#i hope its still by me. but if not i understand

[mostlysignssomeportents]

What the fuck is a PBM?

TOMORROW (Sept 24), I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

Terminal-stage capitalism owes its long senescence to its many defensive mechanisms, and it's only by defeating these that we can put it out of its misery. "The Shield of Boringness" is one of the necrocapitalist's most effective defenses, so it behooves us to attack it head-on.

The Shield of Boringness is Dana Claire's extremely useful term for anything so dull that you simply can't hold any conception of it in your mind for any length of time. In the finance sector, they call this "MEGO," which stands for "My Eyes Glaze Over," a term of art for financial arrangements made so performatively complex that only the most exquisitely melted brain-geniuses can hope to unravel their spaghetti logic. The rest of us are meant to simply heft those thick, dense prospectuses in two hands, shrug, and assume, "a pile of shit this big must have a pony under it."

MEGO and its Shield of Boringness are key to all of terminal-stage capitalism's stupidest scams. Cloaking obvious swindles in a lot of complex language and Byzantine payment schemes can make them seem respectable just long enough for the scammers to relieve you of all your inconvenient cash and assets, though, eventually, you're bound to notice that something is missing.

If you spent the years leading up to the Great Financial Crisis baffled by "CDOs," "synthetic CDOs," "ARMs" and other swindler nonsense, you experienced the Shield of Boringness. If you bet your house and/or your retirement savings on these things, you experienced MEGO. If, after the bubble popped, you finally came to understand that these "exotic financial instruments" were just scams, you experienced Stein's Law ("anything that can't go forever eventually stops"). If today you no longer remember what a CDO is, you are once again experiencing the Shield of Boringness.

As bad as 2008 was, it wasn't even close to the end of terminal stage capitalism. The market has soldiered on, with complex swindles like carbon offset trading, metaverse, cryptocurrency, financialized solar installation, and (of course) AI. In addition to these new swindles, we're still playing the hits, finding new ways to make the worst scams of the 2000s even worse.

That brings me to the American health industry, and the absurdly complex, ridiculously corrupt Pharmacy Benefit Managers (PBMs), a pathology that has only metastasized since 2008.

On at least 20 separate occasions, I have taken it upon myself to figure out how the PBM swindle works, and nevertheless, every time they come up, I have to go back and figure it out again, because PBMs have the most powerful Shield of Boringness out of the whole Monster Manual of terminal-stage capitalism's trash mobs.

PBMs are back in the news because the FTC is now suing the largest of these for their role in ripping off diabetics with sky-high insulin prices. This has kicked off a fresh round of "what the fuck is a PBM, anyway?" explainers of extremely variable quality. Unsurprisingly, the best of these comes from Matt Stoller:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-lina-khan-pharma

Stoller starts by pointing out that Americans have a proud tradition of getting phucked by pharma companies. As far back as the 1950s, Tennessee Senator Estes Kefauver was holding hearings on the scams that pharma companies were using to ensure that Americans paid more for their pills than virtually anyone else in the world.

But since the 2010s, Americans have found themselves paying eye-popping, sky-high, ridiculous drug prices. Eli Lilly's Humolog insulin sold for $21 in 1999; by 2017, the price was $274 – a 1,200% increase! This isn't your grampa's price gouging!

Where do these absurd prices come from? The story starts in the 2000s, when the GW Bush administration encouraged health insurers to create "high deductible" plans, where patients were expected to pay out of pocket for receiving care, until they hit a multi-thousand-dollar threshold, and then their insurance would kick in. Along with "co-pays" and other junk fees, these deductibles were called "cost sharing," and they were sold as a way to prevent the "abuse" of the health care system.

The economists who crafted terminal-stage capitalism's intellectual rationalizations claimed the reason Americans paid so much more for health care than their socialized-medicine using cousins in the rest of the world had nothing to do with the fact that America treats health as a source of profits, while the rest of the world treats health as a human right.

No, the actual root of America's health industry's problems was the moral defects of Americans. Because insured Americans could just go see the doctor whenever they felt like it, they had no incentive to minimize their use of the system. Any time one of these unhinged hypochondriacs got a little sniffle, they could treat themselves to a doctor's visit, enjoying those waiting-room magazines and the pleasure of arranging a sick day with HR, without bearing any of the true costs:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/27/the-doctrine-of-moral-hazard/

"Cost sharing" was supposed to create "skin in the game" for every insured American, creating a little pain-point that stung you every time you thought about treating yourself to a luxurious doctor's visit. Now, these payments bit hardest on the poorest workers, because if you're making minimum wage, at $10 co-pay hurts a lot more than it does if you're making six figures. What's more, VPs and the C-suite were offered "gold-plated" plans with low/no deductibles or co-pays, because executives understand the value of a dollar in the way that mere working slobs can't ever hope to comprehend. They can be trusted to only use the doctor when it's truly warranted.

So now you have these high-deductible plans creeping into every workplace. Then along comes Obama and the Affordable Care Act, a compromise that maintains health care as a for-profit enterprise (still not a human right!) but seeks to create universal coverage by requiring every American to buy a plan, requiring insurers to offer plans to every American, and uses public money to subsidize the for-profit health industry to glue it together.

Predictably, the cheapest insurance offered on the Obamacare exchanges – and ultimately, by employers – had sky-high deductibles and co-pays. That way, insurers could pocket a fat public subsidy, offer an "insurance" plan that was cheap enough for even the most marginally employed people to afford, but still offer no coverage until their customers had spent thousands of dollars out-of-pocket in a given year.

That's the background: GWB created high-deductible plans, Obama supercharged them. Keep that in your mind as we go through the MEGO procedures of the PBM sector.

Your insurer has a list of drugs they'll cover, called the "formulary." The formulary also specifies how much the insurance company is willing to pay your pharmacist for these drugs. Creating the formulary and paying pharmacies for dispensing drugs is a lot of tedious work, and insurance outsources this to third parties, called – wait for it – Pharmacy Benefits Managers.

The prices in the formulary the PBM prepares for your insurance company are called the "list prices." These are meant to represent the "sticker price" of the drug, what a pharmacist would charge you if you wandered in off the street with no insurance, but somehow in possession of a valid prescription.

But, as Stoller writes, these "list prices" aren't actually ever charged to anyone. The list price is like the "full price" on the pricetags at a discount furniture place where everything is always "on sale" at 50% off – and whose semi-disposable sofas and balsa-wood dining room chairs are never actually sold at full price.

One theoretical advantage of a PBM is that it can get lower prices because it bargains for all the people in a given insurer's plan. If you're the pharma giant Sanofi and you want your Lantus insulin to be available to any of the people who must use OptumRX's formulary, you have to convince OptumRX to include you in that formulary.

OptumRX – like all PBMs – demands "rebates" from pharma companies if they want to be included in the formulary. On its face, this is similar to the practices of, say, NICE – the UK agency that bargains for medicine on behalf of the NHS, which also bargains with pharma companies for access to everyone in the UK and gets very good deals as a result.

But OptumRX doesn't bargain for a lower list price. They bargain for a bigger rebate. That means that the "price" is still very high, but OptumRX ends up paying a tiny fraction of it, thanks to that rebate. In the OptumRX formulary, Lantus insulin lists for $403. But Sanofi, who make Lantus, rebate $339 of that to OptumRX, leaving just $64 for Lantus.

Here's where the scam hits. Your insurer charges you a deductible based on the list price – $404 – not on the $64 that OptumRX actually pays for your insulin. If you're in a high-deductible plan and you haven't met your cap yet, you're going to pay $404 for your insulin, even though the actual price for it is $64.

Now, you'd think that your insurer would put a stop to this. They chose the PBM, the PBM is ripping off their customers, so it's their job to smack the PBM around and make it cut this shit out. So why would the insurers tolerate this nonsense?

Here's why: the PBMs are divisions of the big health insurance companies. Unitedhealth owns OptumRx; Aetna owns Caremark, and Cigna owns Expressscripts. So it's not the PBM that's ripping you off, it's your own insurance company. They're not just making you pay for drugs that you're supposedly covered for – they're pocketing the deductible you pay for those drugs.

Now, there's one more entity with power over the PBM that you'd hope would step in on your behalf: your boss. After all, your employer is the entity that actually chooses the insurer and negotiates with them on your behalf. Your boss is in the driver's seat; you're just along for the ride.

It would be pretty funny if the answer to this was that the health insurance company bought your employer, too, and so your boss, the PBM and the insurer were all the same guy, busily swapping hats, paying for a call center full of tormented drones who each have three phones on their desks: one labeled "insurer"; the second, "PBM" and the final one "HR."

But no, the insurers haven't bought out the company you work for (yet). Rather, they've bought off your boss – they're sharing kickbacks with your employer for all the deductibles and co-pays you're being suckered into paying. There's so much money (your money) sloshing around in the PBM scamoverse that anytime someone might get in the way of you being ripped off, they just get cut in for a share of the loot.

That is how the PBM scam works: they're fronts for health insurers who exploit the existence of high-deductible plans in order to get huge kickbacks from pharma makers, and massive fees from you. They split the loot with your boss, whose payout goes up when you get screwed harder.

But wait, there's more! After all, Big Pharma isn't some kind of easily pushed-around weakling. They're big. Why don't they push back against these massive rebates? Because they can afford to pay bribes and smaller companies making cheaper drugs can't. Whether it's a little biotech upstart with a cheaper molecule, or a generics maker who's producing drugs at a fraction of the list price, they just don't have the giant cash reserves it takes to buy their way into the PBMs' formularies. Doubtless, the Big Pharma companies would prefer to pay smaller kickbacks, but from Big Pharma's perspective, the optimum amount of bribes extracted by a PBM isn't zero – far from it. For Big Pharma, the optimal number is one cent higher than "the maximum amount of bribes that a smaller company can afford."

The purpose of a system is what it does. The PBM system makes sure that Americans only have access to the most expensive drugs, and that they pay the highest possible prices for them, and this enriches both insurance companies and employers, while protecting the Big Pharma cartel from upstarts.

Which is why the FTC is suing the PBMs for price-fixing. As Stoller points out, they're using their powers under Section 5 of the FTC Act here, which allows them to shut down "unfair methods of competition":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

The case will be adjudicated by an administrative law judge, in a process that's much faster than a federal court case. Once the FTC proves that the PBM scam is illegal when applied to insulin, they'll have a much easier time attacking the scam when it comes to every other drug (the insulin scam has just about run its course, with federally mandated $35 insulin coming online, just as a generation of post-insulin diabetes treatments hit the market).

Obviously the PBMs aren't taking this lying down. Cigna/Expressscripts has actually sued the FTC for libel over the market study it conducted, in which the agency described in pitiless, factual detail how Cigna was ripping us all off. The case is being fought by a low-level Reagan-era monster named Rick Rule, whom Stoller characterizes as a guy who "hangs around in bars and picks up lonely multi-national corporations" (!!).

The libel claim is a nonstarter, but it's still wild. It's like one of those movies where they want to show you how bad the cockroaches are, so there's a bit where the exterminator shows up and the roaches form a chorus line and do a kind of Busby Berkeley number:

https://www.46brooklyn.com/news/2024-09-20-the-carlton-report

So here we are: the FTC has set out to euthanize some rentiers, ridding the world of a layer of useless economic middlemen whose sole reason for existing is to make pharmaceuticals as expensive as possible, by colluding with the pharma cartel, the insurance cartel and your boss. This conspiracy exists in plain sight, hidden by the Shield of Boringness. If I've done my job, you now understand how this MEGO scam works – and if you forget all that ten minutes later (as is likely, given the nature of MEGO), that's OK: just remember that this thing is a giant fucking scam, and if you ever need to refresh yourself on the details, you can always re-read this post.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Image: Flying Logos (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Over_$1,000,000_dollars_in_USD_$100_bill_stacks.png

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[wonustars]

In Front of Me (Teaser)

⊹ pairing: jeon wonwoo x f.reader ⊹ genre: bestfriend to lovers, angst, smut (18+ mdni) ⊹ wordcount: TBA (this teaser: 679) ⊹ release date: TBA

⊹ summary: jeon wonwoo has spent most of his adolesence and early adult hood unable to understand why he can't seem to stay in a relationship for more than a few months. as his best friend, you allowed him to vent about his worries without judgment. so what if you're in love with him? your friendship with wonwoo meant more to you than having your feelings reciprocated. that is until you hit your breaking point, while wonwoo finally realizes what has been in front of him this whole time. ⊹ tags: non-idol!au, uni!au, bestfriends to lovers (?), unrequted love, emotionaly stunted charcters, wonwoo has a bit of an ego, toxic!wonwoo&reader. (more tags and smut tag added to full fic when posted.) ⊹ note: im really excited to share this with you all. its not by any means done but heres a teaser for now since ive been away for so long ♡ also the teaser is not edited so pls just ignore if theres typos hehe. lov u all pls come into my ask box cuz i refuse to shut up abt this story :p.

⊹ masterlist, taglist, fic playlist.

Rejection is foreign to Wonwoo.

Most times, it’s him that’s doing the rejecting. He was the one to always initiate the break up, to lose feelings first, every decision was made by him. He has no control over whether you’re going to text him back or not, and to put it simply, he can’t stand that feeling. 

Wonwoo hates not being in control. Whether that be his future, his relationships, and especially his feelings. At least that’s what he forces himself to believe. That it’s not fair of you to ignore him when he’s worried about you, because he’s your best friend. You should answer him when he texts you. When he calls you, and especially when he shows up to your door, seeking your comfort. In his mind, that is what he believes the foundation of your friendship is. To comfort each other, just like it always has been. 

Sure, maybe Wonwoo is entitled, perhaps he’s conceited and selfish, but he doesn’t care. Because in his mind, you’re his bestfriend. There was no way in hell that you were ignoring him. His ego doesn’t even consider it a possibility. You were busy, that’s it. That has to be it. 

{໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -。꒱ྀི১  ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋆˙}

Less than fourty-eight hours in, Wonwoo couldn’t stop himself from texting you once more. Nimble fingers practically itching to open your contact to update you about the most mundane things. Maybe if he pretended that this moment of silence is perfectly normal, then maybe, you would eventually end up answering him. 

12:36 p.m [wons <3]: class just finished. lunch at our usual place?

Nothing. Not even a thumb’s up reaction. Wonwoo had become antsy, guilt and slight annoyance gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Where the hell are you? What are you doing that’s so important that you couldn’t even open his message let alone read them? 

1:27 p.m.  [wons <3]: this random girl asked for my number after class lol. weird right? i didn’t give it to her though 😁

Cursing at himself, he regrets pressing the send button on that text. Double texting you is already out of the norm for him, but triple texting? He can’t believe how desperate he looks right now. He wishes he could bring himself to unsend it, but he just hopes it’ll be the text that finally gets you to respond. 

2:10 p.m. [wons <3]: saw a bunny running thru the oval today u should’ve seen it! reminded me of u.  [1 photo attachment] 

Absolute radio silence from your end. Wonwoo is starting to think that you had him blocked, but his messages are still delivering. Unsure of what’s worse, you ignoring him or blocking his number, Wonwoo still tries his best to remain calm.

4:00 p.m. [wons <3]: im about to head home soon. r u riding w me today? 

The sight of you getting into Seokmin’s car made Wonwoo scoff. Since when did you start getting rides home from Seokmin? And why was he the one opening the door for you? Buckling your seatbelt instead of his own? Wonwoo is completely dumbfounded at what he had witnessed. 

4:30 p.m.  [wons <3]: saw u get into seokmin’s car, lmk if u need a ride tmrw. 

Seeing you laugh and smile while walking to the student parking lot with Seokmin of all people solidified the fact that you are actively ignoring his texts. And he just can’t stand the thought of it. How dare he be ignored? Especially by his best friend, the one person who had always responded to him, no matter the time or how busy you were, you always texted him back. 

Wonwoo initially thought that even if the world ended, you would be there within arms reach, enough to hold you close, where he can keep you safe. You were predictable in that sense. But if the world decided to burst into flames, or swallow itself whole tomorrow, he’s unsure if you would be there right next to him by the time he woke up.

⊹ a/n: if u want to be apart of the taglist please fill out the form, comment or send an ask! please note that i'll only add those who have an age indicator somewhere in their blog! thank you ♡

[evilgwrl]

hey sunshine 🥰 could you possibly do the 141 with a hyper independent reader? id love to see how they handle a s/o like this!! if not, i totally understand 💜💜 enjoy your sunday

Ofc!! I hope this is what you were looking for, I'm not the most educated on hyper-independence but I tried to do a lil research <3 Sorry it took me so long to write it, I've been having a hectic week

Your feet strummed against the floor; body restless as you looked at the flock of emails piling up. Fidgety hands were tugging at your hair as you looked at the time. Your laptop shut with a huff as you walked into the kitchen, eager to eat as your stomach grumbled.

