clicking Mark’s new video and him ending it with “I can finally escape the blood ocean and curl up into Ryan Gosling’s arms” made me put my head into my hands.
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A large part of the reason families were bigger in the past was because marital rape was not considered rape and birth control/abortion methods were ineffective, dangerous and/or illegal. We can dance around this and act like our great great great grandmothers just loveddddd being mamas so much that they decided out of their own free will to have 11 children. We can pretend that they DECIDED to have big families because it was a financially advantageous decision so they could have more labor around the farm. But a lot of children in the past were fundamentally unwanted and not conceived out of love, children were not a choice women got to make. We need to admit that and stop pretending historical women were inherently more maternal because they were impregnated at the age of 15 and kept having babies until they were 40. That did not make them loving mothers, it did not make them ‘the divine feminine’ and it sure did not make them happy.
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Simon, who has been watching way too many romcoms and historical drama series in an effort to better learn how to woo Grace, has come to the conclusion that one of the most important steps is getting the family's blessing. And, of course, that means he needs Rocky's blessing.
Rocky, who has been watching those exact same romcoms and drama series along with Simon to help him study human courting methods so that his best friend can finally have a mate, is very excited. Because he's learned about another very important step in the courting rituals that he's all too thrilled to partake in; the shovel talk.
He even made himself a shovel! He's still a little iffy on what he's actually supposed to do with the shovel, but he's got it!
Adrian, watching Rocky pointing his shovel at Simon while they both simultaneously gush about how wonderful Grace is and how much they want him to be happy, suspects that this is not how the blessing-and-shovel-talk is supposed to go. But the boys seem to be having so much fun with it, who are they to interrupt?
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Danny had spent the last six years building something stable out of the Infinite Realms.
Which, honestly, still sounded ridiculous when he thought about it too hard.
At twenty years old, Danny Phantom was somehow the acting Leader of the Infinite Realms version of the League of Assassins, mediator of territorial disputes, protector of portals, the peacemaker, and — according to Frostbite — “a deeply beloved young lord.”
Danny personally thought that title lost meaning the third time he had to stop two eldritch entities from starting a war over haunted soup recipes.
Still, the system worked.
So Danny did his rounds.
Checking territories. Listening to complaints. Solving problems before they became catastrophes.
And unfortunately, that included Walker’s Prison.
The prison loomed in the distance like a rusted beast made of iron and misery. Chains rattled endlessly somewhere in the fog while ghosts scattered out of Danny’s way the moment they spotted him.
Walker himself appeared almost immediately.
“Lord Phantom,” Walker greeted stiffly, eye twitching like it physically pained him to be respectful.
Danny gave him a lazy salute. “Walker. Any riots? Escape attempts? Illegal soul harvesting rings?”
“Only three this week.”
Danny snorted quietly and continued walking through the massive prison halls, half-listening as Walker listed updates about inmates, contraband, and a smuggling operation involving cursed playing cards.
Then Danny stopped dead.
His body just… halted.
Like every instinct he had suddenly slammed into a wall.
Down in the cafeteria, surrounded by dead warlords, failed tyrants, and extradimensional criminals, sat a living human.
An older man with sharp green eyes and a white streaks in dark hair, perfect posture despite the prison uniform.
Danny’s core went ice cold.
Walker noticed immediately. “Lord Phantom?”
Danny didn’t answer at first.
Because there was no way.
No fucking way.
But Danny knew that face.
He remembered that face looking down at him with complete indifference.
He remembered being ten years old and realizing, in those final moments, that this man had never loved him at all.
“…Walker,” Danny said quietly.
Walker straightened.
“Who,” Danny asked with terrifying calm, “is the Mortal?”
“Oh. Ra’s al Ghul,” Walker answered. “Imprisoned for the illegal misuse and contamination of Lazarus Waters across multiple realms.”
Danny stared.
Then he laughed.
It was sharp. Breathless. Wrong.
Several nearby ghosts immediately pretended they had somewhere else to be.
“Oh,” Danny murmured. “Oh, this is rich.”
