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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago

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Danny laid across his throne, legs planted across the left arm of the ornate chair and back pressed uncomfortably against the right.

"Listen," Danny started, letting his head flop to the side as he glared at a hovering Observant. "This meeting has wasted enough of my time. You all have been arguing for hours and that's without Clockwork slowing things down."

"Your Majesty, this is a matter of great importance. Belial means to overthrow and rule my-our world!"

"I am distinctly aware aware of that," Ancients, Danny couldn't wait to go home and rid himself of the formal speech he'd had to adopt in order to be taken seriously. Well, as seriously as he cared to be taken when sprawled across his throne instead of sitting on it intimidatingly or something. He slowly placed his gaze on the suddenly still demon sitting across from him. "Yet you've proposed fifteen different plans that were all unviable for whatever reasons you've cooked up. Your conclusion is that I must step in. Does your world not have heroes to take care of it?"

The demon- another lord of hell from this Belial’s universe- fell silent.

“Ah. But if they do, they would also take care of you.”

“No- no, that’s not-”

Danny allowed his voice to drop to the artic freeze he knew his core was capable of. "I opened these these doors to allow all of you to present me with reasonable concerns regarding your own universes and realms. What is not on the table for discussion is your petty politics. Do you think I am unaware of your intentions in tattling to me? That I do not know you are trying to use me to further your own position?"

"Your Majesty, I-" The demon growled out, fear slowly coating its expression.

"It no longer amuses me. You think that I am young and easy to manipulate." Danny froze the demon to its chair. It tried to break free, but Danny isn't the High King of the Infinite Realms for nothing. "Bring to me a miserable problem like this ever again, one that could be easily solved if you used even a smidgen of your intelligence, and you will find exactly how I tore Pariah Dark from his throne."

Not that Danny knew how he did it either, he just did it.

"Yes, Your Majesty. My-my apologies."

The room is dead (Danny patted himself on the back for the pun) silent. Some of the Ancients looked bored, like Clockwork who knew Danny would never hurt them, but everyone else looked close to crying. He held eye contact with the demon until it looked away.

When Danny settled back into the throne and allowed his ice to dissipate, the room let out a collective sigh of relief.

"The next item on the agenda is another demon, by the name of Trigon." Clockwork announced, the large piece of paper comically huge next to his currently toddler-like body.

"Another?"

He flicked an amused look at the previous demon, who kept his trap firmly shut.

"He is attempting to take over multiple worlds in an attempt to conquer the universe. I had thought you would be interested in this one, Your Majesty, as he plans to begin with Earth 135."

Danny stilled. That was his Earth. His haunt.

"Does he know of the Realms?"

"Vaguely, I believe."

"Then he should know the rules. I will wait to see if my Earth's heroes are capable to step to the task."

Danny would be a hypocrite if he doesn’t let the heroes of his Earth try first, even if he is one of those heroes.

"Of course," Clockwork grinned at him, fully aware of the shit Danny's about to stir back home. Ah, the wonders of being able to influence the time stream. Perhaps the young Ghost King will finally get some friends, and maybe get those pesky speedsters to stop making his jobs so hard. Cujo yipped at Danny as the King begrudgingly moved onto the next topic.

——

Raven shuddered as she watched the footage of her "brothers" laughing while steering their human "meatbags" around. She turned back to the giant circle of donated blood and herb filled candles.

“This is a nuclear option, don’t you think?” Green Arrow mumbled, clearly not against it by the half hearted way he’d said it. The Star City billionaire nursed his cracked ribs.

“No,” she floated over to where Zatanna and Constantine kneeled, trying to see if they needed help with the inscriptions. “Trigon is coming soon, and my brothers will no doubt find their way here in a moment. We are out of time.”

“Yeah. Plus, we don’t want Raven to be turned into a portal.” Garfield piped up, switching animal forms rapidly.

“No one dies.” Red Robin muttered. His wrist computer was open, monitoring the surroundings of the open field they found themselves uneasily occupying. Batman grunted in affirmation, eyeing the tree line. Every hero except the magical ones were on look out, preparing themselves for one more battle against the two demons that were trying to take Raven and force her into becoming a portal.

“Hey guys, we might want to hurrythisupbecausethey’re kind of close!” Impulse slammed into the room.

“Done.” Zatanna got up, motioning for everyone to step back. In Superman’s case, he floated back.

“Too bad you won’t get to use it,” a voice drawled, dripping with malice and the screams of a thousand souls.

“Come now, little sister. Why fight fate? Be grateful father has deigned to spare you. If not for your dirty blood being useful, you would be dead, little sister. Give up, before our patience runs out alongside the lives of your little pets.” Another, mocking, voice gleefully rumbled.

Raven would rather gouge out her own heart than to claim these two as any type of family.

“You won’t touch them.” Raven snarled, powers rising even as the marks on her body burned a painful red.

“Buy us some time!”

With that, the group of beaten and battered heroes rose to clash against just two demons, for a chance to save their world.

——

The Circle crackled. Danny felt a tug on his core. He followed the thread of the summoning. Oh. It was his haunt. Earth 135. Hm. It tasted of blood. Desperation? A hint of anticipation. Oh, an overload of fear. Could use some more hope, but Danny understood that it was rather hard to season these kinds of summonings with hope.

“Stop.” Danny commanded, straightening in his chair.

“Sire, we have more-”

“There is an issue with my haunt,” with that, he followed the summons.

——

“Ugh,” was the first thing everybody on the frozen battlefield heard. The demons had smacked away many of the heroes, but they all turned as one when the circle lit up a bright green. “Why do you people always use blood? I’m dead, I don’t need any more iron!”

A boy

Raven’s eldest brother let out a hideous rumble. “You fools tried to summon the king, and you got a dead boy. And now, you’ve doomed another.”

Constantine looked resigned, and regretful. “I am so, so sorry,” he whispered. It was just a kid. John might be a lot of things, but even he found summoning dead kids for demons to devour was just a step too far. “Shite, we got the wrong fucking-”

“Hey, man, that’s rude,” the boy snapped back, waving John off.

“Brother, kill the whelp.”

“I vote on not killing the whelp. Not killing at all, really,” the boy stepped out of the massive blood circle, wrinkling his nose at the drying stains.

“This is not one of your pesky democracies, fool.”

In response, the demons lunged at him, ignoring the screams of the surrounding heroes as they shoved their human arms through the boy’s stomach.

“So,” the boy continues, “I heard your dad was after my haunt?”

“Your haunt, whelp? This earth shall be his! And through him, ours!” Raven slammed against the demons with her power, shadows enlarging and tossing them away from the unharmed… ghost boy?

“Is it?”

——

Wow, these demons are so rude. Normally, it’d be a breath of fresh air compared to the stuffy halls of his throne room. But since they’re attacking his haunt…

“Thanks. You’re… Raven, right?”

Raven nodded, arms outstretched in concentration as she held her brothers back.

“You have to go. We’re- we’re sorry you got pulled into this, but it’s not safe here.”

“Eh. It’s cool. You don’t have to do that anymore, by the way.” Danny stepped forward once more, green skin shifting and gliding as everything about him sharpened. He flew at the demons piloting the human shells, catching them around the necks and dragging the demons out of their stolen bodies. The threw them even further away as he floated in the air, a beacon of green and white. Raven thought it looked like hope.

“My name is Phantom, the High King of the Infinite Realms,” let it be known that Danny always had an eye for dramatic entrances. He shifted into something more off, more eldritch, more kingly. The crown flared to life above his head. “You have invaded my haunt. You have challenged me. What do you plead?”

“You’re not-” they said.

“Wrong answer,” Danny flew at them once more, body contorting into something undeniably terrorizing, his maw unhinging and crunching down on the demons with a sound that made the present heroes cringe.

“Ugh,” Danny grunted, turning back and floating peacefully to the group of heroes- Tucker and Sam would be so stoked he met Wonder Woman and Batman!- and chewed rapidly. He shifted back into his normal form. “Eating demons always leaves me with indigestion. And their bones get everywhere up in my teeth!” Danny pulled out a giant femur looking bone from his mouth, despite it not logically fitting in there.

“Right. No eating demons, solid life advice.” Red Robin said.

“Right? So, you’re Raven! It’s nice to meet you! Think you can summon your dear ol’ dad for me?”

“But we summoned you to stop Trigon, not help him come here.” Superman said, frowning.

“One! That summoning circle is wack. Those things you piled up as offerings? Mid. Also, if you thought you could control me with those terribly written spells, you’re dead wrong. And yes, I am making puns about death.” Danny jabs an aggressive finger towards the shabby circle.

“Have you considered that maybe not every being that can be summoned wants a shit ton of useless blood? Like what if I wanted food? And two, how am I supposed to beat up Trigon if he’s still stuck in the prison realm?”

“I have a cup of coffee,” Nightwing offered. “Kid Flash could probably get you food, right?”

“Yep, surethinganythingyouwantyourMajesty.”

“You wouldn’t catch me alive accepting food from a speedster. You people fuck up the timelines so much,” Danny grumbled, crunching on the last of Raven’s brothers. Raven thought she should probably sit down.

“But you’re dead.” Batman said, something about his voice catching the sharp attention of his protégés who all started making cutting motions at him.

“Fair,” Danny pointed at him, grinning. “I’ll take two pizza and Nightwing’s coffee as payment for taking care of your little demon overlord problem. Raven, summon your dad.”

——

Didn’t much like the characterization of this piece but it’s been in my drafts for a while and I needed it out

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romerona · 2 months ago

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The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Warnings: None

You glanced at the clock again, sighing like it had personally offended you. Your fingers tugged at the edge of your sleeve, mostly for dramatic flair at this point. The hands hadn’t moved much since the last time you looked—which was approximately forty-seven seconds ago, but who’s counting?

Not that you were nervous. No, no. Nervous is for people who don’t have an emergency backup plan involving a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and a PowerPoint presentation about apples.

You were just… mildly concerned.

Okay, maybe “low-key spiraling” was a more accurate term.

He said he’d come. Offered, even. You hadn’t begged, bribed, or emotionally blackmailed him (which you were fully capable of, for the record). He’d volunteered. That was important. Crucial, even.

It had all started with your now-iconic meltdown earlier in the week—Career Day Eve, if you will—when the zookeeper cancelled via email and emoji. An elephant emoji, to be exact and you, of course, had reacted in a calm, measured way.

By ranting to your handsome neighbour while pacing your living room in mismatched socks and clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

“I told them they were gonna see someone who works with LIONS, Carmy. Actual, roar-in-your-face, majestic-ass lions.” You groaned, flopping onto the couch like your spirit had physically left your body. “Ugh, I knew it. You can never trust someone with an exotic job and a man bun. That’s, like, a statistically proven red flag.”

From his seat at the far end of the couch, Carmy raised an eyebrow, expression maddeningly calm as he absently played with one of your throw pillows—the one you embroidered with little sunflowers during your short-lived cottage-core phase. He didn’t say anything. He just let you spiral.

You shot up, posture suddenly straight, eyes wild with new inspiration. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just… bring in Gus. Yeah. Kids love Gus. Boom. Problem solved.”

