damian scoffs at him, looking very much like Danny was nothing more than dirt under his shoes. But he nods curtly, “Naeam sa'adhhab maeak.” 

Danny cheers, loudly. The hand curled around his phone punches skyward, like a fistbump to the ceiling, and Damian drops his head away from him. He yells something at him — probably telling him not to be so loud, but Danny pays it no mind. He’s only focused on the pure, utter, relief, pouring into his lungs and trying to trick itself out of his mouth as a laugh. 

Yes, yes! He convinced him! That’s one less worry to worry about, and as Danny drops his hand with his phone, his other arm starts to loosen up around Damian's waist — something Damian very much notices. As he stiffens up and is halfway through shoving himself out of his grasp. 

Danny lets him go, remembering abruptly the mask on his face. He lets Damian get to his feet, but he’s quickly scrambling soon after, not to grab him again. But to scramble for the katana he’d tossed out of the kid’s reach. Damian exclaims behind him, but Danny has his fingers curled around the handle before the kid can chase after him. 

When he stands and faces Damian again, the kid is all puffed up with rage again. Danny doesn’t doubt that, if the kid is trained to be some… kind of ninja…. that he has more weapons on him. But Damian looks more focused on his sword, so Danny holds up his phone-hand in a gesture to hopefully make Damian wait before he attacks him. 

“Wait, wait, wait!” He cries. Damian does, fortunately, and Danny quickly types into his phone again. [I will give you back your sword, and I will show you my face when we reach my home. But you must promise you won’t attack me once I do.] He pauses for a moment, and then types in as well: [I’ll also show you how to use the translator so we can talk both ways.] 

He doesn’t know if Damian even knows what his… father? Looks like, or what his feelings on him are if he does. But Danny was going to cover his bases, and if there was the off chance that Damian held negative feelings for his dad, he didn’t want the kid to attack him, again. 

(It probably wasn’t a good idea to do this at home, but at this point Danny just wants to be in his room.)

Damian eyes him up suspiciously, tense as a wooden plank and hunched like he was ready to pounce anyways, but he nods curtly. “Aeidak.” 

“Okay.” Danny breathes out, slowly straightening up. He’ll take that as Damian promising not to attack him. “Okay, good. Good.” Lowering his hand, he pockets his phone back into his jeans and flips the sword around so that the blade is pointing downwards. He holds it out for Damian, and the kid, quick as a whip, snatches it back from him and sheathes it into its scabbard. 

Great, finally. Now he can leave. Danny’s hands drop to his sides and he wriggles his fingers at Damian, absently gesturing for him to grab his hand. He turns his head away, searching for the door. “Let’s go.” 

No hand takes his, which Danny should have expected, so he drops it back to his side and leads Damian to the exit. The kid sticks close to him, but keeps just barely out of sight from his peripherals. His steps are quiet, Danny would say almost silent but that wasn’t the case. If he wasn’t paying attention, though, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Ninja stuff, probably. Danny’s a little, no, a lot concerned that he’s so good at that. 

Ancients, bud. He thinks again, disbelief returning like a hand around his throat. Danny keeps glancing back at Damian to make sure he was still there. Just who, exactly, made you? 

When they get outside, the night air hits them cooler than it was inside. Spirits were still lingering around the sidewalks, chattering amongst each other and throwing him various, curious glances. Danny suppresses a frown, but can’t stop himself from making a low ‘hm.’ 

They probably felt the shift in the atmosphere from the portal opening. It may have dissipated, but the excess was still lingering around. Without his focus solely on Damian, Danny can feel it too. Like a fog in his chest. Or, perhaps more accurately, like going through the day in a tired glaze, only to be hit with pin-startling clarity. The spirits were probably trying to soak up as much as possible in order to gain a stronger physical form. 

Which, unfortunately for them, wouldn’t happen from this portal alone. Too many spirits trying to do the same thing. Not enough ectoplasm. 

He leads Damian down the steps, and over to the sidewalk. On instinct his hand reaches for his grappling hook, but Damian, still loitering in his peripherals, tenses up. Oh, right, Danny thinks, and switches for his phone instead, this is a two-person trip. 

It’d probably be rude to just grab Damian and start flying. Damian might try and stab him, or worse, try and get out of his hands again. The mental image of Damian falling nearly fifty-feet in the air flashes behind Danny’s eyes, and he represses a shudder.

Yeah, let's tell him first. 

His fingers fly across the screen. [I’m going to use a grappling hook to get us back to the house. It’ll be faster. I’m going to pick you up, hold on tight.] 

Damian scoffs at him, but nods. Danny pockets his phone, swaps it out for his grappling hook instead, and lets Damian look at it for a minute before he crouches down and wraps his free arm around Damian’s legs and hoists him up. 

Something gets said to him by Damian, harsh and scowly, probably an insult, but he wraps his arms around Danny’s neck and his legs tight around his torso. At this point Danny just rolls his eyes and adjusts his arm to hold him tight around the waist. “Hold on.” He mumbles, and points his gun to the sky. 

Flying through the city is admittedly trickier with the extra weight on his front and only one hand free, but Danny takes it as a challenge rather than a problem — if only so he doesn’t think too much on it. Damian’s fingers claw into the back of hoodie the moment his grappling hook pulls them through the air, it borderlines almost painful, and Danny doubts he could drop the kid even if he tried. 

There are a few close calls where Danny nearly clips the edge of one of the skyscrapers, but it takes one easy twist and a little bit of spinning to correct the angle. The threat of it sends a rush of adrenaline through his veins, and Danny can’t say he didn’t laugh a few times. Becoming Phantom turned him into an adrenaline junkie, he thinks.  

Damian doesn’t seem to be having much fun though, his grip suffocating on Danny and his face buried into his shoulder. He’s choking Danny a little, but he wouldn’t dare try and correct it while in the air, and it’s only bringing him mild discomfort. 

Not fast enough but all too soon, Danny is touching down near the residential area of Amity Park where the buildings are too small for him to grapple through. He drops onto one of the apartment rooftops, and his feet are barely touching the ground before Damian clambers off him like a wet cat trying to claw its way out of a pool. 

With the sound of his grappling hook receding, Danny laughs low under his breath. “Flying not for you, bud?” He asks, slightly breathless and grinning under his mask. The hook clicks into place in his palm, and Danny shoves it back onto his belt. 

The kid glares at him amidst brushing off his clothes and patting at his sides. His hand brushes over his sword, and when he feels the hilt still there, Damian drops it. The kid straightens up like a soldier — immediately killing Danny’s sky-flushed mirth in the process — and stares up at him, awaiting orders.

Danny’s smile falls, and he clears his throat. Okay, he thinks, checking himself over for anything out of place, before looking back to Damian. Resolve hardens like cement in between his ribs. He’s not going back. Not if I have anything to say about it. 

He moves around Damian and steps over to the roof ledge, swiveling left and right for the direction of his house. Which is unnecessary, he can see Fenton Works from a mile away, but he does it anyways. Anything to distract him from the discomfort that’s been sledgehammered at him. “This way.” He murmurs, gesturing for Damian to follow. Shuffling feet, and Danny can sense more than see the little boy at his side. 

Considering the way he saw Damian hopping around earlier, Danny is confident in his ability to roof hop with him — confidence well deserved because Damian follows him with relative ease. Which is still real damn worrying, but he can dwell on it when they get to the house. 

Still, he keeps a close eye on Damian the entire time they’re leaping rooftops. The boy was six, he didn’t have the same stamina nor height that Danny did — it’d be too easy for Danny to lose him on the way to the house because he couldn’t keep up, or he decided to change his mind while Danny was distracted and book it in another direction. 

They reach the house in no time, and Danny’s fishing for his key from his belt the moment his feet hit the concrete of the rooftop. Damian remains behind him, an ever-constant shadow as Danny ducks under the various legs, wires, and poles of the OPPS Center and unlocks the door to the roof. 

Getting to his room is a relief. The strange, buzzing sensation that settles through Danny’s eyes like a thin film whenever he’s using his ‘scary eyes’ dissipates, and he’s kicking off his boots with a low sigh before he can really think it through. He’ll put them back in their place when he’s done — but for now, he just wants them off. Damian pools in behind him, slinking off to the corner of the room as Danny shuts the door. 

His room is spotless — a cleaning habit he’s kept meticulously since he wanted to be an astronaut. He had planets hanging from the ceiling, glow in the dark stars muttered against the walls, and posters of astronomy, Dumpty Humpty, and NASA plastered beside the stars. And a large corkboard hanging above his desk. 

“Finally.” he groans, twisting his hips and stretching out his back before reaching over and turning on the hanging lights. A soft orange glow fills the room, and Danny turns just in time to see Damian jump in surprise. He’d moved over to Danny’s bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, his body half turned away and tilted like he’d been inspecting it. 

