#bishop's hat meaning

[starker-sorbet]

⚘ Bishop's hat ⚘ - symbolizes fertility and strength

Witches Peter and Tony performing a fertility ritual together in the hopes that they will conceive during their next shared heat.

[rainbowolfe]

Why Aym and Baal?

They were, according to Shamura, supposed to be Narinder's replacement family/companions. Narinder never really got that memo, but like, what did Shamura expect? Relationships don't work that way. You can't just throw two strangers at someone and have them fill the void of a millennia-long relationship.

But the question of the hour is, why Aym and Baal? I don't think it's because they're cats.

It's implied Narinder had his own family (made up of cats or whatever he is) and chose the Bishops, a goofy assortment of non-mammals over those blood relations. So he's not exactly inclined towards members of his own species. So that doesn't feel like the reason why Shamura chose them. And it doesn't feel like the reason Narinder kept them.

I noticed that this photo from Jalala's journal had to have been of pre-servitude Aym and Baal, cause they're much younger. Baal's hair is shorter, they're both just wearing basic tunics instead of their signature robes, and Forneus isn't wearing her hat. So Aym's always looked a bit scuffed, and it wasn't the result of his time spent with TOWW in the Realm Beyond.

Which means Shamura saw him and went "wow that's literally Kallamar". Scar over one eye? Check. Messed up ears? Check. It would also loosely confirm that the boys were sent after they sealed Narinder, since Kallamar's ears wouldn't be scuffed before then.

It would be really funny if what Aym's looking at is Shamura, and this picture was taken 5 seconds before disaster.

Now, my first instinct was that Baal would be Narinder, and what Shamura hoped to recreate was Narinder's relationship with them and Kallamar. But that doesn't quite make sense. The new "family unit" already has a Narinder, so why would Shamura give him another?

Baal can't be filling Shamura's role for two reasons. One, as the head of the family, Shamura would be more likely to be Forneus (the role they are now placing Narinder in). If not Forneus, then the unseen father presumably taking this picture. Two, Shamura does not believe that Narinder loves them. That's. Kind of why they're doing all of this. So they wouldn't give him a replacement-Shamura either, unless they were feeling really really egotistical.

Which leaves us with two options.

And the correct one is Leshy. Leshy, whose core item is the red camellia. And whose symbol becomes a black heart when he's cleansed.

While we don't get to hear much from Baal, Heket's core traits are that she's a shit-talker and likes to eat. Leshy's core traits are that he's chaotic, but has an appreciation for/focus on the world around him. Smells, sights (when he could see), and sounds.

Baal is actually the politer of the two and, based on his recruitment dialogue ("So much color... so many creatures") he too is the worldly type. Also, Baal thanks Lamb for helping them. Leshy and Narinder are the only Bishops who thank Lamb in the end.

And, you know, if you take the order Shamura lists the family in into account, Leshy and Kallamar are the first and second sons respectively.

...

Of course, this can be taken one step further in another direction :3c I can't just leave Heket out of this.

Although Shamura only gave him Aym and Baal, theoretically what they saw was a four-person family unit that reflected their own... before Narinder entered the picture. I mentioned before that if Shamura isn't a reflection of Forneus, then they're a reflection of the unnamed father. (Who I suspect to be Paean)

Which means they saw Heket in Forneus.

Do you see the vision??

Cause this is a found family, age order doesn't necessarily matter to the familial hierarchy. Even if Shamura wasn't the eldest, they would still be the head (whether matriarch or patriarch) because their role is as the leader of the other three. Heket would be below Shamura, but above Kallamar and Leshy, because she serves as caretaker. She's even the one who takes charge upon Lamb's return, as the matriarch would do if something were to happen to the patriarch.

((Traditionally, while the father is seen as the protector and provider, his purpose is specifically to rule/lead the family. It is the mother whose sole purpose is to protect. Primarily the children, as their (often only) caretaker. But in traditional circles, it's commonly felt that the mother should sacrifice everything for the father as well.))

It would be particularly fitting because a lot of Heket's side of things revolves around sacrifice. How she's burdened by it, and seemingly how much she tried to do to find a better/different outcome. She's characterized as particularly family-inclined.

...

This would suggest that who Narinder valued the most in the family were Leshy and Kallamar. At least, it would suggest that's how Shamura saw it. But I'm liking this line of thought, so let's say their read is accurate.

Shamura saw that Narinder. Could also be Forneus. And Shamura loved Narinder the most, so...

Narinder and Heket's disdain for each other stems from them competing for the same role in their family: The matriarch. Shamura's second in command, and the boys' caretaker.

Not in a "raise them" type of way, at least not in Kallamar's case. But to guide and influence them. To be the one they trust and rely on. Heket has been that. And, intentionally or not, Narinder intrudes on that.

Narinder's the 'other woman' lmao

As a bonus:

Baal is aligned with his father (you get Tears of the Vengeful Father in exchange for him). Aym is aligned with his mother (ditto for Tears of the Merciful Mother).

If Aym = Kallamar; Baal = Leshy; Forneus = Heket; and The Father = Shamura

Then that dynamic is actually reflected in this Tarot Card. It pairs Kallamar with Heket, and Leshy with Shamura. :3

[chinolondoner]

Author looking for readers

I'm not sure of the best way of getting people interested in the work of an unknown writer...

Plopped down in the middle of a tropical, Latin American setting, Lullaby for Bishop is set to be a hard-boiled detective series with four main characters: a veteran private investigator in the twilight of his career; a muscle-bound professional wrestler fulfilling one of his pivotal, childhood ambitions of solving strange and wild mysterious; as well as a pair of rumbunctious, teenage, high school girls constantly causing a scene and tagging along for the thrills.

You can preview the first half of chapter one further down below and catch up on the remainder, along with the totality of chapters two and three, all completely for free if you visit my Patreon. It's going to be a little while before this first book in the series is actually finished and officially published, but I feel the smarter move would be to try and elevate as much of a buzz for the featured world and characters before then as possible. I also plan to put out additional pre-release chapters in the near future (likely three at a time). If I have somehow managed not to bore you and you're still eagerly reading, then I do hope you enjoy the launching meta in this tender work in progress and stick around for future updates. Thank you for your interest!

---

Chapter One

Nervously, Donny Boy had begun rubbing his fingers on the back of his neck, seated patiently a narrow foot away from the front of the desk while waiting for our bastard detective to stumble back into his office, suddenly realizing that the price tag had not yet been plucked away or removed from the fanciful hat he was wearing and was still dangling off the rounded edge of the brim.

Looking around the room for a trash bin he could use, Donny Boy's eyes gradually panned across the office, taking note of a few of the usual mosquitoes left splattered on the frosted, scarlet-lettered glass on the door. Dizzying groves of zigzagged patterns tying in the décor on the wallpaper, he spotted an old, unused desk tucked-away in the far, opposite corner of the room, heavy with dust and weighed down by sprawling stacks of postcards and unrecycled newspapers.

His wandering eyes glancing up the rearing rays of shattered sunlight filling in through the narrow, broken blinds on the window, Donny Boy had noticed the row of fancy kettlebells neatly arranged across a flat and sturdy, iron bench scooted against the wall, a dirty, rolled-up yoga mat, along with this stationary, exercise bike for the purposes of one's daily, cardio workout.

Looking up at the rougher dust build up over the years along the edges of the blades on the ceiling fan, Donny Boy was suddenly lured back from his current distractions after Detective Howl Bishop slid back into his office, tossing a used washrag onto his desk after wiping his face and smelling of minty, nicotine gum and aftershave.

“So, what do I call you, kid?” Howl had asked while taking a seat in his chair behind his desk.

“Don should be perfect. Growing up, my next-door neighbor used to call me Donny Boy.”

“Donny Boy, huh?” Howl fought against his urges to fidget with a stack of papers in his drawer. “Sounds good to me, kid. So… are you some sort of circus performer or something?”

“I'm not sure I know what you mean…”

“Your arms… They're freaking huge!”

“Oh… Yeah… I do struggle at times finding clothes that can fit me properly. Also, I wasn't really sure whether or not I should've worn a suit jacket.”

“Yes…” Howl would peek over the top of his desk and study Donny Boy up and down, a salient tone of fascination in his voice. “You really are quite the physical specimen, aren't you?”

“I suppose I do enjoy a good workout,” Donny Boy replied, a little bit bashful.

“You do have a basic understanding of the type of job you're here applying for today, don't you?” Howl asked.

“I believe so… The ads in the newspaper said Experienced private investigator in search of young and capable partner…”

“That's right. And being a private eye, it's important to have a plethora of tools at your modest disposal. One of those tools being the ability to effortlessly mesh into your surroundings. It's important not to stand out too much when in a public crowd or when casually photographing somebody's license plate from across the road. At the moment, I'm having some doubts on that possibly being a strong suit of yours given your current… how should I say… physique.”

“Oh… Well, to be completely honest with you, Mr. Bishop, I haven't even paused to consider that as a possibility.”

“Yeah, well, thinking a few steps ahead is also an invaluable tool to have.”

With more than a quarter of a century of busy detective work under his belt, his hair having grown white as Winter's ashes and the once buoyant Spring in his footsteps having lost some of its feather throughout the years, Howl Bishop was originally from the lands of sunny, Southern California, born on a weekday in a rushed and overcrowded hospital in the blighted city of Los Angeles.

