It's not so much that he grows more skeptical of the humans

Preferences: First Meeting/Mate Bond

I got part of this idea from @stherix for when the mating bond snaps, thank you darling. First meeting is for the non-Fae in this preference, which was requested by @fiery-feyre @embracethenight138 and some nonnies

THANK YOU @highladyyfeyre @my-boyo-fenrys and @autumn03 for being my beta team on this, you guys helped so much because I honestly didn’t think this was any good so thank you!

Preference Tag List: @runesandfaes @autumn03 @fiery-feyre @januarystears @caitlyn-blackwell @starzablaze @writergash @illyriangoddess @wyrdtoyourmother (let me know if you want to be added to this tag list!) 

Rowan: 

It snaps right away for him. He smells your intoxicating scent and he meets your eyes and just. Boom. Somehow, in a split second, he is across the room in front of you, his pine green eyes boring into your own with fierce intensity and he purrs, ‘Hello, mate,’ with just the stupidest half smile on his face that you fall in love with immediately. He offers you his hand and bends down low, without taking his eyes off you, to place a kiss on your knuckle. It is a reverent and completely loving touch that sends shivers down your spine and then it clicks for you as well. Rowan’s smile widens because he sees realization dawn in your eyes as he straightens. You take in his tall, strong frame, corded muscles, long white hair, and you murmur, ‘well hello to you too’. 

Rhysand:

It seems like all the air is taken from his lungs when it first snaps. His heart is pounding rapidly in his chest and Rhys feels as if it might explode. His usual smug expression disappears until unrelenting determination and love shine through. He doesn’t even believe - can’t believe - that the Cauldron would grace him with such an exquisite creature as a mate. ‘Mine’ he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. You’re across the room so you don’t hear him and Rhys is pretty sure that you don’t know yet, so he decides to not tell you for a little while. However, that doesn’t stop him from murmuring quietly practically every time he sees you - a smile playing on his face - ‘mine.’

Aelin:

She is completely and utterly shocked when the mate bond snaps. Being half-Fae, she was never completely sure that she would get a mate, much less you, her best friend since she was a child. She frets for days about how to tell you, and ends up showing up at your bedroom door one night, in nothing but an extremely scandalous nightgown. You sputter a few times at the sight, trying not to stare at her though you desperately want to. Aelin mutters, ‘Huh, I thought my mate would be happy to see me with so few clothes’. Your eyes widen because you can’t believe that you might have just actually heard her say that. She has a sly smirk on her face as you take a second to process. Finally, you drag your eyes back to her frame and take your time raking them up and down her scantily clad body. ‘Well if by mate, you mean me, then you would be correct’, Aelin’s smile grows and she pushes her way passed you and onto the bed. Slightly opened mouth but not reluctant in the least, you follow her right away.

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MERMAID!AU FIC REC

Coax the Cold by MediaWhore (86k)

England, 1897.

English Professor Louis Tomlinson’s passion for the occult has been a source of mockery and derision for most of his life. When he hears whispers of a travelling freak show newly established in London claiming the existence of a monstrous sea hybrid, half-man, half-fish, Louis sees it as his ticket to credibility amongst his peers. The summer he spends undercover working on the show, however, gives him much more than that.

Purer Than The Water (like we were) by FeelsForBreakfast (33k)

Louis is a merman and Harry is a boy. The lake is a good place to fall in love. 

Louis wants the boy to wade deeper, deep enough that Louis can go under and wrap his fingers around his ankles for just a moment. Pull him under. Just touch skin, for a second.

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Can’t We Make it Up to You?

Anonymous asked: Can you please do a threesome smut with Jimin x reader x V? Also can the story line be you are working on a group project at your house ?? Pleaseeee 💜

Warnings: SMUT, just some nasty threesome smut, language you know the drill

Note: THIS IS REALLY LONG FOR ME,  ,95 line, ouch (why do i picture 95 line like the twins from ouran….so mischievous.. ) this was so fun tho THIS IS A LOT OF SMUT OKAY

Originally posted by hana-mori-posts

“Guys, can you listen for like five seconds? We really need to finish this, I don’t want to be stuck procrastinating and doing it the night before its due, I actually want it to be good.”

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A Blue Prince To Own, Chapter 10

My clothes are beautiful, expertly crafted, befitting of me, Lotor claims with such enchanting, love sick eyes.

Though, along with my wardrobe being ready, my Galra approved education had also begun which I don’t exactly oppose school. My experiences with school socializing were borderline traumatic and the stress of heavy school work even more so. However, this education last only about two hours a day and I have a personal teacher who answers every question I ask without a hint of amusement. I requested that I don’t have to sit in that patronizing school chair, and without any questions, I was catered to. I’m living… like royalty, really.

And the Galra Empire is fairly interesting. Of course, Lotor’s doing what he can to restore the will his father had so ruthlessly stolen from his people, changing the way things operate. Lotor, before we go to sleep, will let me play with his hair and tell me tales from thousands of years ago, engrained into the foundation in which this empire was built. Tales of betrayal, manipulation, death, tragedy, the slow maddening that obsession can ensue when taken a few steps too far. I will sink into a soothing rest with his charming voice as a lullaby, a rope of pure, unbelievably soft hair clutched in my tired hand.

Though, the stress is slowly leaving my body, I still sleep so often. I’m eating more than I ever have, I think. There’s always more to try, sample, consume. Lotor says to me I should eat when I can, that I should be pampered, spoiled. Somewhat, I believe him. Or maybe I don’t care about anything he’s said to me and I am just hungry.

From this, however, I’m thickening a little. I can see why Hunk loved food so much. I don’t care about the effects as long as I can keep feeling full, loved, and not so starved metaphorically and literally, as I had on that forsaken ship. I think of them, the Paladin’s of Voltron, then Lotor gives me another gift, and they are pushed far from my mind as the reflection in my eyes is golden, glossy, rich. And I never refuse this. How could a greedy man reject this dream?

When I’m not eating or sleeping, I cling tight to Lotor’s side, even when he shows obvious discomfort at my presence. He claims it’s because a jewel such as myself is welcomed to stand by him always, but I should not burden myself with the same responsibilities he is. Slowly, I’m starting to believe he thinks I’m incompetent as well. Though, instead of sinking into that same abyss of self loathe and pity I had, I use this to my advantage.

“Don’t be dumb, Princey. I just don’t wanna sit around all day. I’ll go freaking crazy by myself all quintent.”

He smiles like a child, with joy lighting up his eyes. They look exquisite, enchanting. In the darkest part of my mind that is growing so quickly, I wonder if he would pull them out and give them to me. Would that be morbid or beautiful? A bit of both? Why is this so hard to figure out? “Of course! Humans are social creatures. I apologize, my love, for leaving you alone so often. The duties of a prince are so taxing.”

“It’s okay. You’re cute, so I’ll let you off with a warning.”

His pointed ears flutter. Is that endearment? He flushes a lovely shade of darker purple. “You are the light of the life, my Blue Prince. The most precious thing in the world, to me.”

And he only ever adds fuel to the fire. “Awesome, Princey. I’m glad I make you feel that way.”

Does this love like obsession make even the most powerful of soldiers susceptible to manipulation? It seems… like it.

I study him, mostly. Around his generals, he is stern, snake like, twisting words around and sending them into losing battles. I seem to be the only one he has a soft spot for. His eyes narrow if anyone so much as glances at me. Jealously boils hot in him when I respond as I would in any other normal circumstances.

Somewhere, along the way, I find out that peace was not exactly Lotor’s intention. At least, not with Voltron. Among the enslaved planets, he does want their loyalty, not their fear (as condescending as he is in those battles, I’m not surprised he can feign those intentions to make others become apart of the new and improved Galra Empire where mercy is a common practice of course for later psychological warfare), but he was never going to let Voltron go free. I ask him why he chose to take me into his home, spoil me rotten, treat me with such undying kindness, when I was the Blue Paladin.

He simply responds, “Because I love you. And love is even more powerful than an old vendetta. I knew I had to have you, before thinking of destroying Voltron. With this new order, the universe needs no protection. We are one, in this way. A one Voltron cannot be apart of because of their biases and my own distaste for them.”

That’s right. They were all so biased. Against the Galra. Once upon a time, I was as well. But, I have learned that the Galra are a people torn to shreds by their own leader. With a new one, one who is not a tyrant, it will rise again, a healthier version of its former. This is ensured, Lotor explains, by the death of his parents.

“Right,” I nod my head with a gentle smile, “They couldn’t like actually keep living? They’d just try to steal the throne and be jerks again! That throne is all yours, Princey. You did,” I kiss his neck and sigh, “what you had to.”

“No guilt, nor remorse.” He says back quietly. “However, I do feel as though I’ve betrayed them. Without their cruelty, I could never have become the Galra I am now.”

“Pfft,” I shove him and snort, “that’s a total load of bull! It’s not like they shaped you well. You’re messed the heckie up!”

His face falls and I grab his cheeks with my (chubbier than I remember) hands. “Messed the heckie up?” He asks, speech impaired from the corners of his mouth meeting.

“Total whack-a-doodle, dude.” I confirm with a nod, letting go on his face to kiss the purple flesh with faint hand prints on them. “You manipulate people for kicks. You’ve got an unhealthy obsession with yours truly. You’re obviously suffering major trust issues. You’re also somewhat trapped as a child? I’ll assume that’s from some sort of gross sexual molestation or something. And you just killed your parents, Princey. I’d call that,” I give a chaste kiss to his worried lips, “messed the heckie up.”

“I… suppose, I am.” He slumps forward, forehead on my shoulder. “I apologize for being ‘messed the heckie up’, my love. You deserve much better than I.”

These are the vulnerable sides he will only ever show to me and I’m suffering from a rush that’s making my head spin. “Hm,” I hum, tugging the clip holding the top part of his long hair up loose, “I don’t know. I think I can accept you. Who knows, maybe you’ll let me become your… second in command?”

