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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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What kind of bubble is AI?

My latest column for Locus Magazine is "What Kind of Bubble is AI?" All economic bubbles are hugely destructive, but some of them leave behind wreckage that can be salvaged for useful purposes, while others leave nothing behind but ashes:

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

Think about some 21st century bubbles. The dotcom bubble was a terrible tragedy, one that drained the coffers of pension funds and other institutional investors and wiped out retail investors who were gulled by Superbowl Ads. But there was a lot left behind after the dotcoms were wiped out: cheap servers, office furniture and space, but far more importantly, a generation of young people who'd been trained as web makers, leaving nontechnical degree programs to learn HTML, perl and python. This created a whole cohort of technologists from non-technical backgrounds, a first in technological history. Many of these people became the vanguard of a more inclusive and humane tech development movement, and they were able to make interesting and useful services and products in an environment where raw materials – compute, bandwidth, space and talent – were available at firesale prices.

Contrast this with the crypto bubble. It, too, destroyed the fortunes of institutional and individual investors through fraud and Superbowl Ads. It, too, lured in nontechnical people to learn esoteric disciplines at investor expense. But apart from a smattering of Rust programmers, the main residue of crypto is bad digital art and worse Austrian economics.

Or think of Worldcom vs Enron. Both bubbles were built on pure fraud, but Enron's fraud left nothing behind but a string of suspicious deaths. By contrast, Worldcom's fraud was a Big Store con that required laying a ton of fiber that is still in the ground to this day, and is being bought and used at pennies on the dollar.

AI is definitely a bubble. As I write in the column, if you fly into SFO and rent a car and drive north to San Francisco or south to Silicon Valley, every single billboard is advertising an "AI" startup, many of which are not even using anything that can be remotely characterized as AI. That's amazing, considering what a meaningless buzzword AI already is.

So which kind of bubble is AI? When it pops, will something useful be left behind, or will it go away altogether? To be sure, there's a legion of technologists who are learning Tensorflow and Pytorch. These nominally open source tools are bound, respectively, to Google and Facebook's AI environments:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

But if those environments go away, those programming skills become a lot less useful. Live, large-scale Big Tech AI projects are shockingly expensive to run. Some of their costs are fixed – collecting, labeling and processing training data – but the running costs for each query are prodigious. There's a massive primary energy bill for the servers, a nearly as large energy bill for the chillers, and a titanic wage bill for the specialized technical staff involved.

Once investor subsidies dry up, will the real-world, non-hyperbolic applications for AI be enough to cover these running costs? AI applications can be plotted on a 2X2 grid whose axes are "value" (how much customers will pay for them) and "risk tolerance" (how perfect the product needs to be).

Charging teenaged D&D players $10 month for an image generator that creates epic illustrations of their characters fighting monsters is low value and very risk tolerant (teenagers aren't overly worried about six-fingered swordspeople with three pupils in each eye). Charging scammy spamfarms $500/month for a text generator that spits out dull, search-algorithm-pleasing narratives to appear over recipes is likewise low-value and highly risk tolerant (your customer doesn't care if the text is nonsense). Charging visually impaired people $100 month for an app that plays a text-to-speech description of anything they point their cameras at is low-value and moderately risk tolerant ("that's your blue shirt" when it's green is not a big deal, while "the street is safe to cross" when it's not is a much bigger one).

Morganstanley doesn't talk about the trillions the AI industry will be worth some day because of these applications. These are just spinoffs from the main event, a collection of extremely high-value applications. Think of self-driving cars or radiology bots that analyze chest x-rays and characterize masses as cancerous or noncancerous.

These are high value – but only if they are also risk-tolerant. The pitch for self-driving cars is "fire most drivers and replace them with 'humans in the loop' who intervene at critical junctures." That's the risk-tolerant version of self-driving cars, and it's a failure. More than $100b has been incinerated chasing self-driving cars, and cars are nowhere near driving themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

Quite the reverse, in fact. Cruise was just forced to quit the field after one of their cars maimed a woman – a pedestrian who had not opted into being part of a high-risk AI experiment – and dragged her body 20 feet through the streets of San Francisco. Afterwards, it emerged that Cruise had replaced the single low-waged driver who would normally be paid to operate a taxi with 1.5 high-waged skilled technicians who remotely oversaw each of its vehicles:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/11/03/technology/cruise-general-motors-self-driving-cars.html

The self-driving pitch isn't that your car will correct your own human errors (like an alarm that sounds when you activate your turn signal while someone is in your blind-spot). Self-driving isn't about using automation to augment human skill – it's about replacing humans. There's no business case for spending hundreds of billions on better safety systems for cars (there's a human case for it, though!). The only way the price-tag justifies itself is if paid drivers can be fired and replaced with software that costs less than their wages.

What about radiologists? Radiologists certainly make mistakes from time to time, and if there's a computer vision system that makes different mistakes than the sort that humans make, they could be a cheap way of generating second opinions that trigger re-examination by a human radiologist. But no AI investor thinks their return will come from selling hospitals that reduce the number of X-rays each radiologist processes every day, as a second-opinion-generating system would. Rather, the value of AI radiologists comes from firing most of your human radiologists and replacing them with software whose judgments are cursorily double-checked by a human whose "automation blindness" will turn them into an OK-button-mashing automaton:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

The profit-generating pitch for high-value AI applications lies in creating "reverse centaurs": humans who serve as appendages for automation that operates at a speed and scale that is unrelated to the capacity or needs of the worker:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

But unless these high-value applications are intrinsically risk-tolerant, they are poor candidates for automation. Cruise was able to nonconsensually enlist the population of San Francisco in an experimental murderbot development program thanks to the vast sums of money sloshing around the industry. Some of this money funds the inevitabilist narrative that self-driving cars are coming, it's only a matter of when, not if, and so SF had better get in the autonomous vehicle or get run over by the forces of history.

Once the bubble pops (all bubbles pop), AI applications will have to rise or fall on their actual merits, not their promise. The odds are stacked against the long-term survival of high-value, risk-intolerant AI applications.

The problem for AI is that while there are a lot of risk-tolerant applications, they're almost all low-value; while nearly all the high-value applications are risk-intolerant. Once AI has to be profitable – once investors withdraw their subsidies from money-losing ventures – the risk-tolerant applications need to be sufficient to run those tremendously expensive servers in those brutally expensive data-centers tended by exceptionally expensive technical workers.

If they aren't, then the business case for running those servers goes away, and so do the servers – and so do all those risk-tolerant, low-value applications. It doesn't matter if helping blind people make sense of their surroundings is socially beneficial. It doesn't matter if teenaged gamers love their epic character art. It doesn't even matter how horny scammers are for generating AI nonsense SEO websites:

https://twitter.com/jakezward/status/1728032634037567509

These applications are all riding on the coattails of the big AI models that are being built and operated at a loss in order to be profitable. If they remain unprofitable long enough, the private sector will no longer pay to operate them.

Now, there are smaller models, models that stand alone and run on commodity hardware. These would persist even after the AI bubble bursts, because most of their costs are setup costs that have already been borne by the well-funded companies who created them. These models are limited, of course, though the communities that have formed around them have pushed those limits in surprising ways, far beyond their original manufacturers' beliefs about their capacity. These communities will continue to push those limits for as long as they find the models useful.

These standalone, "toy" models are derived from the big models, though. When the AI bubble bursts and the private sector no longer subsidizes mass-scale model creation, it will cease to spin out more sophisticated models that run on commodity hardware (it's possible that Federated learning and other techniques for spreading out the work of making large-scale models will fill the gap).

So what kind of bubble is the AI bubble? What will we salvage from its wreckage? Perhaps the communities who've invested in becoming experts in Pytorch and Tensorflow will wrestle them away from their corporate masters and make them generally useful. Certainly, a lot of people will have gained skills in applying statistical techniques.

But there will also be a lot of unsalvageable wreckage. As big AI models get integrated into the processes of the productive economy, AI becomes a source of systemic risk. The only thing worse than having an automated process that is rendered dangerous or erratic based on AI integration is to have that process fail entirely because the AI suddenly disappeared, a collapse that is too precipitous for former AI customers to engineer a soft landing for their systems.

This is a blind spot in our policymakers debates about AI. The smart policymakers are asking questions about fairness, algorithmic bias, and fraud. The foolish policymakers are ensnared in fantasies about "AI safety," AKA "Will the chatbot become a superintelligence that turns the whole human race into paperclips?"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/27/10-types-of-people/#taking-up-a-lot-of-space

But no one is asking, "What will we do if" – when – "the AI bubble pops and most of this stuff disappears overnight?"

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/2023/12/19/bubblenomics/#pop

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

tom_bullock (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/tombullock/25173469495/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #ai #economics #business #hype #bubbles #bubblenomics #residue

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Cregan Stark Masterlist

main list

- NSFW Alphabet - explicit 18+

- The Silent Game - When your family took the side of King Aegon II, the usurper, you felt the need to support the rightful Queen and your husband, the Warden of the North. No matter the cost. - mature 16+

- The Weight of Ice - You try to lift Cregan’s ancestral greatsword which he wields with ease. It doesn't go as planned. - mild 13+

- The Wall - Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you. - mild 13+

- The Wolf's Desire - After the Dance, Cregan took position as the Hand of the King until the realm under your younger brother’s rule is stabilized. But Cregan's thoughts today are far from establishing order and justice to the capital. - explicit 18+

- Fox in Wolves Den - You were instructed by Larys Strong to spy the northerners, to thin their ranks. But today you faced the Warden of the North himself. - mature 16+

- Winterfell's Warmth - Cregan takes you to be his wife, a fire to his ice. And it's not long until smallfolk notice just how much Lord Stark is devoted to his Targaryen bride. - mature 16+

- Daisy - Heavy with your and Cregan’s first child, you get suspicious when your husband starts to sneak out to see Daisy. - mild 13+

- The Cold Embrace (1/2) - When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to the Warden of the North as an alliance offering, your world crashed. Because you knew one thing: dragons die in the North - and not even honorable Lord Stark could change that fact. - mature 16+

- The Cold Embrace (2/2) - As time passes, snow begins to melt. - explicit 18+

- Valyrian Bride - When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (Continuation) - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter) - mature 16+

- Valyrian Bride (dragon eggs) - Cregan was expecting a quiet day. But nothing is ever truly quiet with his dragon-blooded children. - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (dragon's bath) - You invite Cregan to join you in a warm bath. - mature 16+

- Valyrian Bride (nameday) - Cregan notices his wife and children doing strange (well, stranger than usual) things for him throughout the day. - mild 13+

- Winter's Solace - Specters of the past came back today once more to hunt you, but Cregan holds them back. - mature 16+

- The Cycle - Cregan leaves with his duty to the Wall and you are left alone with a choice Larys Strong brings. - explicit 18+

- The Cycle (one for the price of two) - alternative scenario - Explicit 18+

- The Cycle (justice) - Cregan delivers justice for your son and Grey Ghost. - explicit 18+

