#quiver distribution

[gebo4482]

Night Shift | Official Trailer

Dir: Benjamin China / Paul China Star: Phoebe Tonkin / Madison Hu / Lamorne Morris

#night shift #night shift (2024) #benjamin china #paul china #horror movies #thriller movies #trailer #quiver distribution

[fearsmagazine]

FOLLOW HER - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: Quiver

SYNOPSIS: “Jess has finally found her hook: secretly filming creepy interactions she encounters via online job listings, and using the kinks of others to fuel her streaming success. For her next episode, she’s been hired by Tom to write the ending of a screenplay in a remote, lavish cabin. Once there, the alluring self-proclaimed screenwriter hands her a script in which the two of them are the main characters. This client isn’t what he seems, and even though the money’s great… the real payment here could cost her life.” - Quiver

REVIEW: FOLLOW HER is a cleaver idea that deals with the take down of an aggressive influencer whose karma catches up with her. Actress Dani Barker is also the film’s writer and a producer. She weaves together some interesting ideas, creates a character you’ll love to hate, and is an overall above average independent genre film.

The screenplay for FOLLOW HER tackles the arc of the main character Jess. It is made clear early on that she gives little thought to taking advantage of everyone, including her family, to get what she wants. She exploits people’s fetishes, she is usually careful, but something goes wrong with her latest encounter. Instead of taking it down, she leaves it online as it continues to trend and reaches a new level. When she comes across a writing opportunity that deals with themes she is familiar with, and pays good money, she throws caution to the wind and heads to the country to meet the screenwriter. What ensues is a game of cat-&-mouse as Jess comes to realize the setup is too perfect and there is something more going on than she expected or planned for. There are moments when Jess’s ego and greed overcomes her sense of self-preservation and ultimately the climax presents a strange twist that is an overthought “Absence of Malice.” The story does not end there. There is a scene with Jess, her father and the police that feels out of place and almost like an afterthought to the entire narrative. There is a final sequence that adds another level of the strange and bizarre, which also provides the title of the film. I was in for the majority of the tale, however the subsequent scenes felt unnecessary and bewildering.

Dani Barker and Luke Cook, the two main actors, carry the story. Barker portrays a mean girl, a self-absorbed influencer of today, and I enjoyed seeing her in danger. Yes, I was rooting for the bad guy, Tom. Luke’s Tom is a charming and twisted character, and the humor flows naturally. His performance reminds me of a cross between Christian Bale’s Patrick Bateman and Jack Nicholson’s The Joker. The actors have a strong rapport and their on-screen interactions are believable and engaging. The actors have excellent chemistry, but their rapport creates a light-hearted atmosphere that undermines the suspense and makes it difficult for the audience to become fully invested in the story.

The production values are solid, the editing creates a nice pace for the majority of the film. The barn is an excellent location, the others are adequate. Jess has some interesting costume designs and Barker seems very comfortable in them.

FOLLOW HER, an adult-themed film that never achieves a level of seriousness and peril that I believe it should. There are excellent performances and some witty banter, but the story has two additional scenes, the first feels awkward and the second is an additional punchline that feels like it is there to simply set up the title of the film. Still, it is a deadly frolic where you can’t help but cheer for Jess’ demise.

CAST: Luke Cook, Dani Barker, Eliana Jones and Mark Moses CREW: Director / Producer - Sylvia Caminer; Screenplay / Producer - Dani Barker; Producer - Michael Indjeian; Cinematographer - Luke Geissbuhler; Score - Alexander Arntzen; Editor - Alex Gans; Production Designer - Noa Rachel Bricklin; Costume Designer - Caycee Black; Visual Effects Supervisor - Alex Noble OFFICIAL: www.followherfilm.com FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/FollowHerFilm TWITTER: twitter.com/FollowHerFilm TRAILER: https://youtu.be/19ELKe8IKXo RELEASE DATE: In Select Theaters & VOD June 2nd, 2023

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay), or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

#film review #movie review #follow her #followhermovie #quiver distribution #luke cook #dani barker #Sylvia Caminer #horror #influencer #thriller #joseph mauceri #joseph b mauceri

[moviesandmania]

THE WRATH OF BECKY (2023) Reviews, more images and new red band trailer

‘Hell hath no fury like a 16-year-old-scorned.’ The Wrath of Becky is a 2023 American action horror film about a teenage girl fighting the leader of a fascist group; it is a sequel to Becky (2020). Formerly titled Becky 2: The Wrath of Becky Directed by Matt Angel from a screenplay co-written with Suzanne Coote (Hypnotic; The Open House). The movie stars Lulu Wilson (The Clinic; Annabelle:…

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#2023 #action horror #Lulu Wilson #Matt Angel #movie film #Quiver Distribution #review reviews #Seann William Scott #Suzanne Coote #The Wrath of Becky #trailer

[thepeoplesmovies]

Watch Trailer Walter Hill's Dead For A Dollar

Watch Trailer Walter Hill's Dead For A Dollar @QuiverDistrib #walterhill #deadforadollar #christophwaltz #VeniceFilmFestival

Rachel Brosnahan is a damsel in distress in the (U.S)Trailer for indie Western Dead For A Dollar. Quiver Distribution are releasing this film from veteran filmmaker Walter Hill (The Warriors, Southern Comfort, 48hrs) which is about to make it’s premiere at Venice Film Festival. We follow a bounty hunter (Waltz) who goes into Mexico to search and find the wife of a wealthy businessman (Brosnahan).…

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#2022 #christoph waltz #Dead For A Dollar #Quiver Distribution #Rachel Brosnahan #USA #willem Dafoe

[horrorpatch]

New Clip For Supernatural Horror Film NIGHT SHIFT!

A few weeks back, we brought you guys the official trailer for the upcoming supernatural horror film, NIGHT SHIFT. Today, we have a new clip from the film to show you. Look for the movie to be released in Select Theaters and VOD March 8th. Watch the new clip and get more info on the movie right here below. From The Press Release Presents Fear Never Sleeps… In Select Theaters and VOD March…

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#Night Shift #Phoebe Tonkin #Quiver Distribution #Supernatural Horror

[cultfaction]

Quiver Distribution wraps Freddie Prinze Jr.'s The Girl in the Pool

Quiver Distribution have announced today that they have partnered with Blacktop International who will launch sales of the Freddie Prinze Jr. thriller The Girl in the Pool at the upcoming Berlinale European Film Market (EFM). The film stars Prinze Jr (I Know What You Did Last Summer, Christmas With You) alongside Monica Potter (Along Came a Spider, Parenthood) and Kevin Pollak (The Usual…

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#Freddie Prinze Jr. #Quiver Distribution #The Girl in the Pool

[chosopie]

FLUNK OR FUCK - SATORU GOJO

Gojo was the popular kid in college who often attended frat parties and was known for his pretty face and athletic abilities. He had numerous girls up on his shit who would desperately beg him for a chance, but no. His eyes were set on you.

A lot of people didn’t understand why he was so fixated on someone like you. You were a STEM girl—the complete opposite of him. You two came from different crowds that didn’t get along.

Gojo was tempting. You couldn’t deny the fact that he was hot. He had a nice toned figure and angelic facial features. It was like he was sculpted by the gods and descended straight from Olympus. You had nothing against dating him, but you had standards. The kind of man you wanted was someone who was responsible and intellectual. You couldn’t stand the thought of being with a guy who had shits for brains.

“Y/N! What could I possibly do to make you date me?” He whined into your ear. He had been pestering you for 45 minutes now while you were busy summarizing your notes for tomorrow’s upcoming math test.

“Please, just one chance!”

“Ugh,” you groaned, finally turning away from your notebook. “One condition.”

“Anything!” He exclaimed.

“Pass tomorrow’s math test and I’ll let you hit,” you proposed.

“Too easy! It’s just basic math,” he scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Sure,” you rolled your eyes. “Good luck.”