Danny stifles a smile, and tugs off his thermos and grappling hook and places them on the desk. Damian straightens up, shuffling away from the bookshelf and back over to him, his brows beginning to furrow with a look of determination. 

He marches towards him, “Laqad wasalna 'iilaa manzilika, walan ealayk 'an tafi bikalimatik watakhlae qanaeaka.” 

Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying, but Damian points to his face while he’s speaking so Danny figures it out relatively quickly. Besides, it’s not like he’d forgotten either. He has to take off his mask to sleep, and it’s easier to change when he’s not wearing it. He grabs his phone from his pocket.

[I know, I’ll take off my mask. But remember: you can’t attack me.] He hits play, and watches Damian scoff for the nth time, roll his eyes, and nod. As if to reassure him, or to prove that he wasn’t going to attack him, Damian folds his arms behind his back. 

Briefly, Danny feels himself nearly frown again at Damian’s almost soldier-like posture. But he has time to worry about that later, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Danny raises his hands and curls his fingers around the bottom of his mask. 

Carefully, mindful of the straps, Danny pulls it off. The cool air immediately rushes over his damp forehead, and he quickly shakes his head with bated breath to get the strands of hair plastered to his skin off. He locks eyes with Damian, tense, and with air trapped in his lungs. 

Damian’s eyes widen comically, his scowl softening for a moment. For a moment, Danny thinks that maybe things will be fine…ish. But then Damian’s face is scrunching up again, his face sharpening angrily, and his hands reach for his sword. 

“Dijaal!” He hisses, fire lighting in his eyes as he grabs for his katana.

Danny takes a step back and holds his hand out, narrowing his eyes defensively. “Hey, hey, hey!” He hisses back, he points a finger at Damian accusingly, arching an eyebrow. “You promised!”

Apparently, the tone of ‘no takesies-backsies!’ transcends language, because Damian freezes where he stands and simply remains glowering at him. Danny raises his eyebrow higher, locking him in a staring contest, and Damian takes his hand off the hilt. 

Great. Good. Fantastic even! Crisis avoided, and no parents woken up in the process. That’s a success if Danny’s ever heard one. He keeps his eyes on Damian, before slowly reaching for his phone again. It’s like having a stand-off with a bull. A tiny, six year old-sized bull with a sword rather than horns, but a bull nonetheless. 

He gets his phone out safely, and gets out the translator. Again. [I know I’m a clone of your dad. I didn’t ask to be. I still want to help you.] And he does, he so much does. Danny was a bleeding heart, forever and always. If he can help, he will. He hopes that the blood he is made from won’t stop Damian from accepting that help. 

Damian stares him down, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to analyze Danny’s every move. Danny stays still and lets him, waiting for the jurisdiction of the small assassin. 

Whatever it is that Damian sees, it causes him to drop his hands to his side with an irritated sigh just like before. He says nothing, but the resigned slump of his shoulders tells Danny all he needs to know, and he beams. 

Success, he thinks, laughing quietly in earnest. [Stay here.] He quickly types into his phone and plays. He reaches for his thermos. [I need to release the ghosts in my device, then I’ll show you how to use the translator.] 

He plucks the thermos from his desk and tosses his phone over Damian’s head and onto the bed. It bounces, Damian grumbles something under his breath, and the phone bounces again. Danny puts the mask down, and dances out the door and down into the lab with practiced ease.

When he returns, Damian is snooping around his room, looking around his desk this time around. He straightens up when Danny steps into the room, and Danny doesn’t bother addressing it — instead he grabs his phone again and gestures for Damian to sit on the bed with him. 

It takes a painfully long amount of time to show Damian how to use the translator, with a ton of repetition and fiddling around. But they manage, finally, to get a system up where Danny will type something into the translator, play it back to Damian, and then hand the phone to Damian. Damian then would swap the translation, use text-to-speech, and play it in english. 

Naturally, text-to-speech has its flaws, and Damian is only recently learning how to read, so Danny figures out the translation errors on his own. They don’t talk for long, Damian is shut off, snooty, and reserved to him. All Danny knows is that his name is Damian Al Ghul, and he is the blood son and second heir to something called the League of Assassins. 

How cheery. “League of Assassins” sounds definitely evil. Ancients, Danny doesn’t wanna know. He’ll have to get involved if he knows any more. 

He lets Damian fiddle with the translator more in regards to searching his closet for clothes for Damian to wear. He doesn’t have any shorts that will fit, but he pulls out an old NASA t-shirt that still somewhat fits him, and tosses it to Damian. 

After much arguing, he gets Damian to wear it, and he gives Damian the bed. That takes less arguing — Damian is all too happy to sleep in a bed rather than the floor, and Danny pulls his beanbag chair out from its nook to shove it under his desk. 

He’s still awake by the time sunlight begins peeking over the buildings, his eyelids heavy and sore with exhaustion, and his limbs feeling loose and disconnected. He’s fixed up his gloves — torn from the katana, but now half-heartedly sewn up with thread and a lot of muttered swearing on Danny’s part. His mask is shoved in a hidden pocket in his backpack along with his thermos. 

Damian is fast asleep in bed, and with nothing else to do, Danny keeps his sharp eye on him. Swamped in Danny’s shirt and curled up under the covers, Damian is teeny. Well, he was small even before that, but it is even more apparent when tucked under blankets meant for people bigger than him.

And, for perhaps the third time that night, Danny is hit with just the sheer longing of how much he wants to help him. Danny is the hand that feeds, and Damian has a lot of teeth. The cut of his gloves is more than proof enough of that. But Danny wants to help him, Damian has no one else here to. Danny, so far, is the only one who can help him.

He is also hit with the sheer magnitude of what he’s just done — the terrifying revelation that Danny’s just taken in the clone of his template’s son. What the hell does that make for him and Damian’s relationship? Genetically, Danny is technically his father, but they’re complete strangers to one another. 

What does that mean for Danny? It’s been four months since his parents revealed their betrayal. Their lies. Their backstabbing, earth-shattering, fifteen years of astounding— the truth to Danny about his… birth. Four months isn’t long enough to deal with something like that. He is still questioning everything he does — whether his actions belong to him, or to Bruce Wayne.

And this? This just takes the fucking cake.

Danny breathes in deeply, snapping himself out of the slow-creeping spiral threatening to drag him under the waters of his mind. His eyes flick to the window. It’s too early to think about this. Much, much too early. He slinks into his beanbag with a low groan, stifling back a groan. 

He can worry about the identity crisis and his crisis of autonomy later. Later, when he’s not mind-numbingly exhausted and already mentally fragile from that alone. Not when there’s a teeny baby assassin sleeping in his bed who happens to be his son? Cousin? Brother? template’s son’s clone. 

With sunlight peeking through the windows, he slinks out from under his desk to prepare for another day.

[i-suc-at-art]

Ummm.. I really love this fic

*hands @basilf1res this gently*

Any ways go read project “GH05T” it’s really good :)

[wrayofmoonshine]

hate it when this happens

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 1: what's lost can be found

"She won't make a sound, alone in this fight with herself and the fears whispering if she stands she'll fall down. She wants to be found, the only way out is through everything she's running from wants to give up and lie down. So stand in the rain, stand your ground. Stand up when it's all crashing down. You stand through the pain, you won't drown. And one day, what's lost can be found."  -Stand in the Rain by Superchick

Regent Masterlist Part 2

The decayed ghost siren echoed through the abandoned streets of Amity Park's Witching Hours. Its residents were well acquainted with what that sound meant, fear and exasperation a potent (strange) mix to keep them tucked in their homes, their beds, as the Fentonworks building seemed to come alive.  

Of course, figuratively speaking. 

(Nothing was truly alive there anymore.)

Jasmine Fenton had just arrived back from the Infinite Realms, muscles pleasantly sore from training with Pandora and very much looking forward to hugging her little brother before he begun his nightly patrol. The siren caught her attention before she’d stepped fully out of her portal, dread filling her gut like a rock dropped into a lake. 

Oh no. 

Team Phantom were young, no one could ever argue that, with some scars to show for all their battles to protect Amity from those that would claim their haunt- but no one outside the team understood just how paranoid they’d become since Pariah Dark and Dark Dan

The contingencies had begun when Jazz started to remember bits and pieces of a timeline that Danny himself had erased using the reality gauntlet. He’d never told anyone of what had happened, with Freakshow’s plan to make himself ‘ringmaster of all reality’ and all, but Jazz had somehow recalled flashes of sheer panic at watching her little brother accidentally reveal himself as Phantom on live tv, in the Fentonworks kitchen on that little box set. The white rings of light that emerged from his core to switch from half-alive to half-dead and vice versa damned him. 