- The Frozen Throne - You and Cregan win the Dance. - mature 16+

- The Gullet's Price - The day you received the news about the death of your brother, another life was lost. - explicit 18+

- Dreams of Fire - You brought gentleness to the harshness of the North, and Cregan finds himself warmed by your presence. - explicit 18+

- The North's Fiercest Catch - You challenge Cregan to hunt down a dragon. - mature 16+

- Fire meets Ice - A short story about how you challenged Cregan to bring more fire into your bedchamber. - mature 16+

- Winter's Eve - A short story for Christmas Eve. - mild 13+

Works (velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark) below are listed in chronological order:

- The Dragon and The Wolf - Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You. - mature 16+

- A Union of Ice and Fire - After your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approves of the marriage between you and Cregan Stark, you marry under watchful eyes of gods of old. And one week later, a raven arrives carrying dark news. - explicit 18+

- The North Remembers - You return to Dragonstone, where you mourn with your family as you receive the message from Cregan. - explicit 18+

- The Heir of Ice and Ash - A little less than a year into your marriage with Cregan, you give birth to your first child. - mature 16+

- Fires That Never Freeze - You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins. - explicit 18+

- The Wolf's Flame - When you take your son flying, Cregan keeps fires warm for your return. - mature 16+

- Hour of the Wolf - Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South. - mature 16+

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark #cregan x you #hotd cregan #cregan stark x reader

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shawtuzi · 1 year ago

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finking of morning sex w plug!eren

mdni pls and thank you///cw include: black fem!reader, drug usage (weed), a lot of sexual tension, lazy morning sex that eventually turns kinda rough, some fluff

9:03 AM

the early morning sun nearly blinded you as eren opened the blacked out curtains in your shared bedroom. “ren what the fuck,” you whined burying your face in the plush pillow you were just a few seconds ago sleeping so peacefully on. eren chuckled, bringing a blunt he had freshly pearled to his lips that were still a bit swollen from last nights activities. you’d recently gotten into nibbling and biting on his lips during your intense kisses and although he found it extremely hot he was definitely paying the price for it.

“suns up mama, time to get up….unless you want me to finish this without you,” he smirked blowing a fat cloud of smoke in your direction. you lifted your head from the pillow, a deep scowl on your face. you begrudgingly sat up making eren grin, “yeah that’s what i thought, go freshen up real quick i’ll roll another one while you’re gone.” you let out a dramatic sigh before making your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face.

when you walked back into the room eren was laid up on the bed, little o shaped clouds of smoke flying into the air. “turn on some music,” he grumbled and you quirked a brow waiting for him to finish his sentence with a ‘please.’ when he saw you weren’t moving the realization hit him pretty damn quick, “sorry i meant turn on some music please.” you smiled and happily complied, turning on the speaker. you put on ‘feels like summer’ by childish gambino before flopping onto the bed. “careful baby careful—almost made me ash on my chest,” he chuckled giving your ass a light smack.

“yeah yeah whatever gimme some,” you plucked the blunt from his hands and took a long hit. you maneuvered your body onto his lap, his morning wood definitely not going unnoticed. “what’s on the agenda for today babydoll,” he asked tracing his name over and over on your thigh with his index finger. you handed the blunt back over to him before speaking, “mika invited us to brunch at one, then i have my nail appointment at four, we’ll have to do some grocery shopping tonight, and then i was thinking for dinner i could make that cajun chicken alfredo you like so much.” eren was trying to listen he was really was!! but it was so damn hard when your clothed pussy was directly against his dick that was practically straining against his boxers.

“you listening to me ren?” you giggled snapping your fingers in front of his face. a lazy grin broke out on his face and he nodded, “mhm of course i’m listenin’.” the room was slowly but surely becoming boxed and the more it did the more you and eren we’re feeling the effects of the drug. “had a dream about you last night,” you hummed, leaning back, resting your hands on his muscly thighs. eren smirked, his eyes drifting to your cunt that was practically swallowing your panties. he grabbed the second blunt he had rolled and lit it, “yeah? tell me all about it mama.”

“you were eating me out…and you had those fuckin’ grills in. you were doing such a good job i think i might’ve came in my sleep from it,” you sighed dreamily thinking of how damn fine eren always looked when he had his grills in. you felt eren’s dick twitch but didn’t dare say anything, deciding to tease him a little and see how long he’d last. he handed the blunt to you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “those grills always make you so weak in the knees don’t they?” he said giving you a lazy smirk. his rough hands trailed from your thick thighs, up your tummy, and finally to your breasts where he gave them a soft squeeze. his thumbs brushed over your nipples and you shivered, nearly dropping the blunt in the process.

you head felt like someone had yanked out your brain and replaced it with hot air bc by god all you could think about right now was eren eren eren. “you dream about me a lot?” he asked, mindlessly toying with your breasts. oh he didn’t even know the half of it. you ran your tongue over your bottom lip, nodding at his question. you were supposed to be doing the teasing, but as always eren had the upper hand and was able to turn you into mush with just a few lewd touches. he looked like a dream right now—his jade eyes were red and hooded, his hair that was usually up was down and cascaded beautifully over his broad shoulders, and he had this damn smirk on his face that was getting your panties wetter by the minute.

‘rendezvous’ by partynextdoor (a song that just so happened to be on your sex playlist) began playing, increasing the sexual tension tenfold. eren’s nonchalant façade began to crumble once of felt your wetness begin to seep into the material of his boxers. “you know if you wanna fuck all you have to do is ask, can practically feel your heartbeat on my dick,” his words made your breath hitch making him smirk for the umpteenth time. “no you…no you can’t! don’t be weird,” you pouted slapping his chest. you hadn’t even realized how turned on you actually were until you felt how uncomfortably slick your pussy had gotten.

eren slowly pulled your panties to the side and this mf actually whistled when he finally laid eyes on your soaked center. “such a pretty pussy,” he mumbled to himself running a finger through your slit. eren took one final hit of the blunt before setting it in the ashtray on the bedside table. without warning he plunged two fingers in your cunt making you gasp but as soon as they were in he pulled them right back out. he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked your essence off of them until they were clean. “i think i’m gonna let you do the work this morning,” he smiled, snapping your panties back into place. you were taken aback at his words a soft ‘huh?’ leaving your pouting lips.

“this weed got me feeling kinda lazy, use me to get off baby i know you can do it,” he gave your thigh a few soft pats and you whined. you sat up just the slightest bit to pull eren’s boxers down mid thigh, his painfully hard dick slapping against his toned stomach. it was a struggle to get your panties off without fully standing up but you managed, and as soon as they were off you began grinding your pussy up and down his dick. each time his mushroom tip nudged against your clit you let out a little mewl that was music to eren’s ears. “goddamn babydoll haven’t even put it in yet and you’re already making my dick wet as fuck,” he groaned, digging his fingers into the plush of your thighs. your slick had his dick glistening in sunlight and man oh man was it a sight to see.

you didn’t even care that he wasn’t inside you yet, all you could focus on was how hard n warm his dick was. “you already gonna cum? hm?” eren breathlessly chuckled and you replied with a weak ‘uh huh.’ one side of eren wanted to take charge so bad and just fuck you silly, but the other part of him was loving how you were taking the lead and becoming so so consumed in the pleasure you were getting just from grinding on his dick.

within minutes you were cumming on his dick with a pathetic whimper, your hands slamming onto his chest so you were able to ride out your orgasm for as long as possible. you were incredibly sensitive in that moment thanks to the two blunts you previously smoked, but that didn’t stop you from wrapping your hand around eren’s dick, using your cum as a lubricant to slowly jerk him off. “just…just need a minute to regroup,” you breathlessly giggled, flicking your wrist a tad faster. eren groaned quietly, his eyes fluttering shut. “take all the time you need baby i’m—s-shit, i’m content as can be right now,” and he really was!! he had gods most beautiful creation taking care of him how could he not be loving life right now??

“‘kay think i’m ready,” you whispered to yourself before moving your body up until his tip was at your entrance. you slowly lowered yourself down, whining at the stretch. it rlly didn’t matter how many times you and eren had fucked you just couldn’t quite get used to the stinging stretch from that first push in. you finally bottomed out and eren’s hands wasted no time finding purchase on your hips. you felt so full.

“feels s’good ren,” you mewled, slowly moving your hips up and down. you pressed your lips to his in a needy kiss which he happily returned, shoving his tongue in your mouth in the process. “i know baby i know. feel so fuckin’ good—like heaven i swear you feel like heaven,” he grunted, bucking his hips up. you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, giving it a few soft nibbles. ‘so cute’ he thought to himself as you suckled on his lip. he brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing lazy circles onto the throbbing nub. “keep doin’ that m’gonna cum again,” your voice was becoming slurred as your second orgasm of the day was approaching.

you buried your face in eren’s neck letting out little chants of his name as your orgasm washed over you. your mind was so fuzzy the only thing keeping you grounded was the smell of eren’s pine scented body wash. “come back to me baby it’s okay i got you,” he murmured in your ear, stroking your back gently. “want…want some more but i can’t do it, need you to take control please,” you whimpered, twirling your fingers in the silky soft strands of his hair.

eren pressed a kiss to the side of your head and wrapped his strong arms around your back before bucking his hips up. usually his pace would be fast and unforgiving, but he knew you had plans for the day and didn’t want to make you completely fucked out. “yeah jus’ like that baby…love the way you fuck me,” your honey smooth voice moaned directly into his ear. oh how eren loved the praise. eren glanced at the alarm clock on your side of the bed:

10:37 AM

as much as he wanted to savor this moment he knew you’d need at least a thirty minute breather to regroup from the sex, and then it would take you about a good hour to get ready for brunch so unfortunately he had to make this quick. his thrusts picked up and you squealed from how hard his dick was bumping into your pressure point. yeah you’d definitely need a pretty long break afterwards. you removed your face from his neck and after what felt like an eternity eren was able to see your gorgeous semi-fucked out face. you couldn’t help the little droplet of drool that escaped from your kiss swollen lips—he was fucking you that good.

“c’mon renny gimme that nut i need it,” you pouted, squishing his cheeks together and giving him a sloppy kiss. eren moaned into your mouth, his thrusts becoming sloppier by the second. “m’gonna give it to you don’t worry—f-fuck gonna…gonna fill that pretty pussy up,” he practically growled, giving you a harsh smack on your ass.

“gonna fill you up so full you’re gonna feel me in your tummy all—”

thrust

“fucking”

thrust

“day”

really really hard thrust

“oh shit!” you cried, unintentionally biting down pretty hard on eren’s poor bottom lip. the mix of pain and pleasure had eren’s eyes rolling as he finally came inside you with a deep groan. you weren’t too far behind, your orgasm hitting you like a truck. eren stilled his movements completely but kept your body in an iron grip against his. he hadn’t even realized your head had found purchase once again nuzzled into his neck until he heard little sniffles. worry began to coarse through his veins as he lifted your head from his neck, inspecting your face with his brows furrowed.

