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mellowmistt · 6 months ago

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The Sleepover-Chris Sturniolo (Part 1)

Summary: (corny, basic ahh title I know) You are good friends with the sturniolos and at their house, unabe to catch an uber late at night you are offered to stay the night on the couch, however you could not sleep and someone with the same problem comes to join you..

Warnings: smut;unprotected sex; handjobs; swearing; mentions of alcohol; NO use of y/n!

A/N: I don’t use any degrading kink language with characters (e.g slut) or overusing of words such as baby, bc idk bout you guys but it kinda cringes me out when i see that in other fanfics, okay back to the story :)

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I took the last sip of my coca cola before saying goodbye to a couple other friends who were leaving.

"For fuck's suck." I say, a little too loud as I could see Chris and Nick abruptly glance in my direction in the corner of my eye.

"Whats up?" Nick asked

"There are no uber's available for another hour, like how is that even possible?" I exclaimed, adding a small smile at the end, I didn't want to bring down the good vibes that everyone had for the past six hours.

"Hey you know you're more than welcome to stay the night, I would have made Matt drive you but you know how much he had to drink tonight, plus he's probably out of it right now."

"No, you don't have to do that anyway, i'll check some other taxi websites theres gotta be one available righ-"

"Hey it's fine, just stay on the couch, its way too late now anyway i wouldn't want you out there alone." Nick explained.

"Okay, thank you so much you guys are the best!" I say, scanning the room to meet eyes with Chris, who was watching our conversation from the kitchen counter as he was clearing away the plastic cups and chip bags.

"Okay, now that's settled i'm going to bed, i'm wiped" Nick says as he grabs his phone from the other side of the couch. Chris followed with a quick "Me too, goodnight" before hurrying down the stairs.

"Theres more blankets in the basket down there if you need, goodnight!" Nick says before trailing up the stairs, turning off the main kitchen light.

About fifteen minutes had gone by, I somehow wasn't even sleepy even though it was nearing three in the morning. Maybe i had too much soda. I grabbed my phone from my bag and began scrolling through tiktok. I figured after a while of scrolling my eyes would get tired.

Suddenly the dim living room light turned on, I flinched as I saw Chris's silhouette approaching the couch. He sat down about a foot to the right of me.

"Can't sleep?" He asked, in a quiet,almost whisper.

"Nope." I reply, switching off my phone and placing it behind my pillow.

We both stared at eachother for a moment, Chris had a curious look on his face, as if he was dying to ask me a question.

"Hey i thought you said you were wiped, like twenty minutes ago." I say, narrowing my eyes teasingly. I knew the smartass reply he would say.

"I never said that actually." He replied, a small grin forming on his face, returning the teasing mannerisms.

"Well you said same when Nick said, and I quote,I'm going to bed, I'm wiped". I said, smiling knowing this would just egg him on for a lame excuse. Mine and Chris's friendship had always been like this, teasing and joking around, he never failed to make me laugh.

"Well, maybe thats just what i wanted him to hear." He replied, staring back at me with a grin, waiting to see my confused reaction.

"What are you doing?" I asked, half serious now.

"I figured you'd be lonely down here by yourself in the dark, so I came to stay with you."

"You're drunk" I state.

"You're sober." He replies, stating the obvious.

"Yeah well remember last week when you were holding my hair back as I was puking in the toilet? I learnt my lesson and thought i'd give myself a break tonight." I replied with a small chuckle.

"mhmmm" He mumbles. "Besides I didn't drink that much myself actually, definitly not as much as Matt." He states,clearly proud of him self and awaiting my approval.

"Wooowww" I tease, indulging into his ego.

He then moves closer to me, and squeezes up close, moving me over and laying next to me, pulling the grey fluffly blanket over us. We look deep into eachother's eyes for a moment again. His eyes were so beautiful, a crystal clear blue, which accomodated to his warm smile. That damn smile. It always triggered a comforting feeling, like i could never feel negative again when i saw it.

He was moving his head closer to mine, I watched his eyes as they were flickering from mine to my lips, which he was slowly approaching. Without warning I felt his soft lips touch mine, and i unexpectedly started to get lost in the moment, and i placed my hand around his head, gently running through his soft hair. I slowly pulled away from his lips.

"Wait what are we doing?" I whispered,coming back to my senses as i realised that maybe he had liked me all along when i have liked him.

"I thought you knew I had a mondo crush on you, I know you have one on me too, I can feel it in your energy whenever we're close." He said quietly, smiling that he had just outed my secret.

I didn't know what to say, I just gazed back into his eyes again, inspecting his playful look. He slowly put his hand on my stomach, which made me let out a gasp.

"See, I make you nervous" He said with a grin, before trailing up to my chest.

"Oh yeah, no i definitly knew" I replied sarastically, smiling at both my joke and the touch of his hands on me.

He let out a soft laugh before trailing his hand down to my waist, meeting the waistband of my shorts.

"Are you okay with this?" He asked, serious look on his face now awaiting my answer.

"Yes" I whispered, kissing his lips again to confirm. He pulled away and smiled, before trailing his hand down to my panties, moving inside of them and meeting my arousal.

"See, I knew you wanted me" He whispered jokingly into my ear as he starting moving his fingers in slow circles around my sweet spot.

I smiled at him, before moving my head back and closing my eyes in relfex to the pleasure he was inducing on me, as he was speeding up. I let out a few deep breaths.

"Ch-chris.." I whispered. "We can't, not...here what... if they hear us" I said, stuttering through deep breaths.

"Shhh, they won’t. They’re both out of it remember?" He whispered back. He stopped moving his fingers, which made me open my eyes.

He moved in to kiss me again, moving his body slightly closer again, alerting me of his hard-on against my thigh. I reached my hands down to the waistband of his shorts. Still kissing, my hands made contact with his shaft, I started moving my hand up and down, slowly speeding up the pace. He drifted away from mouth to let out a deep breath in reaction to the stimulation.

“Fuck” he whispered.

He moved my hand away, which at first confused me, until he started taking off my shorts, and then his own. He repositioned himself until he was hovering on top of me. He started burying himself into my neck, painting it with kisses. Again, I had tilted my head back to indulge in the moment.

“You ready?” He whispered, lifting his head up.

I nodded eagerly, at this point I was desperate, I had never imagined that this is how the night turned out, but this rush of everything was just what I craved for right now. I felt his tip brush against me, and the slow but intense entrance of himself inside of me. We exhaled loudly, though this made me feel conscious that one of his brothers could hear us again, I tried to put that feeling aside for now and just enjoy the moment, enjoy him.

As his thrusts increased in speed it was becoming more hard to stay so quiet. Chris noticed how I was trying so hard to suppress moans, and put one of his hands over my mouth gently. The other hand interlocked my left hand above my head. His deep breaths alone were just setting me off more. His eyes squinting as the climax was nearing. Small, muffled moans left my mouth, thankfully Chris’s hand was suppressing the evidence, I don’t think it was a noticeable enough sound for Matt to hear, even though he was just down the hall in his bedroom.

The thrusts were rapid, I began gently moving my hips along with the alignment of his to amplify the pleasure. This made his breaths become more louder, so I put my free hand over his mouth too. We were now gazing into each other’s eyes, taking in the moment, the euphoric feeling which was shared between us. Our eyes struggling to stay open as we were both so close to finishing. Our palms became sweaty from the exhales. Boom. There it was. That indescribable feeling which illuminated throughout my whole body. Throughout his whole body. As the thrusts slowed down into a halt. We looked deeply into each others eyes again, lay still for a few moments as we uncovered our mouths. Deep breaths still escaped our mouths, but we tried to keep them quiet.

There it was again. That smile.

“I think I might… I think I might love you” he whispered through exhales.

“Shut up” I quietly laughed, still breathless.

He kissed me once more, his soft lips were the cherry on the cake, I never wanted him to let them go off me. He exited me and lay on his back next to me again, his hand in mine.

*ding*…..*ding*

I opened my eyes, the warm sunlight melting through the blinds. I reached for my phone, with two texts from my mom, asking if I wanted to go to lunch with her. The time was 10:48. I looked to my right, and sure enough Chris was lay next to me. It was real. It actually happened? Holy shit.

“Chris?” I whispered.

No answer.

“Chris” I whispered, a little louder and slightly nudging him. This alerted him and he opened his eyes.

“Oh hey sexy” he said, his morning voice was raspy, but also kind of a turn on. Fuck.