The elder fentons had gone on the offense immediately, Jack’s screech of ghost! Echoing in the house and they raced down to the lab to get whatever latest weapon they’d built to capture Phantom. 

It didn’t matter that their son was dead, that he had died, that their ‘greatest work’ was Danny’s grave. That Jasmine was…well, she wasn’t entirely human anymore, not when she turned on her heel to follow her progenitors down down down into the darkness, sword tightly grasped in hand as her teal eyes glowed a sickly green.  

She hadn’t hesitated then, to protect her little brother. One slash, two, three

Danny hadn’t known she killed their parents in that timeline. She would never tell him. 

She would never tell him how they hadn’t even noticed her presence, her ever loyal weapon Faithkeeper about to take their lives, how she hadn’t even needed to summon her armor. She would never tell him how they begged for their lives, not to protect their children, but to kill the ghostly menace. 

Danny never knew she’d dumped their corpses in the landfill.

(Right where they belonged.) 

WIth the rewrite of the timeline, reset to the same day of the ill-fated Humpty Dumpty concert, Jack and Maddy Fenton’s deaths were undone, but not the blood on Jasmine’s hands. 

With Danny’s defeat of Pariah Dark, came another revelation. 

Jasmine was still mostly alive. Somehow she’d survived her childhood, but Danny hadn’t. She’d looked away for five minutes, forgotten to lock the lab after their parents left and he’d died for it. 

With the weight of being schrodinger’s hero, could her little brother withstand becoming king of the infinite realms? 

Perhaps not while he was still learning, still gaining his own grip on his strange existence. In time, he would become a great king- one of mercy and benevolence, but he still had a long ways to go. 

Jasmine had borrowed ancient ghost law books from Ghostwriter and locked herself away for three days, cycling between crying for her and Danny, reading through the complicated laws of ye olden times, and writing down her findings- just in case another reality rewrite was due. 

Jasmine had accepted Regency on Danny’s behalf with a grace she didn’t know she possessed. 

It had been a small ceremony, with Danny and his friends present and Pandora, Jasmine’s mentor, acting as sentry as she accepted the Crown of Fire. She knew it was a long road till she could pass it down to its rightful owner, but Jasmine was prepared to shoulder the burden for her little brother. 

Pandora had simply laid one of her many hands on Jasmine’s shoulder with a solemn air, in understanding. There was work to be done before any of them could have peace. (Not even the afterlife was safe from paperwork.)

Her favorite journal contained the scraps of her hope and dreams bound in maroon leather, soft with age and imprinted with every emotion Jazz had unwittingly (and later knowingly) poured into every word. 

Its pages were a kaleidoscope of her life. 

Sure, it began with the soft tinge of curiosity-exasperation-fondness, some sentiment of better times before her progenitors began working on that damned portal, constructing the future grave of their son without the slightest clue. 

The emotions began turning a darker turn when the work turned into an obsession. Jazz had plunged into her schoolwork and part-time jobs to afford whatever was needed for the siblings to survive, fondness becoming slowly poisoned by anger. Anger for the portal. Anger for the food other kids had, that they didn’t have to work so hard for. Anger that she knew what starving felt like. 

Anger that she was so weak. 

Then the day of Danny’s death. 

The darkest part of her history, the last embers of her hopes and dreams, of the siblings escaping smothered. Danny’s death scream forever etched into her brain. 

(It should’ve been her.) 

She hated those pages of her journal, the emotions of grief-anger on her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to rip them out. No more than she could destroy the confessions of protect-rage-grief, the confessions of the darker timeline she shouldn’t remember. 

On very last page was the contingency plan Jazz herself had created.

Code Graverobber.

That siren wasn’t any ordinary ghost siren, no, it was the one Tucker had programmed himself- it was the quickest way to alert every member of Team Phantom and Tucker had made sure that none of them could mistake it for a Fenton ghost alarm. No, Code Graverobber was in effect. 

Phantom had been captured by the elder Fentons. 

(Fate has a way of setting itself right.) (Death wants its due.) With a bleeding, sobbing and vivisected Danny cradled in her arms, Jazz left Amity Park behind for what she prayed to the Ancients was forever. The Fentons died that night, though the official records would claim they were killed in a explosion due to the highly unstable inventions they created, taking the lives of their children as well. No one really dug around in the wreckage of Fentonworks, not for the bodies of the family within, with the chance of another explosion happening should rubble be shifted the wrong way. 

Jack and Maddie Fenton died.. 

But Jasmine and Danny Nightingale lived on, in Gotham City.

The last of those three days she spent locked in her room, Jasmine wrote a letter to a future version of herself, tucked inside one of her favorite books now lost in the destruction of Fentonworks. To my future self, Forget me in your happiness.    Love, your past

A/N: BEHOLD!

Ahem. This is the original chapter 1 that I never finished or published. It's not my favorite or my best, but I unburied it for the 300 milestones. Thanks for reading!

[hypewinter]

Previous Post

Can I offer you another Danny POV in these trying times?

It had started after his encounter with the costumed people. After that his dad had taken him to the store and bought a lot of strange items. From there, he put the strange items together and put them up all around the house. Ever since then, Danny couldn't go through the walls.

Danny pushed against the wall now but he couldn't go through just like all his other past attempts. But if he couldn't go through, how would he play tag with his dad!? Fat tears bubbled up in his eyes as he tried to desperately push through the wall. He liked playing with his dad! It was the best part of the day.

Tears began to fall freely down his cheeks and he let out a whimper as he tried phasing through the floor this time to no avail. Suddenly big hands scooped him up.

Jack tried to soothe his son but Danny was not listening to his assurances that "this was to protect him" and "it was for the best". He was too busy crying while glaring at the strange items covering it. If only they weren't there.

--------

Danny woke up to voices outside his room. One was his dad's but the other was female. He tensed up in fear, remembering the last female voice he encountered, but this one was different. It was younger and for some reason, hearing it filled him with warmth.

"Now's not the time for that Dad." The female voice said.

"No, I won't have my princess sacrificing her education." Replied his dad.

Danny wondered what they were talking about. He was also curious about who the owner of this new voice was. She had called his dad , her dad. Did that mean they were related. That would make them siblings right? He had a sister?

Suddenly a thought came from deep within his mind. Of course I have a sister, her name is Jazz. But his moment of clarity was gone just as soon as it had overtaken him. Danny was left wondering who is Jazz? as he drifted back to sleep.

--------

Jazz as it turned out was his red-headed sister. And although she always wore a smile around him, it was always tinted with sadness. Danny couldn't help but wonder why.

Everything was going great so there was no reason to be sad. Jazz had now moved in, all the neighbors were constantly cooing at him and giving him treats, and Jack had gotten a job with some red person. Wait, did he get hired by Little Red Riding Hood? Maybe she needed a new hunter to help her fight the wolf.

At that thought, Danny couldn't help but look at his father in awe. Every evening when he left, Danny silently hoped he'd catch a lot of bad wolves.

--------

It took a couple of weeks for Danny to find out that while his dad worked for a Red Hood, it was very disappointingly not Red Riding Hood. Instead it was some guy with a white streak in his hair with some very disgusting ectoplasm circulating his body.

Danny made a face and turned into his sister's hold as he came face to face with the guy at the doorway.

"I'm sorry about that." she said to the guy, "He's not usually like this."

"It's ok, babies usually cry in front of me so this is an improvement." he replied.

"Come on Matt, Jason's really nice if you give him a chance!" His father proclaimed. His trademark loudness making the doorframe shudder.

That was the other thing Danny didn't like about this red guy. He had already seen him twice before, when his Dad had taken him in to grab a few forgotten tools.

The first time the guy wore a red helmet. Everyone acted like he was dangerous and shouldn't be messed with. Even his dad was very respectful in his interactions with him.

The second time Danny had seen not Red Riding Hood, he didn't have his helmet on nor did he go by his previous name. Everyone at the garage treated him as if he was one of their own instead of the dominating presence he had been before. In fact, they acted as if "Jason" was a completely different person all together. It was quite strange to say the least. Though Danny wasn't sure he had a leg to stand on considering every time they were in public, his dad would call him "Matt".

Danny had fussed about it a few times but that didn't seem to have any effect. He had finally decided it was fine since he was at least still called "Danny" and "Danno" when they were home. Now though, thanks to this Jason guy, he was even being called that stupid name within his own house! Danny was quickly deciding he didn't like this weird bad ectoplasm guy at all.

@idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @overtherose @seraphinedemort

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (VI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and whatever prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWO is here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here and this is part six💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Danny and Bart are bros now. The Speedsters chat about the horribly injured entity their kid has decided is like a...pet? Theydk?

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my awful attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny wakes up to an unbridled wave of nostopdon’t.

…He rouses. His lungs flutter.

Danny flinches. 