“what’s wrong? what happened? did i hurt you? why are you crying? talk to me please,” questions were coming out of his mouth left and right making you giggle. “wha-what? why are you laughing?” the smallest pout was settling on his lips and you internally cooed at how cute he was being. you cradled his jaw in your hands, giving his nose a soft kiss. “m’fine ren it was just a little intense, that shit is strong,” you laughed again, referring to the two roaches in the ashtray. eren let out a tiny sigh of relief after hearing you were okay, a small smile now making its way onto his lips. “damn you bit my lip kinda hard huh?” he chuckled, sweeping his tongue over his bottom lip and tasted the faintest bit of something metallic.

“m’sorry baby,” you frowned giving his lips three kisses. you slowly lifted yourself off of him making you both groan in unison. “i should probably go shower—don’t wanna be late,” you sighed, sitting up, careful not to let eren see the wince on your face. although eren was tough as nails, seeing you in any kind of pain after sex absolutely broke him.

eren sat up as well and followed you to the bathroom, his eyes drifting to the cum that slowly made its way down your thigh. “didn’t you already shower while i was sleep?” you quirked an eyebrow as steam began to fill the room. eren wrapped his arms around you from behind, giving your neck a sweet kiss, “i did but i certainly don’t mind taking another one with you.” you felt something hard poke at your back and it was all starting to make sense. “really eren? really? we just got done not even ten minutes ago,” you giggled breaking out of his hold. eren licked his lips as he examined your naked body, “s’not my fault ole boy likes you so much.”

“yeah whatever horndog.”

<333

#eren smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger smut #plug!eren #eren x you #eren x black reader #eren x black fem!reader #eren yeager imagines #eren jaeger imagines #aot smut #attack on titan smut #eren yeager #snk eren #snk smut

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thatbloodymuggle · 4 months ago

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MASTERMIND (vi)

SIX - FROM ASHES

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 7.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, lots of plot building, reader-centric, non-canon usage of real history

A/N: no eris in this chapter, but he'll be back soon🫠

“No luck?” the High Lord of the Night Court drums his fingers along the oak of his armchair.

“She’s stubborn as a mule,” a disgruntled Cassian slumps into his usual spot at the meeting table, “I think I’d have better luck convincing Tamlin to join our court.”

Rhys’s leisure finger-tapping halts, his knuckles turning white as he grips the arms of his chair so tightly it starts to splinter. Beside him, Cassian runs a hand through his unruly hair, shoulders tense. And across from him, Mor’s despondent eyes study the stem of her wine glass as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The rest of the table is a mixture of similar states of frustration, anger, and worry: Azriel’s jaw ticks, Feyre’s hopeful smile falters, Amren’s eyes roll. Everyone shifts with unease at the thick tension in the air, hallmarked by the glaringly obvious empty seat between Mor and Cassian. Well, everyone except Nesta, whose stone-cold expression doesn’t so much as twitch at the admittedly predictable news.

It’s been three months. Three months since you returned to the House of Wind in a heap of heartbreak. Three months of Azriel’s shadows chasing you down as you hop from court to court like a vagabond. Three months filled with visits from nearly every member of the Inner Circle. But despite their best attempts, their most heart-wrenching pleas, you remain steadfast: you are not the woman you used to be, and until you can find her, the Night Court cannot be your home.

“Where is she now?” Feyre breaks the heavy silence.

“Winter Court,” Azriel grunts, “She moved from Dawn last week.”

“And now that she knows we’ve found her, she’s probably gone already,” Cassian grumbles, face still sour from his rather unpleasant encounter with you.

The waning wood of Rhys’s chair finally snaps, sending pieces of splintered oak flying through the air. Feyre winces beside him, and for the first time Mor’s eyes move from the crystal glass.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Rhys seethes, “We’ve given her space. She’s had her fun running around like a nomad. It’s time for her to come back home.”

Azriel grunts in agreement, the muscles underneath his sculpted arms flexing as he crosses them across the table. Feyre pulls her bottom lip between her teeth in contemplation.

“We can’t force her back here if she’s not ready,” Feyre counters softly.

“Yes, we can,” Amren snaps, “Ready or not, serving in this court is her duty.”

“If we force her against her will, she’ll never forgive us,” Cassian grumbles, his wings fluttering slightly in a sign of irritation, “She made that painfully clear today.”

Mor sets her wine glass down on the table, and the soft clink draws everyone’s attention. They all stare, waiting with bated breath for her to speak.

During the first few weeks of your disappearance, Mor was an emotional wreck. She visited you each time she caught wind of your new location. She couldn’t stand to see her sister, her own flesh and blood, destroyed by the same male who hurt her centuries ago. But as the weeks stretched into months, and each visit became more and more reviled, she’d begun losing hope. It was a pain like no other—being unable to connect to the one person she loves unequivocally. The emptiness in your eyes, the disdain in your lips, only grew with each attempt, until she’d given up completely. Until she’d resigned herself to sulking in the corner of the room, staring at inanimate objects with a permanent frown on her face.

“Leave her be,” Mor’s uncharacteristically cold tone slices through the air, “If she wants to wallow in her own self-pity, then let her.”

Azriel shifts in discomfort. His shadows swirl around the empty chair, as if mourning your absence. His wings twitch behind him, itching to search every inch of Prythian until he relocates you—or throttles Eris Vanserra’s throat.

The aftermath of your abrupt departure was explosive, to say the least. Watching you return bloodied and bare at the hands of him was far too familiar. It was a sight Azriel had witnessed once centuries ago—one he so deeply wishes could be cleansed from his memories forever. Once the panic that accompanied your return had settled, it was a blazing fury that took its place. The second the Autumn Court heir stepped into the Spring Court for his monthly meeting with Cassian, the Spymaster had him pinned against a tree with the Truthteller to his throat. It took every ounce of his will power, along with Cassian’s incessant reminder that Eris would be no use dead, to keep Azriel from slitting his throat on the spot.

With your unabating avoidance of the topic, the Inner Circle is still ignorant to the details of your affair. Azriel, on the other hand, knew from the second he laid eyes on you, crumpled and broken on the living room floor. The rest of the Night Court entourage was quick to catch on—but it was him, the true limerence, who knew it from the start. And with his centuries spent pining after a female who can never love him back, he is unable to fathom the notion of a male rejecting a bond gifted by the Mother herself.

“She needs us,” Azriel avoids Mor’s penetrating gaze, “We cannot leave family behind.”

Red, hot ire contorts onto Mor’s features, but her retort is cut short by Rhys’s commanding tone.

“So we don’t force her,” Rhys crosses his arms over the table, “We deliver a message. Tell her that if she wants to keep her position in this court’s assembly, she is to report back to the House of Wind within the week—otherwise, we’ll find someone else to fill her position.”

Nesta, who’s been eerily quiet, scoffs humorlessly, “If you think that’s going to work, then you must truly be dense.” Rhys’s nostrils flare and he grinds his teeth. Cassian places a steadying hand on her thigh underneath the table, but the eldest Archeron sister continues, “If you’re going to give her an ultimatum, you might as well chain her up and lock her here. She’s far too intelligent, more than all of you combined, might I add, to fall for something as foolish as reverse psychology.”

Rhys leans forward and a menacing snarl curls onto his lips at his sister-in-law’s insubordination. Feyre shoots a warning glance at her sister, but the damage has already been done.

“I’m not chaining anyone up,” the High Lord seethes.

“It sure seems that way,” Nesta retaliates, ignoring Cassian’s blunt nails digging into her thigh through her leathers, “It’s your fault she’s too traumatized to come back here. You sent her there. You encouraged her to get close to him. So maybe you should stop projecting, and give her the space she needs to sort her shit out.”

Pure, unbridled rage blazes in Rhys’s violet eyes. His fists slam against the table, sending red liquid sloshing out of Mor’s glass. Feyre flinches, and the two Illyrian warriors keep their eyes down. But despite the fury pouring from the High Lord, Nesta keeps her chin held high, her eyes narrowed in a punishing glare.

“The only person at fault is that Autumn Court piece of scum, girl,” Amren snaps, her cold eyes just as deadly as Nesta’s, “We’d be better off getting rid of him, once and for all.”

“He’s no use dead,” Feyre counters, placing a steadying hand on her mate’s shoulder.

“He’s not much use alive either,” Azriel grumbles.

“I’m done with this conversation,” Mor abruptly stands from the table, her doe eyes void of emotion, “Do what you will. I don’t care.”

“Sit down,” Rhys’s tone is commanding, leaving no room for debate. She purses her lips, but reluctantly follows his instructions. Mor diverts her gaze back to the stem of the wine glass, retreating to her earlier fascination with the unfascinating object. “As much pleasure as I’d take in seeing the light leave the bastard’s eyes, we’re not killing Eris,” Rhys reasons, “And as it stands, I see no better option than leveraging her position as a member of this court’s politics.”

Nesta narrows her eyes, and he matches her glare.

“It’s worth a try. We’ve all tried reasoning with her, and it’s only pushed her further,” Amren affirms before grumbling under her breath, “Stupid girl.”

Rhys relaxes back into his seat, but the tension in his shoulders remains, “Well, then if we’re all in agreement, I can draft a—”

“Let me talk to her,” Nesta interrupts.

“No,” the syllables roll off Rhys’s tongue before she can even finish her sentence.

The table falls silent when Feyre immediately retaliates, “Yes.”

The High Lord and Lady stare at one another, each unrelenting. The youngest Acheron sister cocks a brow, as if challenging her mate. Her pink lips are pulled tight, shoulders back; leaving no question that she is, in fact, his equal. Rhys bristles as Nesta’s voice sounds through the air once again, but keeps his gaze trained on Feyre.

“Clearly, all of you have failed miserably getting through to her,” Nesta’s cold tone softens slightly as Cassian kicks her foot underneath the table, “I’ve—” she falters, “I’ve been there before—in that seemingly impenetrable darkness. So let me talk to her.”

The anger laced onto Rhys’s features wavers, his lips dipping into a frown. His hard gaze softens, and he releases a long sigh. “If the High Lady wishes it, then so be it,” he relents.

Feyre fights the triumphant smile tugging at her rosy lips. Nesta does not.

With that, the plan slowly unfurls. Azriel will begin his search first thing in the morning, and once he relocates you, Nesta will pay you a visit. Much to her displeasure, Rhys still insists on writing his stupid letter for her to deliver. However, with agitation clear in the air, Nesta decides to let him have this small victory—if only to preserve his fragile ego. Through it all, Mor’s eyes don’t waver from her wine glass. But despite her detachment, a small sliver of hope dares to break through the solemn room. Everyone is wary, for hope has proven time and time again to be futile. And still, they can’t help but latch on to it for dear life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A wise philosopher once said, “By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” But in all Confucius’s wisdom, you wholeheartedly believe his list should be reordered.

First should be imitation, which you agree is easiest. You’ve acquired wisdom through imitation for as long as you can remember. From immersing yourself between endless shelves of books, to regurgitating the words of Prythian’s most treasured scholars, you are well practiced in imitation. And despite its short-sightedness, it has granted you wisdom, albeit superficial.