Carmy blinked. “You’re not seriously—”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you interrupted one hand over your heart. “I’ll dress him up. Tiny tie, maybe a little badge. ‘Hello, my name is Gus. I’m a bird with a superiority complex and a cracker addiction.’ They’ll eat it up.”

That was when he said it, without looking up, like he was offering to pass the salt instead of volunteering for chaos. “I could come.”

You paused mid-rant, mouth half-open. “Come where? The pity party? Too late, I already RSVP’d with tears and dramatic flopping.”

“Career Day,” he said, glancing over at you finally. “I could do it. Talk to the kids. If you want.”

You blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like your brain needed an extra second to process the words.

“Carmy. Be serious. You run a whole kitchen. You work, like, twenty hours a day and sleep in four-minute intervals. I’m not about to let you donate one of your free mornings to a classroom of sugar-high fourth graders who will, at some point, absolutely ask if you ever had a rat under your hat."

He shrugged, unfazed. “I don��t mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut in before you could unleash another dramatic protest.

“If it helps you,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, “I can handle being asked about Ratatouille.”

You gawked at him. “You're serious?”

He nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch like this was a totally normal Tuesday. “Sure.”

“Carmy,” you said slowly, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and exasperated fondness. “You do understand this is unpaid, right? Like, full-on volunteer mode. Zero dollars. No tips. Just you, a room of small humans, and probably a glitter explosion.”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “Still don’t mind.”

You knew Carmy well enough by now to understand there were layers—deep, complicated, messy layers—hiding beneath that simple, “I could come.” Because yeah, sure, Carmy loved to cook, but he didn’t glamorize it. Not even a little. The passion was real, but so was the damage. Even though he hadn’t laid it all out for you—hadn’t sat you down and unpacked every scar—you could see it. You felt it.

You’d seen it.

In the way, his shoulders tensed at the mention of certain names, in the haunted, faraway look he got when he talked about past kitchens, the way his eyes darkened when work crept too far into the personal, the way silence filled in for stories he couldn’t bring himself to tell. The job had nearly eaten him alive more than once. You could tell. It had taken from him—family, sleep, health, peace. Years of his life he was still fighting to claw back, one broken, beautiful piece at a time.

So the idea of standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed, hopeful fourth graders and telling them, “Follow your passion!” like that passion hadn’t nearly swallowed him whole?

Yeah. That wasn’t a small ask.

And yet—he’d offered. Unprompted. Just a soft, casual, “I could come.”

For you.

And god, wasn’t that the part that ruined you a little?

Still, you'd waited a full twenty-four hours before giving him the green light. For his sake. For yours. For that part of you—the newer, softer, protective part—that had started to believe in shielding him from things, even when he didn’t ask to be shielded.

Because Carmy Berzatto may have survived a thousand kitchens, but that didn’t mean he needed to walk into this one unless he truly, truly wanted to.

And the crazy thing was? He did.

Now here you were, pacing between tiny desks like a caffeinated motivational speaker who didn’t have a Plan B involving a pigeon. You were totally calm. Totally fine. Totally not spiralling internally while your brain whispered charming thoughts like, 'he’s not coming', and 'Congrats, you’re about to host a cooking segment with no chef, no plan, and possibly a breakdown'.

“Miss!” one of your students called out, yanking you out of your mental spiral like a life preserver made of glitter glue. “When’s the chef getting here?”

You spun on your heel, smile locked in place like the unbothered queen you absolutely were not.

“Soon!” you beamed, while glancing at the cameras. “He’s probably just fighting with a soufflé or locked in a passionate debate with a garlic clove. You know—chef stuff.”

They laughed. You did too, though yours was the manic sort that said everything’s on fire, but at least we’re warm.

You had told them a real chef was coming. A famous one, even. But you’d kept that part tucked away. Just in case. You didn’t want them disappointed if he didn’t show.

You didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Because while you were currently dazzling these kids with your best “unbothered teacher queen” routine, inside? Yeah, your soul had filed an early resignation.

You glanced at the clock again.

Cool cool cool.

It was fine. Everything was fine. You were totally not about to fake a PowerPoint on “Why apples are the real MVP of fruits” while sobbing internally.

You gave your class a cheerful clap of your hands, channeling the kind of positivity that could sell overpriced candles on Etsy. “Alright! While we wait, why don’t we write down what questions we might want to ask our guest, hmm? Think big. Think bold. Think ‘What’s your favorite sauce?’ but, like, deeper.”

"Writting?" A collective groan rose from the class, dramatic and loud, as if you’d just asked them to handwrite the Constitution.

You raised your eyebrows, completely unfazed. “Yes, writing. The horror. Grab your pencils, Hemingways.”

And just as a few reluctant pens started to scratch against paper, the door swung open—abrupt, theatrical.

You were just about to exhale a tiny breath of relief when the classroom door swung open—and not in the chef arrives like a movie moment with the wind blowing his coat kind of way.

Nope.

It was Ava.

Your best friend. Your favorite menace. And the one person on Earth with zero chill.

Ava stepped in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did, at least spiritually with phone in hand, eyes scanning the room like she was about to announce lottery numbers.

You blinked at her. “Principal Coleman?”

She ignored you completely and addressed your students with dramatic flair. “Excuse me, tiny scholars. I have a very important update.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ava.”

She turned to you, positively glowing with mischief. “Your hansome chef is here.”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Girl,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “The one you told me about. With the tattoed arms and the trauma. He’s here. And I gotta say, you undersold it.”

The class erupted into giggles. You blinked harder.

You blinked, stunned, brain buffering like a broken Wi-Fi signal. “Ava, this is a classroom. A learning environment.”

“I learned something,” she said with a wink. “I learned you have a taste for emotionally complex kitchen men with cheekbones so sharp they could dice an onion.”

“Can you just send him in, please?” you asked, voice sweet but strained, like you were one Ava comment away from evaporating into glitter.

Ava raised her brows like okay, ma’am, then dramatically pivoted on one heel, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t say I never brought you anything good.”

The door closed behind her with a dramatic little click, and you turned back to your students, who were all openly staring at you like you were the lead in a very juicy reality show.

“Miss,” one of them stage-whispered, eyes wide with scandal, “are you dating the chef?”

You blinked. “Excuse me—what? No. Absolutely not. We are just… two humans who happen to know each other and occasionally share oxygen in the same room.”

And with a dramatic little head shake and the world's weakest scoff, you muttered, “Kids and their imaginations.”

A second student raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “But Miss… your face is doing the same thing it did when that one dad brought you cupcakes for Valentine’s Day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Then pointed at the worksheet pile like it held the answers to life itself.

“Okay—first of all, pencils up, Cupid Patrol. Second, that wasn’t a dad, it was the very kind district representative who happened to believe in seasonal baked goods and workplace appreciation.”

The kids oooh’d like you’d just admitted to a full-blown scandal.

“And for the record,” you muttered, loud enough for the mic to catch, "Nothing happened. It was one cupcake. Vanilla. Calm down.”

The camera lingered.

You blinked. “Cut somewhere else.”

You were still glaring at the camera crew when the door creaked open again—this time quieter, less dramatic, almost hesitant.

You turned, mid-eye-roll, fully expecting Ava to have come back for one final round of public humiliation.

But it wasn’t Ava.

It was him.

Carmy stepped into the room, somehow looking both like a Michelin-starred chef and a man who was deeply unsure if he’d accidentally walked into a daycare. His white tee was freshly pressed, chef’s coat folded neatly over his arm, hair was slightly messy like he’d fought with it in the car, lost, and decided to just let fate take the wheel, carrying a large bag.

He stood there for a second, blinking at the sea of tiny faces—and you.

“Uh… hi,” Carmy said, voice low and hesitant.

Your brain, which had been barely clinging to function, promptly short-circuited.

“Hi,” you echoed, way too breathy for someone in charge of young minds, smiling like a fourth grader yourself.

“Miss! Is that him?” one student asked, already halfway out of their chair like they were witnessing a celebrity walk-in.

You blinked back into Teacher Modetm with the grace of someone internally screaming. “Yes. Yes, that’s him. Everyone—uh—remain seated.”

You gestured toward Carmy. “This is Chef Carmy, our very special guest for Career Day!”

The kids leaned forward like a chorus of curious meerkats, eyes wide, pencils ready.

“Can we all say, ‘Hi, Chef Carmy’?” you asked.

“Hiiii, Chef Carmyyyyy!” the room chorused in chaos, overlapping voices.

Carmy raised a hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a sheepish smile. “Hey. Uh… thanks for having me.”

Then—of course—he glanced over at the camera crew like he just now realized they existed, eyes slightly wide before blinking quickly back to you. He stepped closer, leaning in just a bit, voice soft—just for you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “Traffic was… hell.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’re fine. You made it. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking at you like you’d somehow made this less terrifying just by standing there.

And then, because this day was determined to destroy you emotionally, one of your students blurted out, “Miss, your face is doing the thing again!”

You didn’t even flinch as you turned to the children. “Okay! We are officially in session. Chef Carmy is here, so I hope you have your questions ready—and no, none of them can be about Ratatouille, or I will confiscate your recess.”

A hand shot up immediately. “Is it true chefs yell a lot?”

Carmy blinked, caught between answering and short-circuiting.

You sighed dramatically, shooting him a look. “And here we go.”

To his credit, Carmy recovered quickly. “Uh… yeah,” he said honestly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes. But mostly just when things are on fire or… slicing off a thumb.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

“Wait, did you really cut your thumb off?” one kid asked, absolutely horrified and delighted.

Carmy hesitated. “No, but… close enough.”

“Cool,” the kid breathed.

You gave Carmy a look like sir, but he just gave you a little shrug back that said I’m trying here.

Still, you beamed. Progress. He was finding his rhythm.

And then, the spaghetti.

You’d cleared a small table for him earlier, just in case he brought something. But you had not expected him to go full cooking show.

With sleeves rolled, Carmy walked the kids through how to make fresh spaghetti from scratch.

“Alright, so��flour,” he said, pouring it out onto the surface. “Then you make a little well, like this.”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, some of them leaning forward like they were witnessing magic.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard to look composed and not like you were watching a rom-com scene play out in real time. Because Carmy? Flour dust on his hands, explaining things so gently, so patiently, even when the questions made zero sense? It was unfairly attractive.

“So the eggs go in the middle, and you start mixing with a fork—”

“What if you used a spoon?”

“Would it still work if it was peanut butter instead of eggs?”

“Could you make the dough into, like… animal shapes?”

“Do you have beef with Gordon Ramsay?”

Carmy was trying his best. “Okay, uh—no spoons, no peanut butter, yes to animal shapes, and… no comment on Gordon Ramsay.”

He cracked eggs into flour, mixed dough by hand, and passed around little pinches so the kids could feel it for themselves. He used terms like “emulsify” and “al dente,” then immediately explained them in fourth-grade-speak. He asked for volunteers to help him roll the dough out with a tiny pin you’d borrowed from the kithcen. He let one kid sprinkle flour on the surface with a flair that could only be described as “chef-in-training chaos.” Another student tried to twirl the noodles like he was doing a magic trick.

