What does this button do?

Avid fan fic reader So many shows She/Her Ageless like the sun.

[sol1loqu1st]

did you know that you can increase the quality of your quesadilla by adding seasoning

[sol1loqu1st]

did you know that you can decrease the quality of your quesadilla by making a tumblr post while it's cooking and burning it

[tatooineknights]

Academy Award winner Marcia Lucas has died. While winning major awards for her work as an editor for Star Wars (alongside a team of editors, including Paul Hirsch and Richard Chew; some of her contributions outside of her work with George Lucas include Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Taxi Driver, and New York, New York), she mostly disappeared from the public eye following her divorce and essentially retired.

While Marcia dispelled the belief that she singlehandedly saved Star Wars in the edit (and very passionately defended George's craftmanship and ideas, which she felt were undercredited, as well as the work of their team in general), there was a lot of work she specifically did and I thought it would be good to highlight just how much she did and give her credit where it is due. There is a lot that came from her that most don't know about. Most of those examples are from Howard Kazanjian's biography, A Producer's Life, published in 2021.

On some of the uncredited dialogue and story revisions for Star Wars:

On some of her work in Star Wars:

On having the iconic trench run on the Death Star as her biggest work while working on Star Wars:

On her uncredited work in The Empire Strikes Back:

On how her input changed the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark:

On her joining the Return of the Jedi crew, an emphasis in finding the right cut for actors, cutting together footage of Luke in ROTJ after she and George disagreed with the characterization the director had given to Mark Hamill and unable to reshoot footage:

On editing the climactic ending in the Throne Room in ROTJ:

[dyk-tv-theme-song]

Visit Original Link

Do you recognize this TV theme song? #616

I know this and can name the series

I know this but can't name the series

I might know this

I've never heard this

Remaining time: 4 days 13 hours

[emilysidhe]

I love this show! It is ... pretty easy to Google and I recommend giving it a try if you haven't seen it! The protagonist is, if I understand the term correctly, highly blorbo-shaped

[playwrongs]

In King Ludwig II’s defense, if I had basically infinite discretionary funds, was accountable to absolutely no one, and was king of a country full of picturesque landscapes, you couldn’t stop me from building myself a big gay fairytale castle on a mountaintop either.

[playwrongs]

This post is spreading and I feel bad about it because it contains misinformation, so for the record: Ludwig II did not in fact have infinite discretionary funds. He only acted as if he did. He never dipped into the public coffers for his building projects, but he spent his own fortune extravagantly and borrowed heavily from everyone he could think of. By 1885, the year before his death, he was 14 million marks in debt.

[insomniac-arrest]

~ ✨✨ 14 million marks in debt ✨✨~

[centrally-unplanned]

I always find this inspiring because try to name another prince of a German state. What did the rulers of Hamberg do? The Grand Duchy of Hesse? Gone with the wind, no one knows them anymore. But Mad Lad Ludwig built a top 5 most famous castle in the entire world. Money is fake, castles are real. Go broke and die like a winner.

[the-barefoot-hatter]

EXCUSE ME, this is still wrong. He built 3.

Neuschwanstein, literally the inspo for the castles in Disney's Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella

Hohenschwangau, the practical castle

Linderhof, the final, the smallest, and the MOST fab.

Every room is incredible and the park is beautiful, but shoutout to The Bedroom, the biggest room

The Hall of Mirrors, which he probably wandered by candle light because he was a serious night owl

The Dining Room, with a wishing table that lowers to the kitchen, and rises with a crank, returning magically full of food

The Venus Grotto, constructed for the sole use of Ludwig to larp to his heart's content

A full artificial cave, it features a waterfall, fake stalactites, and a custom-designed swan boat floating on an artificial lake. The first electricity in Bavaria was generated here, to change the colors of the stage lights and to power Ludwig's fountain and wave machine.

