#Souvenir Selena gomez

[twohearts-onehome]

It's better than pills how you put me to sleep

[nileyxlove]

Rare ✨🌈 🌺 01.10.20

[selenagomezz]

Souvenir by Selena Gomez

[bloodgutangelcake]

Calling your name, the only language I can speak

[ozllad]

SHE GIVING ME CHILLS AT A 100 DEGREES

[belovedmusings]

“I’m not going anywhere.”

+ MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS +

Explicit Smut 18+ 🚫Minors DNI🚫

Satoru survived being severed in half thanks to Yuuta’s Reversed Curse Technique and subsequently claimed victory, but you keep reliving the moment you saw him die before your eyes. You wake up beside him one night crying from a nightmare of it, and wanting to make you feel better and remind you that he’s okay and he’s not going anywhere, he lets you take him any way you need him.

Relevant tags: AFAB reader with minimal gendered language, reader insert without using “y/n”, graphic nightmare at the beginning but it’s quick, fix-it, hurt/comfort, soft and emotional sex, handjob, fingering, Satoru’s 6-inch fingers, slow sex, praises and declarations of love, lots of kissing, love bites, riding, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, Satoru’s big cock :’) <3

Music recommended while reading: My Love (Sia), positions (Ariana Grande), Souvenir (Selena Gomez), Religion (Lana Del Rey)

A/N: no I’m absolutely not over wtf happened in ch 236 and yes I’m 100% crazy enough to still believe him when he said he’d win. He’ll win and I trust him. I have to or I’ll go crazy. Here’s this emotional smut to cope.

Read below cut:

He was winning. He was fine, he was smiling and now—

He’s not. He’s not moving, he’s not doing anything but he’s in half he’s in fucking half and there’s so much blood—

You scream. You scream but it sounds like it’s underwater and you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but despair and pain and dread and anger and disbelief and fucking devastation. Satoru is— he’s— oh god, he’s—

“Hey.”

You’re sobbing. Tears stream from your eyes but you can’t feel, you can’t see anything, you can’t hear, you can’t exist without him—

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.”

That voice snaps you back to consciousness, a deep gasp from you following. Warm hands are on your shoulders, and you look up at the source, eyes landing upon Satoru’s concerned face. His beautiful, alive face. What? How?

“Hey,” he murmurs again softly, brows furrowed in worry as he rubs up and down your arm soothingly. “Shh, shh, shh…you’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

A dream?

“No it wasn’t,” you shake your head, voice broken. The lump in your throat won’t go away as you continue to cry. “You were…you were gone and I—”

“I’m right here,” he cuts him firmly, squeezing your arm. “Look at me. I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m fine. Promise.”

Your eyes search his face, his body, and blindly you reach out, touching his clothed abdomen, feeling over it to make absolutely sure he’s not lying. When you feel nothing but solid, warm flesh underneath, even when you touch down to his thigh, you relax, sniffling. He’s completely intact. He’s okay.

You remember then what had happened after he had fallen. You’d gone into a panic, threw up, and blacked out after sobbing uncontrollably after tearing your eyes from the screen that displayed his lifeless body.

When you woke up, you were lying against a wall, Shoko watching over you, telling you that Yuuta managed to get ahold of him while Yuuji and Higuruma were fighting Sukuna. He’d used his Reversed Curse Technique to heal him, and he was up and fighting again, this time facing off with Kenjaku.

It was jarring to see him back alive, like you were seeing the resurrection of a god. But it was okay. He was even stronger than before, and along with the others, he was capable of defeating both of the threats.

His victory had restored balance once more.

He’d come off of that battlefield on his own two feet, sweaty, heavily banged up and exhausted, but he had a brilliant smile on his face that said everything is fine now, and he’d welcomed you into his arms without hesitation.

“Oh god,” you breathe out, “It was a dream. Thank god.”

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in, planting a kiss on your temple.

“I told you I’d win, didn’t I?” He asks, “You gotta trust me, silly. M’ not going anywhere.”

You huff, nuzzling into his chest. “Don’t call me silly because I’m worried about you.”

He sighs softly, rubbing your back. “Fine, fine. But seriously, I’m fine. So no need to worry, okay? I’m right here, however you need me.”

He is. You can feel him in your arms, you can feel him holding you, and yet in your sleep-fogged mind, you can’t help but still retain some anxiety that you’ll wake up again and he’ll be gone for good. That you imagined all of those victories in order to cope. You need to feel more of him to confirm he’s real.

“However I need you?” You ask, drawing back to meet his eyes, gleaming in the dim lighting of the moon. He nods.

“Of course. What kind of boyfriend would I be otherwise? I’m yours to do with as you please.”

You can’t help it; his tone always brings out a special playfulness in you. “As I please? You sound so easy.”

“Easy for you,” he grins wolfishly, and you roll your eyes fondly before sobering up.

“I need more reassurance,” you tell him. “I want to feel you.”

He eyes you curiously, nodding. “Sure thing. What do you have in mind?”

You reach up to touch his face, brushing your thumb between his eyebrows to work out the furrow, then dancing it over his brow bone, then his cheekbone, and finally his lips. You pad it over the soft skin there before leaning up and kissing him, relaxing at the familiar taste of his mouth. He doesn’t hesitate to return the gesture, lips moving with yours in a combination of slow and sensual.

The hand that was resting on his jaw slowly travels down over his neck, where your thumb runs over the column gently, grazing his Adam’s apple a few times before moving on to his collarbone. You explore that spot for a few moments and then massage down his shoulder, over his pec, flattening your palm to feel the beat of his heart.

It calms you to feel that strong thump thump thump against your touch, impassioning you enough to make you deepen the kiss and slip your tongue into his protestless mouth. A soft groan sounds at the back of his throat, and that spurs you on to continue touching him, running your palm over his muscles that were once lithe, but after time spent preparing for battle while he was sealed away to occupy himself, have turned thick and solid. You ghost over the ridges of his abdomen and shiver, feeling each contour through his shirt.

It sends a wave of heat through you and your ministrations turn heavy with desire, finding the hem of his shirt, sliding your hand underneath it and massaging over the hot skin of his naked chest. He groans and guides his own hand from your waist to your ass, clad only in underwear for comfort to sleep, giving it a generous knead.

“Mmh,” you breathe into his mouth, letting him go further to grab your thigh, hooking his hand under your knee and hiking your leg up around his hip.

His tongue runs over yours dirtily as his hand slides back up to the apex of your legs, reaching around to cup your mound through the thin garment over it. His middle and ring fingers massage over that little sensitive pearl just begging to be touched, making you moan softly.

Your lust is deepening by the second and it makes you grow bolder, palm on his abdomen lowering to the front of his boxers and caressing the sizable hardness it finds there. Subconsciously you start to move your hips with his touches, kiss turning sloppy the more you pleasure each other.

The drags of his fingertips get a little too difficult when the fabric over your core gets soaked through, so he easily amends it by slipping his fingers beneath the edge of the article, touching you without any barriers.

“Satoru,” you moan louder as he teases the swollen pearl beneath his digits. He hums in his throat, and wanting to even things out, your hand dips below his boxers, wrapping around the hard and hot erection he’s been sporting since you started kissing him.

A bead of precum at his tip makes the slide a little easier and you feel him start rocking into your hand, meeting your strokes, a breathy groan sounding from him.

He wants the upperhand, of course, so he elects to push two of his lengthy fingers into your entrance, causing you to gasp, spreading your legs wider to accommodate. The man’s digits are long enough to reach your cervix without even trying and he presses pointedly against it, wriggling the tips of his fingers against that sensitive spot teasingly.

“God, Satoru,” you mewl, touching him with more purpose, circling your thumb over his tip.

“Ngh,” he groans in response, moving his hand so that he starts finger-fucking you at a pace, the wet sounds reaching your ears along with the heavy pants from the both of you. You clench around him and he speeds up, abusing that part deep inside of you just with his hand.

You love it when he fingers you but it’s not what you want right now—not truly.

You look up at him, shuddering at the look of unbridled lust pooling in his cerulean eyes. He always gets this certain wild look that gives you goosebumps.

“Satoru,” you manage breathlessly.

“Yeah?” He asks, just as winded.

“I want you inside me. I need to feel you.”

He sucks in a breath and nods, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before pulling his fingers out of you. He rolls to lay on his back, raising his hand up to his mouth and running his long tongue over the digits coated in your essence, a deep groan sounding after. It invigorates your desire for him and hurriedly, you remove your soaked underwear, freeing him of his own boxers afterward.

He sits up for a moment to get his shirt off, tossing it off the bed and then grabbing your hips, making you straddle his thighs. His hands hook under your shirt and you raise your arms so that he can remove it, the two of you now bare as the day you were born.

He wastes no time in kissing you again, this time more desperately, using one hand to guide your hips over his large cock, the other holding it still. He slides inside as you lower yourself, girth forcing you to stretch generously.

“Fuck,” you breathe into his mouth. You’re familiar with his impressive size by now but it never ceases to light a fire with your nerve-endings, length stuffing you full even before he’s bottomed out. You shudder and push him down to lay out on the bed, following him, breaking the kiss to bury your face in the crook of his neck. His palms grip the tops of your thighs as you lay on his chest, your skin touching everywhere. He’s so warm and sturdy beneath you, you feel like you could stay like this forever, tucked into him, split open on his dick, nestled deep inside you without any effort. You breathe in and get hit with the scent of his skin, musky and sweet in a way that’s unique only to him and completely intoxicating to you.

You push your nose more greedily into the column of his neck, moaning as he starts rolling both of your hips together slowly. Like this, his abdomen provides the perfect firm muscle to grind your swollen pearl on, heightening your pleasure.

He bends his legs to provide himself with a little barrier so that when he pushes your hips down, they don’t have anywhere to go, forcing you to take his cock deeper. It prods at your cervix and forces hot chills over your body, your hands bracing on his shoulders helplessly as he does all of the work.

You inhale deeply as he grinds up into you, walls fluttering around him, eliciting a groan from his syrupy voice.

It sends a shiver through you and wanting to chase it, you flick your tongue out over his collarbone, licking along the flesh to taste him.

“Oh,” he grunts, sucking air through his teeth as you feel him twitch inside of you. Encouraged from his response, you do it again, closing your lips around the spot and sucking. A stuttered breath is pulled from him, your hold on his arms tightening.

Like this, you just feel so safe, so content. He’s all you could ever need. Sure, he’s insufferable sometimes and his personality goes overboard naturally, but he’s never too much for you. He’s serious when he needs to be and so sincere in his sweetness, in his affection—you don’t know what you’d do without him. You thank any god that might exist along with the stars that he survived, that he prevailed and that everything is fine now. Your chest swells with all of the gratitude in the world and it spills over.

“Satoru,” you breathe, feeling tears prick at your eyes, “I love you so much.”

You feel him swallow thickly as his hands rub comfortingly up and down the expanse of your back, kisses being pressed to the top of your head.