Second, in your mind, is experience. In your 70 years of existence, you’ve only recently started to dip your toes into this derivative of wisdom. And it is your precisely your thirst for wisdom that has driven you to seek experience in the first place. It’s that insatiable hunger, like a demon lurking on your shoulder, that initiated the cascade of experiences that has stripped away your sense of self entirely, leaving you an empty canvas, ready to be remolded. But despite the soul-shattering pain that has come along with experience, you don’t agree with Confucius. For reflection is far more bitter.

How does one practice introspection when they’ve lost their sense of self? When all there is to reflect on is an empty void, filled only by imitation and limited experience? It was meant to be an impossible feat, you suppose. If wisdom was so easy to come by, then wars wouldn’t ignite. Hate wouldn’t fester. And love would prevail.

It’s that void that plagues your mind as you stare into the crystal-clear lake below, shimmering with the reflection of a ghost of a woman. Even as you stretch your lips and wiggle your fingers, watching how it mirrors in the water, you don’t recognize the being staring back. The irony of it is glaring—staring at your physical reflection in search of that otherworldly one. But what else can you do when you’ve traversed all travelable land, met every breed of faerie, and still your only semblance of self is that tug deep in your chest that grows duller each day?

The woman in the lake ripples as a bright, orange fish breaks the surface briefly before swimming back down into its depths. With a long sigh, you peel your eyes from the crystal-clear water and divert your gaze to the surrounding trees. They shine a deep, emerald green underneath the beating sun. After several days spent traversing the mountains, creeks, and valleys of the Day Court, you’ve found that this little nook, tucked quietly along the southern border, is your favorite.

The rolling hills and warming, golden rays are something out of a children’s book. The nights are short; a stark contrast to the beautiful darkness of Velaris. And although you do miss the winking stars and smiling moon, something about this place feels…calming.

During the first two months of your excursion, you stayed far away from Night and Day, and you avoided Autumn like the plague. Feeling so disconnected from yourself, you opted for the more foreign parts of Prythian. A week in Summer, followed by a few days in Spring, before venturing into Dawn. Winter was your favorite. Without a real home, and with a handful of supplies, the biting winds were vicious—but they numbed the ache in your chest. That is, until you were sniffed out for…what is it, the sixteenth time now?

Your lips dip into a scowl at the thought. Each time you feel like you’re on the brink of something—of some kind of clarity, some self-discovery—Azriel’s meddling shadows rip you away from solitude. You know that your family means well. But telling them, time and time again, to kindly fuck off is becoming rather tedious. You’re not heartless; it’s quite the opposite, really. Each time you look into their eyes—their pitiful, dejected eyes—it rouses a storm of emotions deep inside your gut. You can’t stand the way they look at you like some helpless, wounded animal that bites at any helping hand. The way they look at you like you’re broken. It’s an unwelcome confirmation of your deepest fear: that you are, in fact, irreparable, crippled by the only person who’s made you feel alive.

So, you continue to bite at their helping hands, constantly moving in search of that stupid introspection Confucius speaks so highly of. It’s how you’ve found yourself here, in the place that your mother once lived in, the place she once loved. It’s odd; exploring land that is technically your home, but that you’ve never seen before. You can’t help but wonder what your life would look like had you grown up outside the walls of that library. You imagine that you and your mother would have lived in a quaint cottage in this little nook in the south, where the hills stretch so far into the horizon, they seem infinite. You imagine you would have grown up swimming in this lake, climbing the luscious, green trees until your fingers splintered.

The soft smile on your lips drops instantly as you catch sight of a dark movement in your peripheral. You whip around, just in time to see tendrils of shadows retreat into the trees. A scowl contorts onto your features. The stupid Spymaster should have known that his shadows wouldn’t fare well in the blistering daylight of this court.

“Fool,” you shout out into the air. Only the birds chirp back—but you know the message was received.

You reluctantly haul yourself from the grass and begin your trek back to your temporary abode. The grass quivers beneath your stomping feet. Is a week of peace and quiet so much to ask? How many hurtful words does it take for them to give up? You don’t slow down as you approach the abandoned cottage. The hinges of the broken door groan in protest as you swing it open. Sun rays peak through the holes in the roof, shining down onto the dirty, wooden floorboards. It smells of rust and mildew, a testament to its centuries of neglect. But with only a handful of coins left in your pocket, it does the job.

Your hands tremble with agitation as you haphazardly throw your few personal belongings, strewn about the small house, into your single bag. You don’t have time to spare. Azriel surely knows he was caught, and he no doubt alerted Rhys immediately. Someone will be here soon with another futile plea to bring you home. You can only hope that you’ll be out of here before they arrive. Just as you snap the buttons of your bag shut, the hinges of the door groan again behind you.

You squint your eyes shut and clench your jaw, willing yourself to maintain some semblance of composure. You can tell by their light footsteps that it’s not one of the males—thank the Mother, because if Cassian returned he would be hobbling back to Velaris missing a limb.

“Isn’t this charming?”

That aloof tone could only belong to one person. Your tight grip on your bag loosens slightly, and your eyes widen with surprise. You turn slowly, brows furrowed as you take in Nesta’s appearance. Her golden-brown hair is braided on top of her head as usual, not a strand out of place. She wanders around the dreadful space, studying each dust-covered corner as if you’re not there. The initial shock fades, and the frown returns to your face.

“I didn’t know you were doing Rhys’s dirty work now,” you retort coolly.

She pauses her mindless exploration and turns on her heels. Her cold eyes are striking, as always, and she doesn’t hide her scrutinizing gaze as she scans you from head to toe. You’ve looked better, it says. Nesta looks dreadfully bored as she replies, “I’m not—Well, I suppose I am,” she pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from her brassiere, “He requested that I deliver this. But if I were you, I’d burn it.”

Your eye the letter in her hand warily, as if touching it will somehow transport you back to the House of Wind. Nesta rolls her eyes and waves the parchment in her hand, “If you don’t take it, then I’m going to have to answer to his bruised ego.”

Reluctantly, you take the letter from her waiting hand and blindly set it aside, “Is that it?”

“Pretty much,” she quips.

“You’re not going to grovel and plea for me to come home?” you cross your arms over your chest.

“I don’t grovel,” she scoffs.

The tension in your body unfurls slightly, but you remain alert. You know Nesta is honest—but why on Earth would Rhys send her here?

“I’ll see myself out then,” the eldest Archeron sister juts her chin slightly in a farewell nod. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, watching intently as she turns on her heel and strides back towards the broken door.

“Wait,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. She pauses, ears perked expectantly. Maybe it’s her complete nonchalance, or her abrupt bluntness. But the way Nesta looks at you, like a real person and not some kicked puppy, strikes a chord within you. It stirs a realization that it’s not company you want to avoid, but rather the wrong kind of company.

“You can stay, if you’d like,” your voice is hesitant, but doesn’t waver.

Nesta turns slowly. Her icy eyes remain, but a ghost of a smile plays on her rosy lips, “Okay. But not in this dump.”

You roll your eyes at the way she crinkles her nose in response to the mildew seeping through the walls. You’re sure you don’t smell much better, not having had a proper bath in at least a week.

“Fine,” you deadpan, “We can walk.”

Nesta lets you lead the way, out of the abandoned cottage and into the green beauty of Day. The sun shines as brightly as ever as you fall into a comfortable rhythm, striding leisurely side by side. You note the wonderment in Nesta’s piercing eyes, drinking in the sweet breeze that hallmarks the Day Court.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to venture here,” she remarks, “I’m not sure I’ve seen such…serenity before.”

You shrug as you step over a fallen log, “It’s nice.” Understatement of the century. “I quite liked Winter, though.”

Nesta snorts, “What did you squat in there? An igloo?”

She can surely feel your glare burning holes in the side of her head, but her eyes remain trained on the full-bodied trees above.

“A tupiq, actually,” you retort. In retrospect, an igloo would have been better. “I liked the cold. It was…numbing.”

An unspoken tension hangs in the otherwise crisp air. You’re not sure why the small sliver of vulnerability rolls off your tongue. It’s not a new revelation—but saying it aloud, for someone else to hear, is different.

“A stark contrast to the blazing inferno that drove you here,” Nesta states flagrantly.

A dull tug deep in your chest halts you in your tracks. Your eyes narrow to slits, and Nesta finally meets your punishing gaze.

“What’s your play here?” you hiss.

She quirks a brow, “There’s no play. I didn’t realize Eris was a dirty word.”

His name rolls so nonchalantly off her tongue, and you physically stumble back with a wince. You haven’t heard his name in months. It was a boundary not even your half-sister dared to breech during her many unwelcome visits. Hearing that four-letter name brings on a swirl of feelings you’ve tried for so long to suppress. Nesta’s piercing expression softens slightly as she observes the change in your demeanor. She opens her mouth to apologize, but you speak before she has the chance.

“It’s not—he’s…he’s not,” you try, and fail, to keep your voice steady.

She nods slowly and wets her lips before replying, “Well, I’m glad you’re not letting a male dictate your life.”

Your lips curl into a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The irony of it is sobering. Despite your expert avoidance of any thoughts plagued by him, he has dictated your life from the moment you left Velaris. You’ve run like a coward, chased by his ghost, in search of some mirage of clarity that he has made unattainable.

“I noticed your copy of Confucius’s Analects,” Nesta halts your rapid spiral, “In that shithole you’ve been squatting in. Interesting choice, given your…light packing.”

You can’t help but glance at the lake in the distance. Déjà vu washes over you as you’re reminded of your earlier musings by the crystal-clear water.

“I didn’t know you’ve read his works,” you reply simply.

Nesta shrugs and examines her long nails, picking at the cuticles, “I might have indulged myself in your personal copy while you were in Autumn.”

A faint smile plays at your lips, “You’ve outgrown your smut books?”

“Not in the slightest,” she laughs unabashedly, “Just thought I’d supplement them with some light reading.”

Ancient philosophy is hardly light reading. But this is Nesta you’re talking to.

“What did you think?” you ask, eyes still trained on the blue in the horizon.

She sits down on a nearby log, picking at her nails in thought. You seat yourself on a large rock across the path.

“I agree with most of his musings,” she hums, “Although I find them to be rather unremarkable. I find it silly that the world still marvels a regular, old male, as if his theories were anything more than common sense.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Nesta’s pessimism shouldn’t surprise you—yet you’re still taken aback by her blatant disregard for one of history’s most renowned scholars.

“I think you underestimate the acuity of the general population.”

She shrugs, “All I’m saying is keeping my nose stuck in books written by senile males is futile when I have a mind sharper than theirs,” she pauses, “Maybe one written by a female as wise as you would be more worth my time.”

You scoff, “I’m far from wise.”

“I think you’re plenty wise,” Nesta holds your gaze, “If you dare to believe it.”

Goosebumps prickle along your arms, and you’re not sure if it’s from the billowing breeze or Nesta’s candidness. You avoid her gaze, opting instead to stare out at the blue in the horizon. Silver lines your eyes as you mull over her words. Perhaps she is right—reading about introspection does not grant one knowledge. It’s merely another form of imitation. And maybe if you looked within yourself for long enough, you’d see what she sees—that wisdom comes from within. You blink back tears, and your bottom lip quivers.