Now THAT'S ~ ✨✨ 14 million marks in debt ✨✨~

[marzipanandminutiae]

I love that- and I cannot emphasize this enough -none of this was tax money

the public paid for zero of his fairytale castle hobby

rare European monarch W as far as spending money lavishly goes

[transfagrified-in-the-void]

Here is a free pdf of the players handbook

Here is a free pdf of xanathars guide to everything

Here is a free pdf to monsters manual

Here is a free pdf to tashas cauldron of everything

Here is a free pdf to dungeon master’s guide

Here is a free pdf to volo’s guide to monsters

Here is a free pdf of mordenkainen’s tomb of foes

For all your dnd purposes

[zxiqky-wicky]

Reblogging for other dnd nerds

[demon-rum]

>^>

[jacobtheloofah]

also here is a whole website that not only has a shit ton of adventures and such but lets you search for any item or npc or whatever and see their stats and info at your fingertips

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

and here is the same version of the above website except it uses the 5e rules as they existed prior to the 2024 relaunch, which is what you’d prefer

[balalaijka]

@deconstructthesoup

[kragehund-est]

scientists wont tell you this! (because it's not true)

experts don't want you to know this! (because it's made up)

doctors HATE this one trick! (because it's dangerous and unhealthy)

[ayalaatreides]

Historians are hiding this from you! (Because it didn’t happen)

[geekysteven]

Dermatologists HATE him (he keyed their cars)

[existennialmemes]

You'll never believe this! (because it's completely nonsensical and easily debunked)

[parkchanwoohoo]

This kid is so fucking good holy shit. I love how into it the audience is, too

[wigmund]

Some more about Samuel and his bird call talent

[algebrasupplements]

“pls stop summoning me i just want to pass calculus” (dpxdc)

Danny hates being summoned. He can’t stand it. Now, it’s not all that common- after all, who knows how to summon the King of Ghosts? But when it does, it sucks.

Imagine your heart being tugged out of your chest, and you have no choice but to follow it if, you know, you want to stay alive. Imagine being shoved in a tiny little cylinder and being thrown around like you’re the ball in a game of “Monkey-In-The-Middle”. Now multiply those feelings by 100. That’s how it feels to be summoned.

So when Danny feels the familiar tug in his chest during a calculus test, he groans. He finally discovered what Stoke’s Theorem was (despite its many inconsistencies), why does he have to leave now, of all times? He gets out of his seat and quietly asks his professor if he can head to the bathroom. The professor gives him a stink eye, but gives permission anyway. Danny darts out of the room like his pants are on fire and finally allows himself to be swallowed by the metal cylinder of darkness that is a summoning.

He lands gracefully, feet first, within the confines of a decently drawn chalk circle, clearly meant to protect the summoners from his wrath. Unfortunately for them, however, Danny is strong. Freakishly strong. The measly summoning ritual before him does nothing to stop him as he smudges it with his foot before walking through without so much as a twitch of a finger. He finally glances up at his summoners, already exasperated. Danny knows this abandoned warehouse like the back of his hand, after all, he’s been here countless times - all for the same thing.

“Guys, you gotta give it up. I’m not granting y’all immortality or resurrecting your loved ones. Please leave me alone, I just want to pass multivariable calculus in peace,” Danny sighs out in poorly concealed frustration. He left his calculus test for this?

The cultists’ leader steps forward confidently and recites his practiced speech as if it’s gospel.

“My Lord, the Ghost King, please grant us, your loyal followers, the gift of immortality so that we may follow you for eternity. Our souls are pure and will-”

Before he can finish, he’s cut off by a boot to the chest, followed by a flash of metallic red. Red Hood stands in front of the leader’s body, dusting off his leather jacket smugly (though it is quite hard to tell what the man feels, Danny thinks, what with the helmet and all). The vigilante turns to face the rest of the cultists, and by extension, Danny.

“I got tired of hearing his voice,” Red Hood (in Danny’s opinion, he should be called Red Helmet) states cockily, clearly smirking under that helmet of his. Danny calls back to him, “You got tired? Imagine hearing that spiel at least twice a month for a couple of years. Fucking Jeff, man, he won’t let me pass calculus in peace.”

He nudges Jeff’s prone body on the ground. “Get up man, you didn’t even get hit that hard. Stop playing dead, you’re no good at it.” As he speaks, however, the rest of the vigilantes drop from the rafters to the ground. They’re quiet- they’re trained by Batman, of course they are- but Danny senses them anyway.

Red Robin - Tim Drake, Danny’s mind fills in - walks up and cuffs Jeff, who is now miraculously awake. Batman sends him a reproachful glance, but Red Robin shrugs and says, “He already knew we were behind him, no use in being sneaky here, B.” As RR steps away to call GPCD, evidently to pick up Jeff and the other cultists who’ve just been standing there like a bunch of lost ducklings, Danny stops him.