-

It was the day of the test. Gojo was comfortably sat on his chair with his legs crossed, his mind thinking about how close he was to getting some pussy—yours, which made it even more exciting. The professor started distributing the papers to the students in the front row. After all the papers had been given to those students, they started passing the papers backwards. You were one of those students in the front and as expected, you were already leaning over, your back slouched and your forehead close to touching your table while you started solving the problems.

Gojo looked at his paper, carefully analyzing the first equation.

“This ain’t so bad. Y/N taught me this. You just gotta use that one formula,” he thought.

Done. Next problem.

This one wasn’t a challenge either since it was relatively similar to the first problem. Gojo triumphantly smirked and started writing his answers.

Next.

“Guys, what the fuck is that…” he mumbled to himself, his hands clutching his hair. “I’m fucking cooked.”

-

“Do better.” The professor sighed as he handed Gojo his paper.

“Don’t play with me like that,” Gojo nervously laughed. He had to have passed, right? He answered most of the questions. It was just that one question he left blank.

11/30.

The red writing on the top right of the paper stared at him.

“Gojo!” You called, walking over to his seat. He was slouching, quickly putting his paper away the moment he heard your voice.

“What’s your score?” You asked.

There was no response.

“Gojo?” You worriedly asked, then you looked at his stiff face. “So, you failed?”

“Please. Pussy….” he softly pleaded.

“Seriously? That’s the last thing you should be worried about right now,” you sighed, rubbing his back. You suddenly heard sniffles.

“Fine! For fuck’s sake, Gojo! Just come by my apartment at 5 and we could fuck. I’ll teach you too so you better pass the next test.”

“Thank you,” his voice quivered. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

: ̗̀➛ part 2

#rev.writes #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo satoru

[asterias-record-shop]

╭════• ೋ•✧๑♡๑✧•ೋ •═══╮

— wait, w-wait! f-fuck!

╰════• ೋ•✧๑♡๑✧•ೋ •═══╯

𓆩[main masterlist]𓆪 𓆩[request/ask me something!]𓆪

ok but what do we think about the new imagine banner — I love it.

ethan was a virgin, and you were determined to make his first blowjob something to remember. sub! ethan x dom! reader

He whines as you hold his quivering thighs, nails dragging over his milky skin as he bucked his hips up into you. You gagged making him gasp, quickly sitting up. “I’m sorry!”

You pulled away, gasping as you pulled away from his cock, a string of mixed saliva and cum attaching your lips to his tip. “Don’t be sorry, honey, I’m making you feel good?” You whisper, dragging your tongue up the bottom of his cock. “Right?”

He whined, nodding repeatedly. “Yes, yes! So good, so so good,” he started babbling, his hands holding your cheeks. “Please, please I want it, I want you so bad, please.”

“What do you want baby? Tell me, tell me what you want,” you sucked on his tip, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking harder and harder making him whine.

“No! No, please, I can’t. I can’t, I can’t cum without, w-without you- holy fuck, shit!” He groaned out, eyes rolling back as you pulled his cock farther down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis as he bucked his hips.

He could feel his stomach churning as he bucked his hips, eyes rolling back. He could hear you gagging around his cock, his hips moving almost uncontrollably now. You were making him feel so good, basically sucking out all of his cum as he whined loudly and rolled his hips.

“Pl-Please, it’s too much, it’s too much! Wait, w-wait! F-Fuck!” He screamed out, eyes rolling back as he moaned loudly.

He could feel his stomach tightening, your hot mouth never pulling away from his cock, staring at his clenching stomach and his hands that shook in your hair, shakily holding it back.

You pulled away, humming as you wipe at your cum stained lips and swallow. He gasps, sitting up. “Did you just- did you just swallow it?!”

You laugh, pushing him back down as you straddled his hips. “Of course I did,” you whisper, rising over his cock as you pumped him slightly, giggling. “You taste good, E. Got another one for me?”

He nods. “Y-Yes, of course.”

You giggle. “Good boy.”

Taglist: 𓆩[@lem0ns77]𓆪   𓆩[@cecepop15]𓆪   𓆩[@memeorydotcom]𓆪   𓆩[@your-favorite-god]𓆪

i do not consent to the publication, translation, or distribution of my work at any point in time on any platform.

© asterias-record-shop

#asterias-record-shop #requests open #ethan landry #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x fem!reader #ethan landry smut #ethan landry x you #smut smut smut #scream vi #scream #scream six #scream fanfic #scream movies #sub! ethan landry

[vampiremillk]

❛ damn, boy ! slow down ! ❜

PUSSYDRUNK THOMAS HEWITT DRABBLE black chubby reader , breeding , overstimulation , size kink , stamina kink , thomas ain't stoppin' for absolutely anybody

imagine crying to thomas that he’s so close to splitting you in half and for him to take it easy because he’s such an enormous stretch for your pink, sloppy cunt to take. he wants to do as you say, but your mewls are so pretty, you feel too good, and he simply wants nothing more than to have one final thrust within you until you've milked his balls completely tired of unloading his cream.

he has you perched on your hands and knees atop his bedsheets, merciless backshots that consisted of your ass bouncing back against his stomach and recoiling in beautiful chocolate ripples each time your pussy swallowed him whole. those large palms had a vice grip on your hips whose lush flesh melted into the curves of his knuckles and bulged through the gaps atween each finger, dominating all of your lower movements. the warmth dripping from his growl ignited a flame upon your sweat-glittered spine, one of his hands then shifting to grope the pudge of your tummy so lovingly firm when he proceeded to quicken the pace. no matter what position you two were bedded in, he couldn't get enough of watching your fupa dance every single moment his fat, mushroomed tip greedily kissed your cervix. out of everything, that sight hustled him to his limit the most.

“mm, fuck!” your lips rolled inside both sets of teeth, gripping the comforter so damn tightly so you didn’t slip off of the mattress with how feverishly he was pounding into you, your lips separating to pant like a bitch in heat. “fuck, fuck, fuck! t-tommy.. baby, please.. wait.. too much!” it wasn’t the first time either of you had cum; he was going onto his sixth round, and you? you lost count of how many times your abused pussy had forcefully pushed his cock out of you in order to release a slutty stream of juice that splattered all over him and wet up his happy trail. clearly, it didn't slow him down one bit, because he’d stuff his dick right back in when you were done being a quivering, sputtering mess.

get ready for a long, long night, mrs. hewitt.

©️ VAMPIREMILLK . do not plagiarize, distribute to other sites or translate any of my work without my permission .

#thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt smut #thomas hewitt headcanons #slasher x reader #black reader #chubby reader #x black reader #x chubby reader #slasher fucker #slashersimp$entral

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 4: Zeus, God Of Thunder]

A/N: Can you believe we're already 1/3 done with this series?? I sure can't! I hope you enjoy Chapter 4. I'm so excited to show you where we're headed. The times are indeed a-changin'... 😉

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: 7.3k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs @minttea07 @babyblue711

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You unzip the floral suitcase that Alicent gave the nurses to pack for you. Inside are the hundreds of greeting cards sent by people from the Atlantic to the Rockies; downstairs, Eudoxia is distributing a dozen bouquets of flowers throughout the house with appropriate grimness, and more arrive each hour. You lift cards out of the suitcase by the handful and lay them down on your bed. Every movement feels slow, every thought muddled, bare feet in cold wet sand that swallows you to your ankles. The windows are open, the sheer curtains billowing. The wind whips in off the ocean, smelling of brine and sun glare, life and death.

Aemond emerges from the bathroom in a gale of steam. He finishes adjusting his eyepatch and then dresses himself: white shorts, blue polo. Aemond wears a lot of blue. It is Greek, is it American, it is the Democratic Party, it is the color of the sky that was once believed to hold Olympus, it is everything he’s ever been or wanted to be. He’s humming The House Of The Rising Sun. It’s the first time you’ve truly been alone since the night before he caught his flight to Tacoma.

