#constantly using regalia like a costume

[bratzboykai]

There this one artist I see pretty often amongst gay Mexicans that makes my eye twitch cause so much of his content raises red flags for me of being one of those mixed Mexicans that "reclaims" indigenaity (if you know what I'm talking about, you know, its hard to explain) but I am reluctant to say much cause I do not have the patience to be dealing with the inevitable bitching that would come from it cause I absolutely know how stupid mixed Mexicans can be when you tell them to use their fucking brains and quit being racist LMAO

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ (ꜱᴏꜰᴛ)

ROLL OVER | boyfriend!Harry (couples costumes gone wild)

The dalmatian/fire fighter duo runs a little deeper in the bedroom after the party.

★₁₈₊

ROLL OVER as the final installment to the KINKTOBER projects. Based on this ask.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: couple's costume gone wild. pet play (soft). soft dom. praise. leashing. collars. use of "puppy" as a pet name (pun unintended). oral (f to m). dumbification. dom/sub undertones.

WC: 1.7K

“Yeah,” Harry breathes and shifts his hips with a subtle flex that nudges a little more of him past your lips, cradling you close by the shape of your jaw and petting his palm across your heated cheek. 

You swallow, nostrils flaring, and you let the congealed dust— of this particular disposition— across your lashes lure you under a little harder. Let it crush you under the soporific wave of its gravity. 

But you don’t miss the way he swallows, tugs a little harder on the polypropylene end of the dog leash wrapped taut around the knobs of his naked knuckles, and purrs, “Such a good girl, puppy.”

You blink up at him. At the unstilted paradigm of your insatiable hunger (eating, eating, still so hungry for him); bare stomach flexing, shoulders swelling, jawbone tucked and face ducked to watch you swallow around him. Watch and feel you work your little tongue in crescent shapes against the underside of his cockhead. 

You’re drooling. Slobbering, like a needy, little puppy, and your spit dribbles across between the wedges of your knuckles, where you cup him around the base and squeeze every time he throbs. 

It’s good. It’s really, really good.

He sprawls back against the chair but keeps his chin tipped. Staring down at you— the way your lips suction around him and the way your eyes pool under your fluttery lashes with a dew. Inkpools unwavering. Unrelenting. 

His shirt is discarded, so all his ink is on show. The way it breathes alive under the tension of his musculature, his rippling abdomen when you dip the tip of your tongue into the slit on his head; moving, dancing over his skin. 

It feels dirty. Borderline gaudily pornographic; you, on your knees in that careful nook between his split thighs, with his suspenders dangling across his lap. The big, utility boots on his feet, either side of your haunches. The pried zipper on a set of work trousers, slouching low on his hips, multi-faceted into a costume. 

He’s heavy on your tongue. Takes up too much room in your mouth. Leaking and throbbing when you duck your head to take him just a little deeper, a little more.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs. It sounds a little dark. Hardly over a whisper— you make a wet, ugly sound around him and blink back up. 

From your angle, there’s this pastiche of sovereignty to him. Like blue-collar regalia; half-shed firefighter’s rig, shape of his face chiseled in self-possessed stolidity—

Save for his eyes, the little cinch in his jawbone. The glint in the charcoal vats, the sharp carve your lips make, the way it wobbles when his teeth grind together a little harder. Your tongue seeps out over your lower lip when you take a deep breath through your nose, open wide, and take him nearly to the root. 

The sound that crawls out of Harry is so battered that all you can do is claw into the fabric on the apex of his thighs and let your eyes screw. 

His cockhead bludgeons at the gummy lining on the back of your throat, and you’re sure the phlegm is collapsing in little broken pieces like a mirror shattering under the weight of a hammer. Spuming out over his face in creases and rapture. But you can’t look. 

All you can do is try to swallow around him when the hand that was on the side of your face glues to the back of your crown, his fingers tangling into your hair. His knuckles bleach a little whiter with the strain of the leash, the way he holds you in place. 

(When his palm moves, it smudges one of the little tar-black spots you painted on with a brush, across your temple.)

You can hear that he’s groaning, pressing himself into you and folding praise in with the shape of his fingers scratching at the back of your skull. Things like, “Yeah— fuck— just like that, sweet girl,” in rich husks that simmer across your porous bones and trickle when your shoulders shake. When your toes curl under you. But he holds the leash a little tighter for the angle, and the makeshift collar around your throat gets a little more taut—

Really, it’s all his fault. 

Taunting, Can’t be my proper puppy without— the lead he delicately clipped onto the cheap, old hot topic choker you dug out of the closet to use as a collar. The way that he kept his knuckles wrapped over the handle and his knuckles in his pocket at the party. Toting you around like a pet, keeping you rooted to his side when he settled. Tucked to the swell of his massive shoulder. 

The way he told you to stay like a dog when he went off to refill your drinks, the way he patted your head upon return to find your soles glued to the same spot. Scratching behind your ear derisively, fingertips riling a shudder across your shoulders. 

Such a good girl, you are, saturated in artificial, satirical delight. Corners of his mouth curling, the jeer dripping off the corners of his eyes. 

(Here’s your treat.)

It started as a joke. Mocking for the sake of watching the heat froth under your skin, across your cheekbones, the ruckled bridge of your nose. Faux praises and the condescending gravity of the lead across the base of your neck. The subtle tug into an isolated pigeonhole of a docility that soaked across the crown of your head. 

The mushroomed ridges of his tip bludgeon a splutter out from between your sopping lips, and more saliva oozes out and trickles across your tacky, wet fingers. 

You need to hear it again, need to hear him say it, that itch festering in the noxious tangle of your arousal when you rise on your haunches a touch to duck your chin and press your nose to the wiry smattering of hair bedding around the root of his cock—

“Fuck,” Harry drawls. Guttural, heated—

Varicolored phosphenes fleck behind your lids like constellations in the yawn of a mesmeric, caliginous sky. 

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he grunts, hums, hips tensing and canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like it’s an undiluted reflex to an itch, feeding his cock deeper— “Gonna cum down this pretty, little throat f’you keep sucking my cock like that.”

You rest both palms on his thighs. Twist your fingers into the fabric until it’s soggy with spit. Gag around the swell of him until he wrenches you back with his fingers under the collar, at your nape, and leaves you sputtering for air with your neck craned. When you blink your lashes apart, your eyes are wet. Bleary. Burning like the back of your tongue, the soft lining at the back of your mouth, where the only place left to cram further is down into your esophagus. 

He looks like a hedonistic cover page for a pornographic issue. 

The coarse strip of dark hair from his navel pools in the bed of curls nesting the hilt of his cock, and his thighs are split in this kingly way that makes you dizzy. It’s vertiginous, staring up at him from your knees. Meaty shoulders, one burnt umber curl hanging to eclipse an eyebrow, and his cock is so spit-slick. Wet, and shimmery, and stupidly thick, sealed in his fist. Throbbing. Your spit puddles off onto his heavy sack, the sodden fabric wrenched apart by the zipper, and you watch a little, pearlescent bead drool off the tip when he squeezes and twists his palm up. 

“Want it in your mouth?” Harry muses. It’s a subconscious maneuver; canting forward on the hinges of your joints with your swollen lips parted as he drags the pad of his thumb across the blurting pre-cum and smears it over his frenulum. “Want it bad, don’t you?”

The way he pulls on the end of the lead isn’t sharp. It’s subtle, but it corners you into nestling your mouth against his cock. Against the swollen shaft, cockhead pulsing and leaking out over the sloping bridge of your nose. 

“Beg,” he tells you. It’s soft. The wisp of a breath; a sigh when you smush your cherry mouth to the little vein that rides up the underside and turns baby blue beneath the crown. 

But it’s chock-full of the command given to an animal— beg, and I’ll give you a treat. It makes you sizzle down to your marrow. His lips curl loosely into a lazy grin. So debauched, around the shape of his cock, coated in your own saliva, pressed to your face. 

“Go on,” he smiles, “Let me hear you whine for it. Show me what a needy, little puppy you are.”

The words sink into your underbelly and leave your hands cresting for surface-purchase under the spindrift. They slip to his knees, and tangle into the fabric there as your lashes flutter. 

“Please,” you breathe, mouthing the word along the shape of his cock. Your lashes are still fluttering. Batting. You scootch forward a little, scratching into the firm muscle under the nomex, and let him smear his shaft across the tip of your nose, tarnishing the borders of the snout you painted on.

He hums. His thumb catches on the corner of your mouth, just as you start to paste an open-mouthed, suckling kiss onto the underside of the root. Your tongue smudges out against his sack. 

He’s unconvinced— you watch it in the way his brows notch, hear it in the rumble that stems from his chest when he grips his cock by the hilt and taps it against you. “Come on, baby. I know you can do a little better than that. Really work for it, hm?”

“Please,” you say, rocking your hips. “Want it bad. Wanna keep sucking you. Please, please.”

A hand tucks into your hair. The fingertips there scratch into the spot behind the shell of your ear softly, and the sensation draws a shudder over your shoulders. You feel on fire. Molten, under the weight of his gaze, the unresistant pressure on the lead, the patronization that trickles off his tone.

“Go on, then, puppy,” Harry murmurs, finally, and loosens the white-knuckled, taut grip on the leash enough for you to clamber back, “Take me back into your mouth.”

kinktober masterlist here. | general masterlist here. | patreon here.

TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @lolalovespeaches @flubblubbb

@ivegotthecinema @bxtchboy69 @iloveharrystyles04 @littlenatilda @witch-rry

@watermelonsugarslut @hs1thea @boystepper @carolinaskiwii @kathleengrg

@madstyles3204 @fruity-harry

[shivasdarknight]

Time for your regularly scheduled, "Killjoy Hour with Enya" because we're being a killjoy about Dawntrail (:

So first and foremost: fuck Square and the XIV team for taking this angle. We could've gone any direction and we're going with Colonizer The Adventure. They looked at what we did on the Steppe with Hien and went "let's do it again! :D"

Mandatory CW for racism as it pertains to the indigenous peoples of North America, Mesoamerica and South America, and discussion of the genocide enacted by Spain against Mesoamerica and South America.

(Sections and the first letter of each sentence have been bolded for ease of reading)

But to explain further: Square has a really awful track record with their take on Tural, the "New World", especially in their handling of the Mamoolj'aa that are in Eorzea. This has been an issue since ARR and has been frequently criticized due to their extremely anti-indigenous writing. The way they handle the Eorzean tribes (which have been known as "beast tribes" and "beastmen" for a good part of the past decade that XIV has been around, I Should Not have to explain to you why that's deeply problematic) is an issue in its own right, but I'll only touch on what we've seen of Tural in the game itself and why this doesn't bode well for Dawntrail.

Let's get the obvious one out of the way first, this fucking shit:

For those unaware, this is the New World set. It's a craftable gear set from Heavensward that players can wear as a goddamned costume. I shouldn't have to be saying this in 2023, but this set has caused a great deal of controversy because it's a bastardization of plains tribe regalia. Square never should have added it to the game, but here it is and players constantly wear it in further offensive glams.