He blanches. “Second in command? But, you should be protected a - and kept safe and sound within my ship, I don’t know if I could ever - ”

I frown and give him a cold look. “Of course, if you don’t think I’m good enough, I could always just go back to being a Paladin. I can be insulted there, too. I just… thought you might’ve actually cared about me.” I’ve always been good at having a poker face. I’d done it for so long at the Garrison and again in the castle. “I guess I was wrong? Do you want me to leave as soon as I can, Princey?”

The hesitation and skepticism leave his eyes as fast as the color leaves his flesh. “Of course not, my darling!” His face breaks out in a nervous smile as he pats my head in reassurance. I offer him a smile. “V… Very well then. If a position as my second in command is what you desire, then that is what you will get.” He swallows. His throat looks yummy. “I… would give the universe to you. Just for you to stay by me.”

I grin, slow and sly and climb into his lap, where his ears go flat against the sides of his head. I wrap my arms around his neck, press my mouth against his pulse and feel the life of another living creature, right beneath my teeth. He is all mine, mine, mine, pined beneath me like willing prey and I’ve never felt less like dying in my entire life. “Perfect!” The vibrations of my words against his flesh make him shudder and I chuckle, a sound that’s surprising dark, even to me. “Now, let’s engage in something… naughty, Prince Lotor.”

His head nods as if he is possessed.

Yeah, this is perfect.

As his second in command, I’m required to go on missions with him, and give him advice on what to do. I believe he’s smart enough to figure it out on his own. I only tell him when he’s been too lost in conversation with his generals to watch out for asteroids. Look at maps and try and find good routes to get where we’re heading when I’m bored. Eventually, there’s a particularly heated battle, where I see Voltron for the first time.

With one rebellious, out of control, blue lion.

I can’t help but laugh until my stomach cramps because what a bunch of morons. They were all so invested in Slav’s predications, only for it to be untrue! Blue can’t be piloted by Matt, nor Allura, because she is loyal to me, even as I’ve abandoned Voltron. They need me. However, I don’t need them.

In a moment of peace, Keith speaks out, voice amplified and his lion’s jaws wide. “We need… Lance! We need him back! We know he’s with you and we need to tell him - ”

“We’re sorry!” Hunk intercepts passionately. Oh, unexpected. Then again, we’ve been best friends for years, our task was to stay by each other and help each other through our rough patches and Matt could never replace me there. He’s probably fairing awfully without me. Jeez, I’m spending so much time with Lotor, my internal dialogue is starting to sound like his English Professor vocab. “It’s his choice whether he forgives us or not, but tell him we’re so sorry!”

“I’m sorry for treating you unfairly!” Shiro shouts next and his voice is thick, strained. “It doesn’t matter why, there aren’t any excuses for being a bad leader when your teammate is suffering!”

“I’m sorry for never listening to you, even when you were just trying to help!” Pidge says. Their voice sounds teary. “I treated you like shit and it’s been hell without you!”

“I was a terrible friend!” Hunk’s voice is sobbing. “I a - abandoned you even when I’m always supposed to b - be there for you! Ever since G- Garrison!”

“I’m sorry too!” Allura’s voice projects through Blue’s maw. “I ignored you when you just needed an ear to listen! I pushed you away, we all did, but I have no excuses for what I did!”

“I took everyone’s attention!” Matt’s voice also speaks up through the Blue Lion and I cock my head curiously. Neither of them can even get her to stop flying like a psychopath? Pathetic. “And I didn’t pay any to you! I treated you like a nuisance that was just in the… in the way.” His voice cracks near the end.

“And I’m sorry for using you.” Keith is crying, sobbing, loudly. “I used you and I didn’t - didn’t know how to say that I love you and I said awful things to you instead and y - you didn’t deserve any of that. Please.” He’s begging. Begging, now. “Please, just come back to us. Can you t- tell him all that?” He sniffles.

Lotor looks at me with rounded, watery eyes, mouth agape. I slide over from my seat, kiss the tip of his nose and gesture him away from his own chair. He unclips his seatbelt obediently as I take a seat, press the communication button and lean my mouth to the microphone.

“This is Lance, your local Tailor, speaking.” I say cooly, smoothing back my hair impulsively. “You know, they call me the Tailor because of how I thread the needle.”

Lotor giggles like a school girl. “You’re the most precious thing!” He coos.

“Thanks, babe.” I wink at him before turning back to the task at hand. “And I’d like to say, I recognize each of your heartfelt apologizes.” Images of me sobbing my heart out in the shower every night, just begging silently for some help. “I understand that you need me back so desperately now, with the entire Galra Empire trying to wipe you out.” I remember so suddenly every time I’d been interrupted and yelled at, cast out, ignored, overlooked. “That you are desperate, begging for my assistance in this grim, horrible war.”

This is all you’re useful for.

“You guys… really need me.” I smile, thinking about how I cried so hard in the shower I puked and the chunks clogged the drain. “I’m… wanted in Voltron. You guys are like my family. And I really missed you when I first left.”

I think about how hot the tears felt on my cheeks as Keith fucked me, then the feeling of his foot in my ribs, the knuckles upon my face. “But, I don’t need you anymore!” I exclaim gleefully. I start laughing, hard, hysterically. “Oh, boohoo, you need me!” Lotor starts to chuckle behind from my side. “You want me to come back so I can feel like shit all over again? When I’m living like royalty? Fat fucking chance! You can cry some more though, that’s hilarious!” I wipe a cheerful tear off of my cheek. “All I can say to you Voltron morons is fuck you and long live the Galra Empire!”

I missed them. But, as the darkness in my mind expands to reaches its never seen before, those parts of me are being consumed. To prosper is to consume, my Prince has taught me.

In the end, Voltron retreats tactfully, sustaining major injuries. Though, they can’t form Voltron anymore, right? They’re just a band of powerless rebels now, unable to wield the most powerful weapon in the universe because I’m no longer at there beck and call.

Once upon a time, I would sob myself ugly because those fools did not need nor want me.

Now, the opposite is true.

I hope they now have a taste of what I felt every. Fucking. Day.

I hope they eat the whole thing up.

Chapter 11: https://langst-mccpain.tumblr.com/post/164121636360/a-blue-prince-to-own-chapter-11

Request: “Can you do some cute Credence pillow talk with a significant other that’s all giggly quite the contrary to his quiet demeanor? Like he has a hand on their waist & a lazy smile on his face as they’re holding his jaw & talking quickly about anything & everything & it’s just a cute little moment between them?”

Warnings: None!! Pure fluff.

Word Count: 1,355

A/N: Excuse any errors, I’m the worst typist I know.


Credence wasn’t quite sure of when things had changed so drastically–with himself as well as with the two of you together.

He had been so reserved and skeptical of everyone when he had met you. He felt like a giant grey storm cloud almost all the time (and sometimes became one), so when Queenie had brought you over to spend some time with her and he had discovered there was someone else like Queenie out there, Credence thought he might let the floor absorb him. Not that he didn’t love Queenie, but she was a lot to handle. And honestly, Credence never felt like he had the energy. The constant cheeriness and overt giddiness over life itself exhausted and confused him, and he just couldn’t understand it.

But you had never asked him to understand it–not even once. This both confused and comforted him for a while, but he found himself sulking in your presence more often as you continued your visits to Queenie. Somewhere between the sullen, silent presence he maintained at the corner of your conversations and the bubbly exuberance that you shared with everyone nearby, the two of you developed a kind of closeness that no one really understood, least of all Credence. This, of course, perplexed him to no end, and to add to that perplexity, you never seemed to question it at all, simply took it at face value and let it be. Credence had hoped for a while that meant that you had answers to this attraction, but you didn’t and never really cared to find those answers. Eventually, Credence took that to be its own kind of answer–the two of you simply were, and it worked.

Credence found himself thinking about all this, how this came to be, as he watched you skip over to his bed (that the two of you shared when you came to visit everyone over at Queenie’s) after getting ready to sleep and then leaping into your side and shuffling happily under the covers. It never bothered you, how Credence was just quietly observing all the time. His eyes held everything you needed in them, and Credence was happy to take your words and hold them close to his heart.

It was these nights that he cherished most, when you were too excited to sleep but thrilled to share space with Credence, because you would carefully approach him, always leaving him time to protest if he just needed the silence, before resting your hand gently against the side of his face and just…talking. About your day, about the next day, about plans, about things you wanted to do, about how you felt for Credence. Anything. And tonight was just one of those nights.

Your fingers were tracing feather-light patterns along the curve of his jaw, down his neck, and to the edge of his collar, which you played with gently, as you beamed over at him and spoke. “You’ll never believe this dog I saw today on my walk home, Credence!” Credence felt his own smile forming carefully on his face as he reached trembling hands over to you so that he could trace the length of your arm. You never mentioned these things, how he never seemed to quite figure out how to smile easily or to shake that nervous tremble of his hand when he initiated physical contact, because the fact that he tried at all moved you to happy tears every time; progress was progress, no matter how small, so you continued because you knew he was hanging on your every word, that listening to you made him happy because you wanted to share that happiness with him. “It was so small, and had the darkest fur, raven black–like your hair!!” At this, you grinned and tugged gently at a tuft of his growing hair. “And its eyes were like yours too, Credence, big and this light brown, and oh, I could have taken him right home!!”

Credence let himself breathe out an airy laugh, picturing you trying to abduct someone else’s dog on the street, and your grin widened at the sound. “You laugh at me, but you would have wanted to take him home too.” You took Credence’s answering low hum as encouragement and went on. “We should get a dog, Credence. Or maybe a cat. We should just get a pet; I think we’d be wonderful pet parents.”

“Do you?” Credence still wasn’t used to talking around a smile, but he could learn. It was surprisingly pleasant, intoxicating almost, to talk around your own happiness.

“Yes!! You’re so calm and attentive and kind, and I dote!! Together we’d be like… the best parents, I really think so. To pets, for now of course. Maybe kids one day though!! Like, human ones, not animal ones. We could adopt, even. We could do so much. I think we’d be good at anything we did together.”