Beneath the greeting cards you find the books, cosmetics, and three new sundresses, none of which you ended up wearing home. Alicent bought you a plain black shift dress, matching gloves and flats, and opaque sunglasses to hide your face from the journalists who waited outside the hospital. And there is one last item to unpack. At the bottom of the suitcase is a clear plastic bag containing fabric, white dotted with bruises of common blue violets. At first you are confounded, and then you turn it over to see the dark, saturated stain of crimson. It’s the sundress you were wearing the day you were rushed to Mount Sinai to have Ari. The nurses hadn’t known if you wanted to keep it, burn it, bury it.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s surprised by the question. He goes to his writing desk and turns the chair around so it’s facing you. He sits, crosses one leg over the other, leans back and hides his hands in his pockets. His tone is gentle, but his gaze is hard. “By the time I heard that you’d had the baby, it was already over. You were out of surgery, he was in an incubator, and that was the immutable reality. I figured there was nothing I could do at that point to improve the outcome. And that’s true. Me flying back early wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“But you should have been there,” you insist, eyes wet, voice quivering. “You should have known him like I did.”

“Winning Washington was important.”

“Washington is a basket of votes, Ari was our child, he was real.”

“No one told me he was dying—”

“Because you didn’t pick up the fucking phone.”

Aemond is incredulous, like he couldn’t have heard you correctly. “It’s not like I was playing golf or drinking myself under some bar, I was campaigning 20 hours a day and it worked.”

“Nothing on earth could have kept me away from you when you got shot in Palm Beach.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just about Washington,” Aemond says, and his words aren’t gentle anymore. They are razored, dauntless, daring you to battle him. “It’s about the whole picture, it’s about the momentum. If I had underperformed in Washington, the dominoes would fall in Kentucky, and Utah, and Virginia, and then at the national convention in August, and then against Nixon in November. I don’t have the luxury of disappearing from the public eye to sit adoringly by your bedside when we both know there isn’t a single goddamn thing I can do to help.”

“It would have made you look like a better man.”

“But not a better president.”

And like a fracture being snapped back into place, you remember what Aegon said on that bloodstained night in Florida: You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you. You stare down at the ruined dress entombed in plastic, still clutched in your hands. You don’t dare to let Aemond see your eyes. You’re afraid you won’t be able to disguise the betrayal glistening there. You ask, a whisper, a whimper: “Why aren’t you sad?” I thought you loved him. I thought you were always so worried about him.

“Of course I’m sad,” Aemond says, more kindly now, patiently, like he’s speaking to someone who can’t be expected to comprehend. “But it’s different for the mother.”

You can’t reply. If you do, something lethal will pour out, smoke and poison and arrows, something that shoots to kill. Ari was quietly interred at the Targaryen family mausoleum in Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park. It had felt so wrong to leave his tiny casket there in a silent stone prison full of strangers.

Aemond is behind you now, trying to knead the tension out of your shoulders. And for the first time in two years, you wish he’d stop touching you. Your belly hurts, your head hurts, your heart hurts, you are a garden blooming with bruises and scars. “I know you aren’t in your right mind. Everything will be better soon. I promise.”

Tears gather on your eyelashes. “I miss him.”

“We’ll have others. Here, let me take that…” Aemond grabs the bag holding your ruined dress and it’s out of your reach before you can think to resist. “You should get ready for dinner.”

“Okay,” you reply numbly, now gazing down at your empty palms. Aemond leaves with his grisly parcel, and you never see it again. But once he’s gone you don’t shed your black mourning dress, blood-soaked pad, bandages, and shake loose your hair and step into the shower. Instead, you walk around the bed to pick up the mint green rotary phone on your nightstand. You speak to a series of operators before you reach the Harbour Rocks Hotel in Sydney. While you listen to the ringing through the intercontinental wire, you sit down on the bed. You’ve never felt low like this. You’ve never felt so unmoored from everything you had believed about your life.

A gruff, familiar voice answers. He’s just waking up, slurping on his morning coffee, dabbing his moustache with a napkin. “Hello?”

“Daddy, I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“What?” he asks, and immediately he is no longer groggy but desperately concerned. Your parents are away on a month-long tour of Australia and often incommunicado. By the time they received news of Ari’s death and called Mount Sinai in hysterics to speak with you, you had told them not to rush home. You were about to be released, and they would not make it in time for the funeral regardless. Aemond insisted on a swift, private ceremony, a detour on the drive back to Asteria, like it was something he couldn’t wait to put in his rearview mirror. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Aemond, he…” He’s not the man I thought he was. I don’t know him, I don’t trust him. “He’s not acting right, he’s not…he didn’t…Daddy, it’s like he doesn’t care. And I don’t want to be here anymore. Can I fly down to Tarpon Springs when you and Mama get back? Can I stay with you for a while? And then…and then…” You don’t even know what words you’re looking for. They don’t exist in your universe.

 “Listen, honey,” your father says with great tenderness. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” You’re trying to stifle your sobs so no one downstairs hears you.

“You’ve just been through something terrible. So terrible I can’t even imagine it. And of course you’re feeling out of sorts. But Aemond is your husband, he’s your protector and your ally, your best friend, your partner in life. He’s not the one responsible for what happened. You can’t misdirect your heartache at him.”

“But he’s…Daddy, there’s…there’s something wrong with him.”

“Oftentimes, it’s easier for women to talk about their emotions, both good and bad. But for men—especially men like Aemond who are so self-disciplined by nature—it can be like pulling teeth to express themselves. They don’t like to be vulnerable. They actually think they’re failing in their commitments to their wife if they let her see how much they’re struggling. Aemond is hurting just like you are. He might not show it in the way you expect, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Of course he cares.”

How do you know, Daddy? Have you cut him open and studied his brain, his ropy nerves, the dark chambers of his heart? “I thought he saw me like you see Mama, I thought he included me in everything because he loved and respected me, but that’s not it. He just needs someone to help him get elected, that’s all Ari and I were to him, and I can’t…I just can’t…the thought of him touching me now…”

“Sweetheart, Aemond is a good man,” your father says. “He does love you. He does respect you. And he’s doing such incredible things for this country. I have friends in Florida who’ve been voting Republican since Hoover, but they’re crossing over for Aemond. They think he’s the one to clean up this mess. Vietnam, poverty, civil rights, the riots, the shootings, the hippies, the drugs, the Russians, the Chinese, someone has to pick up the pieces and create something that makes sense. Do you think Nixon or Humphrey would end the war by this time next year? Do you think either of them would compel the South to enforce voting rights or desegregation?”

“No,” you say, closing your eyes. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what I’ve learned about Aemond.

“Here, your mom wants to say something.” Your father vanishes; your mother’s voice comes piping across the copper submarine cables that span the length of the Pacific Ocean. You wonder—randomly, distractedly—if any of the wires connecting you to Sydney run through Arizona, the place Aegon told you he didn’t want to leave.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, distraught, hearing the exhaustion and misery in your voice. “You’ve got the baby blues, and no baby to hold good and close to help them run their course. I’m so sorry. It’s just awful, so awful.”

You speak before you know what you’re going to say. “I don’t want to be married to Aemond anymore.”

“You’re confused, sweetheart. Your hormones are all over the place, you’re in pain, you’ve just had major surgery, and after this year with all the stress from the campaign and that horrific shooting in Palm Beach—”

“He’s not like Daddy.” Tears are flooding down your cheeks; your voice is hoarse. “I thought he was, but he’s not.”

“You cannot make a mistake like this,” your mother says, and she’s turned from silk to steel. “If you do something drastic now, you’ll wake up in a month or six months or a year and realize you’ve ruined not just your life, but the chance this country had at a better future. Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? Every marriage goes through tough times. Every husband needs to learn how to care for his wife, and every wife how to best support her husband. That’s natural, and you’ve only been married two years. Of course you and Aemond are still learning how to navigate life together. It only seems so much worse because of what’s happened to the baby.”