There was a soft shell of steam covering the room, food broiling in the oven as you turned your attention to the chopping board. You swore quickly, the smell of burning sauce catching your attention as you turned to quickly stir it. Your body swayed back and forth, constantly focusing on something new as you struggled to keep up.

You had a strict schedule, always needing to be on top of everything. You enjoyed the smiles on the boy’s faces when they came through the door to a cooked meal. It was different today, however. Work had finished later than usual, pushing your activity back as the boys walked through the door.

“Hey, bonnie,” Soap flattered, pressing a kiss to your head as he looked at the kitchen, every saucer in use.

“Hi,” you smiled, swatting his hands away as he attempted to stir something.

“Smells good, love,” John cooed, husky breath against your neck as he hugged you from behind.

“I’ll set up the dining table,” Kyle chirped as you quickly yelped at a ‘no’.

“No, no. I’ve got it. Just go sit down. It’s nearly done.”

Simon raised a brow, taking in your quick no. They knew you enjoyed working alone, it just seemed easier for you, but the scene before him was overwhelming to look at as you rubbed at your forehead, pulling something out of the oven.

“We’re happy to help, sweet’art, just let-“

“No, no, I promise its fine. Please just go sit down.”

You were consistent as you shushed them out of the kitchen with a handtowel, turning your attention back to the scene in front of you. Soap frowned as he sat down, resting his chin in his hand.

“She’s gonna work ‘erself to death,” Simon scowled, concerned.

“You know how she is, she’s independent,” Gaz quipped, rubbing a brow.

You were a flurry, piling food onto the plates before they grew cold. You were quick to place all their plates down and hurry back, grabbing a stack of cutlery and cups, the glass pile slightly tipped. John raised from his seat to assist you as you pulled back, offering him a gentle smile.

“Let me help, dove.”

“I’ve got it, I don’t need help,” you spoke quickly as you moved too fast, the glasses tipping over as they clattered against the floor, shards of crystal collecting at your feet as you hissed, the four men surrounding you quickly raising to their feet.

Your legs padded against the floor as you hurried to the kitchen to grab a dustpan from under the sink, Soap quickly in toe. It was overwhelming as they crowded around you, trying to grab the scoop from your fidgety hands before you snapped, “I don’t need your help, just eat your food.”

Your tone was harsh as they stilled, staring at you with concern. Your face felt hot, unshed tears welling in your eyes at the situation. The glass collected in the black box, flickers of shimmer dancing off the sharp shards as you grabbed your own plate, heading to your bedroom.

You weren’t sure where it came from, the need to never ask for help but it ate at you until your body was scolding with overworked heat. The night ticked by slowly as you cooped yourself up in the warmth of your sheets, only getting up to clean as you walked to the kitchen, no mess in sight.

“I hope you don’t mind that we cleaned up, figured you had done enough for us today,” Price’s voice was soft, a glide of comfort slipping from his tongue as he placed his hand’s on his hips.

“I could’ve done it.”

“I know, we all know. But we’re here too, love. It’s not fair for you to take on every load of responsibility. You deserve help. We’re not going anywhere, and we want to show you that we appreciate you too.”

The words settled in your chest as you stared at him, placing the plate in the sink as you offered him a polite glance, attempting to wrap around everything he was saying.

“Thank you,” you said, eyes low as you began to wash. The tickle of hair was felt around your waist, along with two arms as Kyle pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your neck.

“We want to help you, love. You don’t need to go through anything alone, we’re here to support you the way you support us.”

You swallowed deeply.

“We don’t want to overwhelm you either, we just want our girl to feel the best she can,” Price spoke.

It was harder for you to talk about your feelings, your heart chained in between your rib cage, the need to ask for help always at the tip of your tongue but never able to leave, keeping you prisoner to your own despair. The boys left you for a little bit, asking you to join them in the living room when you were ready. There was a gentle pit of anxiety in your stomach as you huffed, ensuring everything had been done before you joined them.

It was a sweet sight to walk into. They were spread on the couch, reassuring smiles on their faces as Soap held his hands out towards the table, a chocolate cake decorated with the words ‘Thank you’ on it along with a bouquet of pink peonies.

You laughed, “When did you have time to get all this?”

“I’m quick,” Ghost beamed, tapping the spot between them as you huddled over.

“Thank you,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to each of their cheeks. It was hard for you to comprehend you had people wanting to help you, and you knew they would never be able to understand what it was like for you, but they tried their hardest, and that was the greatest gift you could ask for.

“Can I eat some cake now?” Soap chorused as you laughed, rubbing the back of his head before nestling into Kyle.

[eringobragh420]

Pairing: Damian Priest x f!Reader Summary: Damian’s girlfriend is producing a piece on him. He decides to produce a piece of his own. Warnings: NSFW, obviously, lol. Spanish translations are at the end of the story. I do not speak Spanish, so if anything is incorrect, please let me know and I’ll fix it! Roleyplay, name-calling, dirty talk, sex, oral (m and f receiving), cum. Taglist: @eddiesrockstargirlfriend, @terrortwinunicorn. If you’d like to be added, please let me know! Requested By: @eddiesrockstargirlfriend. Hope you enjoy! Sorry it took so long 😭😭

“Alright, guys. I’m Damian Priest. Thanks for watching.” He threw up his index and pinky fingers just before his girlfriend pressed the button on the expensive camera to stop it recording.

“Outstanding,” she praised. Kneeling on the soft, white carpet of their home, she sat back on her legs as she played the footage back on the screen to be sure nothing weird was in the frame, and that the sound levels were normal and Damian’s voice came through clearly. WWE had tasked her as a producer (and probably because the two had been dating for a year) to create an intimate look into Damian’s private life. Which hadn’t been much, considering neither of them were in any hurry to show off their personal lives to the entire world. Despite this, she knew she had a good product. “Looks like we got it.”

“Yeah?” Damian asked. “Let me see.” She handed him the camera and busied herself with packing the camera’s accessories into the bag beside her. After a moment, she realized the only sound in the room was coming from the constant hum of the air conditioner. Glancing up at Damian, he held the camera in both hands, eyes on the screen as if he were watching the playback, but she didn’t hear his voice.

“Are you watching it?” she asked. “Is the sound not working?”

“It’s fine,” he replied, distracted. “I’m watching … you know …” He trailed off, eyes narrowing, focused. 

Her own eyes blinked down at the camera’s lens, brows furrowed. “Is that zoom—are you recording?” she exclaimed. Damian grinned behind the camera, shoulders shaking as he chuckled, and he leaned this way and that as if he were some famous director with a particular vision. “Do I really have to tell you that the camera isn’t a toy?” she teased, dropping her hands on her hips.

“Aww, querida, you know that’s not true,” Damian purred, his tone hitting that one level, the special one, the one that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. “Everything’s a toy if you play with it.”

“So, by that logic …” She leaned forward, bringing her hands to the floor, and she started to crawl toward Damian “I’m a toy.”

“My toy,” Damian sneered.

Her mouth quirked. “Your toy,” she corrected. Damian spread his legs wider to accept her between them, and she tucked her own legs under her like she’d been sitting before.

“And right now—” He reached out, able to hold the lightweight camera with one hand, and cupped her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb. “—I wanna make my toy into a pornstar.”

All the oxygen left her lungs in an audible whoosh, her heart kicking up its pace. Before she could give the idea much thought, and before she could process the fact they would be using a WWE-issued camera, she nuzzled into the palm of his hand, pressing a few chaste kisses there before licking the heel, all the way up his thumb where she enveloped the digit in her mouth.

“That’s it,” Damian said, pumping his thumb leisurely in and out of her mouth. “You like that idea, don’t you?” She watched as the twinkling stars always present in Damian Priest’s ochre eyes were devoured by growing black holes, and she’d have given anything to see just beyond his event horizon. “You wanna be a pretty little pornstar?” She nodded, eyes round and clear, mouth still working on his thumb. “Good girl,” he praised, and her heart melted, eyes falling closed. “But you gotta audition first.” Her eyes opened just as slowly as they’d closed, meeting his gaze. “You understand?” He removed his thumb from her mouth, and while she was able to speak now, she couldn’t find the words within her hazy, lust-filled brain, so she simply nodded again. Damian tilted his head, “Now take my cock out and show me why you’re better than all the other girls I’ve met this week.”

She admired—and was a little envious of—how easily he was able to go from her loving, devoted boyfriend to the intimidating, apparently manwhore porn director that now sat before her. How he was able to come up with roleplay ideas off the top of his head and was confident enough to act them out as if the scenario was real-world.

“Corazón,” Damian said, “don’t make me tell you again.”

Her hands reached up to work on his belt and jeans, glancing up at the camera, biting her lip, and all she could see of Damian behind the camera were those black eyes. Reaching inside his jeans, she unleashed his semi-hard cock, a grin working its way across her mouth. She loved the challenge of getting him as hard as possible as quickly as possible and she wondered how much assistance the camera was going to give her in said endeavor. Lifting her gaze back to the camera, she engulfed his entire dick in her mouth, a feat she could only achieve before he was fully erect. She dragged her lips back slowly, cheeks collapsing as her mouth created a vacuum, and Damian let loose a moan from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Damn,” he said, “you just go all in, huh?”

She released him with an indecent pop, licking her lips even more lewdly. “Go big or go home, right?” she purred.

“Back in your mouth,” he ordered.

She obeyed, because she loved to obey him, and because she really, really wanted this fake pornstar job. She sucked him back into her searing mouth, lips now stretching around him, bobbing her head. The distinct sound of the head of his dick poking into the back of her throat—that wet, smacking sound—echoed off the walls of their bedroom. Damian cried out, hand slipping around the back of her head, and he fisted a handful of her hair. She grunted, sending vibrations down his cock and into his balls, allowing him to control the pace, which continuously increased. She squeezed his thighs for stability, looking up at him just as tears fell from both eyes and streaked down her cheeks.

“Fuck yeah,” Damian groaned. Her scalp was going numb and her throat was sore and she was drooling all over herself, all over his cock, and, pornstar or not, she never wanted to lose the role of his toy. “Fucking love this, don’t you?” he breathed. “You’d do it even if you weren’t getting paid, huh?” He impaled her throat, holding her there, moaning and mumbling obscenities every time she coughed or gagged. “Puta de mierda.”

He released her, and she yanked herself back, gulping for air, choking on the excess saliva. She was positive she was an absolute mess right now, and it wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined looking the first time they recorded themselves, but this was them. Rough, hot, dirty, needy, and greedy. Damian jerked his soaked cock as she caught her breath, and after a moment, her mouth was back on him, sucking on the head as he continued to stroke.

“I bet you’re wet as fuck chokin’ on this dick,” he went on.

Matter of fact, she was, and, though her mind was foggy, she thought this might have been the first time she’d even noticed her own arousal. So focused had she been on pleasing Damian and getting the job, she didn’t remember once squeezing her thighs for relief. Flexing one thigh and then the other, she readily felt the slickness between her folds and she whined around Damian’s cock.

“Yeah, that’s why I thought,” he snarled. He pulled his dick from her mouth, slapping her cheek with it. “You know I gotta taste that pussy, right?” Breathless, the producer on her knees at the mercy of the World Heavyweight Champion once more could only nod. “Get up here, on your back.”

Damian stepped out of her way, and she climbed onto the bed, rolling onto her back. She reached up to wipe her face off, not able to get much before her boyfriend shoved the camera into her hands. She was turning it around and about to adjust the screen so she would more easily be able to see what she was recording while holding the camera above her when Damian snatched the waistband of her leggings and wrenched them down her thighs. He then shoved her knees to her chest, legs still trapped in spandex, and she felt him rip aside her thong a millisecond before his tongue delved deep into her folds.

“Jesus Christ,” she cried, crossing one ankle over the other. She still maintained a grip on the camera, but where it was pointed she had no idea, as her eyes snapped shut and she thought for a second she did see Jesus Christ.

“Goddamn,” Damian burst. “Goddamn you taste good.” She whimpered, feeling the pad of his finger slide from the top of her clit to the bottom, and then she heard the very recognizable sound of him sucking his finger clean. He tugged the leggings the rest of the way off, tossing them over his shoulder, and then he crossed his arms, grabbed the bottom of his shirt with both hands, and smoothly lifted it over his head.

As Damian stood there in all his el campeón glory, his girlfriend fumbled with the camera, barely getting a shot of him before he grabbed her legs, spread them, and dove face first into her pussy. He licked and sucked with reckless abandon, nipped at her clit, and had her a writhing, sobbing mess almost immediately. A few times she struggled to keep her eyes open so she could watch the screen on the camera, watch Damian devour a bare, glistening pussy, watch the sex tape unfold in real time.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” she divulged, gripping the sheets with her free hand. “I’m gonna cum …” Damian groaned, somehow digging deeper in her pussy, his long tongue slipping inside her. And just as she was about to tumble over the edge, Damian was gone, her pussy suddenly cold and unstimulated. She lifted her head and moved the camera. 

“What, you think we’re here for you?” Damian snarled, hands on his hips. Her eyes trailed down his chiseled chest to his swollen, weeping cock, and she unknowingly licked her lips. “Roll over,” he nodded at her, fisting his dick. Damian took the camera from her, and she rolled onto her stomach. “Up on your hands and knees.” She complied, body popping up on all fours, knees spreading, and he was on her instantly, slapping his cock on her ass. “I’m comin’ in raw,” he growled, and while she already knew this to be the case, hearing him say it in this scenario utterly flooded her pussy, and she whined. She pressed back against him. Damian chuckled, deep and throaty, much like villains in the superhero movies. He pulled her pink thong to the side, squeezing her ass cheek. “All you bitches are the same. Look at me.” She glimpsed him over her shoulder, sighing, still unable to believe she’d landed such a god among men in the first place. He held the camera at chest level and it was trained on her. “Tell me what I wanna hear.”

“Please fuck me,” she whispered. “I don’t care if you pay me—” He slid his cock back and forth along her dripping slit, coating it in her slick, and then he slipped it between her ass cheeks, continuing the same motion. “I don’t care if I get the job.” Damian’s eyes met hers, and in her peripheral, she saw him adjust the angle of the camera. “I just need you to fuck me. Please?”

Damian grinned, shaking his head, and he sheathed his entire cock inside her, shoving her forward onto her elbows, and she yelped. On any other day, he’d have stretched her to prepare her for his size, but not this Damian. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he roared, pulling almost completely out before shoving himself inside again, repeating the action a few times. He reached over her and placed the camera on the bed in front of her. She twisted the screen to see what was in the frame, and it was her in the foreground, bent over, Damian behind her, the material of her pink thong wrapped around his hand. “Maybe you’ll get the job after all.” He fucked her earnestly now, a steady, pounding pace. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“Please,” she whined.

“Say it,” he said. “I know you want it … I wanna hear you fucking say it.”

“God,” she whimpered, “cum inside me. Please cum inside me.” Damian grunted, his thrusts becoming more powerful, faster. “I need it,” she continued, not sure if she was laying it on so thickly for her boyfriend or the camera. “I don’t need the job, I just need your fucking cum.”

“Fuck!” Damian shouted. One final pump and he was unloading inside of her. 

She laid her head on the mattress and looked at the camera, satisfied and smiling, reveling in the sensation of his cock contracting within her. “Thank you,” she purred.

Damian grabbed the camera, and she looked at him over her shoulder again. She giggled, shivering, as he probed her pussy with his fingers. “Look at that,” he said, and at the moment, she felt his cum seep out of her hole and down her slit. “Good girl.” He stood up, jeans and belt still hanging loosely on his hips. “Now get out. I got more interviews.”

** Querida - Dearest/Beloved, term of endearment  ** Corazón - Sweetheart ** Puta de mierda - Fucking slut

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

SUCROSE

Sugar Daddy!Older!König x Organic Chemist!Civ!FReader [NSFW, 4.3k]

You're an organic chemist that sugar babies for a laugh, because your days are dull and long. König is an old, battered soldier of fortune that has been sugaring you with an intensity bordering on religion. Neither of you are going to say the quiet part out loud.

CW: unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, descriptions of nuclear annihilation, descriptions of the opioid crisis, criminally emotionally constipated adults. Barely edited.

König’s place is Spartan. Most things about him are. But he tells you to do whatever you want, you've got his black card if you want anything, and you raise a brow in question.

“Anything, huh?”

He gives you a dry look. “Anything. Literally, I do not give a shit.”

Almost sounds like a dare.

You don't make yourself too-too at home. This thing is still new—the arrangement, the dynamic, the thrill. You know better that it could burn out at any second and leave you all the way hanging. Not a worry, because you are in charge of yourself, and this is only for fun. 

You've been too abrasive for too long to have faith in the idea that others will look out for you. That's always been your duty to yourself. It's sacred. It's safety. 