There’s something— it’s large and it’s green in a way that humans are not and it’s taller and wider than Danny’s human and the space it makes in Danny’s senses—

The red human Danny is too attached to now buzzes to his bedside, spilling worrywor/rynerv/ous all over Danny’s section of this abandoned hospital. His muscles tighten up to compensate; and when the green not-human adult gets closer, Danny pushes himself forward on his elbows— closer to his vibrating human, closer to a defensive formation. 

The green thing moves and Danny can’t see the gesture. He bristles. 

And then

Danny’s skull spl

                                its

                                                down the middle. 

Everything hurts and everything is on fire. 

Danny screams. 

                        And he screams. 

                                                        And he screams. 

And—

Danny isn’t moving— everything else moves when Danny screams but he isn’t moving— the fast human has gotten even faster and they’re zooming through the building, through rooms and past adult humans that Danny has never seen, and all Danny can do is sink his claws into the human and hope that it stays. That Danny stays. In its arms, and not next to— that. 

The fast-buzzing human finds a dark room. 

It shoves Danny and itself inside. Good. 

They hide. 

Even better. 

Someone comes to the door, and Danny can feel the frigid heat of a blast forming in his fingers. But it’s only two of the humans Danny has already met. And another young human.

This one has light hair, he thinks. It shines in the light spreading out from the cracked doorway. 

They talk and they don’t crowd his space but to be honest Danny would rather they did. There’s something horrible out there, and he knows these humans aren’t that bad and whatever green thing out there certainly is. They should all be safe in this nice dark room. 

He makes a grabby hand. Come here. Get closer. 

…One of them does. Great! Danny gently bats at it with his knuckles until it joins them underneath the table. Danny puts the buzzing human in front of him and his new human behind him, so that he’s in the middle. There’s layers now. They can’t all get wiped out at once. 

Danny makes grabby hands at the other. It makes a huffy sort of vibration. Probably a laugh. Stupid. Doesn’t it notice that they’re in danger?? 

Danny whips a very sharp comehererightnowbetween them— not lashing, but not gentle. They are in danger. Come here. 

Thankfully, the last two obey—Danny’s pretty sure he’s being humored, but that doesn’t matter. Not as long as they’re all under the table. And safe.

The buzzing human’s anxious vibrations slowly move out into a slower, calmer boredom, and that’s fine, because boredom means that it doesn’t think they’re in danger. No one has found them yet and the humans are twitchy and nervous.

One of the darker-dressed humans says something. Danny can’t tell what it says, exactly, but he can turn his head to listen. The words flow around him like water. Someone else murmurs something else.

A human hand bats at Danny’s. Danny flinches. It—is it fighting?? Are they fighting??

They don’t start…hitting. But they keep batting at Danny’s hands, very carefully avoiding his claws, and—oh. They want to play. And they probably want to play quietly, so they’re being smart about not getting caught. Ugh. If Danny had his toys, they wouldn’t be so bored. This is almost worse than boredom.

…Fine. Danny’s claws don’t exactly retract like an animal’s, but they’re not so essential to his being that they’re formed and present all the time. The sharp shapes of his claws shift in the darkness, until they’re only blunt nails: suitable for playing.

All the humans make very excited noises under their breath. It’s all very interesting or something. It can’t be that special. Danny sees other ghosts reshape little bits of themselves all the time.

The quiet human in red gently lifts up Danny’s hands with its own. It gently tosses Danny’s hands in the air, so that they clap together very quietly once they fall down onto its own. Danny lets it happen. They’re this close to him anyway. They’re probably not a threat.

(The real threat is outside, anyway.)

Then his hands get flipped over. The human gently bats its hands against Danny’s, extremely careful not to anger him enough to claw. They do this a couple times before Danny figures the game out.

Oh. It’s a hand game—Danny even knows this one. It’s Ms. Mary Mack. The quiet one whispers the right tune under its breath.

Once Danny knows it, it’s easy to gently follow the motions. He surprises them when he knows the motions as well as they do; his wrists hurt when he goes too fast, or when the human kids do—when they push too hard, Danny makes himself intangible, to their delight—but he can be gentle, and eventually everyone else is gentle, and they carefully plot out Mrs. Mary Mack and a veeeery slow version of Concentration.

It’s all very fun, right up until the Large Green Not-Human pushes itself through the floor.

Danny pulls his hands back, unsheathes his claws, and shrieks.

Everyone yells and everyone gets closer—it’s a defensive formation and that’s good but it’s not enough if he needs space to help defend them—and everything is loud and upsetting and Danny’s already hurt but he can fight and he will—

—Apology, Apology— something whispers, infinitely quieter than the attack Danny had suffered.

He bolts upright. What? Oh, oh no. It wants to talk to him. Danny does not want to talk back. NonononoGoAWAY.

The giant green thing backs off. Danny gets a distinct sensation of —Questions, Answers— sent to him. The feeling is accompanied by a procession of Danny’s own memories: the stars from the base, the container he’d woken up in, his bed nest and all the waste in it.

Danny winces further back under the table. Just because he likes his cot and feels safe in it doesn't mean it isn't gross. It is gross. But everything is going to be gross until all of his insides are actually inside of him again, and not squished up in his more liquid form.

The quickfasthuman darts in front of Danny, as if it is going to be any defense against whatever this creature is, and starts yelling in its little human voice. Danny keens.

—Care, Concern— flows towards him. With it comes Danny’s memories of the buzzing human bandaging him, a flesh-tone bandage stretching across the hole where more of his nose ought to be.

…Danny stills. It’s. That’s.

It’s a very gentle emotion. Maybe the thing is…lying…? But if it was, Danny would be able to feel it. Right?

There are more thoughts and feelings that come by, first very quietly and softly, and then a little too fast to track as the being get ahead of itself. When Danny pulls away, it slows down, and the flow becomes manageable again.

The Earth. Green and peaceful.

Space. —Home. Home—

This base that Danny is on. On it are faces that the green being can see, that Danny can’t— but in its memory it shares, all of them are welcoming and friendly with…their coworker. This being.

(Is this an alien?!)

(The being pauses in its recollection. It feels distinctly —Amused, Amused—. And then Danny gets space memories!! Of Mars!!!)

He carefully eases his claws out of the carpet. Okay. This is pretty cool. Danny’s getting the hang of this.

He (thinks? Successfully?) bounces back a memory of his first room, his first shuttle model of the Atlantis, the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling.

The alien (Alien!!!) treats him to a memory of his own offsprings’ resting places in his home. On Mars.

Danny doesn’t even argue when his buzzing human tries to pick him up. They can break formation. It’s fine. Danny purrs and purrs with his core. For the first time in months and months, someone can speak to him properly. Someone wants to speak to him.

What Danny thinks matters.

The stranger invites Danny into a mutual conversation, and Danny accepts.

Danny sinks himself into a memory of the earth, as seen from the upper atmosphere. The stars were all-encompassing there. He misses flying. 

The Martian sends him a memory of a crashed…

…Oh. Danny squeezes further under the table. That’s the Specter Speeder. From the stranger's eyes, his crash into the dirt looks so bad. That’s…that crash hurt him. He’s still hurt. Still so bad. 

Even the alien’s —Concern, Fear, Worry— isn’t a comfort. 

The Martian replays the memory of the bandaids again. And then a new memory: the laboratory where Danny woke up. 

The room was full of nervous humans in scrubs and lab coats, all of whom were nervous, nervous, fussing over problems like safe food and adequate oxygen and sanitary environment and please, please be okay. Danny’s empathy is limited to other empathetic beings, but the humans' thoughts and worried faces are bare and transparently clear to the alien. 

…Oh. 

Danny thinks of the young humans crowded around him, trying to keep him comfortable and safe, even when the alien knows that the humans know that he isn’t a threat. But that they worry for Danny anyway, because he’s scared and unhappy and in pain. 

Oh, Danny thinks. …Oh. 

[whisper-my-serenade]

wayward son

a theoretical todd anderson origin story

word count: 5937

cw: non-consensual kissing, f-slur, period-accurate homophobia

Todd sat himself at the top of the staircase, careful not to make a sound lest his parents hear around the corner. They spoke in hushed, angered tones; they spat his name like that of a plague. It was as if he was a misbehaving dog that they couldn’t put down, but some other form of containment had to be found. In that moment, he might have preferred if they just shot him Old Yeller-style.

“Aren’t there religious places we can send him? Places that are equipped to deal with things like this?” his father was saying, exasperated. 

“No, no, everyone knows those don’t work. Besides, people would ask too many questions about where he’s gone,” his mother huffed. He thought it surprising that she was against a religious school, seeing as she was the one who dragged them all to church every Sunday. 