You were babbling now, words running away with your mind, and these moments warmed Credence most. You weren’t thinking at all–just talking, saying what came to your mind and laughing around the words. There was always such a simple joy behind those words that came from your mouth when you weren’t thinking about them, and to know that these were the thoughts that just came to you about him touched him deeply. To know you thought of him as a part of your team, as someone you wanted to tackle life with. He was someone’s partner. And you were his partner.

“Ya know, I actually also saw this sweater in this store window on the way home too that I think you’d look so cute in, Credence.” He hummed shortly as he let his hand fall on your hip, tracing small circles where he rested his hand as you continued to talk. “It was like this coffee brown color, like that light brown when you put too much milk in your coffee. That shade. Doesn’t that sound so nice?” Again, an answering hum. “Well, it was that beautiful color and it had those giant sleeves you like. It looked so comfy, and it was so you!!” Your hand pressed excitedly against his chest to enunciate the final word of that sentence, and Credence felt the smile on his face tug wider. It still really struck him to have things that were “so him” now, that he had a personality that people identified. That people saw things that made them think of him. That you thought of him even when he wasn’t near. “I actually think I’m going to pick it up on the way back tomorrow so you can have it. You were meant to wear it, I’m telling you.”

“You don’t have to get it for me, Y/N.” His voice was so much softer and more deliberate than yours, and the contrast struck him sometimes.

It worked, he had to remind himself.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to!! You’d look so cute in it. But you look cute in everything. But you’d look especially cute in this, is what I mean.”

Credence relented with a downcasting of his eyes and a gentler smile. “Okay.”

“Then…. I’ll get it tomorrow because… because I know your size and everything, and you can…wear it to…dinner at Jacob’s when…”

Credence lifted his eyes to see you drifting off to sleep, mid-sentence, as you did almost every night. Sometimes Credence thought that this warmed his heart most–that you wanted to talk to him so badly and so much that you literally talked to him until sleep conquered you without leaving you a choice. It felt nice to know that someone wanted to talk to him so badly, wanted to share their lives with him so badly. So with a soft smile, the one he saved for you only, he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek and pulled you close at the sound of your sleepy hum before falling asleep with you–looking forward, of course, to sporting that too-much-milk-in-your-coffee brown sweater. Looking forward to endless nights like these with you.


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esquire.com
Joseph Fiennes on How 'The Handmaid's Tale' Is Just as Disturbing for Its Actors
"A part of me just couldn't wait to get out, and scream, and get back into my hoodie and trainers."

It’s not exactly accurate to say that Joseph Fiennes plays the villain of The Handmaid’s Tale, because no human character earns that label. The villain of this story—both Margaret Atwood’s novel and Hulu’s lauded adaptation—is misogyny, and the forces that have allowed it to metastasize uncontrollably across the nation, transforming the United States into the puritanical nightmare that is Gilead. But Fiennes’ military commander Fred Waterford is the face of the regime, and his slippery cat-and-mouse dynamic with Offred (Elisabeth Moss) is the only arena in which she has any real autonomy. Throughout the season, as she goes from being strictly Waterford’s Handmaid to his mistress, it’s increasingly unclear who is manipulating whom.

“The men are pretty thinly drawn,” Fiennes acknowledges in reference to Atwood’s book, “and they have to be, because it’s not their story.” Though Fred’s lack of depth on the page initially left him skeptical about the role, his trepidation didn’t last long. “Once I got into the book, and particularly the relationship that grows out of his clandestine meetings with Offred, I thought there was great character copy to be had.”

Early on, Waterford seems potentially sympathetic: he treats Offred more kindly than most, almost as though he sees her as a person, and an ominous invitation to his office turns into an endearingly benign game of Scrabble. But by this week’s episode, it’s become clear that his attention to Offred is selfish, putting her in danger in order to feed his needs rather than hers.

As has been exhaustively noted ever since the show premiered, parallels to Gilead are everywhere in 2017—not only to the regime’s oppression of women, but its puritanical brand of nostalgia, and fixation on a return to traditional values. Take the revelation that Vice President Mike Pence cannot dine alone with women who aren’t his wife, and then consider Gilead’s rule that a commander can only be alone with a handmaid if his wife is also present. Fiennes diplomatically calls the parallels “very, very curious, in this day and age”.

Below, Fiennes speaks to Esquire.com about Waterford’s “pathetic” brothel dalliance with Offred, his hopes for the now-confirmed second season, and getting into the mind of a rapist.

Though Waterford is inscrutable for much of the show’s early episodes, Fiennes worked a lot on unseen backstory.

The thing I wanted to explore was the relationship he had with the previous Offred. Coming to my own conclusions about what her death meant, and the reasons she took her life, and the impact that would have had on the household and Fred, was an interesting starting point. In the book, Fred is described as “a pathetic, soft, withered limb that lives inside a tough military boot.” There’s a sense of loneliness, and of his wanting to reach out and wanting to care for [Offred], and then there is this lurking monster—a man drunk on his position of power, and all of these arcane rituals he partakes in to keep control.

You should be thrown by him, as Offred is, and that uncertainty makes her knife-edge negotiation of survival that much more gripping. Because in a sense, you want her to find this sanctuary [in his office]. There’s life, there’s words, there’s Scrabble, there’s an exchange of human contact, and yet Fred is loving that power exchange, and loving the fact that her life is in his hands. He’s ultimately a dark creature, but to begin with I wanted there to be elements that would confuse.

There’s a specific reason why Waterford was unable to perform during the ceremony in Episode Four, directly after he asks Offred to join him for Scrabble later and she declines to answer.

Taking away power from a rapist ends up emasculating him to such a degree that he can’t perform. I think that’s essentially what [that scene] is. Whether it’s subliminal or not, he feels that he has lost control when she doesn’t answer him. Out of nothing, she manages to find a kind of status in her silence, just not saying, “Yes, I’ll meet you for Scrabble at 9:30.” Just delaying that response was enough to throw him into turmoil, and physically we see the repercussions of that.

Though Waterford is probably sterile, Gilead doesn’t allow for that possibility to be voiced–even to himself.

I think there’s probably a two per cent part of his brain that might go there, but he’s used to blaming his wife. So much of his disconnect with Serena is based on the barrenness, the idea that she hasn’t provided them with a child which is such a status symbol. He’s so far down that road of detachment and blame that he wouldn’t dream that [the problem] is possibly him. In the higher echelons of Gilead, as a commander, I think it wouldn’t befit him too well. The revelation would just be too crushing,and maybe we’ll get to see that in the second series. I’d also like season two to really examine how a regime like Gilead comes into effect; the minutiae of that would be fascinating.

Episode Eight reveals the deeply immature impulses that drive Waterford.

He’s pushing this relationship to the extreme, and in one sense it’s a classic setup, the married man and the mistress. He loves having Offred take on his wife’s identity and wear the cloak, and once they cross the bridge into this forbidden territory he’s able to operate as he please, transporting them both away from all the rules and regulations. But I think he also loves the power of shocking Offred. There’s this “naughty boy” side to him, and I think he gets a kick out of this completely pathetic brothel setup–it’s sad in every which way, but I think there’s an immature thrill he gets out of the shock factor. He’s exhilarated by it.

As tough as the show is to watch, it was even more grueling to shoot.

Every day before filming I had to draw a deep breath, because it’s such a creepy world, and such a creepy character to inhabit. A part of me just couldn’t wait to get out, and scream, and get back into my hoodie and trainers. The ceremony scenes were deeply disturbing [to shoot], because they’re so much about rape culture, although Fred has invented this justification for it through scripture. For me, every utterance and every move he makes is tainted with the corrosive effects of patriarchal authority.

It’s ugly, and the fact that it’s human nature makes it more ugly. I’ve met, and read about, and seen, people who just have no sense of equality or humanity. They’re privileged to the point of disconnect, and in this world of Gilead, I think Fred believes he’s untouchable. Scripture and theocracy have allowed him to disappear behind this cloak of authority, and he’s become the mask.

Title: “The Spooky Truth with Dr. Jones,” (½)

Summary: Emma Swan is a podcaster looking for a semi-interesting story. Dr. Killian Jones is a paranormal investigator who doesn’t believe in the paranormal. Emma Swan absolutely does not want to write this story—but it seems to be writing itself. A CS Black Tapes AU.

Notes: This delightful little AU was 100% inspired by The Black Tapes, a seriously awesome fictional horror podcast that you can listen to for free. Which you should. Right now. I’d like to thank and/or notify a # of awesome people who helped with this: @seastarved @zengoalie @ofshipsandswans @abbadons-little-witch @the-reason-to-sail-home @businesscasualprincess @swanandapirate (who also wrote a podcast AU, so if you like this, you should probably check it out). Also on Ao3.


+ Honestly, the worst thing about this job is the constant threat of, “You have a face too pretty for radio,” every time she has to conduct an interview with some bland fuck-boy that the country has suddenly decided is worth her time. If not for the occasionally tedious subject matter and overeager interviewees, it would be damn near perfect.

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Reassurance

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Prompt: “His ego is visible, I can almost watch it grow.”

Summary: When Stiles notices your uneasiness towards the newest addition to the pack, he pulls you aside and gives you some much needed reassurance.

Words: 785 (short and sweet)

A/N: First Stiles imagine, I hope you like it!

Originally posted by sarcasticallystilinski

You didn’t like him. Not one bit.

It was evident in your facial expression as you stared at the werewolf Kira put in the ground a while back. You trusted Scott’s leadership, he’s gotten the pack through disastrous situations multiple times but something about Theo made you feel uneasy. He sat quietly on a chair, listening to what Scott said with distant eyes. You should be paying attention as well but it was hard when you felt like an intruder was in the room.

“Y/N.”

Scott’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up at him and gave the most convincing smile you could.

“Sorry, zoned out for a second. Continue.” You said, straightening up on the couch.

