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i have an overactive imagination

DP X Marvel #10

It all started because Clockwork got bored. That was the only reasonable explanation Danny could come up with. One minute he was signing ghost realm tax paperwork—yeah, turns out being Ghost King came with bureaucracy—and the next, Clockwork was swirling his little time-staff like a smug ghostly Gandalf and muttering something about “character growth” and “you’ve gone soft, Daniel.” And then bam, vortex of neon green time-energy, and suddenly Danny Fenton—a.k.a. Danny Phantom, Ghost King, Defender of Amity Park, Sloppy Hot Mess™—woke up in Westchester, New York, in a bed that smelled like lavender detergent and severe academic trauma.

Also, there was a kid across the room with laser eyes. Like, literal laser eyes. Danny dodged the optic blast with a yelp, crashed into a dresser, phased through it out of panic, and immediately got tackled by some blue-furred acrobatic Shakespeare enthusiast named Hank McCoy, who tried to sedate him with a tranquilizer gun the size of a trombone.

The chaos didn’t end there.

After an hour-long misunderstanding involving accidental ghost-punching, a kid phasing through a wall and screaming about “this new spirit trying to possess my Xbox,” and someone named Jean calmly levitating him mid-air like he was a naughty kitten, Danny finally got an audience with Charles Xavier. That guy. The bald one. Professor X. Wheelchair. Mind reader. Wears a turtleneck in July.

And of course, as soon as Danny sat down, Professor X pressed two fingers to his temple and Danny felt his entire mental vault of trauma shatter like a haunted snow globe. “Ah,” the Professor said with the polite cadence of someone realizing they’ve just tuned into a true crime documentary instead of the weather channel. “You have a great deal of… unique experiences.”

Danny laughed. Hysterically. “I died at fourteen and now I run a death monarchy in an alternate dimension. Unique is so last week.”

Turns out Clockwork, that glorified antique grandfather clock with too much free time, had decided that Danny needed to “learn to connect with others his age again” and “gain allies outside the Ghost Zone.” So he dropped Danny off at a mutant boarding school like some sort of half-dead foreign exchange student. And Charles Xavier, either because he’s too nice or secretly thrilled to collect weirdos like Pokémon cards, welcomed him with open arms.

Now, Danny wasn’t a mutant. He made that very clear. He was a half-ghost hybrid from an accident involving his parents’ DIY death portal and a broken sense of safety regulations. But that didn’t stop the other students from assuming he was just a weirdo with very specific powers and a questionable haircut. The moment Rogue tried to absorb him and got an accidental flash of the time Pariah Dark tried to possess his left kidney, she screamed, exploded a tree, and refused to make eye contact with him for a week. Logan thought that was hilarious and called him “Casper with PTSD.” Danny called Logan “Hairy Ferret Man.” A rivalry was born.

Also, it turned out that mutants at Xavier’s School had no chill. None. Zip. Zero. When they found out Danny could go intangible and invisible? Prank war. Full-on, Cold War-style prank war.

Kurt teleported hot sauce into his shoes. Danny replaced Kurt’s shampoo with slime from the Box Ghost. Bobby froze Danny’s underwear drawer. Danny phased into Bobby’s room at 3 a.m. and whispered “I’m always watching” into his ear like a cursed Roomba. Scott tried to discipline them with a “team bonding” exercise. Danny phased his clothes off in front of the entire class during the obstacle course.

He did not know Kitty Pryde could scream that loud. Or punch that hard.

Things escalated.

One day, Jean and Ororo walked into the library to find Danny floating upside down while holding a book with his foot, chewing a pen, and muttering to himself in the Ghost Zone’s dead language. When asked what he was doing, he said he was “reverse engineering a spectral war code to crash the cafeteria’s menu algorithm so they’d bring back pizza bagels.” Jean left the room. Ororo gave him a high five.

That might’ve been the least unhinged thing he did that week.

Because Danny had fans now. The students—bless their hormone-fueled, superpowered hearts—thought he was the coolest thing since Wolverine got into a fistfight with a vending machine. He had followers. A literal cult. Called themselves “The Phantom Phreaks.” They made glow-in-the-dark hoodies with his face on it. One kid tried to dye their hair white using bleach and ghost peppers. It didn’t go well.

It got worse when Peter Parker showed up.

Apparently, he was doing some college-credit tutoring with Xavier’s School because of course the kid with radioactive spider powers and crippling anxiety was the designated Marvel mentor. Peter tried to explain the concept of “laying low” and “not being a public menace” and Danny just blinked, turned intangible, floated through a wall, and popped his head back in to say, “I once bench-pressed a building-sized ghost walrus. I am beyond menace, Peter.”

They became friends instantly.

Peter would swing by to help with science classes and would end up staying for hours, mostly because Danny was a magnet for eldritch ghost disasters. One time, a time-displaced pirate specter named Captain Bloodwhistle tried to possess the student kitchen mixer. Peter got covered in spectral marshmallow fluff. Danny laughed so hard he accidentally ripped a hole into the Astral Plane. Peter got dragged halfway in. Jean had to psychic-yank him back with what she described as “a migraine made of bees.”

Also, Danny started dating one of the Cuckoo sisters.

He wasn’t sure which one. They wouldn’t tell him.

One of them would show up to lunch, sit next to him, hand him a thermos full of ghost chili, kiss his cheek, and then disappear into the crowd. Danny asked once if they were just messing with him. The Cuckoo in question smiled and said, “Maybe. Or maybe we’re all in love with you. Isn’t that romantic?”

He nearly screamed.

That was before the Avengers got involved.

Apparently, Xavier forgot to tell them he’d adopted a literal half-dead godchild of the underworld into his school. So one day Tony Stark landed in the front yard in a red-and-gold panic and tried to “detain the supernatural threat.” Danny responded by phasing into the suit, taking control of it, and flying it into the sky while singing “Let It Go” at full volume. Tony had to eject mid-air. He landed in a bush. Scott filmed it. Jubilee added sparkles in post.

Then Nick Fury showed up and tried to recruit him.

Danny told him he was already King of the Dead and the living were beneath him. Then he tripped on his shoelace and fell into a bush. Same bush Tony had landed in. They bonded. Kind of.

And then Loki showed up, because someone (cough Wanda cough) told him that a teenage ghost king with ancient death powers was living rent-free at Xavier’s. Loki tried to seduce Danny into joining his side. Danny asked if his horns were compensating for something. Loki cursed his shampoo to turn his hair pink. Danny retaliated by summoning an actual ghost bull to chase Loki through the halls while yelling, “Fight me, Party City Maleficent!”

Charles suspended them both for 48 hours.

Danny used the time off to open a haunted lemonade stand in the Danger Room. It made five grand and summoned three minor demons. Hank was not pleased.

And look, Danny was trying. He really was. He went to his classes (when he remembered), tried not to make sarcastic comments during training (he failed), and even got a job at the school paper writing ghost horoscopes. (“Sagittarius: avoid mirrors this week. Capricorn: the undead whisper secrets to you, don’t trust them unless they have snacks.”) But trouble followed him like a clingy poltergeist.

One time a field trip to Central Park ended with a ghost bear rampaging through the zoo. Another time, he got possessed by a Victorian poet ghost and started writing depressing haikus on the bathroom walls. He once accidentally opened a mini-portal in the girl’s dorm by sneezing. No one knew how. Not even Clockwork.

And oh, Clockwork?

He’d drop in occasionally, hovering in midair with that smug look, sipping ghost tea, and muttering things like, “Growth looks good on you,” while Danny was being chased by a ghost goose that had eaten a cursed student ID.

It was chaos.

It was ridiculous.

It was unhinged, feral, terrifying, and oddly heartwarming.

Because for the first time since he’d become half-ghost, since he’d died and come back and been crowned a spectral king with too many responsibilities and not enough hugs, Danny had a home that was weird enough for him. A home full of flying kids, clawed professors, laser eyes, psychic meltdowns, teleporting blue elves, and students who didn’t flinch when he told them his parents once tried to dissect him in a lab accident.

He was just another freak among freaks.

And he kinda loved it.

Even if his bedroom lights occasionally flickered Morse code insults.

Even if Logan kept threatening to shave his head in his sleep.

Even if Peter Parker made a “Ghost King Survival Kit” and stuffed it with snacks, holy water, and emotional support memes.

Even if the Cuckoo sisters left threatening notes in his locker written in glitter glue.

Even if Xavier kept giving him polite but exhausted psychic lectures about “not weaponizing the garden gnomes.”

Even if the Danger Room now had a setting labeled “Phantom Mode” that was literally just a green portal, a pissed-off dragon ghost, and an army of flying textbooks.

Danny Phantom was home.

And Ghost King or not, these mutants had no idea what kind of disaster they’d just adopted.

DP X Marvel #9

It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday. Well, as normal as it got when you were the ghost king of a supernatural hell dimension that casually brushed shoulders with every known reality in the multiverse. Danny Fenton, age 19, high school graduate, part-time fast food cashier, full-time eldritch entity, had long since learned that “normal” was a concept best left to sitcoms and people who didn’t accidentally blow up space-time during puberty.

