#bad omens self title

[foliosriot]

the worst in me; ❝ i need relief, a failure’s coming on. just breathe in deep, it’s taking far too long. ❞

THE WORST IN ME — BAD OMENS

MUSIC VIDEO COLOR PALETTES — 3/?

[bathoryalgorithm]

"He's painting us like a french girl."

[addictt-with-a-pen]

Just Pretend // Bad Omens

[f3ralbadomens]

[exltwounds]

saw @chifuya doing this and I want to join!!

— 4 albums on rotation:

— shuffle your liked songs and add the first six:

tagging @lornashores @jackfromthefairytale @hurt-you @warehouseontheriver @shade-astray :3

[vanishxcanvas]

also, happy birthday to this album. seven years old.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[sugar-grigri]

What would happen if we killed death ?

Here we are, Chapter 150, so let's not waste any more time and get straight to the analysis. 

This chapter is rich, incredibly rich, both in what it says and in the way it is presented. This time I'm going to tackle the visuals directly in the first part of the chapter.

As you've probably gathered by now, this chapter deals with the evolution of Denji's dream, as the title clearly indicates.

What's interesting is to see how it plays out visually. The alleyway is a visual element that has been used several times by Fujimoto to signify a period in Denji's life, his childhood.

It metaphorically represents not only an unhappy childhood and loneliness, but also the gap between a needy child ignored by society. Worse still, he is excluded. When Denji emancipates himself, the focus is on passers-by, on others. As Denji symbolically leaves the alleyway, he realises that he is now part of society. His dream of a normal life should be understood as a desire to live in a community, among others, and to make friends with them. 

In other words, getting out of the alley is Denji's lifelong dream, the key to his self-fulfilment and to a certain path forward. 

It's a metaphor that Fujimoto loves once again. In this illustration, for example, Aki and Power are heading towards the light while Denji is still in the shadows. Bathed in light, Aki and Power represent both a key to Denji's happiness and fulfilment, just as the light represents the end of a journey: their destiny, the end of their own lives. 

This illustration is extraordinary because Denji's gaze is fixed backwards, towards the alleyway, focusing on his flaws and his past. He is unaware, because he is not looking at them, that the key to his fulfilment has already been found, that he is in the process of leaving the alleyway. What's more, even if this means the end of Power and Aki's existence, they are serene, as if they know that happiness, even without them, will await Denji. 

That's my first comment, so let's move on to what's happening in terms of action and dialogue. 

Nayuta focuses on ordinary life, which helps Denji realise that he has reached it. It may seem odd that Denji is only just realising this now, but he is someone who operates by the senses. Moving away from the alley visually helps him realise his emancipation, as does seeing these ordinary people.

But above all, if Denji didn't entirely realise it, it's also because he wasn't happy in this ordinary life, as the last arc showed. Torn by the fact that he was no longer Chainsaw Man, Denji didn't realise that he was ordinary because he thought that was what would make him happy, and as he wasn't, he didn't think that his dream had been achieved for some time. It may sound complex, but once again it makes a lot of sense when you realise that Denji is someone who functions by sensation. 

But it's even more subtle than that: Denji had realised that he was getting closer to his dream, but that wasn't why he allowed himself to dream about something else. And that's precisely where the power of this chapter lies: it's by starting to dream of something else that he reconnects with his identity, because the contract between him and Pochita is the pursuit of a dream. In other words, Denji was not only Chainsaw Man to protect Nayuta from the public hunters, he was no longer Chainsaw Man because he no longer allowed himself to dream. Until then, Chainnaw Man was an empty shell.

When Denji says he wants to become Chainsaw Man, he means he now wants to dream.

We come to the figure of the raven crushed by Denji as he runs: what does it mean? 

One possible interpretation is that we don't know. I'm not saying this to clear my name, but because I think that's its real symbolism. In the West, the raven is generally a sign of bad omens, whereas in other cultures, such as Japanese or Celtic, the raven is the symbol of a god, the sun in Japan. Even if we could associate the raven with the metaphor of light coming out of the alleyway, the fact remains that it is not an animal that is appreciated or venerated in Japan, notably for the fact that it is a vulture that picks through rubbish.