Is she right? Am I wrong? “I don’t know,” you say weakly.

“If you leave now, what happens?” your mother demands. “You abandon the campaign and Aemond’s support plummets. You are a divorcee, a sinner, a failure. You don’t get your son back. But you do lose everything you’ve helped build. Marriage isn’t an experiment, ‘oh let’s give it a try and if we hit any bumps we’ll call the whole thing off.’ No. It’s a covenant. Marriage is for life.”

Yes it is, in just about every faith, and certainly for the Greek Orthodox Church. You are suddenly consumed by mistrust for your own body, this flesh that failed your son and now is deceiving you with doubt so heavy—like cold iron or lead or platinum—it masquerades as truth. How could you imagine a life after Aemond? What waits for you in Tarpon Springs besides the promise of an eventual remarriage that is banal, powerless, bleak, exactly what you’ve always plotted so willfully to avoid?

“Do you understand me, honey?” your mother asks, and she’s soft and kind again. “I don’t mean to be strict with you. My heart breaks for you, and I love you. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to protect you from yourself.”

“Yes.” There are people getting massacred in Vietnam right now; there are people who can’t afford roofs over their heads. Who am I to complain? Your tears have stopped; your breathing is now slow and measured. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

After you’ve hung up, you stay where you are for a long time, your hands folded limply in your lap and gazing at the paintings hung on the pale blue walls: small replicas of The Birth of Venus, Romulus and Remus, Prometheus Bound, Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, Echo and Narcissus, Jupiter and Io. Then you get up to sift through the greeting cards you’ve piled on the bed, not really seeing them. Only one captures your attention. Only one jolts you out of the fog like a flash of lightning through dark churning clouds.

You take the card Aegon gave you back when you were still a mother and set it upright on your nightstand, consider it for a while, wander into the bathroom to scrub the despair from your skin and change into something less somber for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re playing Battleship with Cosmo by the edge of the swimming pool while all the other children splash around, howling with laughter and diving for toys they throw to the bottom and then fetch with their teeth like golden retrievers, G.I. Joes and Barbies and Trolls and even a waterlogged Mr. Potato Head. The nannies are observing intently, poised to leap in if anyone should appear to be at risk of drowning. If Ari had lived, I wouldn’t have wanted nannies to raise him, you think. I would have wanted him to have a normal childhood. I would have wanted to know him.

“Your turn,” Cosmo says with a grin. He’s the one who looks the most like Aegon, or how you imagine Aegon must have looked before the pills and the booze and the long caged decades. His hair is so light a blonde it’s nearly white, his eyes huge and glimmering and mischievous. Battleship is a bit advanced for a five-year-old. Cosmo keeps guessing the same coordinates over and over, so you periodically lie and tell him he’s sunk one of your ships. When you launch a successful attack against his, he seems to think it’s fair game to relocate the vessel to a more advantageous location.

“D7.”

He picks up his aircraft carrier and repositions it. From the record player drifts California Dreamin’. “Nope! Nothing sank!”

“Wow. I’m so bad at this.”

Cosmo is snickering. “Yeah, you are. Really bad.”

“If I got drafted, the Army would be better off leaving me at home. I’d just be a nuisance.”

“What’s drafted?”

“Never mind. Your turn to guess.”

“J12!”

The grid only goes up to 10. Nonetheless, you slap your own forehead dramatically. “Oh no, not again! You sunk my battleship!”

“Yay!” Cosmo cheers, then turns to the Jacuzzi. It’s brand new, just installed last month. “Mom, did you see? I’m winning!”

You glance over at Mimi. She has passed out, her latest Gimlet drained and her head resting atop her crossed arms, propped on the rim of the Jacuzzi. “Uh, Cosmo, run inside and ask Doxie to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, okay?”

“Okay.” He scampers off, toddling on reckless little legs.

With no shortage of difficulty, you manage to stand. Each day your abdominal muscles feel less like they’ve been shredded and then mended with threads of fire, but the pain is still bad, very bad, and there are spots of skin on your belly that are numb when you skim your fingertips across them. You will have a long vertical scar like Aemond’s, an irreparable reminder of the blood you’ve paid to the cause. And for all your anguish, this particular fact doesn’t torment you. It is proof that Ari existed, however briefly, however futilely.

You amble over to the Jacuzzi, your roomy lavender dress flowing in the wind, and shove one of Mimi’s shoulders. “Mimi, wake up. Get out of the water.”

She mumbles incoherently in response. You reach for her before remembering you can’t lift anything. You look around. Alicent and Helaena are on lounge chairs at the other end of the pool; Alicent is trying very hard to look interested while Helaena shows her about 100 different butterfly species pictured in a kaleidoscopically colorful book. Criston is off giving Ludwika a tour of the property, flanked by a flock of Alopekis hoping for treats. Ludwika is Otto’s wife of six months but only newly arrived, 30 years old, perpetually unimpressed, modelesque, golden blonde, if Barbie was from Poland. Aemond, Otto, and Viserys—his sparse threads of silver hair hanging like cobwebs around his gaunt face, grimacing and clutching the armrests of his wheelchair—are conspiring on the lawn between the main house and the pool. They haven’t noticed your predicament. Fosco is sauntering by wearing some of the tiniest swim shorts you’ve ever seen. He is the son of an Italian count, gangly and chatty and from what you’ve seen almost certainly addicted to gambling.

“Will you help me move Mimi, please?” you ask him. “I’m afraid she’s going to drown.”

“Of course, of course, no problem. Let me handle it. Do not hurt yourself.” He has her half-dragged out of the Jacuzzi before Mimi startles awake.

“What’s going on?” she slurs. “Put me down, I can walk.”

“I doubt it,” you say.

“You are alright?” Fosco asks Mimi as he steadies her on the cement, wet with pool water. She clutches at his forearms helplessly.

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Mimi, go inside,” you say. “Eat a sandwich. Tell Cosmo you’re proud of him for winning Battleship.”

“Battleship? Well, that’s just ridiculous. He’s five. Five-year-olds can’t play Battleship.”

“And yet you will congratulate him regardless.”

She can feel your impatience, your judgement, sharp like wasp stings. Mimi retreats like a kicked dog to the main house, somehow summoning the will to remain mostly upright.

You look to Fosco. “Do you know where Aegon is?” You want to see him, but you also don’t; each time you’re in the same room now is a disorienting storm of familiarity, curiosity, painful reminders, annoyance, awkwardness, longingness to again feel as close to him—to anyone—as you did during those fleeting moments at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

Fosco chuckles. “Where is he ever? Napping, sailing, drinking, on the phone with one of his lady friends. I could not say. I have not seen him recently.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.” The music stops—the record needs to be flipped over—and now you can just barely hear what Aemond, Otto, and Viserys are discussing.

“And you criticized me for going too young,” Aemond says to Otto. “What’s your age difference with Ludwika? 40 years?”

“She’s good publicity. She defected from the Eastern Bloc in search of the American Dream.”

“Being married to you?” Aemond quips. “I think she found the American Nightmare.”

“Speaking of wives,” Otto continues. “I assume since yours had one surgery, that’s how all the future children will need to be born, is that right?”

Aemond nods, frowning. “Yeah. And the doctors said she shouldn’t have more than three. It weakens the uterus, I guess, all that slicing and suturing. Do it too many times and ruptures get more likely, and those can be fatal.”

“Very unfortunate,” Viserys rasps. “Children are our greatest legacy. I wanted at least ten, but your mother…well…after Daeron, it just never happened again.” And you know that this is just one of the ways in which Aemond had planned to win his father’s admiration: by contributing more new Targaryens to the dynasty than anyone else. Now that’s impossible.