He was awkward, yes—but also patient, funny in that deadpan way that made the kids hang onto every word.

Somewhere around the rolling-out portion of the lesson, the door creaked open again—and in walked the kitchen staff from the cafeteria. Hairnets. Aprons. Pens and little spiral notebooks in hand.

“We heard there was a Michelin star in the building,” Shanae announced from the doorway, arms crossed over her cafeteria apron, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding. “We just wanted to, you know… take a peek.”

“If you need to boil it, Chef Carmy, you can use my pot,” Devin offered, already scribbling something in a little notepad like he was about to text his group chat immediately.

"Thank you, Chef," Carmy nodded at him with a polite smile, a little bashful now, and returned to cutting his dough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Johnson sauntered in not five minutes later, leaned against the back wall like he was in a speakeasy, and said, “You know, back in ‘92 I made lasagna so good the mayor cried. Just sayin’.”

He then turned and disappeared down the hall like a wizard of chaos, muttering something about gluten conspiracies.

You didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Then, Melissa strolls in, coffee in hand and eyebrows already at maximum scepticism.

She paused in the doorway, scanning the flour-dusted counter, the students gathered around like Carmy was performing miracles, and Carmy himself—elbows deep in pasta dough.

She sipped her coffee as she stared at the pasta. “Wait, so… what’s your last name?”

Carmy glanced up, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He looked at Melissa, then at you, like he was checking to see if this was a trick question. “Uh… Berzatto.”

Melissa squinted. A beat passed.

“Huh,” she said, in a tone that somehow contained five different layers of meaning: vague suspicion, mild approval, distant familiarity, one raised red flag, and a complete personality assessment. “Makes sense.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, heels clicking, coffee still steaming, not another word spoken.

Carmy blinked after her, then looked at you, deadpan. “Was that a threat?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? It’s better not to ask.”

“Right,” Carmy mumbled, brushing a bit of flour from his fingers before continuing like he hadn’t just been hit with a drive-by personality analysis from a woman with mob energy and perfect eyeliner.

He rolled back into the lesson with ease, walking the kids through shaping the dough into spaghetti strands.

“You want it thin, but not too thin,” he was saying, hands moving with a kind of gentle confidence that made even flour seem like it was cooperating out of respect. “If you can see through it, you’ve gone too far. Unless you’re making ravioli. But that’s… a whole different story.”

Meanwhile, you?

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Every time he explained something—how the gluten develops, why olive oil matters, the difference between done and perfect—you leaned in without realizing. Just a little. Drawn in, like the words were for you and only you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes he looked at you while he talked. Just little glances. Barely-there flickers. But each one lit you up like someone had turned on all the fairy lights inside your chest.

Your heart fluttered. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your brain? Fully composing a sonnet titled To the Man Making Spaghetti in My Classroom.

You were so, so doomed and just when your face was halfway to full heart-eyes emoji status, you remembered—

The cameras.

You blinked, snapped your head toward them, and straightened up like you hadn’t just been silently daydreaming about holding Carmy’s tattooed hand while wandering through a farmer’s market in the fall or about his hands elsewhere...

One cameraman raised an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat. Smiled. Gave a stiff little nod like everything is normal and fine and I am a professional adult woman.

The rest passed too quickly for your liking.

One second, he was explaining how flour and eggs became pasta, and the next he was handing off the fresh noodles to Devin who looked so starstruck you half-expected him to ask for an autograph, but instead, he just took the dough reverently, muttering, “I got you, Chef,”

While Devin handled the boiling, Carmy fielded more questions, bouncing between wide-eyed children and genuinely curious adults.

One kid asked if he ever cried over burnt toast.

“Only once,” Carmy replied. “It was a really good piece of bread.”

Another asked if he’d ever cooked for a king.

“Not officially,” he said, glancing at you with a quick smirk that made your heart do a cartwheel. “But I’ve cooked for people who matter.”

The kitchen staff and at least one substitute from down the hall— all threw out questions about risotto techniques, braising, and how he gets his red sauce just right.

He pulled out a small pan he’d brought, explaining how to build a sauce from scratch—olive oil, garlic, a little tomato, basil. Simple, but the room smelled like heaven. The adults were wide-eyed. The kids were openly drooling. You might’ve been, too.

He offered tiny sample spoons as he stirred, like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually do a cooking demo in a public school classroom. And when Devin returned with the perfectly cooked pasta—because of course it was perfect—Carmy tossed it with the sauce and started plating like it was no big deal.

Little paper bowls. Plastic forks. A sprinkle of cheese. And just like that, he was handing out servings of handmade pasta to a group of nine-year-olds and the adults like they were at some five-star tasting event.

You got a plate, too and the second you took a bite, you nearly sat down.

It was so good—like warm, rich, made-with-love kind of good. Like maybe he put his entire soul into the sauce and also possibly his feelings for you kind of good. You blinked up at him, genuinely speechless for the first time all day.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

You nodded, slow. “I hate you a little bit.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that.”

And yeah, you were so, so gone.

The kids were still buzzing as they lined up to leave, chattering about pasta like it was the greatest invention since slime. A few waved wildly at Carmy on their way out, and others whispered to each other like they’d just met a celebrity—which, honestly, they kind of had to and Carmy gave them a small, slightly awkward wave back.

“Miss,” one whispered as they passed you, eyes wide with hope, “can Chef Carmy come back next week?”

You smiled, warm and fond. “We’ll see.”

When the last of them filed out and the door finally clicked shut, the room fell into a warm, quiet hum—sunlight filtering through the windows, flour still dusted on the counter, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato hanging in the air like some kind of cozy spell.

You turned, and there he was.

Carmy stood at the table he’d used, wiping it down with a damp towel, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, curls a little wild after an hour of navigating the adorable storm that was your classroom. He looked… calm. Settled.

“Hey,” you said, a little sing-songy as you stopped beside him. “Chef of the Year. You did it.”

He glanced up, met your eyes with a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, lowering your voice just a bit. “Like, really—you didn’t just show up, you… you were brilliant, Carmy.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half something more complicated. “I was wingin’ it the whole time.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “you wing things very charmingly.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You made it easier.”

The words landed between you like something delicate and important. You swallowed, heart doing that tight, fluttery thing again—the one that always showed up whenever he looked at you like that.

You tried to recover, tossing the moment a wink and a grin just to keep yourself grounded. “So does that mean you’re open to a regular Thursday guest chef gig?”

He smirked, low and lopsided. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe you—but not in a bad way. “I don’t know if I’m built for the fourth grade attention span.”

“They were obsessed with you,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and stepping just a little closer.

“They were obsessed with the pasta.”

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “It wouldn’t be hard for it to be both.”

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

He looked at you like he was trying to read between your words. Like he wasn’t quite sure if you meant it the way it sounded—but hoping you did.

A beat passed. You held his gaze, smile softening just slightly. Just enough.

And then he looked down—at your shoes, the floor, literally anything else that wasn’t your face—and cleared his throat. “I should… probably get going.”

“Right. Yeah.” You brushed past him to grab a tray, your shoulder just barely bumping his as you passed. “See you around, Carmy Next Door.”

If he froze for half a second—well, that was between him and the classroom air that had suddenly grown suspiciously warmer.

You kept your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with stacking paper plates while absolutely listening for every move behind you.

A minute later, he was at the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hand on the knob.

“Yeah, see you around,” he said, almost too casually.

You turned toward him, giving him a smile that was part “Thank you, again.”

He nodded but didn’t move. Just stood there and after a pause he cleared his throat, glanced down, then back up at you—like he was in the middle of a conversation with himself and currently losing.

“Hey—” he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching just slightly. “Would it be weird if I…”

You raised your brows, trying not to let the hope leak into your smile. “If you what?”

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his curls. “If I asked you to dinner.”

You tilted your head, giving him your best faux-casual sass. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.” He gave the tiniest nod, just enough

You didn’t even hesitate. “Took you long enough.”

His mouth curved into the softest smile you’d seen from him all day—like it caught him off guard like it made something inside him loosen.

“So that’s a yes?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s a yes,” you said, and damn, you didn’t even try to hide your smile this time.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” you said. “You owe me pasta without a classroom audience.”

He laughed under his breath, then stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of the classroom, heart fluttering like you were seventeen and just got asked to prom. Which, honestly… wasn’t that far off.

You let out a breath, tried to pull yourself together, and failed—because your face still hurt from smiling and your brain was very much replaying every single second in high-definition slow motion.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it, the cameras.

Still rolling.

“Told you it was a matter of time,” you said, voice smug and giddy. Then you added, dead serious: “Also—if you zoomed in on me blushing again, we’re fighting.”

Cut to black.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to apolagize that it took me so long to publish this part, lots going on rn, second, I thank you all for the support, for those likes, commentsss and shares ❤️ Like its crazyyyy.

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera theflowerswillbloom blairfox04 nicksolemnlyswears stardream14 notme22sblog mattm1964 maddeningmentalmess isla-finke-blog literature-nerd-blossom starberryhorse hipsternerd9 landpiranha-blog miarabanana everywherenothere just-soft-things1 blue-4-raven rockyeatrock this--is--music lettucel0ver chayceschultz silas-aeiou alexxavicry

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto fanfiction #abbott elementary #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader smut #mikey berzatto #abbott elementary x reader #janine teagues #ava coleman #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #gregory eddie

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inthehouseoffinwe · 7 months ago

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Thingol, Luthien, and Dior’s claim to the silmaril bugs the living daylights outta me and I’m gonna break down why. This goes a bit beyond ownership laws.

Starting with basics. What are the silmarils? Gems created by Fëanor that hold the light of the Two Trees. Who in Beleriand saw the light of the trees and no doubt misses it like a limb? Are here in part to avenge their destruction? The Noldor.

The Sindar never went to Valinor. They might find the gems beautiful but that’s it. There’s no cultural or emotional connection to them beyond ‘pretty stone, look how awesome our princess was.’ There’s no appreciation for what they hold. No understanding that this stone is one of the *last* things that holds the ancient light of the Trees.

The Noldor meanwhile not only saw the Light, they had entire festivals surrounding it. Grew their entire culture, their lives, under and around it. Now the trees are destroyed, their king killed defending these jewels. And this last beacon of hope, a piece of the home they can never return to, a piece of light that will never come back, is being kept by people who can’t even begin to understand the significance of what they keep.

Now imagine being the sons of the one who made this jewel from a culture of people who value craft above all else.

Not only is it light, it’s the result of years of toil and experimentation of your father, the one who managed to do what no one had ever even thought of. Fëanor’s sons would have been the first to see these jewels, probably saw him make prototypes, work equations whilst they worked on their own crafts. Provided what relief they could to his ever working mind and inadvertently gave him ideas that helped solve problems he encountered along the way. Suddenly it’s not only a key part of their culture, it’s something core to their family.

Then Fëanor is killed and in many ways it’s the most important thing they have left of their father. Now it’s a source of memory too, for someone doomed to the Halls for eternity. Who they’ll likely never see again unless they’re killed.