His father sighed, the heavy, long thing that Todd knew he did as a quiet way of telling people to shut up and do whatever he said. “We’re running out of options, Lorraine. We need somewhere that will keep him in line. A military school, maybe?”

“Ha!” his mother cracked. “Could you imagine? He’d be crushed like a bug.”

There was a stiff moment of silence. Todd could feel the heavy, humid summer air creep through the open windows. 

“Why don’t we just send him to Welton?” his mother suddenly replied, and Todd inhaled sharply, almost breaking his silence with a yelp. Please, anywhere but there.

“You can’t be serious,” his father retorted. “After what he’s done? You remember why we didn’t send him there in the first place, don’t you?”

“There’s no better place to get him in line and make sure he gives our family a good name. That’s what that school was made for. Besides, his grades are up enough, I think.”

“I don’t know. He’s not really the Welton type, is he?”

“Do you have any better ideas, Robert?”

Todd waited for the reply with bated breath. Even then he could feel his future being determined right in front of him. 

“Oh, I suppose not. It’s as good a school as any.”

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd Anderson was, at Balincrest, a leper. He was quiet, anxious, had a bad stutter and some awkward nervous ticks that made the other boys call him names usually reserved for asylum patients. But Todd was not a fun target—he had something most other boys his age lacked, that being the emotional maturity to know when to not rise to the bait—and for the most part he was left on his own, reading his infinite novels in some dark hovel and completing his schoolwork silent and alone in a corner of the common room. The teasing, when it did come about, didn’t bother him much because he was as aware of his faults as anyone and no one could punish him for them as he already punished himself. For some reason, though, the one that got to him the most was ‘mute’. It was not that he couldn’t talk, it was that there was no one in the world he felt he could talk with.

Ever since he was a small child, people had very few good things to say about Todd. With his parents, it was always some form of inferiority to his brother, a high cliff of a standard he could never quite climb to the top of. Gone were the days of the two boys dressed in matching outfits, playing games of knights and dragons in their grandparent’s sprawling backyard; now it was only Jeffrey did this and you didn’t. Going to different schools meant Todd only saw glimpses of his brother in the summer, when his primary job was staying out of his family’s hair. Todd didn’t know what Jeff thought about the matter. He also didn’t care.

Todd never particularly excelled in school, either. He was shown to be reasonably bright in class, and was always reading far above his grade level, but his test scores were horrendous, and, worse yet, he failed every presentation he was ever assigned because he simply could not do them. His throat would close up, lungs gasping for air he seemingly could not find, and his mind spun recklessly out of control, trapping him in a distant subconscious where he could not be reached for anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. To his parents, the attacks were another form of embarrassment. Not only was Todd not as smart or socially skilled as his brother, he was also mentally diseased. When he was a child, he’d often sought the comfort of his parents when his mind slipped away from him. But he was sixteen now, and knew better. The Andersons always chose to suffer alone.

That wasn’t to say he had no skills whatsoever. In his younger years he wrote wildly imaginative stories, taking bits and pieces of all the children’s fiction he read to create new worlds of his own to escape to. He wrote little now, burnt out from years of essay writing, but still read ferociously all manner of literature, from low-brow science fiction to the most classical of poets. And, if nothing else, he was quite a good soccer player.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed the game—far from it—he just happened to have the skill and anger needed to push his way to the top. Of all the nicknames he was called, no one ever called him sensitive, because he could kick circles around any other player at the school and glare at them like an angry watchdog as he did it. It was a way of release, maybe, but an unfortunate one, because if Todd hated anything, it was having eyes on him. 

Which is why when he ended up on Balincrest’s varsity team his sophomore year (the only one, at that), it filled him with such immense dread that the school nurse thought he’d caught the flu. His first day in that locker room, suddenly surrounded by burly, sweaty upperclassmen who joked about shotgunning beers and assaulting women (another area where Todd lacked expertise), was one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, and when the coach asked if someone would volunteer to spend a few minutes after practice packing up the equipment, Todd leapt at the chance. Anything to get out of that humid, musky room for a few minutes longer. Too many eyes.

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd had never spoken to Isaac Parker in his life. Isaac was junior, handsome, with golden blonde hair and warm hazel eyes that had the unique ability to convince girls that he was somehow different from every other reckless, immature teenage boy that tried to wiggle their way into their hearts (and skirts). He was also a favorite among the staff, but in that friendly, charismatic way that kept the name “teacher’s pet” off his back. Everyone knew he was destined to be the soccer team captain his senior year, because God had never made anyone else so perfectly for the job. The sun smiled upon this boy. 

It was a spring evening, one of the first warm ones after a brutal northeast winter, that their paths first crossed. Practice was wrapping up, and Todd was skirting off to the side of the field to begin his now usual job of cleaning up when, from over the field, he heard Isaac’s melodic voice joking with the coach and a word of thanks for his help in response. Suddenly, Todd was not alone with his stack of cones. Golden boy Isaac was there, too, an Apollo next to a cowardly mortal. 

Balincrest’s sports equipment shed was a small thing with a corrugated metal roof that pinged like a glockenspiel when it rained and had bits of chipped-off white paint lining the ground underneath it. Inside, it smelled of wet wood and stale sweat and was barely large enough to accommodate more than one person. The boys worked wordlessly stringing the practice equipment to the walls, the close confines meaning Todd was cautious with his every step so as not to draw the attention of the leader. The single bare lightbulb above them flickered as a moth wove its way around and around.

Todd was suddenly aware of the stillness behind him, and when he finished his job and turned around, he found Isaac staring at him with an unreadable expression. Todd suddenly felt an immense weight in his chest, a giant, red-hot star on the verge of bursting. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Isaac took both sides of his face in his hands and pressed their lips together.

It was a searing, burning feeling. Isaac’s hands and mouth were hot and slick, their noses crashing together as Todd tried and failed to stumble backwards, caught by surprise. Isaac held him there for an unbearable moment before releasing, keeping his eyes closed for a second longer as if reveling in the feeling. Suddenly they burst open, and in the dim glow of the bulb, looked black and full of rage. Todd’s own eyes were stuck wide, breath frozen in his throat. 

The silence was deafening. Isaac suddenly crowded him up against the wall of the shed, burning fingerprints into his arm as a stern hand pointed into his face. “You say a word, you’re dead, got it?”

Todd nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. 

☽ ☼ ☾

After Isaac left Todd with his mouth gaping in the shed, he apparently didn’t go back to the locker room, which Todd was unbelievably thankful for. There was an uncomfortable stillness in the empty room, and Todd felt like he had to constantly keep moving as he showered just to break the sensation. He watched the water wash away all the sweat and memories of touch from his body—the pink bruises forming on his arm, the gently protruding lines of his ribs, the soft, unaltered beating of his heart underneath them. He suddenly smashed the porcelain tile of the shower with his fist, leaning his head into his arms as hot tears began to well in his eyes.

It had been his first kiss. He might have been ashamed if there was anyone to ask him about it, but it wasn’t really that fact that made the embarrassment burn so hot in his chest so much as the fact that it had been a boy. And he hadn’t hated it, not like he should have.

His mother liked to say he was a ‘late bloomer’ and he would find his way into the arms of the fairer sex one of these days, but Todd knew well and good that he’d grown up faster than most and that girls did absolutely nothing for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have “urges”—he, like nearly every other teenage boy, had his moments in the quiet of his bedroom or the roar of a shower—but he could never picture the face of another person in those moments, only the vague outlines of strong, square bodies and the calloused touch of large hands. If there was a word for this, he did not know it. Or maybe he did, and his mind just refused to connect them. 

He knew what he ought to do: go straight to the coach or the dean and declare what had happened to him, denounce Isaac’s actions with all the fervor and rage he deserved. It was violating, dehumanizing, and, in the eyes of the general public, outright wrong. Todd had done nothing. 

And yet a small voice tugged in the back of his head, asking the same question over and over. Why me? Had Isaac picked his target at random? Did he calculate his odds and decide Todd was the least likely to speak out? Did he just assume that because he was younger, he would be easier to push around and bully into silence?

Or could Isaac tell, in the deep, shameful way that social pariahs connected with each other? Was it something Todd had done that had given it away? How he sat with his legs crossed, like his father scolded him for? The books he read? The names he was called? His incessant loneliness? If he were to tell someone, would they know it, too?

Todd turned off the shower and held still for a moment, letting the water pool and drip off his limbs. He wouldn’t say anything—couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the shame of it, if word got out. He didn’t care for faggot and fairy to be added to the list of things he was called. And what would his parents say? The Andersons could never have a queer for a son. It was bad enough that he liked to read. 

There were different levels of leprosy at Balincrest: those that got you teased, and those that got you killed. Given the option, Todd would choose to stay in his current group, thank you very much.