“I miss you all. More than you know,” you barely speak above a whisper, “But every time I look at them—every time I look at her…it feels like drowning. Like gasping for air, and water rushing in. Because I can’t be the friend, the sister they want me to me.”

The billowing breeze stops, leaving the air around you deadly quiet. The trees seem to lean in, holding their breath as they wait for your next words.

“I can’t look them in the eye when all I can see, touch, taste, feel is…is Eris.”

The onlooking trees shudder as you utter his name for the first time in three months. And for the first time in three months, a hairline crack appears in the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. The floodgate hasn’t broken, but a single tear slips out. It descends the apple of your cheek and into the corner of your trembling lips. The droplet stirs something inside of you, tugs on the string buried deep within your chest in a mournful plea.

“Don’t come back.”

The breeze billows again as Nesta’s steady tone slice through the air. You peel your watery eyes away from the lake, and look at her…really look at her. Her expression is nearly indiscernible beneath the stone-cold mask she wears so well. But the slight dip in the corners of her eyes betray her, exposing the heart-wrenching understanding that lies within.

“What?” you barely recognize your own voice.

“Don’t come back,” she repeats with conviction, “Don’t let them tell you what to do. Don’t let them dictate how you heal.”

You watch, dumbfounded, as she rises from the log and brushes the dirt from her silky dress. For the first time in your life, Nesta gives you a smile. A real, honest smile, so fleeting you think you could’ve imagined it. Before you can utter another word, she’s gone with the billowing wind.

You raise a shaky hand and wipe the pooled tear from your lips with the pad of your thumb. The golden thread tugs steadily in the chasm of your chest, like the beat of a heart that doesn’t belong to you. You rise from the boulder on wobbly legs and begin your walk back to the dingy cottage. You time your steps with the tugging thread. The wistful breeze doesn’t reach your ears as you immerse yourself in your swirling thoughts. You don’t give yourself the reprieve of blocking them out, of suppressing them—not this time. Instead, you let them carry you inside the mold-filled house, guide you to your packed bag, and urge you to dig out a roll of parchment and a pen.

You slump onto the dirty ground. As you roll out the parchment, you feel your head clear for the first time since you left Autumn. The fog of guilt, doubt, despair lifts. And as you set pen to page, you’re able to discern your own handwriting—delicate pen strokes that belong solely, perfectly, to you. Daughter of Marjorie, Friend of the Night Court, Sister of Morrigan, and Mate of the Autumn Court Heir. You’re all of it, all at once.

Ink smudges from the soft pitter-patter of salty tears. With each droplet that falls, another boarded window is ripped away, shining light that’s been hiding for months. Even as they stream down, wracking your body to its bones, you let that tug deep inside your chest guide your steady hand.

As the days blur into nights, you write with an intensity born of both clarity and urgency. The tears that once fell now blend with ink, each drop a testament to the rawness of your words. And each soft scratch of the pen draws you just a little bit closer to reclaiming your voice.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You’re not quite sure what brought you here, to the House of Wind. Maybe it’s a moment of madness, brought on by the endless stream of tears you’ve been holding back for months. Maybe it’s the unedited, albeit complete, manuscript in your satchel. Or maybe it’s sheer exhaustion from writing from dusk till dawn, and the whole day in-between, three times over. Perhaps all of the above. But there’s three things you’re sure of: your head feels like it’s about to split in two, your hand aches so badly it may fall off, and you’re so nervous to walk through those doors that you might be sick.

You rock back and forth on your heels as you stare at the entrance atop 10,000 winding steps, frozen in place. You feel like a dog, returning home with its tail between its legs, after biting the hand of its caregiver. And you have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re going to say. Nesta was right. You should’ve stayed far away, continued your aimless journey until you could work up the courage to do this. You stumble backwards, but before you can flee the doors swing open.

Your breath catches in your throat as violet eyes stare back at you. They’re wide, like an open book. You can read it all, every footnote of his emotions: trepidation, remorse, but above all, relief. You’re not sure if he wants to punch you or kiss you. But before you can utter a word, he strides forward and engulfs you in his strong arms. He holds you tight, afraid that if he lets go, you’ll slip through his fingers once again. The unstated desperation twists your gut, washing away every ounce of hesitation. For the first time in months, you don’t deny yourself the comfort of human touch and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He shudders underneath your hold and buries his faces into the crook of your shoulder. It’s in his embrace that you realize you’re not a dog limping back to its owner—rather, you’re a soldier returning from war, battered, but whole.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys mumbles, his heavy breath tickling your skin.

You frown and move to push him away, but his grip around your frail body only tightens.

“For what?”

“For sending you there,” he doesn’t miss a beat, “For not being there for you—for not being the brother you needed me to be.”

His words chip at a piece of your healing heart. “Please don’t apologize,” your voice wavers, “It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. This is just one of those things life, in all her ambiguity, throws at us—and I’m better for it. Even if she’s a raging bitch sometimes.”

He chuckles deeply, the vibration warming your whole body.

“She is,” he grins against you, “I’m just happy you’re home. Even though you reek.”

You release a watery laugh, “I know.” You swallow down the lump in your throat and unravel yourself from his tight embrace. “I haven’t decided yet, though—if I’ll be staying or not.”

The brilliant violet of his eyes dims, and it takes every ounce of willpower to hold your ground.

“You’re not staying?” his voice is eerily steady.

“I don’t know,” you avoid his penetrating gaze, “I want to. But I have…stipulations.”

Rhys’s hopeful gaze hardens slightly. “Stipulations?” he deadpans.

Something moves in your peripheral, and you glance up at one of the arched windows just in time to see the curtain snap shut. “Can we go somewhere more private to talk?”

He nods tersely. He remains deadly calm, wary that one wrong slip of his tongue could send you running again. You immediately miss the warmth of his welcome, but he still maintains a certain softness as he holds his arm out to you. You hook your arm through his, wrapping your dirty fingers around his bicep. You close your eyes as the world twists and folds until you’re standing with him in a familiar room.

The extravagance of his office makes you harshly aware of just how filthy you are. Months of travel have coalesced into the grime underneath your uncut fingernails, the tangled knots of hair on your head. Rhys takes a seat behind his desk, and you warily stare at the chair opposite it. A blush dusts across your cheeks at the prospect of dirtying the velvet cushion, but he nods his head in a wordless command, and you take a seat.

“Before I start, I want to…apologize,” you swallow down the lump in your throat, “It was never my intention to hurt or worry any of you. I just needed some time to sort things out.” They’re far from sorted. “But I could’ve done so without my unkind words.”

Rhys nods, his sharp features softening slightly, “I know. And I should’ve given you space, so it cancels out.”

Some of the tension slips from your shoulders, but your back remains stiff. You wet your chapped lips and take an anchoring breath before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m ready to return. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. And if there’s one thing my…absence has taught me, it’s that I can’t sit around and wait for life to pass me by.”

The bag on your lap weighs heavier as you’re reminded of the manuscript tucked neatly inside. The glimmer of hope returns to Rhys’s brilliantly violet eyes, but he remains composed as he waits for you to continue.

“So, I’d like to return. But under three conditions.”

“Okay,” Rhys drags the word out, “But I have to warn you that neutering Cassian is off the table.”

You can’t contain the giggle that escapes your lips. Rhys’s broad chest rumbles with laughter, and for a split second, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“As much as I would delight in it, cutting off the Lord of Bloodshed’s balls wasn’t what I had in mind,” you reply once your fit of laughter subsides.

A small smile remains on Rhys’s lips, “Then what is?”

The humor of the moment passes, and you purse your lips. You close your eyes briefly. In and out. Your chest expands, and as you exhale, your eyes shoot open. It’s now or never.

“First, I want an apartment in Velaris. No more being cooped up here—I want freedom to roam about the Court as I please,” you declare.

Rhys takes less than a minute to think it over before replying, “Done. What else?”

Your brows arch slightly with surprise. Your first request is definitely the tamest of the three—but you didn’t anticipate quite how…agreeable he would be. One down, two to go. Now, for the big one.

“No more secrets,” your tone is steady, self-assured, “No more hiding my identity.”

His jaw shifts, and his bright eyes darken. It’s deadly quiet. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his brewing reaction.

“What about your father?” he challenges, his voice gruff with apprehension.

“I don’t care,” your reply is immediate, “Kier won’t so much as lay a finger on me so long as I’m a part of your circle. I don’t give a flying fuck if anyone knows who I am, for that matter.” He opens his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it. “I’m aware that I would no longer be able to act as a liaison between citizens of the courts. But I know for a fact that my time and energy is just as well-served elsewhere,” you don’t so much as stutter as you speak, “I want to be renamed Scholar of the Night Court.”

The High Lord leans forward in his seat, crossing his arms over his desk. The position exudes power, but you don’t so much as flinch at his commanding demeanor. “And what would you do as Scholar?”

You lean forward, mimicking his stance, “Draft your communications. Document your correspondences. Conduct research as you see fit,” the list of tasks rolls off your tongue effortlessly, “Although Amren deserves credit for cracking that book during the war, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without me. There’s not a soul in this Court as proficient as me in ancient tongues, history—overall intelligence too, for that matter.”

The hesitation is clear in the cinch between his brows. Losing you as a liaison is a loss for his ranks. But gaining you as a scholar could be even more valuable. More than that, you know that Rhys will do virtually anything to have you back here—to have you home. Just as you predicted, he releases a long sigh and unfurls his arms before leaning back in his chair.

“Okay,” he relents.

Your lips twitch, threatening to spread into a wide grin, but you suppress it. You still have one more demand, and you have a feeling that this one will truly test his resolve.

“My last stipulation,” you brace yourself for his rebuttal, “Is that I want full involvement in Court politics. Visits to the Court of Nightmares, meetings with other High Lords—whatever the rest of your Inner Circle accompanies you to, I want to be in attendance.”

“No.”

You frown and cross your arms over your chest, “No?”

“No,” Rhys repeats with conviction.

Irritation blossoms, but your face remains impassive, “May I ask why?”

“You have no idea the…intricacies of the politics I must deal with. It’s not safe,” he trails off, his eyes glazing over with a sense of detachment.

You’re not sure if it’s your comparatively young age, or the fact that you were dropped on his doorstep as a refugee soon-to-be-orphan so many years ago; whatever the reason, Rhys has always been protective of you—overly so. You know it’s the goodness of his heart that’s speaking, but you still have to take a deep breath to calm yourself.

“I’m more than capable of learning them. Besides, don’t you think it’s a little too late to prevent me from getting involved with High Lords and their heirs?” you quip.

A pang of guilt tugs at your heartstrings at the remorse on his face. You know it’s a low blow. But even in the presence of your gnawing guilt, the truth behind your words is louder.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he rasps, “And I nearly failed her once. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The mention of her makes your heart skip a beat. Your palms grow slick with sweat, and you instinctively rub them against the leather of your pants. His confession sheds light on his recent obsessive behavior—how he prioritized tracking your movements over other pressing matters. Any lingering resentment you held melts away as you shift your approach, grappling with the weight of his words.