Now from what I’ve heard, Tolkien says the Fëanorions lost their right to the Silmarils when they killed for them. Which makes no sense considering the Silmarils were *created* by Fëanor. Yes the light was created by the Valar, but what, you’re gonna say ‘I created electricity so that lightbulb you made is actually mine.’ That’s not how it works. Fëanor made the casing for the stones and figured out how to hold the light, without aid from the Valar. It doesn’t matter what actions they take, the right to the Silmarils remain theirs and theirs alone. The jewels hold no power of their own, they’re literally objects. Healing objects at most. Morals do not dictate their ownership, hallowed or not.

Tolkien going on to say the right of Doriath’s Silmaril actually goes to Beren and Luthien for taking it from Morgoth gives me frankly coloniser vibes.

‘Oh this thing I stole was originally stolen from you? Too bad. I took it so it’s mine now. Don’t care how important it is to you, your entire culture, and your people.’

Get where I’m coming from?

All in all the whole situation gives me Bad Vibes and I really don’t like the attitude the Sindar have to the Silmaril. In terms of Elwing, I can partly forgive her purely based on trauma response. Fine. Doesn’t make it right, but I understand. But that never would’ve been a problem if her father, grandmother, or great grandfather had the sense to acknowledge the silmaril was never theirs to keep. Don’t like the Fëanorions, (too bad) at least give it back to the Noldor.

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whatiswrongwithpeople · 6 months ago

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Shattered Silence

Jayce Talis x reader

Warnings: none, no spoilers for s2 , not connected to any canon plot

Prompt: An enemies to lovers story; “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Notes: I KNOW some people are absolutely hating this man now but I had this sitting in my notes app and just need to set it free. I hope there aren’t any mistakes , but once again it’s been written in my notes app-

Part 2

Jayce Talis was no stranger to the silence of late nights in the lab. The rhythmic hum of Hextech crystals, the faint flicker of blue light against metal, and the steady scratch of pen against paper were his constant companions. Tonight, like so many nights before, he found himself hunched over blueprints, mind locked in the methodical process of refining designs. It was easier to work late when there were no interruptions, no voices cutting through the quiet—especially not yours.

Jayce had never met someone more infuriating than you.

You were brilliant, there was no question about that. Your intellect had earned you a coveted place alongside him on one of Piltover’s most ambitious projects. But from the moment you two had started working together, it had been like throwing oil onto a flame. You clashed on nearly everything. You were methodical, calculated—always challenging his more instinctive, risk-taking approaches.

“I don’t see why you can’t grasp that stabilizing the core will reduce its volatility,” you had said during one of your many arguments.

“And I don’t see why you insist on slowing down innovation for the sake of caution!” Jayce had shot back.

The entire lab had been forced to endure your bickering. And it wasn’t just the disagreements over schematics that drove the wedge deeper. It was the way you two refused to back down, constantly pushing and challenging each other.

Jayce had always prided himself on being the best. He’d been driven by that mindset ever since he was a child, determined to prove himself worthy of his place in Piltover’s elite society. But you? You were a different kind of competitor. You weren’t driven by arrogance, as he had first assumed, but by a fierce need to prove yourself. You didn’t have his connections, didn’t have the same privileges. You’d clawed your way up through sheer talent and hard work, and you weren’t about to let anyone—even Jayce Talis—make you feel like you didn’t belong.

That realization had hit Jayce like a punch to the gut one night, weeks ago, after one particularly nasty fight.

** flashback a few weeks ago**

“I swear, if you could just stop bulldozing over my ideas for one second, you’d realize we’re trying to solve the same problem!” you snapped, slamming your notebook down on the lab bench. The room was empty save for the two of you, the other engineers having wisely fled after the first thirty minutes of bickering.

Jayce glared at you, jaw tight. “I’m not bulldozing—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was sharp, a warning edge in your tone. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you’re not dismissing everything I say just because you think you know better.”

Jayce’s fists clenched at his sides. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect you; he did. But you constantly pushed him in ways that no one else did, constantly questioned him, and it made his blood boil. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this. Not by someone like you.

“Maybe if you’d explain your ideas instead of acting like you’re the only person in the room with a brain—” he bit out, stepping closer to you, his frustration bleeding into every word.

You met his gaze without flinching, that fire in your eyes blazing hotter than ever. “Maybe if you weren’t so full of yourself, you’d actually hear what I’m saying!”

Jayce had taken a breath to fire back another retort, but then he’d seen something flicker in your expression. For just a moment, the anger cracked, and there was something else underneath. Hurt, maybe. Vulnerability. It was fleeting, but it was there.

He didn’t say anything, and you had turned away, picking up your notebook with a quiet sigh. “Forget it,” you muttered, heading for the door. “I’ll just rework the damn equations on my own.”

Jayce had watched you go, something unfamiliar twisting in his chest. He’d thought about going after you, maybe saying something—anything—to defuse the tension. But his pride had held him back, and instead, he had let you leave.

That had been the first time Jayce had realized that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t angry with you because you were wrong. Maybe he was angry because you were right, and he hated that someone could challenge him the way you did.

From then on, the tension between you two had only grown. Arguments became sharper, filled with undercurrents neither of you acknowledged. He could see the way others noticed it, the way their eyes darted between you and him whenever a heated discussion threatened to boil over. They weren’t just seeing two colleagues who couldn’t get along. They were seeing the thin line between rivalry and something else.

But that something else was dangerous. It was a fire neither of you were ready to touch.

**end of flashback**

Tonight, Jayce had resigned himself to another long night in the lab, the familiar hum of Hextech energy his only company. That was, until the door burst open with a force that made him jump.

His irritation was immediate. Of course, it would be you, barging in without a second thought. “If you’re here to argue about the core stabilizer again, I’m not in the mood,” Jayce muttered, not even looking up as he continued scribbling on his blueprints.

But then there was silence. No sharp retort. No biting comment.

Frowning, Jayce glanced up—and almost immediately his stomach dropped.

You stood frozen in the doorway, but you weren’t your usual fiery self. Your hair was disheveled, the neat, professional attire you always wore was wrinkled and disordered, as if you had thrown it on in a rush or hadn’t cared enough to fix it and your face... your face was pale, eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears. Something had happened.

“I... I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered, your voice cracking in a way so unfamiliar to Jayce’s ears that it almost made him flinch.

“What—” Jayce’s brain stuttered, not understanding, confusion and concern flooding his senses all at once. He had never seen you like this—vulnerable, shaken. You were always the one with sharp retorts, the one who could throw him off balance with a single glance. And now? Now you were standing in front of him, broken, and he didn’t know what to do. But when he turned fully to face you and noticed the sheer panic in your expression, all of his irritation, all of the snide comments he had prepared, dissolved instantly. “What happened?”

In a heartbeat, he was across the room, standing in front of you, his hands hovering just above your arms as if unsure whether to touch you, whether you’d let him.

“They—” you started, then choked on the words, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, hands trembling at your sides. “Someone broke into my apartment. I—I don’t know what they were after. They tore everything apart, Jayce. All of it. All my work... it’s gone.”

Hearing the sheer devastation in your voice, Jayce felt a surge of protectiveness swell inside him, his heart pounding as he imagined the scene. The thought of someone invading your space, of you coming home to find it destroyed... it made his blood boil.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked urgently, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You shook your head quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold yourself together. “No, I—I wasn’t there when it happened. But... everything was trashed. My work, my research, everything. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back.”

Jayce felt a knot tighten in his chest. You—this person who was always so strong, always so put-together—looked like you were on the verge of breaking. And the fact that you had come to him, him , in this moment of vulnerability left him stunned.

Without thinking, he reached out, pulling you into his arms in a motion that was both instinctive and desperate. You stiffened at first, as if the idea of seeking comfort from him was the last thing you’d ever considered. But something inside you broke the moment his arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sag against him, your hands clinging desperately to the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Jayce tightened his hold, one hand resting on the back of your head as he cradled you against his chest, the other pressing firmly against the small of your back. He rested his chin atop your head, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair. “I’m here. We’ll figure this out.”

Jayce could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface as he thought about what had happened to you. His hand that rested on your back clenched into a fist as he imagined someone rifling through your things, invading your space, and leaving you terrified. Jayce’s anger surged, hot and violent, but he forced it down, knowing that what you needed right now wasn’t fury.

It was comfort.

You sniffled against him, your breath hitching as you tried to calm yourself, and his fist slowly unclenched, his fingers gently tracing soothing circles on your back. He hadn’t realized until now how familiar you felt in his arms, how right it felt to hold you.

For all the biting words and harsh glances the two of you usually shared, this moment was startlingly soft, intimate in a way that left him feeling raw.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You didn’t say anything, but you leaned into him more, your face pressed against his chest, your body shaking as you let out a soft sob. The sound of it cracked something inside Jayce, and he found himself holding you even tighter, as if trying to shield you from everything that had happened.

When you finally pulled back slightly, you looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, and Jayce’s heart ached at the sight of your tear-streaked face.

“Why did you come here?” he asked softly. It wasn’t accusatory—it was genuine curiosity. After all the arguments, the tension, he hadn’t expected you to seek him out in a moment like this. You let out a small, humorless laugh, your voice still trembling. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess... I guess because I knew you’d be here. And... you’re the only one who understands.”

Jayce’s breath caught in his throat. You were right. Despite all the arguments, all the bickering, you and Jayce did understand each other. You were alike in so many ways—both of you driven, both of you fighting to prove something, both of you carrying more weight on your shoulders than you let anyone see.

“I’m glad you came,” he said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

A few hours later the lab was quieter, save for the steady scratching of Jayce's pen as he continued to make adjustments to the prototype in front of him. The tension that had once filled the room seemed to have settled, softened by the rawness of the earlier moments. You sat on the edge of his desk, your legs swinging slightly as you watched him work, the weight of what had happened still heavy on your shoulders.

Jayce had been focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled out a few final equations. But every so often, his eyes would flicker up to you, checking if you were still there, still okay. The silence between you was no longer strained or uncomfortable; it felt like an unspoken understanding that neither of you was ready to address fully yet. It was comfortable... for now.

Still, Jayce couldn’t ignore the way you were sitting there, curled inward as if the weight of the night hadn't lifted. The quiet vulnerability that had cracked through your usual armor made something stir in him. And as much as he tried to focus on his work, he couldn't shake the need to do something more for you.

Without saying a word, Jayce rose from his chair, his footsteps soft as he approached you. His mind raced—he wanted to offer more than just reassurances, wanted to do something that would make you feel *better*, something that would let you know that you weren’t alone in this. But what could he do?

Without overthinking it, he took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

The gesture was simple, but it felt significant. The warmth of the fabric enveloped you, and for a moment, you were taken aback. Your eyes lifted to meet his, surprise flickering across your face.

“It’s cold in here,” Jayce said, his voice softer than you had heard it all night. There was no bravado, no teasing edge like before—only sincerity. “You should stay warm.”

You didn’t know how to respond to the unexpected kindness, especially from someone who had always been so frustratingly distant. You had been expecting everything but this. His jacket was heavy, comforting, and as you tugged it around your shoulders, you found yourself grateful, even though you didn’t quite understand why.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. There was something different in your tone now, a softness, something you hadn’t let him see before. You had always been so sharp, so quick to hide any hint of vulnerability. But in this moment, with his jacket around you and his unexpected kindness lingering between you, it felt harder to keep up that armor.