Scott gave you a look before continuing with his sentence. You felt Stiles nudge you softly. You glanced to your left to see him already looking at you. He raised his brow and you knew he was silently asking if you were okay. You nodded and turned back to Scott, leaning more into his side.

When the meeting came to an end, Stiles led you to the kitchen by your elbow and you let him pull you along.

“You may be able to fool Scott but nothing gets past a Stilinski.” Stiles said, opening the fridge and tossing you a bottle of water.

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A Warm, Safe Place - Pt. 2

Originally posted by miriastar

Summary: You and Dean return to the bunker, arguing over what to do with the baby. Things escalate when Sam and Cas are added to the mix; it takes physical force to keep Cas from doing what he came to do.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 3,201

Warnings: mild violence, some angst, fluff.

A/N: Just. Thank you. I wish I had more words, but all I can truly say is that the response from the drabble (“A Warm, Safe Place”) has been unexpected and overwhelming. Thank you so much if you liked, commented, or were otherwise a part of turning this into a series. I appreciate every one of you so much!

This is a series! Find Part 1 here!

———

The bunker door slammed behind you both as you made your way down the stairs, your heart pounding in your chest, your voice echoing throughout the space. “There is only one thing with the power to do what she just did, Dean!”

His boots clambered down the stairs after yours, following you as he held her against his chest. “I know!” he whispered harshly, “Believe me, I know! But what the hell are we supposed to do here!?” You spun around, nearly slamming your hip into the table in the center of the room, stress and frustration all over your face as you looked to the beautiful baby girl in his arms. You slowed yourself down as your brain attempted to process the thousands of thoughts you had racing around your head.

“Dean,” you said softly, out of breath, your eyes still on her. “I…” There was a long pause. Your eyes were on the baby; Dean’s were glued to you. “I have no idea. There isn’t exactly a playbook for this.”

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She Who Hears the Cries of the World

by Christina Feldman

Compassion is no stranger to any of us: we know what it feels like to be deeply moved by the pain and suffering of others. All people receive their own measure of sorrow and struggle in this life. Bodies age, health becomes fragile, minds can be beset by confusion and obsession, hearts are broken. We see many people asked to bear the unbearable — starvation, tragedy, and hardship beyond our imagining. Our loved ones experience illness, pain, and heartache, and we long to ease their burden.

The human story is a story of love, redemption, kindness, and generosity. It is also a story of violence, division, neglect, and cruelty. Faced with all of this, we can soften, reach out, and do all we can to ease suffering. Or we can choose to live with fear and denial — doing all we can to guard our hearts from being touched, afraid of drowning in this ocean of sorrow.

Again and again we are asked to learn one of life’s clearest lessons: that to run from suffering — to harden our hearts, to turn away from pain — is to deny life and to live in fear. So, as difficult as it is to open our hearts toward suffering, doing so is the most direct path to transformation and liberation.

Compassion and wisdom are at the heart of the path of the Buddha. In the early Buddhist stories we find young men and women asking the same questions we ask today: How can we respond to the suffering that is woven into the very fabric of life? How can we discover a heart that is truly liberated from fear, anger, and alienation? Is there a way to discover a depth of wisdom and compassion that can genuinely make a difference in this confused and destructive world?

We may be tempted to see compassion as a feeling, an emotional response we occasionally experience when we are touched by an encounter with acute pain. In these moments of openness, the layers of our defenses crumble; intuitively we feel an immediacy of response and we glimpse the power of nonseparation. Milarepa, a great Tibetan sage, expressed this when he said, “Just as I instinctively reach out to touch and heal a wound in my leg as part of my own body, so too I reach out to touch and heal the pain in another as part of this body.” Too often these moments of profound compassion fade, and once more we find ourselves protecting, defending, and distancing ourselves from pain. Yet they are powerful glimpses that encourage us to question whether compassion can be something more than an accident we stumble across.

No matter how hard we try, we can’t make ourselves feel compassionate. But we can incline our hearts toward compassion. In one of the stories in the early Buddhist literature, the ascetic Sumedha reflects on the vast inner journey required to discover unshakeable wisdom and compassion. He describes compassion as a tapestry woven of many threads: generosity, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, energy, patience, truthfulness, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity. When we embody all of these in our lives, we develop the kind of compassion that has the power to heal suffering.

A few years ago, an elderly monk arrived in India after fleeing from prison in Tibet. Meeting with the Dalai Lama, he recounted the years he had been imprisoned, the hardship and beatings he had endured, the hunger and loneliness he had lived with, and the torture he had faced.

At one point the Dalai Lama asked him, “Was there ever a time you felt your life was truly in danger?”

The old monk answered, “In truth, the only time I truly felt at risk was when I felt in danger of losing compassion for my jailers.”

Hearing stories like this, we are often left feeling skeptical and bewildered. We may be tempted to idealise both those who are compassionate and the quality of compassion itself. We imagine these people as saints, possessed of powers inaccessible to us. Yet stories of great suffering are often stories of ordinary people who have found greatness of heart. To discover an awakened heart within ourselves, it is crucial not to idealise or romanticise compassion. Our compassion simply grows out of our willingness to meet pain rather than to flee from it.

We may never find ourselves in situations of such peril that our lives are endangered; yet anguish and pain are undeniable aspects of our lives. None of us can build walls around our hearts that are invulnerable to being breached by life. Facing the sorrow we meet in this life, we have a choice: Our hearts can close, our minds recoil, our bodies contract, and we can experience the heart that lives in a state of painful refusal. We can also dive deeply within ourselves to nurture the courage, balance, patience, and wisdom that enable us to care.

If we do so, we will find that compassion is not a state. It is a way of engaging with the fragile and unpredictable world. Its domain is not only the world of those you love and care for, but equally the world of those who threaten us, disturb us, and cause us harm. It is the world of the countless beings we never meet who are facing an unendurable life. The ultimate journey of a human being is to discover how much our hearts can encompass. Our capacity to cause suffering as well as to heal suffering live side by side within us. If we choose to develop the capacity to heal, which is the challenge of every human life, we will find our hearts can encompass a great deal, and we can learn to heal — rather than increase — the schisms that divide us from one another.

In the first century in northern India, probably in what is now part of Afghanistan, the Lotus Sutra was composed. One of the most powerful texts in the Buddhist tradition, it is a celebration of the liberated heart expressing itself in a powerful and boundless compassion, pervading all corners of the universe, relieving suffering wherever it finds it.

When the Lotus Sutra was translated into Chinese, Kuan Yin, the “one who hears the cries of the world,” emerged as an embodiment of compassion that has occupied a central place in Buddhist teaching and practice ever since. Over the centuries Kuan Yin has been portrayed in a variety of forms. At times she is depicted as a feminine presence, face serene, arms outstretched, and eyes open. At times she holds a willow branch, symbolising her resilience — able to bend in the face of the most fierce storms without being broken. At other times she is portrayed with a thousand arms and hands, each with an open eye in its center, depicting her constant awareness of anguish and her all-embracing responsiveness. Sometimes she takes the form of a warrior armed with a multitude of weapons, embodying the fierce aspect of compassion committed to uprooting the causes of suffering. A protector and guardian, she is fully engaged with life.

To cultivate the willingness to listen deeply to sorrow wherever we meet it is to take the first step on the journey of compassion. Our capacity to listen follows on the heels of this willingness. We may make heroic efforts in our lives to shield ourselves from the anguish that can surround us and live within us, but in truth a life of avoidance and defense is one of anxiety and painful separation.

True compassion is not forged at a distance from pain but in its fires. We do not always have a solution for suffering. We cannot always fix pain. However, we can find the commitment to stay connected and to listen deeply. Compassion does not always demand heroic acts or great words. In the times of darkest distress, what is most deeply needed is the fearless presence of a person who can be wholeheartedly receptive.

It can seem to us that being aware and opening our hearts to sorrow makes us suffer more. It is true that awareness brings with it an increased sensitivity to our inner and outer worlds. Awareness opens our hearts and minds to a world of pain and distress that previously only glanced off the surface of consciousness, like a stone skipping across water. But awareness also teaches us to read between the lines and to see beneath the world of appearances. We begin to sense the loneliness, need, and fear in others that was previously invisible. Beneath words of anger, blame, and agitation we hear the fragility of another person’s heart. Awareness deepens because we hear more acutely the cries of the world. Each of those cries has written within it the plea to be received.

Awareness is born of intimacy. We can only fear and hate what we do not understand and what we perceive from a distance. We can only find compassion and freedom in intimacy. We can be afraid of intimacy with pain because we are afraid of helplessness; we fear that we don’t have the inner balance to embrace suffering without being overwhelmed. Yet each time we find the willingness to meet affliction, we discover we are not powerless. Awareness rescues us from helplessness, teaching us to be helpful through our kindness, patience, resilience, and courage. Awareness is the forerunner of understanding, and understanding is the prerequisite to bringing suffering to an end.

Shantideva, a deeply compassionate master who taught in India in the eighth century, said, “Whatever you are doing, be aware of the state of your mind. Accomplish good; this is the path of compassion.” How would our life be if we carried this commitment into all of our encounters? What if we asked ourselves what it is we are dedicated to when we meet a homeless person on the street, a child in tears, a person we have long struggled with, or someone who disappoints us? We cannot always change the heart or the life of another person, but we can always take care of the state of our own mind. Can we let go of our resistance, judgments, and fear? Can we listen wholeheartedly to understand another person’s world? Can we find the courage to remain present when we want to flee? Can we equally find the compassion to forgive our wish to disconnect? Compassion is a journey. Every step, every moment of cultivation, is a gesture of deep wisdom.

Living in Asia for several years, I encountered an endless stream of people begging in the streets. Faced with a forlorn, gaunt child I would find myself judging a society that couldn’t care for its deprived children. Sometimes I would feel irritated, perhaps dropping a few coins into the child’s hand while ensuring I kept my distance from him. I would debate with myself whether I was just perpetuating the culture of begging by responding to the child’s pleas. It took me a long time to understand that, as much as the coins may have been appreciated, they were secondary to the fact that I rarely connected to the child.