It's this ambiguity that the raven represents, something that can't be pinned down. It's interesting, because by trampling on it, Denji turns to another dream, is it a good omen or a bad one? No one knows whether claiming to be Chainsaw Man will help Denji find happiness. 

That would be one possible interpretation. But for the sake of completeness, there is one last one. 

When I say that symbolism is hard to establish, it's only when I refute an obvious one. Let me explain: whether it's Bucky and his death, Yoru and Asa's death, the birds and Yuko being killed by Fake!CSM, and finally that raven. It's obvious that not only the raven but the bird in general represents death but also the end of a period, an era, a cycle.

Not only do the birds mark the end of one cycle, they also signal the beginning of a new one. Bucky's death opens Part 2, Yoru marks the beginning of Asa's second life, and Yuko's death ushers in the arrival of the most mysterious character in Part 2: Fake!CSM. The Raven marks the beginning of a new dream.

I think we need to be more subtle in this analysis and see it through to the end. Asa and Denji both do the same thing, they either crush birds or they give death to death.

It seems impossible but just as the bird that is supposed to fly in the skies is rarely found under our feet to be crushed. Asa and Denji are the two champions, the two candidates to prevent Death, and little by little the birds mark the cogs in a mechanism that is being put in place: the confrontation with Death. 

My various interpretations can add up, and when they do, they lead to one question: when we give death to death, what happens? Is it necessarily a bad thing ?

The fact that the birds symbolise a link with death is correlated with the fact that Denji loses his family and his dogs when his flat burns down. The destruction of his home represents the erasure of Denji's landmarks, what he had built up, returning to the cause of departure, since we are at the beginning of a new era, a new cycle. 

The relationship with death is correlated by Barem, who not only intends to fight it but also sees it as a common denominator for all species. 

I love the play on words that the flamethrower hybrid introduces: "I figure killing Asa wouldn't fire you up that much", it really supports Barem's desire to arouse Denji and get him to react. 

But all that aside, there are other things to relate. Not least with our other protagonist: Asa.

To return to the metaphor of the alley, visually and symbolically, she's the one who joined Denji in the alley. She's not just a symbol of Denji's step towards others, but also a symbol of others' step towards him. 

Fujimoto encourages us to reread the chapters using the key vectors of the dog and the cat.

This line is the centrepiece. 

Not only does Barem support the death once again of Denji's family, his dogs and his cat, but it's much more subtle than that. They are the key to a love that is not only universal, but also the key to Asa and Denji's happiness, and to their ability to bond with other species. When Denji wanted to save Asa from the falling devil, he told her straight away to think of cats and dogs. 

They are also a symbol of progress, Asa bonding with her cat after the death of her mother, while Denji bonds with Pochita after the death of his father. 

They are also what unites the two protagonists of Chainsaw Man: a cat with Asa and a dog with Denji. Just as Fujimoto likes to emphasise the influence they have on each other, whether it's Asa who places Denji between the criminal and the cat or how Yoru will behave like a dog because of Nayuta. 

So what does Barem's line clearly mean? What I find incredible is that every time Barem tries to put Denji against the wall, he always unconsciously provides an element of the answer. 

At their first meeting in chapter 140: Barem tries to present Denji with a dilemma. Asa Mitaka or Chainsaw Man? The answer is unconsciously found in the two fingers he plunges into Denji's nose: both. 

Here again, Barem thinks he has Denji pegged, it's not Asa that matters to him but his dogs and cat. But note the plural, Denji only has one cat, Meowy. Now we make the connection: Asa represents the cat. She's also important to Denji. 

If you're not convinced by Barem's unconscious response, then here again you can see a parasitic gesture in the fact that he knocks Denji down. Who else always falls at the wrong time? Who fell when their family was also dying? Well, yes. Barem's only point here is that even if Asa and Denji don't know each other very well, they don't really need to, given their similarities.

Once again, Barem thinks he's cornering Denji when he doesn't realise that he's just included Asa in what he's saying. Once again this is symbolic writing, with elements of foreshadowing and denouement of the characters subtly placed in Barem's lines. Barem likes to make prophetic announcements, as he is also a believer, but his message escapes him because he is not aware of the work in which he finds himself.

But that doesn't help us to understand what happens when we kill death ?

The characters can't guess at the omens that lie ahead. Just as their own message eludes them. 