“I gotta go, and you should probably go downstairs before Nick or Matt come out here and wonder why you were on the couch with me” I explained. He still had his eyes shut, but he slowly started to shift, so I knew he was listening.

“Mhmm, okay” he mumbled before sitting up.

We both put our shorts back on and he put the blanket back.

“Okay, my mom wants to meet me for lunch so I gotta run, I’ll see you soon”

“Sure thing, we should do that again soon” he said with a smirk, before trailing down the stairs to his bedroom.

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo

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threeacttragedy · 19 days ago

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Entry 14 – The One Where They Call It Chaotic but We Call it Predictable

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Yes, I am fully aware my entries have been sparse of late, and, no, I am not planning to stop my general Lukola ramblings any time soon. In fact, once I run out of material, I’ll probably dabble with fan fiction because, meh, why the hell not? Any ways, the reason for my slight absence is that I’ve had a special guest staying at my house – one by the name of “Dad.” Yes, that dapper gentleman has been roosting on my porch for the past few weeks (because that’s the only place I allow him to smoke), drinking an ungodly amount of Coca-Cola and holding my shih tzu like she’s a human baby. He did pry himself away long enough to be my date to see “Wicked” (he loved it, by the way). Oh, and he was obliged to my incessant babblings about Lukola. In fact, he even opened my mind to a few theories of his own and made me laugh hysterically at his reaction to the Jakolas.

It has always been my intention to delve into a certain section of our timeline – the part where Luke seemingly ran off into the Summertime Sunset with his friend group, which included Antonia. That period in time is the cavity of my Lukola table puzzle. The left side isn’t connecting to the right side because there’s this gaping hole in the center called Hot Boy Fucking Summer! Before June 12, things made sense to me. Even with the muck we find ourselves in now, just about everything after July 30 has made sense to me. So, of course, Hot Boy Summer was a topic of discussion with my dad. Actually, it was an “all afternoon” one.

I originally presented the Before, During, and After of Hot Boy Summer in chronological order to my dad only to get blasted with, “Stop doing that shit!” after I mentioned “Bless the Telephone.” His gripe was that – like the Claddagh ring – I had failed to disclose to him information that may alter his opinion about the event for which we were theorizing. Specifically, if I knew that the Claddagh ring preceded June 12 and I knew Nicola’s aptly named “Chaos Week” followed July 30, then disclosing those details to him before asking him to theorize about what happened in between those two dates (i.e., Hot Boy Summer) was necessary and even critical to his final opinion.

I don’t believe there is much explaining to do on the front-end of Hot Boy Summer – at least not to my well-versed Lukolas. We presumably all watched the same World Tour (including that trip over to Galway so Luke could meet Nicola’s mother) and I’ve already discussed the Claddagh ring in Entry 6 of my blog. That leaves us with the tail-end of Luke’s summertime jaunt, which steers us into Chaos Week. For those of you who thought I was going to discuss Hot Boy Summer in this entry, I’m sorry – this one is dedicated to that erratic period of Nicola blowing her war horn, beckoning all Lukolas within a worldwide radius of London to commence at her feet. And, commence we did!

Have you ever heard of “chaos theory?” Broadly speaking, it’s the idea that small changes can result in major changes over time – like cause and effect. That’s kind of how I’ve looked back at Chaos Week. We’d spent most of the summer on one bummer of a vacation, with Luke and Nicola (presumably) spending time apart from one another. Sure, we’d had few fireworks explode here and there with pap pictures, and we saw JVN enter the ring as the fan favorite best friend but, on the surface, Hot Boy Summer was, well, rather static. It had carried on with a monotonous “blip…blip…blip…” until suddenly our radar detected a quiet but distinct “blip-blip,” which didn’t register in any of our minds until we had a torpedo coming straight for us!

I don’t believe we can attribute Chaos Week solely to Nicola. Yes, yes, I know, Nicola’s online presence in early to mid-August was chaotic, hence the name “Chaos Week.” But, I do not believe Nicola started Chaos Week. She sure as shit drove it home but, in my opinion, it wasn’t her actions that set everything in motion. Nicola wasn’t the “blip-blip;” she was the torpedo.

So, what was the “blip-blip?”

Luke returning to London – alone – on August 2, of course.

The friend group, which had included Antonia, was nowhere in sight.

Hot Boy Summer had come to an end (I imagine this to be the reason Nicola started blowing her war horn).

In my opinion, Luke’s return set everything else into motion. He was that second pendulum that caused the first one to spiral out of control.

But, we ate that shit up, didn’t we? Yeah, we sure did, and we loved every day of Chaos Week. What’s funny to me is that everyone remembers bits and pieces of Chaos Week, but they never seem to get it in the right order (how chaotic, right?). This happened, then that happened. No, no, that happened first. No, this happened first. The only way to really look at Chaos Week is to give order to the disorder. And, we’re going to do that via a very generic captain’s log, so…

Welcome aboard!

Mission: Chaos Week

Origin: Somewhere in Mayfair.

Destination: Happily Ever After.

Time of Departure: Fuck, I don’t know. When did you board this ship?

Expected Time of Arrival: Hopefully before we all wither up and die.

Log Entries:

August 2. Luke returned to London alone. Yeah, yeah, I know, I already told you that, but I had to add this:

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August 4. Nicola decided to wake us all up from our somber summer with a plate of French toast. Umm, okay, that’s fucking random. I’m going back to bed – but wait, didn’t Luke say brunch was his “fav meal of the day?” Yeah, I swear I have that polaroid around here somewhere.

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August 7. Luke – after being absent on social media for what seemed like a lifetime – suddenly popped into his Instagram stories to post some delightfully cute Bridgerton Bloopers. The entire fandom rejoiced at Luke’s return to social media! And, let’s be honest, we only cared about the bloopers with Luke and Nicola. Hmm, Luke always has this intriguing, yet subtle way of surprising us. Did you hear that?

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August 7. Shortly after Luke posted his Bridgerton Bloopers, Nicola swooped in and dropped a very loud Wordle anvil on her Instagram stories. <clang!> Was she clocking people for making fake social media accounts using her name? Did she really solve the Wordle in two? Actually, most of us ignored that part of the post entirely and went straight to Mr. Google to ask, “What does ‘anvil’ mean? Okay, how about in the Urban Dictionary?” You know you did, too! In all seriousness, though, when this first dropped, I considered whether she was directing the “anvil” at Luke. After all, let’s face it, Nicola was the one who promoted Bridgerton post-Papsmear while Luke disappeared from the limelight. It’s only natural that she might be a bit peeved at him suddenly promoting Bridgerton. However, in hindsight, I believe this to be nothing more than Nicola calling out the person making fake social media accounts under her name. During this time, there seemed to be an influx of fake social media accounts using Nicola and Luke’s names (Luke would address this same topic on his Instagram stories on August 24). And, as fun as it would be to theorize that the “anvil” was directed at someone (other than Luke, of course), it was, in fact, the Wordle for August 6. That said, I do believe that “Wordle” has become synonymous with “Luke” at this point. So, I’ll give you that.

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August 8. JVN reposted their “[w]hen you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments” to his Instagram grid. Did you think JVN wasn’t going to be included in Chaos Week?! They produced some of their best shit during this time! Any ways, Nicola liked this grid post, which confirmed my belief that Antonia played some part in the Italy pap pictures (for a full explanation on this, read “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean”). Thanks for the recap, JVN, although most Lukolas probably didn’t need to a reminder as to why they disliked Antonia.

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August 9. Nicola posted the Scrabble board to her Instagram stories. Whoa, hold up, Jakolas! Yeah, we know Jake played Scrabble with Nicola and – guess what – we Lukolas don’t care. I mean, I’ll even throw the Jakolas a small scrap of meat and say that Jake could (emphasis on could) have helpedNicola with the Scrabble board. Why am I being so charitable? Because that just makes me more confident Jake has always supported Lukola. You will not convince me (or probably any Lukola) that this Scrabble board was directed at anyone else but Antonia. In my opinion, there are only two things in this picture that matter – the central word “HEYA,” or “HEY A,” and the Guinness coaster. In fact, if I had been playing on the opposite side of this Scrabble board, I would have challenged this word. That alone says exactly what it needs to say. This is not to dissuade you from theorizing on every other word on that board, though. I’m simply saying I do not need any other evidence to persuade myself into believing the board was directed at Antonia. Now, if you want to take the two corner words and speculate that Nicola was having “SEX” with “DAD,” go right ahead – I won’t argue with you.