“Me too, baby,” he replies softly, voice slightly strained with the distraction of heat around his cock. “I feel the exact same way about you.”

You sigh shakily, littering sloppy, wet kisses over his neck, starting to roll your hips in time with his.

“I’m always gonna be here,” he continues between labored pants, “You…you can’t get rid of me. Mmh—you’re stuck with me for life.”

Your kisses begin to be accompanied by involuntary whimpers, the sensation of him locked inside of you along with his smooth skin rubbing against your sensitive bud starting to overwhelm you.

“I’m gonna…h-hah…love you so much you’ll be annoyed with me,” he continues, sucking air through his teeth, “oh fuck…so glad I have you. I really am.”

You sniffle, a watery smile spreading over your lips. A few tears escape your eyes but this time they’re of joy.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you say with your entire soul.

“Nothing can keep me down for long,” he assures you, “I promise, okay? I promise.”

You nod against his neck, moaning when he speeds up, hands controlling your movements to meet him thrust for thrust.

“Sh-shit, Satoru,” you mewl, feeling your climax start to approach. His breathing gets heavier and more ragged, chest rising and falling so prominently that it jostles you on top of him, indicating that he’s just as wrecked as you are.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he exhales thinly, “Oh shit, shit, god you’re so tight…I’m gonna…”

You choke on a gasp, eyes squeezing shut. He always rambles when he’s nearing his finish, control on his words slipping, and you think it’s the hottest thing in the world.

“Ngh,” he gasps out, guiding you faster on top of him. You clench at the feeling, nearing the peak—“oh fuck, it’s gonna, it’s—a-ah, ah, fuck…”

You feel exactly when he cums, cock twitching hard as he spills against the entrance to your womb. The feeling of release pouring coupled with his incessant grinding on your mound pushes you to climax, a full body shudder taking over you as you tighten around his member.

He groans at the feeling, giving you another spurt of release, hands moving up to hug you close, pressing his cheek to your forehead.

“That was so good,” he breathes.

You nod in agreement, kissing his neck once more.

You know this is the part where you get off of him so you can clean up to get back to sleep, but you don’t want to move at all. You’re completely sated now, and the feeling of his softening cock inside of you is comforting. Undeniable proof that he’s right here with you in the form of a dull stretch in your core.

“Let’s stay like this,” you tell him, and he chuckles softly.

“It’s just that good, isn’t it?”

You snort softly, raising up to meet his eyes. “You’re such a little shit.”

His smile is lazy and mirthful. “Ah, but I’m your little shit. By law you have to deal with me forever, sorry.”

He shrugs in a way that indicates he’s not sorry at all, and your grin widens.

“I’m happy to deal with you forever.”

His beautiful face is radiant with the next smile he gives you, and when your lips meet in a soft kiss, you realize that all of the anxiety and fear that nightmare had left you with has been melted away.

Satoru is real, and he’s okay. He really isn’t going anywhere. He’s safe and warm and set to live a long and happy life by your side.

When the kiss ends you lay back down on his chest, and he takes to drawing invisible circles over your back with his fingertips, the steadiness of his breath, the sureness of his heartbeat, and his comforting scent all lulling you to a peaceful sleep with the promise of his presence tomorrow.

___

A/N: I actually miss him so much to the point where it’s debilitating. I’m literally a widow at this point I might as well put a picture of him in a fuckin locket and wear it like he sent it in his last letter to me, like Gege u bitch that was our husband

Please don’t repost my work but feel free to reblog/share. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed :)

[lecsainz]

. . . GET OUT OF MY HOOOUUUSEEE ! send me driver + a prompt or trope and I'll make a small playlist for it.

charles leclerc + he fell first, but she fell harder

he fell first, but she fell harder with charles — she denies it, but truth she’s falling in love with him.

hits different by taylor swift; I pictured you with other girls, in love then threw up on the street

feels like by gracie abrams; and I need you sometimes we'll be alright met you at the right time

honeymoon avenue by ariana grande; they say only fools fall in love well, they must've been talkin' about us

labyrinth by taylor swift; oh no im falling in love again

souvenir by selena gomez; calling your name, the only language I can speak

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 6: No Control]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, all-you-can-eat sushi, bodily injury, violence, hungry deer, Selena Gomez, angst!!!

Selected Chapter Quote: “He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”

Word count: 9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Your last day waking up in Singapore: lying in bed and watching the shadows of birds shoot across the ceiling like falling stars. Your wrist aches in its splint. The door to the balcony is wide open. The wind blows in hot and damp off the South China Sea. You hear him before you see him: the swipe of a keycard, the swinging of the door, the clop clop clop of undoubtedly neon Crocs against the hardwood floor.

You look over at him, not moving from the bed. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Then Aegon notices something in the tiny trashcan beside your nightstand that’s cluttered with souvenirs. Nestled between empty soda cans and Starburst wrappers is a mostly full pack of birth control pills. He stares at it for a while before he says, tentatively: “Trying for a little bundle of joy? With anyone I know?”

“Definitely not.” You sigh, turning back to the ceiling, morose. “Baela and I did 23AndMe like a month ago, and we just got our results back. She’s distantly related to royalty. I have a defective gene that makes me extra susceptible to blood clots. So if I take hormonal birth control I could have a stroke or something.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Aegon says.

“Yeah.”

“But it’s good you found out, you know? I wouldn’t want you dropping over dead.”

“Yeah,” you say again, flatly, ungenerously.

“Hey, no big deal, Stargirl. You know I’d use condoms anyway.”

“Well I might at some point in my life want to have sex with someone who’s not you, so.”

Aegon steps closer; he appears upside down as he studies you from above, sunburned forehead knit into thoughtful grooves, smelling like Tiger Beer and Axe body spray and…you think…chicken wings. His hair is in disarray, his aviator sunglasses tangled in blond knots. He’s wearing a lavender tank top, like dusk, like a bruise. “Ohhhh, I get it. This is an Aemond and Shelby thing.”

You hate that you’re so transparent, like a window wiped clean of fog and fingerprints. You hate that he’s right. “Why are they even together? What the hell do they have in common?”

“Now or before?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well, before…” Aegon scratches at his cheek. There is a bug bite there, a tiny pink welt left by the venom of a mosquito or a spider. “It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Aemond got the satisfaction of boning the kind of girl who would have screamed if he touched her back in high school. Shelby got a massive career boost. She had 900,000 Instagram followers when they met. Now she has over 20 million.”

That recurring, futile refrain: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

“And I won’t lie. They had some good times.” Aegon grins down at you. “Just like we did.”

“What about now?”

“Now…” Aegon ponders this. “Now I think they’re both lost. Neither of them knows what comes next. Aemond leaving Comet. Shelby hitting that age when people like her start checking off the husband and kids boxes. When you’re thrown off a ship, you cling to the life raft, even if it’s small or ripped up or half-deflated or whatever, right? You try to hold on to what you have left. You return to what’s familiar. And that doesn’t make it right, but it’s what people do.”

“It is,” you agree mournfully. “So Aemond was the one who broke it off.”

“Yeah.”

“And then he took her back.” She called and called and called, he finally answered.

“He had a moment of weakness. Now we all have to live with it.”

“I didn’t know that.” Then you sit up on the bed and look at Aegon. “When the label wanted to get rid of Aemond, why didn’t you fight for him?”

“That’s just the way of the world, Stargirl.” He shrugs, an inevitability, good weather, bad weather, sun and clouds and storms. “He couldn’t stay in the band the way he is now. And the problem isn’t what he looks like. The problem is in his soul. But I have no idea how to fix it.” Aegon smiles, warm like summer. “I thought maybe you would. That’s why I called you.”

“You didn’t even know me,” you tell him. “I was just some girl from a bar.”

“No,” Aegon says softly, and he does not elaborate. And then, bright and cheerful again: “You’re really going to earn your paycheck at our next stop.”

“Where are we going?” You recall the names you’ve heard bouncing around since Comet arrived in East Asia, the cities you’ve seen on banners and t-shirts and Instagram posts. “Bangkok? Kuala Lumpur? Manila? Jakarta? Seoul?”