“Hey, any chance you can get the police to go easy on them?”

“Why? Didn’t you say that they’re the reason you can’t pass calculus- which in itself is a really weird statement that I’m choosing to ignore,” Nightwing questions. They’re taking the reveal of an omnipotent, all powerful god pretty well, Danny thinks. He responds out loud, though, saying, “Yeah, but Jeff’s a pretty nice guy outside of the cult stuff; we get coffee sometimes. Plus they’re a nice break from the whole ‘I killed 50 people for you now give me power to take over the world’ nonsense that I get from others.”

“Anyway, is there any chance y’all could get me something like a doctor’s note for my calc class? I was in the middle of a test and I was crushing it, trust me, but I had to come here or I’d be ripped into a million pieces and I really want to finish that test because my grade depends on it,” Danny rambles, bulldozing over Red Hood’s follow-up question. The room, now clear of all cultists, is silent for a moment. Clearly, the vigilantes haven’t processed this situation as well as Danny thought they did. Then finally, Danny gets to hear Batman speak.

“Okay.”

[escaprism]

Ilona Andrews COOKED when she said 'the hottest quality in a man is self control'.

And then stuck with it for all her main male love interests. They can be different levels of kind, of funny, of honest, but every single love interest is the type that hold themselves in complete control, and honestly, she's absolutely right.

Nothing more unattractive to me than a man that is ruled by his anger, a slave to his lust, and doesn't act with intention.

[miraculouspaon]

GBBO: “A s’more is basically just an Italian merengue sandwiched between two ganache-covered digestives”

Americans:

[flange5]

in case anyone in wondering, this is Paul Hollywood's idea of a s'more

[theequeerstrian]

You know what, their absolute inability to grasp Mexican foods makes more sense every day

[ennairea]

[starlightshadowsworld]

Nodding my head in support of the Americans despite having no clue what a s’more is.

[mankillercalledbunny]

Okay, American immigrant to the UK here to explain all the mistakes from Paul Hollywood happening here: there is one fundamentally American ingredient required to make a s'more correctly but which is basically not available anywhere at all in the UK, and that is graham crackers. A plain digestive biscuit close-ish, but still a very different beast.

From Wikipedia: A graham cracker is a sweet flavored cracker made with graham flour.

The next ingredient (which is also extremely traditionally American but slightly more variable) is typically Hershey's chocolate, but you could probably swap this out in the UK with any plain chocolate bar.

Last ingredient is big marshmallows, the kind you do the chubby bunny challenge with, like the size of your thumb and twice as thick.

A proper s'more, the most traditional possible variety, involves to graham cracker squares, two slab segments of Hershey's chocolate, and one to two marshmallows depending on your preference for filling and gooeyness. You put a slab of chocolate on one of the graham cracker squares. Your marshmallows should be toasted, usually over a campfire but if you're doing them at home over a gas stove burner is fine, but the fire part is critical. You can toast them to whatever degree you like, some people like them nice and golden brown but still kind of firm in the middle, me personally? I want that bitch to CATCH ON FIRE, I want it gooey and sticky as hell in the middle, crispy and burnt on the outside. Slap that motherfucker on your graham cracker and chocolate square, top with the other one so your marshmallow and chocolate are sandwiched together by graham cracker on the outside. You do this with your freshly toasted marshmallow because ideally it will be hot enough to start to melt the chocolate so it sticks to the marshmallow and the graham cracker and, combined with the gooey marshmallow, it keeps the whole thing together, and for that reason some people will let them sit for a hot second to let the melting process happen (especially if like me you have chocolate on BOTH graham cracker squares, not just one, because you're a sugar fiend), but if you are a young child you do not have that degree of patience and you eat that shit immediately, unmelted chocolate and all. Consume your summer camp delight like a tiny club sandwich, get gooey sticky marshmallow and chocolate all over your hands, and enjoy.

Important note: this is a kids treat. It is a traditional summer camping trip dessert. It should be something any ten year old with adult supervision and access to the ingredients can make (and make a mess of). They're called s'mores because kids always "want s'more". If you are using a blowtorch, chocolate biscuits, and merengue, you are so far beyond the bounds of s'more-hood that you have thoroughly lost the plot. If you offered Paul Hollywood's concoction to an American child and called it a s'more, they'd tell you flat out that not only is it not a s'more, it looks dumb and you didn't do it right because it's not gooey.