Otto sighs wistfully. “To have a brand new baby to parade around in the fall…that would have been wonderful.” For the first time in two years, you can sense that you have disappointed him. Fosco is watching you, uneasy, ashamed, sorry without knowing what to do about it.

“Absolutely,” Aemond says, as if this is not the first time the thought has crossed his mind. “But it’s done now. There’s no sense in dwelling on what might have been. We must look forward. It’s feasible that…well…if we try again and get good news by October, we can announce in time for Election Day…”

You can’t listen anymore. Your belly aching, your bare feet hurrying through warm emerald grass, you traverse the lawn and disappear into Helaena’s garden, painstakingly tended and continuously expanded since she was a little girl. There are marigolds and daffodils, tulips and roses, azaleas, asters, butterfly bushes, chrysanthemums, lilies and lupines, sunflowers, violets, life blooming in a hundred different shades. There are tiny statues too, tucked away in random places, stone angels and untamed creatures, alligators and turtles and rabbits and cats, the only sort the Alopekis will tolerate. At the very center of the garden is a tall circle of hedges with only one opening, an arched doorway cut into the thick lush green. You’ve been here before, though only with Aemond. On a property shared with so many family members—and the occasional intrusive journalist—it’s a good place to escape prying eyes. You pass through the threshold with a hand resting absentmindedly on your belly, as if you’re still pregnant. You keep doing this. Each time you remember you’re at the end of something rather than the beginning, it carves you open all over again.

Around the inside perimeter of the circle are twelve sculptures positioned like numbers on a clock: eleven Olympians and Hades, confined to the Underworld. In the middle of the clearing is the largest stature of all, a wrathful Zeus hurling lightning bolts and surrounded by a gurgling fountain of glass-clear water. Under the shadow of Zeus, Aegon is sprawled on the ground and smoking a joint. “So you’re hiding from them too, huh?” He gives you a sly, welcome-to-the-club smirk, then offers you his joint. “Want a hit?”

You shake your head, not taking another step towards him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He is confused. “Done what?”

“Any of it.” I told him about my life before. I made the mistake of thinking I could go back.

Aegon still doesn’t seem to understand. “You’re scared I’m gonna snitch?”

You shrug, evasive. It’s not just the fact that he knows. It’s the sensation that you’ve unlatched something—an attic room, a jewelry box, a birdcage—and now you can’t get it locked again, and the door rattles with every footstep and storm wind, and you are no longer Aphrodite or Io but Pandora, a hunger growing in your stitched womb like a child.

“What? What’s wrong with you?” And that’s always how he says it, not what’s the matter or are you alright or what did I do or how can I fix it?

“I’m kind of…embarrassed, I guess.”

“Embarrassed,” Aegon echoes. “Because of me?”

“I feel like I said and did a lot of things that were out of character because I was emotionally compromised.”

“They were out of character for who you’ve been trying to convince everyone you are since you married Aemond, sure. But they weren’t out of character for you.”

He’s treading too close now, arrows piercing their mark, a tremor near the epicenter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Au contraire, I have acquired many interesting revelations recently.”

“Where’d you learn French? From Mimi?”

His smile dies. “Boarding school.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to be around Aegon without either hating him or letting him see parts of yourself that you’re trying to drown like Icarus in the waves. You glance yearningly towards the doorway cut into the hedges.

All at once, Aegon is furious. “You don’t want to talk to me? You want to go back to how it was before, you want to pretend Mount Sinai never happened? Fine. You got it. Wish fucking granted. Whatever you have to do.”

He turns away from you. You flee from him. But that night when Asteria is hushed and still—Aemond, Criston, and Otto are attending a fundraising dinner in Philadelphia, and you are temporarily excused from accompanying them as you recover—you creep down into the basement of the main house to apologize. Mimi sleeps in a bedroom on the second floor, but here Aegon can keep odd hours and drink and smoke to his heart’s content, and even entertain clandestine guests, girls who are beautiful and giggling and never invited twice.

Aegon isn’t here. He might be passed out somewhere, or at a party, or maybe even upstairs with Mimi, and something about this idea twists through your mending guts like a blade. In his absence, you take a quick look around his room, something you’ve never done before. You hadn’t had any interest; it wouldn’t even have occurred to you. There’s a large green futon, a matching shag carpet, a television, a bookshelf full of notebooks and paperbacks—Kurt Vonnegut, Harper Lee, Sylvia Plath, Truman Capote, Ken Kesey—and vinyl albums, a record player, and his two acoustic guitars. The first is unpainted maple wood covered with stickers. I’d rather be nowhere reads one; Burn pot not people proclaims another. The second guitar is the souvenir he bought in Manhattan, an aquamarine blue six-string.

There's something strange on his end table. Along with a dozen empty cups is a full ashtray, and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked underneath. You slide the paper out and open it. It’s the receipt you used to solve the long division problem in your hospital room.

Why would he keep this? you think, mystified. There are footsteps above your head, and you quickly return the receipt to where you found it and leave before your trespass can be discovered.

When you emerge from the basement, Fosco is waiting in the hallway and carrying a Tupperware container filled with something that resembles kourabiethes, Greek shortbread cookies. “I thought I saw you sneak down there. What were you looking for?”

You scramble for an explanation. “One of the dogs is missing. Alicent wanted me to check the basement.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” He passes you the Tupperware container. “These are for you. I hope they are not too bad. I baked them myself.”

“Are they…” You shake it. “Biscotti?”

“They are ossi dei morti,” Fosco says. “Bones of the dead. We make them to remember loved ones we have lost. They are hard, so you should dip them in coffee or tea before you try to eat them.”

You open the lid. Inside are long thin cookies coated with powdered sugar. You inhale almond flour, cloves, cinnamon. And you are so touched you cannot find your words.

“You know, there still places in Italy where mothers wear black for years to mourn their children.” This is not trivia; it is an acknowledgement. Your son is gone. There is no shame in the grief that is left behind. In another house, it would be expected, it would be required.

“Thank you, Fosco.”

He smiles warmly. “We are in this together, no? We are pieces of the same machine.”

Then he plods off towards the living room, sliding a rolled-up horse racing program out of the back pocket of his tight plaid pants.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re in Louisville, Kentucky, where thunder quakes the eaves. An hour ago, Aegon was popping Valium and leisurely plucking at his pool water blue Gibson guitar, slumped against the wall, nipping at a flask filled with straight Bacardi. But he’s not anymore. Now he’s gathered around the small color television with you, Criston, Otto, Fosco, Helaena, and Ludwika. The news is just breaking. There was a civil rights protest at the University of Kentucky in Lexington one hour to the east. Someone threw a rock, or someone claims someone threw a rock, or someone threw something that was mistaken for a rock, and in any event the situation escalated from there and local police who were monitoring the demonstration opened fire on a crowd, killing five students and injuring another dozen.

Outside, word is spreading through the crowd of over 2,000 people that have gathered for Aemond’s planned speech at the historic Iroquois Amphitheater, a New Deal project finished in 1938. Rain is pouring, and the venue has no roof. Aemond is already 20 minutes late. The voices are becoming louder, more demanding, more wrathful. They’re shouting that Aemond is too afraid to face them now, that he’s trying to figure out what his statement will be, that he’s cowardly and calculating; and if President Lyndon Baines Johnson was here tonight instead of cursing his bad stars up in Washington D.C., he would certainly have something to say about the capriciousness of voters who love you, hate you, carry you higher, drag you down, all without ever knowing you.

In truth, Aemond is not stalling on purpose. He’s in the bathroom trying to get his prosthetic eye in. It’s been giving him hell all afternoon. He wears his eyepatch at home, but he’s never made a public appearance without his glass eye clean and perfect in his voided socket.

“He’s going to have to say something about it,” you tell the others as you watch the news coverage.