But he breathes you deep, wanting you in a way that feels like need. 

He likes it when you just come over to his place, because you don't invite him to yours. He likes it when you don't wear anything fancy in particular. He likes it when you put on his boxers and his t-shirt and crash on the bed with him. 

“Bad work day?” he asks, gaiter pulled up over his nose, hiding his face while some bullshit plays on the TV and his fingers rub tenderly behind your ear. 

“Hm.” It's a huff of a laugh. You stay resting on his chest. Your fingertips have only just slipped under the waistband of his sweats, resting on the small paunch at the bottom of his belly. “Didn't want you getting too comfortable alone.”

“Never been,” he laughs in return, a low and rough haa. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

You feel bad for trying to make the joke. You've never been comfortable alone, either. “It's just something you learn to live around,” you further, hoping like hell he understands, because you lack the words otherwise. 

“Yeah,” he hums, his arm tightening where it wraps around you, because he does. “Yeah.”

There are the quiet nights like those, when he just likes having you pulled tight to his body, running your hand over his stomach, ignoring the litany of scars—surgical, and violent, and otherwise—marring his hide. 

Then there are nights where he's a nightmare, and it is a riot to play with him. 

+

There's no preamble, only action. He sends you money for dinner, and the moment you're done, you're asked over to his place. 

“Do you want me to pick anything up for you? To eat,” you clarify, standing on the curb outside of the first restaurant he ever took you to—it's become a regular in your rotation. You're still in your work clothes. You don't even feel particularly human, just functional. 

Fuck's sake, you didn't even expect him to call tonight. 

“No,” he says, his voice tense, even on the phone, “just you. Now.”

You're barely able to knock on the door before he's snapping it open, gaiter pulled up, wearing Dickies and a fleece. 

“You g—?” You don't even get to finish asking, body in flight.

You yelp in surprise as he snatches an arm around your waist, the other sliding up your sensible, frumpy skirt, curling under your thigh. 

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, and your stomach flips at the bizarre, alien sensation. You've never been small. Delicate. Petite—what a vile word, an ideal adored by many, one that you've never embodied, and never could. There is no amount of plastic surgery or product that will ever make you desirably little. A stupid and furious bead burns down into your sternum, one that turns its face from all the boys and men that moaned for you, buried balls-deep in your tight cunt, only to spin a tight 180° and bitch that they wanted a woman they could toss around, manhandle, feel powerful for moving. 

They would fuck you, and want you, but only at the demand of curiosity, lust, novelty. Who would claim you. Who would ache for you. 

König pulls you onto his hip, gripping your ass cheek tight in one hand, and carries you to the bed.

“On all fours,” he growls, turning and swallowing hard, fishing out his wallet, and as an afterthought catches up with him, he adds, “please.”

Your heart is racing from the way he'd bodily executed his decision with you. Your brain is shocked into a standby state, working on intuition and instinct. You arrange yourself on hands and knees, ass up in the air, and pull your panties down, hobbling your knees. At least those kinda cute, and you have the thigh high hose on, sheer and black with lines down the back. 

You thank every fucking deity you know that you hadn't done your laundry and had clean long-johns to wear under baggy jeans today. 

He drops things in front of your face. Papers.

“What,” you grunt, not a question, a complete incomprehension. 

“Read those.” As if that wasn't clear. He hooks his hands under your hips, making you grab for the papers when he drags you to the edge of the bed. There's popping and a grunt as he gets on his knees behind you, and you barely tighten up your throat enough to catch the bark that wants to escape. 

“Fuck—don't!” you snap, frenzied, but he licks a hot, wet stripe from your clit to your asshole, about ready to bury his face. 

His fingers keep your ass spread open and they tense with frustration when he snipes back, “Vas? What the fuck could you—”

“Just fuck me, I'm already good.” You hear another sound of frustration out of him, something that feels like don't be dumb, since you both know exactly how fucking big his cock is, even for your well-played cunt. “You already got me going,” you hiss, shifting your hips, hating that you feel you have to admit this at all, “you—when you picked me up. That did enough. Just—it's time to fuck.”

His hands relax, sliding to push your ugly skirt up over your hips. “Just from picking you up?” he asks, as if that should be impossible. 

“Yes, just from picking me up,” you shoot back, this close to hiding your face in your arms. “I don’t get picked up. I don’t get—moved. Whatever. It was new. That doesn’t happen to me, unless you’ve somehow missed how I’m fucking built.”

All the air goes out of the room as you pull the admission like pulling your own teeth. A crack in the careful facade. A hairline fracture. You are not perfectly unflappable. You are not wholly without insecurity. You are as weak and human as everyone else. 

What a strange, ugly feeling to allow passage through your chest; a slow, inky swimmer swooping around your lungs and stomach, turning everything it touches to ice. You’re supposed to be untouchable, aren’t you? You’ve gone years without that odd, festering jealousy rearing its head. You’re not sure why it does so now.

König just taps the papers again, his breathing strained and heavy, bending to kiss your neck, just below the spot behind your ear that makes your skin snap with static electricity. “Let me eat your pussy while you read those. Don’t like condoms. Don’t want to use them anymore,” he grunts, the teeth he presses into your neck making you realize that he’s pulled down his gaiter.

It’s a weird enough request that it resets your brain. It allows you to read, your head fogged with discordant lust and curiosity as he sinks back behind you, bathing your pussy in heavy, slow attention with his split tongue teasing your clit.

It’s paperwork. A clean result from a recent STI test, and the discharge paperwork from a vasectomy. For your high-geared mind, it has taken an embarrassingly long time to click. He doesn’t like condoms, and doesn’t want to use them. The papers are assurances to you. He’s clean. He won’t get you pregnant.

In the five percent of your brain that is not being used to process the complete annihilation of your soaked pussy with pleasure, there’s a floor-rolling bout of hysterical, giddy laughter that has taken up residence, darting through the fine links of your firing neurons. 

This is a romantic gesture. He is a frightening, stone-faced man, who is twin to you in strangeness, and this is outpouring of bizarre softness and startling understanding. Is there anyone else in the world that has fucked you, let alone exists, that would know the way you find comfort and security in medical results and discharge papers on official letterheads?

If there is, you’ve never met them, and you don’t think you will.

Between his moves—a filthy, slurping plunge into your cunt, figure eights around your swollen and throbbing clit with the halves of his tongue, and almost delicate, sucking kisses that puff your labia—you still find the energy and wherewithal to bust his balls, even as he’s making you so wet that it slicks your thighs, “Alright. So, how do you know I’m clean?” It is a sentence you can barely manage as your body shakes.

There comes a laugh, rumbling and serrated, as he nips your shaking thigh with his teeth, paired with a familiar clap on the ass like you’re a breeding mare prized not for progeny but sentiment and a fondness for your rotten, crank attitude. “You’re mean as a fucking snake, Schatzi, but I know you’re not mean enough to let me tongue-fuck you if you had something.”

You maybe should not laugh at such a succinct round-up of one of your most defining character flaws, but you are, and you grin sharply looking back over your shoulder at him as he rises. His hands—huge, warm, coarse, careful—slide over your hips to savor your shape.

“Further up the bed,” he coaches you, leaning forward just long enough to press a heavy kiss to your mouth, pushing his tongue past your lips so you can taste yourself mixed with his natural metallic tang. 

One of your hands comes to his jaw, pulling him back in when he tries to move away, for just one selfish moment more, swirling your tongues together, needful of his heat and his closeness and the feeling of your noses crushes together as clumsy as college freshmen set loose in a wide, free world.

“You don’t do fuck-all in half-measures,” you mutter, hand finally sliding away, your lids clicking open crisp. You love seeing the scars mutilating his mouth, the way that flush brightens the coppery tint of his skin. The silver in his hair seems brighter, and the gold of the wheat-colored strands giving the silver a home seems deeper, more molten. 

He is a beautiful man. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and the look he gives you reads weakness.

What a rotten old soldier. What a battered old war dog. 

You don’t want to think about what it means if the weakness isn’t a figment of your imagination. If it is symptomatic of a larger trend; an oncoming crisis, a trend that sweeps and fells and swallows up entire communities, with a bent toward becoming endemic to the local culture, and almost impossible to kill forever after.

+

The opioid epidemic has always come in greater, and greater waves. 

The first in the nineties, off natural and semi-synthetic painkillers, a slow swell beginning with easier manufacturing, laxer laws, and gargantuan pharmaceutical conglomerates pushing-pushing-pushing the easy writing of prescriptions on countless doctors. Generational seeds buried in families, in communities—germinating at inhuman rates, weaving addiction into the DNA.

The second came with the second decade of the new millenia. A resurgence in heroin, when the world began to come down on doctors with fat Rx pads and quick-writing fingers. When you cannot find a fix legally, you will find it illegally, and it comes at much higher a cost. 

There were always more waves, and different ones, and quieter ones. There were always synthesizers, cookers, designers, manufacturers—legal and illegal alike. 

Fent, roxie, percs, bars. Heroin, krokodil, bath salts, flakka. Uppers. Downers. Barbiturates, benzos, phenobarbital. 

It all ties into dopamine, and the ancient, pointlessly leftover biological mechanic of addiction. The sizzling, bumpers-and-bells-and-bright-lights screech of a reward center well-fed. 

König is a beast of a man, and his brain is brutally hardwired for addiction. He's an alcoholic in on-off recovery, he's a medical req amphetamine junkie. He no longer chases adrenaline like most men chase tail, but he sprints after it in his tense, jerking dreams. 

He's just a dog, with wet sad eyes, and his heart chases after trucks that will never see him around blind turns. His surety that the next roaring beast coming around the switchback bend will finally love him back is the thing that is going to kill him. 

+

König can't spell for shit, and his grammar is a barely functional mess of punctuation and weird spacing, but he has a terrifying mind for numbers and nuclear engineering. He's told you before that it takes 10^-20 seconds for an atom to split to kickoff nuclear fission, the process that powers atomic bombs.

You're a doctor, and it didn't at all feel stupid to ask, “Fuck. How can you even comprehend how fast that is?”

You walked side-by-side with him in winter coats. He shrugged at the time, and said, “Hm. Alright, you're at the market. You're looking at apples, or arugula, or fish, or whatever the fuck. We don't know who hit the button, but the missile carrying the warhead is going twenty-four thousand K-P-H. Fifteen thousand miles per hour. You're in Berlin. As soon as the launch is registered, everyone starts launching.”

He stepped closer, elbow bumping yours. When he registered your hard swallow, he slid his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. 

“So the bombs are launched,” you prompted him, tucked into his side. “When do I die?”

“You died ten minutes before World War III ended,” he hummed, pressing his nose into the spot before your ear, brushing his gaiter-covered lips over your cheek and ear lobe, “you were turned into pure carbon staining the ground, and you never knew there was a bomb.”

10^-20 seconds for the bomb to perfectly obliterate any and all existence of your entire life. Annihilation so utter, there would be no DNA leftover. 

Bombs, destruction, drugs, addiction.

Control. Control. Control.

König will never know that you passed through the eye of the needle in close to the same fucking unfathomable shard of a second, fighting tooth and nail to choose between launching off the bed, denying his low-simmering feelings, and black listing his entire existence in your memory—versus embracing the insane, helpless plummet, releasing your death grip on the demand of understanding and autopsy of everything unknown. 

Your hand loosens on that chain.

+

“Yeah, fuck it. Fuck me,” you say, recovering from the staggering out of body experience. 

He leaves you ass-up in the cold of his apartment, windows open, and returns with his laptop and his black card, throwing them down in front of you. His hands clap your skin as they land on your hips, anchoring him as he pulls himself into place behind you, stroking his cock needlessly because it can't possibly get any harder or fatter.

“Buy whatever you fucking want. You've got ten grand. You don't spend it, you don't cum,” he grunts in a hoarse voice, and that's every bit of warning you get before he plunges his cock in your soaked, swollen pussy, bucking and grunting as you spasm around him and try to scurry away out of instinct. His hips slam against your ass, hands dragging you back against him, and you feel and hear the noise ripping in his throat like the gut-growl start of a chainsaw.

There’s a wolverine in your throat—something, perhaps, that fought hard, and died even harder than that in another life—and it does not take kindly to being bossed, bucked, bitched. It bares its fangs through your mouth, goading you to turn your head, to catch König’s eyes and lock onto them like you’ve caught him in unkind crosshairs. 

“Do I still get to cum if I just make one big, fat buy?” you ask hoarsely, the silver of your teeth flashing between your lips like a threat, eyes wild and too-bright. “Maybe I buy you a decent fucking couch? A good dining table?”

That mauled mouth of his curls into a smirk, and his hand skates up your back—turning threat and  tenderness into a single entity—gripping the back of your neck firmly, but not cruelly, as he redirects you to the screen. 

“You could. Of course, you fucking could. I’m not a liar. But.” He bends low, snapping a sharp and sweet love bite against the skin of your neck, in a spot that your collars will barely hide. “That would be fucking boring. I don’t think you’re boring.”

The tone begs you to tell him he’s wrong in a challenge.

You laugh, backed into a clever corner, gripping the sides of the laptop, dragging it closer as he starts a slow, rolling rhythm, sliding his cock in and out of you. Just taking his sweet time, warming you up all over again, getting those stiff hips of his to unlock, too—more used to marching and storming, now, than fucking.

You start by faking him out as he stretches your wet, throbbing pussy with his grappling-to-relax rhythm, pulling up a Tiffany Co. hardware necklace selling for $4,100.00. Its greatest sins are that it is not only ugly, but, far worse, it is boring. 

“Schatzi,” he growls, fingers tightening on your hips, and, good fuck, it makes you laugh. That earns you the slam of his hips flush to your ass, stealing the air from your lungs, and his huge hand tightens in the back of your hair, bringing your eyes back up as your head swims and your stomach jumps.

“Got the hint,” you wheeze, clicking off the tab, trying to focus on anything but the size of him inside you, pounding you like a brutal metronome. His breathing is tight, and every stroke of his cock sails him straight across your g-spot. Makes your brain shimmer like the bath bombs and body lava you load your carts with. Makes your guts feel filled with poured platinum, same shade and shine as the teal sapphire pendant earrings you purchase.

The orgasm builds in your lower belly—a broiling heat, a ten-ton tightness, driving your pelvis down with its demanding weight—and König stays steady fucking you, relentless with his perfect, unerring rhythm. Somehow that makes it so much more difficult to withstand. 

The first time you had fucked, he had lasted so long you thought he wasn’t going to fucking cum at all, but, no. He was just beastly in bed, sweat pouring down his temples and chest, eyes smirking over his mask until you ripped the fucking thing down and kissed him. He’d tasted, wonderfully, of your pussy and pleasure.

The stamina of a maniac, and the patience he professes that his younger self could’ve never maintained.

At $8,370, your focus gives, and you almost collapse, elbows sliding out from under you. You bury your head in the blankets beneath you, smelling his cologne and the faint odor of his sleep sweat, and it turns your stomach into a cyclone. You’re kissing the razor’s edge of finishing, so close you feel it flooding your blood like the skull-crack cold of a fresh IV line of saline on a hot, sick stomach.

All at once, he stops, one hand heavy-spread across your lower back, the other tight around the shape of your hip.

“H-huh, f—fuck,” you moan, pathetic and brainless.

“You done?” he asks, breathing hard. He grunts like the grit of a stone mill when you nod your head, then shake it, body too confused to settle on an answer. “Think about it. You’re almost there. Tell me how much you have left to spend.”

You turn your head in the blankets, taking a sideways glance at the screen. It’s hard to tell. His hand slips lower, between your legs, cupping your pussy and applying pressure, though he doesn’t play with you. 

Simple math. You’re a doctor. This should not be difficult. But Sisyphus would have an easier time pushing his damned boulder up his hill than you are with basic subtraction.

“One—one-six-three-nil.”

“Mm. Mhm. Sixteen hundred. I’m almost done, want you to cum, too. Get creative.” His voice is hoarse, tight with restraint, and even in your stupor, you can tell he’s struggling as much as you are.

With a sluggish nod, painfully conscious of his cock sitting heavy and throbbing in your cunt, you pull yourself up on one shoulder, slumping as close to the laptop as you can manage. The next page you go to belongs to his bank, and his fingers knead into the small of your back as you one-handed type his account information (the gift of an obscene amount of trust, or the hallmark insanity of a man who simply does not have a spare fuck to give).

Takes ten seconds to transfer a solid two grand into your checking account, and König doesn’t even chuckle. 

He fucking moans. A weak, broken-legged sound that shakes his entire body so thoroughly it rings through yours like church bells.