[roach-works]

the point is the mess. the point is getting to make a food, at age seven, whose two basic food groups are 'sugar' and 'fire'. the other point is that this food item is so crumbly, chaotic, sticky, on fire, and prone to being dropped (outside, in the dark, while you are surrounded by other children who are also sticky and on fire) that your supervisors cannot accurately monitor how many smores you personally have consumed. the point is also that you may get away with a smore that is five blocks of chocolate and two marshmallows if you move fast and let nothing stop you.

if you haven't accidentally yet unrepentantly eaten a chunk of twigs or dirt or a bug that got enmeshed in the creative process around smore number 3st, you are too old to have any legitimate input into what makes a smore.

[kedreeva]

There's 2 other points that I think are important.

The first is that you don't pull the marshmallow off the roasting stick and somehow put it on the chocolate. Your staging area will look something like this, with the graham crackers and chocolate already set out (though not usually on the fire like this, for us it was always someone's lap or a picnic table or something)

And when your marshmallow has reached appropriate roasting perfection, you use the graham crackers to slide it off the stick.

and ideally, as a CHILD you are using a literal stick. Like you walked around and spent time looking for The Perfect Stick off the ground while the adults set up the fire. It has to be thin enough the marshmallow will fit, sturdy enough that it won't bow, long enough that you won't burn yourself roasting your marshmallow. And preferably doesn't have a lot of bark that's sloughing off, OR so much bar sloughing off you can peel it all back and get to the clean stick under it. If you're smart, you might stick the tip into the fire first to "wash" it/burn off anything that was still lingering, but. well, most kids don't.

When you bite in, the marshmallow and chocolate SHOULD ooze out all over you. If you don't kinda look like this eating it, you've probably done it wrong:

[figmentera]

The description of the marshmallows as being either brown on the outside but still firm on the inside or fully melted but burned on the outside is missing the true art: fully molten in the middle, without the black burns. Not to say OP is wrong for preferring the burn! But there is a technique for perfection and it goes like this:

You find a spot, not above all the logs where everyone sticks their marshmallows by default, but at the heart of the fire. Ideally between a couple logs already glowing gold. Something like here:

Below the leaping flame. Near the logs. There's probably only one or two spots good enough for this on any given fire, but that's okay because everyone else is up above. They will get their marshmallows faster. They will be either firm or burned or both. That's not your goal.

Rotate the marshmallow slowly. Ideally come in at an angle so the part closest to the flame is the side, not the tip. The spot closest to the fire is the spot that turns a crispy golden brown, and you want that everywhere, on the tip and around the circle.

You keep going, slowly turning, for several minutes. Several people will rotate in and out of the higher sections, getting their fast delight. Eventually, your marshmallow will start sagging badly, risking falling. Maybe it does fall and got start over. But eventually it will be golden brown all over, and so liquid it no longer clings to the stick. It is ready, finally.

You say "who hasn't gotten one yet?" And deposit it onto their waiting graham crackers and chocolate. You've made an excellent marshmallow. It isn't for you. Get another while you're over by the bags and go back to the heart of the fire.

That's your evening. One, slow, perfect marshmallow at a time, given to whomever still wants s'more. You're making art for children to stuff into their mouths cheerfully. You're watching the movement of the fire and the heat of the logs, like you would if you were maintaining it — maybe you would be, maybe you were the one who built it — but right now that's not the goal. Let someone else put more logs on, while you take only the one stick and find the best spot for it to live.

You will, eventually, finish a marshmallow and find that nobody moves to accept it. Maybe they're all eating right now, or maybe they've gone through so many they're hesitating. Eat your masterpiece then. Enjoy it, the hardest and most perfect result from a fun and beautiful moment. Go back in for another, until you've run out of marshmallows and the fire is too low or until even you are done with s'mores, until you have made enough.

"We don't want a gooey mess" pfft even the artistry studied at the feet of my father is inherently a gooey mess. That's the whole point!

[jssangel]

Every word of every addition to this post is both 100% true and Pulitzer Prize winning writing.