And yet, even with the sheer absurdity of his afterlife-afterlife job description, Danny had not signed up for this.

Somehow—somehow—when he officially accepted the Crown of Fire and Frost and Bones and Whatever, the Infinite Realms had offered him a dowry. Not money. Not knowledge. Not a magical vacuum to clean the endless ghost slime dripping from the ceiling. No. It gave him the Infinity Stones.

Not knockoff ones. Not replicas. Not the “Earth-199999” post-snap pebbles Thanos crushed into ghost glitter. The original Infinity Stones. And now he wore them.

Not in a gauntlet. Because, quote, “That’s been done, and frankly, gauche,” according to the Reality Stone, which had rewritten itself into a choker necklace that constantly tried to re-style his outfit into something out of a Victoria’s Secret Angel runway. Today, it had settled on a see-through green silk robe with ghost fire embroidery, and Danny had to physically fight it to let him wear jeans. He won. Barely.

The Power Stone, a chunky magenta ring on his left thumb, liked to hum. Not dramatically or ominously, no. It hummed “Barbie Girl” during tense conversations. It buzzed like a vibrator when Danny was trying to intimidate enemy ghosts. It yodeled during peace treaties. Vlad Masters once tried to monologue at him and the stone responded with a chorus of flatulent noises at full volume. Danny hadn’t stopped laughing for ten minutes. Vlad has refused to visit the castle since.

The Time Stone dangled from a chain bracelet on his right wrist. Sometimes it glowed. Sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it sounded exactly like Clockwork and said stuff like, “Oh, I wouldn’t eat that sandwich, Daniel. You’ll get food poisoning in three hours and twenty-two minutes. It won’t kill you, but the diarrhea will haunt you.” It also had a deeply annoying habit of flashing forward into the future and spoiling every plot twist in the books he was reading. Danny tried to switch to manga, but the damn thing kept spoiling those too.

The Space Stone was an earring. A single, glowing, cerulean stud in his left lobe. It gave him migraines. Not just regular migraines. Cosmic, black-hole-level migraines that bent reality around him. Once, while sneezing mid-headache, he created a baby star in his bedroom. Another time, it opened a portal in the ceiling of his shower mid-rinse and sucked him naked into a Skrull pirate ship orbiting Saturn. He beat them with a loofah and threatened to scrub their insides out unless they sent him back. They now call him “Emperor Cleans-the-Flesh.”

Then there was the Soul Stone. It had attitude. It was a sulky little thing, disguised as a glowing orange knuckle ring he wore on his middle finger, which felt very appropriate. It didn’t talk much, but when it did, it sounded like a sad Tumblr user from 2013. Constantly making vague threats like, “What if I just… killed everyone you loved… just to feel something.” Danny once told it to go touch grass and it responded by manifesting a field of sentient grass that sang MCR lyrics at full blast. Sam loved it. Tucker was traumatized. Jazz refuses to discuss it.

And the Mind Stone.

God.

The Mind Stone.

A dainty gold earring that hung from his right ear and gave the impression of class. It had developed a voice that was part Morgan Freeman, part drunk Hannibal Lecter, and it spoke in Jazz’s cadence. So, essentially: it psychoanalyzed Danny nonstop with the world-weary patience of an overachieving older sibling with access to the DSM-5 and a deep, personal vendetta.

“Ah, yes. Classic deflection, Daniel. You’re not mad at the Time Stone for spoiling your anime. You’re mad at yourself for never learning to regulate your own expectations. Also, you are projecting unresolved paternal trauma onto that sandwich. Seek therapy.”

“I can’t seek therapy, I’m the Ghost King!”

“That’s exactly what someone with a savior complex and intimacy issues would say.”

Every time he thought it was quiet, it whispered new insults into his subconscious. Once, in the middle of a UN meeting about ghost-human diplomacy, it started narrating his intrusive thoughts. Danny had to teleport out before he screamed about his fear of turning into his dad mid-poop.

Now, normally? He could live with it. Ish. He’d learned to tune them out, like roommates you couldn’t evict because they were the literal embodiment of creation. But then SHIELD, or what was left of it, showed up.

Apparently, the multiverse was cracking. Again. Something-something-Kang, something-something-fracture points. Wong came in first, looked at Danny floating sideways in a gravity-less realm throne room while eating hot Cheetos, and just sighed like a man who knew he was underpaid.

“You’re the new anchor of the multiverse.”

Danny blinked. “I’m the what?”

“The stones chose you. Probably because you’re already tethered to the Infinite Realms. You’re their new keeper. Like… janitor of reality.”

“I didn’t ask to be the multiverse’s janitor.”

“Too bad. Put on pants. You’re meeting the Avengers.”

Spoiler: he did not put on pants. Reality Stone put him in tight leather shorts. Tony Stark showed up mid-briefing, took one look at Danny, and said, “Are we summoning ghosts or attending Coachella?”

“I am literally containing the building blocks of existence inside my earlobes, old man.”

Tony raised a brow. “Sassy.”

Steve Rogers had a panic attack. Bruce Banner tried to talk quantum containment strategy, but the Mind Stone insulted his PhD and called him “Emotionally repressed Dr. Jekyll.” Wanda Maximoff muttered something in Sokovian about chaos recognizing chaos. Peter Parker asked for a selfie. Thor offered to arm wrestle. The Space Stone teleported his arm off mid-match. Thor thought it was hilarious.

Then came Loki.

“Oh,” the trickster said, slinking into the realm uninvited. “You’re the one they gave the toys to.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “Do not call them toys.”

The Soul Stone hissed. The Mind Stone said, “He has severe middle child energy. Classic narcissist. Avoid eye contact.”

Loki smiled wider. “I like you.”

“I hate you already.”

And then Deadpool showed up.

No one invited him. No one wanted him. He just… wandered in through a swirling green portal, wearing bunny slippers, sipping a Ghost Zone smoothie, and immediately licked the Time Stone.

“MMM. Tastes like trauma and Chrono-Cinnamon. Delicious.”

Danny screamed. Deadpool winked.

The next few weeks were a blur of chaos. Danny accidentally rebooted a dead star, causing an entire Kree fleet to bow to him as their sun god. The Reality Stone made his socks sentient. The Mind Stone helped him file ghostly taxes, then charged him emotional interest. Doctor Strange tried to exorcise the stones. Danny coughed up an entire timeline onto the Sanctum’s carpet. Wong still hasn’t forgiven him.

At one point, the Power Stone got bored and vaporized a celestial. Danny was grounded by the Living Tribunal for three days and had to sit in a corner of conceptual space thinking about what he did.

“Why me?” Danny whined to no one in particular.

“Because,” the Mind Stone whispered gently. “You are chronically self-sacrificing, catastrophically powerful, and an absolute sucker for lost causes. Also, you taste like ectoplasm and cinnamon toast. Reality finds that comforting.”

Danny covered his face with his hands. “I’m going to scream.”

“Do it,” the Soul Stone said. “Scream into the void. Feed me.”

“I hate you.”

“We love you, Daniel,” Time Stone whispered ominously.

“No you don’t!”

But they kind of did. In their own horrible, unholy, unhinged way.

And Danny? Danny was starting to get used to it.

He wore godhood like a teenager wears a secondhand hoodie—awkwardly, chaotically, and with a deep sense of “please don’t ask me to take responsibility for this.” But deep down, across realms and dimensions and timelines, Danny Phantom was no longer just a boy with ghost powers. He was the Keeper of Infinity, the King of the In-Between, and possibly the most dangerously unqualified celestial babysitter the multiverse had ever known.

God help them all.

DP X Marvel #8

By day, Danny Fenton was Midtown High’s hottest disaster. He was the Stark STEM Scholar—one of only three in the country—famously discovered after winning some obscure international quantum physics competition at age sixteen and allegedly giving a presentation that made Tony Stark laugh, cry, and threaten to adopt him in the same breath.

The problem was that Danny had no clue he was hot.

Like, he genuinely didn’t know. He thought people stared at him because of his weird vibe or maybe because he once muttered “parallel dimension colonoscopy” during a psych quiz and the rumor never died. He figured the occasional lingering looks were because people thought he was gonna go feral and try to bite someone (which was fair). He wore hoodies three sizes too big, drank energy drinks like water, mumbled through conversations, and ducked away from people like a scared little gremlin.

Meanwhile, the rest of Midtown was losing its mind over him.

In particular Peter Parker was losing his goddamn mind over him.

It started innocent enough. Peter had just been minding his business, doing his whole friendly-neighborhood-academically-overachieving schtick, when in walked him—Danny Fenton, with a bag slung over his shoulder, silver earrings glinting in the light like a warning sign (courtesy of Sam, who declared, “If you’re gonna be mysterious and broody, at least be aesthetically consistent.”) His hoodie looked like it had a body count. His cheekbones could slice vibranium. His eyes were dead, like truly void-of-soul dead, and Peter’s first thought wasn’t even “oh, new kid.” It was “I want him to step on me.”

Peter, poor, unsuspecting Peter, had his first-ever sexual panic as Danny plopped down in the seat next to Peter and promptly fell asleep face-first on the desk with a muttered, “If I die during lecture, bury me in a black hole.”