The only thing we know for sure that these birds are announcing is the end of an era and a new era.

The answer is so obvious that it escapes us. We have seen the resemblance between these two protagonists, their families, their losses, the destruction of their homes, their landmarks. We could say that this would be mourning.

But moving on despite the end of all these cycles, without knowing what lies ahead. Isn't that just growing up?

[foliosriot]

glass houses; ❝ i’ve seen the devil more than i’ve seen god. ❞

GLASS HOUSES — BAD OMENS

MUSIC VIDEO COLOR PALETTES — 1/?

[bathoryalgorithm]

More Bad Omens Japan vlogs gifs. [Do not tag/comment on my work with overtly sexual statements.]

[screamsinsilver]

this is specifically for @xiaoluclair cus I said I'd show em all the noah hair eras but why not just lay them out for everyone innit

2015 ish and before. the emo era. vaguely from before bad omens, back when he was youtubing and guitarist for another band (he was like. 17 then (yes he had a full sleeve as a minor))

2016 ish. bad omens self titled era, also nicknamed the alice cullen. (I need this haircut)

2019 ish. finding god before god finds me era. also known as "wasian jesus" (left pic is so babygirl)

2020 ish. streamer era. just long hair, really. no pics cus tumblr limit and it's basically just the same but he's sitting behind his pc

2021, 2022. the death of peace of mind era. lopped it all off. still has a major stage presence though

2023. went even shorter (it's a crime)

also note the significant decrease in selfies. also a crime.

[loserlvrss]

𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

the world crumbled a long time ago. humanity could've died off — and, some would say it had — but, in reality, all it did was prosper under new circumstances. broken shreds of what remained, nature reclaimed, intertwining with the wires of the programming. Some would die just to be in the network of higher-ups, and some would rather watch the world burn a hundred times over. the question wasn't, which are you? it's who are you? In a place where somebody is really nobody.

a place where technology hadn't died: the sector one. the place where nobody who was ever somebody lived. a distant place to almost everyone else. only handing itself out on a silver platter to the, self-proclaimed, elite of the elite — old money, nepotism and pure coincidence — people lied, stole, betrayed, killed and died just for a place amongst the best of the worst. no one deserved the title this place disguised them with, wasting and polluting an already hellish world.

but, there was a whisper against the wind. the monarch's reign would soon come to fall — the reapers alongside. sector one would no longer prosper off the graves of its people. the walls would crumble as the old habits died. all it would take was eight pirates and one so-called princess to overthrow reality and start a revolution where everyone could be anyone.

there weren't mercenaries anymore, just a new world. and, all you had to do was step into it.

all rights reserved copyright © loserlvrss 2024

genre // romance, dystopian, cyberpunk, cybercore, drama, alternate universe, action, enemies to lovers, suggestive, smut, love triangle, multi x reader, series, comedy, post-apocalyptic universe, chapters

estimated word count // ≈ 32-50k

theme warnings // language, descriptive death & fights, blood, gore, sexual & suggestive content, substance abuse (drugs & alcohol)

status // ongoing, will post when i have time <3

playlist // wake up ateez, poison love dreamcatcher, wet dream snow wife, predator lee gi kwang, xs rina sawayama, do or die dpr artic dpr ian, i’m not a woman i’m a god halsey, coma dvii, silver light ateez, supernova aespa, ganma lexie liu, cyberpunk ateez, addicted pixy, another life key, gottasadae bewhy, daisy ashnikko, this world ateez, bad alive wayv, django ateez, claws kim petras, nightmare trendz, bound key, break it off — bonus track pinkpantheress, new world ateez, spoiled bitch tiffany day, eenie meenie chungha hongjoong of ateez, gods league of legends new jeans, dune ateez, the bat nct u, what do you want from me? bad omens, side by side bewhy, misa misa! corpse scarlxd cordhell, set it off league of legends dpr live jimmycline, halazia ateez, rpm sf9, iris pastel ghost

author’s note // tag list open !!

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight ++ more to be added !!

[f3ralbadomens]

Noah’s little devilish laugh in ‘Malice’ is what’s getting me through the day currently

[machneherald]

mom said it's my turn to join the album party <333

[dethrxnesstuff]

BAD OMENS MIND ALBUM THEORIES AND THOUGHTS

Before anything else, I have three major theories this new album might be about.