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August 10. Nicola posted to her Instagram grid the now-deleted birthday greeting to her friend, Camilla. The caption read, “…Remember the time paparazzi took a picture of us and to protect me you grabbed my face?” If that’s not an indirect jab at Luke’s friend group, I’m not sure what it is because it sure as hell doesn’t scream, “Happy Birthday,” to me.

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August 11. Nicola decided to get out her blow torch and light every beacon fire she could find starting in Bowral and ending in London by posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt to her Instagram stories. You could practically hear her rallying every last Lukola still standing: “Rise, Lukolas, rise!” In fact, I think some even rose from the dead that day! What was the crisis? Well, only that the “Drink Your Milk” shirt was exactly like the one Luke was seen wearing on or about June 22. Now, now, this was a charity promoted by Jonathan Bailey so it’s entirely possible Nicola was gifted her own shirt. But, guess what? The Lukolas didn’t give a shit! They deep dived into reflections on sunglasses and creases in t-shirt sleeves! And, no, I’m not speculating on that hot mess (if you’re interested in learning more, I promise you there’s plenty of TikToks for that). In truth, it never mattered to me whether the shirt belonged to Luke or not. What mattered was the perception that it was Luke’s shirt. It blew up the Internet and I would stand by my belief that, if the fandom’s perception of something was detrimentally incorrect, Nicola (or Luke) would have corrected it. Nicola did not correct this. And, no, Jakolas, don’t even talk to me about that scrap of green blanket in that picture. I don’t care if Jake played Scrabble with (presumably) Nicola at some point over the summer while sitting outside on a goddamn green blanket. The “Drink Your Milk” post was not a secret coded message to Jake. I would stand on a hill and argue that all afternoon. Why? Because – again – Nicola did not correct the “Luke’s shirt” narrative. She let the fandom run with it. In fact, we all got our own blow torches that day. Mine’s turquoise and engraved with my initials.

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August 12. JVN posted a “Special announcement” to their Instagram grid. Right about now, you might be, like, “What the fuck does this have to do with Chaos Week?” I told you, JVN has this way of slipping shit into to their posts that make you do a double take – usually a day later while you’re daydreaming during your drive to the office. This was one of those posts. The announcement was: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics…@teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles & @stephen_nedoroscik (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team I attempt to)…” What made this post stick out is that it is, in fact, bullshit. As in, it is a completely made-up story. Team USA did not visit JVN at their house; they’re not joining the USA gymnastics team. It’s not even that funny, to be honest. So, what was the point of it? It’s confusing as fuck when you read it at face value; however, when you drop it into the Lukola timeline, I’m convinced it alludes to something bigger. On August 11, we had Nicola posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt – which sent the fandom into believing Nicola was wearing Luke’s shirt and that Luke’s reflection was in her sunglasses. On August 13, the day after this post, a torpedo was launched at us (warning, warning, anyone got a phone I can use?). When you look at this post as the middle piece connecting Nicola’s August 11 and August 13 posts, I believe it tells a story. Let me rewrite it for you but imagine it now coming from Nicola’s perspective: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics Hot Boy Summer had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics Luke’s friend group, which included Antonia…Luke @teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team [choose your own adventure on this one]. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles Antonia & @stephen_nedoroscik Rory (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team [“girlfriend” or best friend] I attempt to)…” Huh, at the very least, this post is starting to get the side-eye from you, isn’t it?

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August 13. Oh, my God! My hair is on fucking fire!!! Nicola dumped “Bless the [Goddamn] Telephone” on her Instagram stories. Whose voice is nice to hear again? What is she trying to say?! Maybe nothing. No, it’s something. “It’s nice, the way you say my name; not very fast or slow, just soft and low; the same as when you tell me how you feel; I feel the same way, too; I’m very much in love with you. I’m very much in love with you.” I don’t need to elaborate any further on this post. It speaks for itself. Chaos Week had officially launched its massive torpedo (full of firecrackers and pinata candy) and the entire Lukola fandom was hysterical – in the best way possible. However, I will interrupt this happy moment with – Jakolas, please don’t start trying to link this song to Jake because Jack Rooke used it in an episode of “Big Boys.” Yes, we are aware Jake played a minor role in that show as a love interest to the main character, Jack. Again, Nicola did not shut down the fandom’s perception that the song was for Luke. Sorry, not sorry, Jakolas. If any part of Chaos Week was for Jake, I believe Nicola would have shut the entire thing down after realizing the fandom was associating everything with Luke.

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August 15. After giving the fandom 48 hours to process “Bless the Telephone,” Nicola posted to her Instagram grid, “Very demure, very mindful.” In my opinion, Nicola was acknowledging that her recent posts (ahem, “Bless the Telephone”) were intentional, and she was aware of how they were being taken by the fandom (ahem, that they were for Luke).

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August 15. JVN posted to their TikTok account “Slick Back Bun.” Hands down a fan favorite moment with JVN. “Sometimes I just need a very demure slick back bun…I don’t do my slick back bun like all the other girls. Here I’ll show you how to do it…I’m just going to take the hair and twist it around itself, so I just have a little cinnamon roll bun…” Do I need to elaborate on this one? Seriously, do I? Slick back bun – Antonia – yeah, okay, got it, we’re still going knives out on Antonia. If you haven’t watched this, it is still on JVN’s TikTok and Instagram grid. It was clever how “demure” JVN and Nicola were being that day.

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August 16. Nicola posted another song to her Instagram stories. This time it was Clairo’s “Juna.” It was not just a sweet, romantic song; it was full on sexy. “You make me wanna try on feminine; you make me wanna go buy a new dress; you make me wanna slip off a new dress…With you, there’s no pretending.” Alright, alright, enough! Wait – no, no – come back! I didn’t mean it! Please, please bring back your music to Instagram, Nicola!

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At this point, in my opinion, Chaos Week ended; however, I’m going to reference one more log entry mainly because, if I don’t, it will get overlooked in the small gap between Chaos Week and when the Jakolas enter the picture on August 25 (see “Entry 8 – The One About the Adjacent of Convenience” for that side show).

August 22. Nicola posted the picture of Luke and herself from Bridgerton Season 3 to her Instagram grid. And, no, I do not consider this to be a “Polin” picture. The picture appeared to be an alternative version of the polaroid Nicola carried with her throughout the World Tour. She captioned the post, “I thought I’d already shared this but I hadn’t so here you go now it’s all yours.” She also shared this in her stories and captioned that “with the lovliest pal a gal could have” and tagged Luke’s crotch. The story would disappear after 24 hours, but the post itself is still on Nicola’s Instagram grid. This post can be taken in several ways, depending on your mood. Was she friendzoning Luke because she used the word “pal” in her Instagram story? No, I don’t think she was. The “lov[e]liest pal?” That’s about as confusing as their “unique relationship.” Was she telling the fandom to support Luke because she supported Luke (i.e., stop hating on him)? Yeah, probably. Was she telling the fandom that she thought she’d already made it very clear that everything she had been posting was about Luke? Yes, I believe this to be the most reasonable answer, especially when you consider her previous posts. The reality is, that man fills a hefty chunk of her Instagram grid – and not dressed like Colin Bridgerton. But, I also believe that this post may have been a preemptive strike against the narrative that would surface three days later on August 25. It’s entirely possible Nicola knew that the pap pictures of Jake at the festival would be released by DeuxMoi (after all, it took DeuxMois over a week to release them), and Nicola was reminding fans that her narrative involved Luke. Note, that Nicola would repeat this in October when she and Luke simultaneously posted their “Polin” picture to their Instagram stories, which was followed a few days later by DeuxMoi dropping pap pictures of Nicola and Jake.

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Oh, a few honorable mentions post-August 22: (a) Nicola posted a picture from her Stylist Magazine photoshoot – the one from the back seat of a car (i.e., the “modern day carriage”) on August 23; (b) Luke posted about how he only had an Instagram account on August 24; and (c) JVN posted his “two finger” hair straightening demo on TikTok on August 25 (yes, I only listed these honorable mentions to get to JVN’s “two finger” demo because that was some laugh-out-loud funny shit – and it’s literally on the heels of Nicola’s “modern day carriage”).

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August 25. What in the hot fucking kittens is that? Well, thank God, it’s not an iceberg this time. Whoa, they didn’t just pull that Non-Player Character from that group of guys and name a ship after him, did they? Hahaha, dumbasses. Oh, shit! It’s coming straight for us!

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End Log.