His grip tightens, and he muscles you onto your back like an afterthought. Slops your legs back open and drops all his weight on top of you, burying his face against yours as he fucks right back into you. He’s done dicking around (you would laugh at the stupidity of your own thoughts, had your brain stem not been atomized by this exact man), hitting a nightmare rhythm of thrusting and grinding that rubs your clit, and just tosses what’s left of your mind in the damned incinerator.

The build is so fast and reckless—a nigh-on lethal vent of pressure that leaves you half-blind and shaking, finally allowed to sprint after what felt like a lifetime of restraint—that you’ve already started to cum, and your mind is only just now catching up with your body. König’s breath is furnace-hot, rolling over your skin like the lungs of a bellows press, your cunt spasming and clenching his throbbing cock wildly. 

When the world finally takes back control of your facilities—putting a fading, slow halt to your paint smear perception of reality—König is crushing you with his weight. His hands grip at the underside of your thighs, and he breathes into the hair behind your ear. “Will move, soon,” he assures you, but you shake your head. 

“Stay put. Your weight feels good,” you respond, chest beautifully crushing under his body, and it calms your heart with the comfort of pressure. 

Lazily, and without much thought, you graph out chemical sequences across his back. Prolactin, dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, serotonin. All the good shit, overwhelming your blood stream.

+

You're the one to get up for water, calling him ‘old man’ in a snort that earns you a swat to the bare ass, and another gravel-grit laugh. He looks grateful for it all the same—that small measure of care and familiarity. 

Dog, dog, dog, your mind chants. He's just an old dog aching for a fleece bed and a kind hand. The stone in your stomach sinks heavier, and you turn your thoughts away from it. 

When you return, you collapse in the bed beside him after handing over the glass. He's propped himself against the headboard, legs splayed wide and lazy, the heaving of his chest from exertion shallowed by rest. His profile is harsh in the unfiltered light of his side table lamp, and the cold air blowing in through the cracked windows is a relief on your friction-chafed skin.

His skin is gold in this light, like his lightning-streaked hair. His form is sleek and powerful, even in repose. The bulk of him eats up half of the king-sized bed, dressed in barebones linens, and you think of tragedies. How perfectly-built demigods always came with a fatal flaw that became their death, and how nature couldn't figure out a way to give stronger hearts to massive creatures. 

Their bodies simply demanded too much fuel to keep alive for too long. They are powerful, undeniable, and gone so very quickly.

But looking at König, maybe god is too magnificent a term for him. You know he'd despise it. Bomb is a better fit. 

Yeah, no. That is the better fit. The type of man he is? One with his nature? He'd be dead before he even realized he'd detonated. And he'd kill as many people as he could with the blast radius. 

“You ever think about going back to school?” you ask in a fucked-out rasp, as your lips cut into a lopsided half-smile, and he laughs, smirking.

“I fuck you stupid, or…?” he teases, his teeth glinting in the light of the room, eyes pale and calm like cold water.

‘No,’ is the real answer, and it continues, ‘I have only just discovered the fear that comes after realization, and I have let myself pass through the keyhole to the other side. I have never seen this place, one where there is enough room for another person besides myself, and it frightens me. It could be filled, and it could be emptied, and I know that I do not have the resilience to live with that void.’

“Shit. I think you did,” is what you snort instead, pulling the sheets up over your hips. “I'm going to doze for a little while. Then, I'll call an Uber home.”

König says nothing, making an unsure noise of thought in his throat, but you know he won't pursue his offer, because you will turn it down, and he is fragile when it comes to rejection. 

Coward that you are, you allow the invitation to spend the night die in his chest, cemented by him leaving the bed shortly after to shower.

You are not ready to admit to even yourself that there is room for him. What else is there to do but run from it?

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Crash Course

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

word count: 822

pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

summary: Y/n returns to the paddock after recovering from her injuries, and Lando confronts her with his growing feelings

______________________________________________________________

The days following the crash were a blur for Y/n, filled with recovery sessions and endless interviews about the accident. The media buzzed with speculation, talking more about the rivalry between her and Lando than about the championship itself. Everyone wanted to know if the tension between them had reached a breaking point.

But Y/n couldn’t stop thinking about what Lando had said. His confession kept replaying in her mind, stirring something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel before. She kept pushing it aside, trying to focus on her recovery and the upcoming races, but it lingered in the back of her thoughts, persistent and confusing.

A few days later, Y/n was back at the paddock, still moving a little stiffly but determined to show everyone she was ready to race again. She walked through the garage, her team bustling around her, making sure everything was in place for the next practice session.

As she sat down to review some data, she felt a presence behind her before she heard the voice.

“Back so soon?” Lando’s voice was light, but she could hear the edge of concern behind it.

Y/n glanced over her shoulder, seeing him leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were studying her closely, as if assessing whether she was really okay.

“Did you expect me to stay away?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t let you have all the fun, can I?”

Lando smirked, pushing off the wall and walking closer. “Just making sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard.”

“I’m fine,” Y/n insisted, though the slight wince as she shifted in her seat betrayed her.

Lando noticed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You sure about that?”

Y/n sighed, rolling her eyes. “You sound like my doctor.”

“Maybe I should be,” he teased, but there was an underlying sincerity in his tone. “Look, I just… I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Y/n paused, the playful banter between them losing its edge. There it was again—that concern, that softness. She wasn’t used to this version of Lando, and it made her feel off-balance.

“Why do you care so much?” she asked quietly, looking up at him.

Lando hesitated, his playful smile fading. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before sitting down on the chair next to hers. “Because I meant what I said, Y/n. After the crash, when you almost collapsed… I realized how much I care. More than I probably should.”

Her heart skipped a beat, the air around them growing thick with tension. “Lando…”

“I know we’re rivals,” he continued, his voice low and serious. “And we’re both fighting for the championship, but… that doesn’t change how I feel.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. This was happening—he was actually saying it, putting into words what had been unspoken between them for so long. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. How could she explain the way she felt, when she wasn’t even sure herself?

Seeing her hesitation, Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I get it. This is complicated. And if you don’t feel the same way, we can forget it—”

“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm. She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “It’s not that. I just… I’ve been so focused on beating you, on proving I’m the best, that I didn’t stop to think about anything else.”

Lando’s eyes softened, a glimmer of hope flickering in his expression. “And now?”

Y/n looked at him, the weight of her feelings settling in her chest. “Now, I’m starting to realize there’s more to this than just the rivalry.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the noise of the paddock fading into the background as they looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. The tension that had always existed between them was still there, but it had changed—shifted into something neither of them had expected.

Lando leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… what now?”

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart racing. She knew they couldn’t just flip a switch and change everything. They were still competitors, still fighting for the same title. But maybe—just maybe—they could be something more, too.

“I guess we see what happens,” she replied softly, her eyes locking with his.

Lando’s lips curled into a small smile. “I like the sound of that.”

Before they could say anything else, Y/n’s team called her over for a briefing. She stood up, feeling Lando’s eyes on her as she turned to leave. Just before she walked away, she glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of their rivalry—but it could be the beginning of something else. Something that neither of them had been prepared for, but now seemed impossible to ignore.

[jessieren]

Here In America

I managed to go and see Here In America last night and, as promised, here's my (fairly brief) review. If you're going to see it and don't want to know anything in advance then don't read any further - although I've tried hard not to include any spoilers.

Firstly the theatre is tiny... and I mean really really tiny! When they said in the promo video 'you're going to be up close and personal with the audience' they weren't kidding. The stage area is incredibly tight and all the audience are within a few feet of the actors.

The scale of the theatre really gives the sense that you're 'in the room' with what's happening and adds to the sense of tension as the play builds. It also means that you can see the actors every expression and movement and they don't need to project/act up in the same way as you would in a large normal layout theatre. My personal view is that this suited Shaun's more minimal nuanced acting style really well - it was almost like acting for the camera.

The play is just under 90 minutes and is intense, quite complex, and dialogue heavy but the pacing is incredible and the 90 minutes disappeared in a flash. Shaun is on stage for pretty much all of that time and much of the dialogue and interaction happens between Kazan and Miller. The set, props and lighting are very minimal but work well and support the interactions (the scrabble scene near the beginning is great and sets the play up really well).

All four actors are absolutely brilliant but Shaun and Michael Aloni's performances are truly stunning. Shaun really does hold the entire piece together but without overwhelming or detracting from any of the other performances. Whilst it is intense there are some small moments of comedy and Shaun, in particular, plays those really well.

I enjoy plays with small casts as I think you get far more from the relationships and interactions and this is an absolute case in point. The details and nuance of the way the characters interact build a picture of their relationships that support and help move the play along and I think also build a genuine sense of empathy with the conflicts at the heart of the play. I went into it with a clear view of what/who I thought was right and wrong but the script and performances really made me reconsider my views throughout - and I'm still questioning how I feel about it 24 hours later.

Whilst Shaun doesn't look like Kazan (Aloni truly becomes Miller in an uncanny way, and similarly Jasmine is compelling as Monroe - not an easy ask), he is really convincing and plays him with a charm and charisma that gives a fully rounded view of him as a man and the choices he made, where it could have been easy to play him as a more two dimensional 'bad guy'.

I absolutely loved it and really hope it gets the praise and attention it deserves. Its one of the best pieces of theatre I've seen - and I go to a lot!

I'd highly recommend getting to see it - or paying to stream when its available.

Just as a side note: The play covers a lot of ground and refers to quite a lot of detail of Miller and Kazan's lives in particular. My personal view is that you get more from it if you already know the overall chronology of what happened in that period and also understand the basics of Kazan and Miller. I'm sure its still very watchable without the background but personally I felt I got a lot more from it from knowing something about the key characters, events and timeline.

[sailor-aviator]

By Its Cover: Chapter Four

By Its Cover: Chapter Four

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader (Last Name: Sinclair)

Summary: The frivolity of high society has never much interested in you. You preferred to spend your time reading, something your sisters couldn't fathom as they spent their time shopping the latest dress styles. The youngest of five children and the fourth daughter, not much was expected of you. You knew you might be married one day, but you hoped beyond hope that it would be to someone that might understand your intellectual pursuits. You begin exchanging letters with a mysterious stranger, and what's more, your older brother's rakish best friend seems to find himself in your path more and more as the season goes on. What's a girl to do? (Regency!AU)

Content Warning: Bickering, Arguing, Cursing (or almost), Reader feels sorry for herself somewhat, Reader disaparages herself, Heart to hearts with mom, Slight putting down of other girls (more comparing herself to others), Secret notes, Flattery, and general angst. I think that convers everything, but please let me know if I forgot anything!

Word Count: 3.45k

Series Masterlist || Moodboard

You rushed up the stairs to change for dinner, already hearing Georgie prattling on about something or other. Nora was hot on your tail, nearly running into you as you tripped over your skirts. You let out a huff as you gathered them in your hands, practically sprinting down the hall, and you counted yourself lucky that your mother was already down in the dining hall.

“Quick, Nora,” you called over your shoulder, stumbling to a stop in front of your open door. You skittered inside as Nora closed the door behind the two of you, the maid turning quickly to the clothespress, already prying open the many drawers as you stripped down.

“The blue dress, miss?” Nora asked, showing you the powder blue fabric. You nodded, padding over so she could slip the garment over your head. You changed your shoes, Nora fixing your hair as best she could as you flitted about the room.

The note hidden inside your book was still at the forefront of your mind as you rushed down the stairs after a parting thank you to your maid. The conversation around the table was as lively as ever, Georgie regaling everyone with the latest gossip from around the Island. You stopped short in the doorway upon seeing Lord Seresin, having forgotten momentarily that he had been invited. His jade green eyes snapped over to where you stood, a spark alighting upon seeing you. You sucked in a breath, your nerves aflutter. The conversation from earlier that day ran through your mind, and your lips turned downwards before you could stop them. You squared your shoulders, marching toward your seat on the opposite side of the table—just across from the handsome lord.

“Bug,” your mother greeted, disapproval over your tardiness crystal clear in her tone as she watched you sit. “How good of you to finally join us.”

“Apologies for being late,” you offered quietly, glancing around the table. Your mother’s disapproval was clear on her face just as curiosity was evident on both your brother’s and Lord Seresin’s. Georgie shot you an irritated scowl, her displeasure at the attention no longer being on her quite clear as well. You cleared your throat, hanging your head in a poor attempt to hide. You could feel all eyes on you, and you fidgeted with your fingers, letting out a sigh of relief as the servants entered the room with the first course.

The dishes clattered against one another as they were set at each place setting. The savory scent of the soup had your stomach letting out a loud growl, and a snort had your gaze moving upwards.

Lord Seresin his smile—poorly you might add—behind his hand as he feigned a cough. Your brow twitched as a sudden wave of irritation came over you, and you set your lips in a firm line as you glared at him.

Georgiana had begun relaying her gossip once more, her voice droning on as you shifted your focus back towards food.

You ate in silence as the evening passed, William and Lord Seresin speaking about business matters, your mother regaling the table with her charity ventures, and your sister doing her best to prove that she’d be the ideal wife for the eligible lord. Every so often you would feel eyes on you, and you did your best to ignore the sensation, making a point to look anywhere but across the table.

“It’s good to see that you’re feeling better, Bug.”

You looked up with wide eyes to see Lord Seresin sporting a cocky-looking smirk, his chin resting on his folded hands as he studied you.

“I beg your pardon?” You asked, brow furrowing in confusion. Lord Seresin tilted his head at you, smirk still in place.

“You mentioned feeling ill earlier today,” he prodded. “Then you left so suddenly that one could only presume it must have been serious.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach as his eyes flashed at you.

“Yet,” he purred, “here you are.”

You swallowed thickly, your fork hovering over your plate as your skin warmed.

“Yes, well,” you stuttered, clearing your throat, “I’m sorry if I caused you to worry, my lord, but it was only a headache.”

“Must have been a rather nasty headache,” he pressed. You were vaguely aware of the gazes of both your brother and mother shifting between the two of you warily. “The way you ran out of the park, I can only assume that it must have been agonizing.”

You bristled. What was he playing at? He knows why you left the park as quickly as you did, and yet he seemed determined to hear you say it. Georgie continued prattling on about something or other, and you sat up a little straighter in your chair. You set your jaw, lips pressed firmly together as you gave the blond a rather cold stare that only seemed to make him grin wider.

“It was, my lord,” you responded, ice dripping from your tone. “It was the nastiest headache I’ve ever had. I suppose you could even call it a real pain in my-”

“Bug!” Your mother exclaims, shooting you a wide-eyed glare as her eyes flicker towards the duke as your brother covers a snort with a feigned cough. Georgie stops her chattering at the outburst, eyes narrowing as she finally takes in the scene before her. You know you’re in for her raving later with the way she fixes a conspicuous glare in your direction. You can’t back down though—not to the arrogant bastard still smirking at you from across the table. He quirks a brow at you, seemingly in challenge as he speaks.

“Such language from a young lady of the Island,” he smirked. You clench your teeth so hard, you swear they’ll break.

“Well,” you sneered, cutting into your meal and avoiding his eyes, “as I was so dutifully reminded earlier today, I am nothing more than a silly, little girl who will be lucky to even find a match.”

The room is silent as you finish. Your mother’s brow is furrowed in concern as your brother frowns, sparing you a glance before fixing a confused glare on his friend. If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under with how Georgie glared at you, and Lord Seresin. A strange ache in your chest blossomed as you glanced up at him. The smirk was long gone, and a look of consternation adored his handsome features. Slowly, you placed your cutlery on your plate, clearing your throat and turning your attention towards your mother.

“My apologies,” you offered, a tight-lipped smile on your face as you rested a hand against your stomach. “It appears that I am not feeling as well as I previously thought. Might I retire for the evening?”

Your mother blinked owlishly at you. “Oh, um, yes. Of course.”

You were already on your feet and halfway towards the door by the time she finished. Lord Seresin called after you, but you refused to acknowledge him as you traipsed up the stairs.

“Don’t mind her, my lord,” you heard Georgiana’s voice echo up to you. “She’s always causing some kind of commotion around here. It’s best to just ignore her and carry on.”

Tears stung at your eyes as you cleared the landing. You didn’t know why your sister’s words stung as much as they did. It wasn’t like you weren’t used to her barbs at you, but something about them being offered to the man you once adored so much as a small child had the tears spilling over onto your cheeks in a matter of seconds. You wiped at your face furiously with the backs of your hands, waving Nora off with a wave of your hands and a shake of your head. She offered you a sympathetic look as you retreated into your room with a click as the door shut behind you.

You tore off your dress haphazardly, hiccuping sobs escaping you as you pulled your night dress over your head. Why were you so upset? You knew what people in society whispered about you behind your back. You were no great beauty like Lydia, nor were you elegant like Theodosia. You certainly didn’t know how to capture and command a room like Georgiana. You were…you. You were bookish and uninterested in frivolous things like the latest fashions. You weren’t concerned with your looks like most other ladies. You knew this about yourself, prided yourself in it even.

