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Blood and Ectoplasm

Crime Alley had always felt haunted. Jason Todd knew that better than anyone.

But this? This was different.

The night pressed heavy against the streets, the usual Gotham smog thickened by something deeper, something unseen. Jason moved through the alleys like a shadow, boots silent on damp pavement. The smell of rain clung to the air, mixing with the ever-present stench of cigarette smoke and old blood.

The reports had been vague, scattered whispers from the usual lowlifes. Muggers jumped by something glowing. Thugs left unconscious, their victims unharmed. Some swore they saw a figure floating, eyes burning neon green.

Normally, Jason would brush it off as another rogue metahuman or maybe one of Bruce’s new recruits playing hero without backup. But the way they described it—

"It wasn’t human."

Jason adjusted his grip on his pistol. Whatever was out here, he was about to find it.

Then, a flash of green light flickered in the distance. A rooftop, just ahead.

Jason exhaled slowly, and moved.

Danny Phantom had been to a lot of places in his time as a ghost. The Ghost Zone, Amity Park, alternate dimensions. But Gotham?

Gotham felt wrong.

The ectoplasmic corruption here was thick, choking the air like poison. It wasn't just the standard residue from restless spirits—it was alive, shifting beneath the city's surface, coiling like a sickness that had long since taken root.

Danny floated above the alleyways, scanning the streets below. His aura burned brighter than usual, reacting to the energy pulsing beneath his feet.

He’d been tracking the source for hours, but now he was sure.

Something in this city was infected with corrupted ectoplasm. And it was close.

Too close.

A gunshot rang out.

Danny turned just in time to see the bullet coming straight for his head.

His instincts kicked in. He phased, the round passing harmlessly through his skull as he twisted midair.

Below him, standing in the streetlight’s glow, was a man in red and black armor.

Helmeted. Armed. And already aiming again.

Danny barely had time to register him before another shot rang out.

Jason didn’t hesitate. He fired again, watching as the figure dodged—no, phased through the bullet like it was nothing.

Definitely not a metahuman.

Jason’s grip on his gun tightened. "You’ve got three seconds to tell me what the hell you are before I make sure you can’t float away, Casper."

The glowing figure, still hovering a few feet above the ground, raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Jeez, ever heard of saying hello first?"

Jason didn't answer. He moved.

A flick of his wrist, and his pistol was holstered, replaced with a throwing knife laced in Lazarus-forged steel.

The knife flew.

Danny dodged—but not fast enough. The blade sliced through his arm, burning in a way that made his entire body seize.

Danny hissed, gripping his arm. His fingers came away stained in ectoplasm.

Jason took a slow step forward, watching him closely. "Huh. So you can bleed."

Danny’s glowing green eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, Jason saw recognition.

"You—" Danny inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. His gaze flickered over Jason, the glow in his irises deepening. "You're—this energy—"

Then his expression hardened.

"Oh," he muttered. "You're the problem."

Jason didn’t know what that meant, and he didn’t care.

Because the next second, Danny attacked.

Jason had fought metas before. He’d fought monsters, assassins, even demons. But fighting Danny Phantom was like fighting a ghost made of lightning.

Danny moved too fast, blinking in and out of tangibility, dodging bullets, appearing behind Jason before he could react. Jason barely managed to block an ectoplasmic blast with his armored gauntlet before swinging one of his knives straight for Danny’s throat.

Danny phased—only to curse when Jason switched hands, slashing upward.

The Lazarus-infused blade met ghostly flesh.

Danny choked back a shout as the steel burned through his shoulder.

Jason saw the flicker of pain across Danny’s face.

Then, the air cracked.

Jason felt it before he understood it—something surging, thickening between them. The air burned cold and hot all at once. The moment Jason reached out—the moment he grabbed Danny by the wrist—

The world collapsed.

It was like being submerged in ice.

Jason staggered, his vision ripped away. No longer in the alley. No longer in Gotham.

He stood in a swirling void of green and black, weightless.

Doors floated in the distance, stretching into infinity. Whispers crawled through the mist.

Ahead of him, Danny Phantom hovered—but he wasn’t the same.

A crown of spectral energy burned above his head. His form flickered, no longer just a teenager in a hazmat suit, but something older. More.

Jason exhaled, his breath misting in the unnatural cold.

His rage—the fire that had burned beneath his skin since his resurrection—was gone.