“Say what?” Otto snaps. “If he doesn’t treat those dead kids like martyrs he’s going to get booed off the stage. If he condemns the police he’s going to lose the suburbs. They’ll run to Humphrey now and Nixon in November.”

The weather report called for storms—which is why Alicent, Mimi, and the children are already back at the Seelbach Hotel for the night after a long day of shaking hands and smiling gamely—but no one expected it to get this bad. The room you’re huddled in is just off-stage, so you can see it all: the wind ripping signs and flags from people’s hands, drenched clothes, sopping hair, snarling faces, rain turning puddles to rivers. The stomping of boots is now as loud as the thunder. Rocks and bottles are being pitched at the stage.

“Is America always like this?” Ludwika asks, scandalized.

“No, not at all,” Otto says. “Goddamn animals…”

Aegon replies, not taking his eyes from the television: “You’d be mad too if cops were shooting your friends and the only graduation present you had to look forward to was getting disemboweled by guerillas in Vietnam.”

“I’ve had it with you and your Marxist bullshit! You want to liberate the dispossessed masses? Why don’t you start by donating your monthly drugs and rum budget to the—”

“We should cancel,” Fosco says. “Just call the whole thing off. Tell them Aemond is sick or something.”

“That’s the headline you want? ‘Senator Targaryen hides from grieving supporters who braved a thunderstorm to see him’?! Just give the White House to Nixon now!”

“I don’t think we can cancel,” Criston says softly. “I think if we tried to leave, they’d swarm the car.”

“It’s a riot,” Otto moans, rubbing his face with his hands. “This is what happens when you court voters like this, college kids and hippies, professional malcontents…”

“Aren’t there police outside?” Ludwika says anxiously.

“Yeah, a handful,” Criston tells her. “And if they try to do anything this will erupt and we can add to the body count in Lexington…”

You leave them and follow a hallway to the men’s bathroom; on the periphery of your vision, you can tell that Aegon is watching you go. You push the door open and find a row of stalls and three sinks, one of which Aemond is standing in front of as he stares into his reflection and attempts to shove the prosthetic eye into his empty, gore-red left socket. His suit is navy blue, his hair neatly slicked back, his shoes so polished they’re reflective like a mirror.

“Fuck,” he hisses, flinching. His right cheek is wet with tears of frustration and agony. It’s July 26th, and tomorrow are the final three state conventions in the Democratic primary. Humphrey is almost certain to take Utah; Virginia will go to Governor Mills Godwin, who is only running in his home state to control the delegates and will hand them over to whoever he feels is most worthy in August. But Aemond is the favorite to win here in Kentucky. Or at least, he was an hour ago.

“What can I do? What do you need?”

“You can’t do anything. It’s…it’s this goddamn nerve pain, it feels like I’m being fucking stabbed, I can’t get the muscles to relax enough…”

Like an apology, you say: “Aemond, the crowd is getting out of control.”

“So you came in here to rush me?”

“No, I’m here to help.”

“You’re not helping. You’re doing the exact opposite.”

“I think you should give this speech with your eyepatch on. It looks good, and you’ll be as comfortable as possible, and the crowd won’t have to wait any longer than they have already.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please—”

“No! FDR didn’t make speeches in his wheelchair and I’m not making mine without my eye in.”

“Do you want me to get you Aegon’s pills? Rum, weed?”

“You don’t think I’ve already taken something?” He tries to force his eye in again and strikes his fist against the sink when he can’t.

Then you ask gingerly: “Do you know what you’re going to say about the shooting?”

“Get out!” Aemond shouts. “You’re making it worse, just get the fuck out! Go!”

You bolt from the bathroom, hands trembling, throat burning. You don’t want to return to the television where the others are standing; you’re worried they’ll be able to tell how upset you are. You go to the edge of the stage, arms crossed protectively over your chest, and peek out into the crowd. Above their chants and jeers and howled threats, lightning splits the sky.

I don’ t think we’re going to be able to find our way out of this one. I think this is the end of the road.

“Hey,” Aegon says, tapping your shoulder. “Back up.”

“I’m fine here.”

“No you’re not.” He grabs your arm and tugs you farther backstage. Seconds later, an Absolut Vodka bottle explodes into crystalline shrapnel where you were standing. You yelp and Aegon gives you a little eyebrow raise. I told you, he means.

“Someone has to go out there,” Otto says, still lurking by the television. Fosco is comforting Helaena, who is quietly weeping; Ludwika is watching the news coverage in horror, surely reconsidering all her life choices. A sixth University of Kentucky student has been declared dead. “We can’t wait.”

“No we can’t,” Criston agrees. Then they both turn to you expectantly.

Your blood goes icy. Tonight was meant to be your first official appearance since the baby. Your hair is up, your dress a navy blue to match Aemond’s suit, gold chains around your wrist and throat, a gold chain of a belt. You thought you were ready. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Don’t you look at her,” Aegon says, sharp like a scalpel, like a bullet, like something that punctures arteries and lungs. “They’re throwing glass. You figure something else out, don’t even look at her.”

Otto relents, perhaps halfheartedly. “No, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Criston starts heading for the bathroom to get Aemond. Otto is watching the television again, his face vacuous as his ambitions are carried away by a flood of rain, wind, rage, blood. Aegon snatches his guitar from where he left it by the wall. He tosses the strap over his head, gives the strings a few experimental strums and retunes them, starts walking towards the stage.

“Aegon, what are you doing?” you ask, panicked.

“Someone has to distract the crowd.”

“No, stop, you can’t—”

“Hey,” Aegon says. And when you glance past him at the uproarious, storm-drenched frenzy, he turns your face back to his to make sure you’re listening. His hand is insistent but gentle, his voice steady. “Don’t go out there. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, startled.

He gives you one last small, parting smile, a flash of his teeth, a daring glint in his murky blue eyes. Then he’s out in the torrential rain, soaked to the skin in seconds. His frayed green Army jacket clings to him; his hair is ravaged by the wind. As he takes his place behind the microphone, a stone that someone has hurled skates by him and nicks the apple of his left cheek. You can see a trickle of blood snaking down his sunburned skin before the rain washes it away; you feel a desperate gnawing dread that someone will hurt him, not just here but anywhere, not just now but ever. The crowd is still seething, shouting, stomping their feet to join the inescapable growl of the thunder. Aegon’s pick flies over the guitar strings as he begins playing, raindrops cast from his fingers like spells. At first, you can barely hear him.

“Come gather ‘round, people, wherever you roam

And admit that the waters around you have grown

And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth saving

And you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is settling down now. Some of them are singing along. You can feel that Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, and Helaena are gathering around you, but you don’t grasp anything they’re saying. You can’t tear your eyes from Aegon. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, this radiant sunbeam of a man, a light in dark places, a constellation that whispers myths through the ink-spill indigo of the night sky. How could you ever have hated him? How could you ever have thought he was worthless?

“Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen

And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again

And don’t speak too soon, for the wheel’s still in spin

And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s naming

For the loser now will be later to win

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Aemond and Criston appear beside you at the edge of the stage; Aemond’s prosthetic eye has at last been successfully placed with no lingering evidence of a struggle. You expect him to apologize for what he said in the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Instead he says when he sees Aegon: “What the hell is he doing?”

“Saving your career,” you reply simply.

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled

The battle outside raging

Will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Now Aegon peers pointedly off-stage to where Otto Hightower is gawking. Aegon beams, throws his head back to get his dripping hair out of his eyes, comes back to the mic.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly aging

Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Everyone you can see in the crowd is singing and swaying. It’s not just a Bob Dylan song from 1964 but an anthem, a prayer, a rallying cry, a dire warning for the powers at be.

“The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast

The slow one now will later be fast

As the present now will later be past

The order is rapidly fading

And the first one now will later be last

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is applauding and whistling. Aegon steals a glimpse of where you are standing backstage, checks that Aemond is still there with you and that he’s ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aegon broadcasts with a wicked grin. “I am now proud to present the next president of the United States of America, Senator Aemond Targaryen!”