Well, how was Chaos Week? Did you have a good time? I’m honestly friggin’ exhausted. Seriously, even just writing all that down was exhausting. Like, my brain is fried. Oh, yeah, feel free to ignore that part at the end of our log. That shit happens every time the Lukolas are given a bit of fun. You’ll get used to it.

I took you on this excursion through Chaos Week today because I believe it is important to develop an opinion about what happened before and after Hot Boy Summer, especially if we’re going to theorize on it at a later point. And, as I mentioned earlier, the before played out in front of our eyes and the after, well, if we have the information available, why not peek in its direction? It’s almost like reading a book from back to front.

There are three things that happened during Chaos Week that have kept my feet firmly planted on the USS Lukola. One, Nicola wearing the “Drink Your Milk” shirt, alluding to the still uncorrected perception that it was Luke’s shirt. Two, “Bless the Telephone.” We started Hot Boy Summer with The Frames singing, “I’m gonna wait for you…” and ended it with Labi Siffre answering, “It’s nice to hear your voice again…” And, three, Nicola posting “Very demure, very mindful,” confirming – in my opinion – that she was very conscious of what her posts were telling the fandom – i.e., that they were for Luke.

But, as I was sitting here typing out my thoughts about Chaos Week, I found myself – oh, no, word vomit! – annoyed.

Yes, annoyed.

It’s not Chaos Week itself that has left me feeling annoyed. That was one hell of a “Bridgerton Ride.” It’s that Chaos Week set in motion this predictable pattern which solidified my opinion that “Lukolas can’t have nice things.” Seriously, we can’t have nice things because something always comes in and fucks it up.

You know how I mentioned at the beginning of this post that Luke’s return to London was the “blip-blip” that led to Chaos Week? Luke was the “cause” and Chaos Week was the “effect.” Well, Chaos Week was the “blip-blip” that led to the current state of the fandom. We now have three ships – the Lukola, the Jakola, and the Lutonia – sailing the Fandom Sea, and every time the Lukola finds itself flying high, it gets hijacked by one or both of those motherfucking side ships.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Somewhere in this hot mess, the chaos that originated from Nicola’s August social media spree found order! In fact, we’ve fallen into such a predictable pattern of events that the ebb and flow of the sideshow antics barely “blip” our radar these days. When bullshit starts bullshitting, I just breathe a deep sigh of unadulterated annoyance and think, “I’m so over this shit.” Honestly, I’m getting the vibe that many of us are over this shit. We’re not playing Scrabble anymore. We’re playing that never-ending game of Risk.

Sometimes I wonder if the fandom would have been better off if Chaos Week had never happened. That Pandora’s Box had never been opened and that the fandom had simply allowed the USS Lukola to sail off into the sunset. But, then I think about the people I have met along the way. The Ones that have made me laugh until my stomach hurts. The Ones with whom I’ve gone so far down a rabbit hole we’ve come out on the other side as different people. The Ones that I’ve rescued from the riptide. And, the Ones that have stopped me from rowing my dinghy to shore (because, yes, I’ve had rough days, too). You all know who you are.

So, I find myself putting up with the day-to-day humdrum of the Life of a Lukola, chatting with the people I now consider my friends, and waiting.

Waiting for something different to happen. A disruption to the current cycle. A new kind of chaos – preferably, the kind that mortally wounds the Jakola and Lutonia love triangles and finally allows the Lukolas to have (and keep) nice things.

But, in the meantime, I am still sitting here – listening for that quiet but distinct sound – but also contemplating knocking the Risk board off the table.

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#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my mood

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podiumackles · 1 year ago

Text

Paper Rings | L. Norris

In which they allow themselves to become undone in each other's touch, and enter a new phase of their relationship.

word count: 5,9k | warnings for mature content (18+); protected sex, fingering, a small nod to a breeding kink, inexperienced reader and lando (but they try their best), possible offensive language, other than that just lots of fluff | prompt(s) used: s35 and s31

Accidents. You hated them. But while normally associated with unpleasant events, for once in your life it had been good. It wasn't intentional that you met Lando Norris and became friends, but eventually, he had unexpectedly asked you out.

You had encountered the young Brit at a party of a mutual friend. You despised parties, and after you had arrived and greeted the birthday girl, you became to realise why; everyone was high off their asses.

It had barely been twenty minutes into the party, and you had already found yourself alone at the bar with a glass of sugar-free Coca-Cola. You did not like drinking alcoholic liquids, and you had thought you were the solitary person in this building to be feeling like this until you saw a young man sit about three metres away from you - most likely drinking the same exact drink as you did.

“I’m Lando,” he had said as he caught your eye, walked up to you and extended his hand for you to shake. “I take it you are not a frequent drinker either?”

Your rosy cheeks flushed while you shook your head, quietly confirming his thoughts. He looked stunning; bright eyes taking all of your attention from the loose blouse and neat trousers. And then to come back to the curls atop his head; you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

After talking with Lando for the rest of the memorable night, you ultimately felt your social battery run out and decided it was time for you to go, much to your dismay.

With his beaming smile and plumb lips shaping around his teeth, he gently assured you that it was no big deal, and if you had wanted to, you could meet up another time. There wasn’t a single doubt inside your mind when you have him your number, and he promised you he would send you a message after offering you a ride home, which you politely declined.

You had gone home that night, head in the clouds, and your fingers itching to look the youngster up on the internet. He had let it slip that he was a driver, though you weren’t certain for what. Was he a taxi driver? Bus driver, perhaps?

Whatever it was, you were too curious not to look it up. He had to have a social media page somewhere, and with a name like that it shouldn’t have been hard to find. Therefore you eagerly searched for his name; Lando. You hadn’t quite gotten his last name yet, so after searching past a certain star wars character, you finally saw his familiar face pop up on the glowing screen. You frowned thoughtfully. He was a Formula 1 driver. You weren’t so sure how he had managed to avoid that topic altogether, but it caused you to appreciate him even more.

It was about two to three months and a few cat and mouse games after that, around Valentine's Day, that he had asked you out. In the few months of being friends, you weren’t entirely sure what you had done to deserve such a kind human being in your life, but you accepted his invitation, nonetheless.

Therefore there you were; happily together for five more months - except this time as a couple. And it couldn’t have been better.

The both of you decided to take it slowly; neither of you had a lot of experience, and you certainly didn’t want to rush things that didn’t need to be rushed.

He had asked you to accompany him at races a couple of times, but you kindly declined each time. You felt like it was invading his personal space, like barging into an office when someone's at work. He could dismiss your thoughts as much as he liked, but it wouldn’t convince you. ‘Some day,’ you had promised.

Denying his kind invitation to his home race felt wrong, but you just weren’t ready. And he accepted that. So, you had made a comfortable spot on your sofa, windows open, and an iced tea in your hands while you watched the race weekend on your television.

You practically screamed when your boyfriend put his orange and chrome car on the first row. The season had been incredibly harsh for both McLaren drivers, but it ultimately seemed they were getting close to where they formerly stood.

And then, the race. Never in a million years would you have thought he would lead a race this year. It only was for a couple of laps, but he managed to pass the reigning world champion during the start and was ahead of the Dutchman even before the first corner.

The race was intense, and you had long forgotten your prepared drink and snacks on the table. But when Lando crossed the line in second place, you almost felt joyful tears escape your eyes. You could contain yourselves, wanting to seem strong for nobody in particular.

In the middle of the podium ceremony, your mum sent you a quick text, ‘he bloody did it again’, and you could no longer contain your tears. You took photos of your television screen, acting as if you did join him during this race. And oh, how you wish you had.

He called you as soon as he was finished with the media duties, like he always does, and talked you through his racing thoughts of the past three hours. And you could do nothing but listen intensely.

He went straight home to you after he was no longer required at the track, your apartment being a small four-hour drive from Silverstone. You had told him he could take some well-deserved rest first, and visit you the day after, but he just desperately wanted to see you.

After a few hours of eager anticipation, you heard the door open, concluding your boyfriend had let himself in with the key you had given him just the week before.

You shot up to meet him in the middle of the living room, where his suitcase and shoes had already been long left at the door. Your socks-covered feet tried their best not to slip from underneath you, and you embraced Lando in an affectionate hug, his arms finding their way around your waist immediately, resting his hands on your lower back.

You took in his scent, cologne mixed with shampoo from his shower after the race. He wore a hoodie from his newest merchandise collection, and you mentally scolded him for dressing like that with the heat hanging over your country.

“I missed you so much.” You told him, and you had. You always had to miss him for a couple of weeks at the least with the races, but he promised he would come back to you. And he always did.