MAJOR PIN POINTS

1. We solely recognize the three major symbols they put out.

Death.

Peace.

Mind.

Remember this.

What if their old albums might have something to do with this completely.

FINDING GOD BEFORE GOD FINDS ME

BAD OMENS SELF TITLED

BAD OMENS SELF TITLED THEORY

So I’ve been listening to their self titled, so much what if this is the beginning of their “Death” era, to finding clarity and finding a way towards the light or the “truth?”

This could be far out stretched, but what if Noah is looking for answers, but doesn’t really seem to have mental clarity of what is to come? Think about it. He’s rising from the dead.

Now who in ancient Egypt has a god that uses the symbol for “Eye” it’s Horus. It’s the eye of Horus.

Which also means mind in their symbol with the infinity sign at the bottom.

FGBGFM THEORY 2

He talks about finding a solution to everything, but finds himself stuck with some kind of past he’s holding onto. This is where PEACE comes in.

In many of his songs, he’s singing to someone, or something else completely entirely.

here’s where it gets juicy.

The Death Of Peace Of Mind

This is where we see Noah, in a completely different perspective. He’s being held in some kind of facility. We will call this

MIND CORP.

MIND CORP, is a place where people go in but we never really have a facet of what is actually going on there. We’re given a hint.

Where old Noah is hooked up to a memory machine. AKA or solely known as MIND.

What if V.A.N is using him as a puppet or a pawn.

Remember Mira?

Yes, the artificial intelligence. Mira. We also don’t know much about her, but what if Mira, was helping Noah get out of MIND CORP but MIND CORP found a way to capture Mira?

Experimenting on her. Which in the video we see of Poppy. To where they make her go rogue and kill everyone in her sight after she escapes.

What if the woman we see in MIND CORP, is the real Mira. Yes the one with the black hair. What if she released Mira to destroy MIND CORP all together.

This is where bad omens posted their last tweet

“Goodbye, Friend.”

[rottingfern]

strap the wing to me (death trap clad happily) || a Bad Omens fanfic

Pairing: fae!Noah x gender neutral reader (yes the smut is gn too)

Summary: He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. overly flowery written pretty much entirely in prose. smutty smut smut. oral sex. just a tiny whiff of dubious consent by way of fae trickery

A/N: I drank a lot of wine and listened to Hozier on repeat the other night and then saw a very mind-meltingly beautiful pic of Noah on the dash and had a really weird dream and this is the result. Enjoy the ramblings xoxo Fern

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from Sunlight by Hozier; banner made by @throughwoodsanddirt; dividers by @saradika

“You lost?” he asks, and that is what ruins you. You’ve heard the old stories of wicked fae-men and how to avoid them - beware strange beings in the wood, don’t stray from the path - but in all the stories, none author had bothered to mention they’d peek around a tree with wide, irresistibly innocent curiosity and ask you, You lost?

There’s a flash of a glint in his eye, a bare twitch in his lip predating what might’ve been a smirk, but you can’t help but smile at the childlike confidence in his voice, and then he smiles back and –

That too is your ruin. There perhaps hasn’t been a sweeter smile - not in your years, not in the years of all of time, you reckon - to grace a human being, and it steals your breath sure as he’d picked it from your pocket. He takes it as an offering, slinking around the trunk with the air of something much smaller, more slight than he; gravity must be a friend, lover, even, with the grace she offers to his motion.

His eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as you take his tattooed hand - an imperious command, or perhaps a childish invitation - granting you the proof of satisfaction you hadn’t known you’d been waiting for, a breath of relief expelling from its locked chamber you’d ignored until now. 

You stare, because how can you not? He is beautiful, yes, but his visage flickers from soft to vulpine with a flicker of shadow and moonlight, something inhuman, dangerous, alien turning well-bred beauty, like the kind some are just born with, masculinity encapsulated by that rare softness. 

He’s beautiful, so, so gorgeous, unless otherwise he’s completely grotesque, a scent of something eldritch you’d rather not acknowledge. Within a breath, he moves from shy, soft smiles to something aloof, something dangerously mischievous, something terrifying when the moon shines just so and you’re reminded of that glint in his eye. You only need blink for that chipped granite of his cheekbone and hardened brow to give way to that downy smile once more, like it had never gone.