And Aemond is crossing the stage, no trace of pain or self-consciousness or prey-animal fear, no mere mortal but someone chosen by the gods, and the rain is slowing to a drizzle, and the clouds are opening to let through rare pinprick aisles of daylight, and the riotous spectators are now his disciples, exorcised of any rage they’ve ever felt for the scarred senator from New Jersey. He and his family are not the enemy; they are the solution. They are revolutionaries who have bled for the cause. They bring with them the change that is required. Aegon steps back and the rest of you join him in a semi-circle like a crescent moon behind Aemond. When you walk out onto the stage, the cheers swell to screams.

Aegon takes off his guitar and then leans into you. “He’s lucky you aren’t 35,” Aegon whispers, soft lips that curl into a smile as they brush your ear. And he’s teasing you but he’s not mocking, he’s not mean. He’s so close you share the same atmosphere, the same gravity. “Maybe when he finishes up his second term you can start building your resume for your first.”

“I want your endorsement.”

“From the disgraced former mayor of Trenton? What an honor. You’ll have to fight for it.”

You ball up a fist and playfully bump your knuckles against his chin. He pretends to bite at you. And you laugh for the first time since a doctor and priest entered your hospital room 13 days ago. Aegon slings an arm around your shoulders, pulls you against him, soaks you in his rain.

“Today in Lexington, we lost six brave and brilliant souls,” Aemond says, his voice booming through the amphitheater. A hush ripples through the crowd as they listen, enraptured. “Their sacrifice was for the most noble of causes, but they should never have been forced to pay the ultimate price. They deserved long, full lives in a better America than the one we now call home. This tragedy is a symptom of the sickness that has infected this nation, a fatal failure to empathize with our fellow countrymen, a deafness to pleas for justice, a blindness to mercy. But the remedy is within all of us, for it is our own humanity. When we purge the diseases of war, prejudice, and ravenous greed, we will reclaim our best selves—our true selves—and our nation will at last be cured.”

The amphitheater is illuminated with not only strobing lightning but the flashbulbs of cameras. The journalists have arrived just in time.

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[blughxreader]

Platonic Yan!Superman

Summary: An afternoon-in-the-life of Superfam's kidnapped darling CW: post-kidnap, chains. relatively tame, Clark is a good daddy. ambiguously aged reader. ft, mommy lois. WC: 624

When it comes to you, Clark's strength and self-control sit in a precarious balance.

It takes monumental discipline not to break people's ear drums from the blast-off towards home or to flatten Smallville's crops when landing too suddenly. The frenzied excitement at seeing you after a long day makes him forget his powers, but he's generally mindful.

---

Clark landed in a gust of air that rattled the house, hand on the doorknob before the windows even vibrated. It took him a second to remember to be human.

Clark inhaled deeply through his nose and went through his checklist.

Human strength?

Breathing?

Feet on the ground?

Calm and collected?

Warm air and the delicious smell of dinner greeted him like a hug. Clark took a step inside, carefully measuring the weight behind each step until he comfortably distributed his usual 235 pounds. Tension bled from his muscles when he narrowed in on your frantic heartbeat upstairs.

"Hi, baby," Lois called from the kitchen.

Clark migrated towards her voice, spotting Lois at the table with her head ducked behind her computer screen.

"Hi, you." Clark smiled.

His eyes skirted over the pot of soup simmering on the stove as he walked to the table. With feather-light fingers, he guided Lois's face up for a kiss. Comforting serenity did away with the last of his nerves, and Clark took a second to appreciate how perfect his family was.

They parted, faces lingering close.

"So..." Clark started, voice an absent hum. Your heartbeat seemed to echo through the house, but Clark knew only he could hear. "Mind if I ask how your day was, then get back to you in a few minutes for the answer?"

Lois rolled her eyes with a smile, pushing his chest away. "Go on, you awful worrier."

Shooting her a sheepish grin, Clark hurried out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

Finally. Clark worried about you at all hours of the day. Thoughts of you escaping or accidentally hurting yourself were an ever-present concern, despite his thorough precautions. Worrying wasn't all he did, though. Clark also just longed to see you.

Clark's foot landed on the squeaky step, followed by your sharp breath from down the hall.

It was no secret that you didn't want to be a part of their family, and Clark understood. He did everything to make himself as predictable and gentle as possible, hoping that one day you would be happy to hear him come home.

Clark carefully approached your door, listening to you move. Thumpthumpthump, your pulse fluttered.

Rasping a knuckle on the door, he said, "Kiddo?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Time slowed as the door slid open, revealing you in all your precious glory.

You were sitting at your desk, back straight and hands in your lap. Despite your fear, your face was as pleasant as you could make it, save for the small quivers in your tight smile.

Clark’s eyes crinkled from his smile. “Hey, kid. I missed you.”

“Hi,” you said meekly, rising to greet him.

Clark crossed the room with more speed than he intended and swept you into his arms, pulling you off your chair. The chain around your ankle rattled at the disturbance.

Your shaky arms wrapped around Clark's back, and his heart swelled with love. His sweet kid. His unending joy.

Clark kissed the crown of your head, drawing out the hug for as long as possible. He looked out your window, seeing sunny, blue skies past the iron bars that caged the glass.

Now that he thought about it, it was beautiful weather on the flight home.

Clark settled you down on your feet, arms still wrapped around your small frame. With a smile that matched the sun's light, Clark asked, "Want to sit outside and wait for Jon's school bus?"

For more yandere superfam content, visit my batfam & superfam masterlist!

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[gebo4482]

Candy Land | Official Trailer

Dir: John Swab Star: Olivia Luccardi / Sam Quartin / Eden Brolin / Owen Campbell

#candy land #candy land (2022) #john swab #horror movies #thriller movies #trailer #quiver distribution #roxwell films

[fearsmagazine]

THE WRATH OF BECKY - Review

DISTRIBUTOR: QUIVER Distribution

SYNOPSIS: Two years after she escaped a violent attack on her family, Becky attempts to rebuild her life in the care of an older woman - a kindred spirit named Elena. But when a group known as the “Noble Men” break into their home, attack them, and take her beloved dog, Diego, Becky must return to her old ways to protect herself and her loved ones.

REVIEW: Lulu Wilson is back, reprising her role of Becky from the 2020 film “Becky,” directed by Jonathan Milott and Cary Murnion. At the helm this time are directors Matt Angel and Suzanne Coote as they ratchet things up placing Beck on par with Charles Bronson, Jason Statham or Keanu Reeves on an independent budget.

The screenplay takes no prisoners as it quickly brings the viewer up to speed and gets right down to the action. Just as Becky has achieved a bit of normalcy to her life she draws the attention of another fascist group trying to bring down the political system. The plot brings in a few elements from the initial film and works them. We get a few more details about one, but the mystery grows. The story gives way to action and Becky feels like what if Kevin McCallister (“Home Alone”) grew up to be John McClane (“Die-Hard”). No spoilers - the end seems a bit far fetched, but given what goes on in the rest of the film it should be hard to believe. For an independent film in this genre, it is extremely well written and I’d be curious to read the description of many of these action scenes. The story hits many beats the first film did. Some of those are character driven, others feel like the writers doing it for the fans of the first film.

The production values are solid. Given the technology has come a long way, Jonathan Milott and Cary Murnion demonstrate they have the chops of any of the great action directors that came out of the late 80’s and 90’s. The film has an excellent pacing, capturing engaging performances, and effect sequences that play out like a hybrid of video game play and a slasher film gore. I’m a sucker for a good score and composer Nima Fakhrara’s work here adds so much to the tone and feel of the film.