As the etymology of the word indicates, “compassion” is the ability to “feel with,” and that involves a leap of empathy and a willingness to go beyond the borders of our own experience and judgments. What would it mean to place myself in the heart of that begging child? What would it be like to never know if I will eat today, depending entirely on the handouts of strangers? Journeying beyond our familiar borders, our hearts can tremble; then, we have the possibility of accomplishing good.

Milarepa once said, “Long accustomed to contemplating compassion, I have forgotten all difference between self and other.” Genuine compassion is without boundaries or hierarchies. The smallest sorrow is as worthy of compassion as the greatest anguish. The heartache we experience in the face of betrayal asks as much for compassion as a person caught in the midst of tragedy. Those we love and those we disdain ask for compassion; those who are blameless and those who cause suffering are all enfolded in the tapestry of compassion. An old Zen monk once proclaimed, “O, that my monk’s robes were wide enough to gather up all of the suffering in this floating world.” Compassion is the liberated heart’s response to pain wherever it is met.

When we see those we love in pain, our compassion is instinctive. Our heart can be broken. It can also be broken open. We are most sorely tested when we are faced with a loved one’s pain that we cannot fix. We reach out to shield those we love from harm, but life continues to teach us that our power has limits. Wisdom tells us that to insist that impermanence and frailty should not touch those we love is to fall into the near enemy of compassion, which is attachment to result and the insistence that life must be other than it actually is.

Compassion means offering a refuge to those who have no refuge. The refuge is born of our willingness to bear what at times feels unbearable — to see a loved one suffer. The letting go of our insistence that those we love should not suffer is not a relinquishment of love but a release of illusion — the illusion that love can protect anyone from life’s natural rhythms. In the face of a loved one’s pain, we are asked to understand what it means to be steadfast and patient in the midst of our own fear. In our most intimate relationships, love and fear grow simultaneously. A compassionate heart knows this to be true and does not demand that fear disappear. It knows that only in the midst of fear can we begin to discover the fearlessness of compassion.

Some people, carrying long histories of a lack of self-worth or denial, find it most difficult to extend compassion toward themselves. Aware of the vastness of suffering in the world, they may feel it is self-indulgent to care for their aching body, their broken heart, or their confused mind. Yet this too is suffering, and genuine compassion makes no distinction between self and other. If we do not know how to embrace our own frailties and imperfections, how do we imagine we could find room in our heart for anyone else?

The Buddha once said that you could search the whole world and not find anyone more deserving of your love and compassion than yourself. Instead, too many people find themselves directing levels of harshness, demand, and judgment inward that they would never dream of directing toward another person, knowing the harm that would be incurred. They are willing to do to themselves what they would not do to others.

In the pursuit of an idealised compassion, many people can neglect themselves. Compassion “listens to the cries of the world,” and we are part of that world. The path of compassion does not ask us to abandon ourselves on the altar of an idealised state of perfection. A path of healing makes no distinctions: within the sorrow of our own frustrations, disappointments, fears, and bitterness, we learn the lessons of patience, acceptance, generosity, and ultimately, compassion.

The deepest compassion is nurtured in the midst of the deepest suffering. Faced with the struggle of those we love or those who are blameless in this world, compassion arises instinctively. Faced with people who inflict pain upon others, we must dive deep within ourselves to find the steadfastness and understanding that enables us to remain open. Connecting with those who perpetrate harm is hard practice, yet compassion is somewhat shallow if it turns away those who — lost in ignorance, rage, and fear — harm others. The mountain of suffering in the world can never be lessened by adding yet more bitterness, resentment, rage, and blame to it.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the beloved Vietnamese teacher, said, “Anger and hatred are the materials from which hell is made.” It is not that the compassionate heart will never feel anger. Faced with the terrible injustice, oppression, and violence in our world, our hearts tremble not only with compassion but also with anger. A person without anger may be a person who has not been deeply touched by harmful acts that scar the lives of too many people. Anger can be the beginning of abandonment or the beginning of commitment to helping others.

We can be startled into wakefulness by exposure to suffering, and this wakefulness can become part of the fabric of our own rage, or part of the fabric of wise and compassionate action. If we align ourselves with hatred, we equally align ourselves with the perpetrators of harm. We can also align ourselves with a commitment to bringing to an end the causes of suffering. It is easy to forget the portrayal of Kuan Yin as an armed warrior, profoundly dedicated to protecting all beings, fearless and resolved to bring suffering to an end.

Rarely are words and acts of healing and reconciliation born of an agitated heart. One of the great arts in the cultivation of compassion is to ask if we can embrace anger without blame. Blame agitates our hearts, keeps them contracted, and ultimately leads to despair. To surrender blame is to maintain the discriminating wisdom that knows clearly what suffering is and what causes it. To surrender blame is to surrender the separation that makes compassion impossible.

Compassion is not a magical device that can instantly dispel all suffering. The path of compassion is altruistic but not idealistic. Walking this path we are not asked to lay down our life, find a solution for all of the struggles in this world, or immediately rescue all beings. We are asked to explore how we may transform our own hearts and minds in the moment. Can we understand the transparency of division and separation? Can we liberate our hearts from ill will, fear, and cruelty? Can we find the steadfastness, patience, generosity, and commitment not to abandon anyone or anything in this world? Can we learn how to listen deeply and discover the heart that trembles in the face of suffering?

The path of compassion is cultivated one step and one moment at a time. Each of those steps lessens the mountain of sorrow in the world.

Without You: Bloodstone (Part 16)

Genre: AU, bts!werewolf, fantasy, angst

Warnings: language, violence, suggestive content

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Werewolves, contrary to popular belief, are usually gentle creatures. Except for a very specific set of circumstances, they would never hurt a human (on purpose). The few unfortunate times when mistakes were made put a permanent dark mark on the beasts and people began labeling them as monsters. What the human population failed to recognize was the fact that they were protecting us from something much more sinister. Luckily, a few survived and the gene was passed down hereditarily until one day finding its way to me… in the form of my best friend.

Link to: Storyboard (reference pictures) | General lore post
Prologue | Previous | Masterlist | Next

Originally posted by non---ducor--duco

Loyalty is often as blind as justice should be, as unstable as a lightning storm ought to be, and as misplaced as an opinion in the truth.

Chapter 16:

The doors to the mysterious hallway are locked again. It was one of the first things I checked after Munhee left to help train Jungkook about two hours ago. But naturally, it wouldn’t be that easy. So I’m left to wobble back to Jungkook’s room on unsteady legs, hugging the walls for support. Despite probably not having the physical strength for it, I feel disgusting enough that my mental willpower alone allows me to take a shower, wash away last night and this morning.

Hair dripping, I crawl over to the bed, deciding a nap is the best option. Sleep doesn’t come- well, not easily.

The thought stays firmly in my head. I cannot trust Munhee. Why lock the hallway doors unless she doesn’t want me snooping around? What could she be hiding back there? The demon? I force myself to take a breath, trying to remain skeptical. What if the spirit had just been trying to get under my skin? Munhee hasn’t harmed or wronged me yet. Maybe she locked the doors to protect me because she knew I might snoop around and do something I’ll regret. Maybe whatever she stores back there is dangerous. Magic is, after all, inherently hazardous to people who don’t know how to use it.

Behind my eyelids, I see the Hepatica field, the full moon, and the massive raven black wolf.

I should ask her about it. Woman to woman. Maybe should would just… tell me. I haven’t tried being upfront yet and everyone here seems to answer most of my questions to the best of their ability. Yes, when Munhee gets back from training, I’ll try to casually bring it up. But until then, I need to sleep.

My mind slips into a restless oblivion.

I wake up to the sound of Jungkook’s door opening. The thought of Munhee also being back shoots a burst of adrenaline through my system, shocking me into alertness, but my eyelids crack open to find Taehyung.

“Oh hey,” I smile at him, sitting up so I can greet the bronze haired boy properly. “What are you doing in here? I thought you were training with Jungkook.”

He pauses to audibly sniff the air, then flops down on the bed next to me, yawning, “Yoongi hyung sent me back to the bunker… and Jimin asked me to check up on you.”

“He did? Why couldn’t he do it?”

Again, there’s a small pinch of pain in my chest. I try my best to include him, to make him feel appreciated and validated, but he keeps avoiding me, pushing me aside. I’m not sure if it’s his nature and that’s why everyone dislikes him, or if he’s hesitant to let anyone in because he’s been socially ostracized. At this point, does it even matter?

Taehyung snuggles up next to me, resting his head on my shoulder and his arm over my stomach, “I dunno. He said something about you maybe needing someone to comfort you and that I’m the man for the job.”

He laughs lightly, nuzzling against my shoulder playfully. Jimin probably didn’t say anything like that, but I’ll believe he sent Taehyung.

“Thanks,” I reply, amused. “Does all this affection mean I’m out of menstrual quarantine?”

The bronze haired boy sniffs again, “Yeah. Tomorrow you’ll be completely fine- not that there’s anything wrong with you. Just that you won’t be leaking blood everywhere.”

“What a nice way to put it,” I elbow him gently.

“Sorry,” he shoots me a boxy smile. “Wolves just have a thing about… human blood.”

“What are you? Vampires?”

Taehyung snorts to hide a laugh, “Definitely not. It’s more of a bonding thing.”

“Bonding? Like imprinting?”

“Yes and no. It’s a little bit different. There are actually two types of bonding but-”

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Similarity

Warnings: Death


Kylo Ren had been gone from Starkiller Base for a little over a week. If there could be levity in the First Order, it was found during this week. Despite the masked faces of the storm troopers there was a looseness to them that could only be observed by someone who had was around them on a regular basis.

There was also a freedom that you felt now that he wasn’t on the base. While you had been growing closer, Kylo’s selfish streak had you locked in your shared quarters for majority of the time that you had been on the base. Now walking through the base, unaccompanied, you were able to take in the size of the base. The monochromatic halls, while mostly featureless, were a welcome change to the dark of your room.  However, the fact that the halls were all the same color meant that it was possible to get lost fairly easily, and you were indeed lost.