Brought up in a bohemian household, Howl's anxious mother was a failed, Hollywood actress turned “new-age” healer and father was a meddling screenwriter that had spent more of his time obsessing over the quality of the ink in his typewriter than ever inundating his children with any orderly grants of wisdom.

Standing at six-foot even in height, a strong, conquering jaw and with an even tan across his arms and facial features, Howl was one of the many foreign expats sailing over from the States in purge of more permanent roots in Pan de Leones. Old, brown, leather belt holding up his wide, beige-colored slacks, Howl always wore floral, Hawaiian shirts when in settled eye of the public, mixtures of white and pink and with a couple of loose buttons up toward the collar.

With his sharp, Anglo features and light attire, it was entirely common to mistake Howl Bishop for a possible tourist visiting Latin America for the first time, sightseeing across the country and falling for obvious scams at the nearby market. That is, of course, until one caught an initial glimpse of Howl's encyclopedic knowledge of the city's urban layout and sprawling geography, along with his ease of verbal fluency when communicating in Spanish, often conversating with local barkeeps and store merchants on objects ranging from the wise and esoteric to the lurched, mind-numbing, and trivial.

“I would like to procure a general gauge on how comfortable you might be interacting with the more unsavory avenues of human society,” Howl would lean back into his seat and ask, clamping his hands together and placing his palms over his stomach.

“Could you be more specific?”

“In such line of work, one all too often will find themselves having to calmly intermingle with unrested eyes of broken glass and scoundrels. Do you possess any real-world experience dealing with scum and the morally compromised?”

“Uhm…” Donny Boy appeared curtailed by Howl's question, unsure of how to respond. “I once dated a girl that refused to pay off her parking tickets,” he said.

Without managing to reply, Howl simply stared in confusion from his seat across the desk, reevaluating his initial impressions on the kid. Then, squinting his eyelids a little, he felt inclined to change the current subject and asked, “I don't mean to suddenly swerve off topic, but… have we met before?”

“What?”

“Well, I'm looking at your face, right now, and… I can't help but get the feeling that this isn't the first time that we've been in the same room. Do we know each other?”

“I do not believe we have ever met, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy was quick to point out in response, laughing out loud a little to himself while nervously shuffling around in his seat. “I've always done alright remembering faces and my mother had always told me it was rude to forget someone's name.”

“Hmm… I guess in my advanced age, my average perception of things has grown a bit muddy. I suppose I simply must be confusing you for somebody else.”

Wide, rugged shoulders, preposterous arms, and with a large, outward, and muscular chest, Donny Boy was young and handsome and had shaded, bronze-colored skin. His lightly brushed hair was a wild, sunflower-blonde of which he maintained in perfect tinge and kept the darker shadows of his roots regularly dyed. Along with the fancy, finely tailored fedora resting on his head, the crumpled price tag of which he had just recently stuffed into his pocket, Donny Boy wore a normal pair of rectangular, blue-framed eyeglasses, granting him a bit of a barbarous librarian kind of a look.

Dark eyebrows and with the small patch of facial hair on his chin routinely trimmed, Donny Boy had entered the office wearing a short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt, the generous, overfed muscles of his upper body appearing to want to tear through the clothing and with a clean pair of ruby-red suspenders attached to the waistline of his denim-blue slacks, tugged and strapped-up over his mountainous shoulders. He also had on a dorky, red bowtie for the occasion.

“How old are you, Donny Boy?”

“I'm twenty-eight years old, Mr. Bishop.”

“And what's your sleep schedule like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sleep schedule. Have you developed the habit of going to bed around the same time, every night?”

“I believe so. I've never been one to indulge in any late-night festivities. Why do you ask?”

“Well, when living the demented life of a private eye, it's not uncommon to have to commit to some later hours on the unplanned occasion: car stakeouts after midnight; navigating the craze of urban nightlife on foot; purchasing some nefarious lawyer a hundred shots of overpriced vodka at the stripclub just for a few layers of common information. Do you drink coffee?”

“I've never been much of a coffee drinker, no.”

“Well, you definitely should be. Sugar highs and caffeine are going to be your most reliable friends on those late nights when you most need them. Either that or… well… you know…” Bringing his hand up to his face, Howl used his finger to tap the side of his nose.

“Oh, no way, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy immediately replied. “I wouldn't even think of touching that stuff. I've always had a firm stance against any illegal drug use.”

“That's good,” Howl said. “I've noted my fair share of innocent souls throughout my time wasting away from drug addiction. A found sense of longed-for excitement is what initially lures them in. And then, after enough restless days turn to night, enough sleepless nights turn to chaos, suddenly they look up and… the neon lights on the street don't seem as vibrant as they once used to…”

Donny Boy would look at Howl with a sort of strange sense of wonderment, our detective's eyes having slowly migrated across the room toward the window, perceiving what, to him, had appeared to be an expression of profound fatigue captured on his face.

The sound of the vehicle screeching to a halt could suddenly be heard outside on the street, trashcans tumbling over and followed by the angry voice of a young woman shouting profanities.

“Oh no…” Donny Boy muttered underneath his breath, his eyes suddenly wandering over toward the window.

“What about your relationships?” Howl asked. “Do you have a wife or girlfriend? One of the more unfortunate aspects of being a private investigator is the difficulty you might experience maintaining a healthy inner circle. This is often a critical detail that turns the most people away.”

Donny Boy was completely distracted and had failed to pick up a single word, a growing look of nervousness on his face.

“Donny Boy, are you listening?”

The frantic sound of sudden footsteps quickly marching up a flight of stairs could be heard just outside the door to the office, followed by the reactions from Howl's trusted secretary demanding an unknown grouping's identification and honest proof of appointment.

“Move aside, lady! You don't want to have to get injured!” a young woman's voice hollered in response.

“How have they managed to find me?” Donny Boy wondered out loud to himself.

“We have you outnumbered and we're very upset!”

“What the hell is going on out there?” Howl began to react.

Suddenly, managing not to completely fly off its hinges, the door to the office was viciously kicked open, creating a sudden gust of wind that would travel across the room, knocking over a slanted stack of printed papers off the corner edge of the desk.

Standing in the open doorway, visible tension throughout her arms as her hands were forged into concrete fists, a young, teenage girl had a rancid look of anger on her face. A dark, navy-blue blazer over a knitted, bright, yellow skirt, the young woman was dressed in a traditional, school-girl's uniform and had her hair cut down short, visible scrapes and bruises on her knees giving out impressions that the girl was perhaps a bit of a rowdy tomboy.

“Nayaiko! I found him! He's in here!” the young girl shouted back over her shoulder.

She would then come into the office, and shortly afterward, her thin silhouette appearing in the doorway, an additional and secondary, young woman showed her face and seemed equally upset at the current moment. Dressed in an identical uniform as the first, this second girl had her hair much greater in length and stood with long and beautifully braided pigtails poking out the sides of her head.

The second girl entered the office and shut the door.

Standing over Donny Boy who seemed to be trembling in his seat a little, the first girl snarled out of her nostrils and said, “This is the second time this week you tried to ditch us…”

“This honestly isn't the best time, girls,” Donny Boy said, his voice a bit shaky.

“You know, we were standing outside the changing booth for thirty-five minutes before we realized you weren't there,” the second girl would report. “You told us you were trying on some hats!”

“I did! Look!” Donny Boy then lifted the hat up off his head to showcase. “I ended up purchasing this really awesome fedora for myself. It's really cool, isn't it?”

Neither girl seemed to want to take the time to respond. They simply crossed their arms in defiance and stood with a pair of inconsolable scowls on their faces.

Continue...

[creature-wizard]

Any ideas about how to respond to people who are “anti-cult” but in a shitty/sexist way?

Context: I’m a (queer) leftist Christian whose denomination is progressive, but have a couple friends who are queerstakes (queer Mormons in community w each other bc the mainstream church is homo/transphobic) & 1 queer lefty Catholic. We’ve all encountered, but them more so, people who want to “save us” from religion in some way.

For me it’s mostly the type of Nü Atheist/antitheist extremist who I can laugh off easily because they’re arguing against a version of ‘my church’ that I’m not in, but especially my Mormon friends will have a harder time because (as with Catholicism) their congregations really are kind of safe-haven offshoots of far-more-conservative traditions, whereas I actually have a synod/denominations/bishops to back me up. But a thing that comes up repeatedly especially for the Mormons is “You’re in a cult”, and with both the language of “You THINK you like it and you THINK you’re happy, but you’re so brainwashed that you don’t know your own mind, you have no agency, and if you just abandoned your (hard-fought for, safe-haven) religious community you’d become Normal, you’ll see!!”

Now. This really rubs all of us the wrong way as a group of queer people who are mostly women. “You can’t trust yourself, you’re incapable of logic, you don’t know how to think for yourself, you have no agency or desires of your own” comes off sexist as all Hell, and appeals to “Try being like everyone else, it’ll make you normal” call to mind religious conservatives who call you back to the fold or push conversion therapy on you. It feels like this is itself trying to deny them agency to make their own choices.

But people (online, or in person in college mainly) never believe the beliefs are genuine or that they’ll ever be safe even among other queer people and progressives.

So I guess the question is… how do you convince someone you don’t need deprogramming when you come from a tradition which is, overarchingly, a lot more high-control to the point that I get why when people say “Mormonism is a cult” etc. When you’re religiously-observant but treated as apostate by a lot of people. Etc.