“I understand,” sincerity laces itself in your tone, “But is ensuring my safety really worth it if it comes at the expense of my happiness?”

Rhys opens his mouth, but words fail him. His brows furrow as he mulls over your question. Finally, he’s able to muster a reply, “I want you to be happy, Y/N. But I saw—we all saw how miserable you were when you came back from Autumn, and I struggle to see how continuing to involve you in court politics could bring anything but.”

A chill crawls up your bare arms as a vivid image of your burned wrists flashes through your mind. You glance down at your hands in your lap, flexing your fingers to remind yourself that the wounds are long gone—even though the heartache remains.

“I don’t regret a single moment I spent there,” you reply, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Yes, it brought me pain, and I still bear those wounds. But it also brought me joy.” A sad smile graces your features. “It gave me the greatest adventure of my life. It gave me him—heartbreak, and all its beautiful ruin.”

A rivulet descends your cheek into the crevice of your smile. A sense of newfound understanding weaves its way between Rhys and yourself. An understanding that the villain in his story may very well be the hero in yours.

“When did you become so wise?” he hums.

A wistful note lingers in your voice as you meet the High Lord’s gaze. “When I realized that wisdom doesn’t come from avoiding the fire, but from walking straight through it and letting it burn away what no longer serves you.”

Rhys’s eyes soften, “And what did it burn away?”

Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear of loss. What remains is the understanding that pain and joy, loss and love—they are one and the same. And I would rather live a life touched by both than one shielded from them.”

Rhys leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, as if weighing every word you’ve spoken. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, he speaks, his tone resigned but tinged with a deep respect. “If this is the path you choose, then I won’t stand in your way. But promise me that you’ll be careful. That you’ll come to me if you ever need anything—no matter what it is.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling on your shoulders, “I promise.”

He studies you for a long moment, as if committing this version of you—the one who walked through fire and emerged stronger—to memory. The warmth in his eyes is unmistakable as he stands, rounding the desk to pull you into another tight embrace.

“Welcome home, Scholar of the Night Court.”

As you rest your head against his chest, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment to simply breathe. This is home. And no matter what lies ahead, you know that you have the strength—and the wisdom—to face it.

taglist:

@selfishlittlebeing @babypeapoddd @scarsandallaz @fourthwing4ever @raginghellfire

@deepestmentalitypersona @lilah-asteria @goldenmagnolias @myromanempiree @i-know-i-can

@hannzoaks @olive-main @lilylilyyyyyy @stuff-i-found-while-crying @moni-cah

@6000-fandoms @melsunshine @roseodelle @rcarbo1 @paliketerson

@ktz-bb @l-adynesta @asteria33

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra fanfic #eris acotar #mastermind

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noisydelusionlove · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: We Need a Medic

Not edited or beta read or anything, just getting my idea out I guess.

Pairing: Poly141xOriginal Character (I might turn it into a reader but I don’t know)

Warnings: military inaccuracies, medical inaccuracies, COD inaccuracies, A/B/O dynamics

John Price looks up from his stack of papers as a frantic knock sounds on his door. “Enter” he calls out, the door flying open almost immediately. Gavin, the most recent Beta medic comes in, his moves frantic as he stares at the head Alpha of Pack 141. “I quit, I’m done. I’ve met a lot of crazy Alpha’s but he tried to rip my throat out!” Gavin yells as he stares at John. John gives a sigh as he nods.

“I’ll have your papers sent by the end of day.” He says as the Beta leaves quickly, the scent of fear and panic permeates the office causing John to crinkle his nose.

John stands from his desk with a groan as he makes his way to the side of the barracks that houses the medical office.

When he enters the medical office the smell of burning rubber hits his nose, angry Alpha. John’s nose crinkles as he breathes it in, followed by a calming smell of rain. When he enters the room completely he sees Simon sitting on the medical bed with Johnny pressed to his chest, in an attempt to calm him.

“Scared another one away huh Ghost?” John sighs as he meets the angry eyes of Simon behind his black balaclava. “Trying to poke around when I told him I was fine.” Simon grunts out, causing John to shake his head. “How copy?” John sighs as he runs a hand through his beard. “Solid cap, it was just a scratch.” Simon responds as he motions with his chin to the wound on his arm where a bullet grazed him on the last mission. John nods as he turns and heads back to his office. John shuts the door behind him and sits at his desk with a sigh. He reaches for the cigar box on his desk, quick to light one to attempt to calm his nerves.

The shrill sound of his office phone takes his attention as he sighs again and reaches for it. “Price” he says only as he places the receiver to his ear. “Trouble in paradise I see.” A female voice comes from the other end. “Hi Kate” John grunts as he leans back in his chair. “Ghost chased away another medic I see.” Kate sighs as John grunts in affirmation. “Word travels fast, poor pup just quit.” John says as he ashes the cigar into the tray on his desk. “I have a suggestion.” Kate says, her tone serious. “and that would be?” John groans as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You’ll see when I land ETA 15 minutes.” Kate simply says before the line goes silent. John places the phone back on the receiver and lets out a loud huff.

John sighs as he stands at the hangar watching at the helicopter descends to the landing pad. Once the helicopter is stopped the door open and out steps Kate Laswell. “Good to see you old man.” Kate calls, causing John to roll his eyes as he takes her hand in greeting. The two of them head off of the air field and into the cart to take them to his office. “I hope this suggestion of yours is going to solve my medic problem.” John states as he glances at Kate. Kate gives a small nod as the cart stops and they step out, heading to his office.

Once the door is closed Kate pulls a file out and drops it on John’s desk. “Former sniper, marine trained medic, more than capable of handling all of your men especially Simon. Feral gives just as much as they take. I guarantee they’ll survive here.” Kate says matter of factly. John eyes the file suspiciously. He opens it and notices the first page, the profile page is missing. “Kate-“ he starts but is silenced as Kate shakes her head. “Read it first before I give you the profile. Make your decision based on skill before anything else.” Kate says, her tone shifting, her inner Alpha coming out. John sighs as he reads through the file, his eyebrows raising at the scores and recommendations this medic has received.

“Sniper to medic huh?” John says as he eyes Kate curiously. “Wanted a change of pace.” Kate says, but it’s obvious there’s something she isn’t saying. “Look, this medic seems great but I know there’s more to it. I can’t have another Alpha here. It’s already difficult with me and Ghost. Ghost is an apex, his instincts are stronger than even mine, a third Alpha could be dangerous.” John says as he stares at her. Kate shakes her head. “Not an Alpha, I promise.” She responds. “Would you hire them?” Kate watches as John nods. “They look like a dream come true but I know you’re not telling me the whole story.” John leans back as Kate nods. “So, feral, Sargent Lee, will be here tomorrow to start her new job.” Kate says, causing John to nod. “Here’s the profile.” Kate smirks as she tosses a paper down causing John’s eyes to widen. The profile shows a young woman, barely 30, the name Aurora Lee underneath and in bold letters it states ‘Classification : OMEGA’. John’s eyes shoot to Kate as she stands there smirking. “Your new medic is an Omega and I promise you she isn’t like an Omega you have met before.” Kate states, causing John to growl slightly. “This won’t end well.” He says as he shakes his head. “I think it will end perfectly.” Kate smiles as she turns to leave his office. “I’ll see you tomorrow when she arrives.” Kate calls as the door shuts. John stares at the picture of his new medic, his new omega medic with a sigh. “The boys are going to flip.” He mutters to himself.

Next Chapter>>>

Masterlist>>>

Silver heart knot divider by @tsunami-of-tears

MDNI divider by @arlerts-angel

Header by me

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chemanalystdata · 3 months ago

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#Fly Ash #Fly Ash Price #Fly Ash Prices #Fly Ash Pricing #Fly Ash News #Fly Ash Database #Fly Ash Price Chart #Fly Ash Price Trend

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diejager · 1 year ago

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1: I love your blog so much you are awesome.

2: Can I be added to the cod tag lists?

3: Idea for venom-hunter fic: the boys don’t know venom auto-heals and they watch Hunter get like… shot or sm and freak out and it’s angsty but it’s ok bc they heal right away and it’s fluffy in the end (popped into my head and I wanted to share)

1: Hi Parker! I love you too☺️ 2: I’m sorry I didn’t see this before now, but of course! I added you.

What if Hunter was Venom? Pt.2

Pairing: Monster 141 + Horangi & König x reader

Cw: blood, injury, canon-typical violence, gutting, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.3k

Price felt his age catch up to him when he watched an enemy unload his whole mag into your - Venom’s - chest, the dark skin rippling at the surface like water breaking with every drop. He knows that under the surface was your body, hidden under his mass and strength, but Price was still worried. How couldn’t he worry when he kept you so close to his heart?

Even after watching Venom rip apart the men who shot at him - you - spraying their guts around the area, blood painting over the grey asphalt, dripping down from the tip of his claws. Venom was a menace from close up as he was from afar, he could spot anyone from kilometres away as long as he had a clear view, Venom could hear so clearly, his ears much more attuned to your environment and danger.

You could easily be sent out alone in some situations, Venom coming in to help whenever he thought you were in danger, forcefully or not. They could hear the crackle over the coms, Gaz spotting your form jumping from one building to the other, swinging from tree to tree or rushing through the enemy line like a battering ram, something that König was extremely proud of seeing as a battering ram himself.

They learned from you that Venom feared fire, the flames would burn him, disintegrating to ash - it was a painful death - and loud sounds, high-pitched ringing that would make both you and him scream out in pain. Venom wouldn’t die from the loud sound itself, but every moment spent outside a compatible host was a second closer to dying. It was loud and painful, the pitch ringing in your heads until you completely separated, but even then, you’d still hear that incessant sound echoing in your head.

So there wasn’t much to be scared about, worry indeed, but never fear for your life when they had Venom to watch over you, he was fiercely protective of you, so much so that it rivalled their own. Other times, Price would put you in a squad of three or two men, making sure that you wouldn’t be put in a dangerous situation.

It worked for the most part an unknown contractor paid to hunt you down and get Venom to the rich scientist who was obsessed with the alien that he hosted and any other. They were taught the non-lethal way of neutralising Venom, to get both of you back to the labs to study. They would cut you open, probe your insides and possibly break you in ways that scared them, it forced Price to keep you beside Ghost or König at all times, two giant monsters scaring anything and everything around you. It would keep the threats away until they absolutely had to keep you safely hidden.

But it seemed that the PMC had found you before they could do anything, your scream piercing the field, a painful screech following yours. The ringing of what seemed like a high-frequency machine hurt their ears from afar, the painful sound made them curl inward, wincing with a loud pulse in their ears. No wonder Venom was deathly scared of high frequencies, it probably hurt both of you more than them from how close and how strong your hearing was.