The only instance of this set being used with NPCs is in the Blue Mage quests and what we see of the Whalaqee. Again, to those unaware: the ARR Blue Mage quests are an extremely racist storyline that plays into white savior narratives and more offensive caricatures. The only representatives that we get to interact with of the Whalaqee are a little boy in this outfit (who's also extremely pale), and two Mamoolj'aa who are the lackeys of Martyn, the job trainer for Blue Mage - a white man! Further, the magic is notably not from Eorzea and is instead a cultural practice of the Whalaqee that Martyn took and turned into profit, and he's who you're supposed to work for. You are - yet again - considered a master of the practice, and this is written in mind with a default white man in mind considering Meteor being the stand in for everything. There is in-game appropriation of cultural practices, clothing, and tools but it gets worse the further you go into them.

The main plot of the ARR quests is that the Whalaqee are dying from a plague brought toTural by Martyn and other researchers with the Arcanist's guild 🙃 There were two trips: one to study Blue Magic, and one where people from the first trip went back because they found ceruleum in the sacred lands of the Whalaqee and began drilling for it. But remember: you only get to meet the Whalaqee through the two Mamoolj'aa and the Whalaqee child. The fate of the tribe rests in an Eorzean's hands because they put the medicine behind a bet for the further profit of Ul'dah. Win the carnival and make the owner a bunch of money and you get the medicine; lose, and they go raid the place for ceruleum and wipe out the tribe. It's a deeply offensive storyline that turns past and ongoing horrors that indigenous peoples - especially those of North America and Mesoamerica - have faced and are still facing into some trivial goal for a questline for a joke job that's solved through the white savior trope.

Then, of course, there's how the Mamoolj'aa are generally treated. Like the other ARR tribes and anyone the game doesn't consider civilized, their dialogue is written in broken speech patterns to reflect "lower intelligence." They're one of the only ARR tribes (next to the Qiqirn, who only got that somewhat through the SHB Qitari quests) that haven't gotten any kind of humanizing that the others have seen over the years (and even then, that's only been recently). Throughout ARR-HVW storylines, they're portrayed as extremely aggressive, are often throwaway mercs for hire around La Noscea, and they have them use this "cultural dance" of theirs that's described as extremely suggestive and is frequently used to sexually harass the white women of Eorzea. They're also seen in the Wanderer's Palace (Hard) as "aggressive barbarian" types who enslaved the Tonberries, which were originally the Spoken of Nym (so y'know, predominantly white society that became malformed and gangrenous tonberries). And your job as the Warrior of Light is, naturally, to exterminate them. There's other stuff like the naming of abilities they use (frequent use of barbarian/barbaric, which in it of itself is problematic), the totems and standards that you're actively encouraged to destroy, the shaman stuff + the fact that again: they're the only ARR tribe that never got the same kind of humanizing lens that tribes like the Sylphs got early on, or like the Amalj'aa got only recently.

Dawntrail looks to be as if it might be that humanizing effort that began in Stormblood and was most prominent in 5.X (ARR-SHB tribe side quests don't count as it's side content, not MSQ), but of course there comes the problem: beyond them never treating the Mamoolj'aa with any respect in the content we already have, they've already framed 7.0 as you meddling in the rite of succession for this new area. An area that is ruled by a two-headed Mamoolj'aa that we have to help overthrow (which is not new, as a two-headed Mamoolj'aa was already shown in The Wanderer's Palace (Hard) - but that one was portrayed as brutish, unintelligent, and played into inbred stuff as...the final boss of the dungeon who gets a special end dungeon cutscene to showcase the Tonberries brutalizing his corpse). And again, this plot thread isn't new! We already helped Hien do that to the Steppe back in Stormblood! This is yet another instance of the game treating imperialism and colonization as a fun thing for you to get in on, especially since they're using the setting and the getting to the setting as a summer vacation.

The fact that they are framing Dawntrail as summer vacation-like is insidious. You are a party of fantasy Europeans sailing to fantasy Mesoamerica/South America to meddle in their governing process.

And let's quickly go over that: the fact Tural is the "New World" as you search for "a city of gold."

These names are rooted heavily in European colonization. The idea that Europe is the "civilized Old World" and that the Americas were the "uncivilized, waiting-to-be-conquered New World" is what drove the colonization of the region, especially in Mesoamerica and South America. The term "New World" is inseparable from white supremacist narratives about the colonizers that engaged with the peoples of the Americas. It's bad enough that XIV introduced Tural as "the New World" to begin with and populated it with a fantasy race that's characterized by violence, a lack of intelligence, and sexual harassment + a gross caricature of North American plains nations, but they have now made it into the destination for the Scions' "summer vacation adventure"? So that you can go do an imperialism there, too? They even framed it as some tropical paradise as if that's not an extension of how colonization of these regions is perpetuated today through the tourism industry.

The other term - city of gold - was a myth that was used as the excuse to ransack Mesoamerica and South America. You've definitely seen it, as that was the entire plot of Road to El Dorado. It was under this pretense that Spanish colonizers decimated indigenous populations in the search of glory and gold. The search for the "city of gold" in the "New World" was a mass genocide - enabled through widespread massacre, and a vicious plague that wiped out 80% of just the population in Mexico alone.

In Mexico, the pestilence reached the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan, before its fall in 1521. Pathogens also reached Peru, inciting a civil war among the Incas. Both of these situations were extremely favorable for Spain. The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

(from "How Aztecs Reacted to Colonial Epidemics" by Richard Herzog on JSTOR)

This is not a subject to touch upon lightly in any respect. And for XIV to use it for their "fun adventure in a foreign land" is deeply inappropriate and frankly disgusting. But is anyone surprised? This is the same company that ignored the demands of the Saami council to remove the offensive Far Northern attire from the store.

What I'm disappointed the most about, however, is the number of fans chomping at the bit with angles about a tropical tourist destination, taking the summer vacation angle the devs are actively encouraging, and even stuff with pirates (do not get me started on how white pirates contributed to colonization of the Americas). As a friend put it very aptly: how do you see "new world," "city of gold," and a fleet of European ships sailing towards fantasy Mesoamerica and not get skeeved out at the prospect? This isn't something you should be excited about because they're having us role play imperialism Yet Again. But this time, it's all to the tune of "tropical summer vacation in a foreign land". And y'all are excited to join in?

I don't want the expansion to turn out this way. We barely have any information on this, I understand. But what I've laid out here is what the game has already done with regards to Tural's pre-7.0 depictions and what they've shown they want to continue perpetuating. If Dawntrail turns out to be somewhat decent (and it better be better handled than Thavnair and feature fewer white people populating the countries that are inspired by black and brown cultures), then fine. But as it stands, Square has not given us any reason to trust them in how they've handled their indigenous stories leading up to 7.0. This entire concept is rife with the potential to be extremely offensive and extremely racist, and the main takeaway most fans seem to have from this isn't that this is a gross depiction of indigenous cultures, but instead a fun summer vacation with the Scions?

Really?

[neechees]

There's that Ukrainian guy on tiktok who ki d of annoys me bc I know he means well but he always says something kind of microaggression towards Natives, like constantly calling pow wow regalia "costumes" despite being told multiple times in the comments not to, being scared by pow wow music, & kinda treating us like unicorns or magical Elves & ancient relics instead of like just another ppl with a different culture than him

[olowan-waphiya]

article: The movie itself is a commentary on patriarchy and the effects it has on women and femme-presenting people in society. In “Barbie Land,” the Barbies run everything. There’s a President Barbie, a Doctor Barbie, a Pulitzer Prize Winning Barbie, and more — all Barbies that have actually been created and sold. The Barbies represented multiple identities as well, with multiple Black characters, Asian characters, characters with disabilities and various body types, but not one Native Barbie was in the movie.

Despite the lack of Indigenous representation, the movie didn’t stray away from making an off-hand one-liner about the genocide of Native people. Mid-way through the movie Ken (Ryan Gosling) comes back from the “real world” and introduces patriarchy to the Barbies, disrupting their harmonious Barbie Land. America Ferrara’s character, Gloria from the human world, compares Barbie’s lack of immunity to patriarchy to Native people and the introduction of smallpox.

Although the movie included no Indigenous representation, this does not mean that there are no Native Barbies released by Mattel, the doll’s manufacturing company. Let’s dive into the history of the Native American Barbie.

The first Native Barbie was E**imo Barbie, using a derogatory slur for the Indigenous people who reside in Alaska and the Arctic regions, released in 1981 as part of the Dolls of the World International Series. She stood alone for over a decade until “First Edition Native American Barbie” was released in 1993 as part of the company’s “Dolls of the World” Collection. She was dressed in a white “buckskin” top and skirt with white fringe and adorned with long black hair and tanned skin.

Multiple Native Barbies have been released since then, including second, third and fourth editions of the original and a Barbie line titled the “Native Spirit Collection.” The first Barbie in that collection was Spirit of the Earth Barbie. There is even a Barbie at the Smithsonian, the Northwest Coast Barbie, released in 2000.

The dolls are always accompanied by an introduction of who they are and an explanation of their clothing. Third Edition Native American Barbie (1994) is described like this:

“My dancing outfit is an updated version of a tribal princess costume. It’s a mix of traditional style with the latest colors and accessories of today! I’ll be pretty in my pink tunic and skirt with geometric patterns, white fringe, and ribbon trim. My moccasins, beaded necklace, turquoise earrings, and ring complete my modern-day powwow look!”

The Native American Barbies are described as “princesses,” fueling the “Indian Princess” stereotype that we see every year during Halloween. It reduces Indigenous women’s experience to that of a costume, effectively eliminating the spiritual, cultural, and traditional importance of regalia and the sacred nature of what we wear and why.

Barbie herself is a product of patriarchy and colonization. Barbie movie explores the sad reality of women in a patriarchal society, and the movie pulls heartstrings. It shared the experience of growing up as a woman, the experience of constantly being told what to do, what to look like, what not to do, what not to wear, and overall just living a life policed and dominated by men.

As Indigenous women, we have a unique relationship with patriarchy and colonization, as the two go hand in hand. A 2016 study by the National Institute of Justice (NIJ) found that more than four in five American Indian and Alaska Native women have experienced violence in their lifetime, including 56.1 percent who have experienced sexual violence–trauma that has been ongoing since colonization.

The male gaze created Barbie, and the colonized gaze continues to misrepresent the Indigenous experience in both the product line and film inspired by it.

While doing a successful job of portraying the general experience of women under patriarchy, the film fails to include the intricate and unique experience of Indigenous women within the patriarchy–and under the colonized gaze of women and men alike.

Without this, the story is incomplete.

[dwellordream]

thoughts on the Rings of Power, episode 3

disclaimer that i am not a tolkien nerd. i have read the hobbit and the trilogy once. i’ve seen the movies multiple times. i’ve never read the silmarillion and i know next to nothing about the lore of middle-earth.

I’m pretty sure they used almost all practical special effects on the Orcs, and they look really good.

Is Halbrand secretly Sauron? I have heard this theory and if true, I think it’s fun lmao. Love the weird sexual tension between him and Galadriel.

The scene introducing Numenor was really beautifully shot and looked fantastic, with a real sense of scale of the island and city. 

Galadriel marching around proudly in a filthy shift like a queen in full regalia and not giving a fuck what anyone thinks is kind of peak Galadriel for this show.

Galadriel almost immediately starts shit at court with her blunt demands and Halbrand smoothing it over with his slick charisma seems like it’s going to be a recurring pattern with them. She is not used to ceding to anyone else’s authority and he’s a smooth talker who prefers not to confront things head-on.

I loved Tar Miriel’s costume design, especially her golden coral crown and the blue scales of her bodice.