“Tokyo.” Aegon is still smiling, though in an off-kilter way now, uneasily, his murky ocean-blue eyes somber. The scene of the crime. Where the accident happened. Where Aemond believes his life ended. “We’re performing at the Budokan.”

~~~~~~~~~~

White clouds turn to sapphire waves, then emerald green fields and forests, then buildings in a million different shades of grey that stretch on forever, steel and concrete and asphalt and glass. Tokyo is the largest city you’ve ever seen, the largest city imaginable. It is a labyrinth that makes you think of the hay mazes that farms back home set up each autumn; it beckons you in and then dares you to leave.

As the band hurries through Haneda Airport, you are pursued by paparazzi and hyperventilating fans. The usual suspects—Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—can be relied upon to high five, smile, flash peace signs and hand hearts, blow kisses, pass out crochet astronomical objects, and shout such endearments as (woefully mispronounced) “Konnichiwa!” and “We love you, Japan!” Shelby waves like she’s goddamn Princess Diana. Aemond bows his head, his eyes enigmatic behind his sunglasses, his steps swift. Luke holds Rhaena’s hand; Baela walks with them. You hide behind Cregan. He casts quite a large shadow.

“I look real rock and roll now,” you joke, gesturing with your splinted arm.

Cregan replies in his rumbly subterranean voice: “I think I have you beat.” He pulls up one of his sleeves—floral print, silk, Valentino—and shows you the underside of his right forearm. Bisecting the flesh from his wrist to the crook of his elbow is a long, faint, moon-white scar that you’ve never noticed before, never even heard anyone mention.

“Oh, ouch! You broke it?”

“Compound fracture.” He covers his forearm again with his sleeve.

“When? How?”

Cregan hesitates. Suddenly, he no longer wants to be having this conversation. “Years ago.”

Just outside the airport waits that trusty fleet of black, tinted-window Escalades; but Aemond has requested that his 1960 Gold Star be there too. He takes his keys, helmet, and jacket from one of Comet’s hulking security guards. Shelby’s detail is notably more subdued since that night in Singapore; the man who dislocated your wrist has been exiled from the tour. Aemond climbs onto his motorcycle and starts the engine. The sound takes you back to Rome: when your hopes and spirits were high, when you and Aemond were still living on the light side of the moon.

“You in the mood for a ride, Shelby?” Aegon asks, smirking unkindly, taunting, chomping loudly on cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum. “Don’t forget your helmet. We’d all be lost without you.”

Shelby combs out her beachy blond waves with her artful fingers, tan, reedy, nails turquoise and adorned with golden koi fish. “You’re psychotic if you think I’m getting on that bike.”

“Jesus,” Jace mutters. He is as shocked as anyone by his abrupt demotion to only the second most villainous person in Comet’s retinue.

Aemond doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything to Shelby, doesn’t even look at her. But he does glance over at you. And the words rise in your throat like a burning sun at dawn: I’ll go, I’d love to go, I trust you, I want you. But before you can say anything, Aemond has knocked the kickstand out of the way and is weaving through thick afternoon traffic towards the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. And as the Escalades roll and the band chats around you—indistinctly, abstractedly—you keep staring out the window and searching for glimpses of Aemond like the rare flash of a meteor in a city sky; but you can’t find him.

Criston knows he’s brought Comet to dangerous ground, peppered with quagmires and landmines. So he has planned a ruthlessly hectic itinerary. As soon as you’ve received your room key and unpacked, it’s time for dinner at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant down the street. Criston herds the band there like the rugged Australian cattle dogs that your parents have back in Kansas City nip at the heels of snorting, intractable Black Angus bulls. You sit between Baela and Aegon, who is wearing his neon green tank top, matching Crocs (per usual), and khaki cargo shorts. He’s also gulping sake bombs until they dribble down his sunburned face. Countless varieties of sushi and side dishes rotate by on a conveyer belt, colorful little plates waiting to be snatched up: salmon, tuna, eel, octopus, shrimp, miniature omelets, fried tofu, Wagyu beef, squid, yellowtail, veggie rolls, chicken and pork dumplings, seaweed salad.

“You okay over there?” Aegon asks, grinning as he watches you stab at your eel sushi, topped with some kind of mayo-like sauce and delicious but tragically challenging to eat.

“I didn’t know how to use chopsticks before my dominant hand was put out of commission.” You glare down the row at Shelby. She glowers back. Since that night in Singapore, you circle each other like snarling undomesticated animals, wolves or coyotes. Now you’re on her radar. Now she knows there is something—that mysterious, ever-shifting, worrying something—between you and Aemond. She just doesn’t know what it is. Neither do you, neither does he, neither does anyone.

“Want me to feed you?” Aegon slurs flirtatiously. He plucks up a piece of your eel sushi with his chopsticks and promptly drops it in your lap. “Oh. Fuck.”

Baela presses the button on the counter to summon the server. “I’ll get you a fork.”

“You are a saint,” you tell her. “Patron saint of initiative. Or drive, whichever you prefer the sound of.” Aegon is mayhem, Aemond is lost causes. What am I?

“And you are an uncultured hick from Kansas.”

You smile at her. “Missouri.”

Your fork soon arrives. A few seats down the row, you hear Shelby ask innocently, like it doesn’t mean anything: “How old is Louis Tomlinson’s son now?”

Aemond shrugs. He’s watching the conveyor belt for vegan options; he keeps missing them when they pass by. “I don’t know, five?”

“No, Freddie?!” Luke says. “He’s gotta be like seven now. We saw him last summer at Niall’s pool party.”

“He was so cute,” Shelby says. She’s sitting on Aemond’s good side, as always. She rubs his back and you fight the urge to break her fingers one by one, snapping them in half like dry autumn twigs, lifeless and hollow. “Wasn’t he cute, honeybunch?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies distractedly. And of course Shelby is the type of person who believes that becoming a father will heal a man, rather than just dooming his children to be collateral damage.

Aegon peeks over the conveyer belt at the chefs who are preparing plates in the middle. He lurches and wobbles. Criston covers his own face with his hands, mortified. “Hey, hey, can I get a Crab Rangoon please?”

A chef says something in Japanese, soft and polite but clearly imploring him to sit back down.

Aegon repeats slowly: “Crab! Rangooooooon!”

“Hey dumbass,” Jace says. “That’s Chinese. We’re in Japan.”

“Oh. Right.” Aegon sighs, retreats, and orders himself another sake bomb.

You grab a plate of veggie rolls and another of fried tofu sushi off the conveyer belt and pass them down the row to Aemond. Shelby sends you the most venomous of glares, but Aemond mouths when she’s not paying attention: Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two shows in Tokyo, two performances on the stage where Aemond was mutilated. Of course, you don’t see mutilation when you look at him. You never have. You see the way the light hits the angles of his jaw and nose and cheekbones and think of marble faces in museums, generals, kings, saints, angels. You see the crystalline blue of his right eye and think of rivers, cool and rushing and clean. You see the ethereal haze of his left eye and think of other planets. You don’t know why everyone else reads his scar and blindness as a tale of unspeakable ruin. You can’t imagine seeing Aemond that way. It would be easier, less painful, simpler for you if you could. Maybe you could stop wanting him. Maybe you could stop dreaming about him, wisps of longing and memory that escape you as soon as you wake.

Aemond does not attend Comet’s concerts at the Budokan. They’re the only ones you’ve ever known him to miss. He rides out on his Gold Star instead, and then reappears to join the band for their post-show ritual in Jace’s suite, grim and quiet and scribbling in his black-paged notebook, smoking his cigarettes, sipping his Brambles. You cannot blame Aemond. You weren’t here last December when a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck and nearly killed him, and yet you can’t stop thinking about it; you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at the rafters during shows, wondering exactly how it happened, picturing Aemond bloody and unconscious on the stage, half-blinded and robbed without knowing it yet.

Tomorrow night is Comet Donati’s final performance in Tokyo, but today Criston has a day trip planned. He has filled every spare second of this tour stop with distractions. The band travels by bullet train (or shinkansen) and then local railways to Nara, the city that served as Japan’s capital in the 700s. Criston hires a tour guide—an 80-year old man called Toru-san, who possesses an incalculable amount of knowledge and also a very, very thick accent—to lead you all around Nara Park to see Isuien Garden, the Kasuga Taisha Shrine, the Nara National Museum, and finally the Great Buddha. Nara Park is full of food and souvenir vendors, as well as 1,200 sika deer that you can pet and feed, albeit at risk of being trampled by overenthusiastic herbivores. There are signs posted with warnings to exercise caution, complete with cartoon illustrations of deer gone rogue.

It’s 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. You are drenched with sweat and guzzling boba tea. The handle of your bag from a gift shop is slung over your splint. Toru-san, despite his long pants and cardigan sweater, is looking spry as ever and is deep in conversation with Luke and Rhaena; he is regaling them with a bottomless well of Nara trivia. Cregan and Daeron are still browsing through gift shops, mostly for the opportunity to escape the heat and hover, sighing with relief, in front of every electric fan they come across. Aegon, lobster-level red—you aren’t sure if he’s more sunburned or flushed—is snoring under a tree as deer nibble at his cyan tank top and white cargo shorts. Aemond purchased probably $200 worth of deer crackers and has attracted a sizeable crowd of furry new friends. He’s like he always is around animals: beaming, immersed, at peace. Shelby is capturing pictures and video clips of him from a distance.

Nearby where you stand under the shade of a black pine tree, Baela is dressed in a crop top and yoga pants and stretching in the middle of a patch of grass. She keeps having to stop to shove deer away from her as they tiptoe close, searching for snacks. Jace is using Google Translate to flirt with a crowd of Japanese fangirls who have recognized him. They are giggling so loudly you can hear them from across a field. Baela is trying to ignore this. She falls out of a pose and sighs irritably, then walks over to you. Together, you watch Jace for a while, you slurping on your boba tea, Baela frowning with her hands on her willowy waist.

At last, she says: “Sometimes we love people who we know don’t deserve it. But that doesn’t make us love them any less. We just hate ourselves for not being stronger.”

“I think you’re incredibly strong, Baela.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Strong enough to leave him. Strong enough to begin living your own life again.”

Her expression is suddenly uncharacteristically vulnerable, fearful. “I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never been an adult without him.”

“You’d figure it out. And you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have Rhaena, and Luke, and ballet, and all your friends and family—”

“And you too, right?” she asks. “You’ll still be my friend? Even after you go back home?”

You are stunned into a silence that Baela first mistakes for rejection. Her face falls. “No no no, I’m not hesitating, you just caught me by surprise. Of course I’ll still be your friend after the tour is over. I’ll be your friend forever.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you’ll visit me in prison if I snap one day and throw Jace into a meatgrinder?”

You laugh and hug her, your sweat dampening each other’s clothes: her orange crop top, your Backstreet Boys t-shirt. “Absolutely. For sure.”

“Okay. I gotta go practice some more.” She spends long hours down in the hotel gym while everyone else is sleeping or partying or preparing for shows, running and stretching and yoga and repeating the same dance routines over and over again. You applaud and whistle as she leaves. “Stop,” Baela complains, but she’s grinning.