He was in real time was realizing he was a bisexual disaster. Danny didn’t notice. Because of course he didn’t. He just blinked at Peter like he couldn’t tell if he was real, offered a crooked half-smile, and then walked away like he hadn’t just lit Peter’s soul on fire and then pissed on the ashes.

Every day since had been a goddamn trial.

Peter had spent the first week internally screaming.

The second week, he started writing hate poetry. By the third, he was doodling “P. Parker-Fenton” in the corners of his calculus notes like a 12-year-old girl.

“Dude,” Ned had said, catching him mid-sketch. “You’re literally Spider-Man. Act like it.”

Peter flipped him off with the enthusiasm of someone spiraling.

See, Danny was not just hot. He was dangerously hot. Apocalyptically hot. End-of-days, angels-weeping-in-the-streets hot. But it was more than that—Danny had this vibe, like he could kill you or cry on you or accidentally invent interdimensional travel with a paperclip and a Diet Coke. He muttered equations under his breath, got into passive-aggressive debates with teachers, and once fixed the lab’s particle accelerator by kicking it.

And Peter couldn’t look away. Not that he was the only one.

The kicker, the absolute cherry on top of the chaos sundae? Everyone thought Danny and Black Cat had dated. The way Danny would scowl, rant, and complain like he was personally offended by Black Cat’s existence? Peak scorned lover energy.

“He thinks he’s slick, but he’s just a glorified stripper with daddy issues and too many backflips,” Danny once said in class and the teacher had to excuse herself.

“I swear I’m gonna develop a neurotoxin specifically to neutralize dumbass vigilantes with cat kinks,”

Everyone assumed Black Cat dumped him.

Peter, in his infinite genius, thought: oh my god, Danny’s still not over him.

Peter had almost passed out. Because here was the thing: he was Spider-Man. And Black Cat was his worst problem since midterms. He had arrived like a menace out of hell and a bisexual’s fever dream: black skintight tech suit (developed by who-the-fuck-knows), long white hair, with a domino mask and toxic green eyes, and with an ass so perfect Peter couldn’t even swing straight half the time.

Seriously. There’d be villains throwing grenades, and Peter would be getting motorboated by thighs. There was groping. There was flirting. There was one time Black Cat bit his ear and whispered, “Miss me, pretty boy?” and Peter crashed into a billboard.

He’d tried everything. He webbed Black Cat’s legs. Black Cat purred and called him “kinky.” He yelled. Black Cat called it “foreplay.” He threatened to arrest him. Black Cat licked his cheek and said, “Book me, officer.”

Peter had screamed into his pillow for three hours.

It wasn’t even just the flirting. Black Cat had the most obscene agility Peter had ever seen. He moved like he was born in zero gravity. Feline, fluid, and just a little too dramatic, like he knew exactly how good he looked vaulting off rooftops with his ass perfectly lit by the moonlight.

Peter hated him.

He also maybe wanted to kiss him until his lungs gave out.

Worse yet? Peter was starting to like the bastard. His timing was always perfect. His gadgets were weirdly high-tech. He had a talent for saving people and then disappearing with a little salute and a wink that made Peter’s skin itch.

And then there was that kiss.

One week ago. Midtown Bank. Hostage situation. They cleared the building together, Peter bleeding, dazed, and vibrating with adrenaline.

Black Cat had grabbed his face—grabbed his face—and said, “You’re my favorite arachnid, you know that?” and kissed him full on the mouth, through the mask.

Peter hadn’t spoken a full sentence since.

Meanwhile, Danny was in class the next day, legs crossed, sipping a disgusting Monster-Latte hybrid, and saying, “What kind of vigilante triple flips over a fire hydrant for no reason? Just run, you overdramatic bastard.”

Peter, in a cold sweat, nodded and said “yeah totally” in the voice of someone whose soul had left his body.

And Danny. Danny had no idea.

Because Danny was the goddamn Black Cat.

He hadn’t meant to become a vigilante again. The plan had been normalcy. New town, new school, no more ghost crap. He was gonna do his best, keep his grades up, pretend he was just some regular nerd with caffeine addiction and unresolved trauma.

Then a ghost tried to possess the mayor.

So. Yeah.

Ghosts were still following him. And New York didn’t have a Phantom. It had Spider-Man, sure, but Spider-Man didn’t fight intangible poltergeists or ancient Babylonian curses riding the 6 train.

Danny had no choice.

He did not name himself. He wanted to be called Specter. Or Eclipse. Something cool and ominous.

But no. Someone caught a blurry photo of his suit and labeled it Black Cat, and the media ran with it. Because of course they did.

“What part of me says feline?!” Danny groaned, head in his hands.

“You land on your feet,” Jazz offered.

“You hissed at a reporter once,” Sam added.

“Your thighs jiggle like a cat when you run,” Tucker said while texting.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, peeling into his skin-tight tech suit. “Let’s lean into the bit.”

He redesigned his suit. Added some claws. Built in some stealth mods. Accidentally made it a little too form-fitting. Like. A lot. And took notes from DC comics’ Selina Kyle’s Catwoman.

Jazz called it pornographic. Sam said it was camp. Tucker just sent a picture of the suit’s ass shot and wrote “God is testing me.”

But it worked. People were scared of him. Or thirsty. Usually both. And if Spider-Man wanted to play, then Danny was gonna play.

He didn’t expect Spider-Man to be this hot, though.

Danny had zero intentions of flirting with him at first. But then Spider-Man showed up with that stupid voice, that stupid righteous attitude, that stupid perfect thighs, and Danny’s brain short-circuited. The sarcasm kicked in. The smirks. The shameless groping.

And then he kissed him. Because why not? No one would know.

Except now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Spider-Man’s breath had hitched. His hands had clutched Danny’s suit like he didn’t want to let go. His knees almost gave out. Danny had felt it.

And now he was spiraling.

Because, uh. He was also kind of in love with Peter Parker. Like. A lot. The boy was brilliant, funny, painfully kind, and so pretty it gave Danny a stomach ache. But Danny couldn’t flirt with Peter because he was Black Cat, and he couldn’t flirt with Spider-Man because he was Danny.

His life was a joke.

Because Danny had no clue. About anything.

He didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man. He didn’t know Peter was spiraling into an identity meltdown because the boy he lowkey flirted with in calc was also the boy he highkey flirted with on rooftops. He didn’t know Peter was fantasizing about both of him like some bisexual train wreck with a death wish.

While for Peter? He didn’t know what he wanted more—Danny, or Black Cat.

The nerd with the hoodie and the caffeine addiction, who muttered to himself in code and looked at equations like they personally offended him? Or the cocky, sleek, thigh-baring menace who called him “pretty boy” and kissed him mid-battle just to watch him panic?

Peter was going insane.

Every time Black Cat landed in front of him, Peter had to actively fight the urge to sniff him like a lunatic. Every time Danny leaned over his desk to scribble notes, Peter’s soul left his body.

There was no winning.

“Someday,” Danny said one night, sitting on a rooftop as Black Cat and watching the skyline, “You are gonna figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Peter as Spider-Man said, trying not to look directly at him.

“That I’m everything you want,” Danny purred, leaning into his space. “Hot, flexible, an emotional disaster.”

“You’re—! You’re insufferable.”

“I’m irresistible.”

Peter didn’t reply. He just screamed into the void later that night, face-planted into his pillow, and prayed for mercy.

The universe, as always, ignored him.

It all started at the Stark Foundation Fall Gala. A black-tie, red-carpet, industry-defining, media-covered event hosted in the glass spire that was Stark Tower, attended by the world’s smartest people and most insufferable billionaires—and two absolute disasters masquerading as teenage geniuses.

Danny Fenton, Stark STEM Scholar and walking espresso machine, was there because Tony Stark had personally invited him (“You’re legally required to be my prodigy now, kid, don’t argue, you signed the scholarship, it’s in the fine print”), and Peter Parker was there because he was Tony’s favorite intern, which meant “emotional support goblin” and “get me coffee, Peter” in the same breath.

Danny walked in like he’d been dragged from his apartment ten minutes before the event by the ghost of Coco Chanel—because he had. Sam had done his hair, shoved him into a black velvet suit that hugged his ass and thighs a little too perfectly, slapped silver rings on all his fingers, smokey eyeliner, and threatened him with a haunted curling iron if he so much as slouched.

Peter, meanwhile, had been hyperventilating in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.

He was wearing Armani. He had been forcibly styled by Pepper Potts herself, who had told him, “If you’re going to be Tony’s emotional support intern, you need to at least look like you’re not feral.” Peter had not emotionally recovered from being spritzed with Tom Ford cologne and told he looked “delicious.”

They spotted each other across the room like the first five minutes of a YA adaptation, except one was drinking something radioactive-green from a champagne flute and the other was clutching a tray of hors d’oeuvres like a weapon.

Danny blinked. Peter blinked.

Then they both looked away so fast they might’ve given themselves whiplash.

Which would’ve been fine if that was the end of it.

But no. God had other plans.

Specifically: Tony Stark’s plans.

“Come here,” Tony hissed, grabbing both of them by the shoulders. “You two teenage disasters are going to schmooze.”