Any thoughts on ways to respond or explain? Or should they just disregard it because of the bad attitude involved?

I'm not really sure. I think many ex-Christians are channeling their own traumas with Christianity into these conversations, which means they aren't really in a good headspace to be reasoned with.

Maybe it could be useful to start a conversation about how their behavior is Christian missionary behavior in a new hat, and ask them why they think they're going to get a positive response to a type of behavior that they themselves would find incredibly obnoxious. But, I can't guarantee it would work.

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Woe, Crack Baby Shitten au be upon thee.

(@bamsara 's little doodle of Nari being dubbed Cult Babysitter and holding a little lamb irrevocably changed my brain chemistry. So of course, I'm now making it everyone else's problem with the headcanon that Narinder is good with children of all ages.)

A couple of months before Lamb gets captured, they meet another lamb or a very small flock that have to split up very quickly after meeting since there's more chance of the lamb species surviving if they aren't all together. In the meeting, Lamb agrees to try continue the lamb species and gets pregnant via *magic* or afab.

Of course, all of the lambs are captured and killed with Lamb being the last, still a few months away from giving birth.

But then they are chosen and resurrected by The One Who Waits.

Fun fact: a fetus can survive for a few minutes after the death of the carrier. (Also this is a world with magic and gods in it. Logic means nothing to me.)

Lamb starts their cult, crusades across the lands and meets all sorts of allies and enemies. All while quietly mourning their entire species and the child that never would be.

Right up until they go into labour.

The baby is lamb through and through with soft wool, wide eyes, tiny cloven hooves and floppy ears.

But the influence of the crown is blazingly obvious since the baby's wool is jet black and they have three red eyes.

I can't tell which would be funnier. Lamb giving birth in The Lonely Shack or while they are physically in The Gateway just post-beating Leshy. Like they were in active labour right throughout fighting Leshy and had no idea. Either way, it's Shocked Pikachu .jpeg all around. (My fucking KINGDOM for a doodle of this.)

Various dot point shenanigans under the cut

There are two ways to go about this. But either way, Baby is not staying in the Cult. Too dangerous, especially if word gets to the Bishops about there being another lamb. So Lamb can and will speed-run this shit. So it takes them about 4-6 years to fully defeat the Bishops.

Baby stays with Ratau:

Lamb goes and yells at TOWW. They are panicking because they have no idea how to raise a probably-half-god baby.

Narinder has no idea what happened right up until Lamb comes in screaming about him being a Baby Daddy and child support.

Ratau is Grandpa now. This is his fate. He embraces the Grandpa life.

Baby learns how to play knucklebones before they can speak.

Shrumy tries to wager with Lamb/Ratau for the whole Baby. Once and only Once.

Baby's first word is dice. Or die.

Baby worships TOWW, but they are a Baby and don't really comprehend worship so the small shrine gets a lot of flowers, neat rocks and some drawings. Narinder always gives a lot of gold for them. And No, it's not favouritism. Shut up.

Baby knows curses. This is concerning for everyone except Baby.

Baby gets a little TOWW doll. It's their favourite, it goes everywhere with them and washing it is a nightmare for everyone involved.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower because of the doll.

↑ this action will have consequences.

When Baby is not so baby, they make stuff out of their wool for TOWW and for his disciples. Or asks their parent to help them make stuff.

Cue Lamb awkwardly giving the three some very wonky scarves or hats.

Baal loves it.

Aym refuses to take his off. Ever.

Narinder is actually upset cause his doesn't fit. He's too big. He had to wear it like a little ring.

Or Baby stays/is brought to the Gateway ala Aym and Baal situation:

If Lamb gives birth in the Gateway, everyone is getting a free midwifery education and free trauma. The cats want a refund.

Ya know when a baby instinctively clasps their little hand around a finger and it's like a crime to pull away? That but with Narinder's big ass claw that Baby can only barely cling to.

Aym cries the first time he holds Baby.

Baal straight-up refuses to give Baby back for a good hour.

Lamb visits at least once a day.

Lamb also brings baby things since a baby will do what a baby will do.

Depending on how old Aym and Baal were when they were gifted, Narinder is either learning all of this for the first time or is reminded of how challenging baby care can be.

Narinder purrs = a zonked Baby.

Baby's first word is Vessel.

Baby is taught to fight. Lamb doesn't like it but accepts it.

Baby has a little lamb doll. It is only due to the fact the afterlife doesn't have dirt that they avoid the nightmare of trying to wash it.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower since they refuse to be parted with him for long.

↑ this action will have consequences.

Lamb teaches Baby about being a lamb and if Aym and Baal join in, well who are they to deny their child's only friends/guardians this?

Narinder and Lamb figure out how to get Baby to teleport to the Living World and Baby gets to visit Grandpa Ratau.

Post-game shenanigans.

Narinder: Give me back my crown. Lamb: Ok. Sure. Narinder: I will now sacrifice my most devoted follower (the Lamb) for my freedom. Lamb: *Kill Bill sirens*

Lamb somehow doesn't kill Aym and Baal and instead kidnaps them via Indoctrination Circle out of spite/ reluctance to hurt them.

Narinder feels betrayed that the Lamb would refuse like this and kidnap his acolytes. He was going to resurrect them! He can't fully commit to raising a child while being the God of Death.

Lamb feels betrayed that Narinder would want to kill their child. After all they've been through together! After the way they saw him treat Baby with such gentleness and now he wants to kill them?!

This comes out in the very final moments right before Lamb goes to give the final blow.

Narinder: You are a vengeful false idol and a traitor! Lamb: At least I'm not a monster who wanted to kill my own child! Narinder: Wait. What.

This devolves into a massive argument with divorced-couple vibes.

Narinder is insulted and a bit hurt they thought he would kill his own child.

Lamb is hurt that Narinder would just demand their sacrifice without even talking to them about the whole situation.

Either way the lesson learned is Narinder needs to be more blunt and Lamb needs to not jump to conclusions.

So they are left with a newly usurped Narinder and a newly crowned Lamb. Oops.

Baby is with Ratau when all of this is going down.

Baby is happy their family is all together properly. Baby is Not Happy about this whole cult thing demanding attention from Their Baba.

The Cult is baffled by the sight of their leader with both a baby and a Spouse? Bitterly Divorced Ex? Estranged Co-parent?! What ever it is, most of them have elected not to touch the whole situation with a 10ft barge pole.

Baby learns what the word Father is and how that word refers to Narinder.

Baby calls Narinder Father/Papa/Daddy. Instant KO.

Narinder somehow gains a small hoard of children that like to follow him. Baby Does Not Approve.

Baby also Does Not Approve of this newly formed rift between their parents.

Cue Parent Trap level of Shenanigans.

Aym and Baal are recruited.

The Hoard of Children are recruited. Baby now Slightly Approves.

Narinder and Lamb have an Actual Conversation after the 18th time they get locked in the confessional together.

This of course evolves into Narilamb.

Bishops are saved from purgatory.

Despite all attempts otherwise, Baby is introduced to them.

Shocked Pikachu .jpeg x4

Maybe after a few more years, not-so-baby Baby wants a sibling.

This got so much longer than I thought but yes. Shitten Shenanigans: Accidental Child Acquisition flavoured.

[yelenaslyubov]

A New Frontier: Part 3

𓃗𐚁🏜𖤓⋆｡° ✮ // a new frontier // part 1 // part 2 // part 3

main masterlist || yelena belova || requests

a/n: this is for the one anon that wanted more of a new frontier, this one is for you🙈

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairing: yelena belova x reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ warnings: language, combat, blood

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ description: after your mishap with your horse, several members of the team accompany you on a trip into town to find some appropriate clothes to wear for the entirety of the mission. though the day passed normally, the night brings the beginnings of your biggest fight yet.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ word count: 2.9k

Somehow you got conned into going shopping with Yelena, Kate, Kamala, and Peter. Peter was an afterthought and he practically invited himself, but you couldn’t care less. It made the entire situation less awkward.

“So, exactly how far is this place we’re going?” Peter asked.

“Well, if you break it down, it’s a couple cities over. So…it takes as long as we need,” Kate replied.

“What does that even mean, Kate Bishop?” Yelena asked.

“I don’t know, I’m just watching the GPS!”

“I’m hungry,” Kamala complained.

“You guys didn’t need to come,” you told them.

“Are you kidding me? Of course we needed to come. Besides, you can’t go the entire trip stealing my wardrobe,” Kate said

You looked down at the jeans and purple flannel that Kate had given to you and you winced. Definitely not your color. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said sarcastically.

“Why didn’t you bring your own clothes, anyway?” Peter asked.

You tried to avoid the unprofessional answer. Yelena looked over at you, obviously wondering what kind of answer you would create. “Uhm, I just wasn’t sure what to bring, honestly.”

“It seemed pretty simple to me?”

You sighed. “I don’t know, I guess just because I’ve never really been around horses.”

“It’s not like Mr. Stark exactly gave us a list or anything,” Yelena tutted.

“Jeez, who pissed in your cereal this morning?” Kate asked.

“No one.” Yelena sulked as she looked out the window and waited for the minutes to pass.

You did not love the energy that was happening in the car, mainly because of the unnecessary tension that you felt. You weren’t sure what caused Yelena’s small outburst over your lack of wardrobe, but perhaps she was trying to cover for you.