Jayce watched you closely, his eyes softening as you adjusted the jacket. "I mean it," he said gently. "You don’t have to go through this alone. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

You nodded, pulling the jacket tighter around you. It wasn’t just the warmth of the fabric that calmed you—it was the understanding in his voice, the quiet way he was trying to reassure you without making you feel like a burden. The connection between you, so fraught with tension and arguments, felt... different now. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened, or maybe it was because you could finally see a side of Jayce that hadn’t been so guarded.

For the first time, there was no bickering, no cutting remarks, just the two of you in the quiet of the lab, an unspoken understanding hanging in the air.

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t come here,” you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. Jayce gave a small, knowing smile, his hands slipping into his pockets as he took a step back. “I’m glad you feel safe enough to trust me with this.” he said , voice sincere.

You swallowed, nodding slowly. You didn’t know where things would go from here, whether the fragile peace between you would last. But for now, in this moment, it was enough.

#arcane netflix #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce x reader #arcane jayce #arcane x reader #arcane #arcane imagines #arcane imagine #arcane x you #jayce talis x you

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that-weird-thing-in-the-woods · 4 days ago

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~{Heyyyyy, So I was reminded This Posts existence so now I’m making everyone’s problem :)}~

•High Queen•

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~

There was an emergency meeting called by John Constantine.

And as all in attendance arrived [Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Green Arrow, Green Lantern, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter] but there was one very noticeable absence, The Flash but before the hero’s could start asking what this meeting is about and asking where The Flash is.

Constantine pulled out a scroll from his trenchcoat, The scroll looked to be very old and had a gold, purple green wax seal on it that is already broken and he starts read it out loud for the everyone in the room to hear.

“I, The Ancient Of Time will be imprisoning The Flash for his involvement of disturbing the timeline.”

And as the room starts ask questions like “Who is the Ancient of time?” And “How can we get him back?”. And Constantine starts talking and saying that the Ancients are the Gods of Gods and very powerful beings and gaining the attention of one is very bad news and unfortunately for Flash he gained the attention of one of the most powerful of these beings, The Ancient of Time or Clockwork or his first name Kronos (Wonder Woman sucks in a sharp breath at the name)

And the only way to get Flash back from The Ancient of time is to convince the other ancients who are

The Ancient Of Hope

The Ancient Of Healing

The Ancient Of Wishing

The Ancient Of Fear

And the two most powerful beings to ever exist and the hardest to convince

The High Queen and The Ghost King.

And with Clockwork doing whoever knows what to Flash, they need to do this fast and with the JLD out getting all of the materials needed for an audience with the Ancients all they could do know is wait and plan.

Let’s get to planning.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Background•

The G.I.W are either the dumbest or the most confident humans Pariah Dark has ever heard of.

They had taken the Cores of at least 20 of the ghost of the realm and put them all in a device called a “Nuke” and had fired it into the Zone in an attempt to destroy it but the Zone as it has done before it throw it back at the G.I.W and ended up destroying all that world in the process.

But young Danny, as he had been a halfa all the blast had done to him was Fully-End him and knocked him unconscious in a random area of the Zone, but luckily for him he was transported very close to Clockwork’s tower [Aka his lair] and Clockwork grabbed him and took him back to the Keep but as his job as the Ancient Of Time clockwork himself was unable to take care of Danny himself he needed someone who could.

And as clockwork had the right things to help undo the Madness of the king, he opened up the sarcophagus [Aka the Nap Time Box™️] fixed Pariah Dark mind and dragged him to the keep and told him to look after and care for Danny before going back to his tower and Pariah Dark did just that.

I mean what else was he to do when he was taken out of that box, had his mind fixed and told to care for a hurt ghostling that he had fought before.

During the time Pariah dark was taking care of him the first time Danny woke up he was very concerned about pariah dark being so close to him while he was weak but pariah just explained that he was just helping Danny and don’t he dare try anything.

And over this time Danny and Pariah Dark formed a Father-Child bond with each other and everything was fine.

Until the Observers started to lose their shit over having Pariah Dark as a king again and what to do with Danny and for the most part they wanted to put Danny in the nap time box but of course Pariah Dark said hell no to that and it was actually becoming a problem.

Until Clockwork gave a compromise that the Observers couldn’t disagree with, Make Danny the Queen and it solve all their problems. In private Clockwork explained that with Danny as the Queen the Observers couldn’t hurt him without the entirety of the Zone losing their shit over it and Danny would be safe as well as the Observers couldn’t be able to turn Pariah Dark into a puppet king for them to use and Pariah Dark and Danny both accepted this.

And now Danny is the queen.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Facts•

•Hope is pandora, Healing is frostbite, Wishing is Desiree, Fear is Fright Knight.

•Danny has attendances who are two twin girls named Haru and Mizuki, they died due to illness a few decades ago and have been taking care of the keep as they used to work for a lord so that’s what their used too. Pariah Dark gave them to Danny to help him as he is still not full healed yet and with hundreds of years of paperwork to get to he can’t take care of Danny 24/7 like he would like too but now he has to fight with Haru and Mizuki any time he wants to spend time with Danny and this mostly happens like this ⬇️

•Pariah Dark holding Danny in his arm while looking down on Haru and Mitzuki who are yelling at him to “PUT OUR LADY DOWN” and calling him an “ BARBARIAN” while hitting his legs.

•IF I SEE ANYONE SHIP DANNY AND PARIAH DARK I WILL BLOCK YOU AND YOUR SCREEN WILL NOT SAVE YOU, THAT IS A CHILD AND A HUNDRED YEAR OLD MAN.

•Danny finds the girls and Pariah Dark relationship very funny and will just watch from wherever he is flouting/siting [most likely in Pariah Darks arms].

•Pariah Dark likes to carry Danny around and when he’s not Danny is flouting.

•The girls like to dress Danny up.

•Danny looks to be 15-16, :) Dc X Dp fandom you know what to do

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Appearances•

Danny’s Appearance

Danny usually just wears this because still his injury’s don’t really like heavier clothes for long periods of time but if he needs to he wears this!

Just change the hair to white and the red to blue and that’s him!

Haru’s Appearance

•Haru is the more unhinged one, she absolutely hates anyone who isn’t Danny or her sister like she will throw a man if they get too close for her liking

•Haru has a knife hidden in her kimono and is more one on one fight

•Haru’s kimono is a very muted with blue silver accents

Mitzuki’s Appearance

Mitzuki is as unhinged as her sister but she hides it a bit better, She also hates people but instead of threatening them like Haru is will give backhanded compliments.

•Mitzuki fights with poisons rather than weapons

•Mitzuki’s kimono is a very muted red with gold accents

~{And that’s it! Can you tell at the end of the background I got tired lol anyway hope you crows enjoy this until next time I decide to make my existence your problem, Byeeeeee}~

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farenmaddox · 4 months ago

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Thoughts on being 40

I’ve never written something like this, but 40 feels like a milestone worth taking a moment for. I never thought about myself at forty when I was fifteen or twenty-one. Thirty already felt like enough to worry about. Then 30 came and went, and it turned out that I loved being in my thirties. I loved the day that I realized I’d stopped looking around for an adultier adult when I had an issue, because I could solve it. I loved being able to recommend an optometrist and having a favorite cocktail. I loved going on vacations and getting promoted and getting married to the love of my life. I loved trusting myself to make good decisions.

And now I’m turning forty. I dreaded my 30s when I was 22, and then they happened to me and I loved them. So I am approaching my 40s with the hope and belief that they are going to surprise me just as much.

Most of the time, when I tell people I’m turning 40, and they say “ha ha you mean 39 again?” and I say “No, you don’t get it, I’m excited about 40.” They think I’m crazy, but the beauty of having lived on this earth for forty years is that I don’t care what they think. I have stopped pretending that I don’t like mayonnaise or that I can sit through Will Ferrell movies. I don’t have to laugh and agree with them on this, either.

I think I’m writing this because I want to leave a marker on the trail. Maybe for myself to come back to if I get lost, maybe for you as you head this way so you don’t get lost. I don’t know.

But here goes.

I am more capable of accepting ambiguity in my life that I ever thought was possible when I was young. I don’t need to know everything. It’s okay that I will never know what motivated someone to be rude to me or whether they even realized that they were. It’s okay that there is no single correct way of governing society or doing the dishes. I believe there are multiple possible answers to a lot of questions in this world. I can accept the premise of the Trolley Problem. I can accept “it depends” as an answer. It’s not always comfortable but I can do it.

I really do have to pick my battles. I really do have to have to choose a hill to die on and then let the rest of it go. Exhausted and defensive is not a good lifestyle and it doesn’t accomplish anything to live like that.

I am getting better at minding my own business. I love changing the subject when people start to gossip. It does not enrich my life to know that an ex’s divorce was messy or that two celebrities are feuding or dating or whatever it is they’re doing. I’m so much happier not knowing. I want to fill the limited space in my mind up with remembering my friend’s favorite book, and the rules for this board game I am playing with them. I have let go of the idea that someone’s ugliest moment or trait is their “true” self and that I need to know what they are doing behind closed doors. I want to focus on my true self.

I love myself more without labels. I do not need to find a hyper-specific explanation of my unique experience with gender and sexuality to feel good about myself or believe that my experience is real and true. “Queer” is a beautiful word for what I am and I’m very happy with it.

I can accept my body without loving my body. I can stop punishing it for not being what I wanted. I can stop punishing my mind for somehow failing to make my body into something else, as if self-discipline could overwrite genetics. I can focus on what will help us last out the rest of this life together in relative comfort. We don’t have to be in love; it’s not a requirement. We just have to coexist. I’m getting better at that.

I still believe that people are wonderful. That’s the one thing that I believed at fifteen and twenty-two and thirty, and I still do. Even as I write this, I question it, worry that I am not being honest, because the pandemic years have shaken me to my core. What I know now is that it’s an act of faith. I look at the wild world full of weird around me and I choose to be happy. I will never stop thinking about that Michael Jackson shrine in that park in Berlin that I walked past in 2016. I will never stop being delighted by the existence of acapella groups. I will never stop thinking about the four different people who stopped to ask me if I was all right recently, when I got light-headed and sat down on the curb for a few minutes on my way home. Someone always jumps in to help the passengers with walkers or strollers get safely off the bus, and sometimes that someone is me. Strangers ask me if they can pet my dog when I take her on walks, and they leave with a smile on their face, and the world is just full of love. No matter how scary it gets out there, I still believe that.

I am getting better at remembering that it all passes. The stress and the sadness and the anger feel so overwhelming when they come, and I used to let them control me and make me believe I wouldn’t ever get out from under them. But I did. Then I did it again. And now, when it happens, I know that I have been stressed and sad and angry before, and it went away last time, too. It doesn’t make it hurt less, but I can sit with it quietly. I can remember that it will feel different soon, and I don’t have to punish myself for feeling it. It doesn’t make me a bad person to have a bad day. It will pass me by, and soon I will be having coffee with my wife and my friends and we are going to laugh a lot. It’s going to be great.