You walk over roots, vines and ivies and he is barefoot, feet uncalloused and unscarred.

The trek back to the path is as treacherous as he warned, for which he never lets your hand go - vines threatening to trip you up with each step, roots growing where there were none minutes ago. He regales you with faerie-tales - his childhood, he calls it - and you follow his younger self through burrows and glades and loss and loss and loss and to the rivers and all the girls (and boys) that live in them, the monsters that he’d fought and the girls (and boys) he’d had there after, and to the mountains and still you follow and –

And he pauses, and you’re overcome with the bodily realization that you’re exhausted. You’re not sure how long you’ve walked, but your legs burn. Your feet are torn, shoes and socks evidently long gone somewhere along the way. Your head swims, and he barely turns before you collapse into him. 

You don’t register the hawthorn he’s pressed you up against, solid as stone, until the bark digs through your shirt to chip and stab at your skin, oozing wet warmth down your back that’s conflated blood and sap in your mind. A tsk from his mouth - the sound forms so prettily on his perfectly formed Cupid’s bow - produces a golden fruit in his hand, taken from a bush or his pocket, or somewhere else entirely. You’re too dizzy to follow the movement of his hand. It’s so splendidly shiny, citrine flesh pulled so taught it aches for just the single prick to burst the saccharine juice within. 

Before he even presses it to your lips, the scent makes your molars ache to grind it to a pulp. He teases it, hovering it before your mouth, reveling in your fight against the strong thigh he presses to your core to reach it. 

His fingers brush your lips when he finally acquiesces, and he blushes with a bashful smile like it’d been a mistake, and between his smile and the alchemically intoxicating scent of the fruit, you forget all about the warnings of eating Fae offerings and - 

It bursts like an eyeball with just the barest graze of your teeth, blessed wet rushing to coat your throat liquid as the taste has done to you; it is the sweetest, sharpest flavor you’ve tasted, salty too - though perhaps that’s the tears streaming down your face. Your core throbs a drumbeat. You’re nothing more than meat and nerves and blood in a sac of skin, pulsing as the seeds and pulp slither down your throat. 

Your head dips - involuntarily - to suck the sap from each digit. You want to wrap your legs around him, to grind shamelessly until you too are nothing but sap. 

When he kisses you, he tastes of burnt wax and antimony, straps candlewick wings to your aching back, and you don the death trap happily. 

He draws you down to the bed of moss with kisses and gentle strokes, soft and spongy and earthen and cool and moist beneath your naked skin. His great coat envelops you both, secreting beneath it the dance of his nails (not nails, but claws, unpainted black and whispering a deadly promise) along the planes of your burning, overstuffed skin. He swallows down your whimpers and gasps, curiosity painting his face lent by innocence to understanding his touch is the cause; too light a touch, you think, you need more. 

The callus of his fingers speaks of handiwork as they brush you, painting you red hot and wanting. He watches his brushes as they stroke lower with open fascination, like you’re the one alien and not he. 

You arch into him, begging for your flesh to be flayed from bone, for him to sink those razors he calls teeth down to the marrow. There they are at your chest, dangerously grazing the delicate pebble of your nipple, plump damp lips suckling it as though it is the fruit itself. There is his hand at your thigh, hot palm pressing your leg up his waist, clever, spindly fingers teasing the apex, wandering but never finding home. 

He laughs when you reach for him, for the heat beneath his trousers weighing heavy in the cradle of your hips. “Later,” he tells you, swallowing down your indignant whine before it can burst forth. Now, you want to beg, but then his hand reaches the destination you desire most, shackling you to the singular sensation in short, strong strokes, and you think, okay, later.

Your skin burns, stretched taught and oversensitive as he probes you, knuckles bulbs as they puncture the precipice, only the cool damp of the moss beneath you granting reprieve. You paw at it helplessly, unmoored, gripping up great chunks of it in Sisyphean effort to ground yourself against the fullness.  

He chuckles. “Never said you couldn’t touch,” he mutters against your belly, words muffled by your skin as the vibrations run straight through your core. Something ragged wrenches from you as you dive your hands in his hair, pulling at soft and silky and ink-dark even in the twilight canopy of the wood; a slippery purchase at best as he journeys downward, leaving lush, slick trails in the wake of his mouth that nearly steam against the cool of the breeze. 