☽ ☼ ☾

The next time it happened, Isaac didn’t say anything. It lasted longer, a tongue poking out and searching for leverage, but finding none. Todd inhaled the scent of sweet, fresh sweat mixed with cologne, his lips fighting the urge to give in and see what he could get out of this. It was not a mutual relationship. It was not. 

He walked back to his dorm that night to the abject chatter of lonely crickets from the woods, the spring moon high and gleaming above him. His heart was still pounding and his skin felt cold where Isaac’s fingers had gripped it. Todd didn’t think he’d ever been held so firmly. 

There was a part of him that was almost thrilled by it. There was no denying that Isaac had good looks and a movie-star charm, and if Todd had been a girl, he would surely be internally gloating for winning the boy’s affections above all the others. For all the times he’d seen his brother down far too much liquor or try to sneak a girl in through his bedroom window and never understood the appeal of the risk, Todd now felt he understood why teenagers pushed boundaries the way they did—there was adrenaline in it, a high that came with getting away with something. He’d never before had the chance to kiss a boy, and probably never would again. His father might call it “getting it out of his system”, as he did with Jeffrey’s various misdemeanors. And if it was to forever remain his dirty little secret, then so be it. Surely there were far worse things. 

☽ ☼ ☾

The longer it went on, the more routine it became. They put the equipment away in silence, not touching or looking at each other, and then Isaac would go still, and Todd would take it as his que to turn around and allow himself to be grabbed and pushed however Isaac wanted him. They would kiss for a few minutes (maybe longer, maybe shorter; Todd discovered that one lost a sense of time when doing a thing like that) and then Isaac would release him, avoiding his gaze, and flee the scene of the crime. Todd would leave a few moments later, shower, and gaze at the moon as he walked back to the dorms. 

☽ ☼ ☾

The end came on a hot May day, the air still steamy even as the sun lowered in the horizon and sent beautiful orange beams across the brick walls of Balincrest. Campus was filled with the inspirited feeling of summer closing in around them, and the boys grew restless as the last agonizing weeks of school crept by. The soccer team played their best season in years that year, with Isaac as the star of the show and Todd as the overlooked secret weapon. Todd discretely smiled to himself when the coach told him it was a role he played well. 

It was one of the final practices of the season, and Todd almost dreaded it being over. There was a part of him that enjoyed being someone’s secret, and now the normal loneliness that came with being in his empty house all summer came with the added notion that he was losing his source of romantic gratification as well, as little romance as there was involved. He would miss the smell of the boy so close to him, the firm touch of his hands, the furtive glances Isaac would throw him when he thought no one else was looking. But Todd would get used to the loneliness, as he always had. And summer would end, as all things did, and Todd and Isaac would enter each other’s orbits once again.

After practice was over, they went quickly to their usual routine. Maybe the approaching vacation was affecting Isaac, too, because he seemed rougher, pinning Todd a little tighter to the wall and parting his lips with a little more force. It was sloppy and quick, as if time was running out.

It took a moment for them to react when the door of the shed opened, but when they did, the effect was immediate and brutal. Isaac jumped back, shoving at Todd’s shoulder as if to push him away even though Todd was already as close to the wall as he could get. “Get off me, fag!” he shouted, his melodic voice unfamiliar in such harsh words. Todd seemed unable to speak, turning towards the stunned coach in the doorway and hoping his shocked, pained face spoke for him. He lies. I didn’t ask for this.

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd watched Isaac’s parents approach the building from where he’d been locked in the infirmary all night. Their parents couldn’t come in for a meeting so late in the evening, but it was decided that the boys could not be trusted amongst the general population of the school, so they were sequestered at opposite ends of the building with only the occasional staff member for company. Both the dinner and breakfast that had been brought for him lay untouched on their trays. He’d been far too sick that night to eat.

He sank away from the window before he could see his own parents walk up, and counted the seconds between his breaths to fill the time until someone came to guide him to the dean’s office. It was an old trick some childhood doctor had taught him in a fruitless attempt to ease his anxious mind, but if nothing else it was good for giving him something to focus on until the worst of the misery was over. In-1-2-3-4-5. Out-1-2-3-4-5.

“Todd?” the nurse’s fluttery voice rang as the door to the informatory opened with a creak. Todd startled, tripping over his chair to stand and follow her down the quiet stone corridor. As they walked, she kept turning to him with her mouth opening and closing like a fish, as if she had something she wanted to say but couldn’t quite figure out how to word it. That made two of them. 

Todd had never been to the dean’s office, but his mind was incapable of taking in the details of the room as his sight narrowed in on the stern faces of his parents waiting for him. Isaac had beaten him there, sat next to his own mother and father on the far side of the room, gaze turned firmly down. Todd stood in the doorway for a moment, daring him to look up, before a hand forced his shoulder down into the chair that awaited him. 

The dean was a relatively young man, maybe in his mid-forties, with a clean-shaven face and sharply receding hairline that his horn-rimmed glasses did nothing to conceal. The soccer coach stood behind him, deep sadness on his face as he met Todd’s eye. He was probably as disappointed with this whole situation as anyone.

“Well, now that we’re all here, I suppose there’s no point in beating around the bush about the purpose of this meeting. I was told you were all briefed on the situation last night?” The dean asked, nodding towards the two sets of parents in front of him. 

“Yes,” came a small chorus, only Todd’s mother turning to look disapprovingly at her son. 

“Good,” the dean replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose as was his habit. He folded his hands and placed them on his impossibly tidy desk. “Now, we here at Balincrest of course do not in any way approve of such behaviors among our students, but I think you would all agree with me in saying that it’s in the best interest of all for this matter to stay strictly confidential.”

Four heads nodded.

“We wouldn’t want this to become a scandal even within the student body, because things get leaked and the like, so we need to forge a path forward that results in adequate discipline while also keeping gossip to a minimum.”

Todd deeply wished that his mother would stop staring at him with her piercing blue eyes. Her gaze pierced his skin and made him feel like salty sea water was flowing through him instead of blood. He tried to focus on the dean’s words, but could feel the panic rising in his stomach. 

“I think it’s perfectly reasonable to say that it’s not sensible for the both of you to stay at this school,” the dean went on, glancing between Todd and Isaac, only one of whom was actually looking at him in return. “I’m not at liberty to say whether one or both of you were truly at fault for what happened here, but I can assure you that this matter will not end up on your permanent record regardless of what path we decide upon.” The dean directed his gaze at the crown of Isaac’s lowered head. “Now, Mr. Parker, I know the stakes are pretty high for you. Next year’s soccer captain, a chance at valedictorian, a full ride to Duke, I hear…”

Todd’s father now also turned to him, indignation on his face, and Todd suddenly understood what was going to happen. He would be expelled from Balincrest (not in so many words, of course) not because it was his fault, but simply because Isaac had more to lose. Balincrest could handle losing a mute leper with no connections, but could not handle losing its golden boy. He also realized in that moment that nothing he could possibly say mattered anymore. Any chance he had at redemption was lost when he did not fess up after the first incident. 

The adults kept talking, Isaac’s mother even jumping in in defense of her son, but Todd had stopped listening. He’d never felt so small, so useless, such a burden on everyone else around him. He was a fool for thinking this would never come back to bite him—his ability to be invisible only lasted as long as his ability to keep his head down. No wonder his parents couldn’t seem to stand being around him: he was too dumb to even get away with the smallest of infractions. Jeffrey had the charisma to make his misbehavior seem natural, fun, misguided but ultimately entertaining. Todd was not charming enough to get away with anything, not smart enough to choose a fault that was not so taboo, not wise enough to keep from being a stain upon his family’s good reputation. He would be, from that day forth, forever marked by them as a mistake, a printing error on the Anderson family tree, a pariah, a leper. Ghosts, though invisible, were difficult to forget. 

☽ ☼ ☾

Todd’s mother came into his room without knocking to get his laundry, though he’d been home for only a few hours. She couldn’t stand a single inch of the house to be untidy. 

Todd was curled on his bed with his old beat-up copy of The Secret Garden, wishing the story could whip him away to a magical alternate universe as it had when he was a child. But if that day had proved anything, it was that his youth was gone from him without him even knowing it had slipped away. Welton. Fuck’s sake.

The long car ride home had been predictably tense. The first thing his parents were upset about was that he’d forced them to rearrange their schedules—his father missed an important horse race he had bets on (those bets turned out to be fruitful, but that didn’t matter), and his mother was meant to attend a vital meeting of their church’s women’s council that she’d now have to ask Evelyn Peterson for the notes from, and you know how I despise that woman. Next they were distraught over the fact that he’d been kicked out of Balincrest, which was such a wonderful school and they’d worked so hard to get him accepted there despite his shortcomings and now they’d have to get another place to take him that would be father away and more expensive and why couldn’t he just be good like Jeffrey?