“Excuse me,” you called to a young officer who had been confident enough to make eye contact with you, “Can you take me to General Hux?”

The officer rolled his light-colored eyes, “If you are lost it would be best for you to report to your designated officer.”

Confused you scrunch your eyebrows together, “I don’t understand.”

Sighing and moving a bit of his red hair out of his face, he pulls out his pad, he begins to scroll through a few screens before making eye contact with you, “Which planet are you from?”

“Arkanna.”

“Per the registry there are no ambassadors from Arkanna expected to be here,” he stated glaring from under his eyelids at you. “How did you find your way on to this base.”

“I was brought here.” You state growing more irritated by the second, “I am not an ambassador.”

“Then what are you, an offering?” He said eyeing the flowy nature of your dress.

“I am no such thing,” you nearly screeched. You had only now noticed the onlookers who looked at the situation with skepticism.

“Then you’re a spy.”

This statement caught the ears of a squadron of patrolling storm troopers.

“Arrest her.” The officer ordered the troopers.

The leader seemed to hesitate but went to grab your arm anyway.

“Don’t touch me, you idiot,” you snap at the trooper without breaking eye contact with the officer. “I am Kylo Ren’s wife.”

“Now that is one of the most inventive lies that I have ever heard,” the officer chuckled. “Tell me then, what’s it like being fucked by a monster?”

The question caused you to flush with embarrassment and anger. If this is what he has to deal with, your husband’s anger with Hux and his officers seemed justified. The audacity of this man.

“What are you waiting for? Take her away.”

An armored hand grabbed your arm and twisted it behind your black and you let out a yelp in pain. The entire was situation was jarring and it had thrown of your sense of equilibrium both mentally and physically.

“Let go of me,” You murmur feeling a slight heat work its way through your body. “You’re going to make me hurt you.”

The widening of the smirk on the officers’ face made your very being burn with hatred. The willingness to be cruel seemed to always be just beneath the surface for humans and you were no different.

It started as a slight cough, most likely because strangulation wasn’t your forte, but the dread on the officers’ face clued you into its working.

“Are you alright?” the storm trooper that held your arm started.

The officer tried to shake his head but the tightness of the grip kept him from full functionality. The beads of sweat that started to pearl down the sides of his now reddened cheeks were the first indication to the others in the hallway of what was occurring. They had seen this before, and it never ended well. Quickly dropping your arm the trooper spun around, looking for Kylo Ren, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s not here,” you started cutting your eyes at the trooper forebodingly, “but I am.”

The squadron of troopers backed away in fear. Returning your attention to the officer in front of you. You watched as he clawed at his throat trying to breathe. You felt a smile of satisfaction come on to your face, and yet you wanted more. The mental image of twisting a knife further into a wound came to your mind.

What barely registered in your mind during this ordeal was the indication of another presence in your mind that you had begun to feel. It was a slight pressure at the back of your head that was almost egging you on.

You lacked sufficient control of the force to efficiently use it on someone and so the more that you harmed the man, the more that you felt yourself grow weary, but you were sure that you would finish what you started.

The officers neck turned purple and you watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. When you heard snap of his neck you let a smug smile cross your face as both you and the now dead officer fell to the ground.

Stunned silence rocked the hallway around you. You felt alone and cold, like the world had shifted on its axis.

Aching for some sort of comfort, you smiled when you felt his presence and then heard the thumping of his boots.

“Move.”

With a single command the entirety of the hall, save for the dead body, was gone. You felt strong arms pick up your crumpled form and cradle you toward the owners’ chest.

He was silent as he carried you back to your quarters. If there were other people around you didn’t know, all you could comprehend was the pain and feeling of emptiness that went through your entire body. It felt like your body was being torn in two. Unable to cope you allowed yourself to slip into the darkness.

 ***

The small circles that were being drawn on your temples were what caused you to open your eyes. The dark room was a welcome sight; you don’t know if you could handle a stream of light pouring into your eyes.

“You’ve surprised me” he stated.

It was only then that you took in your position. The voice had rumbled forth from the chest that your head rested on.  You flash large eyes to stare at you husband who was looking straight ahead. He cut his dark eyes to quickly look down at you before looking back at the wall that was in front of him.

“Did the man die?” You question softly, but you already know it’s a pointless question.

“You broke his neck,” he answers flatly.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? He was beneath you.”

He states it so matter of factly that you almost feel stupid for the guilt, but the tight feeling in your throat and chest don’t allow you to accept the truth of the statement.

“Still, I lost control.”

“Control can be taught.”

“I suppose.”

The silence falls for a comfortable moment. You subconsciously move closer to his warmth and he accepts you. A warm feeling fills your heart and you allow yourself to tilt your head into his neck.

“Hux will be angry,” he starts suddenly. Oh, shoot you had forgotten about General Hux.

“I will go to him and apologize.”

“It won’t do much good,” he chuckles darkly, “It was his cousin.”

Wands and Angel Grace: Chapter One

Summary: When Lucifer leaves our reality for the Wizarding World, Sam and Dean follow him to stop him before he causes too much damage.  Will they be able to blend in at Hogwarts without raising suspicion?  Will they be able to stop Lucifer and Voldemort?  And will the Golden Trio trust the Winchesters, these strangers suddenly thrust into their lives?

Wands and Angel Grace Masterlist - Previous Chapter

warnings: none

word count: ~1400

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Black Honey: Pt. 2

Part 1 OR Read it all here

Summary: Starfire and Robin are officially an item, but what does that mean when the resident empath is stuck living between their respective bedrooms? Finding a new bunk buddy in Beast Boy was certainly not her first choice, and when she engages in a strange, night time activity, how long before the changeling notices what she’s up to?


Raven didn’t drink. Alcohol had a putrid flavor, and she could never fathom how anyone could enjoy tormenting themselves in such a way. It was an assault on one’s taste buds, with a nasty after taste just for good measure. A back wash of lingering poison might have fared better and, if it didn’t, you’d be dead before it hit you. Alcohol was a whole different concept; it was intoxicating and, after some time, the pungency itself didn’t matter anymore. Only the buzz, the illusion of freedom of one’s spirit from the chains of the body, the feeling of being on something called a ‘cloud nine’, was all that was important in the moment.

Raven didn’t drink, but she was starting to understand what it might have been like.

It wasn’t always about the bitter after taste, or the tang of sugary sweetness that left the mouth still somewhat parched. Alcohol was never about the actual alcohol; it was everything to do with indulgence. Like a fine wine, crisp and smooth and oh so alluring in it’s pristine bottle or poured in a glass, there was something about it that made an individual lick their lips in anticipation, in wanting. Even liquor stores embellished the beautification of alcohol; whether it was the intricate design of the glass bottles they came in, or the artistry in the labels, there was a richness to spirits that reeled in those mature enough to understand and truly enjoy its appeal.

As Raven lay in a bed that was not her own, and gazed across at the peaceful face before her, she would agree that everything could be a form of art, even something she’d typically not appreciate…

[MORE UNDER THE CUT]

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Elucien Calanmai (NSFW)

Exactly what it sounds like. This fic is inspired by this post written by @valamerys discussing the possibilities of Lucien and Elain becoming High Lord and Lady of Spring. The post mentioned Calanmai and well, the idea got going.

This fic is also for @chaol, who has so inspired me with her beautiful writing and mentioned in her reblog tags of ^that post that she would really love to see an Elucien Calanmai fic, so that’s where this came from. Hope you like it, Lauren! I tried, but I’m sure it pails in comparison to whatever lovely descriptions you would have written, haha. She is the master writer of us all and if you haven’t read her stuff, you should because it’s literally to die for!

AO3

The High Lady of Spring

Lucien was nervous, Elain could tell.

The fox swept up and down the length of her dressing room in long strides fumbling over the constant stream of words spewing out of his mouth. They shared a room together usually, but tonight, Elain had insisted she be allowed to dress herself as she pleased with privacy. Lucien assumed it was because she was nervous too, but Elain had other intentions.

“I really think we should go down together,” Lucien said as he paced. Elain didn’t say anything, but rather stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted on the cream colored walls trying not to roll her eyes. She had a simple pale blue dress on the color of spring skies. She began fussing with her hair hoping Lucien would think this was the extent of what he was getting later on so she could better save the surprises she had in store for him.

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Put My Heart Back Together: Part 4

Summary: Reader isn’t human and when she finally confesses her love to a certain metal armed soldier, her heart breaks (literally) when he doesn’t love her back. Will the reader deal with the dullness she has to endure or will Bucky come to his senses? Soulmate AU?

Warnings: ANGST. FLUFF, MAYBE?! You know the drill, CUSSING.

Author’s Note: I want to thank you all for liking and reading this because I was afraid I’d never get this far so thank you loves!!! ENJOY! Let me know how it made you feel or what you thought about it! This might be complete shit, I’m sorry. 

Originally posted by addictiontobeautyblr

“We found your mother.”

Wanda’s words rung your head like a bell. What do they mean they found your mother? How do they know it was your mother? Everyone in your family was suppose to die. What is going on?

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anonymous asked:

Reader befriends "Vinny" The Venomous Tentacula to get into Snape's quarters

The plant snarls and lunges, only barely missing your toes as you step back with a squeak of surprise. You look up in fright to see the toothy mouth and tentacle-like stems of a very familiar bloom.  It is not the customary bright red with bright purple tentacles, which are Nature’s general way of warning everything to stay away from it, but its teeth are scary even though it’s a rather sad-looking grayish and blue color.  It is curled around a black door as though it makes up the frame itself, but you can see where someone has attached a thin, metal trellis for the thing to hook and weave itself around.  Its pot appears to be sitting at the very top, attached by what you’re fairly certain is a Permanent Sticking Charm.  

The Tentacula growls.  Apparently, though it has no discernible eyes, it does not appreciate being stared at. 