I still don’t really care about Arondir as a character but I enjoy the Orcs, so.

I’m sorry but Galadriel constantly escaping while wearing brightly colored flowing clothes is incredibly funny to me.

Again, the cinematography of this show is fantastic, and the scene of Galadriel brimming with childlike delight for the first time in the show while riding on that magnificent white horse is amazing.

The sinister violin squealing kicking in when Halbrand finally loses his temper and beats the local grunts half to death is not lessening the ‘secretly the actual antagonist all along’ theories. 

The masks during the Harfoot festival were super cool.

Sadoc and Elrond. Two proud speech writers. 

Why do I feel like Galadriel’s about to launch a coup.

I will say a lot of authority figures in this show feel very hostile for no reason other than plot contrivance. Maybe one of the themes is intended to be ‘it’s right to question authority and challenge traditions’, which is fine, but at times it feels unreasonably portrayed because many of the leaders seem so stubborn and willing to assume the worst.

Are they teasing a hot Orc leader with a full head of hair at the end there? Time will tell...

[rosesisupposes]

you should see me in a gown

pairing: Logince, background sleepxiety

word count: 1,307

This was inspired by @skylagamingv2′s undying love for Logince and an excellent quote from @hawthornshadow

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Edited to add: Read on ao3!

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Logan is wearing this dress by @midnightcandy

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Roman Augustus was an asshole, and no, Logan Leavitt was not open to constructive criticism.

The fact that said asshole was also his boyfriend was irrelevant.

He just clearly knew exactly what he was doing, all the time. Like this morning, when Logan had woken up at his usual time of 5:30 am to make coffee and read the paper before work. At 6, just when the coffee always kicked in enough for him to start doing the crossword, Roman meandered into the kitchen. His auburn hair was tousled from sleep but still managed to look like he’d just walked out of a photoshoot. He was wearing nothing but sleep shirt and boxers, and it was one of Logan’s old t-shirts, the one that said “Science: It’s Like Magic, but Real.”

Roman had slouched over and sleepily kissed Logan on the cheek, muttering something about sunshine or starlight. Logan was not confident on the exact words, because he’d been a bit distracted, okay.

Then there’d been the time when Logan had gotten home from teaching, exhausted and with sore feet. Roman had been in his typical post-audition-jitters routine of cleaning the entire house while singing Disney songs. Normally Logan would replace the broom as Roman’s dance partner, but he was so tired that day, and had shuffled over to the couch. Roman had abandoned the broom and instead swept Logan off his feet, carrying him bridal style as he continued to turn and sway. “So this is loveee,” he crooned, waltzing around their living room. Logan would have insisted that he put him down right now but then Roman had kissed him on the forehead and his face started to light on fire as his head went into the clouds. Standing on his own would have been dangerous, surely. It was just common sense to stay in Roman’s arms instead. And if he stayed there until Roman gently deposited him in a kitchen chair and started serving dinner… Well. In his defense, his feet hurt.

Every time Roman dressed up to go out was far worse because he would act like he didn’t know. As if somehow, this gorgeous man was unaware of the effect he had on his poor boyfriend when he’d draw on perfectly sharp wings to his eyeliner, or smooth on lipstick in his signature red, or a hint of blush that reminded Logan far too much of what Roman’s faced looked like in the middle of…

Logan shook his head, resisting the urge to fan his warming cheeks. Now was not another time to get distracted, particularly when Roman wasn’t even home yet. No, today was the day to turn the tables. He’d been bemoaning how he’s just too pretty, all the time to his best friend Virgil when Virgil’s boyfriend had fixed him with a look.

“Okay, yes, your boy’s a snacc, but why not turn the tables, doll?”

Virgil had elbowed Remy with a teasing grin. “Hey, I better be the main course, you thot.”

“Oh hun you know I’d eat you up at any time. Including right now. Logan, will you excuse us?”

“Fuck off, that’s not what I meant!”

“I mean, he can stay, I’m easy,” Remy said, blowing a kiss at the teacher who was currently regretting every single decision of his entire life, particularly the one where he’d idly commented that Virgil’s tattoo artist was attractive and he should try talking to him.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “What did you mean by ‘turn the tables,’ love? Is this a scheme idea?”

Remy sat up from where he’d been draping himself across the entire couch and also both other men. “Oh Virge, you know me so well. Yes, I have a scheme idea against Roman.”

“Awesome, let’s do it,” Virgil said immediately, just as Logan said “Absolutely not.”

“Lo, baby, hear me out,” Remy said.

And, like a fool, he had.

But now he was waiting with a quivery anticipation as the clock ticked closer to the time Roman was scheduled to be home from rehearsal. He adjusted his glasses as he walked back to the window, staring out into the sunset. Was this whole thing ridiculous? It felt so excessive, and indulgent. What if Roman didn’t like it? He should just leave this alone, it had been a mistake to follow any advice of Remy’s.

He turned away from the window, running a hand through his hair, when a small sound in the doorway caught his attention.

Roman had entered silently and was staring, slack-jawed, at Logan’s outfit. His eyes caught on swirls of embroidery at Logan’s wrist and traveled down the navy silk along his arm to where his shoulders were exposed. Roman swallowed hard as he took in the sheer fabric stretched across Logan’s collarbone and down to the shimmery purple designs that spread across his skirt, starting at his navel. Like a nebula seen from galaxies away, the purple faded into greens and blues and even golds, pricked through with tiny specks of light and constellations. The skirt spread out in a wave from Logan’s waist, twinkling with his movements, holding Roman’s gaze as if he’d been hypnotized.

“...Lo?” he managed to squeak out.

Logan’s self-consciousness had vanished as he watched his love go entirely catatonic in contemplation of his dress. He walked to the door, relishing in the tiny whispers of silk against silk, and pulled Roman fully into their apartment. His boyfriend was still in his rehearsal costume, a prince’s regalia complete with epaulettes, but his face was rapidly turning the color of the bright crimson sash that crossed his chest.

“Hello, dearest,” Logan said, cupping Roman’s face with one hand. “How was rehearsal?”

“...grood. I mean, geat. I mean,” he stammered, still staring at the curve of Logan’s waist underneath the gown. “God, I’m so gay,” he whispered. He reached out tentatively to lay a hand on Logan’s hip.

Logan brought his other hand up to rest on Roman’s shoulder, still cupping his face in his hand. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said evenly.

Roman just nodded, face blazing red as he brought up a hand to Logan’s neck.

“Oh, do you like the dress?” Logan asked innocently.

Roman finally found his voice. “Lo, I… you’re a wonder. You are a vision of starlight and dreams, and I love you so, so much.”

“Because of the gown?”

“Of course not,” Roman said, kissing Logan’s cheek. “I love you because you’re brilliant, and passionate, and so driven to learn and help your students learn, and because you do that thing where you tap your pencil on your nose when you’re doing the crossword, and everytime I see it I just want to pull you back to bed to snuggle but I can’t so I just kiss you…”

Logan stopped him by kissing him softly on the mouth. “Like that?” he asked, only a little breathless as they parted.

“...yeah, just like that,” Roman said through a haze of smiles. “Dearheart, what is the occasion?”

“I wanted to fluster you the way you fluster me, daily and constantly,” Logan said with a smile. “Is it working?”

Roman giggled, then spoke seriously. “Darling, I have been flustered by you since the day we met. Every time I look in your eyes, my brain stops working, in complete and utter disbelief that a man like you is still in love with me. It’s an occupational hazard, and the best risk I ever take.”

Logan blushed again, but smiled through it. “Well, if nothing else, this dress has procured me a large number of compliments, so not a complete waste.”

Roman would have thrown his head back to laugh, but that would have meant looking away from the beautiful vision in front of him. Smiling, he leaned in to kiss Logan at least once more.

[shadowsfiguresfigments-blog]

A good place to die Chapter 13 Part 2 (Fluff)

Warning: harsh language, violence

My phone rang and I jumped a little. It was the hairdresser, informing me that auntie had called ‘about my situation’ and he was willing to take care of the mess now. I thanked him very much, though not quite honestly, and looked ruefully at Penny.

“I gotta go, Penny. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, little one. But don’t you want to stay a little longer?” He slowly licked his lips, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, you know I’d love to. Don’t make this hard for me, please. I promise I’ll make it up to you – tomorrow!”

He sighed, a very human sound. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm. “Think of me when you’re done, and I’ll be there to pick you up.”

I was surprised, but smiled at the idea. “Really?”

He winked at me. “Absolutely!”

And with that I left.

 I got lucky indeed. Brad, the hairdresser, was able to work with what Yaneesha had left me, and made it look cute – a sort of wild bob, shorter in the back than in the front, and messy bangs that actually framed my face nicely. The color didn’t turn out quite as fiery as I had originally planned, but I liked the vivid burgundy just as well, and I tipped Brad generously. When I was sure I had everything prepared – the costume, the make-up, the candy bags – I prepared dinner for auntie.

She couldn’t believe her eyes when she finally arrived. For ten minutes straight she gushed over my new look, walking around me every thirty seconds or so, ordering me to turn my face this way and that way. Only after I told her I felt ridiculous if she kept it up auntie stopped. I’ll admit I was a little flattered, but I’d never given much thought to my appearance, so it was an awkward situation as well. I excused myself soon, telling auntie I needed to get up early – she already knew my Halloween routine and didn’t complain.

Back in the safety of my room I unearthed teddy from his hiding place between my discarded clothes and snuggled into bed, watching the two red balloons floating around the ceiling. It wasn’t that surprising they were still high up – since they were presents of Penny I doubted they’d lose air anytime soon. I set my alarm two hours early and buried my nose in teddy’s fading fabric. Its sewer smell was almost gone, I noticed. Maybe I’d take teddy with me tomorrow and rub it against Penny or something. With such pleasant thoughts I drifted into a deep slumber.

The morning passed rather quickly. I had slightly underestimated the time I needed to apply my make-up, mainly because I couldn’t get the shape of my lips right, but when I stood in front of my mirror in full regalia I was exceedingly proud of myself. The jacket was longer than his, and I didn’t puff the sleeves as much, but I had nailed the rest. I didn’t even look as much like a skeleton than I normally did. I didn’t have the time to admire my work because I was running late for school. Auntie was pretty surprised when I finally came down to shove some cereals into my mouth, packing my bag with the other hand.

“You look so… normal. Why do you go as a clown?”

“Oh, uhm, it was Benny’s idea. You know, with all the creepy clown sightings, and American Horror Story. We’ll go trick or treating later, so I’ll probably be late. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Sure.”

She took a photo before I left, to line up with the other ones on our fridge. Auntie knew how much I enjoyed Halloween and the dressing-up, so she showed off my craftsmanship to encourage me. I didn’t wait to see how it turned out, though; I had to catch the bus.

School wasn’t too much of a drag – most teachers had given up teaching on Halloween, after some nasty tricks had been played on those who tried. Instead we talked about horror in all forms – movies, books, urban legends, creepy pastas, art. It was the one day of the year I voluntarily contributed information and my classmates actually listened. I could tell they were surprised at the comparatively modest costume I was wearing, but I didn’t care too much – after all I just wanted to impress the original clown. Some even complemented me on my new hairstyle.