You procure another boba tea. You find a nice shady spot on a bench. You check your phone; there’s maybe fifteen more minutes until the band is scheduled to leave for the train station to begin the journey back to Tokyo. Naturally, Criston has dinner already planned: kaiseki ryori, a traditional multi-course meal. You wonder if there will be vegan options for Aemond. Your eyes drift back to him. They always seem to. He’s dragging his palm down the face of a ten-point buck as he feeds him a crumbling brown cracker. There’s a fawn curled up in Aemond’s lap. His blond hair is slicked back off his forehead, his black shirt mostly unbuttoned. Sweat gleams on his chest. Your fingertips ache to draw sloping lines and lazy circles in it.

“I never worried about him,” Criston says. He’s appeared beside you, arms crossed guardedly. You move over so there’s room for Criston on the bench. He sits, distant and troubled. “I always worried about the others. Aegon and Jace especially. But not Aemond.”

“Because he never needed you,” you say quietly.

“He didn’t,” Criston agrees. “And so I wasn’t there to protect him that day.”

The day of the accident. “From what I understand, it wasn’t something you could have prevented.”

“No, I couldn’t have stopped that piece of rigging from falling. But I could have made it so he wasn’t standing under it.”

You wait for Criston to explain. That’s an element that people often underestimate: the power of waiting for someone to be ready.

“It was soundcheck,” Criston says. His voice is strained, hushed. He repeatedly touches the stubble of his beard, a nervous habit. “Aemond was on time, as always. Aemond was exactly where he was supposed to be. But no one else was. Aegon and Jace had gone off to a strip club or a burlesque show or something, I don’t remember. They came back to the hotel and were absolutely hammered, they were crawling around on the hallway floor and puking in corners, laughing hysterically, completely out of their minds. Cregan and Luke were there trying to get them cleaned up. I was on the phone with Cregan, he was pissed, probably the most angry I’ve ever heard him, he kept pausing to yell at Aegon. He’d dragged him into a cold shower, but Aegon was fighting, trying to bite and kick him and whatever the hell else. So eventually I decided to go to the hotel and deal with it. Aemond offered to go with me. I told him no, you stay here, I’ll bring the other four even if I have to get the security guys to toss Aegon and Jace over their shoulders and carry them. Then I left.”

“And that’s when it happened,” you realize. “While you were gone.”

“Yes,” Criston says. And he gazes across Nara Park, here in body but his mind trapped in the maze of the past.

“You had no way of knowing what would happen, Criston. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should have told him to come with me back to the hotel. Or I should have stopped Aegon and Jace from getting wasted. If they’d been on time, if soundcheck had happened as scheduled, no one would have been standing where that piece of rigging fell. Aemond would still be the leader of Comet. He would still have his face, his sight, his life.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say again.

“Alicent blames me,” he confesses. And you only know who she is because you’ve asked Aegon: the wife of Viserys Targaryen, the mother of his three sons. “She’ll never forgive me.”

Is that really why she avoids you, Criston? Or is there another reason? “If that’s true, it’s only because she’s feeling a lot of horrible things—grief, pain, regret, guilt—and she’s directing them at you. You haven’t earned them. You’re just the person standing in the line of fire. They’re a reflection of Alicent’s inner turmoil, not of your own worth. I think you’ve done a phenomenal job trying to keep this band safe and happy. And I know it’s not easy. I know it’s damn near impossible.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, looking at you with large, dark, truthful eyes like a dog’s.

And you imagine a world in which you’d never seen Aegon after that night in Kansas City, never met Aemond, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, Daeron, Criston. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Criston reaches over and—for a moment, so briefly you could have imagined it—rests his hand on your shoulder like he sometimes does to Aemond and Luke. Then he leaves to collect Cregan and Daeron from a shaved ice vendor. Shelby has strolled over to consult with Toru-san, presumably so she can add his trivia to her Instagram posts and TikTok videos. You go to Aemond.

“I have a confession to make,” he says solemnly as you approach.

The oxygen vanishes from your lungs; you try to hide this. “What is it?”

Aemond smiles up at you. “When the tour guide was leading us here, I thought he kept saying that the park was full of bears. And I didn’t want to kill the mood or anything, but I was definitely concerned about going on a field trip to feed over 1,000 uncaged bears. I am very, very relieved that he was in fact saying deer.”

You chuckle and sit next to Aemond on the grass, petting the fawn in his lap. It blinks sleepily at you, its fur soft and spotted, its ears pricked up and curious.

“What’s your souvenir for this stop of the tour?” Aemond asks.

You pull it out of your bag to show him: a small stuffed sika deer complete with floppy felt antlers. “Isn’t it adorable?”

“It is,” he says. “Are you going to have room for all these keepsakes in your apartment back home?”

“Already fantasizing about me leaving, huh?”

“No,” Aemond says, seriously now. Deadly serious. “No, I’m not.” And then Criston is shouting through cupped hands for everybody to huddle up so you can all head to the train station.

It’s not until the band is trekking out of Nara Park towards the blissful promise of air conditioning that you realize someone is missing. When you look around, you see Criston, Aemond, Shelby, Aegon (rubbing his eyes and yawning), Baela, Jace, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, and a smattering of security guards dressed in black.

“Wait,” you say. “Where’s Daeron?”

A chorus of confusion: “What?” Huh?” “He’s not here?” At last, Criston spies him sitting alone on a wooden park bench, glumly eating through his mountain of shaved ice.

“What the hell is he doing?!” Jace says impatiently, swiping perspiration from his forehead.

Aegon massages your shoulders. “I think this might call for your particular area of expertise, Stargirl.” And when Aemond’s eye flicks to Aegon fleetingly, resentfully, you think for the first time: And where were you, Aegon, when Aemond was waiting all those months ago? Whoring, drinking, self-destructing in ways that take other people down with you? Then you leave him.

Through the heat that lays thick over the city like a tangle of vines, you trudge to the bench where the youngest Targaryen brother is lingering. “Daeron? What’s wrong?”

He stares gloomily down into his shaved ice: blood-colored, strawberry, ichigo. “Everyone thinks I’m always joking and optimistic, but I’m not.”

You ask gently: “What are you really, Daeron?”

“I don’t know what to be. That’s the problem. I worry about it all the time. I can’t win. If I’m sad, then I’m ungrateful for this tremendous opportunity. But if I’m happy, it’s like I’m dancing on Aemond’s grave.”

“He’s not dead, Daeron,” you say.

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“But a lot of the time people talk about him like he is. You speak around him, over him, through him. Do you think he doesn’t notice?” Do you think he can’t feel the weight of that dark gravity that roots him to the earth? Do you think he can disentangle who he is from the wreckage that has buried its shrapnel in his bones?

Daeron isn’t insulted by what you’ve said. Instead, he seems fascinated. He seems grateful, like you’ve sat down to help him with an especially baffling puzzle. “What would he want from us, do you think?”

“I think he wants to know that his time in Comet wasn’t wasted. That even if he leaves, he will still be a part of this family. I think he wants to be acknowledged. He doesn’t want pity or awkward silences, he doesn’t want to pretend that the accident never happened. He wants to know that his life will go on in spite of it.”

Daeron ruminates on this, taking a bite of his towering mound of shaved ice. “If I said something about him at the last Tokyo show tomorrow, do you think he’d mind? I’ve had this idea for a while, but I didn’t know how he’d take it.”

“That depends on what you say.”

Daeron asks, peering up at you with large pale eyes: more translucent than Aegon’s, more harmless than Aemond’s. He has been shown more kindness than either of them; he is perhaps less deep, less singularly brilliant, but also less burdened. It is a trade many would happily agree to. It is a trade they would pay for in blood. “What should I say?”

You smile at Daeron. “The truth.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I’d like to take a moment to share something with all of you,” Daeron says into his microphone as soon as Comet finishes The Worst Way To Be. The audience lowers their cheers to a reverent, intensely attentive murmur.

“Wait, what?” Baela whispers to you and Rhaena as you stand in the front row. Shelby, who had been looking rather bored, whips out her phone and begins a live stream. Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Cregan are upbeat and beaming—as is expected of them, as is required—but they pass each other nervous glances like folded paper notes in a high school classroom. This is not in the script.

“I just want to say thank you,” Daeron continues. His voice reverberates off the walls of the Budokan. “Thank you to all of you guys, of course. Our amazing, incredible fans. Thank you for letting us live this dream of a life.” There are claps and whistles, shrieked declarations of undying adoration. Daeron takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking; you can see the microphone tremble. “And thank you to my big brother Aemond.” Instantaneously, the crowd goes as close to silent as it is possible for a stadium at max capacity to be. The others are gawking at him openly now, unable to paper over it with masklike smiles. “I had been following Comet around for years before I got the offer to officially join. So I know how much work and talent Aemond poured into this band. I’m beyond honored to be up on this stage tonight performing for all of you, but I wish it could have happened a different way. I wish Aemond could be here too. And no matter where he goes in the world or what he does next, he will always be the person who made Comet Donati possible. And he will always be my greatest inspiration. I love you, man. We all love you.”

And the audience erupts into deafening cheers and applause, all for a soul who could not bring himself to attend the show. There are chants of We love you, Aemond! that go on for more than five minutes. Aegon is shouting as loudly as anyone; Jace, Luke, and Cregan are running around the stage and encouraging the crowd. They are a little shellshocked, but they are genuine.

Even Jace, you think, you marvel. Even Jace is honoring him. He doesn’t hate Aemond after all. He provokes and he taunts, sure, and he crosses lines on occasion, but Jace doesn’t hate Aemond. He might even miss him.

For their last night in Tokyo, Criston has grander aspirations for the band than the usual wind down in Jace’s suite. He gets everyone—Aemond included, fetched from the bar of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, already several Brambles deep—into the Escalades to drive to Club Camelot, where Criston has reserved one of the three floors for Comet. It swiftly fills like a flute of champagne: women in sparkling gowns, men with baiting smiles, security guards and label executives and friends and acquaintances and models. The tiles on the floor are black and white, but bathed in sapphire luminescence that covers everyone like rain. Empty hands are filled with frosty bottles and glasses clinking with ice. The song that thunders out of the speakers is a throwback: Butterfly by Crazy Town.

Cregan has acquired a harem of sorts; you look once and he’s flocked by three gazelle-like companions, you look again and there are five of them. Jace is mingling freely. Aemond is talking to Daeron—thanking him, it appears, offering heartfelt gratitude—while Shelby greets a pack of influencer-types as they arrive. They squeal and jump up and down with her in their clicking stilettos, then take turns snapping each other’s pictures. Criston actually appears to be somewhat relaxed. He sips on a Sapporo Premium and chats with one of the guys from the label, gesturing casually with his expressive hands. Aegon is curled up in a booth with Selena Gomez. Yes, Selena freaking Gomez. He keeps playing with her glossy dark tresses and making her giggle, propping his sunburned face up on his knuckles, glowing in that way that he does. It’s not just for you. It’s never been just for you. And sometimes he’s close to you and sometimes he’s not, and right now he’s on the other side of the solar system, he’s out in the Oort cloud, he’ll be back to visit earth in a few hundred years. Aegon disappears into the bathroom every few minutes. You see smudges of white powder on his hands, under his nose. If he tried to talk to you right now, you wouldn’t know what to say to him. He would feel like a stranger.