So why did the thought that Lord Seresin might view you in such a disparaging way make you want to break down all over again?

Your eyes were puffy and swollen long after you had managed to stop crying, yet you still sat on the bench by your window, watching the flickering flames of the candles in the streetlamps. Your back ached from sitting in the same position for so long, and yet you refused to move. You sat there long enough for a numbing sensation to crawl up your hand and into your arm from where you were pressed so tightly against the glass.

A knock sounded at the door, and you startled.

“Please, Nora,” you called out. “I just want to be alone right now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door creaked open, the light from the hallway filtering through the crack in the door as you let out a frustrated huff.

“Nora, I-” You stopped short as you whipped your head around to see your mother peering around the door at you.

“Oh,” you blinked, narrowing your eyes against the light. “It’s you, Mama.”

“Well, don’t sound so excited to see me,” she teased lightly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. You watched as she surveyed the room, a crinkle on her brow to match the purse of her lips.

“It’s so dark in here,” she tsked, moving to light one of the lamps. You didn’t reply, used to your mother going about and doing as she pleased. You wondered if that’s where Georgiana got it from.

“There,” she smiled as the candlelight flickered along the panes of the wall. You curled in on yourself as she turned to fix her smile upon you. “Much better, wouldn’t you say?”

Again, you didn’t reply. You simply waited for her to say what she came in to say. Her smile faltered after a moment of silence, and she let out a weary sigh as you continued to stare.

“Sweetheart,” she started, walking over to sit next to you. You pulled your legs closer to you in order to allow her room, and she sat with a gentle hand on your knee. She hesitated, seeming to mull over what it was she wanted to say.

“Just spit it out,” you mumbled. “I already know I’m a disappointment to you.”

Her eyes widened before a look of confusion crossed her face.

“Darling, why ever would you think that?”

“It’s obvious,” you snapped back, but there was no real bite to your tone. The ache from before returned with a vengeance, and tears welled in your eyes once more. “I’m not like everyone else. I’m not beautiful or graceful or charming. I’m temperamental, bookish, and pig-headed. I’m-”

You stopped, sucking in a deep breath as the tears threatened to spill over. You blew out the breath shakily as you wiped at your eyes.

“I’m something…to be settled for,” you finished, averting your gaze down to the floor. There was a moment’s pause before your mother took your hand.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she cooed, pulling you close to wrap her arms around you. You allowed her to maneuver you, leaning your head against her chest as you listened to her heartbeat.

“You are not temperamental, you’re passionate. You’re bookish, but my dear you are so beautiful as well. You are inquisitive and mindful, and kind, and certainly not something to be settled for,” she told you as she stroked your hair soothingly. You sniffled, raising your head to look at her.

“What about pig-headed?”

“Oh, well,” she chuckled, hugging you a little tighter. “I’m afraid you are rather pig-headed, sweetheart. It’s something you inherited from your father.”

You clicked your tongue at her, but couldn’t stop the smile that worked its way onto your face as you inhaled her scent. It was the familiar, comforting smell of lavender and fresh linen, and for a moment you were a child again, seeking comfort in the steady presence of your mother.

“Now,” she sighed, “what seems to be going on between you and Lord Seresin.”

You balked at the question, pulling away to fix her with a scowl.

“Absolutely nothing,” you asserted with a roll of your eyes. “He’s an arrogant, self-righteous bastard.”

Your mother gave you a look at your profanity, but didn’t comment on it.

“It seems that the two of you have,” she paused, “quite an interesting dynamic.”

“If you mean the kind where we can’t stand each other, then I suppose you’re correct,” you sniffed. Your mother fixed you with a dubious look.

“That’s not how it appears to me or anyone else,” she pressed.

“And what, pray tell, is everyone else seeing?” You asked with another roll of your eyes.

“Darling,” she snickered, “it’s quite clear to anyone with eyes that the duke is smitten with you.”

You laughed at that. Lord Seresin smitten with someone like you? It was absolutely a laughable thought. The man was arrogant and smug, of course, but you weren’t fool enough to believe that he wasn’t handsome and the most eligible bachelor of the season. Your laughter died down, a frown fixing on your face as you took in your mother’s serious expression.

“Mama,” you scoffed. “He’s most certainly not interested in me. The man can hardly stand me. If anything, he sees me as the same silly, little girl he was saddled with years ago.”

“I don’t believe that’s true,” she countered quickly. “I think you’ve misjudged the situation-”

“Besides,” you cut her off. “It’s Georgiana who will be his wife. She’s interested and clearly the perfect match for someone like him.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed at your words before she shook her head.

“No, my darling,” she insisted. “Georgiana wants someone who will dote on her and give in to her every whim. Someone who will spoil her with finest silks and pearls. I rather doubt she’ll find that in a match with Lord Seresin.”

“And how would you know?”

“A mother knows everything, Dearest,” she smirked, patting your knee gently. “A mother knows what’s best for her children. She sees her children’s faults and virtues, and she loves them all the more for both. She sees what will make her children happy, even if they themselves don’t see it at the moment.”

You watched as she rose from the bench, leaning down to place a kiss to the top of your head.

“Get some rest, Little Bug,” she told you, heading toward the door. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

You sat with your mother’s words for some time. You couldn’t piece together why she was so convinced that Lord Seresin had any feelings other than contempt when it came to you. The image of his smug smirk at dinner flashed in your mind for a brief moment, and your frown deepened as you remembered the blatant challenge he had issued you.

It truly was amazing how easily one person could get under your skin so easily. Why he had such an effect on you was far beyond the scope of your knowledge, and you supposed that some people just had that way about them when it came to others.

The candlelight still flickered against the far wall, and it wasn’t until you heard your sister’s door close just down the hall that you finally moved from your position by the window. You padded slowly over towards the desk where the candle stood, watching the flame flicker and dance as you attempted to collect your thoughts. Closing your eyes, you let your head tip back, feeling your confusion give way to apprehension at the thought of the parading you would have to do tomorrow. Once again, you were reminded of how different the two of you were.

Georgie basked in every bit of attention thrown her way whether it was the admiration and desire from potential suitors or the envy of her competition. You, however, loathed the spotlight and preferred to spend your time locked away in your studio or the library. For a moment, you wondered if you could convince your mother to let you stay home the next day to work on your art rather than prance around the park in your sister’s shadow once more.

You opened your eyes to stare at the ceiling, letting out a long sigh as you slowly brought your gaze back down towards the desk. It was then that your eyes flickered to rest on the paper that had taken up your attention earlier that evening. Your brow furrowed once more as you chewed on your bottom lip, fingers dancing along the edge of the desk before snatching the paper up and unfolding it to reveal the scrawl etched inside.

Fairest lady,

The way of words is perhaps not my greatest strength, however I would find myself in the depths of deepest regret were I not to impart upon you the feelings that grip me so thoroughly and to my very soul.

When I saw you amongst the flowers this afternoon, it was like the very breath within me had been stolen. As I gazed upon you, the sun itself appeared to grow dim, as if it realized it paled in comparison to the very image of yourself.

But, it is not only your beauty that I have great fondness for, lady. Much like the heroine of this book you find yourself in possession of, you do not conform to the ideals of women that have been presented to you. No, you make your own path in this world, and for that I admire you greatly.

I should like to hear your thoughts on this novel once you finish it, but I should like to read your words before then. I thought it pertinent to return this book to you, and so I had a boy return it to your home. If you should like, you may reply to me in kind and leave your note by the same fountain underneath the flower pot nearest the exit. If I do not find a reply within the week, I shall know that you are not interested.

I wait in anticipation of your reply, my lady.

Robyn

You read over the note once more, teeth gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you pondered what to do. You had no knowledge of anyone named Robyn, and so you could only assume that it was a moniker of some kind. You wondered what gentleman in your sphere would have taken the time to read such a book as Northanger Abbey, taking the time to dissect the themes and elements beyond the initial glance.

Certainly no man you knew.

Now, you wondered if you should reply. If you were caught passing notes, it could stir up a scandal for your family, no matter how innocent the notes seemed. It could also be a trick that one of the meaner ladies of the Island was trying to pull. You weren’t sure you could handle being the subject of yet another joke.

Still, you had always been a curious creature, and the thought of not knowing who this person was something you couldn’t stand to let pass. You plucked a quill pen from one of the drawers, preparing it before sitting down to pen your reply.

Robyn,

You speak of me as if you know me, and yet I do not know anyone with your name or even one who uses words such as yours. You intrigue me, Robyn, and I should like to know more about you if we are to exchange letters concerning our thoughts to one another. For much like Catherine Morland, I too have a fondness for stories and fantastical ideas. I only wish that they not be advertised or used against me more than they already are at present.

Can I trust that you will not use my words against me in the future? I find it rather hard to put my trust in someone when I do not know who they are. Might you tell me some things about yourself?

I await your reply,

Lady Sinclair

A/N: And here's an update for you all! I know I just ran a poll, but I might update Fool's Fare next just because I'm pretty far into it already. But then I'll update Hanging By a Moment! Can't believe it's actually winning, I thought I'd never see this day again, but I knew Jake and Scout would have their time in the sun again!! Anyway, what do we think so far?? Are Bug and Lord Seresin going to make amends, or are they doomed to hate each other? Who is Robyn? What do they want with Bug??

Also, just a reminder that I've started my travel season for the semester, so updates should actually be a little more frequent despite what you'd think. I've got a lot of time to hang out in hotel rooms coming up lol

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. If you would like to be notified on when I post updates, please follow my side blog (@sailoraviator-library) and turn on post notifications! My work is cross posted on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[closetcasefabray]

jesus saves (i spend)

i have been writing parts of an avatrice college au for two gd years now. the ideas & writing are scattered between here (one of the tags below should work), my whatsapp convos with @snowandwolves, on discord, my dinosaur laptop that crashes, & my email. it’s a fucking disaster but whatever so am i & not once in my life have i had my shit together so this is all unsurprising.

SO what i’m saying is, here’s the only part i have ‘formally’ written in fic form bc i posted that other ficlet. doing this made me almost throw my dino laptop & my phone out a window on several occasions—that’s why there isn’t more. but i just wanna share this.

more notes & rambles at the end.

//

You notice her because it's syllabus week of your freshman year, it's an 8 AM class, and you're fairly confident you're still drunk from the party you attended last night, but she raises her hand and correctly answers a question posed by your theology professor without hesitation. Your professor, Father Vincent, was likely hoping for a good guess at best, but there she is, exceeding expectations from the moment she speaks. You pickup on an accent, which you would find incredibly attractive if you weren't so thrown by her perfect and concise response, like a well-prepared speech is always readily accessible in the back of her mind—a girl with all the answers. A young woman, really. 

You, however, are not—you're just a girl. You're just a girl who shows up to her morning classes smelling like the bar or the house party from the night before, like the weed you started smoking almost immediately upon arriving to university during orientation week, like the cigarettes you smoke because it affords you a little more quiet outside and an excuse to borrow a lighter and talk to a cute boy or a pretty girl.

You're just a girl who technically died, existed in nothingness for a whole minute before being ripped back into a reality of blank ceilings and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You're just a girl strangers prayed for after they heard about the American child pulled from the wreckage. You're just a girl who didn't get any credit for teaching herself to stand again, to walk again—and if you’re being completely honest, you’re a girl who’s incredibly bitter that a god you never saw in that one minute got all the credit and none of the blame—for taking your mother from you, for taking years from you that had to be spent healing from god’s grace or lack thereof. 

You're just a girl who is tired of being told to look at her life as an expression of holiness, who thinks it is more so the consequence of indifferent stardust. But you still look for the beauty in that, in humanity and its flaws—these meaningless beings in a vast universe, creating and destroying their own little, myopic worlds on this spinning rock. Some will dream of poetry for their lovers, and some will dream of arsenals to level cities. You wonder how many lips were pressed together in a final kiss versus hands clasped together in prayer when fire fell from the sky in the name of God. You wonder what that says about faith.

You'd like to think if your mother could see you, she'd laugh at the irony because once you were baptized, she never took you to church. God finds a way, so you spent five miserable years in a Catholic orphanage before you were sent back to America. People said you were lucky to have two years in a foster family at your age, but it felt like living with strangers who were tasked with the minimum of keeping you alive. Then you were moved into a home for teen girls with a nun at the helm, and that’s where you actually felt fortunate for the first time in years. It was there that Mother Superion helped you with your studies and college applications. So here you are, tipping into a hangover in one of the oldest buildings on campus, learning theology from a priest.

But your mom would understand. (You don’t remember much of her, and you try not to think about that too deeply, or else you have to deal with the resulting ache that comes from reaching inside yourself for something that’s gone.) You have spliced together what you can recall into a short reel—you mom buckling into your car seat while humming a show tune, showing you how to fold a pizza slice and telling about a city famous for their pizza, and holding your hand in a museum in Spain, promising to take you to another big museum closer to home, the home you never saw again. So you promised yourself and the parts of her you carry that you’d make it here.

You would have had to pay almost full tuition if you wished to attend your reach, requiring immense debt, so you ended up at the school that offered you a ticket to the city and a hefty enough scholarship you could get through four years without requiring loans or a full-time job to afford it. (You first refused to use your mother’s death as a sob story in you application letter, but Mother Superion put her hand on yours and said, So rarely do these letters contain truth, but do not be afraid to tell yours. In telling your truth there is a sadness, yes—and I know you detest pity—but of all the things that have been taken from you, do not feel guilty for taking some of it back to live a better life.) You remember getting your acceptance letter, and looking up at the sky and flipping it off, praying whatever god hears you, No thanks to you!

But your bitterness temporarily takes a backseat in your mind as you look at your classmate, beautiful in the refracted light shining through the stained glass window, speaking so graciously of god you'd think Jesus were in the room, about to hand her his latest work. It's poetry, bordering on scripture in a new tongue, and you'd almost be a believer if it didn't sound as if she had repeated these words—practiced—enough times to believe them herself. You wonder what that says about her faith.

If the nuns at the orphanage had spoken the gospel as she does, maybe you'd be here for different reasons. You're fascinated.

Behold, you are beautiful…

//

i promise this fic gets lighter & has some silliness. so some notes/tangents:

this is 100% self-indulgence bc i heard ‘write what you know’ & ran with that shit. when i visited a friend at a state school in a college town i was so so confused bc it was just a diff campus culture entirely. then i was going to make this set in an ambiguous city, but i literally have saved places in google maps that would be great places to kiss someone sooooo you get NY avatrice.

likely setting this before instagram & smartphones bc i’m old/lazy & i can.

the title is from st. vincent who my friend introduced me to in college. “paris is burning” changed my brain chemistry & so i listened to her music on repeat for ages—“jesus saves, i spend” is on the same album.

father vincent will not be a bad man or evil professor. he will be as he was before adriel—a lost man who found himself through god & still a little broken but caring & devout.

also song of songs/song of solomon is like… the only part of the bible i fucked with in theology class so that’s the reference at the end. also another line used in another scene with JC, chanel, & ava written in v rough form. maybe will share that later.

this is meant to be a fic with a post-grad sequel as well. not much written of that but a lot of ideas everywhere.

once i figure out where i’m moving (hahahaha i’m so stressed), i’ll consider a ko-fi or something (i wish emails & names weren’t shown though). but mostly i will likely need a second job to save up for an actually good computer/macbook. once i have that i’ll be able to post on ao3.

anyway thanks for reading & being here :3

[hyunebunx]

💝 with jisung 🤭

˖˙ ᰋ ── 💝- 'a sudden kiss to catch the partner off guard'

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: manaa <33 i hope you enjoy this as much as i loved writing it <3 thank you sm for requesting!

It wasn’t a rare occurrence to drop by and find your boyfriend creating, brainstorming for another song while strumming his guitar or tapping a pen on the table to the rhythm created in his head. Inspiration struck at the oddest of times, not giving him a break no matter how spent or exhausted he was. And you had to understand – when the creative juices were flowing and he was in the zone, nothing and absolutely nobody mattered until he finished the song.

You find yourself in his room, sitting across from each other on the floor as you’re listening to your boyfriend go on and on about this new idea of his, strumming random chords on his guitar as he struggled to find a note he was satisfied with.

His fluffy brown hair bounces everywhere as he talks, glasses dropping a little too low on the bridge of his nose as he hasn’t raised his head from the instrument since you came in, half an hour ago.

“I’ve had this melody stuck in my head since yesterday but I can’t seem to get it out.” He hums, in hopes you might recognize it or help him somehow. He’s out of luck because truth be told, you stopped listening ten minutes ago.

You loved his creativity and passion but sometimes, like right now, you just needed his love and affection and Jisung has been too busy to notice.

“How about a snack?” You ask, standing up to which your joints thank you joyfully.