“I’m here, love,” he murmured into your neck, his warm breath causing a shiver over your back. “And so did I.”

“You did so well.” You whispered tenderly, trying your best not to sniffle right then and there. But he caught onto it.

“Hey, hey,” he pulled back from your embrace, causing your hands to slide down to his chest, his palms resting on your cheeks. “Are you crying?”

You chuckled. Of course, you chuckled. How could you not? This man made you laugh with almost every single word he said, even when he tried to be serious.

“Guess I’m just a little overwhelmed,” you looked him in the eyes, those mesmerising irises looking back at yours - concern mixed with a smile. “It’s been a tough mental day, but seeing you back on that podium again -“ you paused for a brief second, a lump forming in your throat, trying your best not to fully let your tears fall. “It was all I could have asked for this weekend.”

He smiled. Genuinely smiled. He could barely afford any other emotion around you than genuine happiness, and you reciprocated that feeling.

“I did it for you,” he smiled, thumbs caressing your cheekbones, and you suddenly felt weak in the knees. His intense gaze, perfect smile, and lips wettened from the times he occasionally ran his tongue along them.

You weren’t exactly certain what came over you, but you grabbed the collar of his sweater, pulled him down to your height and embraced his rosy lips in a loving kiss.

He was taken aback, sure. But it merely took him a few seconds to answer your gesture and deepen the kiss even more.

“You didn’t just do it for me, and you know that.” You giggled as you pulled back for air, and he could barely open his eyes, still captured in the haze of your presence.

“Well, I also did it for you.” He answered, in that tone that he has when he’s excited, where most of the internet won’t be able to decipher if he’s crying or just genuinely laughing. But of course, you would know.

You looked at him, lips red from your kissing, and you chuckled once more. You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you almost wondered if your eyes turned into heart shapes.

“Lando,” you breathed, his name being just a singular word, but it came out more shaky than ever. “I think I’m ready.”

He was at a loss for words. In the months you had been together, neither of you had initiated the following step of intercourse. And neither of you felt the need to. It’s not like you and Lando had never done this before. This undoubtedly wasn’t your first relationship. But you had thought this fell under the term of taking it slow, and the desire just had not been there yet.

Until now. And he didn’t know what to say.

“If you don’t want to, we can just-“ “No, no-“ he cut you off, trying to come up with the right words. He did want to, but it just didn’t come out. Your gentle smile started to turn into a frown.

“I do,” he started. “I want to, I-“ he was flustered. And slowly, your nerves started to fade, and a smile came back to your face.

“Lando,” it was now your turn to place your palms on his cheeks, resulting in his landing on your hips. “Easy. No need to get so nervous.”

He let out a profound sigh of relief, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You clasped his dampened hand, leading him to your bedroom. It hadn’t been the first time he entered this part of your small apartment, and neither had it been the first time he had been in this bed. But this time it was different. And he wasn’t certain if he should be nervous or excited about this next step.

You looked outside the window above your bed, the moon coming to stand high in the unclouded sky as the sun said a quick hello to its other half before starting to strike the horizon and taking the light with it.

The golden hour had started, and somehow it made you experience all kinds of things for this intimate moment.

You sat down on the bottom end of the twin-sized bed, pulling Lando down with you so he sad next to you. You experienced a tingling sensation between your legs, but you weren’t entirely sure how to start acting on it.

And then you did. Unknown courage entered your body, whether it was lust or braveness, you weren’t certain. But you carefully placed your lips onto his, after which he immediately returned the favour.

You carefully stood up, Lando wanted to follow your eager actions, but you gently pushed him back down on the bed and sat on his lap, a leg on each side of him.

His graceful hands landed on your hips, your hands on his warm face, as you both battled it out for dominance into the kiss. It wasn’t rough, but both of you were desperate.

Lando decided to take a bit of control, messily picking you up and gently lowering you onto the soft covers of your bed, not breaking the kiss as he came to hover above you.

When you broke apart for air, you reassuringly smiled at each other and loving eyes never breaking contact.

“You know, Carlos told me the other day that -“ “Lando, shut up about Carlos right now.” You cut him off as you passionately kissed him again, this time hungrily trying to pry his hoodie off of him, but failing miserably.

He broke the kiss, lifting himself up and taking off his neon yellow piece of clothing, only to reveal yet another piece in the shape of a t-shirt.

“I swear to god, you are going to be suffering from a heat stroke someday.” You chuckled at the man above you, delivering him a look and he took the hint and undid himself from his shirt as well before leaning back down to capture you in another kiss with a smile.

He didn’t answer your humorous remark. But he didn’t have to. You knew he wouldn’t listen anyway.

You allowed your hands to roam over his chest, down his abdomen and towards his joggers. But, before you could reach the hem, he stopped you. He gently shoved your hands away as he reached for your shirt, and you took the hint to sit up and assist him.

Breaking the kiss for no more than a few seconds, his lips were on yours again after successfully removing your piece of clothing and you took off your bra before laying back down.

Nerves settled in your stomach and Lando could immediately sense it.

“Hey, love,” he broke the kiss to look into your eyes, barely glancing a single look at your exposed chest just yet. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” you smiled at him and reached up to cup his cheek and gently stroke the area with your thumb. “I want to. But it’s been a while.”

He did nothing but smile at you. That warm, loving smile embracing all of the unique features on his face, the smile that got you head over heels for him in the first place.

“Okay,” he chuckled. “Can I?” He finally gestured to your chest, and you nodded before biting your lip and letting go of his warm cheek.

Lando gave you a final kiss to your lips, before finding a path down your neck, towards the valley of your breasts. He placed his tongue around your left nipple while taking care of the other with his strong fingers.

A contented sigh escaped your lips, and you could feel him smile against your skin as you let your fingers glide through his soft curls. The hand that was caressing your breast hesitantly left its spot, and like it had a mind of its own, travelled down to your own joggers. Lando loosened the knot in the strings which were used to keep them up, and his mouth left the spot on your other breast.

He travelled down, placing delicate kisses on your stomach on the way, causing your hands to glide from his hair and land next to you on the mattress.

He shot you one last questioning glance, and you slowly but eagerly nodded, and he grasped this as his sign to carefully undo you from your pants.

Much to your dismay, Lando took his time. Your joggers slid off your thighs with ease, and you felt his delicate and strong fingers glide over your sensitive skin. You shivered out of sensual pleasure, and your boyfriend looked up with a sly smirk. Your thighs were one of your most sensitive spots, and his gentle touch sent goosebumps over your body. He now knew that, too.

When one of the final pieces of fabric had been taken off your body, Lando gently tossed it towards the chair in the corner of your room, where his sweater and both your t-shirts and his hoodie had previously ended up as well.

You looked at him as he stood at the edge of your bed, and you couldn't decide what you desired to do more; hide yourself from his intense gaze, or let your mouth water at the sight of his trained torso.

Lando, however, didn't allow you to think twice and was soon quick to hover back above you and plant another kiss on your reddened lips.

His wet kisses went towards your neck, to a certain spot just below your ear, towards the place your neck and shoulder meet. You felt his tongue on your skin, rosy lips surrounding the wet sensation, as he forcefully sucked on the spot.

Your right hand flew towards the nape of his neck, right where his hair ended, and tried its best to eagerly grasp whatever it could find.

Simultaneously, your other hand ended on his side, your touch tickling his exposed skin, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

Another sigh unwillingly escaped your lips at the sensation, and he got back up to examine your eyes.

Your pupils were heavily dilated, your breath was unsteady, and sweat started to form on your forehead near your hairline. But he couldn't help but look at you adoringly.

"Can I touch you?" Lando asked, a charming smile still plastered on his face. You could barely answer. Your chest felt incredibly tight, and your mind was filled with just one word as you looked at the man above you; love.

It frightened you. Absolutely terrified you. Neither of you had shared the three most famous words yet, and you certainly didn't expect it would take this to deliver them into your mind.

Feeling like you've let your boyfriend wait long enough, you eagerly nodded before giving him one last kiss.

Lando looked at the purple reminder on the side of your throat with a proud smile before he let his hands wander down towards your underwear. His eager hands slipped into your panties, a quivering breath escaping your lips as his thumb put pressure on your small bundle of nerves when he found it.

With one final look of approval, he slid off your panties with ease and stashed them with the rest.

His fingers caressed your thighs before finding their way towards your core. He slowly made his way towards the part where you desired him most, but not before teasing the whole area, naturally causing you to let out a frustrated groan.