It really is going to be amazing.

#nobody cares faren #my shit #I am middle-aged. Shit's weird.

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peachdues · 1 year ago

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TOXIC

LEVI X READER

A/N: a combination of the horny angst that��s been swirling in my head for a few days.

Listen. Do I condone what’s about to happen in this? No. Was it fun to write? Absolutely.

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below • toxic fucking • unprotected/raw sex • creampie • breeding kink • fucking does not solve problems • neither do babies • toxic Levi and toxic Reader tbh

This was a bad idea. Terrible; one of your worst to date.

And yet, as Levi spread you out across his kitchen counter — the counter that, until two weeks ago, had also been yours — you couldn’t for the life of you remember why every alarm bell in your head was sounding off, begging your body stiffen, to reject the man lowering himself between your thighs, his gray eyes glowing nearly silver with desire.

“Just can’t stay away, can you?” His lips are hot and silky as they slope messily across your thighs, and his fingers push aside the hem of your sundress to make way for him. “Because try as you might, you know no one will ever be able to fuck you like I can.”

Ah. That was why.

Because you and Levi had broken up. You were no more; a past concept, a memory.

In the end, your three-year relationship died not in a fiery blaze of glory, but in cold resignation. He’d sat stoically at the kitchen table as you’d confessed that you could no longer stomach being second or third or whatever place behind his true passion — work — and that it was time for you to put yourself first, for once, since he wouldn’t.

The only sign of his emotion has been his fists — clenched so tight that the skin of his knuckles had gone white.

I’m done. I have nothing left to give you, Levi. Not when you only ever take and offer nothing in return.

He’d tried to argue once you announced your intention to move out that night. He’d fought to convince you to wait until morning, to put away the small suitcase you’d packed with your most essential belongings, to sleep on it — on the decision overall. But you’d known that if you’d stayed, you would have changed your mind — would’ve let him change your mind, and he’d known that, too. So you’d held firm, turned your back on him and forced yourself to walk out of the door to your apartment, suitcase in hand.

You hadn’t intended to return, and it seemed like he’d accepted it. He’d even gone so far as to mail whatever of your belongings you hadn’t managed to pack to your parents’ address. So though you spent your nights staining your pillow with bitter tears, your heart feeling like little more than a misshapen lump of meat barely beating in your chest, you’d at least gotten what you thought you’d wanted: a clean break.

Until he’d texted you that all of your mail was still being sent to your — his — address. He’d offered to pay to have it forwarded to you, but when you saw how much that would have put you in his debt, you’d begrudgingly told him you’d stop by on your way home from work and pick it up.

Really, you knew better; should have known better, at least.

And perhaps your logic would have won over your desire, but then Levi’s fingers tug your underwear to the side and his mouth latches to your core, and all the chatter that constitutes your higher reasoning fades to an indiscernible buzz in the back of your skull. The moment you feel something hot and wet prodding your entrance, your mind whites out without the hope of coherency returning any time soon, as Levi begins to fuck you with his tongue.

With a keening cry, your legs seize around his head, trapping him between your thighs. Your hands shoot to grip his hair, desperate to find purchase; to find anything to help keep you tethered here, to reality, rather than risk floating away in clouded bliss.

But Levi is too committed to tearing down the wall you’d carefully spent the last two weeks building, brick by brick. So as his tongue pumps steadily into your core, he shifts, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he presses you harder against his face. His jaw works furiously and when his teeth graze against your clit, you lose whatever last vestige of control you’d clung onto.

You’re sobbing through clenched teeth but utterly helpless to stop your hips as they begin churning and grinding against his mouth. Levi hums in approval, and throw your eyelashes, you spot the way his pupils dilate, chasing away the cool silver of his irises and replacing them with something black and hungry.

“Atta girl,” he praises between his thrusts, and the vibrations of his mouth against your heated, sensitive flesh nearly makes you drool. “For once in your life, stop fuckin’ thinking.”

He swirls his tongue around you entrance one more time before he replaces it with his fingers, plunging two into your cunt and curling them. He finds that rough patch on your innermost wall with a near frustrating ease.

It’s infuriating to know that the person you know can’t give you what you really need is somehow the only person who knows exactly how to give you what you want. And, judging by the faint smirk pulling at Levi’s lips they latch around that bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, you know he can see your resolve crumbling under his feverish mouth.

“You don’t even remember why we were arguing, do you?” He jeers between harsh sucks at your clit as you continue to writhe and cry out for more. “You just wanted to cause a scene; make me sweat a little.”

You want to fight back; you want to tell him that he’s wrong, that you’d meant it when you’d said your relationship had run its course, but he won’t give you the space to do so. Not when he presses his face firm against your center and rocks his head side to side, reducing any protestations you might have had to pitiful whimpers.

“You’ve got my attention, sweetheart. Let’s see if you know what to do with it.”

Levi slips a third finger into your core and you come undone. With his teeth grazing your clit in time with each measured thrust of his fingers into your heat, you shatter against the kitchen counter, hard enough that stars dance in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s my girl,” Levi groans as he continues to lap at your sensitive and overstimulated flesh. “You’re always so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

His praise, coupled with the way his mouth continues to work at your cunt prolongs the waves of your release, until your legs are trembling against the smooth granite of the countertop, and tears are gathered in your eyes. Your walls spasm weakly one final time and then it’s over, your limbs limp and your brain little more than a puddle of liquid between your ears.

Levi steps back and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable; you know, by the way his eyes turn from steel to molten ore that he wants more; wants to take and take and make you bend to him.

You shouldn’t do it; you know you shouldn’t. You know that what’s happening between you is a manifestation of everything that was toxic about your relationship. Levi, always needing to be in control, who only listened when you were at your breaking point, but could never fully give you what you needed. You, who made far too many excuses, who let him dictate the norms of your relationship because it was easy; being with him was easy, until it wasn’t.

So no, you shouldn’t give in; you should stand firm.

You reach for him anyways. “Levi,”

That’s all it takes; a pleading whimper of his name, your hands outstretched toward him, and Levi pounces. His mouth crashes against yours, and his kiss makes you feel whole even though you know he’s tearing your resolve apart.

And you let him; you let him, because you’d sworn you were going to spend your life with him. You believed, without a moment’s hesitation, that Levi was the one for you — the one you’d share the remainder of your days with, the one with whom you’d create and share a family. It was all you’d wanted, and Levi, to his credit, had assured you it was what he’d wanted, too. At least, he did; once.

And, as Levi’s hands slide under you to peel you off the counter, your legs locking around his waist with practiced ease, you know it’s what you still want; he’s what you want.

For all your desperation to have him, Levi is just as eager for you. He pivots you away from the counter, lips still moving heatedly against yours, only to drop you both to the cold tile floor, spreading you out beneath him as his lips begin trailing down your jaw, your neck. He’s too impatient to carry you to the bedroom, his hands fumbling with the buckle on his belt so he can have you then, now, on the kitchen floor.

“‘S been too long,” he pushes the straps of your sundress from your shoulders, yanking the bodice down to expose your. He groans at the sight of your bare breasts, and idly you wonder whether you made the subconscious decision to forgo your bra when you dressed that morning, in the event you’d end up here, under him.

His mouth closes around one pert nipple and you think it was the best decision you could have made; for nothing could possibly feel as right as the sensation of his hot mouth and silken tongue swirling around your soft flesh, nipping and sucking his devotion into your skin.

Your chest is heaving as his hands stroke down your body, pushing and pulling the skirt of your dress up, exposing the lower half of your body. Your legs are still little more than jelly thanks to the intensity of your previous climax, but you manage to wrap them around his hips all the same, clenching in an effort to bring him closer.

“Fuck,” he growls, and he imparts one final nip at your breast before he pulls back, his hands hurriedly shoving the waistband of his trousers and briefs down his hips, just far enough that he can pull his cock free. Your stomach flutters at the sight of him, ramrod hard, his tip already leaking with his desire.

He’s just as desperate for you as you are hopelessly in need of him.

Your eyes trace back up from where his length stands hard against his belly back to his face. A pretty pink blush has flushed his cheeks, spreading down his neck and chest, and his eyes are glassy with want.

“Levi,” you plead with a soft moan. “Baby, please —“

Baby. You hadn’t called him that often while you were together, but when you had, it was because you’d been so filled with affection — with love — that his name hadn’t been enough.

It was a slip, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by your ex. In an instant his body is covering yours, and he’s moaning into your mouth as one hand ensnares itself in your hair. Between quick kisses, you swear you hear him whisper your name against your lips, before his tongue swipes back in and steals your breath away.

He breaks your kiss to shove a hand between your bodies, gripping himself at his base and giving his length one, solid pump. You shift, spreading your thighs wider, ready to take him and feel whole once more.

He lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance and pauses. Impatiently, you buck your hips forward, trying to take him in, but he twists back just far enough that your wetness can only brush against him, a mockery of how you truly need him.

Levi ignores your howl of frustration. “If you want it, then tell me you’ll come home.”

Your teeth clench hard enough to crack, but you won’t give in; not yet, at least.

He’d been right; you wanted him to sweat a little, and damn if you weren’t going to try and bring him to his knees, if only for a bit. At least until he had you back in the palm of his hand, begging for a crumb of his attention.

So with a gritty determination that borders spite, you lock your ankles against his backside and haul him into you with all your might.

“Jesus — fuck!” His yell echoes off the gleaming stainless steel appliances as you force him fully inside you, unwilling to let him win this battle so soon. He falls forward, an arm flinging out beside your head to catch himself.

Your boldness pays off, for Levi is forced remain still, panting hard and his eyes screwed shut as he adjusts to the sensation of being fully buried in your warmth after so long. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the way the muscles in the arm needed by your head ripples under the force of his restraint. Slowly, his eyes open and the darkness in them makes you pulse and contract around his length, your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Your mouth falls into a perfect “o” as he begins to move once more. He sits back on his knees, back straight, and his hands come to rest on your hips. He tugs you up just enough that your backside rests against the tops of his thighs, your back forced into an arch away from the floor. His gaze drops to where you’re connected, your base pressed flush against his, and the sight of himself embedded so deeply inside you makes the fingers on your hips tighten.

Slowly, and with careful precision, he withdraws his cock from your heat until only his tip remains lodged in your entrance. His eyes flick to yours and then he slams back into you, forcing your breath from your lungs. He repeats the movement again and again, until your lower lip is wobbling and your fingers are sinking into the corded muscles of his forearms, unable to do anything but cling on as he hammers into you.

The stillness of the kitchen is soon disrupted by the telltale sounds of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your breathy moans and Levi’s pants. Between the sharpness of his hips and the cold tile of the kitchen floor, you know you’re likely to walk away from this with bruises, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. Especially not when Levi is moving like this, each of his thrusts as punishing as they are calculated.

“What’d I say, huh? No one can fuck you like I can.”

Levi more often than not was a soft lover. Kind; generous; prone to taking his time with you, so much so that it was nearly painful, usually leaving you in a tearful puddle on your mattress, begging him for more.