It felt like a century later as you saw the sightings of a faint town in the distance. You rolled in kicking up dirt trails behind the tires of the truck. The faces of passerby’s were plastered with frowns and suspicion. You shook off the cold glances and turned your attention to the street, or what you thought was a street.

There was no pavement that could be seen, only the endless fog of dirt that was floating from the other cars going through town. The small town you could see only consisted of a few store fronts on each side of the road, a gas station, and several houses that were spread out behind each of the buildings.

“Anybody else ready to leave already?” Kamala asked nervously.

“Me,” everyone replied.

“Let’s make this fast; in and out preferably,” Kate said.

The truck pulled to the closest spot near a store that simply said “GEAR” in faded letters. Each of you got out of the truck and observed your surroundings before charging in. It was clear that everyone was staring in your direction.

“Why are they staring at us like that?” Peter asked.

It was clear that you all stood out like a sore thumb. Each person you saw couldn’t be a day below 70, which was answer enough.

“Maybe we just need to act like we fit in?” Kamala changed her posture and began to walk with a sway in her hips. She tipped her hat to an older man walking by, earning a disgusted look.

“Your theory is foolproof,” you said.

“I don’t like this, we should hurry,” Yelena added. Even though the negative energy clouded the air, you didn’t seem to mind until the unshakable Yelena mentioned that she was nervous.

You all followed her lead and walked inside the store. You were met with a stale smoke that hung heavy, causing everyone turn their noses up.

“What is that?” Kamala said while holding her nose.

“Old,” said Kate, “very old.”

“What can I do you for?” a man from behind the counter said. By the look of him, along with the store, the smell started to make sense.

“Uhm, clothes?” Peter said unconfidently.

“Well, you bunch came to the right place!” He ended his sentence with a toothless grin.

“Ah!” Kamala accidentally blurted and you elbowed her in the side.

“Men on the left, women on the right.” He waved his finger around to each side of the room to signal the different sections. Once he was done holding your attention, he looked down at his newspaper and continued reading.

You were picky about how your clothes fit, so you interchanged between the men’s and women’s sections. To start off, you searched through the hats of all shapes and kinds.

“What about this hat?” Kate asked while placing it on your head.

The hat was tan, with a long brim in the front and the back. It was far from your style.

“I’m going to respectfully pass on this one,” you told Kate.

“Fine, be that way,” she mocked.

You laughed and continued looking through the other merchandise. There were little to no options for jeans, but you managed to find a couple pairs to last you the trip.

In addition, you found a selection of shirts, flannels, and utility jackets. You wanted to be prepared for anything that you may have to face, especially now that you knew what to expect.

You felt another hat being placed on your head and you turned around to face Yelena. “What about this one?”

The way her eyes looked up at you suddenly had you at a loss for words. You played it off the best you could by hiding your face, turning to the closest mirror to look at the hat.

“I have to say, you have good taste Belova.” The hat she picked out was a coffee color with a shorter and flat brim all around. It was the perfect amount of country and casual.

“It suits you,” she commented.

This time, you took your chance and smiled back at her in the mirror. The moment didn’t last long once the store bell rang and a few men walked in.

Yelena was immediately on alert, even if the guests weren’t necessarily threats. Everyone had to be evaluated and assumed as such.

The men were serious looking and did not look like they belonged around here. They walked around as if everything was unfamiliar to them, making them an even stronger suspect.

Yelena left your side and got everyone else’s attention. Now that everyone was aware of the strangers, Yelena went outside to wait on them. Though she liked to mess around, Yelena knew when to snap into Avengers mode in order to fulfill her duties.

You walked over to Peter, Kate, and Kamala. “What was that all about?”

“Yelena said she was going to stake out outside until they’re gone. She wanted to scope out their vehicle and if there was anyone else with them,” Kate said.

“How does she even know they’re bad guys?” Kamala asked.

“She doesn’t, but she has a feeling. I trust her,” you told her. For the short time that you had known Yelena, there were few instances where her gut was wrong.

For the rest of your time spent inside the store, you and the other three killed time while the strange men finished up their business. After several minutes, they left with tactical gear, which did not help their case in being any less suspicious.

You took it upon yourself to bring your haul up to the counter to pay. You ended the trip with a couple pairs of boots and jeans, several shirts, jackets, and one hat, specifically the hat that Yelena picked out.

“Here use this.” Peter handed you a card he picked from the depths of his pocket. “It’s from Mr Stark.”

“Sweet!” Kamala squealed.

You took it without question because you knew you couldn’t pay for it yourself. The others laid their picks on the counter as well to pay for it as a whole. You bid the owner a goodbye and thank you as you all took your things and left.

As you exited the building, you found Yelena outside on the porch in an old rocking chair. “What took you so long?” she complained.

“You told us you were watching the guys leave so we stayed inside. Was that wrong?” Kate matched her energy.

“I don’t suppose so,” Yelena said with a groan as she pushed herself out of the chair.

“Well, what did you see?” you asked, since it clearly didn’t seem like she was going to continue the conversation.

“Oh yes, they’re definitely bad,” she chuckled. “They left in a hurry, dust everywhere behind them. They were driving a large black military vehicle of sorts.”

“We should tell Mr Stark,” Peter said, worryingly.

“We don’t know anything for sure, so we will be cautious until the time comes,” Yelena rebuked. “Now, we should go. I’m tired of these people looking at me like I have one too many eyes.”

You looked around at several people slowing their walk to observe the young group of you. “I hate it here,” Kamala said.

“Come on, let’s go,” you said, while placing your hand on her arm and leading her to the truck.

Each of you piled in once again, but you took the liberty of stealing the passenger's seat. To your surprise, Yelena climbed into the driver’s seat. You didn’t expect to be in this position once again, but you weren’t complaining.

The drive back to base went much faster than going, especially since there were less nagging voices whining in your ears. Peter and Kamala were just sleeping against one another and Kate was staring out the window, the same as you.

“So, which hat did you go with? The right one I hope,” Yelena said.

“You would be correct. I went with yours.”

“See, nobody listens to me. I have good style!”

You smiled shyly. “You definitely do, there’s no doubt about that.”

You couldn’t help but take a glance at her chosen outfit today. She had a simple button up that was disguised by a beige work coat and another black trench type coat on top. In addition, she had a red bandana wrapped around her neck that matched the red feather poking out on her hat.

It was clear that you weren’t being very discreet about your admiration because Yelena was staring right back at you. This didn’t last long before she swerved back onto the road since she found herself drifting off of it.

You hid your laugh by looking outside your window. You caught a glance of Kate in the side mirror of her smirking face. It was the equivalent of getting caught by your parents in the act. Your face blushed hot in embarrassment and you hoped Kate would forget the act all together. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

When you arrive back to base, you and the rest of the group grab your things and haul them inside. Steve and Bucky looked as if they were just rolling back in on their horses, but no one else was outside.

“Successful trip?” Steve yelled.

“We got what we came for, let’s say that,” Kate responded, quickly running over to you. “What happened back there with you and Yelena?”

You shushed her and looked around for Yelena, but somehow she had already run inside. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t bring that up,” you groaned.

“Wouldn’t bring what up?” Kamala asked, now joining the group. You sighed again.

“Y/n and Yelena had a weird moment on the drive home and it made Yelena swerve off the road,” Kate explained. It was like torture listening to the story once again as if you didn’t already live it.

“Nothing happened! She just couldn’t see or something and accidentally drove off the road.” You tried to justify the coincidence of you and Yelena exchanging glances the same time Yelena decided to use the dirt as a road.

“Right,” Kate smiled, “nothing happened.”

Once the three of you walked inside, all conversation on the topic ceased thankfully. You were greeted by soft music playing from the turntable and the smell of food. Clint and Wanda were in the kitchen cooking up something delicious, while Nat and Sam were concentrating on playing a card game in the living room.

“Wow, what did you guys do-”

“Shhh!” Nat quieted Kamala. “We’ve been going at this for hours and I am not losing to him.”

“Him has a name you know,” Same said, offended.

“It’s probably best if we leave,” you whispered.

You guys walked down the hallway to your room and made yourself at home. You took it upon yourself to fold your new clothes into your trunk to have them neatly packed away.

The rest of the night consisted of a comforting meal and many conversations. You weren’t sure what the next day held, but everyone conveniently called it a night very early which didn’t displease you, as you fell asleep faster than you anticipated.

.

.

.

You weren’t sure what time it was, but you awoke quite suddenly to crashing coming from outside of your room. When you sat up, Kate was half way out the door and Kamala was starting to sit up to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

When Kate opened the door a man flew through it a few seconds later, slamming into the wall behind Kate and causing the three of you to scream.

“What the hell is going on!” Kate yelled.

“You’re a little late to the party!” Nat said, while choke-slamming someone into the ground.

You and Kamala pulled yourself together and ran into the hallways. From a distance, you saw Wanda levitating another man in the hair with her red, then throwing him out the front door.

The main room was chaos. Steve and his shield were having their way with someone, along with Sam in another corner. The house was too crowded so you, Kate, and Kamala ran outside to find another way to contribute.

Outside, Bucky and Yelena were using hand to hand combat to their advantage. Everything felt like a dream and you couldn’t quite take everyone seriously due to the fact that everyone was fighting in their pajamas. Yelena was beside the house with knives in hand, swinging them closer with each swipe at the man’s neck.