You’re watching Aemond. You wish you weren’t, but you are. He’s in all black, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. You nurse a Bramble and follow Baela, Rhaena, and Luke around the dancefloor, barely able to hear them over the music. Luke is lightheartedly making fun of Baela for something. Her earrings? Her shoes?

“I’ll have you know that I’m very important around here!” Baela cries over the music. “I’m the patron saint of drive!”

“Patron saint of driving herself to the Gucci store, maybe,” Luke says.

They’re all laughing. You feel like you’re observing them through a transparent wall, like you’re at the aquarium and they’re a dazzling rare species and you’re some grubby kid with your palms pressed to the glass. What am I still doing here? Why did I ever think I belonged here?

You break away from Baela, Rhaena, and Luke and drift by Shelby and her fellow influencers, not intending to eavesdrop but catching a few fragments of their conversation like Jupiter and Saturn capture moons. As Aemond talks to Daeron across the room, Shelby is lamenting her love life. She thinks she’s being discrete, but she’s had more than a few gin and tonics.

“No, he still…he probably doesn’t want me looking at him…he’ll let me blow him, but he won’t actually…you know…?”

And you remember what you told him on that balcony in Reykjavik: I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to.

You were right. You’re still right. And here you are, like mirrors: Aemond not fucking Shelby, you not fucking Aegon, and there’s no especially good reason for either except that it just doesn’t feel right. After a while, Shelby and her entourage leave to check out another nightclub down the block. More photo opportunities, you suspect. A change of scenery.

“How’s your wrist?” Jace inquires. He’s found you loitering on the outskirts of the dancefloor. He’s wearing a black sequined blazer with nothing underneath except skin and ink. He’s unsteady on his feet, a Vesper sloshing in his glass. Now the song that’s playing is Ed Sheeran’s I Don’t Care, featuring Justin Bieber. In the booth she’s sharing with Aegon, Selena Gomez audibly groans.

“Great. It actually feels better when no one talks to me.”

Jace cackles, far too loudly. “You are hilarious. Hey, hey, listen.” His free hand skates around your waist. Instinctively, you jolt away from him.

“Nope.”

“Listen.” He grips you more adamantly. “Let’s do this.”

“No, no, that’s a very kind offer but I’d rather chew off my own limbs, thank you.”

“Look, I don’t care if you’ve hooked up with Aegon,” Jace purrs into your ear, sweating out vodka and gin, his curls brushing against your cheek. “Hell, I don’t care if you’re still hooking up with Aegon. I’m better than him. I have to be, right? That fat drunk. I’ll show you.”

You try to pull away from him again. You’re wearing the short sparkly dress you bought in Reykjavik, black velvet and silver stars. “Jace, don’t touch me.”

“Come on, Stargirl, give me a shot—”

“Jace,” you say harshly, your eyes blazing. “Do not touch me.”

“Okay,” he sighs; and, to his credit, he releases you. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Okay, fine, but when you change your mind—”

Aemond soars in out of nowhere, a comet, a meteor, the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. His fist connects with Jace’s jaw. Jace’s Vesper goes flying; blood spurts from his mouth, split lips and lost teeth. “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Aemond is roaring. He has Jace pinned to the floor, black and white and sapphire and red. “When she says not to touch her, you don’t, you hear me?!”

People are screaming and descending upon them, trying to pull them apart. Your Bramble shatters against the tile floor. Criston is here, and security guards, and Baela and Rhaena and Luke and Aegon. Everyone is talking at the same time, so it’s almost like no one is. Jace is striking at Aemond from the ground. Aemond hits him again, and again, knuckles into defenseless flesh and bone, blood vessels bursting, nerves on fire. The music stops, the lights come on.

“Aemond, stop!” you shout. “Aemond, Aemond, you’re going to kill him!”

“Let him go, Aemond, please!” Baela is yelling, and there’s raw terror in her voice.

Then Jace lands a solid punch at last, a hook that comes in from Aemond’s left. Blood pours from Aemond’s nose, it’s on his face and his throat, it’s running down his chest. Cregan arrives, locks his arms around Aemond’s waist, and heaves him away. Before Jace has a second to recover, Aegon wrenches him up by the collar of his blazer and slaps him open-handed across the face.

“He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”

Criston bellows: “Aegon, back up, back up, back the fuck up!” He finally gets a good look at Jace: bleeding, bruised, teeth missing, blinking dazedly at the spectators, too stunned to feel the pain yet. “Oh my God!” Criston whirls to Aemond, who is struggling against Cregan’s grasp. “How’s he going to perform in five days, huh?! Jesus Christ, he looks like he’s been butchered! How am I going to cover that up?! How is he going to sing?!” Criston pulls Jace to his feet; he practically has to carry him. Baela follows after them, more distressed than you’ve ever seen her, flowing tears and strangled sobs. Rhaena and Luke go too.

You, Aegon, and Daeron rush to Aemond. He’s bent over and spitting blood onto the floor so he doesn’t choke on it. “Not broken,” Cregan pronounces after examining his nose. “Just gonna bleed real bad. Needs pressure on it.”

“Are you okay?” Aegon asks you, a hand careful and tender on your face. He’s back again, for a minute, an hour, a day.

Your voice quakes. “Yeah.”

“What did Jace do…?”

“Nothing, nothing that bad, I mean he grabbed my waist but—”

“Aegon?” Selena Gomez says tentatively, waiting nearby and hugging her arms around herself.

“Yeah, one second, love. Give me a second.” He appraises Aemond and whistles. “Man, you are wrecked.” And not just physically. He’s incensed, he’s in shock. You reach for Aemond’s hand and he lets you take it.

“You got him?” Cregan asks you.

“I’ll clean him up. I’ll take care of him.” And as blood continues to run down his face, you draw Aemond towards the bathrooms. You lead him inside the women’s room and lock the door, blue walls and white florescent light. Somewhat ungainly—relying mostly upon your non-dominant hand—you press a pile of paper towels against his nose and tell him to hold it there. Then you wet more paper towels and wipe down his knuckles, his face, his throat. The blood on his chest has run beneath his glossy black shirt. We match, you think randomly. “Can I…?”

He yanks the shirt over his head, then returns the mass of crimson-stained paper towels to his nose. Fortunately, the bleeding appears to be slowing. You erase the smudged trail of scarlet that runs all the way to the waistline of his dark jeans. When you reach the end of it, Aemond flinches away from you; not a pained flinch, but a fearful one. He turns his back on you and walks to the other end of the small and shadowless room. He braces one palm against the wall and sighs deeply. He throws the wad of paper towels in the trashcan and then covers his face with his hand, shaking his head.

“Aemond,” you say. And you wait for him to look you in the eye. It takes a long time. “What do you want?” Why were you watching me and Jace? Why did you lose control?

“Nothing,” he replies immediately.

“That’s a lie.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” you insist, your voice fracturing. “It does matter. Just tell me what you want.”

“Why, so you can let me down easy? Or worse, pretend to be into it to make me feel better, to help piece me and my fragile little ego back together? I don’t beg for anything. You really think I’m going to beg you to want me?”

“No, you’re too fucking proud, you’d never even ask for it. You’ll beat people half to death for things you’re too much of a coward to say out loud, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?!”

“Then why are you even in here with me?! Just go back to Aegon, I know that’s what you want. I guess you’ll have to wait in line behind Selena Gomez, but he’ll work his way back around to you eventually.”

“Jace stole something from you, right?” you say. “You feel like he stole the band from you after you were kicked out, and then tonight you felt like he was stealing something else, and that’s why you freaked out and almost murdered him—”

“No. No, because you’re not mine.”

“What do you want, Aemond?” you ask him again, tears of exhaustion and desperation in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, coming in closer. “So you’re absolved, you’re free to go, I don’t need your goddamn charity—”

Your good hand juts out, and what you plan to do is plant it against his bare chest and push him away. What you do instead—as if by muscle memory, a reflex, an instinct—is reach up to plunge your fingers into his hair. And then his palm is cradling the small of your back and his lips are on yours, moving seamlessly like how currents thread through the ocean. He helps lift you up onto the counter; there is just enough room between two of the sinks. Your legs link around Aemond as he presses himself to you, lips still tinged with coppery blood, bare chest, his waist, his hips. Your back hits the mirror—cool and unyielding, the ink of his lyrics flat against the glass—with enough force to make a thump.

“Are you okay—?”

“I’m more okay than I’ve been in years.”

He tilts up your chin and kisses you deeply, dizzyingly, his tongue darting between your lips. He tastes like his Brambles, sweetness cut with the bite of gin, and smoke, and something else too, something that’s just purely him, something you could drown in like the river of his clear right eye. Gently, you bring your fingertips to his face, to his scar. “Don’t,” he pleads softly, pained.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Don’t—”

“Aemond, look at me.” And you hold his face still so you know he hears you. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

You watch it hit him like a stone into water, ripples that wash away everything he’s felt before. He knows you mean it, he can feel it, the same way you can feel the care with which he caresses you, not just lust but engulfing warmth, wordless veneration. He whispers between kisses: “Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want.”

Your lock your gaze with his, then reach down to unbutton his jeans. It’s difficult with the splint, but you manage. You think he might stop you, you prepare yourself for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, Aemond’s hands vanish beneath your dress and slip off your panties, black lace you hadn’t planned on anyone seeing tonight. As you kiss his face—jagged scar, flushed cheek, the slope of his jaw—his fingers slide into a pool of staggering heat and wetness.

He moans. “Oh fuck, that’s for me?”

“I’ve wanted this from the start.”

“Show me…show me how you like it…”

You guide his hand to exactly the right spot and give him a rhythm, a pressure, a pace that rolls a euphoric shudder down your spine. He’s barely touched you, and already you’re shaking all over; you’re throbbing, you’re dazed with that delicious needful aching, you’re gasping into the sweltering, salt-strewn dampness of his neck. His fingertips stroke you in commanding circles—only a few times—until you’re on the precipice, until you stop him. You’re ready, even though he’s huge: long and thick, revealed as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. He pins your uninjured hand against the mirror and kisses and bites at your throat as he eases himself inside you: a stretching that is intense but not unpleasant, hunger being satisfied. And when he thrusts—carefully at first, waiting for you to tell him he can be rougher—there are so many layers of pleasure that it stuns you, it leaves you speechless. Has it ever been like this before? Never, never, never, not once, not for a moment, not with anybody. His future was stolen from him, but he’s taken your past from you; he’s carved it out like a gemstone from the earth and locked it away in a vault no one remembers the passcode to.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, you beg. “Aemond, please, please, I want to come for you…” And you gasp as his fingers skim down your belly again, stroking you forcefully as his thrusts become deeper, quicker, impossibly powerful.

His voice is low and murmuring. His scent is everywhere; it’s all you know how to breathe. “You okay, baby? You alright?”

“Yes, yes, oh God, Aemond, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

“I won’t stop, baby. You’re doing so well, you’re almost there.”

“Aemond…yes…I love this…”

“I love you.”

He what…? He WHAT…??