Those who were able to, dropped what they were doing to reach you, alarm and fear wracking their minds. Gaz left his perch, flying in the open without any protection, an easy target for any snipers. Soap rushed towards you, hastily transformed with his body still steaming hot, his jaw snapping at everything. Alejandro and Rudy weren’t far behind, the nagual making his own path with Rudy following close behind him. Horangi tore his way beside König, his clothes drowning in blood, their bodies smelling strongly of ichor, a metallic smell. Price had to drop everything he was doing - transferring the encrypted intel from the database to the hard drive - to come to your aid, the only relief he had was the knowledge that Ghost was assigned to your side, your bodyguard.

When they reached you, they saw Ghost trying his best to take down as many people as he could that stood between him and your safety, and you - your situation looked dire - were still screaming, Venom’s black mass being slowly torn from you, throwing you left and right. It was chaotic, watching you sway around, hand clutching your head and face screwed in pain, even he seemed in pain. You and Venom were fundamentally connected, mind and body working as one, your cells sewed to his goop and his strength flowing in your blood.

In a frenzy, they fought to get to you, blood splattered and abdomens gutted, a stinging pain pulsing in their chest that only seemed to grow stronger with every second they heard you wail, choked sobs to cling onto the symbiote who made himself at home inside your body, to hold onto the creature you dubbed your own. Despite the semblance of success, they were panicking, booming orders shot across the field and over the heads of dying men, their shots were hastily landed and randomly aimed as if they were fresh-faced rookies rather than scarred and experienced mercenaries.

In the chaos of screams and shouts, Soap managed to destroy the machine, taking away the enemy’s only source of protection against Venom, but they couldn’t celebrate just yet, they had to finish this off before another echo was let out.

“Shoot them now!”

A booming shot followed closely after the order, a thick accented voice calling for whoever it was to shoot you down before you got away. You flinched back, curling forward in a coughing fit, sickly and wet coughs from your blood-filled lungs. You spat out red, tears rolling down your cheeks as you gasped for a breath, laboured and shallow breathing. You felt like you were drowning, dying by the one thing that kept you warm and alive, the life-giving and oxygen-rich ichor; it clogged up Soap and König’s nose, the retching of their throats and the heaviness in their stomach made them want to vomit, to force out the anxiety and terror in their bodies.

Little One, it was Venom, his voice laced with worry and exhaustion.

“Please, Venom,” you rasped, blood trickling down your chin as you clutched your open wound, fingers stained as red as your vest and jacket were.

Everyone watched Venom swallow you, darkness exploding from your back to wrap around you, covering you in layer upon layer of alien mass, forming a protective shield around you. Within seconds, venom came out screeching, large, white eyes squinted accusingly, jaws filled with long, serrated teeth opened threateningly and claw-tipped hands pointed at the ones who made you cry. He thrashed, breaking apart the many groups they formed and cutting through them ruthlessly, deaf to the silent screams and blind to the terror-filled look he received. Venom’s only priority was to exact revenge on the ones who hurt you and protect you.

He sunk back into you, letting you slump over, falling into Price’s arms, his worried mumbles about your injury and state filled your ears. He shook off your vest and patted you down, searching for the entry wound on your chest, hands moving frantically and ordering the others to hover around you, boxing you in for your own safety. He went on for a few, confusion growing more and more when he couldn’t find the bullet hole.

“ ‘m fine, Cap’n,” you mumbled, eyes closed as you slumped over him, thrusting him to keep you on your feet even after you slipped away to sleep off your exhaustion.

“You’re bleeding,” Price hissed, hands grasping your biceps. “Stay awake, love. We can’t have you falling asleep with this.”

“He healed me,” you grumbled, hurrying your head under Price’s chin, nosing at his warm skin for comfort. “Venom.”

He sighed, worry shifting off his shoulders, replacing it with relief. Knees bending, he picked you up, one hand under your knees and the other pressing you to his chest, rumbling with soft purrs to smooth the frown on your face. He nodded at the others, Rudy calling for exfil as they moved, covering you as much as they could at the LZ, waiting for the beating rotors of Nick’s favourite helicopter.

“Let’s go home.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora

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thegnomelord · 1 year ago

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Shark

- 🦈

(WOBSVHDVUH. HOLY MOTHER OF SHARKS. HOW DO YOU WRITE SO GOOD. Gosh you, darn you, daum you. Fuel my god daum brainrot.

Now im thinkin of angst. DONT WRITE IT, I CANNOT HANDLE YOUR WRITING IN ANGST. THIS IS JUST A BRAIN BLURB.

Price is close to death whether it be the ultimte battle between the destruction of all that can die or of a horrid enemy, they have yet to defeat.

Price is alive, but too far to be ever saved. The boys want to summon their captain's ole friend, to say a well had goodbye, maybe even save him. But no books, no scrolls, nor anything etched in stone on the surface depicts them. Nothing.

Price dies knowing hes lived a good life, praying to all the gods that his beloved eldritch dosent destroy the surface he called home.

The only way the poor eldritch finds out, are when Prices ashes are swallowed by the waves.

In every storm, waves tower over the heights of skyscraper, to the point not even those that could fly can cross. Death is quick when it comes to the ocean, like it trying to collect all power it can withhold. Creatures are cruel when it comes to what has killed their gods beloved, relentlessly acttacting what they can. Sharks are rare, to the point their sighting have come near myth or legend. Yet, they will always come come towards any that is draconic for they miss them. Ocean creatures, humanoid or not, would cry with no control, close to fire, dragons or smoke. They grieve. They all grieve.

But, Dragons seem to live longer when close to the waves. Saving them in dire situations when the fall from they sky, wounds healed when submerged in the salty sea. Even if you were pure fire, absolute whole magma. You'd be saftely cradled in any and all water. Water is the safest, the safest they have ever felt in all of their exsistence. They know this feeling, it is old, it is familiar, it is embedded in blood.

For the ocean rembers, it always remembers.)

Okay honestly your brain farts are always so good but. . . But . . . I'm so sorry sharky. This came to before you even wrote your ask and now I have to do it, you're just the sacrificial goat. . .

CW: SFW, angst, made myself cry :/ Got some idea inspo from @heliumknife

John Price doesn't die on a notable day. He doesn't die on the day of reckoning, doesn't die on the day fire rains from the sky and blood muddles your oceans, doesn't die alongside human gods, doesn't die on the day he may meet what made him and hear he was a good man.

John Price dies on a regular Tuesday night.

Not even a blip on the radar.

Having saved the oblivious world yet again he retches a bloodied cough as he stumbles on the beach he'd ended up on. His legs give out, the course sand rubbing his skin when he falls, red blood slowly seeping between the grains. Distantly he can hear his boys calling for him, watching the waves wash onto the shore, the tide too low to reach him; too low for you to sense him.

He can feel Gaz scrambling to stem his bleeding, Soap desperately searching through the first aid kit, Ghost barking on the coms that Price is hit. And as the world begins to grow quiet, the low murmur of waves washing upon the sand filling his ears, washed up amber glittering in his blurring eyes, the scent of seaweed and brine filling his rapidly slowing lungs—

Price smiles — he'll slumber with you soon.

Only when the morning tide comes in do you sense his blood, do you rouse from the depths like lightning, waking from a nightmare to find it has followed you to the waking world.

You're too late.

Like always.

He's so still.

Peaceful — worry lines and wrinkles smoothed out and face relaxed you could delude yourself into thinking he's just sleeping. Oh those dragons with their slumber; he'll grumble when you go to wake him, demanding five more bloody minutes of your attention as if he's the god here. Cling to you like a barnacle and growling like a kitten until you give in and lay down next to him. Give a rumbling purr and laugh at how he got a god wrapped around his finger until you shut him up with a kiss.

But you can't.

Your vessel's eyes keep darting to the blood staining his clothes, the crusted red lines trailing from his lip down his chin, the stillness of his chest, the silence.

They tell you John Price died protecting his team from a brutal foe. John Price died protecting the world. John Price died protecting the very people who in your recent shared memory had been happy to sharpen sticks and melt rock into to steel all in an vain attempt at glory. . .

John Price died a hero.

Your John died.

And you weren't there.

"Hey. . ." You look at Gaz when he speaks, standing on the opposite side of the medical table they've laid his body on. ". . .I know you two were, close." He chokes up, voice rough and nasally, fresh tear tracks staining his cheeks.

You envy him for it. For once you wish you were the ant on a circuit board instead of it's maker, just so you could see the world like they do, mourn like they do — open, visible, showing you cared, showing he wasn't just a toy in your sandbox. That Price was the voice you'd hear when loosening the noose of the rope, the beckoning call beyond the reach of your waves, the one that held that wretched excuse you call a heart.

But you can't.

All your treacherous vessel manages to achieve is a small dip in the corner of your lip. "So were you." Your voice is low and garbled like you're drowning, the rumble of icebergs scraping on the ocean floor filling the silence behind each syllable.

Gaz flinches like he'd been slapped, unable to look at the man he loved as much as you did. "Yeah," His gaze flickers everywhere like fleeing fishes in a reef, "I'm sorry." He blurts out.

"Don't be." You don't look at him, your cold hand reaching out to trace Price's jaw, coarse beard scratching your flesh. "You loved him when I couldn't." A part of you wants to be angry at Gaz for harboring John's affection and attention, that it's not fair for him to be able to mourn when you've known your John long before Athenians and Spartans decided to throw hissy fits in your waters. But you can't call yourself a lover he deserved when you met him so rarely, a blink of the eye for you and a century passes.

"Are you going to kill us now?" Kyle asks, not scared, as if he's expecting it.

It shames you, but you thought about it; of sea life growing gigantic and voracious under your influence, of making the sky weep in your stead, of violent waves rising up and devouring the planet for taking away your world. What's the point of it's existence when the one who made it shine has been snuffed out?

"No," You sigh in resignation. You can't, not while there are still people and places John loved, not while vestiges of him remain. You can't kill what's left of him, protect them like you couldn't do with him.

Gaz tells you they plan to cremate him in line with dragon customs, only to take a step back when you pick your John up to cradle in your arms, his loose wing draping over your shoulder, his head resting on your shoulder, nose buried in your neck as if he's scenting you once again.

"I'll come to collect the rest of you when you pass." You say before disappearing with Price, because if you had to answer Gaz's questions — Why are you taking his body when you weren't even there when he died? Why do you act like you care when you saw him so rarely? Why are you taking him away from Gaz when he was the one who loved Price? What gives you the right? — you would have drowned a country.

Water rushes around him the moment you are back in your element, holding him in a cradle made of your waters like the first time he'd fallen into the ocean so many millennia ago. Water bubbles escape his open mouth as your waves caress and kiss each inch of him, crusted blood muddling the brine around him as you pull him as close to your real body as you can.

Searching.

You can feel his soul once your waters have kissed every inch of his skin, faint yet stubbornly clinging on somewhere in the aether, no doubt giving Death a headache.

You were once a soul too were you not? Just a dead thing too dumb to know it died; somewhere deep beneath the individual writhing sharks and decaying corpses and fossilized bone making up your body resides your original one, nothing but a chunk of rock with the imprint of what you had as a skeleton at the time.