For the first time in years, his mind was quiet.

Danny’s voice came slow, careful. "The Lazarus Pit’s hold on you—it doesn’t work here."

Jason didn’t answer, staring at his hands. They weren’t trembling.

Danny floated closer. "You’re drowning in it, aren’t you?"

Jason’s jaw clenched. "I don’t need a damn intervention."

Danny sighed, tilting his head toward the floating doors around them. "You don’t have a choice. The longer we fight, the worse the Pit’s corruption gets. For both of us."

Jason barely heard him. Because now, he was seeing.

The Ghost Zone pulsed around him, warping, shifting. And within it, like reflections in glass—

His own memories.

Pain. Agony. Hands clawing against a coffin lid.

A child's scream.

The roar of the Pit as it dragged him back.

Jason’s breath hitched. He staggered back, head pounding.

Danny’s expression softened. "Jason—"

Jason’s fist clenched. "Get me the hell out of here."

Danny studied him for a moment longer. Then, with a quiet sigh, he raised his hand.

The world snapped back into place.

Jason landed hard, boots scraping against Gotham pavement. His pulse hammered in his ears. The Pit’s energy returned, but it was weaker now. Fading at the edges.

Danny dusted himself off, his glow dimming slightly. "Well," he muttered. "That was fun. Let’s not do that again."

Jason exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "No promises."

Danny studied him. Then, after a beat, he tilted his head. "You know, I could help."

Jason scoffed. "I don’t need—"

Danny raised an eyebrow.

Jason scowled. Looked away.

Danny smirked. "Alright, Red. See you around."

Then, with a flicker of green light, he vanished.

Jason stood in the alley for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Danny had been.

For the first time in a long time, the whispers of the Pit didn’t feel so loud.

(Kinda had this in my notes for awhile, edited it a bit and made it longer cause plot)

Your Name Was Hope

(Shigaraki Tomura x Reader | angst | second person POV)

It happens faster than he can process.

One second, you're standing between him and a hero’s blade — the next, you're bleeding out, crumpling forward.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. He lunges, catches you — but even in his panic, instinct takes over: he only uses four fingers to grab the back of your jacket, his pinky hovering awkwardly in the air. Anything to avoid destroying you. Anything to keep you here.

"Idiot," he chokes out, dragging you against him as he stumbles back, his back hitting on the wall behind him. As he slides down to the ground, places your head on his lap. He looks down at you, his eyes full of fear. His voice is cracked and raw, nothing like the Shigaraki the world fears. "Why... why the hell would you do that?"

You smile. Of all the things you could do — all the things you could say — you smile. Weak. Soft. Like you don't have a single regret.

"You’re not..." You cough, blood staining your teeth. "You're not a monster. Not to me."

His whole body shudders. You shouldn't say that. You shouldn't believe that.

His fingers tremble where they grip your jacket, so tight the fabric might tear — but still, carefully, carefully, he keeps his cursed touch at bay.

You reach up — shaky, struggling — and brush the back of your hand against his cheek. A featherlight touch. No threat of Decay. Only warmth.

"Tomura," you whisper.

The sound of it — his real name, spoken with love — cuts deeper than any wound. It shatters something inside him.

You slump fully against his chest, your breathing slowing, your hand falling away.

"No— no, no, no—" His voice is hoarse, frantic. He’s begging, even though he doesn't know who he's begging anymore. "Don't leave. Don't—"

But you’re already slipping away.

The battlefield goes quiet. And Tomura — villain, destroyer, monster — is left holding the only person who ever looked at him like he was worth saving.

Later, when the smoke clears, no one questions why Shigaraki walks off the battlefield with his fingers digging into a battered, bloodstained bracelet wrapped tightly around his wrist. A simple thing. Frayed, cheap — something you had always worn. It was yours. Now it’s his.

He never lets it decay. No matter how damaged he is, no matter how angry — he always makes sure he touches it with four fingers. Never five. Never enough to destroy it.

Because it’s the only thing left of you.

The only thing reminding him he was once loved. Even if he never deserved it.

Bruce Wayne and Hal Jordan Headcanons

Their relationship is a mix of grumpy x sunshine energy. Hal loves teasing Bruce, while Bruce pretends to be annoyed (but secretly enjoys it).

Hal constantly pushes Bruce out of his comfort zone, dragging him to spontaneous trips and adventures. Bruce acts reluctant but usually ends up having a good time.