“Tony I can’t schmooze,” Danny said, panicking. “I don’t even know what schmooze means, I thought that was a cheese—”

“And I have shrimp hands!” Peter added wildly, holding up his fingers still greasy from crab rangoons. “I can’t touch people like this! I’ll be arrested!”

Tony shoved them both forward like a mother bird kicking her children out of the nest and said, “Go. Talk. Mingle. Be charming. Or I’ll adopt you both and make you brothers and then who’s crushing on who, huh?”

“WHAT—” both of them said at once, violently red in the face.

“Bye!” Tony sang, disappearing into the crowd like a chaos goblin.

Peter and Danny stood in mortified silence for a full ten seconds.

Then:

“So,” Peter said. “Uh. You look… good.”

“Thanks,” Danny muttered, tugging at his collar. “I feel like a sexy baked potato.”

“You—what.”

“Just… overheated and wrapped in velvet.”

Peter wheezed.

They started talking. Somehow it spiraled into quantum entropy, the ethics of ghost containment, and whether Tony Stark was legally allowed to name a drone “Bitch Lasagna 3.0.”

Peter was sweating. Danny was internally combusting. They were both about five seconds from proposing marriage and didn’t know it yet.

Then came the moment.

A scream. A crash.

Glass shattered. Lights flickered.

“Fucking hell,” Danny muttered, already pulling off his jacket. “Can’t have ONE normal night.”

Peter, across from him, had already vanished.

Two minutes later, Spider-Man somersaulted through the crowd and launched himself at the glowing, oozing, screaming ghost that had torn through the ceiling.

Black Cat flipped down from the opposite direction, landing like a goddamn supermodel in latex.

The crowd screamed.

Peter screamed internally.

Black Cat smirked. “Miss me, pretty boy?”

“I don’t—this is a GALA, can we not?” Spider-Man groaned, dodging ectoplasmic debris.

Black Cat laughed, cartwheeled up a wall, and started firing anti-ghost rounds from his wrist mods. The ghost shrieked. Spider-Man nearly got crushed. Black Cat saved him by grabbing his waist and yeeting them both through a portal that landed them right in—

—the rooftop garden.

Panting. Sweaty. Disheveled.

“What the FUCK was that?!” Spider-Man gasped lifting up his mask slightly from the bottom to breath.

“I didn’t summon it!” Black Cat snapped, wiping green sludge off his face. “Ghosts have no concept of social etiquette!”

Danny after wiping his face realized his domino mask fell off but it was too late to cover up again.

Peter stared at Danny’s very familiar stupidly hot face.

Danny stared at Peter’s very familiar stupidly kissable mouth.

Peter said, in a high-pitched, cracked whisper, “You’re Black Cat?!”

Danny shrieked, “YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?!”

They both screamed at each other. Like. Loud. Very. Loudly.

Birds flew off the rooftop.

Somewhere inside the gala, a waiter dropped an entire tray of champagne flutes from sheer sympathetic psychic resonance.

“YOU—YOU’VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH ME AS A VILLAIN!” Peter yelled.

“YOU KISSED ME ON A ROOFTOP AND THEN IGNORED ME IN CALC!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE STRAIGHT!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE BLACK CAT’s EX!”

“I AM BLACK CAT!”

Peter made a noise like a microwave about to explode. “OH MY GOD. I’M IN LOVE WITH TWO PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY THE SAME PERSON.”

Danny staggered back. “I—I’m in love with YOU! But I couldn’t SAY ANYTHING because you were Spider-Man and I was Black Cat and we were ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS—”

“BENEFITS? I GOT TRAUMA.”

“I KISSED YOU! WITH TONGUE!”

“YEAH AND IT WAS AWESOME WHICH MAKES THIS WORSE!”

They both fell silent. Hyperventilating.

Danny doubled over and screamed into the floor.

Peter clutched a potted plant and whispered, “This is a hate crime.”

There was a pause.

“…You like me?” Danny asked.

“You like me?” Peter countered.

They stared.

Then they both shrieked again, because this was TOO MUCH and NEITHER of them was equipped emotionally to handle anything.

And across the rooftop, where no one had noticed, Tony Stark was standing behind a pillar, filming the whole thing.

He grinned.

“I’m gonna play this at your wedding,” he whispered to himself, tearfully, joyfully. “God, I love being me.”

DP X Marvel #7

Tony Stark had seen a lot of wild things in his life—aliens, Norse gods, sentient killer bots made by his own two hands—but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the day a literal ghost boy phased through the ceiling of Stark Tower and declared, “You’re my godfather now.”

Tony blinked. “…Did I drink last night?”

“No,” Pepper called from another room. “You’ve been sober for two years.”

“Right. Just checking. Then who the hell is this glowing child and why does he think I’m his godfather?”

Danny Fenton, age seventeen, half-ghost disaster and walking teenage trauma case, stood in the middle of the floor with glowing green eyes and the confidence of a raccoon that’s already tipped over the trash can. “Because I’m emotionally damaged and in need of a stable father figure who isn’t a power-obsessed megalomaniac with Oedipal issues.”

Tony stared.

Danny stared back.

Tony raised a brow. “Are you talking about your actual dad or—”

“Vlad Masters,” Danny spat like the name was poison. “He’s rich, insane, and wants to kill my dad and marry my mom. And I’m pretty sure he’s legally stalking me. So… yeah. You’re the anti-Vlad. Congratulations. You’re my godfather now.”

Tony looked like he was buffering. Then a slow, terrible grin crawled across his face. “…Hell yeah I am.”

And that was that. Danny Fenton moved into Stark Tower and the next day Tony updated the JARVIS files with: “New priority directive: Protect Ghost Goblin 1 (Danny Fenton).”

Then Peter Parker, long-suffering, perpetually confused, and not emotionally prepared for whatever was happening lately, stared as Danny literally walked through his bedroom wall and flopped onto his bed like they’d known each other for years.

“You ever heard of doors?” Peter asked, voice cracking slightly because holy hell the new godchild Tony was parading around was cute. Even if he looked like he hadn’t slept since the Cold War.

Danny ignored him. “Tony said I should ‘hang out with the spider boy’ because we’d be ‘trauma-compatible.’” He rolled over and stared at Peter upside-down. “Are you trauma-compatible, Peter?”

Peter looked to the heavens like they would help him. “I’m not emotionally ready for this conversation.”

“Cool. Me neither.” Danny pulled a full-size Fenton Thermos out of somewhere and sipped from it like it was a soda. “Wanna make out or emotionally repress things together?”

Peter sputtered. “Wh—WHAT?!”

Danny grinned with all his teeth. “That’s what Tony said you’d do. Panic adorably. You’re kinda proving his point.”

Meanwhile, Tony Stark was committing several war crimes from his living room.

“I’ve traced the GIW’s funding to three offshore accounts, two shell corporations, and one extremely sus Girl Scout cookie fundraiser. I’m calling in a missile strike in 3… 2…”

“Tony, no,” Pepper said without looking up from her tablet.

“Tony, YES.”

Tony had decided, rather quickly, that the GIW (Guys In White, a government ghost hunting agency that was somehow even more evil and incompetent than HYDRA on bath salts) needed to be permanently deleted from existence. Preferably with fire.

And when he found out that Danny’s biological parents had been working with them?

Tony sent Jazz a college fund with so many zeroes it crashed her banking app.

Jazz, who was nineteen, brilliant, and terrifying in the most Pepper Potts-coded way, politely declined Tony’s offer to adopt her.

Though she did let Pepper start mentoring her.

Within a month, she was managing several Stark subsidiary companies, speaking at conferences, and had already physically thrown three men out of boardrooms.

Tony watched her threaten a corrupt investor once and whispered, “That’s my girl—wait no, Pepper’s girl. Same difference.”

And then there was Dani.

Technically, Danielle. Biologically fifteen. Chronologically five. Personality-wise? A feral gremlin hopped up on ghost energy and sibling issues.

She and America Chavez met at a Stark Industries youth outreach event and instantly bonded over being “multiverse anomalies with authority issues.”

Now they were best friends, terrorizing New York and the surrounding dimensions like it was a competitive sport.

“DANI GET OFF THAT DINOSAUR.”

“YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU’RE NOT MY MOM.”

“AMERICA PUT THE SORCERER SUPREME DOWN.”

“HE STARTED IT.”

Stephen Strange started keeping antacids in his cape.

Meanwhile, Dani kept calling Tony “Iron Dad” and trying to hotwire the Quinjet for “ghost girl reasons.” Nobody could stop her. Nobody even tried anymore.

And then—as if the chaos weren’t enough—Dan showed up.

Danny’s alternate universe self, aged up to 21 because time travel is rude, and fused with Vlad in a Frankenstein disaster combo of trauma, rage, and nuclear hotness.

Dan was chaos incarnate.

He crashed through a multiversal rift during breakfast and immediately tried to flirt with Loki.

Loki, sipping tea in the kitchen, barely looked up. “You smell like war crimes and daddy issues.”

Dan purred, “You smell like abandonment trauma and repressed bisexuality.”

“Stop flirting with the Asgardian war criminal!” Jazz yelled from across the room.