Jisung mumbles a quick ‘yes’, granting you his attention for a split second before he’s back to his guitar, hunched over in concentration.

The house is empty except for you two, with Jisung’s roommate, Minho, away on a family trip. You’d never thought you’d miss his loud and over the top laughter but now, when your boyfriend was barely paying you any attention, its absence pains you. You never realized how lively Minho kept things around here – you need to show your appreciation when he returns.

You linger longer than necessary in the kitchen, preparing snacks and drinks for the both of you before shuffling back to Jisung’s room, thankful the door was left ajar with how full your hands have gotten.

The moment you step inside, Jisung’s head snaps up with the most endearing smile stretched across his face, glasses a little bit crooked. “Baby! I got it! Hear me out, please!”

His happiness lights up the room in such a way that almost blinds you, his smile contagious and making it hard to resist the urge to smother him with your love. Jisung has never given you a warning, for if you got one, you might’ve prepared yourself better before falling head over heels in love with him. Though, you can never prepare for these things. Love sneaks up on you the moment it finds an opening, when your guard is down and the last thing you expect is being hit by cupid’s arrow, right in the heart.

Looking back, you don’t think you ever stood a chance. You were doomed from the start, when Han Jisung walked in the room you were in, a few years ago, laughing loudly with the previously mentioned roommate. Your heart has been his ever since, the sound reeling it in and never releasing it.

He’s babbling on, excited, as you set the plates down on his dresses, making your way towards him with a newfound purpose. When you lean down to get his attention, he tilts his head up with a dazzling smile, still talking and oh so unsuspecting of your next move.

Without warning, you peck his lips, causing the words to die on his tongue as he freezes, reflexively kissing back the second time your lips meet even if his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

“Sorry,” you whisper against his lips, his mouth agape in surprise as you stare right into his hazy eyes, “you looked too adorable, I couldn’t help myself.”

The loud sound of the guitar tumbling out of his grasp startles you, and you look down in concern while Jisung doesn’t even seem to notice, too enthralled to care. Your kisses always had that effect on him, and he’s sure they’ll continue to do so no matter how many years pass. You had him wrapped around your little finger after all, the victim of the spell your love cast on him the moment he set eyes on you.

“Ji?” You shake his shoulder lightly before crouching down to return his guitar. “The song, baby?”

“What song?” Is the first thing he manages to let out, clearing his throat as he finally comes to.

You giggle, and that’s all it takes Jisung to set the guitar aside and pull you to him by your waist, cushioning your fall as you collapse onto him before his lips are on yours again, kissing you passionately.

For a moment there, he forgot his own name. How was he supposed to remember whatever song he came up with when you used your evil powers to steal all of his attention? Though, he supposes you can’t steal something that’s always been rightfully yours…

[pascaloverx]

BORN TO DIE

Summary: In a tense political setting, a Targaryen bastard working as a prostitute is summoned by Prince Aemond to the Red Keep. Aemond wants her to approach his dragon, Vhagar, as a test of her worth. Although he plans for her to claim another dragon in the future, her immediate challenge is to survive Prince Aemond demands while trying to stay alive.

Author’s Note: This work is set in the world created by George R.R. Martin, as depicted in his book Fire & Blood, and none of the characters belong to me. The story will follow some events from the series House of the Dragon (2022), but with changes to fit the fanfiction narrative. Therefore, it will not adhere strictly to the series' storyline. This fanfiction is a work of fiction and may contain inappropriate language, adult content, and violence. Readers be warned. I hope you enjoy the story and interact with it. I apologize if there are any errors in the High Valyrian sections; I used a translator and am unsure of its accuracy. Thank you and happy reading. I would like to thank my best friend who, besides being a faithful reader of this fanfic, gave me the idea of the little confrontation between the Cannibal and Vermax dragons, thank you @dipyouuinhoney ❤️

Warning: This chapter will contain violence, as well as inappropriate language and adult sexual content. Minors should not read or interact with this chapter or this fanfic.

THREE

FOUR (+18)

Facing the dragon Cannibal, you heard his powerful roar, a clear attempt to communicate with his new rider—you. His restlessness was evident, perhaps driven by the need to understand why someone had disturbed him or because you were accompanied by a stranger. Or perhaps he sensed your own discomfort. The dark, rugged-scaled beast spread his wings in an imposing display, a signal that he was ready to take flight. His sharp teeth, glistening with a trace of blood between them, were fully exposed. You noticed his impatient paws pressing into the ground, claws sharp and ready. There was no doubt—this dragon would be a formidable asset in the war between King Aegon II's forces and the dragons fighting for Princess Rhaenyra.

"Uēpa taoba, dohaerās. Kostilus, rȳbagon," you command with a firm, dominant tone, attempting to assert control over Cannibal, readying him for what was to come. As you glance back, you notice Prince Aemond gazing at the dragon with unmistakable admiration—perhaps even something more. You could swear that he seems slightly aroused by the sight of you and Cannibal bonding. However, not wanting to acknowledge this observation, you quickly avert your gaze the moment he catches you watching him. The dragon lowers his snout toward you, as if trying to catch your scent. The blood of Aemond, still fresh on your skin, must be lingering in the air, drawing Cannibal closer.

"Sȳz gundjabo, sȳz zaldrīzes," Prince Aemond murmurs as he passes by you, moving closer to Cannibal. The dragon seems aware of the fact that both of you will soon take flight with him. Aemond, of course, never misses the chance to remind you of your station—what you are to him. Yet, in this moment, you’re far too anxious to care about his words. The looming flight, the dragon's immense power, and the weight of what lies ahead consume your thoughts, leaving little room for anything else.

"Sȳz kipagīros, sȳz zaldrīzes; ñuha dārilaros. SōVegon, Cannibal," you gently correct Prince Aemond as both of you situate yourselves atop the dragon. After all, to your dragon, you are the rider, the one who will guide him down paths even you cannot yet foresee. In an attempt to appease Aemond, you address him formally in High Valyrian, acknowledging his status. As you position yourself on Cannibal, the sensation of his rough scales beneath you feels strange, unsettling even. Yet, without hesitation, you give the command for him to take flight. The air is filled with tension as the dragon obeys, lifting off the ground with powerful, sweeping wings.

"Be prepared for battle commands. If I know my strong nephew, blessed with the temperament of his late father, he will attempt to hinder our path. Do not allow Cannibal to kill him. That privilege does not belong to you," Prince Aemond commands, as though you are merely his dragon to control. He must be longing for Vhagar. However, you have no desire to harm any of Rhaenyra’s children. Making such a mistake would be far too reckless, and you are fully aware of it.

Prince Aemond's hands grip you tightly as you turn to look at him in order to respond. It is then that you notice a dragon approaching swiftly from the distance. With green scales and a more agile frame, it is small in comparison to Vhagar or even Cannibal. The rider of this dragon is coming with a speed that suggests a fierce desire for combat between their beast and yours.

"Aderī, Cannibal,"you command, and the dragon responds, accelerating towards King's Landing with a newfound agility.

"I do not wish to confront your nephew, Your Highness," you add, showcasing your ability to communicate both with your dragon and the impatient prince behind you. Aemond lets out a low grunt of frustration, likely longing for Vhagar to teach his nephew a lesson. As the son of Rhaenyra closes the distance, Cannibal visibly tenses at the proximity of the other dragon. With a swift maneuver, he performs a roll in the air, seeking to gain control. Aemond's hands grip you firmly, and you feel the heat radiating from your palms as you hold onto Cannibal, the tension mounting in the air.

Cannibal manages to distance himself from the smaller dragon, soaring above the waters where you once bathed alongside Aemond. The memory floods back, momentarily distracting you from the imminent danger. Your focus snaps back as you notice a flame nearly singe Cannibal’s wing. The heat from the attack of Rhaenyra's son sears your left hand.

"Angōs, Cannibal!" you shout through the pain of your scorched skin. At your command, your dragon rises, pursuing the smaller foe with determination. Cannibal requires no further direction; he unleashes a powerful blast of fire towards the smaller dragon, igniting part of the sky in a fierce blaze, as if he intends to incinerate everything in his path.

He clearly does not relish the thought of being commanded like this, least of all to celebrate a moment you know he feels is rightfully his. "Lykirī, Canibal!"you call out with urgency, hoping your dragon heeds your words to ensure the safety of his target. Amidst the roars and growls, Cannibal finally begins to settle, responding to your command as he assesses the outcome of the encounter.

"My strong and cunning nephew, hie thee to Dragonstone and alert your mother of the perils of being a wily fool." Prince Aemond takes the lead, addressing his curly-haired, brown-haired nephew as soon as he lays eyes upon him. The young lad's dragon bears a slight opening in one of its wings, likely from the intensity of the flames, or perchance Cannibal has grazed it lightly with his talon.

"My dear one-eyed uncle, I trust you do not believe this to be over. You and your usurper brother shall lose this war," the brown-haired nephew of Aemond declares in his most threatening tone. His words enrage the prince, and in a fit of fury, Aemond loses his composure, shouting, "Drakarys!" in a desperate command to Cannibal. Yet, the dragon does not obey. Instead, Cannibal stretches his claws toward the smaller dragon as if to intimidate, releasing a thunderous roar that shakes the very air around them.

"Choose your next move wisely, prince. You wouldn’t want your mother to bury another son," you warn Rhaenyra's son, your voice steady despite the tension thickening in the air. Though Aemond’s command failed, there is little you can do to rein in both the prince and your dragon. Cannibal, still looming and poised to strike, waits for no one’s control, and Aemond’s rage is far from spent. The weight of the moment presses on you, knowing that any misstep could unleash disaster. Your words seem to have an effect on Aemond’s nephew, who slowly retreats. You watch as he commands his dragon to return to Dragonstone, while Canibal resumes his course toward King’s Landing.

“You should have commanded Cannibal to strike him again,” Prince Aemond mutters close to your ear, frustration seeping into his voice.

“Your Highness, the death of your other nephew is not mine. It was by your own commands,” you reply, catching him off guard with the weight of your words. For the remainder of the journey, neither of you says another word. The silence between you is heavy, filled with unspoken tension and the cold reality of what lies ahead.

Your dragon lets out a powerful roar as you approach King’s Landing, as if announcing his arrival. Cannibal swiftly glides toward the Dragonpit, and you can feel Prince Aemond's fingers brushing along your waist, almost as if exploring it. Cannibal lands amidst the growls of other dragons, releasing a burst of fire into the air as he adjusts himself on the ground. The Dragonkeepers gather around, making both you and your dragon uneasy. You wonder if Cannibal might attack them—if he cannot be fully tamed, his value to King Aegon II could be compromised.

You know that maintaining eye contact with Cannibal is crucial to calming him down. Between one growl and another, your dragon settles on the ground, lowering himself slightly. Prince Aemond dismounts with ease, accustomed to the task, while you, on the other hand, struggle on your third attempt to climb down. You start considering whether staying atop your dragon forever might be preferable. Impatience seeps into you as it does into your dragon. Just as you're about to give up, Prince Aemond’s attention shifts back to you after exchanging words with the Dragonkeepers. Like before with the horse, he extends his arms toward you, offering assistance.

"Gundjabo, you must learn how to dismount your dragon," Prince Aemond whispers near your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. The way he helped you down from Cannibal still lingers in your thoughts, the proximity between you far too intimate. You try to respond, but no words seem to form, your voice betraying you. The truth, undeniable as it is, swells within you—you are undeniably drawn to Aemond Targaryen, with a hunger that you can no longer ignore.

"The King summons you both, Your Highness. He insists you be prepared for the banquet he is hosting in honor of his newest dragon's conquest. He desires the presence of both his brother and the dragon's rider as soon as possible," one of the King's servants announces as she approaches. Aemond stiffens, his expression darkening in clear displeasure, and he releases a low growl, a hint of frustration in his gaze. He clearly does not relish the thought of being commanded like this, least of all to celebrate a moment you know he feels is rightfully his.

"Inform the King that we shall join him shortly to celebrate this victory. I trust my bath is prepared, and the gundjabo will ready herself in my company. Ensure she is provided with new attire." Prince Aemond's command is sharp and unyielding, and the servant quickly scurries off to carry out his orders. You feel a rush of shock at the thought of undressing in the presence of Prince Aemond, but your mind immediately shifts to a more pressing concern—calming your dragon. As Aemond exchanges words with a few of the keepers, you make your way to Cannibal. His dark, formidable presence looms as you approach, but you reach out, your hand finding his rough scales. You whisper a brief farewell, a silent promise to return, feeling the bond between you and the mighty beast grow with each touch.

In silence, you follow Prince Aemond to his chambers, trying to discern why he insists on you preparing yourself in his presence. Two possibilities run through your mind: perhaps he seeks to assert his dominance over you, a display of power to ward off any designs his brother might have upon you; or perhaps, this is some form of punishment for the wound you inflicted earlier. His blood still stains your skin, and no doubt the pain from where you cut him lingers. The thought settles heavily—whatever his motive, you are likely in for a reckoning.

"Disrobe yourself; we shall bathe together. Afterward, you will be formally introduced to King Aegon II Targaryen . Know that every action you take in His Grace’s presence will be under my scrutiny, and any misstep will bring consequences upon you," Prince Aemond commands, his voice laced with authority as he begins to undress before you. His words send a shiver down your spine, the implications of his warning settling heavily on your mind. The thought of what consequences might await you under his watchful eye is enough to stir anxiety. It’s no surprise that Aemond seeks to instill fear—he thrives on your desperation, needing to ensure your obedience through intimidation.

"I do not think it proper for me to be bare in your presence, Your Highness. Surely, I can afford you the necessary privacy and prepare myself elsewhere. If you would excuse me..." you attempt, feigning modesty as an excuse to escape the looming consequences of your earlier actions. But before you can slip away, Aemond’s hand grasps your arm with a firm resolve, pressing you against the door of his chambers. His fingers trail up toward your neck, lingering there as if assessing every inch of your skin, studying you like prey caught in his grasp. His one good eye follows the curve of your form, tracing from head to toe in a slow, deliberate gaze. Your breath catches, growing shallow as uncertainty floods your mind. You stand frozen, unsure of what awaits next under his unrelenting scrutiny, as the tension between you grows palpable, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Gundjabo, gundjabo... cease these futile attempts to flee from me. Believe me, within these grand walls, I am the closest thing to safety you shall find. And I think propriety is no longer a concern between us. Now, be a good girl and obey me, before my patience wears thin." Aemond's voice drips with menace as he grips your face, turning it aside so his lips hover near your ear, his words slow and deliberate. His hold is firm, unyielding, and the weight of his command sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath falters, betraying the rising doubt in your ability to navigate this situation. Survival seems like a distant notion, slipping further from reach with each moment spent under his watchful eye. You can feel his control tightening like a noose around your freedom, leaving you cornered. With trembling resolve, you grip his hand, pulling it away from your face without a word. His gaze never wavers, a predatory intensity burning within, watching your every move. Though his words still echo in your mind, you begin to comply with his original order, slowly giving in to the dangerous dance that lies ahead.

You slowly remove your clothing, hoping that Prince Aemond won't torture you for hurting him. He lets out a moan that sounds more like a "hmm" as you finish getting off. When you finish taking off your clothes, he motions with his head for you to take off his clothes too. He had already taken off some of his clothes so in a few moments, he was naked. His dick was slightly hard was on display, which caught your attention. He walked over to enter his bath but not before carrying you into the bath with him. His arms wrapping around you, forcing you into the water with him, surprises you. Until then you didn't think Aemond had that much strength. But now that you're taking a bath together, you are trying to force yourself to think about how to calm him down. You approach him, helping him clean himself; all the while touching every part of Prince Aemond's body.

"Your Highness seems tense, perhaps there is something I can do to help you release all that tension..." You say as you run your hands over Aemond's chest, your fingers moving delicately down groping the hitherto unexplored body of your beloved Prince Aemond. When your fingers reach Aemond's cock, you see the Prince close his eye. He is receptive to your touch as you run your hand over his cock, stimulating it. Your hand moving back and forth slowly as you listens to the muffled moans of Prince Aemond who has his head turned back. Your movements become faster as you feel him becoming more and more surrendered in your hands. You approach Prince Aemond's neck, kissing the spot you cut. The Prince lets out a moan as you kiss his neck again now rising with the kisses, while continuing to make movements on his cock. You kiss Aemond's chin, then his mouth. You try to have some dominance in the kiss because his eye is still closed but as soon as your tongue meets his, he seems to light up. He sucks on your tongue as if tasting a delicious fruit, while pressing you against the bathtub. He then cums in your hand, while letting out a grunt as if he enjoyed it. His gaze upon you is a mixture of pleasure with something else, like pure evil. He gives you a mischievous smile just before pressing you underwater. His hands are pushing you to stay underwater while you try to use your strength to not drown. You're thrashing around, touching every part of Aemond's body to see if he'll let go of you. You start to run out of air, your attempts to survive aren't working so you decide to accept your imminent death. It is then that Aemond pulls you up, as he watches you trying to breathe desperately. As soon as your breath returns to you, you face Prince Aemond. He has a victorious smile on his face, as if he is teaching you a lesson.