You felt an arrow zoom by and looked up to see Clint up on the roof for a better view. As you accounted for the fight inside and out, you tried to conjure up a plan to end this.

“Kamala, follow me,” you whispered.

She followed you while you ran to the barn. It didn’t take you long to find a gallon or two of gasoline that was residing right inside the doors. For an extra measure, you took a couple handfuls of hay.

Once you were back outside, you instructed her to help spread the gasoline all over the front lawn. On top, you sprinkled the hay to disguise the liquid, as well enhance what was coming to them soon.

You looked at Yelena once again and found her at the wrong time. She had been flipped onto the ground with a man standing over her with her own knife.

Kamala noticed and took quick action. With the power in her bangle, she conjured up her light and sent it flying Yelena’s way. It was measured perfectly, the small shard going directly through his neck. He fell to the ground rapidly, leaving a splatter of blood across Yelena’s face.

Yelena stood up out of breath. “Thanks,” she said to Kamala.

“Alright, we need to keep watch to see who all makes it out and then hopefully all goes according to plan,” you told Kamala and Yelena.

The three of you hit behind the side of the barn where you were still able to have a good view of the front of the house. Within a few minutes, the remaining men ran out of the house.

“There they are!” Kamala yelled.

That was your queue. You closed your eyes and quieted your breathing. Warmth spread from your wrists down into your hands and suddenly a ball of fire was formed before your very eyes. You cast the ball into a long stream of fire that shot directly into the puddles of liquid on the ground.

The gas caught fire immediately, as well as conveniently when the men ran into it. The three men left found themselves engulfed in flames, dancing around trying everything they could to put it out. The rest of the team inside came running out at the sound of screams.

After a few moments, the screams died just as fast as the men that snuck into the house. Everyone contributed to patting the fire with their feet to put out the weak flames.

“Quick thinking, y/n,” said Steve. “Is everyone okay? Belova?”

“Not my blood,” Yelena said, referring to her painted face.

“How did this happen, Steve? I thought Tony worked out all the logistics of this whole shield thing,” Nat said.

“I thought so too. I’ll get in contact with him tomorrow to figure something out to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

You walked over to the charred ground littered with the fallen men. The closest to you was facing the ground, but you flipped him over with your foot so that he was facing the sky.

You heard footsteps behind you. “It’s them,” Yelena said. “The men from town.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Positive, even with his face half melted. I know it’s him.”

You looked down at his body and a chill ran through you. A surface of untouched skin faced towards you with a large and undeniable brand of the Hydra logo you were far from fond of.

“And so it begins.”

.

.

.

☞ join my taglist!

taglist: @youreatotalposer // @xxromanoffxx // @avengerswriter4eva // @xxxtwilightaxelxxx // @la-reine-des-enfers // @chickenlittlsblog // @belovasecho // @youresuchamom // @kacka84 // @alotofpockets // @yamum-com // @maia-lightwoood // @lifeontop // @marvelwomen-simp // @sarah5462 // @jackharlowsshawty // @batmanzbae-blog // @yelenabelovasbxtch // @marvelfan98 // @an-evergreen-rose // @popeheywardssecretgf // @lovelyy-moonlight // @justthis-stuff // @sat-yrr // @mythosphere-x // @daenerys713 // @bentleywolf29 // @natasha25052 // @ortega29 // @sherlockstrangewolf // @writing-randomness // @twentyonetornmyheart // @mathxa // @push-on-me // @natasha-romanoffs-world // @jade-maximoff // @umadirectioner // @ladyylesbian // @creaturismss // @youralphawolf72 // @tobiaslut // @flosbelova

[adhdbisexualramblings]

I really like your Bill Regressor headcanons! Have you thought about a scenario where you describe the circumstances under which Ford was able to positively make him regress? I'd be curious to hear more about that!

Aaaaa thank you!! I’m glad people enjoyed them!

I have thought of that scenario, actually! And I will now give it to you in story form! It’s long so I’m putting it under the cut.

(The story takes place during The Book of Bill’s “drunk karaoke session” (spoilers by the way), meaning that there will be alcohol use and also regression while drunk (Bill has problems). As stated before, Bill’s regression is not typical. His regression is very subtle. I’m hoping I wrote it adequately. :) )

(I also got WAY too into the pre-regression part so apologies regarding that-)

(A quick note: I am aware the Bill and Ford are not great relationship-wise. This story isn’t saying that they are, only that they had good moments together. I’m writing this as a what-if scenario based on headcanons - do with that what you will.)

Title: What a Night

Another knight hops across the board to tear into a bishop with its newly acquired sharp teeth.

“Bill-!” The laugh in Ford’s voice couldn’t be clearer as the horse-shaped piece happily chews its opponent. “That’s not valid!”

“That’s a regular move in inter-dimensional chess! I think you’re just a sore loser.”

Bill swirls his glass and takes a sip himself before offering it to Ford, who takes it gratefully to drink a larger portion. The glass never empties.

“God, you mix a good drink.” He praises with a content sigh, slumping further into the comfortable velvet seat.

“They don’t call me the “universe’s best bartender” for nothin’, you know!” Bill blinks once and leans across the chessboard, knocking over a few pieces, “Wink!”

Stanford grins. He moves to grab a rook and jerks back when it snaps at his finger. He laughs joyously and retries.

“Well, I was Jersey’s best chess player for nearly a decade straight,” to the kids that would play against him, which weren’t many. Still, Ford boasts, “and I can’t assess your bartender thing - I don’t get out into the inter-dimensional bars too often, but you…your drink was…oh, boy,” he giggles, already feeling tipsy. Bill laughs loudly at that; it echoes through the Mindscape.

After many, many, chess rounds that ended in ties, the two companions are more wasted than ever.

“No, Bill, we’ve played We’ll Meet Again five times already.”

Bill pokes an accusatory finger at Ford, hogging their one microphone.

“Shhhut it, IQ. You - you just have terrible taste. ‘K?”

Ford huffs but lets the karaoke happen. He crosses his arms and waits on their couch while Bill slurs the lyrics, completely unaware of his  own volume level. Still, he seems to be enjoying himself. The music in the Mindscape stops. Bill droops in place as soon as it does, microphone dangling in his loose fingers. Singing his heart out to Vera Lynn each and every time probably wasn’t a great idea.

“…OK, I’m bored. Your turn.”

Ford catches the microphone tossed his way and grins widely. Bill replaces his spot on the couch, wiped out. He sighs deeply and adjusts his hat as Ford decides. All Bill needs is a little more pep, he’s sure of it. Hell, he’ll offer some to Fordsy, too. With a clunky wave of his hand, Bill’s “Myoclonic Jerk” appears in his hand. It wobbles in his lax grip before he grips it with both hands and chugs what would be the whole glass if the drink wasn’t infinite. A fuzzy feeling wraps around Bill instantly, and he’s too distracted to realize it’s more than the buzz of alcohol.

“Hey, Sixer!” He leans forward and holds up the glass double-handed like a trophy. Ford whips around from the handy little song selection screen. His eyes fall on the drink. He stumbles closer to the couch to take it.

“Hey, wo-oah, smaller sips.” Bill advises without much actual danger attached to it, clearly amused. He snaps his fingers, popping the drink out of existence after Ford’s share. Ford blinks at his empty hand in confusion, making Bill laugh again. It’s closer to a giggle this time. Ford gathers himself in time to glance at the selection screen.

“Oh, I picked som-something. C’mere.”

Bill floats up, finds himself unsteady, and conjures his cane to “help” him keep his balance despite the fact that the cane is no help at all. He stumbles some and giggles. Bill twirls the cane poorly, squinting at the screen.

“Disco Girl?”

Ford’s drunkenness doesn’t stop him from being self-conscious, it seems. He chuckles with a hesitant smile.

“It’s admittedly catchy.”

Bill crinkles his eye into a grin, bouncing a little.

“Hey, I’m stellar at keeping secrets, Fordsy!”

The song plays.

Saturday night is a night alright Time to groove till the morning light..

Bill knew of Ford’s guilty pleasure for the pop group, but the way he sang with such carefreeness for the entire three minutes had even the triangle surprised. Ford was similarly surprised and overjoyed when his companion also knew the lyrics.

At some point, Ford gets into the groove of the song and starts dancing along. Bill, also plenty giddy, follows suit.

Ford laughs between lyrics, a grin lighting up his features - the laugh booms around the Mindscape. It’s bright, hearty, and from the belly. Bill takes a moment to address the warm pit that laugh leaves in his body. He grins again and gets closer.

Their dancing stays separate for the most part, until Bill slings a hand around Ford’s shoulder and Ford grazes his hand long enough for Bill to feel it.

Bill freezes at the touch. Ford doesn’t, perfectly content. Slowly, Bill takes his hand away to stare at it with a wide eye. The part where Ford’s warm hand had touched his buzzes softly.

The fuzzy feeling from the alcohol and other factors increases. Bill blinks. An odd feeling wells up the longer he keeps thinking of the touch. He’s thinking so much that he doesn’t notice the song end.

“-Bill?” The voice calls.

The addressed demon blinks again - must’ve spaced out. He keeps his touched hand suspended and looks to Ford. The human stopped dancing a while ago and realized his companion had looked off.