“IT’S CALLED DIPLOMACY,” Dan yelled back.

Vlad, for his part, tried to retaliate by showing up at Stark Tower in a suit and monologuing about betrayal, destiny, and how Danny was meant to be his son/heir/lovechild/successor/whatever.

Tony tased him.

No hesitation. No words. Just taser.

Vlad hit the ground like a sack of sad midlife crisis potatoes.

“JARVIS,” Tony said cheerfully, “Put him in a cage. Have it labeled: Delusional Walmart Dracula.”

“Yes, sir.”

Later, Tony sold DALV.CO for one dollar to Pepper, who then dismantled the company in less than 72 hours and donated the parts to ghost safety research in underfunded schools.

Danny cried. “You guys are like… functional, emotionally regulated versions of the Addams family.”

Pepper patted his head. “We try.”

One day, Nick Fury called.

“I want an explanation,” Fury growled, “for why there’s a ghost child joyriding a helicarrier, a teenager that can rip holes in space-time, a clone spray painting ‘eat my ecto-butt’ on Avengers Tower, and why the hell Loki is apparently married to a fusion of two ghosts!”

Tony just sipped his drink and said, “It’s called found family, Baldy.”

Fury blinked. “What?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Peter, off-camera, shouted, “DANNY STOP TRYING TO PHASE THROUGH MY WALL I SAW THAT.”

“You can’t stop me, Peter!”

“YES I CAN, THIS IS A RENT-CONTROLLED BUILDING.”

“I love you too!”

And somewhere, across the infinite multiverse, Clockwork watched all of this with a sigh and a sip of tea.

He was going to need so much aspirin.

Dp X Marvel #6

They called him Wraith.

Not Phantom. Not Fenton. Not Danny. Those names belonged to a ghost of a boy that never made it out of a cold, steel lab buried beneath the earth—forgotten by the world, forsaken by the stars. Wraith was something else. A project. A weapon. An experiment that should have failed but didn’t. The product of every nightmare HYDRA ever dared to dream. Not even the Red Room could engineer something so devastating. Not even Arnim Zola’s data-crazed AI mind could fathom the scope of him. Even the Winter Soldier—their perfect killer—trembled at the mere scent of Wraith in the air. He was the one he whispered about when the old ghosts came clawing through his fractured memories. “The one they locked away. The one even I wasn’t allowed to see.”

They started with the basics: a perfected version of the Super Soldier Serum. Not the knockoffs that littered the black market. Not the diluted trash the Flag Smashers used. No, this was the pure, concentrated essence of bioengineered physical supremacy. It made him fast. Strong. Deadly. But that wasn’t enough. HYDRA didn’t want a man—they wanted a god.

They replaced his bones with vibranium, stolen from the very heart of Wakanda in a mission so secret even the Dora Milaje never learned of it. His skeleton was a lightweight fortress, a perfect balance between flexibility and unbreakability. He could be shot point-blank with an anti-tank rifle and not flinch. He could leap from ten thousand feet and land without cracking a toe. His spine alone was stronger than most armored vehicles.

They burned out his organs, one by one, replacing them with biochemical synth-constructs, living machines that pulsed with a power that didn’t belong in the realm of science. His lungs filtered radiation. His kidneys could process raw acid. His stomach could digest metal. Disease didn’t touch him. Poisons turned inert inside him. He didn’t age. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t need to.

His blood… wasn’t blood. It shimmered when it moved. Viscous and luminous, like glowing starlight mixed with oil. Warm, but synthetic. Slick, but alive. It wasn’t just Extremis. It wasn’t just ectoplasm. It was something else entirely. Something that hummed when it moved, that responded to emotion, that sparked with eldritch light when he was angry. It healed him before injury even registered. It whispered to him in languages he never learned but somehow knew. It could ignite with a thought and turn his veins into conduits of fire and ice and terror. They bled him once, just to see what would happen. The blood ate through the floor, hissed like a serpent, and disappeared through the cracks. The lab tech who performed the procedure dissolved within thirty seconds.

And then there was his skin. It was soft, warm, perfectly human. If you touched him, he felt like a boy in his late teens—young, firm, deceptively fragile. But beneath that flawless layer of polymer-fused dermal tissue was something that didn’t burn, didn’t freeze, didn’t shatter. He walked through fire. He dove into the Mariana Trench. He stood unflinching beneath arctic storms and tropical cyclones. He once fought a vibranium-clawed assassin barehanded and didn’t bleed. The assassin didn’t survive.

But the worst part—what made him truly unkillable—was his heart and his brain.

They didn’t understand what they’d done. HYDRA liked to pretend they were gods, but even gods get scared when they tamper with forces they don’t understand. His heart wasn’t just a pump anymore—it was a fusion of quantum mechanics, biomechanical tubing, and something that throbbed with ectoplasmic radiation. It pulsed at its own rhythm, immune to external manipulation. It couldn’t be stopped. You could shoot him in the chest, burn him to ash, decapitate him—and the heart would keep beating. Worse, it could restart him.

The brain was worse. They hadn’t just enhanced his intelligence. They hadn’t just implanted neural tech and a language matrix and memories from assassins, soldiers, pilots, hackers, spies. No. They’d opened a door in his mind. They’d let something in. Something ancient. Something not from this world. Something not even from this dimension. It whispered to him when the moon was full. It guided his hands during missions. It told him where to strike, who to kill, what to become. Sometimes he heard it laughing.

Sometimes he laughed with it.

Wraith was the culmination of every evil science, every secret experiment, every whispered nightmare stitched together into a boy-shaped thing that wore a black suit and a bored expression and had a voice so calm it made seasoned killers nervous. He could walk into a room, look at you with those sky-blue eyes, and make your heart stop—because something about him was wrong. Not obviously wrong. Not monstrous or alien or robotic. No. It was subtle. A slowness to his smile. A tilt to his head. A precision to his movements that screamed in the back of your brain: This isn’t human. This is pretending to be human.

He escaped, of course. Nothing like him could be contained forever. The facility was a ruin within minutes. Bodies left stacked like cordwood. Walls melted. Floors cracked open. Not even the cameras could capture his escape—the footage was corrupted by a static that made your teeth ache and your eyes bleed. Every hard drive in the facility burned itself from the inside out. There was no trace of the boy they once called Danny Fenton.

Now, there are sightings. Rumors. Whispers. In Madripoor, they say he took down a cartel by himself, and the sky turned green when he screamed. In New York, people say he walked past the Sanctum Sanctorum and Doctor Strange flinched like he’d seen death. Wakandan scouts report strange readings near vibranium deposits—heat signatures that vanish into thin air. S.H.I.E.L.D. has classified him as an Omega-level threat.

The Winter Soldier? He saw him once. In an alley in Prague. Wraith didn’t attack. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him with those glacial eyes before disappearing in a flicker of light that bent reality itself. He didn’t sleep for three days after. When asked what was wrong, he just whispered, “They built something worse than me. And it remembers everything.”

Maybe there’s still a boy inside him, buried under steel and fire and ectoplasm and pain. Maybe that boy is screaming. Maybe he’s plotting. Maybe he’s just waiting. After all, you don’t build something like Wraith and expect him to stay still. You don’t break a boy into a god and expect him to forget.

DP X Marvel #5

Time is funny when you’re half-dead, fully annoyed, and accidentally adopted by the Goddess of Death.

Clockwork would say there are no accidents—only inconvenient truths and divine meddling. That’s probably why Danny Fenton, fifteen-year-old ghost boy with a penchant for sarcasm and trauma, had found himself dropped into the Nine Realms like a glowing, confused kitten tossed into a pit of wolves. Except in this case, the wolves wore armor, carried swords, and were burning a village in Odin’s name.

He arrived mid-battle. Because, of course.

Green fire blazed from his hands instinctively, not because he wanted to help some random Asgardian villagers (okay maybe a little), but because he didn’t like bullies and the Einherjar were real assholes. He knocked one out of the sky, punched another through a stone pillar, and then got personally tackled by a blur of black and green.

The Goddess of Death stared at him. He stared back, mildly terrified but also annoyed because she hadn’t brushed her hair in 50 years and still looked better than him. Her crown formed, antlers arching like the jaws of a beast, and she asked, “What in the Yggdrasil are you?”

Danny blinked, wiped blood from his cheek that wasn’t even his, and muttered, “Ghost. Teenager. Lost, I think?”

And Hela—executioner of a thousand realms, general of Asgard’s greatest conquests, secret eldest child of Odin—looked at this scrawny glowing boy with plasma in his veins and something inside her cracked. Maybe it was maternal instinct. Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was because he shot a sarcastic thumbs-up at her after kicking a berserker into a wall.

But she didn’t kill him.

Instead, she took him to her quarters in the Golden Palace, cleaned his wounds with unsettling gentleness, and when Odin came asking, “Where did this strange creature come from?” she looked the All-Father dead in the eye and said, “He’s mine.”

Danny had no idea how this escalated, but suddenly he had a new Asgardian name—Dánjal Helson. It sounded dramatic and ancient and weirdly metal. He hated it. But he didn’t fight her on it. Not when she started teaching him how to channel the dead, how to split his ectoplasmic form into spectral blades, how to walk through the veil between life and death and come back laughing. She was a terrifying mother, but she was his.