His eyes flared green.
Not the bright, clean ectoplasmic green most ghosts associated with Phantom.
This was darker.
Sickly.
The color of corrupted Lazarus Waters.
Walker took one instinctive step backward.
Every survival instinct he had developed over centuries screamed at him to leave immediately and pretend he had never seen anything.
Unfortunately, it was his prison.
Phantom started walking again.
Slowly.
The cafeteria quieted almost immediately as inmates noticed him approaching. Conversations died mid-sentence. Trays stopped moving.
Ra’s looked up at the disturbance with visible annoyance.
Then confusion.
Because the being walking toward him looked young, young enough to be almost insulting.
Tall now, broad-shouldered, clad in black and white with space itself curling unnaturally through the edges of his aura — but still young.
And furious.
“Ra’s al Ghul,” Phantom said pleasantly.
The room went still at the tone.
“Well,” Phantom continued, smiling without warmth, “this is a surprise.”
Ra’s narrowed his eyes. “Should I know you?”
Phantom’s smile widened.
“You know,” Phantom said conversationally, “that answer honestly hurts my feelings a little.”
Ra’s opened his mouth, but he never got to speak.
One second he was sitting down.
The next, his face slammed into the metal cafeteria table hard enough to crater it.
The sound echoed through the entire prison.
Several inmates screamed.
One ghost in the back dropped his lunch tray and whispered, “Oh, thank Ancients it’s not me this time.”
Phantom had Ra’s pinned before anyone could react, one hand twisted into the man’s hair while his other pressed him against the ruined table.
“Don’t worry,” Phantom called casually over his shoulder. “I’ll fix the table later.”
Walker stared at the destroyed table.
“…You always say that.”
“I usually mean it.”
Ra’s struggled violently beneath him. Phantom barely had to use force anymore. Twenty years old in human age meant very little when his existence had become something vast and ancient enough to make lesser ghosts instinctively lower their heads around him.
Phantom shoved Ra’s to the floor instead.
Hard.
Then planted a boot against his throat.
The entire cafeteria watched in horrified silence.
Because Phantom was kind.
Phantom negotiated treaties.
Phantom gave second chances.
Phantom once sat through a forty-hour mediation between two warlords because one had allegedly “stolen the other’s emotional support leviathan.”
This?
This was something else.
Phantom looked down at Ra’s with open hatred.
Not rage.
Not blind fury.
Hatred aged over ten long years.
Carefully preserved.
“Walker,” Phantom said calmly, never taking his eyes off Ra’s, “how much money would it take to transfer custody of this inmate to me?”
“What?”
Phantom finally glanced back. “I asked how much.”
Walker blinked.
Then blinked again.
Because somehow that was the part that disturbed him most. Phantom — the paragon of individual rights and resident goodie-two-shoes — would never ask something like, "How much money do you want for him?" as if this were a slave market.
Pointdexter slowly raised a hand from one of the cafeteria tables. “Uh… Lord Phantom? Respectfully? What the fuck is happening?”
Phantom ignored him.
Ra’s finally managed to rasp out, “Who… are you?”
Phantom stared at him.
Actually stared.
And his grip tightened slightly against Ra’s throat.
"Seriously? You don't recognize me even after all the hints I gave you?" Phantom mocked. "Don't you remember how you treated me? Like a punching bag? Like a spare? Don't you remember putting your foot on my neck until I died, only to use my body like some twisted kind of footrest?!"
Ra’s went still.
Walker’s expression changed instantly.
“Oh,” Pointdexter whispered faintly.
Phantom’s voice never rose.
That somehow made it worse.
“No,” he breathed, face going pale.
Recognition finally hit him.
“Oh,” Phantom mocked quietly, smiling. “There it is.”
“…Tariq?”
The name sounded wrong coming from him.
Phantom’s eyes glowed violently green.
“Don’t.” The word cracked through the cafeteria like thunder. “You don’t get to say my name like you know me, grandfather.”
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Damian Wayne had never experienced true suffering before.
Then the new veterinarian opened across from the animal shelter he volunteered at.