Lando chuckled. Actually chuckled. It wasn't the first time he had done this tonight, but you never believed sex could actually be funny. And it made the experience all the better.

He finally thought you had had enough teasing for the night, and he carefully entered you with his pointer finger.

To be absolutely honest, he had no idea what he was doing. He tried to memorise stories from others or books he had only half read and then tossed them somewhere randomly, but he never came close to doing it like that himself.

Anticipating your reaction, Lando added another finger when he noticed you clenching around the bare minimum. He moved, slowly but steadily, and small moans began to erupt from your throat.

"Is this okay?" Lando asked after a few strokes, looking up at you to await your reaction.

"Apply pressure with your thumb, right here." You informed him, moving his hand in the slightest and repositioning it to your liking.

And once he applied pressure to the part where you needed him most, and hit a good spot inside, you were almost done for.

Your head fell back into the pillows while he felt his fingers gain more wetness from your core, and your hands reached out to grab a hold of his hair but were met with nothing but air.

He took the hint of your desperate gesture, slightly moving his head towards the direction of your hands as they were still grabbing around for him- like a child reaching for its toy.

You pulled on a particular strand of his soft curls, and he wasn't certain whether he groaned out of pain or pleasure. But, after detecting the sounds that escaped your lips, he was sure it definitely must have been the latter.

"Y/n," Lando breathed as he looked up, meeting your distracted gaze. "Your pretty sounds are like music to my ears, and I could listen to them all day."

You let a slight laugh escape your lips as your head fell back, and you gave another loving tug to his hair.

"Lando," you mimicked his tone, another quivering breath leaving your lips as he continued his pleasurable pace with his fingers. "I- I kinda need you now, are you ready?" You could barely speak, too distracted by the feeling between your legs and the butterflies that erupted through your entire body.

"I think I am," he said as he retreated his fingers, awkwardly looking at them as he secretly swiped them off on his joggers. "Might need a few- uh- strokes. But I think we should be okay."

We.

This was the moment you were about to become one, the final parts of your bodied finally exposed to each other.

"Do you have any condoms?" He asked, and you recognised the minor change in his voice; he felt awkward.

And you totally reciprocated the feeling. There was barely anything more awkward than sharing this kind of intimacy for the first time, being new to each other's likes and pleasures, and having to find out what turned the other on.

You sat up and leaned on your elbows before pointing at the closet on the other side of the room.

"They're in there, uh, top shelf." you stated, and he clumsily walked over to the piece of furniture. His eyes widened at the sight when he opened it and felt a sudden wave of redness taking over his whole body.

"There's- you have a full box of them?" He said as he grabbed the box and turned to you. You fell back, hands covering your flushed face.

"Diane gave them to me a couple of days after her party," you mumbled, a sigh escaping your lips. "She saw us talk and, well, yeah. You know her." A simple 'oh' had left his lips before he grabbed one chrome-looking package from the box and placed the rest back.

"Well, at least we have them." He laughed awkwardly as he returned to the bed, a shaky 'yeah' coming from you as a response.

You retracted your arms as you saw him sitting next to you on the bed, the golden light from outside perfectly framing his features.

The golden hour was made for him.

And you were the lucky one that had him in their bed.

Lando undid himself off his joggers, not caring enough to put them with the rest- so he just left them where he took them off. His boxers followed soon after as he sat back down on the soft covers of the bed.

You barely dared to look, but eventually, you did. And you carefully reached for his member, gently wrapping your fingers around the length. You looked up to search for a look that would tell you he was uncomfortable, but it was the contrary. He sought his best intentions to hold in a moan, but as you started to move your hand, he failed miserably.

He, in turn, reached back between your legs to bring back that on-edge feeling you almost felt before he stopped.

Warming up to each other, Lando retracted his hand, grabbed onto the wrist of your hand that was working on his member, and placed it beside your head. His fingers felt slick, once more covered in the wetness of your own arousal.

Gently, he came to a position in between your legs, leaning on his knees and his hardened length halfway towards his stomach.

He messily tried to rip the foil package in two, barely succeeding but ultimately held the condom between his fingers before rolling it onto his member.

Lando leaned forwards, and he placed his hands on either side of your head, your legs locking around his hips and your hands finding their way to his sides.

"At any time, please tell me if you're uncomfortable, okay?" he said, and you nodded eagerly before responding, "Same to you."

You closed your eyes as he wettened his tip with your arousal and carefully entered you. It wasn't pain that rushed through you, but it did feel unpleasant. You placed your hands on his chest to halt his movements and took your time to adjust to the new feeling of your boyfriend inside of you.

When you opened your eyes, you were confronted with the most caring and loving gaze you had ever encountered. You knew Lando wasn't experienced, and neither were you, but he genuinely cared so much about your well-being. It made this new experience so much better.

"You can move," you told him after about half a minute. "God, please do." He smiled at you before placing a delicate kiss on your lips, and he carefully started to move.

The feeling soon turned into pleasure for both of you and suddenly, neither of you could get enough of each other's touch.

Kisses were messy, loose strands of hair were being pulled, and nothing could ever beat this moment of being intimate with your partner for the first time. Lando made it perfect for you.

After a couple of strokes, you experienced a vaguely familiar sensation building in the pit of your stomach and a tingling feeling coming from your core.

But, you weren't quite there yet. Therefore, you grasped one of his hands and assisted him towards the part where you needed him the most. He took the hint, placed his thumb on your clit, and started making figure eights on the little bundle of nerves. It wasn't perfect, but it worked, and his name started rolling off your tongue more than once.

And it was the same for him. Watching you unravel in pleasure caused by him, your breasts bouncing with each move of his hips like you were a machine tangled in each other. And at that moment, it felt like you only worked with each other.

Your soft walls gripped around him, and he was afraid he wouldn't last much longer, but for you, he would try. For you, he would do everything.

"Lando, please move faster." His unique name escaped your sensual lips in a hurry, a mix of sighs and groans barely making it clear what you were saying. But he understood and got on with it.

"You feel so good," Lando said as he started building up a quicker pace. "Please tell me what you want. What you need."

"Anything, everything," you breathed, grabbing his hand that was working on your clit, and gently pulling him back up to get him into your line of view. "Kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it."

And so he did. It wasn't pretty; teeth clashing, lip biting. But it was everything you could wish for.

When Lando started to chase his own orgasm, he instinctively picked up his pace and twisted it into a couple of rough trusts. He wasn't certain what came over him, and for a second, he was anxious this might not be as pleasurable for you as it was for him. But all his worries faded as soon as you pulled him into an embrace, and he fell atop of you, his face buried in your neck, and you vaguely mumbled a couple of words;

"You can have my babies." You told him. He wasn't entirely sure where that came from, but simultaneously, he wasn't complaining.

You, on the other hand, felt embarrassed. You clasped a hand over your mouth and mumbled a scared 'I'm sorry' to your boyfriend.

He retreated from your passionate hold with a reassuring smile, caressing your rosy cheek with his strong fingers. His pace slowed down a bit, but he didn't stop. And that eased your worries the tiniest bit.

"Don't apologise," he chuckled. This man, you thought. He can laugh about everything. "Though I'm not entirely sure where that came from, it might be a little too soon to be thinking about babies."

"No, please, I don't,-" you desperately sighed after taking your hand from your lips. "I don't want any babies. It just happened, I felt hot and my mind took me somewhere else and I just-"

"Ooh! So you have a breeding kink!" Lando exclaimed joyfully, and you felt your face redden at his blunt words. His movements halted, his hand returning towards the back of your neck as he rejoined your embrace.

"Do not fucking speak about this," you said as you hugged him back, feeling his bare skin against yours increasing the pressure between your legs. "In fact, don't mention it for another while. I don't want to think about it."

"As you wish." he smiled, and you were internally grateful he made no big deal about it and didn't find it the biggest turnoff in the bedroom. Everyone has their kinks. You just didn't expect yours to come out during the first time with your current boyfriend.

Lando picked his pace back up, and the feeling in your stomach returned as quickly as it faded before. You let your hands roam through his hair, caressing the back of his neck, as he started pushing in with stuttering thrusts, each of them slow and deep instead of harsh and sloppy.

You tactically moved your hips, trying to find that little fiction from his pelvis against your bundle of nerves, but your desperate movement caused him to reach that spot inside of you.

"Oh- oh my god." You instantly moaned, and Lando came back slightly to look at you, asking if you were okay.

"Definitely. More than alright," a faint sound of a passionate sob escaped your lips as he continued hitting your pleasantest part, a smirk forming on his lips. "Right there, right there."