For the longest time, they carefully avoided the reason why he’d been forced to leave, and he could mostly tune their chatter out because it was less about scolding him and more about hearing themselves talk. Eventually, though, their words started sticking out in his brain and he couldn’t help but listen.

“...never imagined that I’d raise a son that would do such a thing,” his mother was saying, obsessively fixing her hair in her small compact mirror despite not a single strand being out of place. “And so shamelessly! I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

His father glanced at him from the rear view mirror. Todd glowered at him in return. “Did you really do it, Todd, or did that older boy rope you into it?”

Todd wasn’t sure how to respond. Either of the black-and-white answers would be a lie, but his parents were notoriously not ones for complexity. He cleared his throat. “I-it was all him.”

“Hmph,” his father huffed, turning his eyes back towards the highway before them. The day was aggressively sunny, and the asphalt shimmered in the light. “I thought as much. He had a guilty look about him, that one.”

Todd said nothing.

“But you know that’s how the habit starts, isn’t it? Someone leads you into it and you just get hooked.” His mother suddenly turned to look over into the backseat, waving a nagging finger in his face. “And you listen to me now, Todd. That kind of thing cannot be tolerated in any decent society. It’s a nasty, unhappy way of life and it’s best to condemn it now before it’s too late to turn back. Do you understand?”

Todd nodded, and it seemed to satisfy her. 

“And if anything like this ever happens again,” his father said, his voice growing low and gruff with shame. “We will not hesitate to beat it out of you with any means necessary.”

☽ ☼ ☾

“Todd,” his mother said as she grabbed his abandoned school clothes and folded them before placing them in her basket. “It’s been decided that you’ll go to Welton in the fall.”

She looked at him as if expecting a response, so he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”

“This is a very precious opportunity. You cannot afford to waste it.” No, you cannot afford to waste it, he thought.

“Okay,” he said again, and went back to his book.

☽ ☼ ☾

It’s a nasty, unhappy way of life. Those words rang in Todd’s ears as Saratoga Springs, New York entered a steaming hot summer. Todd spent most of his days locked up in his air-conditioned room with his books, the monotony only broken by him sneaking out to get meals, showering before bed, and his weekly excursions to the library to stock up.

While there, he occasionally tried to dig for things that mentioned his condition (he’d decided to call it a condition now—the American Psychological Association deemed it a mental disorder, alongside schizophrenia and social personality disorders, which was what made people psychopaths), but found it difficult to research a subject that seemingly no one wanted to talk about, and God forbid he ask the librarian—she was the one adult he knew that didn’t currently hate him. There was a report from about a decade prior that said homosexuality was far more present in society than most would like to think, and the long, drawn-out trials of a writer arrested for sodomy, but other than that, Todd could find very little that was not about the Bible, and no way in hell was he reading anything about the Bible. He laughed at the thought that it might burn when he touched it.

If he got bored of his books but was too scared to leave the safety of his room, he would stare out the window. It faced their large backyard, and most of the time when he looked out Jeffrey was back there playing soccer with his friends. It was their summer tradition, and Todd remembered the days when his mother would push him out of bed and out the door to “play with them” while she did her weekly top-to-bottom house cleanings. Todd usually ended up half-watching, half focused on his book from the edge of the open grass where they played. The older boys mostly looked upon him with anything from bemusement to outright contempt. No one wanted to be stuck playing with the lame little brother, least of all Jeffrey.

  The exception to this was a boy named Christian Woods. Christian went to Welton with Jeff, and Todd knew they went head-to-head in just about everything—academics, sports, girls— and yet despite their competition, they were the best of friends. Christian happened to be a pretty big literature buff, and always had some comment or another about what Todd was reading when the boys stopped playing for a few minutes to cool off and drink Mrs. Anderson’s lemonade. Whatever Todd said in return (often very little), Christian smiled, flicking the cover of the book and telling Todd he had good taste before leaping up and joining his flock again. 

Todd used to think about Christian a lot, back when puberty was first hitting him and his body ached with unfamiliarity. Christian’s dark eyes and fluffy walnut hair tended to pop into his head at the most awkward times. Stupid juvenile crush, he told himself now, but the word crush felt odd, even in his head. It wasn’t a crush, that was the thing ditsy girls had when they wished Jimmy would ask them to the prom. No, this was just a symptom of his condition—the one that appeared to be chronic and incurable. He liked to think himself wiser now at sixteen than when he’d been a few years younger, but Christian’s smile still made his heart flutter the tiniest bit. Unhappy. He could see that part.

☽ ☼ ☾

Jeffrey seemed to pop into Todd’s bubble more and more often as the summer went on. It was his last summer home before he started at Harvard in the fall (which their parents never failed to remind them of), and it seemed he finally decided to take an interest in his younger brother before he left for good. 

Because Todd had magically been let out of school early, he’d been able to be there for Jeffrey’s graduation from Welton and get a glimpse of his new home for the next two years. He watched as his brother marched across the stage with that despicably fake grin on his face, then zoned out until a point near the end where it was Christian’s footsteps and smile. He shuddered at the thought of it being him up there in front of all those people.

 After the painfully long ceremony was over, Jeff walked right up to his family and gave each of them a backbreaking hug. Todd didn’t remember the last time he and Jeffrey had been that close, but however long ago it was, they certainly hadn’t been the same height as they were now. It scared him a little, the unfamiliarity of this creature who shared his blood. 

When they’d arrived home, Jeff asked all the usual questions about school and how had summer been and was he excited for Welton and why did they let him leave so early? His mother shot him a furtive glance to warn him not to say too much, but Todd needed no reminder—he wouldn’t let that secret out if they tortured him for it. He shrugged as his only response. 

Jeffrey didn’t seem to want to let it go. He knocked on Todd’s door that evening, a piece of Todd’s favorite German chocolate cake in his hand as an excuse, and asked again: why was he home so early?

“Did something bad happen? At school, I mean,” he said as he placed the cake down on Todd’s desk, pushing a stack of books waiting to be returned to the side. 

Todd froze. “No,” he replied quickly. “Nothing happened.”

Jeffrey was clearly still suspicious. “No one picked on you there, right? ‘Cause if you were defending yourself—”

Todd cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it! Nothing happened!”

Jeff seemed startled by the outburst. “Okay,” he said slowly, backing towards the door. “But, just so you know…if you ever need to talk, I’m here, okay?”

“I don’t need to talk.” You’d hate me if you knew, he thought bitterly. 

“Okay,” Jeffrey said again, turning to leave. “Oh, and Todd?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you take that plate down when Mom’s not around. You know she’ll flip if she finds it up here.”

☽ ☼ ☾

In August, he got the letter. 

He’d started venturing out of his cave more and more, often walking to a spot deep in the nearby woods and laying out a blanket on the ground to read. Being around Jeffrey and his loud, laughing friends hurt too much now, especially as he saw his brother’s life slowly packed away, awaiting the coming move. When September came, who would he be? Same old meek Todd, only now the new kid at a school where the other boys had been building relationships for four years and running. A new kind of leper. 

He thought of Isaac sometimes, and wondered if he was having as miserable a summer as Todd was. Had he told the same lie to his parents that Todd had, that it was all the other boy’s fault and he wasn’t culpable? Did he play soccer with his friends or lock himself away? Did he feel the same pit of dread in his stomach at the thought of going back to school?

It came in a heavy cream envelope, the paper thick with wealth typical of schools whose pockets were lined by the lower echelons of the upper class. It was the same paper as Balincrest, the same typewriter script, only the stamped school seal at the top was different. 

Todd Anderson, read the top line. We are thrilled to have you join us at Welton Academy for the 1959-60 school year.

At the bottom was a school schedule laid out in a neat little table, on the next page was a map of the school and its grounds. The one line that inexplicably stuck out to him was one in the middle of the first page, in plain print.

Room #: 205. Roommate: Neil Perry.