But now, he’s trying to remind you of what you’re leaving behind by leaving him; he’s punishing you as much as he’s begging you to stay.

The thought makes you moan out, wanton and desperate, and the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

His hips snap harshly against yours, choking off the sound in your throat. “So come back home,” and though you know he means for it to sound like an order, his eyes betray his urgency, his desperation to confirm that you hadn’t really meant it; that you’d given up on him in a moment of stress and exhaustion. “Quit being a brat and come home.”

You want to tell him you can’t — that the door had closed on your relationship the moment you’d pulled it shut behind you that day, but try as you might, the words will not form. All that spills from your mouth are broken utterances of his name, and even those flatten out into pathetic whines as Levi’s callused thumb finds your clit and begins to work, determined to haul you to the edge of your sanity and shove you over.

Your legs spasm around his waist as you begin your ascent to that sacred precipice. Your eyes are rolled back, your head thrashing from side to side as the pleasure, white hot and searing, mounts within you, that coil in your belly winding tight with every impassioned movement of his body against yours.

Distantly, you feel his hold on your hips tighten, and you can feel his thrusts growing sloppy. You know it’s only a matter of time before one of you succumbs to your release.

He growls your name, the last syllable tapering off in a small whine. “T-tell me — fuck — tell me where.”

Your eyes fly open and meet his, sobering awareness washing over you like a tidal wave.

Only once in the entire course of your relationship, did Levi ask where he was allowed to cum: the beginning. He’d asked the very first time you’d slept with him, legs in the air and over his shoulders, and once you’d made it clear you were on birth control, that had been the end of the discussion. You’d known that if you’d changed your mind, all you’d needed to do was tell him, and he’d adjust. Truthfully, however, you’d not minded the possibility of your birth control failing; you’d been content to let whatever happen, happen.

You’d told him as much, and he’d told you he shared the sentiment.

But that was then; this time, he’s giving you an out. A way to make sure this remains a one-time thing, a moment of weakness between two people too lost and broken to want anything different.

Levi’s eyes widen as the silence stretches between you, and his hips slow until he stops moving all together. The friction mounting where you’re connected is nearly unbearable, and you know the only way to relieve it is to give him an answer — whatever it may be.

This was it; the decision that will make or break you both. For once, he’s out the ball entirely in your court, and whatever comes after this moment of bliss — or frality — ends depends entirely upon you.

“Inside,” you barely manage to squeak, eyes wide and locked unwaveringly with his.

Even Levi hesitates. “Y/N —“

“Inside,” you repeat with slightly more conviction. “Cum inside me, Levi.”

“Your pill?” His hips have already resumed their pace, and you can feel how he’s grown harder at your insistence. But though his body is already moving in accord with your demand, his eyes look ready to bulge out of his skull when you manage the smallest shake your head.

“Inside.” You beg again, and you dig your heel harder into the steely muscle of his backside, limiting how far he’s able to pull his hips back; to pull out at all.

Because damn if he isn’t the only person in the world with whom you could fathom facing the consequences of fucking raw without even the safety net of the tiny blue pills still sitting at your pharmacy, waiting.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth, a tendon in his neck throbbing. “Fuck, you want me to give you a baby? So fuckin’ be it. As long as you’ll stay.”

He shifts over you, planting one foot on the ground so he can use his thigh to pin one of your legs back and to the side. His hand shoves under your other thigh, mimicking the position of your other leg as he mounts you, his full weight pressing you harder into the floor and keeping you spread wide for him.

Gone was the calculated precision of his earlier thrusts; now, Levi only presses his groin firmly against yours as he begins to rut, each rock of his hips pushing his length impossibly deeper into your slick warmth.

A cracked moan of his name signals that the blunt tip of his cock has brushed up against that spot within you that Levi knows will have you coming apart in minutes. And so, with a feral gleam sparking to life in his eyes, he shifts himself to press the head of his cock firmly against it, his hips rolling hard enough into you that you begin moving in time with him, your hips lifting up from the floor only to be pushed back by him as he works.

His balls are heavy against the underside of your ass as he continues to rut into you. You know he’s close when you feel him begin to twitch inside you, and the anticipation of being filled by him — so hot and sweet — makes the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

If you thought you were a mess before, the way Levi mounts you on the floor has you nearly screaming with pleasure, so electric and blinding that all sights of the kitchen fade to white, and your eyes flutter shut.

But Levi won’t allow you to check out; not now, not ever.

“Look at me.” His free hand grabs your jaw in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. You want to give him what he wants, but it’s far too difficult, what with the way yours are glued to the back of your skull, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“L-Levi,” you try and plead, to explain. But he has always demanded more of you than you knew how to give.

“Look at me.” His fingers squeeze your cheeks, insistent. “If you want my baby, then you’re gonna look at me while you cum.”

He’s doing it to prove a point — to prove that he still has control over you, over whatever it is that remains between you. And you, helpless against the whims of your heart, let him have it, because you love him.

Fuck. You love him.

You force your eyelids open to meet his punishing stare, and then his lips are crashing down against yours in a fiery clash of lips and teeth as both of you fight to consume the other. But you lose first, breaking your kiss to cry out as your climax slams into you with the force of a freight train, knocking your breath clean from your lungs.

It’s powerful; the most powerful orgasm you’ve had in memory, one that sends your back arching sharply up from the cool kitchen tile below, and pulls a howl of Levi’s name from your mouth.

You’re still straddled among the clouds of your pleasure when Levi succumbs to his own. His body tenses for a moment and then he’s coming undone, his hips giving one last, mighty push before he explodes.

He cums with a strangled groan that he silences by searing his mouth against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he pulses within you.

You don’t try to stop the pleasured grin that forms on your mouth, nor the contented hums which vibrate in your chest as you hold him close to you, savoring the feeling of being warm and full of him.

You know you might regret the decision later; but there, spread out across his — your — kitchen floor, Levi’s full weight bearing down upon you as he continues to flood you with his release, you can’t help but feel that maybe this wasn’t the toxic choice at all. Perhaps this is simply a manifestation of everything that is good in your life.

Good. That’s what you decide to tell yourself as you feel Levi’s lips press sleepily against your neck. This is good; this is right.

Because this — he — is your home.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #aot #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #aot smut #levi x reader #levi aot #snk levi #captain levi #levi x you #attack on titan fanfiction

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specialagentartemis · 1 year ago

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If I were in charge of rebooting Danny Phantom, the core theme it would keep coming back to would be idea that everybody has their own internal life and thoughts and feelings and opinions and desires, and they won't necessarily match the simplified image of them that you have in your head, and you have to accept them as complicated messy un-ideal people because the ideal image of them you have isn't real.

All the pieces are there. Vlad as the villain has given himself over to this fantasy world, imagining Maddie as the perfect wife and Danny as the ideal son and Jack as the corrupting influence, without ever bothering to know them as people. He's the ultimate villainous failure state of this.

But also, at the same time, Maddie and Jack have this image of who their son is, and he's actually hiding a lot from them about who he Really is. Everyone has their idea of who Danny Fenton is, and it's what makes them unable to see Phantom as Danny. But also, age 14 can be when you start to realize that your parents aren't all-knowing godlike figures who can solve all your problems and always know what to do, nor are they put on Earth to frustrate you specifically, they're just... also people. Also human beings, who can be wrong, who have their biases. And that can be a hard lesson to learn.

(Tie Jazz's interest in psychology in here: she's interested in learning how people think and why. She's the bridge. She's the way forward.)

And it all comes back to this idea, that everyone has a full and complex internal life, and you have to give them grace and space for that and meet them as they are and accept them where they're at, because you can't make them be who you think they are.

#Danny Phantom #THE THEMES ARE ALL THERE #or rather the RAW MATERIAL for the themes is all there!!!

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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The Coprophagic AI crisis

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TORONTO on Mar 22, then with LAURA POITRAS in NYC on Mar 24, then Anaheim, and more!

A key requirement for being a science fiction writer without losing your mind is the ability to distinguish between science fiction (futuristic thought experiments) and predictions. SF writers who lack this trait come to fancy themselves fortune-tellers who SEE! THE! FUTURE!

The thing is, sf writers cheat. We palm cards in order to set up pulp adventure stories that let us indulge our thought experiments. These palmed cards – say, faster-than-light drives or time-machines – are narrative devices, not scientifically grounded proposals.

Historically, the fact that some people – both writers and readers – couldn't tell the difference wasn't all that important, because people who fell prey to the sf-as-prophecy delusion didn't have the power to re-orient our society around their mistaken beliefs. But with the rise and rise of sf-obsessed tech billionaires who keep trying to invent the torment nexus, sf writers are starting to be more vocal about distinguishing between our made-up funny stories and predictions (AKA "cyberpunk is a warning, not a suggestion"):

https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2023/11/dont-create-the-torment-nexus.html

In that spirit, I'd like to point to how one of sf's most frequently palmed cards has become a commonplace of the AI crowd. That sleight of hand is: "add enough compute and the computer will wake up." This is a shopworn cliche of sf, the idea that once a computer matches the human brain for "complexity" or "power" (or some other simple-seeming but profoundly nebulous metric), the computer will become conscious. Think of "Mike" in Heinlein's *The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moon_Is_a_Harsh_Mistress#Plot

For people inflating the current AI hype bubble, this idea that making the AI "more powerful" will correct its defects is key. Whenever an AI "hallucinates" in a way that seems to disqualify it from the high-value applications that justify the torrent of investment in the field, boosters say, "Sure, the AI isn't good enough…yet. But once we shovel an order of magnitude more training data into the hopper, we'll solve that, because (as everyone knows) making the computer 'more powerful' solves the AI problem":

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

As the lawyers say, this "cites facts not in evidence." But let's stipulate that it's true for a moment. If all we need to make the AI better is more training data, is that something we can count on? Consider the problem of "botshit," Andre Spicer and co's very useful coinage describing "inaccurate or fabricated content" shat out at scale by AIs:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4678265

"Botshit" was coined last December, but the internet is already drowning in it. Desperate people, confronted with an economy modeled on a high-speed game of musical chairs in which the opportunities for a decent livelihood grow ever scarcer, are being scammed into generating mountains of botshit in the hopes of securing the elusive "passive income":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Botshit can be produced at a scale and velocity that beggars the imagination. Consider that Amazon has had to cap the number of self-published "books" an author can submit to a mere three books per day:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/sep/20/amazon-restricts-authors-from-self-publishing-more-than-three-books-a-day-after-ai-concerns

As the web becomes an anaerobic lagoon for botshit, the quantum of human-generated "content" in any internet core sample is dwindling to homeopathic levels. Even sources considered to be nominally high-quality, from Cnet articles to legal briefs, are contaminated with botshit:

https://theconversation.com/ai-is-creating-fake-legal-cases-and-making-its-way-into-real-courtrooms-with-disastrous-results-225080

Ironically, AI companies are setting themselves up for this problem. Google and Microsoft's full-court press for "AI powered search" imagines a future for the web in which search-engines stop returning links to web-pages, and instead summarize their content. The question is, why the fuck would anyone write the web if the only "person" who can find what they write is an AI's crawler, which ingests the writing for its own training, but has no interest in steering readers to see what you've written? If AI search ever becomes a thing, the open web will become an AI CAFO and search crawlers will increasingly end up imbibing the contents of its manure lagoon.