For if Death doesn't come to claim it, a soul won't die until the body's gone. You had slipped past the cracks, grew fat and large on the other souls until Death could no longer touch you without fear of being swallowed whole.

You doubt it would let Price slip through like it had with you, fortunately you put claim on his soul long ago. You swim to the deepest part of the earth where burning geothermal vents spew minerals into freezing cold waters, where you slumber and feed on the souls of the dead.

You curl around him, living and dead bodies parting until Price rests wrapped around the oldest part of you.

Embracing you like he always wanted to.

He waited so long for you.

Now it's your turn to wait. This time you will be there.

And if the oceans above rage for months, if the season long rain floods the streets, if the weather makes it so that in the crushing depths no one can pick out your tears from the ocean brine, all the better.

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chhikarabuilders · 10 months ago

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nellasbookplanet · 3 months ago

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Book recs: angels

Want some cool fictional angels? Good news! Whether you prefer traditional winged angels, scary eldritch angels, possibly-human-angels, incredibly creative in-name-only-angels, angels separated from or exploring concepts of faith and religion, romance, horror, fantasy, or sci-fi; this list is sure to offer something to chew on!

For more details on the books, continue under the readmore. Titles marked with * are my personal favorites. And as always, feel free to share your own recs in the notes!

If you want more book recs, check out my masterpost of rec lists!

Historical fantasy angels

When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb*

The angel Uriel and the demon Little Ash have been friends for centuries, living and studying together in a small jewish community in Europe. But times are changing, and many of the community have left for a new life across the sea. When one of these emigrants go missing, Uriel and Little Ash decide to leave their peaceful life and go find and, if needed, save her.

A Master of Djinn by P. Djèli Clark

Set in an alternate 1910’s steampunk Cairo, where djinn and other creatures (among other things, creepy steampunk angels) live alongside humans. We get to follow an investigator as she races to catch a criminal using a powerful object to control djinn and stir unrest. Fantastically creative and fresh, and also features a buddy cop dynamic between two female leads as well as a sapphic romance.

The Angel of the Crows by Katherine Addison*

Sherlock Holmes retelling. After having been injured fighting a war against fallen angels, Doyle returns to London to survive on only a veteran's pension. To afford a place to live in the city, Doyle finds a housemate in Crow, and eccentric angel with a great curiosity for humans and a knack for solving crime. And London needs its protector - supernatural beings walk the streets, and a someone going by the name Jack the Ripper terrifies the citizens at night.

Modern day fantasy angels

Bitter by Akwaeke Emezi

Novella, young adult. Bitter is an art student in Lucille, a city on the brink. Injustice plagues the citizens and protests shake the streets, and Bitter doesn't know where her place his - whether to fight or stay safe. When her art calls upon a creature of bloody justice, she must ask herself just how far she’s prepared to go and what price she’s ready to pay for justice.

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

Young adult portal fantasy. Young Karou is a student in Prague, but she’s also a mystery. She fills sketchbooks with drawings of monsters, trades in wishes, speaks languages that aren't all human, and has hair that grows out blue. When strange signs start appearing around the world - handprints scorched into doorways by winged strangers - will Karou finally find out who she really is?

Angelfall by Susan Ee*

Young adult post apocalypse. Six months ago, the angels descended on the Earth - and brought the apocalypse with them. Between ruling street gangs and vicious angels, Penryn is just trying to keep her family alive. When angels fly away with her little sister, Penryn does the unthinkable: strikes a deal with an injured and outcast angel to rescue her.

A Madness of Angels by Kate Griffin*

Urban fantasy. Two years ago, sorcerer Matthew Swift was killed. Today, he woke back up. And he isn't alone in his body, but rather in the company of the blue electric angels, who lived in the telephone lines and are now experiencing the world for the first time through him. Now, he seeks vengeance not only against the one who killed him, but also against the one who brought him back.

The Fall that Saved Us by Tamara Jerée*

Cassiel is of angelic heritage, raised to fight and kill demons alongside her family. But Cassiel has left the hunt and her family behind, wanting a normal life. For three years she's built a life for herself, cut off from her family, but now a demon has found her, sent to collect her soul. Except, the demon isn't any more interested in following the orders of her family than Cassiel is. Can they work together to free themselves from the expectations placed on them? Sapphic romance.

Out of the Blue by Sophie Cameron*

Young adult, sapphic main character. When angels started falling from the sky, the world went mad. So far not a single angel has survived the fall, but that doesn't stop teenage Jaya's father from growing an obsession with catching one, going as far as uprooting the entire family to Edinburgh in hopes of finding one. Jaya, busy mourning the recent loss of her mother, finds his obsession pointless - until an angel crashes right at her feet. What’s more, it's alive...

Full on fantasy angels

Tread of Angels by Rebecca Roanhorse

Novella. During Heaven's War, the rebel Abaddon died and fell. Now, long after, what remains of his body is a valuable element called divinity, which is mined by Fallen, descendants of those who fell and the only ones capable of perceiving divinity. Celeste, a Fallen raised among the privileged Elect, is deeply protective of her little sister Mariel. When Mariel is accused of having murdered an Elect, it’s up to Celeste to find out what really happened and save her sister.

The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman

Middle grade. In Lyra's world, every person has a daemon: an animal companion who follows them throughout life. When children begins being stolen off the street, among them Lyra's friend, she must embark on a great journey to save him, taking her to the furthest north - and beyond. A note: the angels do not appear until the second book, however this trilogy is very much worth a read from the start.

Gunmetal Gods by Zamil Akhtar

Dark fantasy inspired by the crusades. Seeking revenge, Micah the Metal leads an army of men baptized i angel's blood against the kingdom that stole his daughter. It’s up to Kevah, legendary fighter, to stop him and save his people. But ever since losing his wife a decade ago, Kevah has lost his fighting spirit. To defeat Micah, he must find it within himself a will to live again. While featuring (scary eldritch) angels, they serve more as a driving background/world-building force than as actual characters.

Horror angels

The Unnoticeables by Robert Brockway

Angels watch over humans, but not to protect us but to solve us, seeking to make the universe more efficient and clean away the undesirable. Carey, a 70s punk, doesn't like the idea of being solved. Watching fellow punks disappear off the streets, he becomes embroiled in a dangerous conspiracy. Decades later, stunt woman Kaitlyn has her own encounter with the angels and their creations - as well an older punk who might have the answers she needs.

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White

Young adult post apocalypse. The world has ended, and sixteen-year-old trans boy Benji is on the run from the cult that caused armageddon. Infected with the bioweapon they released to bring about the end, Benji is slowly transforming into something not quite human and desperate to find someplace safe. When coming across a group of surviving teens, Benji finds something new to fight for. No traditional angels, but it does play with the concept.

Angel Radio by A.M. Blaushild

Young adult post apocalypse. A week after strange and terrifying angels appeared, humanity is dead. Sole survivor of her town, teenage Erika is left wandering on her own. That is, until she catches an odd broadcast on the radio which lures her into the newly emptied world. There she encounters dangerous creatures, but also fellow survivor Midori, who has a cryptic connection to the angels.

Sci-fi angels

Archangel Protocol (LINK Angel series) by Lyda Morehouse

Cyberpunk. In a future where religion has become the law of the land and people spend as much time in cyberspace as in reality, ex-cop Deirdre has lost everything after having been accused of a crime she didn't commit. When approached by a man calling himself Michael and asked to solve the mystery behind the so called link angels - supposed angels who show themselves in cyberspace - Deirdre is given a chance at redemption and answers.

Archangel by Sharon Shinn

For twenty years, archangel Raphael has ruled over the lands, leading to corruption among both angels and mortals. Now the time has come for the angel Gabriel to become archangel, but first he must find his Angelica, a mortal woman chosen by Jehovah to be by his side. But his chosen partner, Rachel, has lived under oppression and fear, and she has her own ideas of what she wants - ideas that don't include Gabriel.

Terminal World by Alastair Reynolds

On a dying earth, society is separated by zones in which the laws of reality shift, allowing for different levels of technology and life. At the top of Spearpoint, the only surviving city, lies the Celestial zone, in which only angels can survive. Quillon, former angel who's had his wings removed and body changed so he can survive and infiltrate the lower zones, has been in hiding for years when he receives a warning that his former people are hunting him. Forced on the run, Quillon must leave Spearpoint for the dangerous wastes beyond, where he will discover ancient secrets of his world.

Space angels

Dust by Elizabeth Bear

In a dying spaceship, orbiting an equally dying sun, noblewoman Perceval waits for her own gruesome death. Having been captured by an opposing house, her wings severed and life forfeit, Perceval’s execution is imminent - until a young servant charged with her care proves to be Perceval’s long lost sister. To stop a war between houses likely to doom them all, the two flee together across a crumbling, dangerous spaceship. At its core waits Jacob Dust, god and angel, all that remains of what the ship once was. And he wants Perceval. Sapphic and asexual characters, however be prepared for kinda fucked up relationships.

The Outside by Ada Hoffman*

AKA the book the put me in an existential crisis. Souls are real, and they are used to feed AI gods in this lovecraftian inspired sci-fi where reality is warped and artificial gods stand against real, unfathomable ones. Autistic scientist Yasira is accused of heresy and, to save her eternal soul, is recruited by cybernetic ‘angels’ to help hunt down her own former mentor, who is threatening to tear reality itself apart. Sapphic main character.

The Genesis of Misery by Neon Yang

Space opera inspired by Joan of Arc. Misery Nomaki possesses rare stone-working abilities usually found among only saints and the voidmad. Not believing herself the be former and desperately not wanting to become the latter, Misery is trying to keep a low profile. Her attempt fails when the voice of an angel - or a very convincing delusion - leads her to become the centerpiece of a dangerous battle between two warring factions hoping to use her. Very unique and cool conceptually, but a little all over the place in how it handles its plot.

Bonus AKA I haven’t read these yet but they seem really cool

Dusk in Kalevia by Emily Compton

Toivo Valonen is a secret agent in more ways than one. An angel masquerading as human, he's acted as a source of hope for humanity in wartime throughout history. In 1960, he embarks on an undercover mission to Kalevia, allied with a rebellion against the government. In his way is fellow angel and rival agent Demyan Chernyshev, who’s working for the KGB.

The House of Shattered Wings by Aliette de Bodard

Having just barely survived the Great Houses War, much of Paris lies in ruins. Morningstar, founder of the House Silverspires, has gone missing, and something is stalking the people within the House's walls. Three people, a Fallen, an alchemist, and a man wielding spells from the far east, may be prove to be Silverspire's salvation.

The Worst Perfect Moment by Shivaun Plozza

Young adult. Sixteen-year-old Tegan is dead and i heaven. There, she's supposed to be reliving her happiest memory. Except the moment Tegan has been placed in isn't very happy at all. Guided by an angel, Tegan is brought through her past to understand what most matters to her. If she fails to see the happiness in her assigned memory, the consequences would be dire for both her and the angel.

Honorary mentions AKA these didn't really work for me but maybe you guys will like them: The Library of the Unwritten by A.J. Hackwith, City of Bones by Cassandra Clare, Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick, Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey

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