"Next time you consider harming me, make sure I do not survive. Otherwise, you shall face a fate far more cruel than merely sharing a bath. But I must say, your skills with your hands, gundjabo, are quite... relaxing." Prince Aemond's voice is chillingly casual, as though the near-murderous tension between you has been nothing more than a passing amusement for him. His gaze lingers on your expression, clearly relishing the fear flickering across your features. For a moment, you stand frozen, words failing you in the face of his menacing calm. The weight of his threat settles in your chest, but you decide it’s best not to challenge him further.

Without uttering a single word, you quickly finish bathing, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere surrounding him. As soon as you step out of the bath, your hands tremble slightly while you hurriedly dress in the green gown laid out for you. Wasting no time, you leave Prince Aemond's chambers as swiftly as your legs will carry you, the feeling of his predatory gaze still burning at your back as you depart to face the next trial—an audience with his brother, King Aegon II.

TO BE CONTINUED

GLOSSARY

Uēpa - Old

Taoba - Boy

Dohaerās - Serve

Kostilus - Please

Rȳbagon - Obey

Sȳz - Good

Gundjabo - Prostitute

Zaldrīzes - Dragon

Kipagīros - Rider

Ñuha Dārilaros - My Prince

SōVegon - Fly

Aderī - Quickly

Angōs - Attack

Lyriri - Calm down

[eir-trixa]

WOTTG SPOILERS AFTER THE CUT

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Can you believe Rick is validating me in my Percy-is-the-most-empathic-character take? I have legal basis but boi does it feel nice to have canon confirmation.

Second that book was short af I got the gist of it all while reading for like an hour.

Third, we addressed everyone else’s trauma. Percy’s still the group therapist LMAO 😭😭😭

Fourth, my son is such a good kid yall, this is why I lose five years of my life when someone insults or when he insults himself jfc my child.

Im honestly still processing and I have to reread the ending. Did it address Percy’s issues? Im going to go with “a bit” and call it a night. I mean, I guess it did? Percy got to unload and help Gale and Hecuba. We got an insight to how he’s managing to stay up and fighting and good despite all the shit he’s put into. Honestly the fact that he saw the humanity in Gale and Hecuba, that he saw their pain and grief and thats what made them trust him, that is so good. And the way he related to them. Goodness. And it highlights again how good a person he is, how much he feels and cares. I mean, he cried cause he had to send Mrs O Leary away, I cant with this kid-

I supposed what Im left unsatisfied with is how he still perceives himself as dumb? Baby, you survived San Fran for two months as a homeless kid without memories and pursued by different monsters who cant die. Youre the furthest thing from dumb.

He cant see this of course and while it was slightly addressed(?) by Annabeth telling him to his face that she doesnt give him enough credit, that he’s pretty smart, I dont think thats enough for addressing this particular issue. There was a time in the middle that he almost snapped because he thought Annabeth probably thinks him too dumb to know what to do next. Which I understand is frustrating to him. But to be fair this book made him look at Annabeth for a solution a lot. Theres also little comments about how when he cant think of anything - which is every 60 seconds apparently according to him- he looks at Annabeth. This doesnt help the co dependent allegations LMAO. Idk, I will die on the Hill that Percy is one of the smartest people in the series, not just emotionally but also in strategy. And theres, of course, nothing wrong with looking at the genius strategist for answers. Ive mixed feelings because definitely this is more of a Percy-insecurity issue than an Annabeth-being-bossy issue. But okay. One more book, heres to hoping we get more heart to heart on that front because Im 999998% sure she doesnt mean to make him feel stupid, Percy’s just got a lot of demons to fight but this in particular they need to figure out together. Still, its obvious how much they care for each other still. If only Dave and Hana did not piss me off at the start Id probably be a little more lenient about this.

Annabeth’s fatal flaw also makes a comeback, we love to see it.

And Sally Estelle Jackson. Now we have to find out wth is Percy’s middle name cause if Sally has one odds are she gave her son too. Trust me. Im Filipino. Iykyk.

Lastly, while I will forever and ever and ever support the trio from pjotv (theyre perfect and have done nothing wrong ever) I can see Rick’s injecting their personalities into the books. Im not sure if he does this on purpose or just subconsciously LMAO. Some of Grover’s dialogue is definitely inspired by Aryan. Percy being Lanky? Walker through and through, especially with his growth spurt lmao, and Annabeth’s confidence? All Leah. I can see what Rick’s trying to do. Ive no opinion on this, just pointing it out. I do love love love the live action. Just. I can see you Rick. You aint slick.

So there. I probably would need to reread the book properly at some point.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #47 – City of Last Chances by Adrian Tchaikovsky

This book was recommended to me by a few different people, and in any case I am generally a pretty big Tchaikovsky fan. So of course I’m only getting around to reading it now, however many months later. Having put it off so long for no good reason at all, I can say that the book is in fact very good. Not Tchaikovsky’s best work (that’s still Children of Time in a walk), but a good read and one that left me curious (if not exactly excited) about checking out the sequel.

The story takes place in Illmar, the eponymous City of Last Chances – scarred and oppressed, tyrannized by cursed dukes and conquering imperialists, built upon a dangerous and unreliable route to other worlds and forever attracting the sort of people with no better options available to them. While the book has any number of characters, it’s really the city itself that is the star of the story – a story of how the theft of an imperial magistrate’s ward before he makes an experimental voyage through the gateway in the woods leads to a whole series of byzantine intrigues and bloody misadventures, culminating in an abortive revolution against the Pallseen who occupy and rule them. Which in one sense is an absolutely massive spoiler and in another just feels like stating an inevitability that was obvious from the first chapter.

The book was apparently quite heavily marketed as harking back to the whole New Weird trend of a decade or two ago – marketing that is lived up to wholly and entirely. The whole book absolutely drips with Mieville and Vandermeer. The oblique worldbuilding, the mundane day-to-day life built around the opportunities and inconveniences of some intrusion of the sublime, the awkward intersection of ancient magic and industrial bureaucracy, and so on, and so forth. The Reproach in particular feels very Area X (or very Roadside Picnic, as you prefer), but in general the city feels like absolutely nothing so much as Bas-Lag with the weirdness dial turned down from an 11 to a 5 or 6.

It’s a real triumph of the book, I think, that the world genuinely feels vast and strange even beyond the points where it matters to the story - that all the little asides and the ways something affects a certain character feel like just small parts of something far grander and more uncanny than anyone can hope to understand. Maybe I’m just painfully tired of rpg-system worldbuilding, but it’s an effect I dearly love.

Much like Bas-Lag, Ilmar is very clearly a magical fantasy city going through a magical fantasy 19th century industrial revolution (instead of steam engines its demonic slave labor contracted and imported from the Kings Below). The meat of the book is playing into the whole tradition of the idealistic, virtuous but tragic liberal revolution – 1848 in Berlin or Vienna, the June Days and Commune in Paris, Warsaw a dozen different times, Les Mis. You know the type. Students singing patriotic old songs, workers rising up against class oppression, ‘revolutionaries’ who are mostly cowardly nobles pining after lost privileges and criminal syndicate putting on airs being caught flat-footed by events. You can probably tell the basic story in your sleep. But for such a venerable genre, this book's honestly probably the best rendition of ‘fantasy 1848’ I can recall. Something which won it my instant affection.

The other thing the book just overwhelming shares with the Mieville’s Bas-Lag books is a very keen sense of the necessity of revolution combined with an extreme cynicism towards anyone who might actually carry it out. The university students are sincere believers, and also naive sheep the narrative views with condescension (at best). The professional revolutionaries are all power-grabbing hypocrites who have wrapped themselves in the flag. The workers syndicates have a real sense of solidarity among themselves, and also none at all to the demon slaves that are used and broken powering the mills and factories. And so on. The overall thrust of the book is a tragedy not in the sense of railing against the inevitable, but in the sense that triumph and revolution were absolutely possible – indeed plausible – but for the flaws and frailities of the revolutionaries who might have accomplished it.

Not to say that it's misanthropic – the book is very humane towards the vast majority of its POVs. Of which there are enough for ‘vast majority’ to be a meaningful term. It was something like 130 pages in before any character got a second chapter through their eyes, a feat I had previously only seen in Malazan – and that’s not including the chorus chapters which just give a half-doze vignettes from across the city. But yes, most characters (even the ones who are really just viscerally repulsive) are shown through their own eyes as someone who is at least understandable, if not particularly sympathetic. The sheer size of the cast in a 500 page book mean that no one character or set gets that many chapters from their perspective (you could easily have written as long a book about roughly the same events with half or less of the cast), but some of the dynamics that are very lightly touched on are just incredibly compelling. Its enough to make you wish this was a series that would ever get any fanfiction written about it, really.

Given the way the book is so deeply concerned with oppression and violence on the basis of culture, class, and nation – imperial occupiers, native population, refugees and immigrants used and scapegoated by both – it is kind of fascinating that this is a world where misogyny and (possibly? Not very explored, the only example of a queer relationship we see is hardly going to be concerned by normative society) homophobia just flatly don’t exist. Which would be less interesting if it was unusual, really – the same could be said about very nearly every recent sci fi or fantasy book on the same lines I can recall. Interesting because it is very much not the case in Melville’s stuff – the cultural impact of Ancillary Justice continues to echo down the years, I guess. So yes the imperial police inspector will extort sex out of a brothel owner in exchange for not stringing up the entire workforce for peripheral involvement with the resistance, but also this is entirely gender-neutral. Something very modern about how oppression is imagined relative to the ‘90s or ‘00s (or just a different genre of self-consciously feminist novel a few book shelves to the left).

But yeah, great book, I am compelled. No idea where the sequel would be going, but will probably hunt it down sooner rather than later.

[marengogo]

Are You Sure ?! - #4: I Hate that YOU Love Hate You but, I Love YOU, so ...

I’m listening to a Mellow/Angsty Love playlist - (yes) it has BTS/ solos BTS songs as well

[Music is a very big part of my life and I’m MOSTLY INCAPABLE of writing without music, so I just thought I'd share what I am listening to while writing this]

–🐺–🐺–🐺–

Hello My Sentimental Girls, Bois and Enbys,

Please be kindly warned that I am going to be overpoweringly sensitive as I write this. Not necessarily because Are You Sure?! has unfortunately come to an end, but because, as I try to write this post, as always, “through” my TwinFlame’s JK emotional lens, the last two episodes really were so full of so many feelings that I am trying my best to order my thoughts and do them justice. Like, let me tell you, this boy really felt plenty, or better yet he allowed himself to truly feel a lot hence, as always, through respectful speculation and educated guessing I’ll try my best to convey my related observations. 

Towards the end of the post I’ll also have a little confession to make about something that I have been so determinedly ignoring, because the mere thought always makes me so uncomfortable, sad, and a tiny bit scared, so there’s also that.

All that being said, here I am, concluding this physical/sentimental journey, with my unrequested thoughts but with a hopeful sense that perhaps writing this down will somehow lessen my emotional weight, because let’s be for real, I am going to have AYS withdrawals on Thursday. So, is this post going to be long?  … 🤡 I mean, you should know me by now. For those who don’t know me, yes, it will be a long post 🙏🏾.

Truly free things are hard to come by nowadays. Undoubtedly, money has effectively found its way into our everything. Yet, there is one thing that hasn’t changed in its acquired value as in, how you get by it, and how you get it, etc. This one thing is still available free and you can find it anywhere, LITERALLY. However, whether or not you’ll be able to acquire it, and eventually keep it, is, to this day, one of the most debated, discussed, joyed over, cried over, mused over, etc, topic. 

Yes, you’ve guessed; it’s Love. 

I don’t believe I was actually ever taught about just Love in all its forms. Not at home, not at school school talked about famous people in love, sexual education, popular love … basically they beat around the bushes 🙄, or amongst friends, and if I had, I do not recall it, at all and y’all, I have one heck of a good memory, I will not be humble about that. I think that my first notions and ideas I formed about the concept of Love came through books and films, and let me tell you, there is an infinite related archive out there, which can be as exciting, as much as dangerous. Regardless, even though it was never really explained to me same for everyone most likely, as I grew up, EVERYONE loooved to talk about it, ALL THE TIME, so somehow, I made my own understanding of it. 

One of the things I understood was that some day, when I would become a woman, I would find an adult man, have a family, children, and live happily ever after because I would fall in love and some man would fall in love with me. I understood it as a given; Everyone, of a certain gender, falls in love with someone, of the opposite gender, because there is someone out there, of a certain gender, for everyone, of the opposite gender, just waiting to find you or to be found. Basically, Everyone will eventually find, and forever keep, mutual heterosexual romantic Love.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t not true.

In fact, the true state of things is actually the very opposite. The minority of people on this planet, heterosexual or not, will experience, and live with true mutual romantic love, and will be able to keep it for a very long time, and even fewer others will be able to take it all the way to the day they die, those are at the Legendary Level ones. And I am not saying this because I am jaded or bitter or any other hurt and/or hater-inclined-behaviour, you can really miss me with alla dat. This is just that one very helpful, and hard, to accept and you don’t have to accept it by the way! reality that should hit everyone at some point, but not always does. When it doesn’t hit, people may end up tormenting themselves sometimes to death when and/or if they can’t “find love”, wondering if they are unloveable, what is wrong with them, etc etc etc.  

Reason why, it is paramount to love yourself first and foremost. 

Because it might be true that someone is “unlovable” or that there is “something wrong with them” but, if true, this is principally hindering one’s well-being because, finding and trying to fix whatever might be amiss with one's self, may not guarantee a successful mutual romantic love, but it does guarantee a happier life in general. I mean, listen, if in the scope of things, you might end up having to spend the rest of your life without a mutual romance, meaning, you have to spend infinite time with you, yourself & YOU, how is that going to work, if you don’t love yourself …? And, just in case it wasn’t common knowledge, Loving Yourself is not easy, like any other relationship, it takes work. The reason why therapy ain’t cheap ✌🏾💰💋but needed, honestly.

So, let’s make no mistake; alas Love, in any of its forms btw, if it is harmful, it is not Love is needed. In fact, as it turns out, human beings were “programmed” in such a way that having it in one's life would make their existence progress less painfully, or even painlessly. In addition, self-love is one of the purest, satisfying, and incredibly useful types of love out there.

ALL OF THAT BEING SAID, for those lucky enough to find & keep romantic love regrettably, thus far, I am not one of those, trust me when I tell you, it is not at all smooth sailing. There are just so many factors to be factored in and the bear thought of it all can honestly be enough to make anyone not want to be bothered by it.

Yet, my beloved and most precious, TwinFlame seems to have found it. Now, I can’t guarantee it to be romantic as always, despite me believing it to be so but he sure as hell is fighting his darn life to keep it. So, yes, hm, I think

JK is in Love.

If it wasn’t clear enough in episode 1 all the way to this finale, JM is a person whose presence JK particularly wants in his life, and whose absence kinda makes him feel sort of … unsettled? … but I’ll dive deep into this, later on in this post. For now, it is important to point out that my TwinFlame not only actively looks after JM, but he actively seeks JM’s attention, he actively wants to be sought by JM, he actively tries to make JM happy, he actively wants to level with JM, he actively wants JM to be comfortable around himself JK and for JM to be comfortable with himself JM. Basically, JK cares, in his own way, quite loudly for JM. And I say “his own way” because I believe JK’s emotional intelligence (EI) to be somewhat different from the common ones. I actually received an ask about his EI, which I plan to answer very soon 🙏🏾, so for now, I will not dive into that in this, cos I really ain’t trying to compete with the length of dictionaries with this post 😬. 

Japanese people, traditionally, have a fascination for sad love stories, and ever since I got into 875, I’ve been wondering if Koreans feel the same way but in their case, it is likely to be just Sadness period. You see, in the West, we “all” love a heartbreaking and passionate love story, the reason why Romeo and Juliet will probably be eternally famous. Yet, we don’t believe that true love is love, because it is brought about by unbearable suffering, so it must be real. We are more of the true love, is love, because it leads to immeasurable happiness kinda style. Basically we Westerners love Romeo and Juliet because of what they could have been, but Japanese and maybe Koreans would love Romeo of Juliet because of what they were to each other. So when a person like me watches a movie like 5 Centimetres per Second and swears to never watch it EVER AGAIN which I haven’t and refuse to, a Japanese person might think that is probably one of those movies they’ll find themselves watching over and over again and let me tell you, it was great, I just don’t think I can handle a second viewing, no thanks.