Bruce shows his love through actions—patching up Hal after fights, upgrading his flight suit, or silently standing by his side after tough missions.

Hal flirts with Bruce constantly, even in front of the Justice League, just to see him roll his eyes.

When they argue, it's usually over risk-taking—Bruce thinks Hal is reckless, and Hal thinks Bruce is too cautious. But they always find a middle ground.

Hal likes sneaking little green light constructs—like hearts or winking faces—into Bruce’s peripheral vision during League meetings, trying to break his serious facade.

Despite his stoic nature, Bruce trusts Hal with parts of himself he doesn't share with anyone else. Hal, in turn, feels grounded by Bruce’s steady presence.

They have an unspoken “no gifts” rule for holidays, but Hal breaks it every time with something ridiculous—like a bat-themed flight jacket or green-lantern-colored cufflinks.

Bruce pretends to hate PDA, but if someone looks at Hal the wrong way, he’ll subtly pull him closer.

Late at night, after long missions, they sit on the Watchtower, looking at Earth through the observation windows—no words needed, just quiet companionship.

abo au with alpha Jason as our mate?

Safe in His Scent

Alpha Jason Todd x Reader

The scent of gunpowder and leather wrapped around you before you even saw him. Jason was near—closer than usual. Your instincts prickled at the awareness of your mate’s presence, your Omega side naturally attuned to him even when he wasn’t trying to be noticeable.

You didn’t turn immediately. You kept your hands busy, finishing up in the small kitchen of your apartment. Jason always had a habit of watching you before announcing himself, his predatory instincts at odds with his soft spot for you.

“I know you’re there,” you finally said, glancing over your shoulder.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual scowl softened just enough to be noticeable. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

You rolled your eyes, setting down a plate. “Like I wouldn’t know when you’re around.”

His lips quirked up, the ghost of a smile. “Fair point.”

He took a few slow steps inside, his presence commanding, the heat of his body warming the room without him even touching you. Your Omega instincts wanted to lean into it, to let him close that distance, but you held your ground. You and Jason… things were complicated.

He wasn’t like other Alphas—possessive, territorial, demanding. He was protective, sure, but he gave you space. Too much space, sometimes.

“Rough night?” you asked, noting the slight tension in his shoulders.

Jason sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. Got into it with some assholes in Crime Alley.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

He smirked, stepping closer, finally within reach. “Worried about me, Omega?”

You huffed, smacking his arm lightly. “Of course I am, dumbass.”

Jason’s amusement faded slightly, something more serious settling in his expression. His hand lifted, fingers brushing your wrist—gentle, careful. Your pulse jumped at the small touch, your scent sweetening in response. He noticed, of course he did, and his pupils darkened slightly.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmured. “I can handle myself.”

“I know that,” you said softly, fingers curling slightly as if to hold onto that touch. “Doesn’t mean I stop caring.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his grip on your wrist shifting, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles against your skin. “You’re too good for this city,” he muttered. “Too good for me.”

You frowned. “That’s not for you to decide.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he didn’t argue. He never did when it came to you. Instead, he sighed and let his forehead rest lightly against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. Your scent mingled, familiar and right, and for the first time that night, Jason seemed to relax.

“You smell good,” he admitted, voice lower, rougher. “Like home.”

Your heart thudded, warmth blooming in your chest. “So do you.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against you. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pressing your nose lightly against his collar. “Yeah.”

For now, that was enough.

someone give me ideas on what to write about.

perferablye not Alpha!Jason but if that is what you want, then I'll write it.

I just need ideas on what to write about.

👉👈

Penguin x reader.?

One for the Birds

Oswald Cobblepot (Penguin) X Reader

The Iceberg Lounge was louder than usual. Smoke curled into the chandeliers like ghostly fingers, the kind of place where secrets got dressed in diamonds and danced between martini glasses. You didn’t belong here—and that was exactly the point.

You walked in sharp, calm, and dressed just well enough to be ignored. Not rich enough to be noticed. Not low enough to be questioned. You were just looking for someone to talk to. Someone with power. Someone with reach.

Oswald Cobblepot.

He stood near the back, half in the shadows, watching his empire breathe. People passed him by without a glance, not out of disrespect—but out of fear. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to control a room. He just was.

You stepped close, careful not to spill desperation on the floor.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said without turning. Voice like broken glass dipped in molasses.