“H…hello?” you ask. “I mean no harm…I…I got lost…”

The Tentacula cocks its bloom-head to the side and makes a soft, cooing noise; its tentacles receding back to its trellis.

You look around, wondering if you really ought to go back the way you came, when you notice the sign on the right-hand wall.

“WARNING,” the sign says in bright red letters. “Vinny the Venomous Tentacula IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS. LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.”

You frown, thinking back to what Patella Prue told you earlier. “They did say that there would be a test if I wanted to be part of their club.  Maybe this is it.”

You’ve wanted to be a part of the Secret Charms Society for ages.  Some say that the only way to be accepted into the Unspeakables at the Ministry is to become a member of the coveted school club (which is largely a secret from most of the students anyway).  

“The rules are simple. Anything goes other than Unforgivables.”  Patella looks so smug in your memory, almost as though she’s still mocking you.

“She thinks she’s so clever,” you mutter. 

Vinny makes a noncommittal noise.

“Erm…well, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, curtseying politely. “Hello Vinny. Would you please let me in?”

Vinny shakes his head back and forth and makes a disapproving sound.

“Hmm, well, I guess I’ll have to try again.”  You frown and pace a bit, making sure not to get within tentacle-grabbing distance. “Um…Stupefy!”

You whip out your wand and make those practiced motions a bit sloppier than you’d prefer, but the spell fires off anyway. Instead of freezing the feral plant, however, it seems to make Vinny even more ill-tempered than before.

“S…sorry!” you yelp, realizing that the plant probably doesn’t understand human language. “I…I just have to get through this door! I have to!”

The beast freezes as it hears your plea, crooning in a questioning manner.

“I need to get into the club or I won’t be able to realize my life’s dreams! Everything that I’ve worked so hard for in all of my classes- this is life or death for me, and I’m not even allowed to play on that level or I’ll fail!  It is of utmost importance that I enter!”

Vinny stretches out a tentacle slowly, and for some reason, you don’t step back.  He pats you on the top of your head and then moves aside, allowing you free access to the black door and its cloudy glass knob.

“You’re kidding.” You stare at Vinny skeptically. 

Vinny shakes his head and gestures with a tentacle.

“You’re just trying to trick me into becoming your breakfast,” you grumble, but you have to try.  You have to.

You hold your wand at your side, not threatening, but just there…just in case. You take a deep breath and you step forward, expecting tentacles and teeth.

Vinny croons encouragingly and you step forward again and again until your fingers are brushing against the glass knob.  

“Thank you,” you say, and Vinny reaches down and pats you on the shoulder with a tentacle in an encouraging manner.

You turn the knob and push through into the room beyond.

And there, before you, is Professor Snape sitting in a leather wingback chair with a book half-closed, staring at you, bewildered.

“But how-?” He starts, then snaps his mouth shut.

You stare, struck speechless.  You’d heard that Snape had quarters somewhere that were supposedly guarded by a fearsome beast, but there were also rumors that he hung from the rafters in the Owlry, and you’ve never held much stock in either story.

“Um,” you finally manage, growing beet-red at the thought that you’ve been granted to a professor’s personal…chambers…

The room is spartan in its furnishings, but it is also filled with books, parchment, and very orderly.  It is the exact sort of place where you could imagine Professor Snape to make his own, but you could not have said exactly what that was until seeing this place.

“You got past Vinny, didn’t you?” Snape is standing, his book forgotten on the side table. He closes the distance between you and stares down his nose at you. “How did you defeat him?”

“I…I didn’t defeat him!” you exclaim, outraged. “He let me in!”

“Nonsense!” Snape seems about to say something else, but then he grows silent and somewhat thoughtful. “Unless…is there an emergency? Tell me, then, what was it?”

You grow even redder at this. “I may have told him that I had an incredible need to get in here, but-”

“Why ever would you say such a thing?” He studies your scarlet face. “And you obviously believed it, or else Vinny would never have allowed you a single step into his domain.”

“It was a terrible mistake,” you blurt out, mortified. “I…I was trying to get into the Secret Charms Society. They told me that the club room was here…and…”

Snape grows thoughtful at this. “And they told you how to get in as well?”

You shake your head. “No, of course not. I was supposed to figure it out myself.”

He thinks for a long, silent moment, before extending his hand. “Congratulations.”

“What?” You shake his hand without realizing you’re doing it.

“Welcome to the Secret Charms Society,” Snape says, smirking at you in an altogether new sort of way. “You’re the first one who could manage to get in this year.”

“But what about those others-”

He snorts, “They’d love to be part of the club, but they couldn’t figure out how to get in.  Looks like they finally figured out a way.”

“I’m not telling them,” you say, your lip curling with disdain.

He smirks.  “Very good. I think that you’re going to go far in the club, then.  There’s a bit of a vow involved- not the unbreakable sort, but once you take it, you’ll be a member and then you can meet the Unspeakables who work with club members and show them the ropes.”

“I’m not making any vows until I know exactly what they entail,” you reply skeptically.

Snape actually smiles at this, and it’s surprisingly not creepy at all. “You’re going to do well here,” he says, leading you over to a door, unwarding it with a swish and flick of his wand.  You walk down a long hallway, and open another few doors.  There, standing before you both is a half-circle of veiled Unspeakables.  They nod and make a hissing noise.

“Yes,” Professor Snape replies, “she passed with flying colors.”

The veils are removed and you see a number of older students smiling back at you.

“Welcome to the Secret Charms Society,” Snape says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “We shall expect great things from you.”

You can’t wait to prove him right.

Calamity

On her deathbed, Zelda writes a letter to Link to explain what she experienced during the hundred years she spent locked in a fatal embrace with Ganon. (Also on AO3)

This fic contains speculation on who Ganondorf may have been in the Breath of the Wild timeline and is based partially on a fascinating exchange between @corseque​ and @golvio.

* * * * *

My dearest husband,

If you are reading this, then I must already be gone. I cannot imagine what the state of your heart must be, but please know that I love you. I loved you while you slept, and I loved you when you woke, and I have loved you every day since then.

I regret that we did not have more time together. Although I may still seem young to you, certainly too young to be so frail, all the many years I spent in the ruins of Hyrule Castle have taken a toll on me, and I must leave you. I can feel the beating of my heart grow weaker even as I write this. I know you would object to me leaving my bed, but there is something I must tell you before I go.

When you triumphed over the Calamity, I was able to return to you. We set out to rebuild Hyrule as if nothing had ever changed, and how successful we were. All the tribes came together to reconstruct our castle and our city, and all the while you managed to hide the wounds to your spirit. You maintained a brave face while showing nothing but kindness to others. I tried my best to do the same, but you must have noticed how distracted I was at times. What I could never bring myself to tell you, you who have already suffered so much and borne the suffering of others with such compassion, is what I saw when I held Ganon within the bonds of my seal.

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7/16/17: EXTRAORDINARY: THE STAN ROMANEK STORY

Like many lonely, chronically disappointed tweens who had the good fortune of growing up with the X-Files, I spent much of my youth in a permanent UFO frenzy. I pored over esoteric encyclopedia sets at the library, watched the stupid skies, subscribed to the MUFON newsletter, and even “read” books I couldn’t begin to understand about the theoretical physics of different recorded sightings. I was motivated by the same things as likeminded anybody-elses in similarly small, crappy towns: boredom, untreated mental illness, and easily substantiated feelings of inadequacy. Oh, and also group psychosis (I said, casually). My certifiable “best friend” at the time was a person who used her unassuming presentation and affected naivete to introduce, after a calculated fashion, all sorts of impossible ideas about her own alien encounters that were hard to ignore in their outrageousness. She excelled at setting these things up, not only as something that made her special, but as a reason for other people to feel sorry for her, which could put younger rubes like myself in an uncomfortable place. Certainly there was a whiff of artificiality about her, even for a desperate moron like myself, but I vividly remember my first feelings of full-on skepticism, inspired by a scene in which she was only a bystander. We had excitedly noticed a flyer for an event at our local library, at which an “experiencer” would be presenting his “evidence”. We got one of our parents to drive us and arrived in a mood of deadly seriousness, notebooks in hand, draped in cheap trench coats. I don’t know what I expected, but the guy (whose identity I can’t recall) was a completely familiar type of upstate redneck, who told his tale with a mixture of insistent self-importance and dewey-eyed victimhood, which I would later learn second-hand to associate with abusive parents and other sorts of suburban psychopaths. His prized abduction artifact appeared in photographs as a nondescript metal “implant”, which he unwisely accompanied with a recitation of arguments he had with medical professionals about how the item was swathed in fibers “from my underwears” and whether that could be because it showed no signs of extraterrestrial origin, or because the implant dropped out of his asshole. Even at the peak of my willingness to believe in anything that would make life seem more interesting, I felt my heart breaking a little as this person spoke.

Even now, decades later, I managed to take a similar emotional rollercoaster ride while subjecting myself to EXTRAORDINARY: THE STAN ROMANEK STORY. It’s been a long time since I felt even a twinge of real interest in the topic of alien abductions, but I maintain an interest in true crime media, both for the factual content, and out of morbid curiosity about how people choose to put these things together. One recent afternoon, having run out of cheap, sadistic british tabloid shows to watch, I decided to take in a UFO documentary for old time’s sake. While I’m still able to repeat names like Betty and Barney Hill sometimes, I had never heard the name of this “experiencer”, supposedly at the center of the most thoroughly documented case of alien abduction in history. This was perhaps for the best, as what I was to see would shock me very deeply, although not at all in the way that the filmmakers intended.

The story goes as follows: In September 2001, shortly after the attack on the World Trade Center, schlubby nobody Stan Romanek videotaped an unknown flying object for the first of what would seem to be countless times. His visual encounters quickly escalated to lost time, mysterious injuries, and anomalies in his home security recordings. Unsatisfied with these casual intrusions, bobble-headed “grays” then began sneaking around his home, and finally, Stan became a frequent visitor of outer space–the wonderment of which was often tarnished by the appearance of the malevolent men in black.