He felt satisfied with himself. For a second, he was that proud boy who couldn't handle losing. And he felt like he had just won his favourite game.

"Right there, huh?" he teased you, and you quickly nodded before he kissed you again. However, because of your shortened breaths, neither of you could maintain a kiss as Lando picked up his pace and tried to both chase his own high and bring you to yours.

Your foreheads touched, lips just inches away from their other half as the both of you breathed through your mouths to get more air.

Lando shot a brief glance to where your bodies met before he could barely hold on to his pace and started to get sloppy.

You thanked nobody in particular that you had randomly come across a professional athlete. Because no other boy had ever even come close to the stamina the one above you had. nobody gave you the right amount of pleasure. None of them listened to your needs, and most importantly, none of them had ever given you relief.

Your walls tightened, white noise filled your ears, stars came through your vision and you softly clawed on Lando his arms as your high washed over you.

This was how it was supposed to feel.

Lando let out a particularly deep groan, grunting in your ear as your name left his lips, and he released into the condom. The feeling of your orgasm was simply too much for him, but he wished this moment would’ve lasted forever.

For a precious second, everything went quiet. No sounds filled the room except for your shortened breaths, and you took the time to just look at one another. Both of you were smiling contently, and you caressed his cheekbones with your fingers. Lando closed his eyes, simply enjoying your touch, and you looked at the spot where his lashes met his glistering skin.

“Lando,” you started, and he opened his eyes to meet your loving gaze. “I think I-“ You could barely let it out, afraid of what might change. Did he even feel the same way? Did you feel that way? Or was this just the heat of the moment for you, and would you wish you could take back your words right after you said them?

“I love you, too.” Lando finished your sentence, adding the last part to let you know he did feel the same way. You chuckled and pulled him down towards your lips, giving him a kiss that held more words than you could ever speak.

You quickly became to realise Lando never pulled out, and his sudden movement caused you to tremble lightly, suddenly feeling overstimulated by the feeling between your legs.

“I love you, but I’m getting a little overwhelmed here.” You grinned up at him as you pulled apart, after which he replied a quick ‘right, sorry’ and carefully pulled out of you immediately.

A gentle sigh mixed with a moan left your lips at the friction, but Lando got up and went over to your bathroom to toss away the condom and returned with a dampened washing cloth so you could clean yourself.

You looked at him with adoration as he re-entered your room, eyes lingering on his trained abdomen and once more realising how good looking this man actually was.

“See something you like?” Lando said as he handed you the cloth, and you carefully cleaned your core and made sure not to touch any sensitive spots.

“Certainly,” you said as you got up and headed towards the bathroom as well, causing your boyfriend to frown in confusion. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’m just going to pee. Does wonders for your health.” You gave him a wink as you turned the corner while biting your lip to contain another laugh.

You were happy

Lando laughed at your remark before putting his boxers on and turning on the nightlight next to your bed. He slid under the covers, quickly checking his phone, though he didn’t find anything worth replying to.

Once you returned, you also put on some clean panties and joined him under the covers of your warm bed.

You shot a glance at your phone on the nightstand, lighting up with multiple alerts of missed calls and messages, but you weren’t worried about them for a second. The only thing you saw was the name of your friend in the notifications and decided to briefly look at what she needed but didn’t care about responding.

Please tell me you finally fucked.

He ended p2!! P2 darling!!

That has to be the perfect moment for a celebration.

She was unbelievable. Of course, this had to be her way of asking, so blunt yet totally in her style. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“What is it?” Lando asked when you put your phone back on the nightstand and snuggled into your pillows, your gaze pointing at the ceiling.

“Diane,” you simply answered. “I don’t think any more context is needed.” He let out a small chuckle at that, immediately knowing what you were implying.

“I take it she knows her box came in handy, then?” he replied, and you just nodded.

You looked over at him, laying on his side and not breaking his stare at you. His head fit perfectly in the pillow underneath him, and he looked so comfortable that you could nearly cry.

“I love you.” You said, this time officially and quietly, and he was happy to respond.

“I love you, too.”

You hated accidents. Except when you went from friends to this.

#lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris smut #f1 smut #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 smut #lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #x reader #f1 #formula 1 writing #f1 writing #writing #f1 fanfiction

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withhugsandkisses · 11 days ago

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daisuke , are you up?

fem reader intentions, but im sure this can be seen as gender neutral(?) more sillay stupid fluff about hanging out with daisuke at midnight and sillay stupid confessions. i only proofread this once so there still might be mistakes..anyway, friends to lovers UNITE!!!

looking outside your window, it was pretty obvious it was late at night. grabbing your phone and checking the time, it was specifically 11:47. so late. yet you were so restless. you grumbled a bit, your body agitated, as if begging to get up and do something. and you knew exactly who to text. your best friend of all time, who else?

unlocking your phone, you opened your messages with the boy.

heyyyyy

u up?

you watched your phone intently. you waited. wanting so desperately to see that message bubble pop up. and that it did!

ynnnnnnnn !!!!!

you smiled at the enthusiastic message.

wanna hang? lets go get slushies pls

hmmm..i dunno..

its on me

ok, deal

omw to pick u up now! ^_^

a few minutes of scrolling mindlessly on social media later, you got another notification.

hereeeeee

and a few minutes of getting ready later, you walked outside, speed walking over to daisukes car. it was so cold! you could see him getting out of the drivers seat to greet you. "yn." he said your name with a smile. usually people saying your name didn't make you feel anything, but the way he said it? it was so sweet. always. it came out of his mouth like honey. you liked it. you liked when he said your name. ok. maybe you had the tiniest crush on your best friend.

he opened the passenger seat for you. such a gentlemen. you let out a small breathy laugh and situated yourself in his car. "thanks daisy" that silly nickname. he rolled his eyes at you, but he couldn't hide that small smile on his face. your eyes always caught it.

closing the door, he walked over to the other side of the car and got right back behind the wheel. daisuke turned on the car and made way to the gas station.

after playing some music and listening to daisukes tone deaf singing (he always sung bad on purpose to make you laugh), you guys finally arrived.

walking into the station, you both immediately walked over to the slushy zone. "bet i can make a better combo than you." daisuke taunted.

you scoffed. "yeah right, check this out." making competitions out of useless things, it was the joy of being friends with him.

grabbing your cup, you got to work on your elite combo. half cherry, half coca cola. boom. cherry coke slushy. you lidded your creation, filling it to the very brim. turning over, you slumped your shoulders seeing what daisuke did. "dude." you looked him up and down. "all you did was add every single flavour."

"exactly" he said, sounding a bit more proud than he probably should over a slushy. "you can't beat the combination of all the flavours." he lidded his cup.

shaking your head, you decided not to question it further and just pay for the drinks.

heading out of the gas station, you guys began walking down the street, a silent agreement between you both to hang out at the playground nearby.

you situated yourself on a swing, daisuke taking the one next to you. you gently rocked on it, slipping your slushy. his slushy was gone by now. daisuke drank it all during the walk to the park. luckily, you made the smarter move to get a bigger cup than him. "what'd you even put in yours?" he asked, looking at your half drunk drink.

"cherry cola." you responded cooly, holding out the drink towards him. "wanna try?" he blinked slightly, but quickly shook off his thought as he grabbed your drink. you guys always shared things. food, drinks, clothes, homework, you name it. it was something you guys did since you were little. but as you guys grew, you noticed how he started to seem more flustered when you offered to share.

daisuke looked away from you as he took a sip from your slushy, too embarrassed to show you that the indirect kissed resulted in a slight pink hue to form on his cheeks. he shrugged his shoulders. "i've had better." he hummed and finally turned when he felt calmer, handing back your slushy.

"really?" you squinted your eyes. you were slightly offended.

"yeah, mine." he smirked, earning a scoff from you and a roll of your eyes. predictable, you should've seen it coming.

you got up pouting and moved yourself, situating yourself on top of the stairs that led to the slide, criss cross apple sauce style. "heyyy, don't be like that." you heard daisukes amused voice behind you calling out. you didn't bother to turn around, deciding to mess with the boy.

without a second thought, daisuke followed after you, making himself present through the sound of his shoes on each stair. he sat down on his knees beside you, leaning down slightly to try to catch your gaze, but you didn't bother. your eyes stayed forward towards the moonlight.

but god did you always look like that? you had daisukes mind running with thoughts. your hair looked so soft, your features were extra beautiful being illuminated by the moonlight. he felt his world stop. the only thing on his mind right now was you.