Ford must have gotten concerned, Bill realizes. It makes Bill feel…nice.

He finds he wants something from Stanford. It’s not the portal or eternal servitude; Bill knows that’s not it. It ties to the fuzziness he’s been feeling. He decides to figure it out.

He grins and laughs, not fake in the slightest.

“Hah! Do that again!” Bill thrusts his hand to Stanford, the implication being clear as day in his mind, which is starting to feel even happier.

“…Do what?” Ford asks with an owlish blink. He looks down at Bill’s hand and looks to his own six-fingered one, gears turning. It finally clicks, “Hold your hand?”

Seeing nothing wrong with it and susceptible to suggestions, Ford fulfills the request and bring his hand to clasp it around Bill’s smaller one.

The warmth from Ford travels up Bill’s arm and only adds to the warmth in the rest of his body. Bill blinks silently again. Oh. Wow, that felt…comfortable?

Bill slips.

Without registering what he’s really doing, he leans into Ford and grips one of his fingers with his hand, moving to sit on his shoulder. Ford makes a little noise of confusion, to which Bill only giggles at. In a second, all the alcohol is figuratively flushed out of Bill’s system as his earlier excitement dies. Ford frowns.

“Bill? Are you alright?”

Bill gathers himself with a chuckle, “Pfft. Of course I am, Fordsy.” He lies.

Bill’s getting oddly sleepy. He was used to this tiredness, however; it went hand-in-hand with the fuzzy feeling. He squeezes Ford’s finger tighter, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Y’know what? It’s been a long night,” Bill starts, temping down the slight fog in his mind.

“…Has it?” Ford asks confusedly. Even intoxicated, he notices the behavior switch in his muse.

“O-oh, sure!” Bill finds that he’s unusually tired. It must’ve been the alcohol’s effect. He hopes his stammer isn’t noticeable, “I mean, this stuff’ll give ya a heck of a hangover.” He laughs falsely again, snapping his fingers.

Their couch immediately turns into a simple, cozy-looking, bed. Ford stares at it oddly.

Bill leaves Stanford’s shoulder but doesn’t let go of his hand. It gives him too much comfort.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s get you to bed.”

Without waiting for an answer, Bill physically pulls Ford toward the bed with impatience. Stanford stumbles at the sudden movement but follows anyway out of curiosity. He falls on the sheets, Bill falls after him.

It’s unsurprisingly comfortable. Ford had been low on energy, but hadn’t realized how tired he had truly been until now. Not bothering to take anything off, he sprawls out over the blanket.

Bill, meanwhile, lightly kicks his feet off the edge of the bed, sitting near Ford’s stomach. His feet don’t even reach the bottom. Bill stares at them swinging with attention and an oddly childish look in his eye. He giggles quietly before noticing that Stanford has already lain down.

Bill moves to hold Ford’s hand again and crawls closer to quietly lay next to him. Ford’s coat is made of fabric that Bill just found out is really comfortable. He snuggles closer to his side, making sure that the human’s sleep in the Mindscape won’t take him back to the waking world before Bill wants him to. He’ll let Fordsy wake up when he’s sober again. That sounded much better.

Ford doesn’t let go of Bill’s tiny hand - maybe he’s too tired to notice. Bill sighs quietly and flutters his eye closed.

In one movement, the karaoke in the Mindscape starts playing a slow lullaby on low volume and the blankets suddenly cover both Ford and Bill comfortably.

Bill turns his eye into a mouth and shoves his thumb inside, sucking on it soothingly. He squeezes a sleeping Ford’s finger tighter as he himself dozes off.

[hussyknee]

Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

Download as EPUB

Download as PDF

(Let me know if you have any problems with the links or files.)

[thewisaaaaad]

Hnng. I. I GOT AnOTHER FhUCKING COTL AU

Ok so.

Game goes as normal, but the lamb decides to give themselves up to Nari at the end. Naturally, they get no choice in the matter and are forced to kill him, because the crown demands its proper bearer.

And I mean kill-kill him. Hes dead.

Of course, the lamb is NOT OK WITH THIS. So, they look for a way to bring him back. And good ol' mystic seller gives them an out.

The lamb basically throws all caution to the wind, and decides to take the ritual offered. With the sacrifice of four crowns, along with the end of their own now divine life, they send their soul back in time to prevent this tragedy.

Exept they go WAY farther back than they meant to. They end up born into a sheep family under the name Una, and grow up as a extremely gifted child, the pride of the town, but one who finds solace well away from their adoring family and neighbors. To the lamb, all these people are practically strangers.

But there's no sign of Narinder. In fact, there's no sign of the bishops, either. Until one evening, at the charming age of 14, their daily alone time in the forest is interrupted by a familiar three eyed cat.

Narinder had never had a family. Black cats were already considered bad luck after a black cat hat wronged the rabbit god, never mind the fact that his eyes were blood red and that he had three of them. He spent his early years in an orphanage after he was abandoned, and then on the run after a series of horrible accidents were blamed on him. The only solace he could take was with the mysterious sheep in his dreams, who only praised him, and loved him.

And now that sheep sat right in front of him, and looked as happy to see him as he felt about them.

It was too good to be true. But for a few years, it was exactly that good. Uni seemed to know him well, and brought him food every day. No longer did he have to steal food or dig through trash, they even made sure that he had good sleeping arrangements, bringing him blankets and a simple tent.

But as always in his life, tragedy struck again. Someone was murdered in the village, and of course they blamed the beast in the woods. He didn't know they were searching for him until a strange wolf tried to cut his head off with a axe. He lived, but something far worse happened.

The hand that had grabbed his wrist had began to decay violently. The stranger screamed as he rotted alive, skin falling off of bone before even that turned to dust. A few seconds of horrific screeching later, and all that was left of his assailant was a pile of ash and decay.

He couldn't let them see this. They would call him a monster, just like they all did. And they would be right. They had said he was just their friend, but he was a monster, cursed like all those people before had told him he was.

Luck, as always, was not on his side. Moments later, before he found the strength to move again, Una broke through the bush. They saw the rotting remains of the man, the fallen axe beside it.

And they didn't call him a monster. They sighed, stepped around the body, a stuffed pack slung over a shoulder. They reached for his arm, and he flinched away. He did not want to hurt them. But they grabbed him anyway, unharmed, and pulled him to his feet.

"We need to run. I'll help you pack."

They did not fear him. They could see what happened, and they wanted to protect him. Why?

Couldn't they see he was a monster?

Pulled by the hand, he ran after Una. They seemed to know where they were going, so he trusted them.

But they were intercepted by the lambs father. He held a hatchet in one hand, startled to see his child with the beast.

"My daughter, what-"

And then a dagger was plunged into his throat. Uni kept running, not even looking back.

They had always said that their family never seemed to matter to them. Not like he did. Apparently, they meant that more than he realized.

They were a monster. Just like him.

And they would do anything for him.

He smiled, and ran beside them into the future.

[mysadblacksoul]

Twenty One Pilots - Overcompensate theories (whoo!)

It's a face of someone who put so much lore in the MV that I genuinely don't know where to start

Pt.1 - MV

So the MV takes place right after the end of The Outside MV, pretty easy - logical Now are we relly back in Trench? Seing all the maps, and the way back from The Outside to Jumpsuit? Tracing back the map? Being welcomed? lol. no

Tyler (or Clancy, am I deadnaming him now???) is using the powers, that were mentioned in I Am Clancy video and the one that Ned gave him in The Outside MV As we can see Bishops still wants him to lure people, to make them surrender to live how the Bishops wants them to

So since Tyler is just using someone else to pretend that it's him we can assume that Josh is also a projection

Why is Josh here? Maybe as a representative of Banditos

Now we play heavily in the symbolism of mask. Of course mask symbolizes the difference between a fictitious identity and a real identity. But here we can see something interesting. If Tyler is taking off his mask he is his true self, yet if someone else tries to take it off you can see a different person

So let's see what the hell is Tyler even doing in the MV itself. Well he is doing both jobs. On the surfice, he is doing what the Bishops wants him to. But actually he is showing people some kind of code. (I am sure that all the gestures weren't just a silly choreography). He is showing them his true self (no mask) and giving a presentation on the secrets of Dema. I believe he is sharing the information that normal people were never supposed to know

Like the lyrics of Shy away, he is trying to "Just break the cycle in half". Break people's belief in the religion that the Bishops created and to ultimately take away their power

And after the lesson in the backrooms (lol I don't know how to word it differently) people have tape on their shoulders. But not only the red one. We can se the yellow tape. The legendary Bandito's tape

But what is the meaning of the end? For me people were so used to following the rulers, the rules and doing what they were told that after changing their mindset about the Bishops they still felt the need to follow somebody. That somebody will be Clancy

other small details will be nine red lights for nine Bishops

Tyler having a symbol for the band logo

So is Tyler tring to break the cycle from the very core? Well maybe, for sure what he does now is a complete diversion

Boy is ready to take a revenge, he even brought his best buddy to help

Pt. 2 - Lyrics

We need to start by translating the intro for sure so:

Diese kleine unheimliche Insel hat mich zu einer Waffe gemacht (From German) - This scary little island has turned me into a weapon

Wir glauben beide (From German) - We both believe

Cette petite île étrange a fait de moi une arme (From French) - This scary little island has turned me into a weapon

Nous croyons tous les deux que nous pouvons l'utiliser pour changer l'élan de cette guerre (From French) - We both believe we can use it to change the momentum of this war

So this is pretty much what we know from I Am Clancy video. Tyler and his powers are used by the Bishops to cause harm

And we already saw that first line, which comes from Clancy’s letter from 2022 posted on the dmaorg.info website.