You didn’t flinch. “Neither do half the people on your payroll.”

That got his attention.

Oswald turned, eyes narrowing behind his monocle, studying you like a puzzle someone forgot to finish. “Got a name, sweetheart?”

You told him. No stutter, no hesitation. Just enough truth to sound like a lie. His smile was small, but real.

“Brave,” he said. “Or stupid. The line’s thin in this city.”

“I’m counting on that.”

Oswald tilted his head, intrigued now. He motioned to a booth tucked away from the rest of the chaos. “Sit. Talk. If you're trying to sell something, it better be good.”

You slid in without breaking eye contact. “I’m not selling anything.”

“Then you’re asking for something.”

You leaned forward. “A favor. A deal. A crack in the wall no one else will give me.”

His fingers tapped against his umbrella. A beat. Then another.

“Everyone comes to me when they’ve run out of choices.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You? You walked in like you planned to be here.”

“I did.”

Oswald laughed, low and rough. Then he waved a hand, dismissing the waiter hovering nearby.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes. Impress me.”

You did.

By the time you stood to leave, the air between you had changed. His eyes followed you, calculating. Interested.

“Next time you walk in,” he said, “use the back entrance. I don’t like surprises.”

You paused. “What if I do?”

He grinned, sharp and cold. “Then you’ll be fun.”

Hi! So I'm the 🌃 anon witherby's blog and I read your fic because of it. I just wanted to say I loved it! I don't read a lot of DC fics with Danny Phantom in them since I've never watched the show (though I'm starting to consider it).

Your ideas are incredible as is your writing style. I hope you keep writing!

1. Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed my story and for letting me know who you are lol

2. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU WATCH IT!!! IT'S A GOOD SHOW!!

Hello ! Could you write a story about a Bruce become infant ? And the children take care of him please ! Have a good day 🥰

Title: “Batbaby”

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, Bruce Wayne is temporarily de-aged into a toddler. The Batkids are not prepared.

The mission had been simple.

In, secure the artifact, out. But when Zatanna warned them not to touch the glowing runes? Bruce touched the glowing runes.

Now he was sitting in the Batcave. All three feet of him. Arms crossed. Little scowl on his tiny face. Wearing an emergency Wayne Enterprises onesie because none of them had toddler clothes on standby.

Damian stared at him, horrified. “He’s... small.”

Tim was trying not to laugh. “He’s tiny, you mean. That’s Baby Batman.”

“I am not a baby,” Bruce snapped—except it came out in a high-pitched voice and a pout that ruined the effect.

Jason collapsed on the couch, cackling. “This is the best day of my life.”

“I still have my mind,” Bruce insisted, glaring at his now-gigantic children. “This is temporary. I’m still in charge.”

Dick crouched beside him with a smile. “Sure, sure. You’re totally the boss. But until Zatanna finds the reversal spell? You’re three, B.”

“I’m three and a half,” Bruce corrected sharply.

Damian groaned. “He’s regressing by the second.”

Hour One:

Bruce tried to sit at the Batcomputer. Couldn’t reach the keyboard. Sulked for ten minutes straight.

Tim gave him juice in a sippy cup. Bruce threw it at him. Missed. Demanded coffee. Was denied.

Jason tried teaching him to say “Red Hood.” Bruce said “Red Head.” Jason didn't even mind.

Hour Four:

Dick had wrapped Bruce in a little hoodie with bat ears and was carrying him around on his hip like a dad at a farmer’s market.

Bruce was not happy about it.

“This is humiliating,” he grumbled into Dick’s shoulder.

“Aw, you’re doing so good, buddy,” Dick cooed, bouncing him slightly.

“Put me down or I will fire you.”

“You don’t even pay me.”

Hour Six:

Bruce fell asleep on Alfred’s lap during story time. The book was about logistics. No one was surprised.

Damian stood nearby, arms crossed. “I... don’t hate him like this.”

Tim nodded. “It’s kind of peaceful. He’s only barked two orders since nap time.”

Jason took a picture. “He’s gonna murder us when he’s back to normal.”

Dick just smiled, tucking a baby blanket around Bruce. “Worth it.”

The next morning, the spell wore off. Bruce returned to normal. Full height. Full grump.

No one said anything.

Until Jason walked into the Cave wearing a shirt with Baby Bruce’s face on it.

Bruce stared.

Jason grinned. “I made merch.”