[gay-jewish-bucky]

this was submitted as a one sentence horror story, but it feels like it could be an old jewish joke, like the one about the two rabbis proving g-d doesn't exist or the saying 'people plan, g-d laughs'

[sal-absinthii-deactivated202311]

This is a thousand times better as a dry Jewish joke than it is as a fake-deep edgelord ‘horror’ story

[18kgold]

Even more, it sounds like the beginning -- the set-up -- of the joke. Can’t you hear Carl Reiner opening a bit with this line, or Shalom Aleichem using it to kick off a story?

[captain-acab]

Well I'm not quite an old Jewish man just yet, but let me give it a shot...

Losing confidence in Himself, G-d became an atheist. He decided to go down to Earth, to walk among humans and see how they found meaning.

He wandered the world until he came to a town, where he happened upon a pastor. "Come to our church this Sunday!" said the pastor. But G-d shook his head. "I don't believe in G-d anymore," he told the pastor sullenly. "And besides, I really shouldn't be working weekends." . . .

He continued wandering, and as night fell, he realized he had no money for a hotel. Walking down the darkening sidewalk, he passed many shivering folk, some young and thin, others old and worn and grizzle-bearded, looking not unlike himself. Just as the rain began to fall, he happened upon a priest. The priest looked him up and down, and said, "You look cold, my son. We're hosting a men's shelter at the church tonight; you can sleep there, and come to Mass tomorrow." This time G-d agreed. He slept well and was warm, and in the morning sat for Mass. They blessed him in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, but he felt beside himself and decided to leave.

By this time G-d was quite hungry. He stopped by a deli, but still had no money, so all he could do was watch the fresh steaming bagels be made. On a bench outside the deli, a man was eating a bagel with lox. As he finished eating, G-d noticed there were still some scraps of food on the waxpaper. Unable to help himself, he asked if he could have the scraps, before the man threw it away. "Please sir, I'm so hungry. I'd just like that crumb of bagel there, and that little shred of lox. I think I could make a bisl of fish last quite a while." The man shook his head. "I cannot in good conscience give you my trash," he said, "But come inside, I'll get you your own bagel. I'd offer to get you coffee—but that's trash too."

So the man bought G-d some breakfast and sat with him on the bench. "Thank you so much," said G-d. "How can I ever repay you?" But the man just shrugged and said, "I'm a rabbi. Buying bagels I don't get to eat is part of the job description."

G-d thanked the rabbi again, and ate in silence. "Rabbi, can I ask you a question? I feel I haven't been on this Earth too long, but already I've seen much misery. How do you do it? How do you still believe in G-d?"

The rabbi pondered this. "I believe in joyful things. I believe in kindness, and people choosing to help each other. And isn't that a kind of godliness?" (G-d suspected there was a bit more to godliness than that, but he let it slide.) The rabbi continued: "I've prayed to G-d every day for the last 30 years, and I will every day til I die. And if He answers my prayers, all the better! But tell me, my new friend, what's your name?" G-d hesitated and said, "It's a little hard to pronounce..." The rabbi chuckled and said, "No matter. Say, it won't be anything like Shabbos dinner, but my wife is baking a delightful fig pie today, and I'd like to have you over for dinner to enjoy it." G-d nodded. "I do like figs..."

That evening, G-d sat for dinner with the rabbi, the rabbi's wife, and their four children. The meal was delicious, the rabbi's family was incredibly welcoming. Their conversation was friendly but never prying, and the children laughed and played with each other. Several times, the youngest child tugged on G-d's sleeve for his attention before her father motioned for her to go play with her siblings. G-d began to see what the rabbi had meant about the joyfulness of life.

At the end of the night, G-d stood up to leave, and felt renewed. The rabbi said, "My friend, don't leave us so soon!" And G-d replied, "I will always be with you, for I am the Lord Your G-d." And they understood it to be true.

He had done this sort of thing a few times before and generally knew how it went. As expected, the rabbi and his family fell to their knees, weeping with joy and awe. He did not expect the youngest child to walk right up and tug G-d's sleeve again. He smiled graciously down at her, and she looked up with the wonderful bright eyes of a child who understands nothing but the urge to play. In a high voice, she said, "Knock knock!" G-d couldn't help but laugh. "Who's there?" He replied cheerfully.