And then Odin banished her.

Danny had screamed at Clockwork, demanded answers, but all the time ghost said was, “This was always meant to happen.”

So he did what any teenage ghost king with mommy issues and interdimensional authority would do—he broke into Helheim.

Well. He didn’t really break in. He sort of… floated. Slipped. Ghosted through the borders of the dead and found her throne, jagged and thorny, surrounded by skeletal wolves and screaming winds. She was sitting there, bleeding shadows, eyes dull with millennia of betrayal. And when she looked up and saw him—her boy—she fell to her knees.

He ran to her.

She touched his face like it was a miracle. He said, “Hey Mom,” because apparently sarcasm is how you process godlike trauma.

Years passed. Danny became King of the Infinite Realms. The title came with annoying paperwork, wars against spectral tyrants, and weird tea with the Ghost Council. But he always made time to visit Hela. They trained together. She told him Asgardian legends. He taught her Earth memes. Once, he showed her a vine compilation and she laughed so hard a bridge in Niflheim collapsed.

She taught him to wear a crown with violence.

He taught her to say “yeet.”

Then Odin’s death happened.

Thor and Loki were on their redemption road trip, bonding and yelling and discovering truths. Odin croaked in Norway and, with his last breath, whispered something like “She’s coming. My firstborn. She will bring death.”

Thor assumed it was a warning.

It was, in fact, an invitation.

Because instead of bursting out of Helheim and heading to Asgard for vengeance and chaos, Hela just looked at the hole in the sky and said, “Hold on.”

She turned to Danny, who was floating upside down in his ridiculous green cape and crown of bone-fire, holding a ghost-summoning staff like a bored wizard with ADHD.

“I think I’m free.”

Danny blinked. “Cool. Wanna rule a death dimension with me?”

“Yes.”

And that was how Hela, Goddess of Death, became the terrifying, unhinged, protective Queen Mother of the Infinite Realms. She wore black armor, sharp heels, and lipstick made of shadow. She smiled when ghosts bowed to her and summoned dragons when demons threatened her son.

Danny tried to stop her from vaporizing a ghost that called him “soft,” but she just said, “He insulted my son. I will end him and salt the afterlife with his ectoplasm.”

Meanwhile, Thor and Loki were having several consecutive mental breakdowns.

“She’s supposed to be here!” Thor yelled, pointing at the now empty Helheim portal.

“She’s going to destroy Asgard!” Loki added, pulling at his hair and possibly having a crisis because he found a baby photo of himself and her and now has emotions.

They go to Earth. They go to Sakaar. They go everywhere trying to find Hela.

And then they finally, finally track her down to the Infinite Realms—an interdimensional mess of floating islands, undead bureaucrats, and haunted palace ruins where the sky bleeds green and time doesn’t work properly.

They arrive and find her seated on a throne beside a floating teenager with white hair and eyes like starlight.

The boy yawns. “Oh, hey. I’m Danny. You’re my uncles or whatever, right?”

Hela looks up. “You’re late.”

“Who is he?” Thor demands, pointing at Danny like a confused golden retriever.

“My son,” Hela says proudly, brushing Danny’s hair out of his face. “Dánjal Helson. King of the Infinite Realms. Also, the reason I haven’t erased Asgard from existence.”

Loki nearly faints.

“WHAT?”

Danny, bless his chaotic heart, just shrugs. “Yeah, hi. Ghost king. Time travel shenanigans. Clockwork nonsense. She adopted me during one of Odin’s genocidal field trips. I’m adorable, apparently.”

Thor tries to process this.

Fails.

Loki sits down and mutters something about therapy.

“You were supposed to destroy everything,” Thor says weakly.

“I did, darling,” Hela replies. “I destroyed my need for vengeance. I found something better.”

Danny grins. “Family.”

Suddenly Fenrir bounds in and tackles Danny because the giant wolf is basically his oversized murder-dog. Hela sips a chalice of glowing mist. Loki’s eye twitches. Thor is whispering to Mjolnir for emotional support.

Then the doors burst open.

It’s Skulker, Fright Knight, Ember, Spectra, and a dozen other ghostly rogues arriving for court. They bow before Danny and Hela. One of them screams because Hela smiles.

Danny raises an eyebrow. “Mom, please stop terrifying my council.”

“They like it.”

“I like not having heart attacks.”

Loki is losing it. “I was the adopted one. I was the weird one. Now there’s a ghost boy who’s half-dead, calls the Goddess of Death Mom, rules a dimension of horror, and has diplomatic immunity in the Nine Realms.”

Hela stands.

“Correction. We have diplomatic immunity. And he is my son. Touch him and I will unmake your soul.”

Danny leans against her like the chaos gremlin he is. “Aw. Love you too, Mom.”

Fenrir howls. The sky flickers.

Thor turns to Loki and says, “I think we have a nephew.”

Loki replies, “I think we’re going to die.”

Later, when Surtur rises and Asgard faces its prophesied doom, it’s Danny who appears in front of the fire demon with a floating crown and a sarcastic grin.

“Yo, Surtur. You’re doing a little too much.”

Surtur roars, “Who are you?”

“I’m the Ghost King. And that’s my mom you’re threatening. Back off.”

Hela watches from a floating throne made of bone and cosmic spite. Her son glows brighter than any sun. And for the first time in ten thousand years, the Goddess of Death laughs—truly, freely, joyously.

Because Danny isn’t just her son.

He’s her retribution.

He’s her redemption.

He’s hers.

She will burn the realms to keep him safe.

DP X Marvel #4

Danny floated upside down on the ceiling of Peter’s room, arms crossed, legs bent at the knees like he was lounging on a hammock made of gravity denial. Peter, sitting at his desk, was scrolling through his phone like it owed him money.

“They’re going to kill each other." Peter muttered.

“No, they’re not.” Danny replied with the confidence of someone who had been literally dead and come back twice. “They’re going to get along just fine.”

Peter glanced up. “You said that about the Avengers and the ghost diplomats and Nick Fury.”

“Okay, yeah, but in my defense, the ghost diplomats started it. And Nick Fury is allergic to happiness.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Danny. You’re asking me to introduce my best friends, who are just barely okay with you being an undead space god, to your best friends, who still think WiFi is a government conspiracy and wear combat boots to weddings.”

“Sam wears combat boots to everything. Including funerals.”

“That’s not helping.”

Danny floated down to the floor, his hair slightly flickering with ghost energy. “It’ll be fine. I told Sam and Tucker that MJ and Ned are chill. Nerd-chill. They’re excited.”

Peter looked deeply unconvinced. “You told Tucker that MJ hacked the Midtown security server just to add meme slides to Principal Morita’s presentations, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Does Sam knows Ned runs a fan account for you called @GhostBoyz4Life?”

Danny blinked. “… No. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

A knock came at the door.

“Too late.” Peter whispered. “It begins.”

Danny opened the door with the confidence of a man who did not fear death (because he was already legally dead).

On the other side stood Sam Manson, black crop top, heavy boots, dark lipstick, and the permanent scowl of a goth with a vendetta. Next to her was Tucker Foley, looking way too smug in his custom tech goggles and bright red beanie. He was holding an experimental PDA device that glowed faintly.

Behind them, MJ stood in a green coat and vintage combat boots (Sam’s eyes lit up) with a book in one hand and sarcasm dripping off her like perfume. Ned Leeds wore a “Protect Danny Phantom” pin, Spider-Man socks, and carried three boxes of Filipino pastries he insisted were necessary for cultural diplomacy.

They all stared at each other.

The room was silent for 0.2 seconds.

Then Sam said, “Nice boots.”

MJ blinked, then tilted her head. “Thanks. Yours scream ‘will stomp a man’s spine for breakfast.’”

Tucker leaned over to Ned. “Is that… a compliment?”

“Dude, I think that was foreplay.”

“Nice.”

Danny clapped his hands. “Okay! Everyone’s here. No one’s dead. The apocalypse has not begun.”

Sam gave him a look. “It’s been two minutes.”

“That’s basically peace.”

Peter stood awkwardly in the background, shoulders tense. “Uh. Drinks? We have water. And… slightly haunted Gatorade.”

“I’ll take the Gatorade,” Sam said.

“You would,” MJ replied.

They sat down. Danny floated above the couch. Tucker immediately synced his PDA to Peter’s Stark tech on the coffee table. MJ opened her notebook and started casually sketching Danny’s floating form like it was a zoo exhibit. Sam leaned back with her boots on the coffee table. Ned passed out pastries like a diplomat on a sugar mission.

“So,” Sam said, making pointed eye contact with Peter. “What’s it like dating a glowy undead chaos elemental with emotional repression?”

Peter blinked. “That’s… a lot to unpack.”

“Not really,” MJ said. “She just summarized your entire relationship.”

Danny floated over and dropped onto Peter’s lap. “Hey. I’m sensitive.”

“You phased through the floor last week because you saw a cat video that made you cry,” Peter muttered into his hoodie.

“It was moving, Peter. The kitten found his mom.”