[al1v3-p03ts-s0ci3ty]

Part 3 is out (finally)

[jotaroslooseeyebrowhair]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Danny Phantom, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Danny Fenton & Jason Todd Characters: Danny Fenton, Clockwork (Danny Phantom), Gotham City, Jason Todd, Red Hood Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Protective Jason Todd, Danny Fenton Needs A Hug, Not Phantom Planet Compliant (Danny Phantom), BAMF Danny, BAMF Jason Todd, Sentient Gotham City, de-aged Danny Phantom, De-Aged Danny Fenton Summary:

Danny finally escaped his parents, and in his muddled thought process, went to see his mentor, clockwork. Clockwork, however, had no clue what to do and took Danny to his dear old friend, Gotham. Going along with this game of halfa telephone, Gotham took the now six-year-old boy to her most trustworthy knight.

tag list sobs

@starkcravingmad @terzatheunderscorerima @sunsetdew0101 @onyxlightdragon @ace-aro-agender @roseinbloom02 @aikoiya @theeclecticenquirer @blacksea21090 @the-legal-shipper @paperlicense687 @cursedchaosboys @corfinnsunrise @ascetic-orange @eonic @frostedthroughghost @bluebeariis @readerkayden @reach-for-the-horizon @xno-more-smilesx @undead-essence @f3rn4nd4 @fisticuffsatapplebees @smol5slytherin @littlefeather345 @welcometosasakiworld @phoenixcatch7 @bun-fish @always-be-a-stranger @suppengott @mimilikey @nerdypaintbrush @icedbluesoul @enderglace @09shell-sea09 @arandomturd @lesling123 @ae-vixrose @nedwec

[lavenderauthor]

Title: "Kidnapped" by A Teenager by LavenderAuthor, Incomplete (RIP Constantine's Sanity) (16.5k)

Rating: Teen

Fandom: Batman, Danny Phantom

Relationship: Danny Fenton & Jason Todd, Batfamily Members & Danny Fenton, Batfamily Members & Jason Todd, Batfamily Members & Batfamily Members (DCU), Danny Fenton & Frostbite

Summary:  It was supposed to be a simple outing for the various members of the Wayne Family— legality notwithstanding —but then a simple message was sent in the group chat by Jason upon his disappearance's notice: "Going to Doctor's. Might be back by dinner"

Was it sudden? Yes, given he had come to the mall with them, but they tried not to worry. This was Jason, after all. The man probably had "crime lord" business to handle that allowed him an easy out of socializing.

It only became worrying when dinner went by and he was seen walking into a camera's blindside at the mall with a teen but not exiting the mall.

[lesbicosmos]

Heya! Do you have any fic recs?

I’m in a bit of a fic reading slum and i have a feeling you may be able to help ❇️

ofc!! i have so many ao3 bookmarks it's insane

i do only tend to read oneshots/shorter fics bc my attention span is so short but ive found so many good ones

this one's a rewrite of the deskset scene then continuation/fix it of the rest of the story, i love it sm it's definitely one of my favs

this one's so cute and i love the writing style so much, and it's exactly how i imagine their confession/first kiss would happen

this one's a short 5+1 things fic, its both cute and hilariously in character (i love fics that are the others poets figuring neil and todd out lmao)

can't have a dps fic list without a chris & ginny rec, this one's so sweet and, like 90% of sapphic fics i read, makes me feel lonely lmao (also it has space metaphors. so. i like it.)

last one, u might have read it already but im mentioning it anyway bc i love it so much, @latin-8-o-clock-my-room 's childhood friends au might be one of the sweetest dps fics ive read so far

[kindly-gourd]

see, now, I went and got myself attached to Charlie and Meeks and now I can’t read other pairings bc I’m too hyperfixated

but I ran out of content :(

[i-have-homework-but-i-still-here]

It hit me like a brick

"I could buy at Walmart"

Dead on Main au where Jason is of course Danny’s Fright Knight and like all knights do he has a weapon—except it’s his gun.

The batfam + justice league + everyone (except ghosts duh) don’t know that his normal average everyday gun is actually like a super powerful spiritual soul shooter that is, yaknow, capable of blasting someone into an alternate dimension where their greatest fears become real.

So imagine there’s like a big battle where a ghastly ghoul reigns terror on Gotham. The world sends their best hero’s—wizards and occultists are notably high highest in demand—to stop the ghost but, nothing works. All of the weapons and spells and chants fail.

But,

As the fights worsens and the heros scream for people to flee suddenly--

Loud squeaking footsteps echo across the ground. Jason yawns strolling into the battle zone in a ghostbusters t-shirt plaid pants bunny slippers--he strolls up in pajamas--as if annoyed at being woken up and cocks his fucking normal 'i could buy you at walmart' gun at the ghost.

His brothers screech at him yelling ”Are you insane” and to "get the hell out of here" in fear and panic because their idiot brother is trying to kill a real life ghost with a damn gun.

But then Jason shoots the ghost and it works.

The ghost fizzles down with a cry into just a little blob.

The young man then spends 30 minutes lecturing the spirit saying things like “you’re glad I’m not calling the big guy” and “you know our highness would not be happy learning what you’ve been doing” before taking out a thermos of all things and sucking the ghost into it.

Jason then sighs and walks away as if he hadn’t just defeated a hell raising ghost with a gun people can buy off a corner pawn store and a soup container.

Immediately the bat family swarms him with questions

Dick grabs him by his shoulders tense with worry, “Are you okay?”

“Um yeah—“ Jason tries to reply squirming in his hold

Damian cuts him off, “How the hell did your gun a physical weapon hurt that ghastly demonic spirit!”

“Uh that ghost is actually pretty chill you guys just pissed him off." Jason replies plainly

They stare at him with a look saying 'you did not call a ghost that has been decimating gotham chill' probably because he did just that.

Tim is the first to break out of the disbelief stupor as he very inteligently says, "What?"

Jason responds easily with a confused quirk in his brow, "Second, my gun affects entities of all sorts, perks to my job and all that."

"How did being a vigilante and also probably crime boss give you a gun that could do that?" Dick asks

Jason sends him a look saying "are you an idiot" as he replies, "Yea, sure, kicking petty thieves and druggies got me my all powerful spirit weapon--No you dumbass, it's from being the bodyguard of the King of the Infinite Realms! How the hell did you guys not think of that!”

Tim breathes in, then breathes out, then breathes in again and screams, "Why the HELL WOULD WE THINK OF THAT JAY?!"

"The--" Batman, suddenly beside them, chokes, "Bodyguard of T-the what."

Jason blinks at his family then his eyes widen, "Oh shit."

"What?!" His family screech in panic

"Oh fuck," Jason says with a growing hysteric smile, "Danny's gonna have a big ol' fucking laugh with this."

"Brother who is Danny!" Damian demands for an answer

Jason coughs into his palm, "Oh yeah you guys really dont dont know. So I may have forgotten to explain some... things."

Bruce levels him with a stare that says "you think?"

Jason chuckles nervously, "So y'know how I'm half dead?"

pause

Damian very eloquently responds for the suddenly dying screaming combusting members of his family, "...sure."

"Well I met the King of the afterlife which is like the Ruler of Everything and he was really cute--" Jason says distant in his own world

"Theres a afterlife?" Superman asks casually appearing beside the emotionally wrecked family

"Yea its pretty cool. So I start flirting a bit with the guy and we hit it off, I now im his zombie ghost knight boyfriend lover for all time. Oh and i got this sickass gun." Jason says with a happy grin

"That is a pretty sick gun." John Constantine nods

"I know right?" Jason chirps

"You wouldn't mind if I inspected--" John reaches his hand

Jason slaps it away, "Not a chance you soul whore. Y'know your basically the tax evasionist of the Ghost Zone right?"

John only sighs and leaves

"But yea so I'm like the ghost world equivalent to married with the king and became his knight and thats how I was able to stop that ghost guy." Jason reiterates as if explaining a simple question, "Y'guys get that?"

Tim is on the ground trying to decide whether; sobbing hysterically, interogating jason to find out all the things he doesn't want to know or sleeping would be a better use of his time.

Dick has decided to blame himself and has started to draft a reddit post in the middle of the street starting with "I (23 m) have a younger brother (19 m), who I used to resent but really regret now, he died and came back and doesn't even tell me about what goes on in his life anymore. How do I fix our--"

Damian is just staring at the gun and... Jason pushes it deeper in his holster and shifts to the side, better to be safe than sorry with this thieving shit.

As Jason adjusts his weaponry he hears Bruce sob in the background, "He didn't even invite me to the wedding! Am I that horrible of a father!"

Wonder Woman pats his shoulder reasuringly whilst the rest of the League seem to be trying to calm him down

Jason looks around tiredly at the mess he had created and decides fuck it

"Alright I'm heading out for the night, you guys get home safe!" He yells and without caring to listen to anyone and everyone voicing their confusion he zips open a green portal and stumbles in

He crashes down on an unbelievably comfortable bed

Danny blinks blearily before sending the young man a sleepy smile, "Hey Jay, what kept you up so long?"

Jason slipping under the blankets with a yawn says, "You would not believe the night I just had."

------------------

Edit: UMM HII The fic is out now here!! you guys are awesome I'll post the new chapter 2 in a hot sec after editting ^^

[astermagnolia]

Curious about chapter lengths to my readers...

so the newest chapter is probably going to be about 8-9k words (10k if I'm really pushing it) and I feel like my chapters too long. The last chapter I put out (the one that started Jason's POV) was nearing 6k words when I decided to spilt the chapter into two, so that chapter is about 5k words and the one I'm still writing is nearing 7k.

So my question for you guys is-