He was kind to every animal.
He hand-fed injured pigeons.
He let ugly three-legged cats climb onto his shoulders during appointments.
He wore oversized sweaters with paw prints on them.
AND WORST OF ALL—
He was the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his entire twelve years of existence.
Not regular pretty either.
No.
Universe-ending pretty.
Like “ethereal being accidentally trapped in human form” pretty.
Like “Greek gods would start drama over him” pretty.
Like “why is there sparkles around him when he holds baby rabbits” pretty.
And unfortunately— the veterinarian was approximately ancient.
As in TWENTY.
Which meant Damian could not even emotionally justify his feelings because Grayson would never let him hear the end of it.
So instead Damian did the mature thing.
He decided Drake needed to marry him immediately.
Tim Drake was dragged to the animal rescue at 7:12 AM against his will.
Tim: “Damian it’s SATURDAY.”
Damian: “There is an emergency.”
Tim, half asleep: “Is someone dying?”
Damian: “Potentially my future happiness.”
Tim: “…what.”
Damian shoved him through the clinic doors dramatically.
And that’s when Tim saw him.
The veterinarian looked up from where he was bottle-feeding an injured kitten.
Messy white hair.
Blue eyes.
Oversized hoodie under scrubs.
Tiny paw-print bandaid on his cheek.
Surrounded by like six different animals at once like a Disney princess blessed by God personally.
Tim:.............................
Damian watched the soul leave Drake’s body in real time.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
Excellent.
Danny: “Oh! Hi! You here to volunteer?”
Tim: *Buffering*
Damian: “This is my older brother Timothy. He is single.”
Tim: “DAMIAN—”
Danny blinked. Then smiled. Tim nearly hit cardiac arrest.
Danny: “Cool. I’m Danny.”
Tim, internally: Danny. Danny. His NAME is Danny.
Damian could literally SEE the moment Drake got attached.
It was disgusting.
Five minutes later:
Tim was holding three puppies.
Danny was laughing at something he said.
Damian was sitting nearby with the satisfaction of a man orchestrating political warfare successfully.
Grayson arrived thirty minutes later and immediately sensed evil.
Dick: “Why is Tim staring at that veterinarian like he just witnessed the second coming?”
Damian, calmly feeding a rabbit: “The plan progresses smoothly.”
Dick: “The WHAT.”
Meanwhile Jason wandered in, took one look at Tim, and started cackling.
Jason: “OH MY GOD. Replacement’s got a crush.”
Tim: “I do NOT.”
Danny, from across the room: “Tim can you hand me the antiseptic?”
Tim: already halfway across the clinic before the sentence finished.
Jason collapsed against the wall laughing.
Steph found out in under 24 hours.
Steph: “So let me get this straight. Damian found a pretty vet, realized he was too young, and reassigned the crush to Tim?”
Damian: “Correct.”
Steph: “And Tim actually fell for it?”
Damian: “Drake has the survival instincts of wet paper.”
Tim, in the background, googling: “How to impress veterinarian ethically.”
Bruce found out three days later when Tim voluntarily woke up before noon to “visit the shelter.”
Bruce: deeply concerned (i would be too)
Alfred, meanwhile, had already figured everything out.
Alfred: “Master Damian appears quite invested in Master Timothy’s love life.”
Bruce: “…why.”
Alfred: “Because the young veterinarian resembles a woodland fae creature specifically engineered to appeal to your sons.”
Bruce: “…I see.”
Alfred: “Frankly, sir, I’m surprised Master Jason has not proposed yet as well.”
Jason, walking by:
“I’M THINKING ABOUT IT.”
The worst part?
Danny genuinely WAS Tim’s exact type.
Sleep-deprived disaster? Check
Kind to animals? Check
Looks like he hasn’t slept in three business days? Check
Accidentally funny? Check
Mysterious weird vibes? Check
Probably haunted? Check
Tim never stood a chance.
Damian watched the disaster unfold like a proud parent.
Because if HE couldn’t marry the Goddess of a vet—then at least he could secure visitation rights through Drake.
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