During the last hour I kept thinking of Penny constantly, and soon my thoughts revolved around the kisses we had shared. It was a good thing I was wearing so much make-up – nobody could see me blush that way.  When the bell finally rang I darted out of the classroom so fast I almost tackled the teacher and very nearly fell down the stairs in front of the school.

He hadn’t promised too much – Pennywise stood there, in all his glory, and grinned at me. I couldn’t help myself; I threw myself into his arms. His laughter mingled with the sound of his bells as he picked me up and swirled me around.

“You look like me”, he cackled.

“I do! Do you like it?”, I asked somewhat nervously.

“You aren’t half as scary as me.”

“Yeah, well, since it takes me almost three hours to do the make-up, ten minutes to dress and I’m stuck in this form there’s really no competition there. And I’m not even talking about the hours I spend sewing the clothes.”

His expression became tender once more, his eyes rivaling the blue sky.

“You did that for me?”

I nodded, once again thankful for the thick white layer caked on my face. He planted a very wet kiss on my hair, then set me down. “That’s… nice.” He sounded genuine, and surprised too.

The butterflies in my belly multiplied by the second.

Students had started spilling out of the main building, most of them in some sort of costume. I noticed Penny eyeing them somewhat hungrily, so I took his hand and started walking.

“You know, I’d like to go to the movies with you. They always show the first Halloween in Aladdin’s, and you, of all people, should really see it. It should be dark when we get out, so we can start trick or treating right after.”

He looked at me quizzically, and I had just started explaining the entire procedure when I bumped into somebody.

“Oh, I’m sorry…”, I started. Then I realized who I had just run into. It was Yaneesha, accompanied by her mum.

The second that followed still counts as one of the longest ones in my life.

We stared at each other, her face showing first confusion, then fear, then anger and settled on hatred. She turned to her mum, whispered something in her ear and glared at me. Her mom retreated slowly, glancing over her shoulder.

“Yaneesha, I told both Mrs. Sherman and the principle I didn’t care about my hair. I’m sorry you were suspended, at least for that.”

“They kicked me out.” Her brows were drawn together so much they almost touched. “You’re dead. I swear, I’ll kill you, bitch.”

I felt Penny’s grip on my hand tighten.

“You know this is entirely on you. I’ve never done anything to you.”

She stepped towards me, and Penny lunged. I was dragged forward and tried to hold him back, but not very successfully. He bowed down to Yaneesha, his eyes blazing yellow, sharp teeth bared and drool running from his lips. I managed to get a hold of his other hand, so he wouldn’t use them against her.

“Did you do all this? Cut her hair, break her ribs?” His growl was so deep it was hard to understand.

Yaneesha’s eyes widened in horror as Penny’s teeth grew before her eyes.

“Penny, it’s fine, let’s just go. She’s not worth it.”

“DID YOU?”, he bellowed, spit spraying into her face.

“N-n-no…”, she cried. Tears started running down her face and I could almost feel how Penny’s anger grew simultaneously with his excitement.

“You threatened her. You said you’d kill her.”

“I, I didn’t mean that. I swear I won’t  do anything, please, please let me go…” I could see people stare at us, and Yaneesha’s mum had turned heels and was coming back.

“Penny, I told you, it’s fine. Please let’s just go, I don’t want to spend the day in jail because of you, okay? She said she won’t do anything.”

He brought his face even closer to hers. “You won’t touch her, you won’t talk to her, you won’t even think about her. Or I’ll make sure your worst nightmares will be kid’s tales in comparison to what I’ll do to you, understood?”

Yaneesha nodded quickly, unable to speak.

He whispered in her ear, but loud enough for me to hear: “She. Is. Mine.”

Yaneesha almost fainted, and we left quickly, me pulling Penny with all my might.

  The movie theatre was pretty packed, but we got seats at the very back nonetheless. If somebody had sat behind Penny they probably wouldn’t see anything, what with him being so freakishly tall. I bought sweet popcorn and cuddled against Pennywise, ignoring all the stares we got. The lights went out and I offered him popcorn. He took one piece, looked at it very critically, sniffed it and finally popped it into his mouth.

“Does it taste good?”, I whispered.

He just made a face in response. “How can you eat that?”

“I like it. After all, you smell a little like it as well.”

That made him quiet for the rest of the movie. I had never enjoyed a film so much, even though I had seen the original Halloween at least seven times before. After the first twenty minutes Penny started stroking my hair, then my arm and my back. Each touch left the sensation of fire burning beneath my skin and at the end of the movie I felt like a volcano just about to explode. I didn’t want him to stop, so we stayed for the credits and consequently were the last ones to leave the theatre.

As I had predicted it was already dark outside. At the end of the street a group of kids stood before a door, all dressed up and ready to receive some sweets. I winked at Penny. “And now the real fun shall begin.”

 I had to calm him down the first couple of times somebody opened their door, because he went a little overboard. After I had explained to him that I would be locked up and no longer able to visit him if somebody called the police on us, he held back a little. That didn’t mean Derry’s inhabitants got away lightly from the encounters with Pennywise, oh no. By the fifth door he had found the proper mixture of changing eye color, teeth and letting his face somewhat loose form to scare everybody unfortunate enough to respond to us. I could sense how much he thrived of the fear he instilled, and when a group of seven kids ran away screaming (he had grown tarantula fangs) he was positively overflowing with joy. I briefly texted auntie to tell her I would be very late – Pennywise had just spotted another group of kids and I was sure he wouldn’t call quits anytime soon – and not to wait for me. One of the poor kids dropped his bag of sweets and Penny picked it up.

He was brave enough to try a few, but didn’t like the taste at all, so I told him to just leave them there.

“Don’t you want them?”

I showed him my own over-flowing bag in response. “I have enough candy for a year, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hey, I’m not going home hungry tonight. Don’t worry about it.” I watched him dance around for a bit, before adding: “Neither are you, right?”

He turned to look at me carefully.

“You told me you feed on fear, right? So you wouldn’t go home hungry either.”

I could tell he was trying to read me, so I smiled reassuringly. He nodded slowly. “I haven’t fed on anything since I’ve woken up. Tonight has been not exactly a feast, but certainly a good snack.”

“I’m glad. I was worrying you might starve yourself, to be honest. Can you even do that? Starve yourself?”

“I don’t know”, he admitted.

“Anyways, let’s see if we can scare a couple more people.” Penny smiled at me, and proceeded to ring the next doorbell.

  I had to give up around one a.m. My feet started to hurt, we had so much candy I didn’t know how to carry it back home, and there were hardly any people left on the street. We had come to Bassey Park, and I collapsed onto the nearest bench.

“Penny, I’m done”, I proclaimed and stretched my legs. “I can’t take another step.”

He was beside me in an instant, gently rubbing my calves.

“So, did you enjoy yourself?”

He beamed at me, his buck teeth almost glowing in the light of a nearby lamp.

“It was a lot of fun. It was even better than normal chasing!”

“That was definitely my best Halloween, too. So our date… was good.” I rested my head against his shoulder for a bit.

“If that is how you measure the success of dates, definitely.”

“Oh, well, some people would argue there’s more than just that…”

He waited for me to go on, but I wasn’t exactly sure how.

“You know, there’s also… Physical… Being physically close.”

“Like kissing.”

“Yeah, but even more. You know… sex.”

He gently turned my head around to face him, and I was pretty convinced he somehow read my mind. I tried to think about it in a way that would make him understand, so I wouldn’t have to explain it verbally. After all he wasn’t human, and often puzzled by the myriads of absurdities we consider normal interaction.

This time I did something right, because he nodded after a while. “I see.”

“Really?” I couldn’t quite believe it.

“I think so. But, more importantly, do you think a date should end with sex?”

The heat came back in an instant and settled somewhere between my legs.

“Uhm, not necessarily. But it could.” My own courage surprised me.

He brought his mouth to my ear. “And how about this one?”

[scribblindown]

Final Fantasy XV (Actor AU)

Dang this ended up long, I guess I got carried away ;; I'll keep it under the cut. Also, I refer to them as [character]'s actor, or just [character] on and off, but I'm mostly referring to their actor.  

Final Fantasy (the television series): 

Final Fantasy is an anthology science fiction and fantasy series that started in late 1987. 

 Originally it was produced only by the Japanese studio Square Enix, but as it became more popular, different countries come together to help make this series. Therefore it is now under multiple production companies, distributors, and is aired in multiple networks worldwide.

They currently have fifteen seasons, not counting their many spin-offs, movies, and crossovers with their sister series, Kingdom Hearts.

Constantly gets questioned on why the actors wear so many belts and buckles.

Stella Nox Fleuret:

Was an elegant and kind actress that was in a handful of blockbuster movies, so she was already well-known. 

She was set to be in Final Fantasy Versus XIII, which was already in mid-way through filming, but they were making slow progress due to scheduling issues with Noctis' actor. 

However, Stella's actress was suddenly in a near-fatal car crash, putting a halt to Versus XIII completely. 

Not only was she hospitalized for many months, she decided that she wanted to take a break from acting because her traumatizing experience made her want to spend more time with her family.

She was even unsure if she wanted to go back to acting at all. Even if she were to take on any projects or roles, it would be the local ones, so she wouldn't be too far from her family. 

She specifically told director Tetsuya Nomura this and didn't want to hold them back. Nomura respected her decision and took her off her contract soon later. 

This was a very hard decision for her because she loves the series and her costars. Also, no one blames her for doing what she did. Everyone is still on great terms with one another. If another star is in the same town as her, they will call her up and they will have lunch together. 

But because of this they had to scrap Versus XIII completely. With one of the major actresses suddenly pulling out of the show, it left a major gap in the story and production. 

Money was lost, fans were left dumbfounded, and everyone was at a loss. 

This led to a change in teams, production companies, and Nomura passed the director role to Hajime Tabata. It was eventually reworked into Final Fantasy XV, with major changes happening to the story line and character designs. Such as:

"What??? A plain white button up??? No, give him a purple leopard print shirt!!!" 

Noctis Lucis Caelum: 

Is the same actor that played Sasuke in Naruto and Naruto Shippuden. That's right, I went there.

Because he was still working on Naruto Shippuden at the time, Versus XIII was in the works for the past five years (not ten years like irl) before it eventually became FFXV. But everything worked out in the end because he finished up with Naruto and was able to give FFXV all of his attention. 

He is a half-Japanese actor, and while he spent most of his life in Japan, he can speak English perfectly. This is due to the fact that his parents are divorced and used to pass him back and forth from their respective countries. 

His uncle is a talent agent, and suggested the role of Sasuke Uchiha to him. The rest is history. 

His personality is actually really close to Noctis'. While he can keep up the brooding, cold facade that he did for the past ten years for his other role, and work the cameras so he can come off as charismatic and charming, the actor is slightly socially awkward and introverted, but everything is smooth sailing if you get along with him and he's so kind to fans and tries to answer as many questions as he can on social media.

Cor's actor kind of intimidates him, and the actor who plays young Noctis drew a crude picture of the Immortal when he was off set. The two giggled about it like schoolgirls without realizing that Cor was right behind them. 

Cor later asked for the picture, had them both sign it, and keeps it on his fridge.

He met some of the other actors of the FF series. Sephiroth's actor scares him and Noct has a slight crush on Lightning's. 

He actually likes vegetables, so whenever he has to take them out and eat a burger or something on camera, he feels like they taste so bland. 

His favorite costume is the Moogle Chocobo Carnival one. Usually they're in sweltering weather and his regular leather costume and king costume aren't very forgiving.