At the time of this viewing, I had no vulnerability to becoming a believer, but I was ready to feel at least a frisson of ambiguity in Romanek’s reportedly thorough documentation. What I found instead was much more disturbing. After an interminable string of X-Filesy lowercase title cards that leave no doubt as to the filmmakers’ commitment to Stan’s cause, we finally see a series of short videos of these UFOs–distant, blurry, jittery images that almost always include the voices of off-screen “witnesses” whose dubious existence is supposed to amount to some form of corroboration. I thought, ok, maybe there’s something more debatable, like…later on. The next piece of alleged evidence is a series of space travel-related equations that Romanek wrote during hypnotic regression therapy (a red flag if ever there was one), all of which turn out to be known quantities that could certainly be researched and memorized by a UFO buff with some time on his hands. Finally, Romanek himself–a scruffy middle-aged white male–fully takes the stage in an endless set of repellant photographs of himself leering smugly thought a bloody nose or some such, proudly displaying greenish cigarette burn-like sores that supposedly appear on his person after something very like a flashlight beam or laser pointer makes its appearance in and around his home. His self-satisfied countenance added indignation to my rational assessment that none of what I had seen so far would be impossible to reproduce for even a clumsy amateur. Then, I saw it. The now infamous “boo” video. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wc_gCqkyz9M

I absolutely could not believe that what I had seen was being presented to me as photographic evidence of alien life. Admittedly, Romanek has a fine sense of cinematic timing–the piece truly feels like it’s leading up to a jump scare–but little egghead swiveling and dipping in and out of frame, like something out of Scooby-Doo, is qualifiedly hilarious. Equally hilarious is the idea that these advanced alien beings don’t have a more refined method of surveilling humans, and even more hilarious is Romanek theatrically running up to the window at the end of the video, seemingly holding the flash used to create the “mysterious” flashes of light that accompanied the visitation. More hilarious still is the following grainy video of a similar creature peering at Romanek in his kitchen, as he cries out “What is that? What’s it doing?” in spite of the fact that he has allegedly been visited by what he claims are aliens for quite a while now.

Romance’s put-on ignorance is high among the most disturbing things about him. He employees a conversational technique well-known to liars and people who have had to deal with them: Instead of saying something like “I know it sounds crazy, but I have been abducted by aliens. There is no other explanation. Here I’m missing time and waking up in strange places because of what they did to me, here I’m mysteriously ill or healed by their intervention, here I’m clearly being stalked and harassed by the government because of what I know”–instead of this kind of sure-footed declaration, Romanek invariably pretends not to understand what has happened to him, even though he’s made a career out of his abductee status. He tells each tale as if it were his first and only encounter with the paranormal, and couches them in deliberately unsound alternative explanations for what may have happened. In my favorite edition, he describes a scene in which three half-human aliens knock on his door in the middle of the night in order to tell him that “it’s going to be ok” or something. Instead of simply getting to the point that he so desperately wants his audience to take, Stan exhaustively describes the knock at the door. He’s a heavy sleeper! He never wakes up for a loud noise, and yet, mysteriously, he did! He thought it must have been a drunk neighbor banging on the door, because he is a rational man (and I guess that must be a common occurrence?)! He went to the door and saw three people, and automatically assumed he was being burglarized! He yelled over and over to his family that he was being robbed! Because that would be normal! On and on he goes with defensive statements his many alien-free explanations for the knock, even though a guiltless person of sound mind might have simply said, “Someone knocked at the door at an odd hour, so I woke up and went to see what it was.” Curiously, even though we are rapidly careening toward the part of the story in which the adoring aliens reveal their worshipful plan for Stan, this anecdote ends with Stan aggressively trying to hurl one of the aliens off his balcony.

Because this whole conceit is so clearly designed to scaffold Romanek’s brittle ego, it’s not enough to say that he is the special focus of extraterrestrial fascination. There must also be evidence of Stan’s extreme machismo. Not only does he bravely insist on telling his tale in spite of sinister government warnings, but he single-handedly takes on three “obvious black ops guys” in a fantasy sequence that would make a fibbing child blush. The MIBs “somehow find out exactly where (he) parked (his) bicycle!”, and leap out of a van in an elaborate kung fu demonstration. Flabby Stan allegedly laughs this off, to their consternation, and proceeds to nearly murder one of them with his bike lock. They flea from his might after resorting to tasing him, and the filmmakers seem to produce a police report, but not the witness who supposedly filed it.

There are a variety of witnesses in the movie, typically identified as “woman 1″ or “woman 2″, or presented only audio recordings only of supposed doctors who supposedly verified Romance’s various medical miracles. Most of Stan’s supporters do seem to be women, though, which has an unpleasantly culty sort of vibe to it. Crazed narcissists like Stan can make themselves enormously compelling to certain sorts of people who want to feel special by proxy, or worse, who feel an obligation to comfort a person burdened with such specialness. No one in the film is sadder than Stan’s watery-eyed wife Lisa, who must not only defend his authenticity at all costs, but who has also lived through the incomprehensible horror of watching Stan “reunite” with a woman with whom he has supposedly copulated in outer space. This Other Woman, predictably a taller more buxom specimen with nicer hair, must have been subtly hypnotized by Romanek at the UFO event where he identified her. This is much easier to do than you could ever imagine, to someone who is as anxious to Believe is the people you would find in such a place. After tormenting Lisa for six years with his fantasies about how the aliens bred him with a beautiful woman on their saucer, all Stan probably had to do with was spot out a sexy specimen at one of his speaking dates, and say something along the lines of “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? You know, IN SPACE?” People in this sort of hungry, lonely mental state can lose the boundary between their memory and their imagination at a speed that the blissfully ignorant could never dream of.

And so it was that the emotionally battered Lisa entered into an ambiguous threesome with her husband and his invented alien breeding partner. Perhaps the most troubling part of the movie comes when the anxious filmmaker more than goads Lisa into describing herself as a person who is not only honest to a fault, but who loathes deception above all other things. No statement could be more damning from a person who is defending such an outrageous fabrication. Lisa has to halt her genuine weeping over her domestic predicament to recite this script about her honesty, stammering and looking up and away before each conclusion. Ironically, this tic is something I first learned about in SEX, LIES & VIDEOTAPE–liars compulsively look up and at an angle while lying.

Now it’s time to qualify my assertion that this was “perhaps” the most troubling part of the movie. More awful still is the introduction of Stan’s various space children, first in the form of an obviously faked photograph that has to be seen to be believed. According to the subject, an ethereally beautiful little girl with enormous crystal blue eyes and white-blonde hair (yet who still “looks exactly like” the dull brunette Romanek) appeared multiple times scampering around in his backyard–but, naturally, vanishing before any contact is made. These appearances are followed by electronically distorted phone calls in which Stan’s elfin progeny tell him how much they love them. This part of the story is somehow padded out by a phone call from an adult female caller who addresses Romanek as STARSEED, warns him about government baddies, and most preposterously, insists to the filmmakers that Stan is different from other people…the way he thinks…the way he views the world…(because of) who he really is. Personally, I felt affronted by the idea that an intergalactic messiah who is so “different” would also wear corny pickup line tee shirts and use the word “frickin’”, but I guess that’s why I’m not the one who is productively boning out amongst the stars. 

Stan’s stories about his alien family are also disturbing for another reason, which is revealed just before the ending credits. It isn’t just that his emotion is so frankly fake, at least in a scene where he seems to claim that he weeps every time he remembers his distant babies–and is then unable to tear up on camera; It isn’t just the obvious confusion of reverence and victimization, so typical of psychopaths, that rears its head between his stories of being covered in sores and pissing blood and ALSO being coddled and adored by aliens; It isn’t even just the creepy repetition of how the little nymphettes rush up and hug his thighs and lavish affection on him. At least, not by itself. It’s that in February of 2014, Stan Romanek was charged with possession and distribution of child pornography. I discovered this earlier in my screening, when the “Boo video” made me wonder what kind of movie I was watching. Was this actually meant to be a straight comedy, and Netflix had simply miscategorized it? Was there going to be some big reveal of a hoax, after all this drippy sincerity about Stan’s predicament? I couldn’t wait to find out, and what I found out helped to contextualize a lot of the rest of the film. The filmmakers, of course, contextualize these charges with a list of headlines from sources like Info Wars about how the FBI routinely frames dissidents for child porn just to bury them. The thing is, I can believe that that sort of thing may happen to people now and again. I just don’t believe that it happened to Stan Romanek.

I mentioned the proximity of Stan’s first alien encounter to 9/11 for a reason: I believe, in my arm chair psychologist fashion, that that national catastrophe catalyzed his powerful need for attention. Suddenly, something had happened that gripped the whole country, something that came from the sky. This may have activated Romanek’s evident need to be the absolute center of focus, which required of him an unthinkable stunt to jar the people around him out of their patriotic grief and rage, which had nothing to do with himself. Something from the air would have to descend upon Stan, something much wilder than a hijacked airplane. Stan would have to become simultaneously a victim to rival the actual victims, and a hero to rival the actual heroes responding to this assault on the country. In a curiously isolated sequence, Romanek gives a very brief summary of his childhood, which is predictably unenviable. As an undiagnosed dyslexic, Stan was unfairly placed in “retard classes” and, he petulantly describes, abused by his sadistic teachers as if he were as lowly as his classmates. He claims also to have been surrounded by Bloods and Crips, and in that environment became so violent and strong that he beat up everybody including the principle of his high school. That’s about as much as you get out of Romanek that is not about aliens, but even that scrap gives you a pretty clear portrait of a person who fixates on having been misjudged as inferior, stupid and thuggish. I supposed to get out from under that, without much talent or charm in evidence, one would have to cook up evidence of glory at least as outrageous as being an alpha space stud. I think what I’d really like to see is a counter documentary made by someone, anyone, with the wherewithal to pick apart Stan Romance’s epic ruse. Unfortunately, I’ll just have to settle for the child pornography case, which goes to court at the end of this month.