Suddenly from across the room, the rabbi swore loudly and rudely. Dismayed, G-d asked, "What troubles you?" He saw the rabbi was trembling, half in rage and half in embarrassment. "I'm sorry Lord! Thank you for this, thank you so much for gracing us with your light, Baruch Atah and so on, it's just..." The rabbi swore again. "Thirty years of daily prayer, Lord, and a KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE is what you'll answer?"

[pusheenthenerdcat]

hey captain-acab, this is the highest compliment i can bestow: it would not have surprised me had i found that story in a book of traditional fables in the shul library

[animatedamerican]

Look, someone has to be the first to make up any traditional Jewish story, why not @captain-acab? If we all keep telling it, then in a generation or two it'll be traditional.

[lixel-5]

i really need to know how many people credit their autism diagnosis to carlos the scientist

[whoops-junk-drawer]

Luke “there’s still good in you” Skywalker is 100% Padme “there’s good in him” Amidala’s son, and Leia “I recognised your foul stench when I was brought on board” Organa is a mirror image of Anakin “General Grievous, you’re shorter than I expected” Skywalker

[bluech33se]

All I can see is young Dain Ironfoot with his war boar.

[sladucer]

"I saw him every day, every night... and then one day I understood that I don't remember my friends, those who came with me to defend our faith — yet I can picture his face down to the tiniest detail."

~Forever and Ever and More

It's only beginning. I have so many thoughts about this. About them.

I'll keep you updated ❤️

[lance-thunder-reporting-live]

Good morning Amity Park, I'm your ghostly weatherman, Lance Thunder. Today's Sunday, April 26 and there's a 0% chance of rain. Highs are in the mid sixties, and the lows are in the mid forties.

A ghost which appeared to have the ability to trap people in fictional worlds attacked the Vintage Stock in the mall yesterday. Three people were transported into Muppet Treasure Island, two into Young Justice Volume 10, and one into Sonic 3D Blast.

It is unknown if this ghost needs physical access to whatever book, film, game, or other media to trap people within those worlds, or if other methods, like a computer, could be used to access these fictional worlds.

Thankfully though, it seems that anyone transported into these fictional worlds can not die while within them.

Verla Scott, a resident of Flickering Embers Retirement Home, has gone missing. Surveillance footage shows Verla leaving the retirement home at 4:57 this morning. Verla is 4 feet and 11 inches tall, has short cropped black hair, grey eyes, and was last seen wearing frog themed pyjamas with the phrase “don’t worry, be hoppy” printed onto the front of the shirt. Please contact Flickering Embers Retirement Home at 423-1145 if you have any information on her whereabouts.

The Fentons will likely not be driving today.

[bluech33se]

This makes me happy. 😊

[1moonflame8]

The Wayne Manor had survived assassins, alien invasions, Lazarus Pit incidents, demonic houseguests, and at least three separate “this is definitely the night I quit vigilantism forever” declarations from various members of the family.

What it had never survived gracefully was Danny.

Or rather, it had survived him in the same way a cathedral survives a cat: structurally intact, spiritually altered, and constantly aware it is being judged.

Danny Fenton had been hired as the Wayne family’s live-in butler under circumstances that could only be described as “Bruce Wayne had paperwork he didn’t read and Alfred had already resigned twice that week as a symbolic gesture.”

Danny arrived in a pressed black suit, a duffel bag, and the expression of someone who had already decided everyone in the house was going to disappoint him and he would still do his job flawlessly out of spite and professionalism.

Alfred liked him immediately.

Bruce tolerated him.

Everyone else developed opinions that ranged from “concerned fascination” to “this man is actively ruining my emotional stability with one eyebrow raise.”

Because Danny did not behave like a butler so much as a long-suffering stage actor trapped in a billionaire soap opera.

He polished the Batmobile with reverent precision while muttering things like, “Yes, Master Wayne, I’m sure this scratch came from your tragic brooding again, not your inability to park like a functional adult.”

He served dinner with surgical grace, sliding plates into place while adding softly, “If you’re going to eat like vultures, I can at least arrange a tasteful presentation of your chaos.”

And worst of all, he never, ever asked questions.

Which was the only reason Bruce hadn’t fired him on principle.

Because Danny’s eyes said he already knew everything anyway.

Jason Todd noticed first.