And it doesn’t just drag you over the edge; it pushes you, it propels you, you go plummeting off the cliffside and freefall for miles. There’s no disguising it. You have to bury your face in his chest to keep from crying out, clinging to him, your fingernails leaving indents like crescent moons. Aemond, fighting his own climax viciously, lasts just long enough to fuck you through the aftershocks and then empties himself not just physically but also of the shame and aimlessness of the past seven months, of his fears, of his suspicions.

“Wait,” you say as he pulls away from you. You yank a paper towel out of the dispenser and wet it with cold water. First you cool his forehead and the back of his neck with it, then you wipe his fingers and his cock. Still perched on the counter, you wet another paper towel for yourself.

“No,” Aemond tells you. “Let me.” He takes it from you, opens your thighs, and kisses your mouth—teasingly, biting and sucking your lower lip—as he spreads your folds and cleans them of his seed, abundant hot white fluid that you can feel dripping out of you. As he passes over where you are most sensitive—where you can already feel longing for him rebuilding brick by brick—you jump a little, and you both laugh. I could go again, you think. I could do this with him forever. And then, as Aemond descends from the chemical high like a plane gliding down towards a tarmac, you watch as those old familiar poisons—shame, aimlessness, fear, suspicion—begin to fill up in him again, slowly but unmistakably.

He throws out the paper towels and takes several steps back. He starts putting on his clothes, staring at the wall, then at the mirror, not at you but past you, at himself, his clear river-blue eye wide and vacant. He looks horrified by what he’s done; or perhaps, rather, by what he’s said.

You grab your panties off the counter and step into them, readjusting your dress. “Look, uh…if you didn’t mean what you said…that’s totally cool. I get it, sometimes people say things in the moment that aren’t real, there’s the oxytocin and the dopamine, and I don’t want you to feel…uh…you know…like you have to keep up a false pretense or anything…”

Aemond turns around and walks out of the bathroom, the door slamming behind him.

“Okay,” you say to yourself. “Okay. I can fix this.” You use the toilet quickly—UTIs are not welcome here—and then head out onto the dancefloor.

The lights are dim again, and thank God for that; your makeup is smudged, your hair unruly, your eyes glazed, your dress rumpled and stained. Cregan is the only person still waiting. “Hey,” he says flatly, then squints at you. You avoid his astute greyish eyes.

“Hey. Where is everyone?”

“Criston took Jace to the hospital. Baela is there too. Rhaena and Luke are back at the hotel. Aegon is presumably balls deep in Selena Gomez. Aemond just sprinted out of this club and I’d guess he’s headed back to the hotel too. Daeron went after him. I think that’s everybody.”

You shift your weight from foot to foot uneasily. “Shelby?”

“Oh, right. Haven’t seen her. Still out with her friends.” His eyes sweep over you. “On a scale of one to ten, how homicidal would she be if she found out about whatever happened in that bathroom?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Uh huh.” Cregan strides towards the stairwell that leads down to the front door. “Let’s go.”

Back at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, you swipe your keycard and flick the lights on in your suite. You stand there alone, feeling the evidence of what you’ve done: sore muscles and bruised skin and pooling wetness, both yours and his. You are absorbed with thoughts of what you’re going to say to Aemond when you confront him, how much of your truth you are willing to bare. And then your eyes catch on the small trashcan beside your bed, which reminds you of the one back in Singapore, which reminds you of your pack of birth control pills discarded on a pile of crumpled soda cans and snack wrappers.

I haven’t taken a pill in days. How many days? A week?

“Oh my God,” you breathe. And then, more frantically: “Oh no, oh no, no no no…”

What do I do? What the hell do I do?

You race out into the hallway and knock on Baela’s door. Nobody answers. You try Rhaena’s next. She appears in her pajamas, pink and dotted with tiny green Tyrannosaurus rexes. “Hi,” she says agreeably enough, but she’s rubbing her eyes drowsily.

“Hi. I’m really, really sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”

She perks up considerably. “Okay, how can I help?”

“Where’s Luke?”

“In the shower.”

“So he can’t hear us right now?”

“No, he can’t.”

“Good. Do you know when Baela will be back from the hospital?”

“Not anytime soon,” Rhaena says. “She messaged me that Jace needs stitches and has a concussion. They’ll be there all night, at least.”

You exhale, a defeated little squeak. “Is Aegon around? With or without Selena Gomez?”

“No, they haven’t come back yet. I have no idea where they are.”

“Okay.” You swallow noisily.

“What’s going on with you?” Rhaena asks, concerned.

“This really is not a Rhaena situation. This is a Baela or Aegon situation.”

“Alright, but neither of them are here. So I’m who you’ve got.”

You stare at her. “I need Plan B. Do you happen to have any Plan B?”

“Plan B…? Like, you just had unprotected sex with someone Plan B?”

“Yes, exactly, that one.”

Rhaena gapes, scandalized. “With who?!”

“Confidential,” you say briskly. “Do you have any or not?”

“No, I definitely don’t have any Plan B lying around.”

“No,” you groan. Tears are welling up in your eyes. “What am I going to do? How do I get Plan B in Japan?!”

“We’ll figure this out,” Rhaena says. She dashes to her nightstand to grab her iPhone. “Don’t panic. It’ll be okay. Let’s Google 24-hour pharmacies in Tokyo…”

You don’t have Criston here to summon an Escalade—nor would you willingly risk him finding out about this—but Rhaena uses Google Translate to ask the hotel’s front desk to call a taxi. She shows the taxi driver an address, figures out how many yen you owe him, and then asks him very politely (if haltingly) in Japanese to wait ten minutes while you’re inside the pharmacy so you can take a return trip as well. He seems to agree.

Rhaena accompanies you into the pharmacy and repeats these steps: Google Translate, an exchange of yen, the receipt of a service. She tells you that based on her quick research, Plan B is usually by prescription only in Japan, but pharmacists will sometimes be willing to prescribe it on the spot to a patient in need. Rhaena spends a long time typing out a message for the middle-aged, bespectacled pharmacist, then points to you. This is my friend, the maybe-pregnant slut from Missouri, you imagine her saying. She needs emergency contraception. It’s really in all of humanity’s best interests for her not to continue her bloodline.

“You have to show him your ID,” Rhaena tells you.

You give your passport to the pharmacist, and then he hands you a small package. You and Rhaena purchase a bottle of Coke Zero as well. You gulp down the single tablet as the pharmacist watches with bushy raised eyebrows, amused. You are pleased to discover that the taxi driver has waited, and within fifteen minutes you and Rhaena are back at the hotel.

“You’ve talked to a lot of people tonight,” you tell Rhaena matter-of-factly as you ride the elevator back up to the band’s floor.

“Oh, yeah. I guess I did. I mean, I’ve been practicing. And you needed me.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

Rhaena smiles sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“And I’ll be even more proud of you when I get my period.”

She giggles, she trots off to her suite, you retreat into yours. You collapse onto the floor and gaze up at the ceiling, studying the specks and grooves in the tiles like constellations.

“It was only one time,” you say to the ceiling. “I was on the pill for years. That takes a while to leave my system, right? I mean, what are the odds? It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Nothing’s going to happen, right?”

Right?

[cravingforsweetsbooksandpurpose]

Souvenir by Selena Gomez will always have zosan vibes to me. Like,

Swimming in your eyes, Egyptian Blue

is just something else and screams Sanji,

Calling your name, the only language I can speak

is just so intimate and raw especially how they never call the others name.

[xzinbdg]

zerobaseone as songs from my playlist!

⭑.ᐟ jiwoong

apocalypse - cigarettes after sex

it's the softness of the song for me! like it feels very calm and that's how also jiwoong feels..

older - isabel larosa

jiwoong may be a bit older than the rest of the members but this man is so fine!!! aging like a fine wine 😵‍💫

babydoll - dominic fike

this gives jiwoong in a suit 😵‍💫 oh lord it fits him so much omg " babydoll I can't move on" yea me too

⭑.ᐟ zhanghao

360 - charli xcx

hao is a brat!!!!! like he owns brat summer let's be real!!!!!

symphony - clean bandit, zara larsson

i absolutely love this song!!! and a big part of it is this beautiful violin!!! it almost seems like the violin is singing as well and that always makes me think of hao 🥹

new flame - chris brown, usher, rick ross

"you gon' be my baby, love me, love you crazy" i love this song for hao so much 😭😭😭 it's so cute in it's own way

⭑.ᐟ hanbin

agora hills - doja cat

"baby let me lick on your tattoos" INSANE BUT I ALWAYS THINK OF HANBIN WHEN THIS PART COMES ON 😵‍💫

daddy issues - the neighborhood

now....i had to sorry...he feels very warm to me and the way he treats the younger members is 🫠🫠🫠 him saying that he's rising yujin was my 13 reason

that's me right there - jasmine v, kendrick lamar

"yea that my man" 🤭😋 he may not be my bias but he definitely is on my mind a lot

⭑.ᐟ matthew

souvenir - selena gomez

"you're giving me chills at a 100 degrees" and he would...his whole being is so attractive i cannot

save your tears - the weeknd

now why do I feel like he would slay a cover of this song like it has his vibes!!!

everytime - ariana grande

"why oh why does god keep bringing me back to you?" so you see everytime I have a bias wracker this man comes to remind me who really is the bias here

⭑.ᐟ taerae

please please please - sabrina carpenter

"i beg you don't embarrass me mfucker" except it's him talking to his members 😭😭😭😭

super lady - (g)-idle

HE OWNS THIS SONG LIKE EVERY TIME I HEAR "lady, lady call me super lady" ALL I SEE IS TAERAE WITH THEM TROPHIES

duvet -bôa

taerae pls for the love of god cover this song 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 like his voice would sound heavenly 😭

⭑.ᐟ ricky

role model - brent faiyaz

"i can be your role model" i think is pretty obvious why i choose this song 🤭🤭🤭 it does give off that "rich" vibe tho

heartbreaker - justin bieber

"don't tell me you're my heartbreaker" he may look cold but that man is the softest person on earth and gets hurt really easily :(((

i'm yours - isabel larosa

"you're so pretty it hurts" and he is....insanely pretty and everytime i see him he just gets more and more pretty it's crazy

⭑.ᐟ gyuvin

see you again - tyler, the creator, kali uchis

"can I get a kiss? and can you make it last forever?" YES YES YES YES SO GYUVIN!!!!

i don't do drugs - doja cat, ariana grande

i think it's more the instrumental and overall mood of the song but it does fit gyuvin in my opinion 🥹

paris - sabrina carpenter

"but i already have love in la" it's like he's your biggest bias wrecker (he is for me) but you're trying TRYING to stay loyal to your bias 😭😭😭

⭑.ᐟ gunwook

nun id change - yeat

this right here is peak gunwook vibes, it's the boys planet entry gunwook that everyone was afraid of 😋

ta ta ta - bayanni, jason derulo

please it's a crime that I haven't seen an edit of wook with this song (if anyone have seen it send it to me rachel) it's soooo wook im gonna cry

500lbs - lil tecca

"it's like you don't know your a star tell her that I'm still adjusting" and i feel like he did adjust, wook was confident from the very beginning but now he's just glowing with that confidence!!!

⭑.ᐟ yujin

baby i - ariana grande

"everytime i try to say it words they only complicate it" here's our shy baby yujin!! it's honestly crazy to me that he's younger than me! MY SON!!!!

glue song - beabadoobee

"I've never known someone like you" yujin to me is so special like i truly never seen an idol with his personality! just a kid being a kid and i love it!

misery - nimstarr

"ima walk how i want cause you'll never be like me" he truly is a once in a million idol to me! imagine being this talented and successful at his age!!

zerobaseone masterlist

[vixentheplanet]

afterglow

“just don’t go, meet me in the afterglow.”

shuri x black!reader | 18+

Summary: You've been dating Shuri for a year. For a year, your relationship has evolved, revealing the challenges and joys of deepening connections.

A disagreement puts a momentary strain on your communication after the two of you fail to see eye to eye. You stop for something that will undoubtedly capture Shuri's attention before your next journey to Wakanda.