He was playing a prank with Prompto's actor on set and it backfired and he got himself locked in the Regalia for an hour.  

He kept the Ring of Lucii after filming, the Moogle Chocobo hat, and his king costume. They made a king costume specifically for close ups and several copies for his fight scene with Ardyn that was meant to rip/be torn. He once wore the costume to take out the trash. 

He does most of his own stunts, but has a body double that does the fishing for him because the boy can't fish for shit. 

He is a cat person. The dogs who play Pryna and Umbra kind of sense this, so Noct has to keep dog treats inside his pockets when doing scenes with them. 

He loves Vincent Valentine the most out of the entire franchise. 

Prompto Argentum:

His older brother in real life is Loqi's actor (Thanks to @chocobro-hijinks this headcanon is giving me double vision.) who inspired him to act at a young age. 

Loqi's actor is mostly a theatre actor, and when Prompto saw his big bro on stage, he was like "Ah! That's what I want to do."

He was a child actor that was in small family movies that focus mostly on comedy. They're the type of movies with the cheesy front cover, and barely anyone has even heard of it. 

When he auditioned, his FF knowledge was zero to none, so he was like, "Oh, what about those clouds and lightning???" Nomura saw right through him, but felt like he fit the role of Prompto very well, so he gave him the benefit of the doubt. 

Is the social media king. He does some light vlogging on the side, and if acting doesn't work out he can become a full-time Youtuber, no problem. He also has a Tumblr under a common name like "FinalFantasyFan4Life" or something; no one knows that it's him. He spends his break time on set reading headcanons, adding comments to some of them, and reblogging fanart. 

He is a Promptis shipper. 

He doesn't take any of the pictures himself. When he takes a selfie, he turns the camera around and holds it, but there will be a crew member taking the picture for him. 

He says that his favorite moment on set is eating all the food that "Iggy" makes. 

Is a big fan of Cor's actor's work. When he first met him, he almost stopped breathing. 

Since he didn't do very many "large" productions like the rest of the crew, he is still considered sort of a rookie compared to the others. Because of this, he often goes to Cor's trailer when he is stuck on a scene and they figure it out together. 

After filming ended, he kept Prompto's bracelets and bandanna as a memento. 

He hates the cold, so when he was filming for "Episode Prompto" the second Tabata calls "Cut!" between scenes, he will legitimately jump into his trailer and sit in front of the heater for the entirety of his break. 

If he has to stay outside, you will see him curl up into a big ball on his snowmobile with at least five large jackets piled on top of him. You can only see his blue eyes when he does that. 

"So do you miss your crew members? Like Noct, Gladio, and Ignis..."  "Oh yeah, but I bet they have it really rough too. Like sitting by the fire, or in a heated hotel room." 

During a choreographed fight scene he accidentally slipped up and kicked Noctis in the head and gave him a concussion. Noctis insisted that it was okay, but Prompto felt so bad, and was so freaked out that he was apologizing through tears and sobs. 

Ignis Scientia:

Started his career by modeling as a child for luxury, designer brands with a couple of guest roles in soap operas. When he got into his teens he started to focus on acting. 

Never has any bad press on him?? He seems to do no wrong and never has any bad pictures taken of him, even if it was secretly. He's either the most boring person ever, or the most perfect. 

He mostly did psychological thrillers, or suave spy movies like 007. 

Is the Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston of their world. 

He doesn't cook any of the dishes seen on the series, but to get into character he took cooking lessons and can replicate any of them perfectly. Most of the time during his "cooking" scenes, he's just assembling things according to instructions. 

The line, "That's it! I've come up with a new recipeh!" was improv. He loves it so much, he repeats it often. 

Is a jokester despite his image, and loves fooling around on set. If he pranks you that means he likes you. 

During an interview he pulled out some Gladnis smut fanfiction the he found and read it in his most passive, monotone voice. 

Didn't know that he was supposed to go blind until the very day he was supposed to put on the makeup. 

Is allergic to coffee beans, but since he was cast into the role relatively late, they had already requested Ebony cans and vending machines to be made. The "coffee" that you see in mugs is dark hot chocolate and if he drinks out of the can it's usually water. 

Has scarily good twenty/twenty vision, and sometimes his glasses are just empty frames. He goes to push them up, and ooop he almost pokes himself in the eyes. 

He is fond of his current costume. He felt that his Versus XIII outfit was very plain and made him look like a "basic mafia mobster." 

Had a high fever while filming "Episode Ignis," but insisted that they film anyway because his sickness helped him act better. (Poor babe.)

Kept Iggy's gloves and glasses after filming. 

Gladiolus Amicitia:

He started out as a stunt double, fight choreographer/stunt coordinator. He was originally brought into the show to help the actors with their fight scenes, but they were looking for a forth member of the Chocobros and he already got along great with the crew and cast, so he got the job. 

Was totally pumped up to not wear a shirt most of the time in XV, because he worked so hard to get his rippling nine-pack. 

His favorite emoji is the flexing bicep. He uses it at the end of every caption he posts, even if it doesn't really make sense. The fans eat it up though. 

"It's such a nice day today! 💪"    "Just having lunch! 💪 "

His actor is the real mom friend of the crew. Iggy is responsible and all, but if Noctis or Prompto do anything stupid, he mostly watches in the background smugly. Gladdy Daddy to the rescue. 

The cast once got together and read complementing, positive tweets from real fans to Gladio for a video. Noctis looked Gladio right in the eye with a straight face, and said, "Sweet dreams...Daddy." Prompto continued this by saying, "Let me have your children, Daddy." 

Gladio burst out laughing and turned bright red. 

He is such a college student at heart that he doesn't mind eating all those cup noodles. But due to shooting the same scene over and over in one go, he sometimes has to go through eight cups at a time. He knows that it's not good for you, and occasionally has to spit it out off camera. It breaks his heart. 

Is bisexual. He doesn't bring it up often, but he came out publicly before, but to the media it seems as if they skipped over that fact. He doesn't really mind, but he get exasperated when interviewers constantly try to press that false facts that he's straight onto him. 

After a particularly tiring day filming, he fell asleep on a table with his head down. When he woke up, he found out that his tattoo body paint rubbed off on his cheek. He didn't know this, and the other guys wouldn't tell him until a crew member had to come up and stop him.  

He kept Gladio's necklace as a memento. 

LMK if you're interested in knowing more about the other characters, or even FFVII's actor au! Sorry for continually mentioning Sasuke though, I just love that asshole so much. 

[theonyxpath]

Changeling: The Lost, Second Edition has gone to manuscript approval at White Wolf Entertainment. This is WWE’s chance to look at our near-final text and specify any changes they’d like to see. After this, the book goes to editing and art direction, then post-editing development, then layout.

To celebrate, here’s a preview of the True Fae, by Meghan Fitzgerald and Travis Stout!

The True Fae

Half a hundred aliases describe them: Gentry, Good Cousins, Kindly Ones, Fair Folk,  and more. These are lies frightened women and men tell, hoping to appease the vanity of capricious gods. Such false names obscure true ones that no one dares speak, lest careless and impertinent utterance draw Their attention from across the Thorns. The Lost use the word “fae” to describe anything that comes from the Hedge or beyond it — hobgoblins, tokens, even themselves. But the True Fae are those noble, mercurial, unknowable beings that stride, larger than life, across Arcadia and rule its lands with the divine right of conquerors.

Most changelings see “Keeper” as synonymous with “Gentry,” but in truth, Faerie is home to countless Others who have no interest in humanity. They wage glorious wars over heart-bound trophies, pitting goblin hordes against one another until blood stains the sky. They plumb the ragged edges and dusty corners of their realm, seeking new voids to fill with their boundless selves. Fae explorers prowling the cold, empty wasteland beyond the borders of their Arcadia were the first to discover the Huntsmen in their barrows there, but grew bored with these new playthings until their brethren found a way to put them to better use. A changeling desperate enough to escape her Keeper could reach out to its rival who keeps no human prisoners for a hint to its weakness, though she may decide the price isn’t worth paying after all.

A True Fae is not a person, but a Name wrapped in a tapestry of vows and deals. Deep in the mists of forgotten time, the Fae bargained with Arcadia itself, declaring that they would exist — that they would own the land entire and claim it as a vessel for their Wyrd, dreams, and facets, in exchange for a web of arcane rules so complex no one of them could ever know them all. At their core, the Fae are ravenous beings that must possess. They want, and in their all-consuming wanting they strike bargains to sate their desires, whether for slaves, kingdoms, secrets, or spoils. Changelings who live and labor among them usually see only the tip of the Gentry iceberg, but those brave and foolish enough to delve more fully into Faerie’s mysteries catch a glimpse of the truth: a True Fae’s Name is its heart and its undoing, and all the vast kingdoms and beauteous treasures with which it surrounds itself are made of promises. And promises can be broken.

Names and Titles

A True Fae’s Name is its core, and rarely manifests in a comprehensible way unless its Titles have all been stripped away or lost. A Title is one of many roles a single Fae agrees to play, one face of many that it wears, granting it limited omnipotence within the confines of that role. The Princess of Red Crowns is able to nail her hats to the heads of her victims, to conjure up her great and terrible Crimson Keep, because she holds that title. She possesses near-infinite power when it comes to nailing hats to people’s heads, dragging off wicked children to her Keep, and so on, but unless she is also the Tlatoani of Crashing Serpents, she has no especial control over dragons or violent thunderstorms. No matter what form a Title takes, its nature always bleeds through: every manifestation of the Princess, on Earth or in Arcadia, features elements of torture, blood, and nails, for example, whether she appears as a blood-drenched madwoman with a hammer or a children’s rhyme about the perils of going out of doors while hatless.

The True Fae are the lords and ladies in their palaces of crystal and moonlight, but they are also the palace and the masked servants and the forest in which the castle sits. What the Courts call the “Keeper” is just one Title’s manifestation, and even if a changeling kills it, the oaths it made would simply cast a new piece of itself in that role eventually and pick up the Wild Hunt where it left off. Only breaking the deals that created a Title in the first place can permanently unravel it, although another Fae may devour it and claim it for itself.

A given Title might become a Keeper for any number of reasons, and might not be one forever. A changeling’s captor might abandon her for ten years not to inflict the torture of loneliness but just because its Keeper Title got distracted with something else for a while and forgot it was a Keeper. Some Fae take people for the exquisite flavor of their emotions, or the prizes they can extract from human dreams. With their ability to weave dream-symbols into real objects, they pluck the most valuable jewels of dreamstuff from the minds of slumbering mortals and steal them away to adorn their crowns. A beloved memory, a childhood fear, or even the certainty itself that one is only dreaming and can wake at any time — a True Fae may covet these, and only the dreams of humanity can provide. Other Gentry might love humans for their ability to present a spirited challenge or entertain them, or might simply prefer human servants to goblin ones for the smell. One Fae might plot to take more human prisoners than another, for no reason other than to compete. Some Titles may even need to capture humans as a term of their deals to exist, which means a changeling might escape by finding loopholes in those deals.

Sign on the Dotted Line

The Others have built a kingdom that conforms to their every whim, but without their age-old pledges they would be nothing. More importantly, they can’t take power away from rebellious changelings without taking power away from themselves — an inconceivable notion. Their tangled webs of pacts and obligations are what empower the Lost to oppose and evade them.