Tucker, now halfway through hacking into Midtown’s cafeteria system, called out, “Hey, MJ. That was your cat video, wasn’t it? You uploaded that one.”

MJ looked up with pride. “Yep. I tag them ‘Emotional Terrorism’ for searchability.”

“Respect.”

Sam sipped her haunted Gatorade. “So, MJ. You do social commentary, internet chaos, and low-key surveillance?”

“And light arson,” MJ added. “For the cause.”

Sam smiled. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

Tucker turned to Ned. “And you’re the tech guy?”

Ned beamed. “I’m the guy in the chair.”

Tucker’s expression became serious. “Do you prefer JARVIS-style systems or emotionally unstable AI assistants that may or may not turn evil?”

Ned considered. “I want to say JARVIS, but I respect the chaos.”

Tucker fist-bumped him. “You’re alright.”

Peter looked around. “I… I think this is going well.”

Danny kissed his cheek. “Told you.”

Then Sam pointed at Ned. “So. You run a fan account for Danny?”

Peter groaned. Danny grinned.

Ned turned red. “I-it started before I knew he was real! I thought Phantom was like, a cryptid!”

“You posted a thirst thread called ‘Top 10 Times Phantom Could Have Murdered Me and I’d Say Thanks,’” MJ added.

Danny made finger guns. “Classic.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You into ghosts?”

“I’m into not dying during ghost attacks. And he’s cool.”

“And hot,” MJ added.

“And hot,” Ned agreed.

Peter glared at the ceiling. “I regret everything.”

Sam smirked. “Relax, Spider-Boy. We’re just saying your boyfriend’s aesthetically terrifying. In a good way.”

Peter blinked. “You know I’m Spider-Man?”

Sam and Tucker both turned to him. Sam said, “Babe, please. Danny told us ages ago. We just didn’t say anything because we enjoy watching you squirm.”

Tucker added, “I knew the minute you tried to fix the router and webbed it to the wall.”

Danny snorted. “Peter once tried to fix my toaster with web fluid. I didn’t have toast for three days.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure,” Peter muttered.

“Y’all are so dumb in love,” MJ said, flipping her sketchpad around. It was a doodle of Danny and Peter holding hands while ghost fire circled their feet. The title? “Dead Boyfriend Energy.”

Tucker leaned in. “You draw fanart?”

“I draw evidence.”

Danny was thriving.

Sam and MJ were now discussing ghost anarchism and the ethical implications of haunting billionaires. Tucker and Ned were building a hybrid device that could probably hack the Pentagon or at least reroute Peter’s homework. Peter looked overwhelmed, but he wasn’t hiding. Not like before.

There was no pressure to be Spider-Man or to be the boyfriend of a ghost king or to be the guy who survived the Snap. Just… friends. Laughing. Eating. Arguing about which one of Danny’s powers was the hottest.

(Fire hair won by majority vote. Peter voted for glowy eyes.)

Later, when everyone had fallen into that comfortable lull of full stomachs and half-charged phones, Danny leaned into Peter’s side and whispered, “Told you they’d get along.”

Peter smiled into his hair. “Okay. I admit it. You were right.”

Danny grinned. “Say it louder.”

“No.”

“Louder for the Realms to hear.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Ghost king, thank you.”

Peter pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Danny beamed. “You’re welcome.”

And in that little dorm room—filled with chaos and cult jokes and mismatched friends who all knew a little too much about alternate dimensions—Danny felt something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Home.

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

DP X Marvel #2

The Phantom Affair started as a tweet.

One blurry photo. Midtown High’s parking lot. Danny Fenton and Peter Parker sitting shoulder to shoulder on the curb, sharing a burrito, looking like two tired teenage boys who had absolutely trauma bonded over AP Physics and probably something illegal involving lasers. Danny had one arm lazily slung over Peter’s shoulder. Peter, red-faced, was clearly mid-whine.

The caption?

“FENTON-PARKER IS REAL. MY GAY NERD SONS. I WILL FIGHT FOR THEM.”

And from there, it spiraled.

Danny was already public knowledge. After “Phantom Planet,” the entire world knew the pale kid from Amity Park was Phantom—half-ghost superhero, savior of Earth, general menace with bad hair. What they didn’t know was that Peter Parker, sweet, awkward Midtown science student with tragic eyebags and a mild vitamin D deficiency, was also Spider-Man.

But what the public did know was this:

1. Phantom and Spider-Man were attached at the hip. Fighting together. Flying together. Flirting mid-battle.

2. Peter Parker and Danny Fenton were inseparable. Studying together. Walking to school together. Literally sharing a dorm, thanks to Tony Stark.

3. Danny Fenton and Phantom were the same person.

4. Peter Parker and Spider-Man were not the same person.

Cue the chaos.

It didn’t help that Danny and Spider-Man were caught mid-air in a very compromising position—Danny flying backwards with his arms full of Spidey, who was clearly laughing like a Disney princess while twirling his web around Danny’s waist like a lasso. It was broadcasted live during a ghost attack in Queens. The internet lit up like the Fourth of July.

“DANNY FENTON-PHANTOM CAUGHT CHEATING ON BOYFRIEND PETER PARKER WITH SPIDER-MAN?”

“LOVE TRIANGLE OF THE CENTURY: GHOST, SPIDER, AND THE BOY NEXT DOOR”

“WHO DOES DANNY FENTON LOVE MORE?” with a dramatic black-and-white photo collage set to Lana Del Rey.

Thus began: The Phantom Affair.

The world divided into two camps.

Team Parker: loyal, nerdy, wears mismatched socks. Probably bakes. The “true love” since high school.

Team Spider: hot, athletic, mysterious. Definitely leaves hickeys and emotional damage.

The hashtags trended hourly.

#GhostSpider vs #FentonParker

#HeBelongsWithSpidey vs #PeterHasHisHeart

#LetThemAllDateEachOtherHonestly

Talk shows invited “relationship experts” to weigh in on the psychology of dating a ghost and/or a superhero. Morning news anchors were screaming about betrayal and interspecies romance. One tabloid cover showed a badly photoshopped image of Phantom crying while Peter and Spider-Man had a slap fight in the background.

BuzzFeed did a quiz:

“Are You Team Parker or Team Spider?”

Danny took it. He got “Needs Therapy.”

He called Jazz.

At Midtown, things were worse.

Posters started showing up in the halls.

• “FENTON, PICK A SIDE.”

• “SPIDER IS JUST A PHASE.”

• “PARKER DESERVES BETTER.”

• A single one that just said: “POLYAMORY IS VALID.”

Peter accidentally walked into a student-organized debate club arguing which one of them had better chemistry with Danny. One girl tried to defend Spider-Man by referencing the velocity of Danny’s blush during live battles.

“HE GLOWED, MRS. WARREN. GLOWED.”

Peter screamed into his locker and left.

Meanwhile, Tony was having the time of his life.

“I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous!” He laughed, kicking back in the Tower and flipping through Twitter threads titled things like Body Language Analysis of Phantom When Standing Next to Peter vs. Spider-Man. “This is better than Twilight. This is fanfiction-level drama.”

Happy groaned. “Shouldn’t we, like, fix this?”

“No.” Tony said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “We let it grow.”

Back at school, Danny wasn’t helping.

“Wait, wait…” He said during lunch, twirling spaghetti and pretending not to notice the entire cafeteria watching him. “So they think I’m dating Peter and Spider-Man?”

Peter looked like he wanted to die. “Yes, Danny. That’s the problem.”

Danny grinned. “They think I’m a ghost with two boyfriends.”

“You are a ghost with two boyfriends. The boyfriends are just the same person.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s a mental breakdown.”

Someone across the room yelled, “TELL PETER THE TRUTH, YOU COWARD!” and threw a napkin. Peter caught it mid-air like a ninja. He deserved a Grammy for Best Performance in a Romantic Crisis.

Things hit a boiling point during the Midtown Spring Fling.

Danny showed up in a black suit with green trim. Peter, flustered and adorable, wore a bowtie. The minute they walked in, the room exploded in flash photography. Someone was live-streaming.

“PARKER’S HERE. WITH FENTON. WHERE’S SPIDER-MAN?”

Two hours into the night, the lights flickered. Green. Eerie.

Ghosts. Obviously.

Danny went full Phantom in five seconds flat, eyes glowing, hair flaring, looking like the cover of a paranormal romance novel. He turned to Peter, who sighed, yanked his phone out, and whispered, “Happy’s gonna kill me,” before vanishing into the crowd.

And then ten minutes later—

Spider-Man.

Swung in through the ceiling. Landing in a crouch. Doing a dramatic flip off the refreshment table.

People lost their minds.

“HE’S HERE! SPIDEY’S HERE!”

“THEY’RE GONNA FIGHT!”

“OR KISS!”

What followed was twenty solid minutes of Danny and Spider-Man fighting ghosts back-to-back while whispering furiously to each other like a married couple mid-argument.

“Why did you swing in like that?!”

“You LEFT me to deal with the punch bowl poltergeist!”

“You were doing fine!”

“I was sticky!”

“Well I’m always sticky!”

When the fight ended, they stood in the middle of the gym. Dusty. Glowing. Glorious.