I created this world / To feel some control /Destroy it if I want / So I sing, "sahlo folina" / "Sahlo folina" - This part comes from Bandito. It could be the call for Banditos, to tell them to beware of what is going on. Or it is the way of teaching the people the special code - which sahlo folina is for sure a part of

Earned my stripes - he earned his position in the city, possibly because of his powers

Bless your ear holes while you react, acting / Gobsmacked - maybe people were sent to this place by the Bishops to mess with their brains, but since Tyler is talking about something different to them they are confused

I feel like I was just here, same twitchin' in my eyes - he started just like those people, brainwashed with no sense of reality

Don't sleep on a boy who can fall asleep twice / In the same night - so he can die twice? Or maybe it is the dig that he is working on both sides, just undercovered

and won't hesitate / To maybe overcompensate - simply, Tyler is ready to kick some Bishops' asses and take revenge for everything wrong they ever did to him and other people

I said I fly by the dangerous bend symbol - the symbol that Bishops were making in Nico and the Niners Mv OR The symbol that Tyler uses (what he makes with his hands) is dangerous for Bishops, because it is a sign of rebellion OR (This one makes the most sense) it's U+2621 ☡ CAUTION SIGN, which was created by no other than Nicolas Bourbaki group of mathematicians. Nico is very important, since in Morph we have the lyrics of "He goes by Nico / He told me I'm a copy". So was Nico the first one to discover Clancy's powers?

And then by the time I catch in my peripheral - the peripheral vision is what you can see to each side or up and down without moving your head, or everything that you can see that isn't in your central vision. The peripheral vision might be the same as the rearview from Choker. So this is everything that he saw in Dema on accident, all the secrets that he cought with his eye. Once he saw them he is ready to change everything

Where am I from? I was born right here, just now / Originated right in front of your eyes - Clancy is from Dema, simple as that. He is the citizen and the escapee

If you can't see, I am Clancy, prodigal son - the reference to The Bible. Prodigal Son is "a man or boy who has left his family in order to do something that the family disapprove of and has now returned home feeling sorry for what he has done". Tyler for sure returned, bus is he really sorry? Or the Bishops made him act like he is?

Done running, come up with Josh Dun / Wanted dead or alive - JOSH DUN MENTIONED. But also comming to Trench with Josh could be a sign that Clancy wants people to see that Banditos are not bad people. Not someone who you should fear

So now you pick who you serve, you bow to the masses - make a choice if you gonna change your life or stay in the circle of madnesss

Half empty, half full, save half of your taxes - again, make a choice weather you're gonna think positively or negatively (glass half empty/half full)

Then overtake your former self - become a better person, better version of yourself and live your truth

Days feel like a perfect length / I don't need them any longer, but for goodness sake - just a perfect condition to make a change

Do the years seem way too short for my soul, corazón / Way too short for my soul, corazón - it is the reference to all the years Tyler lost while working and living in Dema

A wild ride, as always...

[theblorboscalledtheturtles]

TOTTMNT detail dump! Eps 5&6

I'm glad to see that this Mikey has the '12 Mikey expressive mask tail

Motion smears my beloved

Eyeballs

Mirage spotted!!

These designs are the coolest. I loved how the mechazoids adapted their environments. The middle left one in particular reminds me of those hat elite ninja from the 03 show, and the pink stuff is kind of Rise-Krangy. But I love them all.

AND I ESPECIALLY LOVE THIS GUY!!! BEST METALHEAD!!!

I'm sorry, but EPF will always mean Elite Penguin Force to me. That's right. Bishop is a club penguin secret agent. I don't make the rules.

Popsicle in the top left corner. And a bacon egg n cheeeeese!

[daydreaming-jessi]

“There’ve been many souls that have come and gone from the flock, some are just more memorable than others.”

Decided to doodle some cultists I’ve come up for in fics, had in my actual game, or a cool idea i came up with on the spot. Oh and Sozo and Webber are here too :D This is by no means the entirety of the cult, and there may be future followers that stand out too, but for now enjoy these guys. Feel free to ask about them I guess lmao

I will be putting down my written notes under a cut since they’re so small and scribbly ^^;

Brother Tyr, head priest, he/him: The Lamb's 3rd closest. Very stressed despite doing his job for 200 years. Tries and fails to be a peacekeeper in the cult. Tyr and Nari argue a lot.

Brother Narinder, head mortician, he/him: Don't piss him off. The Lamb's spouse. Best source of info on the crowns and outside world. Can do any job around the temple and will. When the Lamb isn't around.

Sister Merbre, temple organizer, she/her: Helob loves her. The main reason the temple runs when Lamb is gone. Has a surprising realist view. Everyone loves her. Romantic at heart.

Yeon, general worker, she/her: Has to let loose in demon form or else. Together with Julno. Friends with Narinder. Seeking absolution from her past crimes. 'Encouraged' Narinder to court Lamb.

Tyna, assistant mortician, they/them: Cult's head goth. Runs the slam poetry night. Also does piercings and tats.

Nanaon, retired missionary, she/her: One of the Lamb's most faithful. Insists she's not that old and can still work. One of the few mortals to earn the respect of both Deaths.

Firyn, farmer, he/him: A worker. Great with people and plants. Born after the fall of the Old Faith. Leshy's companion. Doesn't know the horrors yet. People tend to underestimate him.

Pura, general worker, she/they: Likes Firyn. Likes to manipulate things to her benefit. Doesn't like Leshy. Doesn't realize what being an ex-bishop means. Genuinely respects the Lamb.

Almer, refinery worker, he/him: Shamura's friend. Easy going. Wants a big family. A good confidant. Gives great hugs.

Grayden, silk sorter, they/them: Shamura's friend. Quiet but a beautiful singer. A shy pushover, but will snap.

Julno, farmer, he/him: Came with the 'coward' trait. Still scared of the Lamb, and Yeon's 'bestie' Narinder. Together with Yeon. Doesn't know her murderous urges.

Poppy, she/her: Best friends with Webber, youngest of the cult. Brave and tenacious Webber, he/them: Best friends with Poppy, youngest of the cult. Gentle and curious.

Dr. Sozonius, researcher, he/him: Amnesiac. Lamb is helping him find home. Extremely well educated about biology. Does not like the spider stalking him, or the mushroom.

Keeper, record keeper, she/him: Face is always obscured. Hates the Dark. Doesn't talk about his past. Has a strange locket that ticks. Always smells of salt.

Joobre, refinery worker/tailor, he/them: Loves working with silk. Has tea with Berith. Likes gold jewelry.

Thorty, bartender, he/him: Fights with Nari a lot. Short temper. Best with the drunks.

Bregrear, smith, he/him: Quiet. Knows his way around weapons. Old hat at this point. Hopes to retire in peace.

Harbre, smith apprentice/missionary, any pronouns: Hot tempered. Looks up to Bregrear. Married to Bathin, chases off suitors neither of them like. Longs to master their craft. Protective.

Anar, miner/lumberjack, he/him: Distrusting. Hard worker. Doesn't exactly trust the Lamb, but willing to give the cult a shot. Starts fights.

Fun-Gui, researcher assistant, they/them: Weirdly obsessed with Sozo. Self proclaims as his assistant. Other mushroomos don't like them. Always goopy and dripping.

Hajal, traitor, she/her: Left the cult. Status unknown.

[seeker-ophelia]

The King's Gambit

You guys I just had a thought and I am disturbed.

NO DATV SPOILERS.

(*hands you tin foil hat)

Please just.... just put it on please.

In DA:I ;

If you side with the Chargers, and you carry Bull and Solas in your party, they will begin to ‘mental chess’ with each other (Solas says he is trying to help bull get over the loss of the Qun, helps him realize hes not tal-vashoth).

See this “fan-made” (seems pretty professional to me…) video

I also recommend you read this blog post:

(But only after you’re done with mine.)

In chess you have many pieces that all serve their own function. There's the King and Queen, the pawns, bishops, knights, etc.

In the video (and in DA:I), we learn that Solas calls chess pieces by a different name then what The Iron Bull does; a tribute to the pairs wildly different upbringing.

IT IS THE SAME GAME, THE SAME PIECES, BUT THEY CALL THEM SOMETHING DIFFERENT.

But because they know how the game is played, and the way each piece works, this minor infraction does not stop them from their mental battle.

Solas opened (started) their chess game with the name of a Netflix limited series that most will find familiar; The Kings Gambit.

From a Chess Website:

King's Gambit is an aggressive Chess opening that falls under the category of open games. It is characterized by White sacrificing a pawn on the second move to facilitate rapid development and initiate an attack against the opponent's king, specifically targeting the f7 square. 

Ok I still don’t really understand what this means. Lets use Wikipedia.