So if I am correct in thinking that Koreans feel similarly as Japanese in this matter, JK, like many other Korean folk, loves to sing sad/angsty/melancholic songs. Either by himself, or in company, like he used to with Tae probably they still do as well as watching sad movies, like JM’s favourite being The Notebook and JK’s being Titanic. Yet, here is where the glitch in the matrix happens; JK was most likely not that serious but wasn’t he? 😬 when he brought this up however, he seemed to be a little bothered by the fact that JM really liked “Hate You” out of all the song in his album. JM sang Seven, 3D and Standing Next to You this particular one he kept bringing up like there was no tomorrow, throughout all 3 trips, yet, when he played Hate You in the car, for the second time because he had as well in episode 6 JK was like; “Why?”. 

Let me tell you something.You know how I usually skip Spring Day, cause I can’t really handle it? Before AYS Ep. 8 I used to skip Hate You as well for the same reasons as Spring Day; it was too sad for me to bear as it felt closely related him singing it alone makes me relate it to him in my flowed brain, even though he didn’t write it 🙃 to people I love, people being the Tannies. Lovely by Khalid and Billie Eilish in comparison is MUCH SADDER but because I am in no way emotionally connected to either Khalid or Billie I don’t mind listening to the song at all I love that song. 

Anyways, Long story short, it looked like it bothered him a tiny bit. It felt almost as if “Sure, we are Koreans and we like sad love songs, this being an excellent one, but I don’t want MY love story to be sad” kind of bothered “also this better have NOTHING to do with the fact that Shawn Mendes wrote this song!” - perhaps nervously thought JK 🤡🤣😂. In fact, there are a few situations that came up, involving him and JM, which “bothered” him and he had no qualms in bringing up with JM right away, which by the way is healthy AF. JK seems to be the type of partner that wants to confront you right away and will not let it be until he hears the words that make him know that the “conflict” is cleared to his own satisfaction, or until he senses you don’t want to talk about it any further in that particular moment.

Those are all examples, during AYS, where JK was satisfied with the answer that JM gave him to the legit concerns/silly questions he brought up. JK’s reaction right after all of those answers was him being content/happy, by laughing, singing along, or something else, hence moving on. Below is an example where he wasn’t satisfied with the answer:

Did he just drop it? Did they talk it out? As always, we will never know, as this part cuts into another scene. Only JK, JM and the editors will know and this is a fact we should never forget. Never forget about editing limitations, and this is a very good moment to add that even though whoever translated this show did a shitty ass job, the crew that went with them, to film in Sapporo specifically, seemed to be quite familiar with them, their dynamics almost like friends, which I think contributed with JK and JM feeling as comfy as they did in Japan.

Japan.

By the looks of it, this is the country that holds special meaning to both myself and my TwinFlame and, NGL, this kinda makes me happy and feel special LOL 😜. BUT, I DIGRESS! Didn’t JK seem a bit more … relaxed? Besides the very romantic fact that he wanted to go back to Tokyo because it was their first trip, didn’t JK seem a tad flirtier, a tad cuter, a tad more annoying, a tad comfier and just so fucking happy? He, and I’d dare say JM as well, truly let their guards down, even if just a tad. The fact that JK & JM wondered how the crew would have edited the content tells me that they were fully aware about the fact that they were being filmed, but didn’t want to think too much about it, because they wanted to also have a sense of freedom. Because of that, perhaps, they tried to give us as much realness as they could, restraining themselves in some instances, while also saying Fuck it! in few other cases during which they perhaps forgot about the fact that they were being filmed, confidently relying on their trusted crew to properly edit the footage in the best way possible. But back to the main point,

JK is in Love.

JK is probably the type of person who wishes he could have an answer, and/or remedy, to any problem his significant other may have. Yeah, he is probably the type of man that wishes he could take away all their pain, or feel it for them instead, and it is exactly because he seems to be willing to do anything for his loved one’s well-being that I think that sometimes he does struggle with some of their societal boundaries, such as; age hierarchy. Without getting too much into his EI, the part in episode 7 where he brings up how things would have been if he and JM would have been born the same year really stood out and stayed with me.

In this particular instance, for the first time I finally got to see him kinda mind about their age difference, almost troubled and not because he might think it to be a lot which it isn't at all, but because according to their societal practices, he theoretically should constantly be mindful about it, limiting greatly the actions he can do, not that he’s ever heed to them, but the fact is that he should, and in certain situations, he must. If we think about it properly, right from their debut years, JK has struggled a lot with referring, and treating, JM as a hyung, which is actually quite weird considering that the person he treated more like a “chingu” friend of the same age in this context was is Tae, even though, to my knowledge, he’s never dropped honorifics with him and had no desire in doing so, as explained during the first In The Soop which in hindsight, I’m sure must have confused Tae a lot who has been trying to be his cool hyung for as long as I can remember  (the following pictures are not from In The Soop, but Festa 2021). 

Like, it is honestly so peculiar how, back in the day, JK had never really treated JM as your typical “chingu”, nor a hyung, yet found himself sticking by JM’s side a lot, off cameras, filming him a lot, acting stand-offish just to apologise right after, staring at him a lot, learning all his likes and dislikes, studying his body and habits, doing questionable things such as focusing rather often on his lips and butt through a camera lens, which eventually evolved into JM being the first member he’s ever bought a gift for, as well as being the first member he’s ever travelled alone with… basically, as I’ve stated, JK has really never seen JM as his hyung or friend though he does try to remind himself of it. 

So if JM is not a hyung, or a “chingu”; then what is he? 🙄… 

Wanna know what’s even funnier? JM clearly cares about JK enormously and though he likes most of all of his sides cos JK can be annoying when he wants to 🤡✌🏾 the side he likes the most is his cute side; but here comes the catch. It would seem that from their debut days, JM truly became fond of that cutesy, happily skipping, side that JK shows with his hyungs in particular and the fact that they are ALL his hyung, including JM, just made writing this sentence so weird NGL …, that cuddly, super-maknae aura he has many a time, with literally everyone but the 95s, because Tae, as speculated, he seems to see as a chingu and JM as a … charming person?? Whatever that means.

Now JK does give JM “cute”, sometimes, but it is not the little brother kind of cute. It’s that “don’t go without me…” kind of cute, “let’s buy the same one” kinda cute, “you didn’t show me first, so I am hurt” kinda cute, “how do I look?” kind of cute “I can film you, but don’t film me” kind cute, “... spend time with ME!” kinda cute … you get the jist, don’t you? Cause, repeat after me; He a simp, he a simp, he a simp! And there is nothing wrong with being a simp tbh, as long as you own up to it, and JK does own up to it marvellously 💋.

And remember when I mentioned about him feeling sort of unsettled when JM isn’t around? I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of days but doesn’t it almost feel like a sort of … separation anxiety? Through the whole episodes it sometimes felt like he tried to do as much as possible, of anything, with JM as if he would just take off and leave at some point. This could also explain him always popping up on WEVERSE whenever JM took a flight, or trying his darn best to get him to come around even though they had just spent so much time together in the US. But who knows right? Perhaps he just really loves to spend every hour, every minute, every second with JM because, like crazy,  

JK is in Love.

So in love that he thought it important for himself to drive them to the airport, hence he didn’t drink that last beer I know he was dying inside, as well as taking a flight to Korea with JM, when he really could have just flown to the US from Japan. So in love that out of all the trips he's been to in his life, Are You Sure?! is the best trip he’s ever been on and he wishes to reboot when they come out of the military, where, by the way, they presently are together 🤡 . So in love that he wasn’t going to have JM get sad and lost in his own thoughts while in his presence, no, reason why, like a knight in shining armour, he “went and saved” him from his slump and not because JM was a princess in distress, but because prince charming also needs saving every once in a while If you ask me, the main “princess” in this relationship is my TwinFlame, no doubt, cause I also fo happen to think that they do take turns, for sure. Hence, the main “prince charming” is most definitely JM, and btw, frequency of a certain behaviour is not a factor that determines who is “main” 💋. 

Marengo Confession-Time!  😬- here it goes: I love watching people react to ANY 875 content, but I haven’t been able to watch anybody react to Are You Sure?! Because to put it plainly I am scared. I’m scared that people will question their relationship, or have homophobic reactions, or feel uncomfortable watching them when they do what they do. I just don’t want them to be hated for something they can’t help and are comfortable with. For the most part I am sure they would maybe nt comment, or chalk it up as “brotherly behavior", but what if they don’t? In fact, I am also so apprehensive of the reaction the world would have if they are a couple if they ever came out, it genuinely terrifies me.

I don’t want them to be looked at like freaks, or worse, so I am not able to bring myself to watch people react to them, in the same way I turn off when people have unwarranted shit to say when reacting to 875’s music. If they are a couple, I truly want them to be happy, safe, and become part of the Legendary Level ones. So, even though the world may not be fully ready to want their chapter in their history books, I hope it will someday,  because theirs would be such a motivating and enthralling chapter at that. 

I don’t know what will await them when they come out of ME. It is interesting though that JK made all these memories during the trip to take with himself and think about while serving. The snow he watched with JM, the restaurants they ate at, the time they tried skiing for the first time, the antics in the sauna and the “scuzzi”, the tuna-mayo gimbap he knew JM would love, the good afternoon and good night whiskey, and more. Now that I think about it, in some way, JK has a similar Love background to mine, he most likely wasn’t taught that romantic Love can come from someone of the same gender and he wasn’t exactly taught that not having children or a traditional family can be okay. 

Yet, I have a feeling that just like me, through movies perhaps, songs, or other means he’s figured out a thing or two. I have a feeling that he will decide for himself what Love is to himself, all the forms of Love he will need, who embodies Love for him, and what role Love will take in his life, and whether or not JM turns out to be that person MAKE NO MISTAKE: JM is an incredibly important person in his life. So, it is a strong feeling I have, but then again when has JK ever not taken control of his own life? When has he ever not followed his instincts and/or succumbed to what people want him to do? Same for JM really. 

These are two boys who found themselves in Seoul even though they were born in Busan, like, the universe wanted them to meet. They are two boys, who, along with the other five, made the phrase impossible Is Nothing feel real. After all, these are indeed two boys who really can’t be told to do anything. There is a very famous quote, which kinda makes me think of them:

I am the Master of my Fate, I am the Captain of my Soul.

So yeah, the future is uncertain but one thing is for sure, no relationship that took so long, so much care, and so many trails to build, can be so easily destroyed. So, fighting TwinFlame, whatever it is you want, you got this! 👊🏾.

Always respectfully yours 🫰🏾💜,

Marengo.

PS - Dammit! I miss them so much 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[droidders]

Transformers One review

I'll start off with a non spoiler review.

First of all, amazing voice acting especially from Chris Hemsworth and Brian Tyree!! I didnt think Chris would be able to do a good orion/optimus voice but boy was I WRONG. They did amazing. Scarlett Johansson's voice for Elita was an amazing pick and keagan michael for bee's voice is also good.

Stellar voice acting with so much emotion!!

The animation is amazing. And the way they showed the world of cybertron is amazing. The world building in this movie is so good, i seriously feel like cybertron is a real planet with real creatures with its own rules, history, culture. They made the planet feel so alive, its insane.

All the characters were likeable, i was really vouching for all of them to succeed in their goals. The movie knows when to be funny and when to be serious, and it can get REALLY serious when it needs to be. The movie talks about real world problems and reflects it so well.

THE TRAILERS DID NOT DO THE MOVIE JUSTICE.

The trailers really made it look like a kids power ranger type of movie. The trailers gave it a vibe of:

"Bumblebee, you go left! D-16, you go right! And Elita.. well, you just be elita."

When the actual movie really wasnt. I kept my hopes low cause the trailers weren't really hyping me up that much and i didnt expect much from the movie overall but holy moly my expectations were blown away. The movie does have its flaws like any movie but yeah. This genuinely feels like the spiderverse of transformers. Truly amazing.

Overall 9.8/10, amazing job to everyone who worked on this movie, YOU COOKED!!!

I highly reccommend watching it in cinemas. Its worth it, just trust me on this!!!

Waiter! Waiter! I'd like a trilogy of transformers movies that are as good as this!

Id also like to add that this movie is the best transformers movie. And you dont have to be an insane transformers fan like me to like the movie, nor do you have to watch any other transformer movie to understand it. Its a great standalone movie. Its a movie great for both new and old transformer fans and people who are just looking for a good movie to watch.

GO WATCH IT NOW.

Now onto the spoiler review

I said all that i wanted to say about the overall movie in the non spoiler review. Here, I'll talk about the actual characters and story.

THIS IS CINEMA HOLY MOLY.

I had to resist screaming in theaters especially the part where Orion and D16 went to that thruster thing to get a better view of the Iacon 5000 and d16 is all like: "You did all this for me?"

AAAGWGSFEGWGSGDGDHHYDTST

The character development with D16 slowly turning into the monster that is megatron is BEAUTIFUL.

The movie writes d16 in a way that makes us NOT want him to turn evil which makes him slowly turning into megatron and betraying orion all the more heartbreaking. CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

Seriously, his descension into evil makes me wanna cry. His unbridled rage towards Sentinel portrayed through the voice acting is just WOW. You can really feel his anger through his voice.

The way his eyes change as the movie progresses is just great. They did great writing him, deep down I really wanted him to be redeemed and for him to NOT turn into a brute like sentinel even though I knew it was inevitable. Some transformations are good, useful even, but in the case of Megatron it was a terrifying transformation thats unfortunately permanent.

Sentinel prime, as much as I hate him he is still such a great character. I hate him so much I love him. THE SCENE WHERE HE WAS BEGGING D16 TO NOT KILL HIM SENT CHILLS. You can feel the amount of fear in his voice. It was a striking contrast to his confident demeanor, his ruthlessness as a 'leader', and he who is the literal killer of the Primes,

to see him BEG for his life truly shows how terrifying D16 is.

ORION PAX AKA THE GLORIOUS OPTIMUS PRIME.

A wonderful and entertaining main character. THE SCENE WHERE HE JUMPS OUT OF THE PIT AS OPTIMUS PRIME??? Holy moly that was so badass. AND THE LINE WHERE HE SAYS:

"We could've built the future together."

GOD IT MAKES ME WANNA CRY.

The expression he made when he saw D16 being absolutely BRUTAL to Starscream as he realizes that his friend is slowly transforming into someone evil is gut-wrenching.

And throughout the first part of the movie he was this reckless character who did stupid things, he had hope and determination unlike anyone. It made me question 'How could this guy possibly turn out to be the strong leader that Optimus is?'

But during that scene where he talked to the other miners and led the High Guard to sentinel made me 100% sure that yeah, this guy definitely can be a great leader. And the way he gave the miners a CHOICE to join him or not. That is PRIME.

Elita was a straight up girlboss. I love how they didn't make her just another love interest for Orion or made her just this girl who was a good fighter. She was sassy, witty, and a hard worker. I almost feel bad for her getting demoted and having to deal with the mess that is Orion, D16 and Bee. But anyways, shes an amazing character, really likeable personality who is way more than just a bot who's a good fighter (which was the impression i unfortunately got from the trailers)

Her pep talk with Orion was both funny and beautiful. She knows how to break someone down with her words and build them back up to be stronger. I loved her. Not to mention her design looks gorgeous??? Probably my fav elita design of all time.

At first I found Bee a strange addition to the movie and I was scared they were gonna make him an annoying character but thank god he really wasnt! He was a great comic relief character who had a lot of funny lines. He adds so much silliness into a serious movie and not in a bad way.

He knew when to be serious and the gravity of the situation with Sentinel being a terrible, corrupt leader. I loved the portrayal of him as this almost crazy guy whos been stuck being alone talking to inanimate objects in a place where all he does is burn trash all day (makes sense as to why he talks so much).

A really good character, thank primus they didnt make him annoying or overbearing.

Lastly, Cybertron itself. THE WORLD BUILDING IS SO GOOD. It's environment, its people (or bots?) make the planet feel so real. All of these cool mechanisms with the road and trains, the landscape during the train scene with the vapor wave-esque sun is just gorgeous. Such a beautiful portrayal of Cybertron that I love.

I personally dont think the movie NEEDS a sequel since the rest of the transformers just takes place after this, but if they make another movie thats as good as this, Im not complaining. If they do make a new movie though, I'll guess that it probably has something to do with the Quintessons or something idk.

Its a really beautiful take on Megatron and Optimus' backstory. And though there are many takes on it like how megatron was a gladiator and not a miner, etc,

This is still probably my favorite take on their story, its a really interesting portrayal of them and their fallout.

Anyways thats the end of my yap, honorable mentions to the music, it helped the immersion of the movie, and its really good.

Do note that Ive only seen it once, i might've gotten some stuff wrong but ill be looking to watch it again somehow in the future. My review may be subject to change but yeah.

Buh-bye!!