THE WRATH OF BECKY has a great cast. In the previous film, actor Kevin James anchored the film as the main villain. This time out, veteran actor Seann William Scott, also known for his comedic work, takes on the central villain and creates a memorable character. He creates a grounded, intelligent character that gets caught up in the madness of the story. I love the way his performance has his character in denial, that he is in a different film and needs to come to grips with the unstoppable force of Becky. The film is absolutely adult in terms of some themes and the violence, but the three henchmen feel like they are modeled after the “Home Alone” series. Then there is actress Lulu Wilson. She is fantastic. She is able to present this sense of innocence and youthfulness, but then she is able to present this look and intensity where you believe she is lethal. She is such a chameleon and a delight to watch work.

2020’s “Becky” was a memorable film, a well made independent film, featuring a great cast. The film had a serious tone and had much more jeopardy and peril to the tale. THE WRATH OF BECKY plays it a bit more tongue and cheek and amps up the violence and gore. The film asks us to believe that Becky is now 16. Okay, she’s been through a lot in the previous film so I’ll give the filmmakers that, but there are scenes in the film where she does look older, at least 18, which she is. Regardless, I loved the ride. The film ends taking the story in a new direction and there could easily be another film in the series. I loved Lulu Wilson’s work here and would be interested in taking in her continuing deadly exploits.

CAST: Lulu Wilson, Seann William Scott, Denise Burse, Jill Larson, Courtney Gains, Michael Sirow, Aaron Dalla Villa, Matt Angel, and Kate Siegel. THE WRATH OF BECKY CREW: Directors - Matt Angel and Suzanne Coote; Screenplay - Matt Angel; Producers - Jordan Beckerman, Chadd Harbold, Jordan Yale Levine, J.D. Lifshitz, Raphael Margules, Russ Posternak, & Tracy Rosenblum; Cinematographer - Julia Swain; Score - Nima Fakhrara; Editor - Stephen Boyer; Production Designer - Allie Leone; Costume Designer - Elena Lark; Visual Effects Artists - Joshua Petrino & Piotr Smorawski; Prosthetic Makeup Artist - Brian Spears. OFFICIAL: N.A. FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/TheWrathofBecky/ TWITTER: N.A. TRAILER: https://youtu.be/4OSLsmFgi2g RELEASE DATE: In Theaters May 26th, 2023

**Until we can all head back into the theaters our “COVID Reel Value” will be similar to how you rate a film on digital platforms - 👍 (Like), 👌 (It’s just okay), or 👎 (Dislike)

Reviewed by Joseph B Mauceri

#film review #movie review #the wrath of becky #QUIVER Distribution #Lulu Wilson #seann william scott #action #horror #matt angel #suzanne coote #joseph mauceri #joseph b mauceri

[moviesandmania]

BECKY 2: THE WRATH OF BECKY (2023) Preview of action horror sequel

BECKY 2: THE WRATH OF BECKY (2023) Preview of action horror sequel

Lulu Wilson is Becky (2020) Becky 2: The Wrath of Becky is a forthcoming American action horror film about a teenage girl fighting the leader of a fascist group; it is a sequel to Becky (2020). Directed by Matt Angel from a screenplay co-written with Suzanne Coote (Hypnotic; The Open House). Lulu Wilson (The Clinic; Annabelle: Creation; Ouija: Origin of Evil; Deliver Us from Evil) will again star…

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#2023 #action horror #Becky 2: The Wrath of Becky #Lulu Wilson #Matt Angel #movie film #Quiver Distribution #Seann William Scott #Suzanne Coote

[noyasmashing]

Excessive praise for Hoshuimi, reader calls him a "good boy."🙏

MY BAEE, I love him sm it hurts, sorry for taking so long to write this, i just forgot to post 😭

CW: Lots of praise, gn!reader, whiny and sensitive hoshu, corruption kink??

Korai emitted a soft plea as you tenderly traced your fingers along his torso, beneath his shirt, exploring his sensitive skin. In response, he naturally leaned into you, his hips brushing against yours, as the magnetic pull of your wandering hands making his body tingle.

“Such a good boy.. for me hmm?” You whispered into his ear, gently nibbling on it, causing him to tremble once more.

Eagerly, he nodded, his ears flushing with warmth from your affectionate words. He had never been so close to someone like this before, and he didn’t understand how good it felt. Often distracted by volleyball, he often neglected his need for sexual release. Presently, he was on the verge of that release, as he felt your thigh softly press against his throbbing erection.

"P-please," he whispered, his customary self-assurance and pride vanishing. Your smirk brushed against his neck's delicate skin, and you gently drew away to make eye contact with him.

“Please what sweetie?” you inquired, tilting your head slightly, acting utterly clueless about his needs in that moment.

A lump formed in his throat, and he instinctively pressed his hips against your leg, yearning for you to assertively take control. He sought the comfort of your touch, craving the pleasure that would erase all thoughts from his mind.

“ Y’know…” He glanced at the visible sign of his desire in his sweats, then returned his gaze to you, timidly awaiting your understanding and response.

“Tell me what you want me to do, or I can’t make you feel good.” You coo’d, before you tenderly placed your hands on his hips, feeling the bones beneath your touch. His breath caught in his throat, his bottom lip quivering as he let out a timid whimper.

"Please, touch my c-cock," he pleaded with evident need, causing you to suppress a giggle. Your expression transformed into a slightly mischievous grin as you reached for his waistband with gentle fingers.

“That’s all I wanted to hear sweetie.” You murmured, as you promptly lowered his pants and underwear, revealing his erect member which made a lewd slapping sound as it struck his abdomen.

He emitted a soft whimper, instinctively lifting his hips. You gently encircled the base of his penis, taking a moment to appreciate its paleness, considerable girth, and the pretty pink tip, adorned with a prominent vein running along its side.

He was practically falling apart under your gaze, and it didn't help when you lowered your head, licking your lips before pressing kisses all over his sensitive head. Making him squirm and cry out helplessly, it didn’t help when your free hand danced along his exposed hips.

He emitted a considerable moan, his head falling back onto the pillow. Nevertheless, he promptly lifted it upon hearing the sound of a bottle cap being opened and a soothing liquid trickling along the length of his member.

Attempting to sway his hips, he encountered resistance as you settled onto his thighs. You’re coo’d at his helpless response. With gentle care, you employed one hand to distribute the lubricant evenly across his length.

“You look so pretty for me baby. I wish you could see yourself right now.” You complimented, causing blood to rush to his member, resulting in a noticeable throbbing within your grasp.

He tried to respond, yet the skillful maneuvers of your wrists restricted him to mere whimpers and pleas, which you couldn't help but chuckle at.

“ I think i’m abo-about to cum.. gunna cum for you [name].” he panted, his back naturally arching from the pleasure. Your eyes finally met his half-lidded ones, and fuck did he look cute with drool leaking from his mouth and cheeks a helpless shade of red. You could feel your core heating up at his disheveled state making it all the more intoxicating.

“Go ahead Korai, you’ve done so well for me, my sweet boy.” you purred, making his mind all the more hazy.

With a loud "Ah!", a white, creamy, liquid oozed from his tip, accompanying your consistent rhythm.

“can’t stop!” He whined, thrusting his hips deeper into your firmly grasped hand. His cum continued to leak and spread, lubricating your hand and allowing you to maintain your motions.

Ultimately, he began to pull at your hand, indicating it was too much. His thighs quivered in tandem with his sniffles, a clear sign of heightened stimulation.

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[horrorpatch]

Official Trailer & Poster For Supernatural Horror Film NIGHT SHIFT!

Quiver Distribution has released the official trailer and poster for its new supernatural thriller NIGHT SHIFT! The movie is the directorial debut of The China Brothers and stars Phoebe Tonkin, Lamorne Morris, and Madison Hu. Check out the trailer and poster along with more film details down below. From The Press Release Fear Never Sleeps… In Select Theaters and VOD March 8th The China…

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#Night Shift #Phoebe Tonkin #Quiver Distribution #The China Brothers