All the world-shaping power and casual immortality a True Fae possesses comes from pacts it signed when it came into being. The Contracts it wields are like a changeling’s writ large, inscribed into not only itself but its domain too — even the crystal gardens that sing enchanting songs and the treacherous bogs that devour trespassers are Contracts. The signature that seals the deal is the oath a Fae swears, and the terms of this oath are complex secrets woven into its realm and the role it plays among the other Gentry. Pacts it swears upon its Name are existentially binding, and bestow the grandest and most fundamental parts of a Fae’s nature that persist across all of its Titles. Breaking these pacts condemns it to true destruction. Lesser pacts it swears upon a Title bestow smaller-scale powers only that Title can use; breaking these pacts won’t kill a Fae, but it might destroy the Title or render one of its powers useless.

A True Fae makes deals with entire Regalia, gaining nigh-limitless power over their themes within the bounds of the Title that uses them. In exchange, it must keep a physical representation of each Regalia it masters, though not always a literal one. A Sword could very well be a weapon, but it might also be a hunting hawk, a thunderstorm, or a bulldozer. It could even be a jagged cliff that juts out into the sea — anything that expresses force and forthrightness within the purview of the Title that commands it. Some changelings think the Fae have access to more than six Regalia, deriving ever more esoteric powers from treasures rare and peculiar.

An Arcadian realm is like a theatre: the scenery and costumes and faces change, but the framework remains apparent, if an actor just changes her perspective. Anyone wishing to oppose one of the Fair Folk can do so on its terms, dueling with pistols or plotting with its goblin courtiers, and in many cases that’s the only apparent way to do it. But these are uphill battles, fought with great sacrifice to little permanent effect. A changeling who learns the true nature of Titles and their oaths can quest and scheme to discover the terms or physical key to such an oath. Clever manipulation of the Title’s manifestation, destroying the Regalia outright, or appropriating it and overriding the oath by swearing a more powerful one on someone else’s true name can force the Fae to break its pact and take power away from it.

The Fae war among themselves for countless inscrutable reasons, constantly enmeshed in rivalries, enmities, and shifting alliances. One impetus lies in the Gentry’s ability to consume each other’s Titles and add them to their own complement of roles. If a True Fae loses all its Titles and its Name is obliterated, it ceases to be; but if even one of its Titles persists as part of another Fae, it could reconstitute itself someday, regaining a Name through some convoluted set of pledge clauses and happy accidents.

True Fae Traits

A True Fae never appears in a game as anything but the manifestation of one of its Titles, or its Name if it has no Titles left. Characters can’t interact with the full breadth of one of the Fair Ones any other way. A manifestation could be a character, or it could be a sky citadel, or an enormous clockwork machine, or a flock of platinum birds. Regardless of its form, a Title has most of the same traits that a changeling does, although all of its Attributes and Skills may not be applicable in certain forms. The Storyteller doesn’t need to create traits for every Title that belongs to a True Fae; only ones the characters will meaningfully interact with.

Build a Fae antagonist with the rules for creating Changeling characters (see Chapter Three), with the following considerations and exceptions:

Character Concept and Titles: A True Fae has three Aspirations just like changelings do. Whenever it fulfills an Aspiration, it gains a Willpower point instead of a Beat, which goes away at the end of the scene if not spent unless it was earned pursuing a craving or a changeling.

Aspirations for the Gentry range everywhere from the humanly impossible to the unthinkably cruel. If the Title is a Keeper, one of its Aspirations should reflect its desire to capture — or recapture — a changeling. One Aspiration should always reflect a craving of some kind, something the Title wants to possess more than anything, such as “the love of a human” or “one million loyal subjects;” this Aspiration stays no matter how many times it’s fulfilled. Highly abstract Aspirations like “become a star” are valid for the Gentry, but the Storyteller should make sure a route to such an Aspiration exists and has something to do with characters the Fae can interact with; for instance, to become a star, the Title might first need to transform seven humans into eternal blue fires and then consume them on Midsummer’s Eve. The star then becomes just another manifestation of the Title.

A True Fae has between zero and five Titles. The Storyteller should decide up front how many total Titles the Fae has, even if he’s only creating traits for one of them; this determines how powerful each Title is. A Fae with zero Titles is like a cornered rat, consisting only of a Name, and is desperate to make deals and pick off weak Titles from other Gentry to survive. A Fae with five Titles is a god even among faeries, with power over every Regalia and a massive Arcadian domain.

Gentry have many kinds of Names, from a simple “Ayesha” or “John” to the sound of waves breaking against an ice shelf, or a picture of the wadjet. Strange sounds and images don’t especially protect True Fae’s Names. Once heard (or otherwise experienced) a substitute is as good as the Name itself, provided the speaker witnessed the faerie’s real Name and uses the substitute with an honest, true intent.

Titles are abstract (and even enigmatic) concepts, but they always refer to an emotion, sensual experience, or object. One may be the Prince of Weeping Rats, while another is the Acolyte of Screams on the Mountain. Every manifestation incorporates the Title in some distinct way. This shape or theme is called the Title’s tell. The Prince of Weeping Rats appears as a rat-headed crying man holding a scepter, or becomes an endless, filthy high-rise, whose human-looking tenants weep whenever the ruling rats eat their food or steal unattended children.

Wyrd: Determine Wyrd before the rest of a True Fae’s traits, as many traits derive from its Wyrd rating.

Even the weakest of the Gentry is powerful compared to most changelings. Each of a True Fae’s Titles has a Wyrd rating of 5, plus one dot for each Title the Fae possesses (including this one), to a maximum of 10.

A True Fae begins any scene with a full Glamour pool in Arcadia, and otherwise recovers Glamour in the same ways that changelings do. All True Fae suffer from Glamour addiction outside Arcadia or the Hedge; if they fail to regain at least their Wyrd rating in Glamour each day in the real world, they suffer the Deprived Condition. If they fall to Glamour 0, they lose Willpower and then Health at a rate of one per day until they regain at least their Wyrd rating in Glamour.

True Fae suffer from frailties just as changelings do. They also suffer the bane of iron, as detailed on p. XX.

Attributes and Skills: Rather than prioritizing categories, a Fae Title receives a number of dots equal to five times its Wyrd to distribute across Attributes, and the same number to distribute across Skills. A Title has no Skill Specialties.

Faerie Template: True Fae don’t have kiths, Courts, or Anchors. They don’t truly have seemings either, but each Title can use one seeming’s blessing and bears something of that seeming’s trappings regardless of the form it takes.

In Arcadia and the Hedge, a Title has free rein to treat reality as though it were shaping dreams (p. XX) or the Hedge (p. XX), performing any oneiromantic or Hedgespinning act that fits within the legend of its identity and treating other characters as though they were important eidolons. It automatically succeeds at these actions unless the target of its shaping magic spends a Willpower point for the chance to resist.

A Title also has access to every Contract in (Wyrd ? 4) Regalia (see Chapter Three). One of these must match its associated seeming. In the real world, it can use its Regalia and can itself take any form, but can’t otherwise shape reality.

Merits: Fae Titles can have any Merits available to changelings, where they make sense. A Fae’s Social Merits must specify whether they apply in Arcadia and the Hedge, or in the human world. A Title has Merit dots equal to twice its Wyrd rating.

Advantages: Calculate these as changelings do, but True Fae don’t have Clarity.

Mask and Mien: The Mask hides a True Fae in the real world, but imperfectly; the Title’s tell always shows through in some fashion.

Names and Pledges

Names have power. A Fae that knows someone’s true name can weave that name into a nightmare tailor-made to drive them into its waiting arms. Anyone a True Fae successfully targets with a Contract while speaking or otherwise utilizing her true name gains the Persistent Obsession Condition pertaining to that Fae, with a context chosen by the target’s player.

A changeling who learns a Fae’s true Name can speak it aloud to empower herself when she acts against any of its Titles, achieving exceptional success with any successful use of a Contract that targets that Fae.

The Gentry can make pledges just like changelings can (p. XX), but they must invest more than just Glamour. A True Fae can seal any statement, even those of changelings and other fae creatures, but to do so it must swear the sealing upon something it considers one of its possessions. This could be a captive changeling, a hobgoblin servant, a dream-trinket or token, a Huntsman who wears its livery — anything that isn’t just a manifestation of one of its Titles is fair game, as long as the Fae considers it property. If the subject of the sealing follows through on her promise, the Fae must give her the possession upon which it swore.

A True Fae’s Title or Name can swear a personal or hostile oath to any fae creature, including a changeling, but to do so it must swear upon itself. If it breaks the oath, it doesn’t gain the Oathbreaker Condition. Instead, it permanently loses access to one of its Regalia and becomes vulnerable to lethal attacks during the scene in which it broke its word. If a Title loses its last Regalia this way, the other party may choose to kill the Title permanently; demand any three tasks or wishes from it and then allow it to regain its last Regalia; or force it to inhabit the Regalia’s physical key, allowing the other party to wield it as a token. Such items retain their power even in the real world, but changelings are cautious with them, since dormant Fae Titles have been known to wake under unpredictable circumstances. Changelings who break Fae oaths gain the Oathbreaker Condition (p. XX) as normal, but the Wyrd may demand disproportionate restitution for the betrayal.

Any Title can make a bargain by swearing upon the Fae’s true Name. Fae bargains work differently than changeling bargains do. Both parties must agree to perform a task, give up a possession, abide by a rule, or something equally concrete and clearly communicated. For the True Fae, the consequences for failing to uphold its end is permanent destruction. A non-Gentry party must swear upon something crucially important to her — her own name (and thus her life), perhaps, or that of a loved one; a favorite memory; her Hollow or home; or something else. If she fails to uphold her end of the bargain, whatever she swore upon is forfeit to the Fae to do with as it pleases, and the Wyrd backs up the claim.

Since Gentry pledges have such dire consequences when broken, the Fae don’t make them often or lightly. Convincing one of the Good Cousins to make a pledge is difficult at best and usually requires a changeling to set up an untenable situation for it first. A Fae in mortal danger always has the chance to try to make a pledge and save its life before it’s consigned to oblivion, but it can’t force the other party to agree. Of course, the True Fae aren’t above extracting binding promises from others without actually pledging anything in return, if they can pull it off.

Vulnerability and Death

A True Fae never takes bashing damage from anything other than its banes (including iron), and takes lethal damage only from banes unless an attacker speaks its true Name or it breaks an oath, as above. Only cold iron weapons can deal aggravated damage to the Gentry.

The intricate web of promises and deals that govern a True Fae makes it vulnerable in other ways, too. If a changeling finds a Regalia’s physical representation and learns one of the rules that binds its Title to the Fae, she may be able to manipulate the situation such that the Title breaks its oath, as detailed above. Changelings can purchase these rules from goblins in the know, deduce them from patterns they observe after spending a long time with a Title, trick it into telling them through clever pledges, etc.

As an example, the Storm King of the Bloody Throne wears an ersatz crown and rules its domain with an iron fist. It has sworn an oath to do so forever. But the Contract that binds it to its Name says that it is a usurper, and will rule only as long as the land has no true monarch. Only one who can remove its Sword from the stone in which it’s embedded can be the true monarch, so the Storm King hides stone and Sword both deep in the belly of a dark forest, guarded by goblin beasts. When a changeling braves the forest, defeats the beast, finds the stone, and pulls out the Sword, she becomes the true queen of the land. Since the Storm King has now broken its oath to rule forever, its fate is in the new queen’s hands.