Someone yelled, “KISS HIM, SPIDEY!”

Danny blushed a bright green.

Spider-Man waved awkwardly and ran.

The next morning, the internet exploded.

“Phantom Fights For Love: Team Spider Dominates With Surprise Appearance.”

“Peter Parker Was There Too. Sad.”

The memes were relentless. Edits. Fanart. POVs. Dramatic TikTok transitions.

One viral post:

“Fenton with Parker in the library vs Phantom with Spider-Man mid-battle. Choose your fighter.”

Danny texted Peter at 2am:

Danny: I love you. You. Just you. All of you. The nerd. The spider. The panic. The allergies.

Peter:

Danny:

Peter: … even the spider thighs?

Danny: Especially the spider thighs.

Peter: okay. okay I forgive you.

Danny: for what?

Peter: I don’t know but everyone keeps saying you cheated on me with me and I’m upset about it.

Eventually, they cracked. At a press event where both Phantom and Spider-Man were invited—by Tony, obviously—Peter accidentally yanked his mask off in a moment of frustration while yelling, “I AM ALSO PETER PARKER AND I AM DATING DANNY FENTON-PHANTOM. THERE IS NO LOVE TRIANGLE. WE ARE JUST TWO DUMB BOYFRIENDS WITH IDENTITY ISSUES.”

Danny, in the background, raised his hand. “Can we still sell the merch though?”

The world imploded. Again.

People were angry. People were delighted. Tumblr rejoiced. Twitter died. A new hashtag was born.

#PhantomArachnid

BuzzFeed did a follow-up quiz:

“Which Version of Peter Parker Are You?”

Tony sold limited edition plushies. They sold out in three minutes.

But in the middle of it all, in between the media frenzy and the fandom wars and the paparazzi hiding in the trees, Peter and Danny sat on a rooftop eating pizza.

Just them. No secrets. No masks.

Peter leaned into Danny’s shoulder and sighed. “We really should’ve told people earlier.”

Danny shrugged, mouth full. “I don’t know. I kind of liked being in a love triangle with you and you.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Danny kissed his cheek. “Yeah. But I’m your impossible.”

And somewhere, miles away, Tony high-fived himself.

DP X Marvel #1

Don’t get me wrong—I love DP X DC, but I want more post for DP X Marvel, so I decided to write my own.

Danny had been in Amity Park, dodging international press, paparazzi, and the occasional FBI van parked outside his house, because, well, saving the world and exposing the existence of ghosts kind of made him a big deal. The whole “I’m actually Phantom” reveal had sent the world into a meltdown, with headlines like “Teen Ghostboy Saves Earth, Wears Same Hoodie for Six Days” and “Should Phantom Pay Taxes?” clogging up the internet.

That’s when Tony Stark showed up.

In person.

“You ever consider switching teams?” Tony asked while eating a hotdog in Danny’s kitchen like he owned the place. “I don’t mean ghost to human. I mean ghost to Avenger.”

Danny, halfway through microwaving leftover pizza, blinked. “Is this a recruitment thing or are you just lost?”

“A little of both.” Tony admitted. “I’ve got a proposition for you. Comes with a full scholarship, housing, no taxes, and a lifetime supply of Pop-Tarts.”

“…Okay but like. Why Pop-Tarts?”

“I have a theory about your ghost metabolism and artificial preservatives.” Tony said, waving his hand like it was normal science and not the start of an exorcism. “Anyway. Stark Industries internship. Full ride to Midtown School of Science and Technology. We pretend this is for science—understanding ghosts and ectoplasm and your stupid glowy ice powers or whatever—and I get to say I recruited the coolest teen superhero before the other billionaires.”

“You just don’t want me joining Batman.” Danny muttered.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say the B-word in my presence.”

So that’s how Danny Fenton—Amity Park’s favorite undead menace—ended up in New York City, living in a swanky Stark-funded high-rise with a fully stocked lab, an entire ghost-proof gym, and a contract that explicitly stated “NO OPENING INTERDIMENSIONAL PORTALS BEFORE 9AM” in Comic Sans.

Midtown High was wild. First of all, every student looked like they either had a skincare sponsorship or fought crime on the weekends. Second, the STEM program had actual quantum computers. Danny’s old school had a vending machine that exploded if you pressed B5 twice.

Third: Peter Parker.

Danny met him on his first day, right after being hit by a rogue drone in robotics class and slamming face-first into a whiteboard that read “No running in the lab.”

Peter looked down at him. “You good, man?”

Danny blinked. “Spider-Man?”

Peter blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Danny smirked. “Uh-huh. Tony says hi.”

Peter yanked him up by the arm and shoved him into a janitor’s closet so fast it could’ve given someone whiplash.

“Shh!” Peter exclaimed. “You can’t just say that out loud! People don’t know!”

Danny shrugged, now intangibly phasing halfway through a mop bucket. “Relax. Everyone already knows I’m Phantom. It’s not like we’re on equal secret identity footing here.”

Peter blinked at that. “Wait, you’re Phantom? Like THE Phantom?”

Danny stuck his head through the wall dramatically. “Boo.”

Peter shrieked and punched him. Which didn’t work. At all. From then on, they were inseparable.

Mostly because Tony made them sit next to each other at every Stark-sponsored science conference with assigned seating and a label that said “Teen Angst Section.” But also because they kind of understood each other. Weird powers. Exhausting double lives. Constant media attention. Love lives that were mostly disaster zones.

Also, because every time there was an emergency in New York, Danny would dramatically yell, “I GOT THIS!” turn into a glowing ghost, phase through the ceiling, and leave Peter holding their science project like, “Great. Now I have to explain this to Ms. Warren.”

There was a running bet in the school on how many times a week Danny would ghost out during class. The record was four times in a single Monday. Once during math. Twice during lunch. Once mid-presentation, when his eyes flashed green, and he mumbled, “Hold up, I think a ghost just tried to eat a nun,” before vanishing.

He got an A. Mostly out of fear.

They became known around Midtown as “Science Boyfriends,” a term coined by their English teacher after they accidentally blew up the chemistry lab and rebuilt it with better airflow and a smoothie bar.

Peter tried to deny it. Danny didn’t.

“I mean, he’s cute.” Danny would shrug while eating a granola bar and floating upside-down. “And have you seen his calves? Spider thighs? Man’s got spider thighs.”

Peter threatened to web his mouth shut. Danny turned intangible and said “do it, coward.”

Happy Hogan was having a mental breakdown.

“Mr. Stark.” He said once, after catching Danny phasing through a vending machine and Peter falling out of a ceiling vent. “They’re going to destroy the school.”

“They’re already destroying my will to live.” Tony muttered, sipping coffee while watching Phantom carry Spider-Man bridal-style on a street livestream. “But you can’t deny the brand synergy.”

And oh, the public loved Danny.

Kids wore Phantom backpacks. There was a whole TikTok trend called “Go Ghost Challenge” which was just teens flinging themselves over furniture in hopes of catching flight. People stopped him on the street for selfies. A company released a Ghost Repellent Spray that was literally just Febreze with a green label.

Meanwhile, Danny and Peter were balancing AP Physics, ghost attacks, Stark internships, and trying to keep a low profile despite Danny being literally neon.

Peter was this close to combusting.

“I can’t keep doing this.” Peter whispered during lunch, forehead pressed against a table. “My GPA is dying. I’m dying. My soul is cracking. I haven’t slept in three days.”

Danny, completely fine, sipping chocolate milk through a straw, replied, “I think a banshee tried to possess the home ec teacher.”

Peter stared. “… Danny.”

“Her cupcakes were glowing.”

“DANIEL JAMES!”

It didn’t help that the media kept speculating if Phantom was dating Spider-Man. There were articles like “Who’s the Top Ghost? Our Editors Discuss” and “Teen Heroes: Roommates or Soulmates?” Danny read them out loud during lunch.

Peter screamed into a burrito.

And then there was that time someone tried to kidnap Peter during gym class. Bad idea. Danny turned invisible, slammed the guy through the bleachers, and then flew Peter to safety in front of the entire school.

“You didn’t have to carry me!” Peter hissed later. “I had it under control.”

“You were duct-taped to a chair.” Danny pointed out.

“I was about to chew through the tape!”

“Like a squirrel.”

“Like a spider!”

After that, it wasn’t just the school that shipped them. The city did. There were shirts. Stickers. Fanfiction. Someone made a rap.

Tony started selling merch.

“We’re not even dating!” Peter yelled one afternoon, dodging a drone with their faces painted on it.

Danny just winked. “Yet.”

And honestly? They made a good team.

When ghosts got loose, Danny handled the supernatural. When aliens showed up, Peter webbed ‘em to the nearest wall. When things exploded, they blamed Flash Thompson.

Midtown might have been chaos. Their lives might have been actual flaming garbage fires. But in the middle of it all, Danny and Peter were the weirdest, most terrifying, most effective duo the teen superhero world had ever seen.

One had ghost lasers.

The other had web shooters.

Both had the fashion sense of stressed-out raccoons.

And somehow, they made it work.

Until Danny accidentally opened a portal to the Ghost Zone during prom. But that’s a story for another day.

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