Bruce walked away.

“You can’t fire me if I don’t work here!”

hiiiihihi I like your Jason x reader alpha and omega stuff! Could you write a Jason in rut pls?

Burning for You

Alpha!Jason x Omega!Reader

The apartment was too hot. The air thick with Jason’s scent—gunpowder, leather, and something deeper, darker, needier.

He was pacing. Restless. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His rut was coming in hard, harder than usual, and the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself to it was you.

You, curled up in his bed, blinking up at him with wide, patient eyes. Your Omega scent was everywhere, wrapping around him like a damn vice. It was soothing and tormenting at the same time, because fuck, you smelled like home, and Jason’s instincts were screaming at him to claim, to mark, to make sure every inch of you knew exactly who you belonged to.

“Jason,” you murmured, your voice like silk, threading through the haze in his brain.

His jaw clenched. “You should leave.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him—his tensed shoulders, his fists gripping the sheets, the way his breath came too sharp, too ragged. You should be nervous. Hell, you should be scared. But you weren’t. Instead, you pushed the blankets off, crawling toward him, your scent blooming even sweeter in the air.

“Not gonna happen,” you said softly, fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Jason shuddered. His body ached. His rut was tearing through him like fire, and you—soft, willing, his—were just within reach. His Omega. His mate.

He exhaled sharply, eyes flashing with something feral. “I won’t be gentle.”

You smiled, tilting your head to bare your throat—trust, surrender, invitation. “I don’t need you to be.”

Jason growled, the last of his restraint snapping like a frayed thread. And then he moved.

He had you pinned in seconds, pressing you deep into the nest of blankets. His hands roamed over your body, rough and urgent, mapping every curve, every inch that belonged to him. His lips found your throat, hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin before his teeth scraped against it—a warning, a promise.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as you arched into him. Jason groaned, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. His hands gripped your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you still as he pressed himself closer, his scent thickening, overwhelming.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your skin, voice raw with need. “Say it.”

Your breath hitched, your body trembling under him, but your voice was steady when you answered. “I’m yours, Jason.”

Something in him snapped. His hands tightened, lips ghosting over your scent gland before he bit down—not hard enough to claim, but enough to stake his claim in this moment. Enough to make sure every single part of you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And Jason? Jason was never letting go.

Hi. Could you please write an Alpha Jason Todd x Beta Reader? You don't have to but it would be a good story. 👍

More Than Enough

Alpha!Jason x Beta!Reader

The apartment was cold. Too quiet. Too empty.

Jason hated it.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, breaths coming too sharp, too ragged. His rut had passed days ago, but the aftermath still clung to him like a ghost—exhaustion, frustration, the bitter taste of loneliness.

He wasn’t supposed to be alone.

But you were gone.

Not because you wanted to be, not really. Jason had made sure of that. Had pushed you away with sharp words and colder actions, because what was a Beta supposed to do with an Alpha during rut? What could you do?

Nothing.

That’s what he told himself every damn time he forced himself to keep his distance.

And now?

Now, the sheets didn’t smell like you anymore. Now, the only heartbeat in the apartment was his own, and it sounded all wrong. Now, he was left with nothing but the echo of his own damn mistakes.

The door unlocked.

Jason’s head snapped up, breath catching. He swore he was imagining things until he saw you step inside, arms full of takeout bags, looking at him like you hadn’t spent the last few days giving him space he never really wanted.

“…You look like shit,” you said, shutting the door behind you.

Jason exhaled, a shaky, uneven thing that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Feel like it, too.”

You crossed the room, setting the food down before sitting next to him, close but not touching. “Didn’t think you’d actually eat if I didn’t come back.”

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

The silence stretched, and for a moment, Jason braced himself for you to leave again. For you to say something final. Instead, you sighed, leaning against him, letting your warmth seep into the cracks he’d been too stubborn to acknowledge.

“You don’t get to do that again,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.

Jason swallowed. “I—”

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Jason.” You tilted your head, looking up at him with something unreadable in your eyes. “You’re my person, rut or not. Got it?”

Jason inhaled sharply. The knot in his chest loosened, just a little. He nodded.

“…Yeah. Got it.”

You huffed, satisfied, then nudged a takeout bag toward him. “Good. Now eat before I force-feed you.”

Jason cracked a real smile, small but there. And as he picked up the food, he finally let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as alone as he thought.