"yn." his voice sounded a bit more..serious? he didn't actually think you were mad at him right?

you looked over to him and playfully slapped his shoulder. "i'm not actually mad you, doofus." you scoffed, turned back forward and leaning against his shoulder.

he adjusted to your state, his body quickly making sure you were comfortable on him without his mind even having time to react. daisuke felt his cheeks heat up. "no. yn." his voice came out a bit quiet, nervous even.

you furrowed your eyebrows and stopped leaning on him, now leaning on your arm. you eyed him, a bit confused, a bit worried.

and that's when it happened. he held his breath as his body moved on its own. with one quick look at your lips and back to your eyes, daisuke cupped your face gently and pulled you into a kiss.

it was short. a peck on the lips. you brought your hands to your lips as you tried to process what had happened. "i'm. i'm sorry. i didn't mean to, i...ok" the boy sat back a bit, taking a breath and holding out his hands to calm himself. "let's just pretend that didn't happen." daisuke said looking away from you, obviously very embarrassed and flushed.

but is that what you really wanted? to pretend that never happened? hell no. you reached over and grabbed his face, your own face hot as you braced yourself, smashing your lips against his.

granted, it was a bit goofy. you never really had experience with kissing, and he didn't either. in the moment though, it didn't matter. you just needed a way to tell him you felt the same. you pulled away.

so there you guys were. on top of a playground set. silly teenagers that were almost too embarrassed to look each other in the eyes. both of you waiting for the other to say something. you opened your mouth, but quickly got cut off. "you taste like cherry cola."

oh! like ok. at first you just eyed him, but then you let out a snort. and then a laugh. you fell forward a bit, head hitting his chest as he let out a giggle of his own.

"oh my god." you said inbetween laughter. you punched his chest gently. "only you'd say something stupid like that, daisy."

"your daisy?" he meant to say it like a statement, but it came out more like a question. still giving you the opportunity to turn back now. but why would you want to.

you looked up to meet his eyes. "yeahhh" you nodded. "my daisy."

an: first kiss stories are always saur cute :,) i wrote this at first with the intention of finishing it later, but then i played a bunch of love songs and i felt the possession of shakespeare take over. also bring back late night hang outs!! its so silly and fun. also also is "drunk" even used correctly? "half drunk drink"...actually i dont wanna know if it is.

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing x reader #daisuke x reader #mouthwashing daisuke #mouthwashing x y/n #mouthwashing x you

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months ago

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I have a (The rookie) Tim Bradford x shyreader request please?

Tim and shyreader just recently start dating and one time when Tim, shyreader and his cop friends are at a restaurant “Denny’s” (I always order pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages with Coca Cola) and Tim cop friends are meeting shy!reader.

Tim is surprised when Lucy and shy!reader have secret new best friends handshake and everyone finds it cute while Tim is being sad and surprised puppy asking himself when did this happen. https://youtube.com/shorts/WUON5Q4HDuc?si=4cot1jSQiyi5F-zI

Such a cute request; thank you! 0.7k+ words of fluff (I couldn't figure out how to make it longer without it being super boring. I hope this is okay!)

Secret Relationships, Handshakes, and Pancakes

“It’s been a month,” Tim points out.

“Five weeks and two days,” you correct softly, looking at Tim’s hands rather than his face.

“That’s worse.”

You glance up at him, unsurprised to see that he’s looking directly at you. He hides his smile and lifts his brows.

“Breakfast with a few of my friends can’t be that bad,” he assures. “I don’t even like spending time with them, but I’m still going.”

You push your hand against Tim’s chest before you ask, “Will Lucy be there?”

“Yes,” Tim answers, wondering why you’d ask about her. He’s told you stories about all of them, but this is the big day (Angela’s words) when you finally meet them.

Nodding, you agree to go, then wrap your arms tightly around Tim’s waist. He uses your grip on him to get you out of the door and into his truck. It’s not that you don’t like spending time with Tim or don’t want to meet his friends, but it’s hard being around new people when you’re shy, and you don’t want to make a bad impression and lose Tim forever.

“It’ll be right out,” the waitress says after taking drink orders.

“Thanks,” you whisper to Tim.

“For what?” he replies, lifting his brows innocently like he doesn’t remember ordering for you.

“Tim!” Lucy calls as the door to the restaurant opens behind you.

You smile and turn, then stand and hug Lucy. She pulls back and offers her right hand, which you take in yours. Tim watches as you shake her hand, then flip your fingers to hold her wrist before sliding your palms against one another. Laughing as you hook your fingers with Lucy’s, then snap, you almost forget that other people are around.

“Um, excuse me?” Angela interjects as she stops beside you. “I want a handshake.”

“It’s reserved for best friends,” Lucy argues. She winks at you as she sits beside you.

Angela groans, then smiles and introduces herself and Wesley Evers. You shake their hands before you lower to your seat. Tim’s eyes are on you, but your neck is already warming, so you keep your gaze forward.

“I was under the impression we were all meeting you for the first time today,” Angela tells you, looking pointedly at Lucy.

“We met at the station,” Lucy explains. “I recognized her from one of Tim’s pictures.”

“When did you see my pictures?” Tim interrupts, momentarily distracted from his internal wondering of how you and Lucy hit it off so quickly.

“Anyway,” Lucy deflects, “Nolan is running a few minutes late, but he’ll be here soon.”

“Did you come up with the handshake yourself?” Wesley asks you.

“I did,” you answer softly. “But it was Lucy’s idea.”

“Were you on the clock?” Tim inquires over your head.

“No,” you and Lucy answer together.

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and looks down to ask, “How long have you been friends?”

“About a month,” Lucy answers.

Their conversation is interrupted by the waitress returning with drinks for the table. After Angela thanks Tim for remembering her favorite, Tim gently taps his elbow against your arm. You turn toward him and interlace your fingers beneath the table.

“So, while I was fighting to get you to talk to me, hold eye contact… you were hanging out with Lucy and making secret handshakes?” he accuses.

“Bet you’re wishing you’d picked up Nolan,” Wesley tells Lucy.

“Wasn’t the goal of breakfast to let us bond?” Lucy defends for you. “We just bonded early.”

“He’s mad that you stole his girlfriend’s limited attention,” Angela explains. She meets your eyes and smiles. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you promise. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, Tim.”

Tim sighs and murmurs, “I suppose there will be even more handshakes now.” As Angela cheers, he reaches across the table for a straw and uses his arm as cover to whisper, “I’m the only one who gets secret kisses, though.”

You nod, fighting the shy smile growing at his words.

“Hey, Nolan,” Wesley calls. “Lucky for you, no one else has to talk once John gets here.”

Tim takes your hand under the table, and as his thumb brushes over your knuckles, you know your relationship is better than all the secret handshakes in the world. But then he orders for you, and the women at the table act like it’s the sweetest thing anyone has done since Fitzwilliam Darcy walked to propose to Elizabeth Bennet. You turn to hide your face against his arm.

“Wait, handshakes?” Nolan exclaims a moment later. “I love handshakes!”

“No you don’t,” Tim warns, his hand warm against your back.

#hanna's asks #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford blurb #tim bradford fluff #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯#hanna's blurbs

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shares-a-vest · 8 months ago

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Prompt: Daddy (Discord Drabble)

Eddie can feel his heart beginning to race when he checks his watch. He sets down his large Coke (a payment from Steve, who is slipping into the driver's seat) between his legs to set an alarm.

He is sure Burt will take more than half an hour on his lunch break but, considering how hard it was for Wayne to score him this job, Eddie decides to err on the side of caution.

For one time in his life.

This probably isn't the best idea anyway – giving his just-friend free rein over the most expensive car in the shop right now, all for the low, low price of a gas station beverage.

But the car in question is a red Corvette, a near enough model to single decorative embellishment donning Steve's bedroom wall.

But Steve likes cars.

And Eddie likes Coca-Cola from that ancient soda machine on the other side of town.

But most of all, Eddie wants to impress Steve.

Steve, who leans over and clips him in – a gesture that almost has Eddie spreading his goddamn legs in a way that would leave the car vulnerable to being ruined by brown sugary goodness.

He scrambles for his drink and covers a possible gasp (okay – it was a gasp) with a big enough sip he gives himself a brain freeze as Steve retreats and fires up the engine.

"Oh yeah," Steve hums, positively groping the steering wheel, "Purr for Daddy."

Eddie splutters, spraying Coke onto the outside of the glove compartment.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie ficlet #lilys drabbles #stwgdailyprompt

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

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