This problem has been a long time coming. Just over a year ago, Jathan Sadowski coined the term "Habsburg AI" to describe a model trained on the output of another model:

https://twitter.com/jathansadowski/status/1625245803211272194

There's a certain intuitive case for this being a bad idea, akin to feeding cows a slurry made of the diseased brains of other cows:

https://www.cdc.gov/prions/bse/index.html

But "The Curse of Recursion: Training on Generated Data Makes Models Forget," a recent paper, goes beyond the ick factor of AI that is fed on botshit and delves into the mathematical consequences of AI coprophagia:

https://arxiv.org/abs/2305.17493

Co-author Ross Anderson summarizes the finding neatly: "using model-generated content in training causes irreversible defects":

https://www.lightbluetouchpaper.org/2023/06/06/will-gpt-models-choke-on-their-own-exhaust/

Which is all to say: even if you accept the mystical proposition that more training data "solves" the AI problems that constitute total unsuitability for high-value applications that justify the trillions in valuation analysts are touting, that training data is going to be ever-more elusive.

What's more, while the proposition that "more training data will linearly improve the quality of AI predictions" is a mere article of faith, "training an AI on the output of another AI makes it exponentially worse" is a matter of fact.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/14/14/inhuman-centipede#enshittibottification

Image: Plamenart (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Double_Mobius_Strip.JPG

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #generative ai #André Spicer #botshit #habsburg ai #jathan sadowski #ross anderson #inhuman centipede #science fiction #mysticism

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anthurak · 10 months ago

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I’ve been thinking recently about how a key aspect of Steven Universe is that Steven is placed in the narrative position of what might normally be filled by a standard fantasy-hero-shounen-protagonist-guy, while EVERYTHING about Steven as a character is all about going in basically the exact OPPOSITE direction of that archetype. To the point where the one time he actually TRIES acting like some typical shounen-protag to solve his problems in Future, it’s presented as this gross, twisted perversion of his character that goes horribly, HORRIBLY wrong. Basically, the show makes it clear that Steven trying to act like your standard ‘cool, badass anime hero guy’ is very much a BAD and WRONG thing. Like in anime terms, Steven is essentially a Magical Girl placed in a position that was meant for a Shounen Hero. Or in a more specific reference building off of the show’s numerous references to Dragon Ball Z, Steven essentially represents a take on Gohan who’s kindness and pacifism are ultimately allowed to be presented and emphasized as a strength rather than a weakness.

Yet the flipside of all this is that even in their few appearances, has anyone else noticed that Stevonnie shows quite a few of these ‘cool, badass anime hero guy’ traits? They have a cool sword, they race cars, they fight space battles in a starfighter, they get badass fight scenes like getting to 1v1 Jasper and get to say cool one-liners. And the funny thing is, NONE of these are ever presented as somehow ‘wrong’ for the character. Heck, going off of the same references to Dragon Ball Z, Stevonnie has a bunch of design similarities to Future Trunks of all characters, one of THE iconic ‘cool, badass anime hero guys’.

And I think that’s really interesting.

Like in-universe, it says some interesting things about how Fusion works. That Steven himself trying to act like a cool, badass anime hero guy is a BAD thing because it leads him to start rejecting many of the core aspects of who he is as a person, namely his kindness and empathy.

Whereas Stevonnie is their OWN person, distinct from Steven and can exhibit these traits just fine because they clearly got them from Connie. They clearly haven’t abandoned or rejected any of the core aspects of Steven such as his kindness and empathy, they just ALSO have all this other stuff from Connie as well and can exhibit these traits without actually losing anything. They are after all, everything from Steven and Connie and more.

And narratively, I think it makes for a fun inversion. Steven represents this big subversive take on the typical fantasy hero archetype by being this young BOY with a big, heroic destiny who is defined by his kindness, empathy, emotions, a general disdain for solving problems through fighting and generally rejecting the typical ‘cool, badass, anime hero guy’ traits.

So it’s actually rather fitting that it is the non-binary, intersex, very-much-NOT-cisgender-male, fusion Stevonnie who ends up getting to do more traditional ‘cool, badass, anime hero guy’ stuff. Who in turn got much of those traits NOT from Steven, but from his best-friend/partner/girlfriend Connie.

And I just think that’s pretty cool, you know? Particularly when imagining a permafused Stevonnie. Like I think its fun to imagine an alternate take on the later seasons of the show, or just post-series, with a permafused Stevonnie doing more traditional anime-protagonist stuff that would otherwise feel out of place with Steven, but doesn’t feel out of place with them.

For example, Steven never went through any kind of big ‘training arc’ like so many anime heroes because that just doesn’t fit who he is. Steven is not a ‘fighter’, he always tries to talk things out before things turn to combat. So it makes sense that he wouldn’t directly pursue training to become a better fighter on his own.

But Connie DID. And of course that wasn’t presented in and of itself a bad thing. Which as an aside, is interesting for Steven as his joining was more to support Connie rather being presented as something he needed to do himself.

And speaking of fighting, this is another place where the differences between Steven and Connie make Stevonnie in turn all the more INTERESTING. Because whereas Steven isn’t a fighter, Connie very much IS. The symbolic sword to Steven’s shield.

Now where this gets interesting is that in practice, Connie generally follows Steven’s lead. We see a number of instances wherein Connie likely wants to or even is full-on about to launch into a fight, but backs down because Steven wants to talk things out. Connie may be a fighter, but she also generally defers to Steven.

But what happens when these two aspects are coexisting in the same person? What happens when Connie’s preference towards fighting isn’t deferring to Steven’s preference towards non-violence, but is rather exhibited right alongside it? And because of that is seen by Stevonnie as a much more valid option?

What does Stevonnie’s response to conflict look like when they’re much more of a fighter like Connie, while still retaining Steven’s intrinsic kindness and empathy?

Personally, I imagine Stevonnie actually being a fair bit like Ruby Rose, ie; someone who often tries to talk things out, while also not hesitating to jump into a fight if people aren’t willing to negotiate. Perhaps even reading the situation/people enough to get a preemptive strike off.

And all that is just one aspect of what I think makes Stevonnie so compelling as a character.

#steven universe #Stevonnie #steven universe analysis #su #steven quartz universe #connie maheswaran #steven universe dragon ball references #rambling about my favorite su character #i think they're neat #did anyone else really want an arc of episodes where stevonnie just stayed fused?#like jungle moon but like four or five episodes?

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magesforthedas · 6 months ago

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Okay, newest discourse I've seen and want to share my opinion on... Mostly it's about Rook's companions. PLEASE be aware the are Spoilers for late game DAV below!

So, I've been seeing a bunch of people talking about how the companions don't really act like they care about you, because they aren't asking you how you are doing.

We've got some things to dissect here 😅 first off, not everyone's love language is words of encouragement haha. But on a serious note, even if it's true that they never asked "Rook, are you alright?" (Which, I'm pretty sure I got asked that by at least one companion...?) It doesn't mean they don't care about you. The more interactions and companion quests you do, the more you see that care come out.

Davrin asking you to join him for walks? He sees you need a break and fresh air.

Emmerich taking you to the gardens? It's probably the most relaxing thing he can think of.

Neve taking you with her to throw rocks, the thing she does when she needs a break and to clear her mind? She's hoping it helps you too.

Taash taking you to feed the birds? Again, something that helps them clear their head? Makes it easier to think? Also, their comment about you not knowing loss... Haven't you ever said something when you are angry that you know will hurt? Maybe that's how Taash sees you, or maybe they see the haunted look of grief in your eyes every day, and wanted to provoke you into getting mad and talking about it- exactly how they are apt to share their emotions. But Rook knows that comment isn't about them, it's about Taash.

Harding taking you with her to practice her new magic? It's something potentially fun and a little exciting, something brighter than the death and despair everywhere.

Tbh I'm having trouble thinking past romance stuff for Lucanis 😂 but like, making you food, he does check in on you, his quiet care in the way he would talk to you. I'll see on this second playthrough how much stays even when he isn't romanced.

Bellara taking you to check elven artifacts? You most likely have no idea what you are doing, she obviously just wanted you there. Now, it could be because she just wants support, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was hoping some knowledge of how to handle these artifacts rubbed off on you, and wasn't sure how to say that. She's obviously protective, and doesn't always know how to say what she wants.

Point is, sometimes it's words, sometimes it's actions, but they obviously do care. They also realize: you are the one leading this, the one with the most weight on your shoulders. They may be unsure how to actually ease that weight, and not just remind you that you have it.

It makes me really, really sad to see people say that they can't find it in them to care about the companions, because they don't ask you how you feel. Is their worth directly linked to your wellbeing? Is the only correct way of showing care or affection the way you prefer? I cried through multiple companion scenes because of the raw emotions they shared with me. Does that willingness to be vulnerable count for nothing?

Something I honestly appreciate about Rook, is there's a little bit we know for sure about them. You can decide their identity, if they're serious or joking, or optimistic or angry. There's room to fill your backstory. But the core of you is the same, and it's why Varric chose Rook: because you see a problem, you solve it. You see an injustice, you have to do something. Every backstory, you did something that saved lives or helped people and it got you in trouble; you know how to put others first, but without it breaking you.

There are a lot of similarities between Hawke and Rook that I see, the Found Family trope being the biggest. And you know, both families are maybe a little dysfunctional. But while there are similarities, it's unfair to compare how Hawke's friends approached their wellbeing with the Veilguard, because they are all, the protagonist and the companions alike, different people, who would handle and process trauma differently. And in a way that, whether the healthiest or not, kept everyone sane; though there are times when things could slip through the cracks.

My final thought is about Varric, or rather, his death. I saw people talking about how Solas couldn't have kept that ruse going if the companions had bothered to check in with you. Now, sure maybe no one ever said anything because they were concerned if it would help or not. You've been caught in the infirmary a couple times, talking to nothing: maybe that is what helps you cope?

But I think it is completely plausible that the magic Solas was using to make you think Varric was still alive, could also have been censoring outside mention of him. A lot of the time if Varric gets brought up in conversation by someone, they just.... Trail off? What if they said more, but Solas erased it for you? And the companions, well. If you don't want to talk about him, they won't force you. Same with anyone else, like Isabela. Solas is smart, he would know that the people around you would know he was dead, and may very well mention it in front of you. You think he wouldn't have something in place?

So yeah, next time something comes up that makes you go, "this is bad writing, I can't like this game, how can you like this game?" Maybe ... Look at it from another angle? A couple angles? Think about what could be happening offscreen? Or if you really just don't like the game or the characters... Why would you want to make others feel bad if they do? Not to be harsh, because also if you have things you don't like, that's valid and it doesn't mean you can't express yourself. But that doesn't mean nobody should like them.

Love you all ❤️

#dragon age #da: the veilguard #dragon age fandom #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers #da4 #da4 spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #da4 rook #dragon age rook #rook #davrin #emmerich volkarin #taash #bellara lutare #neve gallus #varric tethras #lace harding #lucanis dellamorte

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