1,001 Stories

The following examples of the Gentry can serve as inspiration for players looking to create their characters’ Keepers or for Storytellers looking for principal antagonists.

Grandmother, Grandmother

Deep in the Wood, past Bone Hill and over Rickety Bridge, sits a cozy little cabin in the middle of a broad clearing. It has a little garden in the back full of dream-a-drupes and stabapples, and a pen for the piglins and milkbeast, and a stout stone tower rises from one corner. It’s here that Grandmother, Grandmother raises “her” children. She takes them from the mortals, you know; the ones who are neglected or abused, or just plain running wild and in need of a firm hand. Grandmother has specific ideas about what a family looks like, and she molds her changelings into the roles she sees fit: the Eldest Who Can Do No Wrong, the Gifted Child, the Black Sheep, the Forgotten Middle Child, and so on. Grandmother’s vision rarely matches the personality of the youths she takes, but then, that’s where the conflict comes from.

Grandmother, Grandmother’s domain encompasses the clearing, the cottage, and a vast tract of dark, spooky woodlands surrounding it. The woods are strictly forbidden to all of Grandmother’s “children,” and are fully stocked with dangerous beasts, ghosts, and any number of fairy tale appropriate dangers. They also contain the only paths from Grandmother’s domain to the Hedge and thence, back to Earth.

Grandmother herself is the manifestation of this Gentry’s third Title: a sweet, smiling old woman who always resembles the archetypal grandmother figure in whatever culture she’s preying on. When she’s angered, though, the façade slips: at first it’s just a flash of sharp teeth or burning reptilian eyes, but when she reveals herself in her full fury, Grandmother, Grandmother is a true terror. Spindly, twiglike limbs belie an unholy strength; papery, wrinkled skin deflects blows like armor; and cruel needle teeth and razor claws dish out horrifying corporal punishment.

Grandmother is choosy about the mortals she abducts: always children, never older than 16 or 17, and all from home life situations that could charitably be described as “troubled.” Street kids and those stuck in the foster-care system, children from abusive households, even latchkey kids Grandmother sees as “neglected” are all likely targets. Once she’s lured or taken them back to her cottage, Grandmother introduces them to their new “siblings” and puts them in a twisted, fairy-tale version of a family drama. Over the years, “her” kids are shaped, willingly or not, into changelings reflecting these roles: the Bossy Oldest Child becomes a Fairest while the Forgotten Middle Child becomes a Darkling, and the Wild Child who spends all her time getting punished might end up an Ogre or a Wizened.

At any given time, Grandmother, Grandmother likely has anywhere from three to five children in the cottage. Inevitably, some of them escape (though almost never all at once — it seems like every time new children arrive, at least one big brother or sister is already there to show them the ropes). Others die. Still others turn 18. Exactly what that means is something the kids debate in hushed after-bedtime whispers. Some say Grandmother lets you go, since you’re an adult and all. Others say she takes you into the forest and sacrifices you to something even more horrible than she. Still others say that, if you’re still there on your 18th birthday, you’re trapped forever, a True Fae in your own right.

Grandmother, Grandmother adheres to a decidedly old-school style of parenting: Good children get smiles and sweet treats (goblin fruits that encourage docility and pliability), while bad children provoke her wrath. Bad children are sent to bed without supper, given extra chores, or, as a final resort, sent into the Wood to cut their own switch. Since this is the only time Grandmother allows any of her children to go past the eaves of the forest, it’s often the best chance they have to escape. The Darkling might abandon her brothers and sisters to run while she can, while the Fairest refuses to leave them behind. The Ogre takes that switch right back to Grandmother and dares her to do her worst.

The Year of Plague

Under a sullen red sun, the cracked and blistered earth gives up foul vapors and poisoned waters. The dead lay uncounted in their heaps, and the dying are too ravaged by disease to seek shelter or dig graves. Changelings scurry about, seeking succor or escape or a way to stop the plague. The sun rises and sets, the seasons turn, and a year later the board resets. All is as it was, forever and ever, plague without end.

The Year of Plague is an unusual Fae Title, in that its domain isn’t a region of Arcadia so much as it is a span of time: specifically, a year of terrible epidemics and plague outbreaks. Every 365 days, the Year “resets,” returning to a zero state shortly after the outbreak. The exact plague and its environs change every year: sometimes it’s London in the midst of the Black Death, or a Ghanan village during the 1918 influenza pandemic. Other times it resembles no earthly place or disease at all.

The Year of Plague seldom manifests a character to speak with, preferring to observe its changelings at a remove. On the rare occasions that it does, it’s a tattered, empty thing of red rags and a medieval plague-doctor’s mask, from which noxious vapors spill endlessly. When it needs to act directly, whether to fetch new changelings or rein in a study subject grown unruly, it prefers to act through goblins or a Huntsman, which naturally follow the same plague doctor motif as they don his livery.

The Year of Plague casts a wide net for its changelings. Anyone who survived a brush with a deadly disease is a potential candidate, as is anyone living in the outbreak zone of an epidemic. The Year often takes doctors and humanitarian aid workers, opportunists and scavengers, and throws them all into a nightmare scenario to see how they adapt and react. Its changelings become Wizened when they try over and over to cure the incurable, or Ogres when they decide the best thing to do is put everyone out of their misery. They may unite survivors and spread hope to become Fairest, or eschew the company of others altogether to protect themselves and become scavenger Beasts.

Naturally, most of the “plague victims” in the Year of Plague are puppets, mere extensions of the Year itself and thus of no use to its studies. Every cycle, though, the Year claims a number of mortals. Sometimes it takes a small cadre and places them together to examine their group dynamics; other times it takes a larger number and scatters them across its domain so it can see how they try to survive on their own. Anyone who has not escaped before the year is up is lost in the resetting: perhaps unmade entirely, or perhaps reduced to one of the automata set dressing the next incarnation of the Year. Escape might come when a character realizes that civilization is but a thin veneer over chaos and ceases playing along, embraces the disease as his way out, or leads the survivors to work together and find a loophole. Actually curing the disease would likely end the Year entirely, ejecting any changelings still within back to the mortal realm.

The Man with the Ergot Smile

From dream to dream he walks, all dapper suits and bright red umbrella. His back is always to the dreamer, always looking toward the huge, thorny gates that loom on the horizon. It doesn’t matter if he sees you, though — once you’ve seen him, he infests your dreams, hollows them out until all you can dream of is him, the gates, and the other poor souls he’s put his mark on. The more of those he gathers, the more those gates creak open, and every night you wake up screaming.

The Man with the Ergot Smile is an exiled True Fae, cut off from his Titles and dominions by dint of some unfathomable Gentry conflict. The terms of his exile are a Contract, as are all things in Arcadia: When one hundred madmen dream as one, the Man may return to Arcadia, and not before. The Contract never said this had to occur naturally, and so the Man With the Ergot Smile slips from dream to dream, planting the seeds of his nightmare and nurturing them as patiently as any gardener. When his poisonous dreams finally bloom, he will go home.

All too aware that being fully embodied is a vulnerability, the Man with the Ergot Smile avoids the physical realm and its attendant dangers. Instead he lives in the world of dreams, skipping from mind to mind along hidden paths and Dreaming Roads, never staying too long in one dream realm. He resembles a man, slim and average height, dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black suit with a black bowler hat. The only color about him is a crimson umbrella he carries like a walking stick. Dreamers only ever see him from behind as he looks expectantly toward the gates of Arcadia, but lucid dreamers or changelings hunting him report that his face is startlingly ordinary — until he smiles, and the world cracks around you and Clarity runs like melted wax.

Though he no longer rules a realm within Arcadia and thus cannot take new changelings, the Man with the Ergot Smile once held dominion over a vast and twisty sanitarium, wherein he broke down captive mortals utterly, just to see what they would build themselves back up as. His patients ended up with any seeming, depending on what kinds of tortures he devised and how they managed to endure them.

Signs and portents follow the Man with the Ergot Smile, signs that echo the realm he once ruled. When the Man is active in the area, admittance at the local mental hospitals spike sharply. Incidences of dancing plague, sudden dissociative states, and St. Anthony’s Fire trail in his wake, and a trained occultist can use those signs to follow him and pinpoint his likely next victim.

The Three Androgenes

Once upon a time, we told stories of wicked fairies in the woods, because the woods were dangerous and it was folly to go there. Now, we do not fear the forest anymore, for we have gone to stranger places by far: the seas, the skies, and very nearly the stars. What stories do we tell to warn our young and innocent away from them? We tell stories of silvery ships and strange, gray beings, child-sized but wise beyond knowing. When you’re someplace you shouldn’t be, someplace that transgresses, they appear in a beam of blinding light, carry you off through a hole in the sky, and peel back your layers amid a galaxy of thorny stars.

Whether the Three Androgenes have always been as they are now, adapted themselves with the rise of UFO folklore, or indeed are a new Gentry altogether, born of stories of flying saucers and alien experiments, no one can say. Their realm is an endless starship, all sleek chrome and art deco fins, containing a multitude of sterile laboratories, operating theaters, and prison cells — or perhaps “zoo enclosures” is more apt. Most of the alien beasts held within are part and parcel of the realm itself, but the Androgenes pride themselves on their extensive collection of humanity. They curate it carefully, always seeking the broadest spectrum of humankind they can acquire.

The Three Androgenes themselves (and even within the nebulous concept of Gentry identity, they’re recognized as a single being) are the archetypal “grays” made popular by everything from science fiction TV shows to late night radio programs: about three feet high, slender, with bulbous heads housing enormous, solid-black eyes made all the more striking by their tiny, almost rudimentary noses and mouths. They sometimes sport silvery, one-piece “uniforms” and sometimes appear nude (though all three lack any indication of sex or gender). They’re always together, whether they’re flying their craft from the control deck or slicing an experimental subject into cross sections and rearranging the internal organs just to see what happens.

Mortals the Three Androgenes take have one purpose: to be guinea pigs and test subjects for bizarre anatomical experimentation. Some become Beasts or Ogres when their Keepers splice their genes with those of other creatures. Others become Elementals or Darklings, partially replaced with advanced mechanical prostheses or reconfigured into nothing human at all, with vast cosmic knowledge forced into their minds. Still others are rebuilt to be flawless, hailed as Fairest success stories and paraded about on display. A few are forced to participate in experimentation on other subjects in a perverse kind of medical school; these changelings become Wizened.

For all that it seems to fly about the cosmos at great speed many light-years from earth, it’s no harder (or easier) to escape the Androgenes’ realm than any other Arcadian domain. Some changelings simply fling themselves out an airlock and force themselves to endure the agony of vacuum until they “land.” Others manage to slip the containment fields on their cells, steal a small shuttlecraft, and reverse-engineer the alien control surfaces so they might escape via “wormhole” back to earth; or take control of the ship itself and crash it unceremoniously into the Hedge.

[theconservativebrief]

Growing up in a predominantly Native American area of rural Oklahoma, it was almost unheard of for someone who wasn’t Native to claim our ancestry. For us, that would have spurred a communal backlash. Everyone knew everyone, and to make such a claim would have been seen as seen as dishonest or nefarious.