Jason had the survival instincts of a man who had died once and refused to be surprised by anything again. So when Danny handed him coffee after patrol and said, “Careful, it’s hot, unlike your personality,” Jason simply took the mug and said, “I like him.”

Dick Grayson tried to be friendly for approximately twelve minutes before Danny looked at him mid-story and said, “If you gesture any wider, you’re going to summon a circus you already escaped.”

Dick left the room laughing too hard to be offended.

Tim Drake tried to analyze him.

Danny responded by reorganizing Tim’s entire workstation without touching a single classified file, then saying, “Your paranoia is adorable. Like a raccoon guarding an empty trash can.”

Tim stopped trying to analyze him and started quietly respecting him instead.

Damian Wayne, for his part, declared Danny “insufferable” within the first hour and “useful” within the first week. This was, in Damian language, a love poem.

Danny called him “miniature grim aristocrat” once and survived only because Alfred was in the room.

Alfred Pennyworth adored him in a way that could only be described as “finally, someone else understands what it is like to be surrounded by children who could legally be considered national disasters.”

“You do realize,” Alfred said one evening, as Danny adjusted the tea tray for precisely the third time, “that you are not technically required to antagonize Master Bruce while also ensuring his survival.”

Danny didn’t look up. “And yet, here we are.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said, not displeased in the slightest.

Bruce Wayne, however, was less enchanted.

Batman had faced gods and monsters, but nothing quite prepared him for a butler who looked at him the way one might look at a particularly disappointing architectural choice.

Danny rarely spoke to Bruce directly without adding a layer of commentary that felt like a velvet-gloved insult.

“You’ve left blood on the staircase again,” Danny said one night.

“It’s not mine,” Bruce replied.

Danny nodded. “That’s worse, actually. Now I have to wonder which of your emotional support vigilantes is leaking.”

Bruce paused. “You are aware I could fire you.”

Danny finally looked at him, expression calm. “You are aware you would have to replace me.”

That was the end of that conversation.

But Bruce noticed something else.

Despite the sarcasm, despite the commentary, despite the constant implication that Bruce Wayne’s civilian persona was a performance so bad it should have been union-regulated… Danny never missed anything.

Injuries were treated before they were mentioned.

Equipment was repaired before it failed.

Patrol schedules were anticipated before they were decided.

Once, Bruce came back from a rooftop chase with a cracked rib he hadn’t admitted even to himself yet, and found Danny already in the kitchen with pain relief, bandages, and an expression that said, “Sit down before I become legally violent.”

“You’re not medical staff,” Bruce said.

Danny replied, “And yet I’m the only one in this building who treats you like a fragile idiot instead of a mythological symbol of suffering.”

Bruce sat down.

That was the pattern of the house.

Danny antagonized everyone, and in return, everyone quietly relied on him like gravity.

Then the universe decided the Wayne family deserved a reminder that stability was temporary.

The invasion began without warning.

The sky split like torn fabric over Gotham, a wound of red light and screaming wind. The alarms in the manor didn’t even finish their first cycle before the walls shook hard enough to rattle centuries-old glass.

Tim was already at monitors. Damian had weapons in hand. Jason was halfway out the door. Dick was swearing in three languages.

Bruce was Batman before anyone could ask him to be.

And Danny… Danny was still in the hallway, adjusting a tray that had tipped during the tremor.

Jason yelled, “We’re under attack by whatever cosmic nonsense this is, and you’re worried about tea?”

Danny didn’t look up. “I am worried about tea consistency. There is a difference.”

Then the world outside folded.

Something massive stepped through the breach in reality above Gotham, a silhouette of impossible geometry and crushing presence. The air itself seemed to bow.

Darkseid.

Even Batman stopped for half a second.

Which, in Batman terms, meant the situation had officially graduated to “catastrophic.”

The manor’s windows blew inward.

And Danny sighed.

A long, tired, deeply personal sigh.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s one of those days.”

Jason stared at him. “You cannot be serious right now.”

Danny finally set the tray down with care, straightened his cuffs, and looked toward the breach.

“I was having a perfectly tolerable morning,” he said. “And now we have apocalypse architecture. Honestly, I blame Bruce.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Bruce said immediately.

Danny gave him a look that could have stripped paint. “That is exactly what someone who did something would say.”