part one: heartbeat

word count: 4k

themes: heiress reader, little couple disagreement, make-up sex

warnings: sex

hi 💋 - idek what the summary was for this but LMAO the first time i posted this i never specified how long they were together and everyone was like typical lesbians 😭 BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER 🙄 they got married and had kids i’ll post the last part later.

also idk if i’ll post versace on the floor it doesn’t really add anything unless people want to read it

Since you and Shuri began dating, your time was divided between home and Wakanda.

You were now Esmé's Head of Interior Design back at home. Your father appointed you to the role after you assisted in overseeing the interior development of the Monaco Resort. The next step was to renovate the interiors of all Esmé Hotels one city/country at a time. That entailed a lot of flying between countries to look at furniture and meeting with a number of designers to help you get the aesthetic you wanted. Surprisingly, you enjoyed all the hard work that went into it.

Wakanda was breathtaking, the most gorgeous place you'd ever seen in your life. Shuri took you on a tour of her lab, telling you about its products and features. You had no idea what she was saying, but her face lit up as she spoke, and you enjoyed seeing that spark of excitement in her eyes. She took you to all of her favorite spots, and you got to meet Okoye and M'Baku. It pleased you that she had a support system when you weren't there. Now that you were dating, it made little sense for Shuri to fly to New York when you had more freedom to come to her; she could remain where she was needed.

By the end of this week, you’d be back in Wakanda for a two-week vacation. The two weeks were strictly no work, phone calls, or emails. You were going off the grid and away. You would never expect Shuri to do the same thing, but she always prioritized you.

There was an issue, as excited as you were. You and Shuri were fighting, not fighting but at an impasse. Making your relationship public was a tricky subject. On the one hand, Shuri's response was a firm no. You could understand at first, but as things progressed and became more serious, you brought it up repeatedly, a no. So you pushed and pushed and pushed until finally, Shuri raised her voice, which she never does.

Every couple argues. It's human nature to find yourself on opposing sides. Nobody will ever agree on everything. In those moments when things got heated, your fault, Shuri would tell you she’ll talk to you once you calmed down. Never did you think she would yell at you. In response, you did the first thing that came to mind and hung up on her.

Though, from the outside, Shuri would appear to be in the "wrong," you knew it was primarily your fault. You felt bad for bringing up the topic, but you wouldn't live in New York if you were afraid of otherworldly danger. You eventually cooled off and acknowledged that she had a point and that perhaps you hadn't been as reasonable as you could have been, but a week had passed without either of you apologizing or bringing up the incident.

She contacted you again to ensure you were still coming to Wakanda on Friday. Did she expect you to change your mind? Though you'd be back in each other's company, everything had been tense since that night. You hate it, and the distance wasn’t helping. You changed into your pajamas and went downstairs to the bar as soon as the call ended; it was more responsible than heading out to the club.

There were already people inside dressed in suits and designer clothes, presumably looking at you as if you were insane. Who cares what they think, this is your hotel. After all, you had more important things to worry about than the opinions of strangers.

"Marco, what do you do if you get into a disagreement with your significant other?" You whine as you stir the straw in your second Bronx Cocktail.

Macro paused in the middle of polishing a glass and placed a hand thoughtfully on his chin. "Well, Madam Esmé, I'd apologize."

The opportunity for apologizing had long passed. It was too late by the time you acknowledged you were being stubborn and that something this trivial wasn't worth it; there was tension in your relationship. "And when an apology isn't enough."

“Sex.” He responds as if it’s the most obvious answer.

You take another long sip of your drink. You're not drunk enough to start talking about your sex life in public. "Marco, be serious. I need a real solution.” Sex was tempting, but what if Shuri was too upset to consider it?

The bartender served a martini to an older woman seated a few seats apart from you. You figure she's alone until you notice a ring of at least ten carats on her finger. Impressive. Marco refocuses his attention on you, "That is a real solution. It's a way to reconnect after a fight, indicating that the relationship is still intact and that you still want the other."

"I don't mean to interrupt. I couldn't help but overhear." You look to see Mrs. Ten carats trying to interject herself into your conversation.

Well, she’s married, and at this point, no suggestion was a bad one, so why not listen? You turn your body to grant her implicit permission to continue. "Make-up sex is some of the most enjoyable sex you'll ever have."

“Sex can be an excellent way to reconnect with your partner if mixed with verbal communication to resolve your argument after," she explains.

Marco makes a sound of agreement. “Exactly! Sweat it out before you talk it out.” That makes you laugh. You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

They were both making good points, but you had one other concern. “And what if this significant other isn't in the mood?” You say, frowning.

To be honest, you and Shuri fucked like rabbits. When the two of you were alone, you couldn't keep your hands to yourselves. You've lost track of all the places you and Shuri have spent private moments. A limo, her lab, the Sunbird, inside your purple Maserati, which was impressive considering how little the back seat was. Perhaps it was the distance, but every time you saw each other, you had to go through several rounds to get everything out of your system.

You could not believe you were doubting yourself, given your track record. You just wanted this resolved; this issue had you questioning everything and bringing up sex with Marco and strangers. Jesus.

Nonetheless, you needed to consider all the variables.

“You’ll just have to get very sexy.” The woman says, shrugging her shoulders. “Shouldn’t be hard for you.”

True. Still, you groaned. “Ugh, do you know how hard it is to already be sexy and have to be extra sexy?”

You down the rest of your drink, “You two be happy you don’t have my problems.”

“I would not dream of it, Madam.” And with that, you thank the woman and Marco for their advice and leave a generous tip before heading back upstairs.

The next day, you found yourself in a downtown luxury lingerie and bodywear store. You had your assistant call ahead to reserve the store so you could shop comfortably. You didn't need anyone in your business. Amaya was with you because shopping with a companion is always more fun, plus she was probably the only one you hadn't stopped talking to.

“Wow, you must really be in love.” Amaya is watching you with curious eyes.

“What?” You ask, confused at such a random outburst.

“At first,” she pulls something from the rack, stopping to look at it before shaking her head and putting it back. “Everyone thought you were joking about this relationship.” ‘Relationship’ in air quotes. “Because you never brought them around. Then you entered what I’ll assume is your honeymoon phase because you cut everyone off. Then you started working for your dad. You’ve changed.”

When you and Shuri began dating, you were enamored and wanted to spend as much time as possible with your girlfriend, which led to you spending a lot of time in Wakanda, away from everyone. While it is true that you cut everyone off, it was because you understood your worth and didn't want to be around people who took advantage of you. Furthermore, partying gradually faded from your daily activities, and your time was spent on more important matters.

You roll your eyes, “First of all, outside of you, I don’t know those people. Second, yes, I’ve changed. Sorry, I don’t want to take shots off of strippers anymore.”

“Don’t be so defensive. I’m not saying you’ve changed in a bad way. Whoever this is, it must be serious. You're clearly in love. They’re good for you.”

No doubt you're in love, and it was serious, but how serious? You'd never doubt Shuri's emotions, but you can't spend the rest of your life together, fearful of the outside world. It was a complicated matter which neither of you could agree on.

You were starting to feel overwhelmed. You had twenty-four hours before you had to depart, and you had far too many options before you. Everything looked stunning, with 24K gold hardware and satin elastic banding paired with various luxurious fabrics. It's a lot of choices.

“Do you think this is too much? We should just go to Victoria’s Secret or something.” You ask Amaya while admiring a garter on one of the mannequins. Interesting.

Amaya scoffs as if you said the most offensive thing in the world. “Cheap things like Victoria’s Secret are meant to be thrown off. Altier lingerie like this is meant to be admired. It’s an art, while your body is the canvas.”

She calls the sales associates over for assistance. “Let’s start with a color. Trust me, whatever you pick will drive whoever this is wild.”

Something was off.

Ayo, not Shuri, escorted you to Wakanda. "The Queen has been quite focused these past few days. She will meet you in the Golden City." Ayo explains. Fine, you could accept that. It happened in the past, so that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

However, when you arrived in Wakanda, Shuri was nowhere to be found. The personnel at the Palace recognized you for who you were and your close relationship with their Queen. Two attendants take your things.

"Uh, the pink box is a present you don't have to unpack," you tell one of the staff. The woman nods in acknowledgment.

When you enter the Citadel, two additional Dora Milaje members are waiting for you. "Miss Y/N, the Queen has arranged a spa day for you. These attendants have come to accompany you."

Spa day? “Where’s Shuri?”

“The Queen has business to attend and regrets not being here upon your arrival.” She says immediately. It almost feels rehearsed.

A relaxing day is fun and all, but you want your girlfriend. You put on a robe and a bikini. The facial and massage were comforting, but while you sat in the heated pool, you couldn't help but wonder. Nothing made sense. She didn't pick you up or greet you; now you're being pampered. Wow, she’s trying to distract you. What exactly were you expected to do? Can you imagine going two weeks without seeing each other? You sighed as you exited the pool and found your towel. How can you unwind while your girlfriend is avoiding you?

You put on the robe once more and proceed past the staff, who are prepared to attend to your needs. “I’m fine, thank you.” You say, despite their best efforts to care for you. You figured you would keep your distance and await Shuri in her chambers. You take the elevator to Shuri's floor and notice a familiar face entering the hall.

“Ah, Y/N, it is good to see you. I thought you’d still be in the spa.” Okoye said. So this was definitely planned.

"I was, but I won't be able to relax till I see my girlfriend." You say honestly. You didn’t mind opening up to Okoye. She has always been so kind to you, plus Shuri trusted her.

She hesitates for a moment as if carefully considering her response. "It's not my place to ask, but did something happen between you two?"

"Both yes and no, but yeah." You confess with a sigh. "I know she's avoiding me, but I need to find her and apologize."

"I think if you know your partner well enough, you know exactly where to find her,” Her tone is cryptic, allowing you to determine Shuri's whereabouts. Of course.

You smile. “Thank you, Okoye.” You both go your separate ways after she gives you a slight nod.

Inside, the pink box sat on the rectangular table in the living space. With more difficulty than you would like to admit, you change into the lingerie you bought. The Bordelle set matched perfectly with your YSL sandals. You take a second to admire it in the mirror before wrapping your silk robe over it to conceal what’s underneath as you travel down the hall and into the elevator to Shuri's laboratory.

“Panther, Y/N-“

"You're trying to avoid me." You accuse, cutting off Griot’s introduction of your presence. Shuri is sitting alone in front of the multiple displays, typing away at something. You can see her shoulders stiffen as she turns around at the sound of your voice.