On Monday, I awoke to the news that Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-MA) had provided the results of a DNA test to prove she was in fact Native American. I felt the immediate pangs of dread. As the editor of the Cherokee Phoenix — the nation’s oldest Native newspaper founded in 1828 — I’m constantly fielding requests from people trying to track down their heritage. I’m also constantly getting emails from angry tribal citizens wanting to report someone who is fictitiously claiming to be Native American.

This is our reality. We are faced with an onslaught of people who have never lived in our shoes saying, “Those are my shoes too,” simply because they spit into a small hermetically sealed glass tube and got back DNA results that say they are 7 percent Native American.

Too often, Native Americans hear the words “I took a DNA test and …” Too often, our heritage and racial identity has been coopted by others for monetary gain, to claim some exoticism in their identity, or simply because someone wanted an excuse to wear a really pretty Halloween costume. But Native identity is not just about tracing a distant ancestor back to our tribe. It’s about cultural heritage, our shared experiences, and participating in our community.

I’m often amazed at the lengths some people will go to in order to become “Native American.” Our newspaper has reported on groups that create fake organizations under tribal-sound names: For under $100, a person with no claim to Native American heritage is given a bogus membership card and walk away with the mindset that they are Native.

They post on online forums as Natives, they wear regalia from Eastern tribes mixed with Western tribes, they even go so far to start community groups and give themselves “Native” names that are often so laughable and stereotypical they cease to be insulting.

Our identity isn’t present in a faux buckskin outfit or a “Made in China” headdress. It is in our communities, it is in the words of our elders and the faces of our children. It goes beyond whom our ancestors were — it dictates how we live, how we raise our children, and who we are as a people.

For Cherokee Nation citizens to be recognized as such, we must retrace our roots back to a family member who signed the Dawes Roll, essentially a turn-of-the-century census for Cherokees. This is considered a legal status as we are members of a sovereign nation within the borders of the United States. But Warren has never claimed actual citizenship in our tribe. She has infringed on this without evidence or understanding that it takes more than a DNA test to claim an identity.

I understand why Warren released her DNA profile to the masses; she has been dogged by scandal since proclaiming she was in fact “Native American” based on her family’s oral history. President Donald Trump has repeatedly referred to Warren with the very racist moniker “Pocahontas” during several of his rallies. She is attempting to put to rest the only question mark on her otherwise upstanding character, but at what cost?

Warren made her DNA claims to stop the name calling. But she, in my opinion, has propped up a growing sect of people who think they can rely solely on a DNA test to confirm their identities. A DNA test will not explain the struggle or plight your ancestors had to go though to make it to a rough patch of dusty earth in exchange for their ancestral homelands. A DNA test will not help you determine what language your ancestors spoke, the food they ate, or where they essentially originated.

The Cherokee Nation is currently on the precipice of a court case decision that could have devastating consequences to our tribe. This month, a judge in Texas struck down a law governing the adoptions of Native American children by Native families as unconstitutional. Events surrounding Warren’s claims only add confusion to an already complex situation. When people are unclear about what makes someone a citizen of a tribe, misconceptions can lead to a change in the law, in this case it could prove costly to Native children.

I personally have no ill will toward Warren or others like her, they have simply been misled, and through no fault of their own they believe that they hold a claim to being Native American. Compared to other groups and individuals out there preying on the misinformed, Warren’s actions are relatively innocuous.

She does, however, add some legitimacy to the myth that Native American heritage is tied to DNA. Heritage is not just who you are biologically. It is about your community. It is the role you play inside of your tribe, large or small. Propagating the notion that a DNA test is all that a person needs to be Native American is damaging to tribes and the sovereignty they have earned through years of struggle and strife. It simplifies a process that was determined through lengthy courtroom battles and legal discussions.

Being Native American is an honor and privilege you are born with. It simply cannot be determined by scientific testing alone.

Brandon Scott is a Cherokee Nation citizen and lifelong resident of Oklahoma. He is the executive editor of the Cherokee Phoenix, the nation’s first Native newspaper.

First Person is Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our submission guidelines, and pitch us at firstperson@vox.com.

Original Source -> Cherokee Nation citizens like me are used to people claiming our heritage. It’s exhausting.

via The Conservative Brief

[nastysnowflake-blog]

Intersectional Feminism

So I was browsing Facebook today, as I often do, when I happened across an album of screenshots. The screenshots were from a Twitter thread started by an indigenous woman who attended the Women’s March in D.C. on Saturday with a group of other native women. The women came dressed in traditional regalia and were prepared with songs and chants for the march. The woman, Hokte as the images said, began her thread with thanks to the organizers and a mention that the experience was invaluable. This quickly degenerated into talks of the toxicity of the movement, “plagued with white supremacy.” She mentioned that many women of color had already criticized the march and that she was disturbed in the moments when she left her prayer circle, her “home” as she called it, to be surrounded by the gaze of white women.

She went on to describe a very uncomfortable experience of being photographed, mocked, of having her culture questioned and of being approached by women who were more interested in fondling her regalia than discussing the fliers she and her partner were handing out. She talked about women walking through their prayer circle and about women approaching them wearing “R*skins” hats (Washington Redskins, a team that has been under fire for its racist depiction of American Natives).

She concludes her thread with a few statements that could be seen as slippery slope fallacies by the uninformed reader (generally anyone who listens to Faux News) and begins angrily attacking the values of all white women in attendance, listing off an experience with a woman who “is from Minnesota” and “knows Indian” because she can name all the lakes as her reason for feeling disrespected, finishing with, “White feminists treat us like we are burdens or that we are divisive. Because it’s inconvenient for you to let go of your whiteness.”

Being a white woman, this should be where I stop and put my tail between my legs and apologize for my support of the feminist movement I’ve been taught about. Being a middle-class, college-educated liberal in a blue state, this is where I should strip myself down and cry, clearly in the wrong.

Bullshit.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I haven’t been ill-prepared for this moment. I’m not going to deny the inherent privilege I’ve grown up with my entire life being white, and I’m not going to deny that I’ve certainly been blinded by the white-washed education I’ve received. I’m certainly not going to deny that the women partaking in the genitalia-based marching that seemed to flood the social media sphere on Saturday were not excluding literally every other demographic in attendance. “Not all pussies are pink!” No shit they’re not. So let’s get started.

If you search for images of the Women’s March, you’ll undoubtedly be met with wave after wave of women sporting home-made beanies with pointed edges in all shades of pink imaginable. Thus, The Pussy Hat Project. According to their website, the mission of the project is to provide the people of D.C. with a visual statement that will help the activists be heard and to help those who could not be in the National Mall with a way to show their support. The mission statement then breaks into separate sections: “Power in Numbers,” which discusses the imagery that would spawn from every marcher wearing a pink hat, “Power of Pink,” which discusses the societally assigned femininity of the color pink, “Power of Individuality within Large Groups” which allows for varying shades and patterns of hats to show that we don’t have to be identical to be powerful, “Power of the Handmade” which covers the assigned femininity of certain crafts and how this has created a stronger unity among women, and, lastly, “Power of Pussy” which discusses the term that has since been turned into an insult and their desire to reclaim it as a symbol of power and resistance. This section is precisely the section I’d like to focus on.

The Pussy Hat Project has come under fire for being exclusive to white cis-women, or women with pink pussies. Because the color pink was selected it was seen as an attack on women of color, and because the term “pussy” was used it’s been seen as an attack on trans-women or intersex people. The project literally addresses this concern in their mission statement: “Women, whether transgender or cisgender, are mistreated in this society...A woman’s body is her own.” Right, but what about women of color!?

The color pink was literally selected as a statement, not to in some way elude to the color of genitalia. When I was in high school we often had “color war” nights for certain sporting events. A week before the game we’d all agree to wear all red or all black or all white in support of our team, and when the night finally rolled around we would show up in large numbers, looking unified in our goal to win whatever game it was we were playing. The intent with the hats was the same. Create a large group of people that, when seen from higher positions (both literally and figuratively), it appeared to be a unified mass with the intent of “supporting their team.” Pink just happens to be the color many of us are assigned at birth. Had that color been yellow or green the Pussy Hat Project would have patterns involving yellow or green worsted yarn. Not all pussies are green…?

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the necessity of intersectional feminism. I’m not going to pretend that a white feminist is going to have to fight in the same way as a black or latinx feminist. My concern, however, is in taking something as innocent as a knit beanie and dismantling the message. It is literally attempting to be all-inclusive and is somehow still not good enough. Don’t like that the color pink seems like it’s excluding you? Knit a black one. Knit a brown one. Knit a fucking rainbow one, it clearly didn’t matter. The beauty was in the difference. No two vaginas are the same, no two women are the same, and no two hats were the same. I’m sure no one was going to castrate you for showing up in a tan pussy hat, they’d have probably applauded your thoughtfulness with the issue at hand.

Which leads me to my last point, thoughtfulness. Returning to Hokte and her message, I must repeat for the people in the back that I AM A PRIVILEGED WHITE FEMINIST. I have never struggled to be taken as seriously as my counterparts, I have never been told my “costume is really pretty” or had my heritage brought into question. I will never know the struggle for clean drinking water, and I will only know the qualms of being hired second if I’m applying for the same job as a man. I will never be marginalized and stereotyped in the way that many other cultures have been (though there are plenty of stereotypes I face, that’s an argument for another day). That does not mean I cannot stand with you and that I will not support you.

It was her anger that triggered me. It was the way Hokte approached the issue that made me feel so disappointed. It’s the many women of color on my feed who argue and misplace messages that make me feel like nothing I do is safe. I am a child of the white-washed education system. I am born of the feminist movement, thinking it was merely a universal movement for all women to partake in. I was never taught to scrutinize photographs for their diversity, to choose my words carefully so as not to exclude people who do not identify as cis like I do. I was simply taught that if women wanted to fight for equality of the genders, they became feminists. So as I’m learning there are many facets to feminism I’m beginning to notice things like the exclusion of trans and intersex, I’m beginning to notice the silencing of women of color. I can see it. I am trying my best to understand it.

It’s when you attack me for being an uninformed cis white feminist that the power of our movement turns against us. Is that not the argument of those who fight against feminism? We’re constantly angry at those who do not identify as feminist, we call them names, we generalize them, right? At least that’s what they say. So when you perch on your branch of this great tree and shout at those perched on other branches that they’re uninformed, not good enough, and thoughtless, does it not alienate them? Is that not what we’re trying to end?

You have to educate us.

It’s work, and it takes time, and there are always going to be the bandwagon feminists who are simply unteachable. There’s always going to be someone who thinks they know more than they do because they took one women’s studies class during their freshman year of college. There’s always going to be someone who thinks saying, “I guess we’re Indians today!” is a good way to start conversation with the traditionally dressed women beside her. There’s always going to be someone who dresses up as a giant vagina and thinks they’re helping the cause. It’s still worth trying. There are more than a few women in those crowds that marched on Saturday and that are still knitting Pussy Hats (like myself) that would be genuinely interested in learning about your culture and learning how best to include you in our idea of feminism. There are going to be bumps in the road, but rather than call us disrespectful and force us to leave, explain why what we said was wrong and teach us how to work with you rather than against you.

We can make intersectional feminism a reality. You just have to understand that many of us are still fighting with what society has taught us and are blinded by misinformation. Help us learn so we can stop fighting one another and start supporting one another. While some of us may not want to part with the “convenience of our whiteness,” there are plenty of others who would like to learn how to use that convenience to help raise you up.