The air shifted again.

Reality trembled harder.

And then Danny stopped being just Danny.

The temperature dropped.

Light bent.

The manor filled with a pressure like the world holding its breath too long.

Green flame erupted around him, not consuming but revealing, like the universe finally remembering a truth it had been politely ignoring.

Where the butler stood a moment ago, there now hovered something older than Gotham’s fear.

The Ghost King’s presence was not loud.

It was absolute.

Danny Phantom rose fully into view, spectral crown-like energy hovering at his brow, eyes glowing with an endless, cold clarity.

Jason actually took a step back.

Damian did not.

Damian just said, very quietly, “You are a ghost.”

Danny glanced at him. “Yes. Try not to make it your whole personality.”

Then he moved.

Not fast like a human.

Fast like a correction to reality.

He stepped through the shattered window without breaking it further and rose into the storm above Gotham, where Darkseid’s presence pressed down like judgment.

Inside the manor, silence stretched.

Tim whispered, “Okay. That is new information.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

Because Bruce was already watching.

Outside, the air warped as Danny met the god-tyrant in open sky.

Darkseid spoke first, voice like collapsing planets.

“You are not on any list of opposition.”

Danny tilted his head. “That’s because I’m not an opposition. I’m a problem you didn’t study for.”

The fight did not look like a fight at first.

It looked like Danny refusing physics.

Omega beams fired.

They bent away.

Reality manipulation pressed in.

It slid off him like water off glass.

And then Danny moved again, and suddenly Darkseid was no longer the only overwhelming presence in the sky.

There was something older than conquest there.

Something that remembered making worlds before conquest ever existed.

Back inside the manor, Alfred spoke softly, almost reverently.

“I do believe,” he said, “we may have hired something rather exceptional.”

Jason muttered, “Yeah. You think?”

Bruce’s voice was low. “He’s been in my house this entire time.”

Tim replied, “To be fair, you let a demon clown decorate your basement.”

“That is not the point,” Bruce said.

Above Gotham, Danny finally stopped holding back.

The sky went silent in a way that felt like a verdict.

Darkseid faltered.

For the first time, something like uncertainty crossed the god’s face.

Danny drifted closer, expression tired now, almost gentle.

“You’ve been punching at a world that isn’t even your scale,” he said. “And I’ve been cleaning up after people who think your kind is mythology.”

Darkseid tried again.

It didn’t matter.

When it ended, it didn’t end explosively.

It ended like a star deciding it was done being a problem.

Silence returned to Gotham’s sky.

Danny hovered there a moment longer, then exhaled, like someone finishing a tedious chore.

Then he came back down.

He landed in the manor garden like nothing had happened.

Suit intact. Hair slightly disheveled. Expression annoyed.

Jason blinked. “So… you’re what. A wizard? Alien? Government experiment?”

Danny walked past him toward the kitchen. “All of those sound like someone trying to get me fired. No.”

Bruce stepped forward. “Explain.”

Danny paused just long enough to look at him properly.

“I died,” he said simply. “Came back wrong. Stayed anyway.”

Silence.

Then, softer, “And I got better at it than most people get at anything.”

Tim swallowed. “So Phantom… that’s real.”

Danny nodded once. “Among other things.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “And you worked as a butler.”

Danny shrugged. “What better way to be a protector spirit than to protect heroes?”

That landed differently.

Not as a joke.

As a truth shaped like one.

Jason exhaled slowly. “Okay. I really like him now.”

Alfred, from the doorway, said calmly, “As do I.”

Bruce studied Danny for a long moment.

“You stayed here,” Bruce said, “without telling us what you are.”

Danny glanced back toward the wreckage outside, then at the manor, at the people inside it.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. Then, after a beat: “And you needed someone who wouldn’t flinch when your world started breaking.”

A pause.

Then Danny added, quieter but sharp again, “Also, your civilian persona is still unbearable. I stand by that.”

Jason snorted.

Dick laughed.

Even Damian looked faintly amused.

Bruce Wayne, for once, did not have a prepared response.

And somewhere in the quiet that followed, it became clear that nothing in the manor would quite go back to the way it had been.

Not because Danny had revealed himself.

But because he had always been there, holding the edges of their world together while insulting the seams.

And now they finally knew the name of the hand doing the stitching.