Ghostling Gossip!

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Character: Timothy 'Tim' Drake-Wayne

Age: 22

Eye Color: Ice Grey-Blue

Hair Color: Black

Height: 5'6

Also access it on

Tim said, as if nothing had happened. "Oxygen. I keep forgetting the lungs need that to function properly. It’s... easy to forget."

"Inefficient?" Damian’s voice was sharp with genuine alarm. "Timothy, you stayed stationary for nearly forty-five seconds. Even a master of the League’s breathing techniques requires more circulation than that."

MAGICAL GIRL!

Amity Park. Out of all the states, all the schools, why was the ghost-central of the world coming to the one place where he’d finally managed to build a life as "Danny Gothe"?

He tried to breathe, to ground himself in the reality of the library. He smelled the old paper, the expensive floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of Drew’s overpriced cologne. He was the son of John Constantine and Lady Gotham. He was a King. He was protected by the very shadows of this building. But the thought of Sam or Tucker—or worse, a disgruntled Dash Baxter—walking through these halls made his core thrum with a panicked, frantic energy.

The golden ring of the portal hissed as it sliced through the sterile, humid air of the Batcave, spitting out a cloud of cigarette smoke and a sudden, sharp drop in temperature. John stepped through first, his trench coat damp and his expression sour enough to curd milk. Right behind him, hovering a few inches off the reinforced floor, was the "mystery partner"—Danny, currently in his full Phantom regalia. The King’s Crown pulsed with a low, violet thrum, and his star-dusted cloak billowed despite the lack of a breeze. John could feel the tension in the cave ratchet up to a breaking point. Bruce was already half-way to his utility belt, his eyes narrowed at the glowing, celestial teenager. "John," Bruce growled, his voice a low warning. "Explain. Now." "Not now, Bruce. I’ve got a massive headache and......

To find out what Constantine said, go to

or

Excerpt:

"Ｈｏｌｄ ｙｏｕｒ ｂｒｅａｔｈ，"  Danny warned, his voice echoing with a low, spectral reverb. "Ｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ ａｒｅ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｏ ｇｅｔ ｒｅａｌ ｗｅｉｒｄ．" With a sharp tug, the safehouse blurred into a smear of grey and green. The smell of gun oil and old coffee was replaced by the scent of ozone, ancient cedar, and the deep, silent cold of the void. As they materialized in the heart of the Obsidian Castle, the Realms reacted to our presence like a living thing recognizing its master. The throne room breathed with a rhythmic, low-frequency hum that vibrated through the soles of their boots. The architecture was an impossible blend of gothic architecture and celestial nebulae, where the pillars were carved from solidified shadow and the floor mirrored a star-map that shifted with every step Danny took. Danny felt the familiar, cold pressure of the King’s Crown—the jagged, dark crystalline points pulsating with a violet light that echoed the rhythm of his own core. From his shoulders, the King’s Cloak spilled out like a river of ink; it didn't just look like the night sky, it was the night sky, with tiny, dying stars trickling from the hem and dissolving into the floor like embers. Beside him, Damian stood with a rigid, regal grace that even the Realms couldn't rattle. The Prince’s Cloak—a deep, heavy velvet the color of the void—settled over his shoulders as if it had been tailored for him by fate itself. The silver circlet of the Prince sat nestled in his dark hair, the metal gleaming with a cold, pale light that highlighted the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. He looked every bit the dark sovereign, a perfect mirror to Danny's more radiant, starlit presence. And in Danny's eyes, he couldn't get enough of that sight. Jason, however, looked like he was vibrating out of his skin. He was hovering about four inches off the ground, his boots twitching as he struggled to find an anchor in a world where gravity was merely a suggestion. "Danny," John Constantine grumbled, pushing off the black glass pillar he’d been leaning against. He looked out of place in his rumpled trench coat amidst the cosmic grandeur, yet the way the shadows curled affectionately around his ankles suggested he was more at home here than he’d ever admit.  "You really don't do things by halves, do you? Bringing a Bat and a Revenant into the heart of the Realms is one thing, but crowning one before he has even had a drink? That’s a bit theatrical, even for a Constantine."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/76228706/chapters/199497346

Chapter 12 Excerpt:

Jason gripped the plastic of the controller so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white, his thumbs moving with a frantic, twitching energy that had nothing to do with the race. On the screen, the neon-soaked tracks of Kario Mart blurred into a psychedelic smear of colors, but Jason’s peripheral vision was hyper-fixated on the couch next to him. Damian was sitting with his back against the armrest, his legs stretched out, and Danny—wearing those absurdly large charcoal sweatpants and the hoodie that smelled distinctly of the Al Ghul lineage—was practically draped across him. Danny’s blonde hair was a mess of golden silk against Damian’s shoulder, and every time Danny’s character, Boo King, hit a boost, Danny would let out a little triumphant "Ha!" and lean even heavier into Damian’s chest. It was sickening. It was domestic. It was exactly like Chapter 12: The Quiet Gravity of Home. Jason felt a cold sweat prickling his hairline. He’d spent months on GotthePad under the handle WritingIsNotDead, meticulously crafting a world where the "Ice Prince of Gotham" was slowly thawed by the warmth of a sun-bright musician. He’d written about the way they’d subconsciously seek out each other's scent, the way the "Omega" Danny would nest in Damian’s discarded clothing. And here was the reality, sitting three feet away, living out his tropes with a terrifying level of accuracy. But then, Danny looked over. It wasn't a glare, and it wasn't the suspicious squint Jason usually got from his brothers. Danny just tilted his head, those hazy blue eyes catching the flickering light of the TV, and gave Jason a small, lopsided smile. It was a look of pure, unadulterated ease. In that second, the frantic buzzing in Jason’s brain—the "Oh god, he’s going to find out I write fanfic about my brother’s love life"—just… quieted. It was the weirdest sensation. Jason felt a wave of calm wash over him, a sense of safety that usually required a heavy-duty sedative or a three-day meditation retreat with Bruce. Jason blinked, his character, Don Dove, accidentally driving off a cliff on the Rainbow Road track. "Dammit," Jason muttered, but the usual bite was gone. He felt floaty. He felt like the air in the room had suddenly become much easier to breathe. As the final race ended—with Danny’s Boo King taking first place and Damian’s Batster Bat coming in a close second—the living room erupted into the usual Wayne sibling bickering.

Chapter 11 Excerpt Danny leaned back, feeling the warmth of Damian’s shoulder against his own. "Yeah, it's been wild. Though, fame has its downsides. Some of the fans are... dedicated, to say the least."

"How dedicated?" Jason asked, looking genuinely curious despite his earlier grumpiness. "Like, 'chase you down the street' dedicated?"

"Worse," Danny laughed. "Like 'prophetic' dedicated. There’s one fan in particular, WritingIsNotDead, who basically predicted... well, everything. They wrote this massive fluff Omegaverse fic on Gothpad called 'Royal Strings of Gotham.' It’s all about me and Damian being together before we even met. They even got the 'vibes' right."

Danny watched Jason closely. At the mention of the title and the specific platform, Danny felt the faint, spectral hum of a heartbeat skipping—Jason’s heart. Jason’s fork clattered against his plate, and his face went a shade paler before he masked it with a scowl.

"Omega-what?" Jason muttered, though he looked suddenly on edge, his eyes darting around as if looking for an exit. Danny made a mental note of it; Jason clearly knew more about the darker corners of the internet than he wanted to admit.

"It's a niche genre," Damian interjected smoothly, his eyes flashing with a hidden amusement. "Though I find the 'Royal' part of the title somewhat redundant."

"Anyway," Danny moved on, sensing Jason was about to have a minor crisis.

Just as the world began to white out at the edges, just as the tension reached a point of no return where Danny was a split-second away from shattering, Damian pulled away.

The loss of contact was so sudden it felt like a physical blow. Danny let out a loud, frustrated cry of protest, his body jerking forward into the empty air where Damian’s mouth had been. He was left suspended, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his skin humming with a desperate, unfulfilled electricity.

Damian looked up at him, his lips wet and a dark, triumphant smirk playing on his face. He didn't move from his knees, remaining in that mock-submissive posture while holding Danny’s entire world in his hands.

"Not yet, Stella mea," Damian whispered, his voice dripping with a dark, cruel amusement. "You haven't been properly measured for your endurance. I told you I have no intention of finishing this quickly. You will stay on this edge until I decide you’ve earned the right to fall."

Fic info

Words at the moment: 24,246

Fandoms: Batman & Danny Phantom

Ship(s): Danny/Damian, John Constantine/???

Age rating: Explicit

Platforms: Wattpad, A03

Summary:

What could go wrong? Cursed Fenton Luck.

For Danny Fenton, apparently, everything within the span of two months, his world falls apart.

But thankfully, he has his mentor, the Sad Trenchcoat Man, and a really pretty lady to help him get through all of it, and maybe a few Bats and Birds… And maybe one Baby Bat. Maybe... Wink Wink