He laughs, exultant, and curls those clever fingers inside you hard, bifurcating within you, plying and playing, and teasing and then, then, finally, his head dives between your legs. A hot breath first, a nudge of that pointed nose, then his wicked tongue, licking and lapping and curling, and then those sweet lips wrapping and sucking around you, tongue pressing until you’re reduced to faint breath, until you can only cling with the white static tuned to the red-earthen-hot tune of want. 

You come, spread apart like a dam on the moss. He leeches to you, stroking and sucking and curling and pressing until there’s nothing left in you but shallow heaves and twitching limbs. 

The smirk spreading his mouth when you finally settle in the cradle of his arms is so absurdly silly, so endearing and human, so real, you can’t help but laugh, curling drunkenly into it, each breath a stabbing pain you receive gladly. He gathers you, watching as you laugh, seeming pleased with himself as a cat with cream. 

Together, when you’re once again able, you gather what can be salvaged of your clothes. It’s not much, so he cloaks you in his coat, the unstarched fabric simultaneously stiff and soft against your bare skin, sliding silkily with each step. He guides you along by his lithe arm, veins dancing up the tattooed lengths like sinew upon bark, hand now sticky from being buried within you. 

The fallen leaves ease your way, damp earth gathering between your toes, sluicing off the pain with the cool of it. 

He leads you where? There is no door, no hawthorn trees nor spiderwebs, no shimmering air to pass through yet for a moment you are distracted, and then you are in the woods no longer. The walls are earthen, ancient vines thick as elk climbing like supporting pillars, illimitably, impossibly, reaching for nothing but night sky. The stars, though far above, seem sharper, tangible, and close as you might reach should you choose as you stare into the boundless void between; a darkness luring so sweetly you’d tumble into it for a single unsteady step. 

For the first time since he found you, you do not struggle to look away from him. Walls give way to great earthen colonnades, thousand-story balustrades housing hanging gardens of lady slippers and cowslips and columbines glimmering in the light of torches tall as men. Above it all is still the fathomless, terrifying sky, and everywhere there are people, throngs of faerie folk in every direction as far as you can see. Most pay you no mind but those that do, do so with blessedly parlous curiosity, curling lips clueing teeth that’d bite. 

The sheer number of colors and shapes and bodies has your memory grow fading, evanescent. Some have hooves or scales or feathers, beaks or antlers, and others - just a face the wrong side of sharp, limbs lengthened just past that boundary of eldritch. A few stand out: a man, long-haired and goateed who’d pass human were he not nearly twice the size of a regular man, with sclera deep as bitter licorice; another, flat-faced with the lightest eyes you’d ever seen, veins and sinew and muscle coiling and rippling beneath transparent skin; a creature you struggle to wrap your mind around, a great wolf’s maw forced where the young man’s mouth would be, slitted pupils twitching as he watches you pass, hackles raised. 

Your skin erupts in gooseflesh, and Noah bends his head to nip at it. 

There are three girls standing with heads bowed together, faces painted in warm knavery, identical in all but where they split the embodiment of moon, sun, and void. One’s hands look capable of melting your skin off, and another’s claws drip an ichor you’d let run poison deep below your sluicing skin as you’re blinded by the radiant glow of the third. 

You imagine them spreading you apart, tasting you, tasting them. You’re acutely aware of the heady sourness of your arousal, a scent so human amid bark and earth and animal scent, among burning floral oils.

They are beautiful. They are all beautiful, and you’re struck with a pang of precipitous, desperate hunger. You want all of them. Blisteringly. 

“All of them?” he chuckles, nuzzling the side of your face, insectile fingers gripping your jaw firm with practiced precision. “Greedy.”

Your veins already are hot, pulsing iron, overstimulated and frazzled, but now they spill crimson across your cheekbones, hairline tightening at the tone of his accusation. But he only coos, bringing you in with tangling arms round your waist. 

“Spare me,” he sighs against your temple. “Greed is good. You’ll have it all and more later. But first, let us sate that hunger.” Yes, let us, you think. You never could refuse his command. You hope he will feed you more of those delightful fruits.