You proceed to list all the things that are wrong with today. "You didn't come to pick me up. You didn't greet me, and the spa was a distraction." As much as you tried to be annoyed, she looked great in her black tracksuit, hair braided back, and the gold of her habitat peeking through the collar. She’s so fine, and it turned you on already.

Shuri lets out a heavy sigh rubbing a hand over her face. “I know. I’m sorry, my love.”

“I wanted to give you some space. I'm ashamed of how I spoke to you, and I wanted to do something nice."

Your heart ached as you saw Shuri's pained expression and realized how guilty she felt. You were so preoccupied with your thoughts that you didn't recognize how your argument affected her.

"I've been putting something together for you." She motions to the panoramic screen as if you comprehend anything on it. You'll ask afterward. "I planned on finishing it before dinner so I could properly apologize, but I see my actions have made matters worse."

You sit on one of the empty surfaces making sure to keep everything intact. With a crooked finger, you beckon Shuri over, and she comes, stopping right in front of you but not close enough. “We can talk about it later. Right now, I don’t want space. I want you.”

You take her hand in yours, putting it underneath your robe so her fingers can brush against the garters on your thigh. Shuri bites her lower lip. “You have five minutes to join me in your bedroom, or the next two weeks will be hell when you can only look but not touch.” With that, you remove Shuri's hand. Her eyes widen at your boldness before smirking, and her pupils dilate, signifying arousal.

It took everything you had to get up from the lab table and walk away from her. As much as you didn't want to, you knew you had to. "Five minutes, Shuri," you call out.

With that, you left, making the journey back to Shuri’s bedroom. You hadn't even gotten past the entryway when you felt a pair of arms lift you from behind. "How long was that?" Shuri whispers into your ear. All you can do is giggle as she carries you inside and places you softly on the bed. She watches you curiously from a distance.

“Want to show me what’s hiding under that robe?” You smirk, making a show of untying the knot in the front and letting the satin fall open and slip down your shoulders. Shuri bites her lip, her eyes roaming all over your body. Your body truly is the canvas showcasing the art of the intricate designs of this atelier body wear.

“Griot,” Shuri called to the AI, flinging off the jacket to her tracksuit. “Please inform everyone in the Palace I will not be disturbed for the rest of the evening.”

“Yes, Panther.”

“All this for me?” She asks, placing her kimoyo beads on the side table.

“Only for you.” You tell her biting your lip.

Shuri comes back in front of the bed. “You look so beautiful, angel.”

You raise your eyebrow. “Are you just going to stare?” She was taunting you, and god, you needed her now.

“I’m just admiring how gorgeous you look before I ruin you.” And that does. You moan while the moisture between your legs grows. The power she has on you, and she hasn't even touched you.

Shuri spent the first part of your evening activities between your legs, using her tongue to coax some of the most delightful screams out of you. You had no idea how long this had been going on; your mind clouded. Shuri adored the sounds you created so much that once was never enough. She took her time taking you apart. Her warm, wet tongue spread you open and greedily soaked up everything your body had to offer.

“Baby,” Your fingers rest on top of her head as your breath hitches. You weren't sure whether to push her away or fully surrender to the pleasure again as she sucked and licked all your most sensitive spots.

Shuri wouldn't let you go when the sensation finally became too much for you. You attempted to escape, but she grabbed hold of the elastic straps that covered your thighs and dragged you back. The flutter in your abdomen grows into a warm pressure, and you know you're coming again.

On instinct, your thighs close around Shuri’s head. She slaps your legs as a warning, and you let go, leaving them parted. As if to reward you, your girlfriend slips two fingers inside you, finding a rhythm that creates the right amount of pressure.

You have another moment of euphoric bliss as you grind down on Shuri's face and fingers. Shuri's palm has a solid hold on your trembling thigh, but it's spread just enough that it doesn't restrict her access. She doesn't stop until you're gasping for air, and you can only say her name as if it were a prayer.

Instead of getting up, she licks her way up your body, and a trail of moisture follows behind her tongue as she stops at your lips. You waste no time bringing her lips to yours, tasting yourself on her lips. Intoxicating.

When it comes time for you to take charge, you're still a little dazed and sensitive. Shuri is relaxed and lets you do all the work as you sink into the strap. With the strap being designed to fit inside you, the stimulation is instant. Not only was it ideal for you, but Shuri created it to provide the optimal pressure level for your girlfriend, which you can control based on the pace and depth of your movement.

“You’re doing so good, baby.” Shuri encourages you while you ride her. As you bounce up and down, you place your hands on the bed above Shuri's head for leverage. Shuri breaks your rhythm when she pulls you close to her.

Even though the bra is sheer, she tugs it down just enough to expose one of your breasts and begins sucking on the nipple. You groan at the suction. Your new position forces you to change your movement, slowly swirling your hips. "Fuck," you gasp, overwhelmed. You sense another climax near and decide to shift angles.

Leaning back slightly, you press both palms on Shuri's thighs behind you. “Mmm, such a good girl.” Shuri groans. The praise makes you throw your head back and work harder.

Your hips stutter as you cry out. The feeling is too strong, and you know your body will stop you, rejecting the possibility of another orgasm. Shuri draws you back to her as if she understands your hesitation.

"Baby, come here." Shuri rises and brings you in closer. You wrap your legs around her waist. Your arms encircle her, and you nuzzle her neck with your face. It was the closeness you had been desperately craving. You were so blissed out that you couldn’t speak anymore.

Shuri guided your hips to create a steady and consistent rhythm. It was slow, but you could feel the warmth increasing with each rock of your hips. Your entire body quivered. “You did so well.” Then she tells you how beautiful you are and how hard you've worked.

“Are you going to come again for me?” You nod.

"You don't have to say anything, but you have to look at me." Shuri rasped, her breath heavy as you let out gentle gasps as you felt her moving inside of you, the heat flowing through your body again, and you wanted to cry. It's way too good.

You lift your head from her neck and stare into Shuri's dilated pupils. Everything is heightened because you can see the intensity in her chocolate-colored eyes and how fixated she is on you. This position is less physically demanding, enabling you both to concentrate on how the pressure is affecting you.

When you come, your sighs become moans, then screams, as the hand on your waist rocks you back and forth faster and faster, driving you further into oblivion. It's pure desperation. Your head is flung backward, and your spine arches as your body spasms. When Shuri comes, the hand guiding you freezes as a loud shout of your name fills the room.

As you melt into Shuri's arms, your body becomes light. The intense orgasm and overwhelming intimacy take you over the edge, and you find yourself crying. "I know, baby," Shuri replies as she strokes your back. "You did amazing."

It takes a few minutes for you to let Shuri separate from you so she can get you both comfortable. It was a normal part of your routine to practice aftercare, but today you found yourself overcome by emotion. When Shuri returns, she removes the remainder of your garments and wraps you in her arms.

Later, when your bodies are intertwined under the tangled sheets, you start talking. You look at Shuri and whisper, "Hi," to find her looking down at you with such tender eyes.

“Hi,” she says, kissing your forehead.

Though you regained your voice, the rush of the orgasm has you fuzzy, so you speak whatever comes to mind. "I'll never have sex with anyone but you." Shuri laughs and shakes her head slightly.

"I hope so," she replies, reaching out a hand to caress the side of your face. "I apologize, my love."

"I'm sorry too." You pout because you adore her.

Shuri intertwines your fingers and brings your hand to her lips, leaving a warm kiss on the skin. "I love you, and your safety is something I will never bargain with. That's why I got angry, but I shouldn't have yelled at you."

“But, I realized instead of saying no, there are other options. So, when you're ready, I'd like you to live here with me." Shuri says it plainly as if she isn't proposing that you spend the rest of your life with her without a ring.

“What?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

"I know you want to make our love public, but I can't protect you if we're thousands of miles apart. I'll know you're safe if you live here." Not only does Shuri agree to publicize your relationship, but she's also asking you to move in with her in exchange. Did your orgasm transcend you to a parallel universe?

“I was working on an A.I. for you. If you agreed to live here primarily, I wouldn't expect you never to leave, but significant security precautions would be put in place. Non-negotiable.” She watches you, waiting for a response.

You don't realize how much you're grinning until your cheeks ache. "I'm going to require a closet with an elevator." Shuri rolls her eyes and leans in, your lips joining for a kiss sweeter than any you've shared tonight.

"You can have whatever you want, angel."

[ichodai]

Hi! This will be a Nsfw request this time. Can you draw Na'vi Qauritch x Human! Fem! Reader in a doggystyle position? Also, could you add the detail where Quaritch cums inside the reader and say something dirty to her like "...Good girl." 😩

Thanks again for the offer!

!!NSFW!!

I... can't look at my own art, otherwise my temperature rises....

[y-1999]

[narrycherries]

love of my life : the playlist

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the following playlist is subject to change with new additions // the artists are listed alphabetically, not in any particular order — the songs are also not listed in any particular order // these songs are picked based on my personal music preferences // if you’re wanting to listen to the playlist, feel free to remove any artists you don’t like :) ** these songs will span the entire story.

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˖⁺‧₊˚ love of my life :: the playlist ˚₊‧⁺˖

˖⁺‧₊˚ adele ˚₊‧⁺˖

take it all

all I ask

˖⁺‧₊˚ ariana grande ˚₊‧⁺˖

off the table

pov

love me harder

supernatural

safety net

˖⁺‧₊˚ bailey zimmerman ˚₊‧⁺˖

rock and a hard place

never leave

˖⁺‧₊˚ christina aguilera ˚₊‧⁺˖

unless it’s with you

˖⁺‧₊˚ cody johnson ˚₊‧⁺˖

the painter

˖⁺‧₊˚ colbie calliat ˚₊‧⁺˖

worth it

˖⁺‧₊˚ demi lovato ˚₊‧⁺˖

easy (noah cyrus)

˖⁺‧₊˚ harry styles ˚₊‧⁺˖

canyon moon

golden

fine line

woman

daydreaming

daylight

late night talking

little freak

matilda

satellite

love of my life

falling

meet me in the hallway

from the dining table

˖⁺‧₊˚ kacey musgraves ˚₊‧⁺˖

cherry blossom

angel

easier said

heaven is

butterflies

love is a wild thing

golden hour

too good to be true

lonely millionaire

ruthless

˖⁺‧₊˚ lady gaga ˚₊‧⁺˖

always remember us this way

is that alright

i’ll never love again

˖⁺‧₊˚ lana del rey ˚₊‧⁺˖

love

cinnamon girl

cherry

love song

california

the greatest

˖⁺‧₊˚ miley cyrus ˚₊‧⁺˖

rose colored lenses

wild card

bottom of the ocean

you

never be me

angels like you

˖⁺‧₊˚ niall horan ˚₊‧⁺˖

put a little love on me

still

san francisco

black & white

save my life

too much to ask

you could start a cult

flicker

if you leave me

must be love

˖⁺‧₊˚ one direction ˚₊‧⁺˖

right now

strong

you & I

long way down

love you goodbye

what a feeling

if I could fly

where do broken hearts go

end of the day

infinity

˖⁺‧₊˚ pat benatar ˚₊‧⁺˖

heartbreaker

˖⁺‧₊˚ selena gomez ˚₊‧⁺˖

crowded room

souvenir

nobody

˖⁺‧₊˚ SZA ˚₊‧⁺˖

nobody gets me

˖⁺‧₊˚ taylor swift ˚₊‧⁺˖

the prophecy

begin again (taylor’s version)

sweet nothing

peace

dancing with our hands tied

I don’t wanna live forever

delicate

gold rush

ivy

wildest dreams (taylor’s version)

midnight rain

cornelia street

false god

afterglow

all of the girls you loved before

tis the damn season

treacherous (taylor’s version)

the 1

this love (taylor’s version)

maroon

state of grace (acoustic version)

happiness

back to december (taylor’s version)

sad beautiful tragic (taylor’s version)

˖⁺‧₊˚ tove lo ˚₊‧⁺˖

come undone

mateo

stay over

anywhere u go

˖⁺‧₊˚ zayn ˚₊‧⁺˖

dusk till dawn

˖⁺‧₊˚ 5 seconds of summer ˚₊‧⁺˖

lover of mine

best years

complete mess