From Wikipedia:

The King's Gambit is a chess opening that begins with the moves: 1. e4 e5 2. f4 King's Gambit is an aggressive Chess opening, that falls under the category of open games. It is characterized by White sacrificing a pawn on the second move to facilitate rapid development and initiate an attack against the opponent's king, specifically targeting the f7 square.  White offers a pawn to divert the black e-pawn. If Black accepts the GAMBIT, White may play d4 and Bxf4, regaining the gambit pawn with central domination, or direct their forces against the weak square f7 with moves such as Nf3, Bc4, 0-0, and g3. A downside to the King's Gambit is that it weakens White's king's position, exposing it to the latent threat of ...Qh4+ (or ...Be7–h4+),  which may force White to give up castling rights.

Sorry, lets read that again, from the lens of a not-chess player (which I am, so a millions apologies to the people smarter than me reading this who were like, girl ur dumb for just figuring this out).

White begins a game of chess. White offers up a pawn as a sacrifice to black. If black accepts this sacrifice, white’s central control of the board is vulnerable, BUT, they can aggressively attack black’s king.

SO what are the downsides of this move, then? Sounds like a winner for anyone who knows how to play chess (I do not).

Remember when I said:

In the video (and in DA:I), we learn that Solas calls pieces by a different name then what The Iron Bull does; a tribute to the pairs wildly different upbringing.

Bull and Solas call bishops weird things. They call knights weird things, but one of the pieces they agree on, is the tower (or as I call it, the Castle).  

Which is weird. I mean, when I was a kid learning chess I called it the castle. It looks like a castle, (or a tower) why not call it a castle?

My cousin, who “taught” me chess, also made me call the pieces their correct names, even though I thought bishop was stupid, and knight even stupid-er. And he made me call my castle by its proper name;

ROOK.

What the fuck is a Kings Gambit again?

You sacrifice a pawn, to gain control of the board. You’re vulnerable, but you have high attack strength.

So WHAT is the downside of Kings Gambit?

From Wikipedia Again:

A downside to the King's Gambit is that it weakens White's king's position, exposing it to the latent threat of ...(mastermind chess moves),  which may force White to give up castling* rights.

Castle?

You mean Rook?

*Castling is a move in chess. It consists of moving the king two squares toward a rook on the same rank and then moving the rook to the square that the king passed over.  Castling is permitted only if neither the king nor the rook has previously moved; the squares between the king and the rook are vacant; and the king does not leave, cross over, or finish on a square attacked by an enemy piece. Castling is the only move in chess in which two pieces are moved at once.

Lets Re-cap:

Kings Gambit is an aggressive chess opening where white (the starting player) sacrifices a pawn (Solas after Inky: check).

Black accepts Whites sacrifice and takes pawn.

White can aggressively attack black, but they are vulnerable.

*Happy Solas Noises*

Rook is their ultimate safety blanket, their last minute escape route.

Rook is White's last resort.

Solas set up a Thedas version of the kings gambit.

But are we playing WITH him? Or AGAINST him?

Oh, and by the way…

THE  KINGS  GAMBIT  IS  ALSO  CALLED  THE  IMMORTAL  GAME

Can someone drink the cool-aid with me pleeeease.

[the-paper-apricot]

Paul, Porter and "I love you"

The accepted explanation of the writing of the Wings hit 'Silly Love Songs', including that offered several times over the years by Paul McCartney himself, is that it was a riposte to criticism of his more sentimental love songs as light and insignificant.

I was getting slagged off for writing luv songs. You see, I’m looking at love not from the perspective of ‘boring old love’, I’m looking at it like when you get married and have a baby. That’s pretty strong: it’s something deeper.

Paul McCartney, from Club Sandwich N°47/48, Spring 1988 (cited here)

Although I've never seen this discussed anywhere, it's long seemed to me that there's another possible influence on the song. To my knowledge no one has ever asked Paul directly about this, so what follows remains just my headcanon. (If anyone knows something to the contrary, please let me know!)

Cole Porter, another preternaturally talented Gemini lefty.

While writing the songs destined for the musical Mexican Hayride (1944), Cole Porter was presented with a challenge by his close friend Monty Woolley. (Woolley was an American actor who you may remember in the delicious role of the Professor in the Christmassy classic film The Bishop's Wife.) Woolley reasoned that because Porter's songwriting mastery came in part from his unhackneyed, fresh lyrical ideas, he wouldn't be able to write a hit song with the simple, rather too obvious, repeated refrain of "I love you".

Monty Woolley with Cole Porter

It became a $25 wager, and Woolley also stipulated that his friend include reheated stale lines about spring and "birds on the wing". Porter duly wrote 'I Love You', which was the only standout in the show and in time topped the U.S. Hit Parade for several weeks, so he won his bet.

I would quite like to have been sort of a nineteen-twenties writer, 'cause I like that thing, you know. You know, up in top hat and tails and sort of coming on ... so, this kind of number, I like that thing. But, so this is just me doing it, and pretending I'm living in 1925.

Paul McCartney, talking about 'Honey Pie', interview with Radio Luxembourg, 1968

Melvyn Bragg: What's the longest you've ever worked over a song? 'Cause a lot of the lyrics, the more you read them, the more - and then they always read very straightforwardly and seamlessly, but when you read them again and again they're very complicated, and a lot of internal rhyming going on and a lot of extremely clever play. Does that - do you work on them quite hard? Do you go over them again and again? Paul: Well, you know I'm a fan of all that, the old-fashioned writing. You know, sort of Sammy Cahn's era, you know, Cole Porter, and I do like all that, when it comes off! I mean, I hate just silly rhymes, just, you know - but when it really comes off those are great little things in songwriting. So I was always aware of that from people like Cole Porter. So I'd always try and put something like that kinda thing in, sorta little internal rhymes, you were always going for that kinda thing. ... I can't explain it, you know, I've never been able to explain it, but it's like it comes in out of the blue. It sort of comes at you, you know, and - I'm sure the funnel that it's coming through's a lot to do with it, 'cause your little computer in here - my computer's sort of heard Billy Cotton Band Show going back there, you know and Cole Porter there, and this there and it's heard millions of influences through to Chuck Berry ...

from 'Paul McCartney: Songsmith' (The South Bank Show) January 1978

George Eells' book The Life That Late He Led: A Biography of Cole Porter was published in 1967 and remained the definitive life for about a decade. It mentions the 'I Love You' wager (p212), which became one of the better-known song origin anecdotes.

I have no idea if Paul McCartney knew this story. But I can imagine the professional challenge appealing to him, and perhaps especially tempting is the playful pairing of commercial reward with artistic defiance. 'Silly Love Songs', like 'I Love You' before it, was a big hit: Number 2 in the UK chart, and top of the Billboard chart in the States.

Did he dare himself to write a pop chorus that repeated the refrain "I love you", because Porter had done so? I dunno.* For what it's worth, I think the three melodic lines in the chorus of 'Silly Love Songs' exceed Porter's tune in both beauty and memorability.** (Although I do enjoy this sultry version recorded by Julie London.)

(*Just like I don't know if 'Why Don't We Do It In The Road' found any precedent in Porter's celebrated and racy-for-its-day song, 'Let's Do It, Let's Fall in Love'.)

(**But I mean, you'd expect me to say that, you know I've made paper dolls of him in his little Wings outfits tbf.)

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

on our fates alight--eikon list

Eikons and their Dominants

Riven DeGlass: Valefor*

Sebastian Astralyas: Odin*

Augustine Bishop: Halone*

Mathye Bishop: Halone*

Reinhardt Sauveterre: Zurvan*

Aeryn Striker: Asura, Zaine Striker: Daividipa (@autumnslance)

Klynt Gothawyn: Susano (@saesama )

Zoissette Vauban: Ozma*, Nyx: Omega (@driftward )

Alice Romanova: Agrias/Oschon (@matrixdragon )

Erick sas Gage: Thunder God Cid (@erickgage )

Y'zel Tia: Memphina (@yzeltia )

Thalia: Thal (@ladyofvoss )

Archon: Nald (@dapperpea )

Bylti: Tsukiyomi/Tungli (@scalefeathers )

Minti: Azyema (@minti-tales )

Karasawa Atraxae: Nyemia (also played by driftward)

Dark Autumn: Siren, C'oretta Kell: Maybe Behemoth's Dominant. No one's sure. Not even her. (also played by autumnslance)

Apple: Carbuncle/Proto Carbuncle (@eorziapple )

Estinien Varlienau: Nidhogg

Louisoix Leveilleur: Thaliak (briefly)/Phoenix

Foruchenault Leveilleur: Thaliak (briefly)

Alphinaud Leveilleur: Thaliak (as of Dawntrail)

X'rhun Tia: Rhalgr

Minfila Warde/Ryne Waters: Hydaelyn

Elidibus: Zodiark

------

others who have thrown a hat into this general sandbox:

Raven Cross: Ratatoskr (@lunarosewood23 )

Alisa Kim: Llymlaen (@dominantofstorms )

Archie: Alexander (@eorzeanflowers )

Storm Dancer: Rhalgr (@reassambled-dragoon )

---------

*Eikons are like Pokemon in my headcanon (hell also based off the XVI canon too!) in the fact they can evolve and become stronger. Any Eikon that has the little star next to them means they end up developing an Ascended form and powers by Shadowbringers.

[NOTE: Some characters/Eikons have not shown up in posted stories due to being within FC only.]

[homestuckreplay]

she seems like a pretty regular girl to me!

(page 651-663)

9/17/2009 Wheel Spin: Captchalogue Lore Verdict: ????????

9/18/2009 Wheel Spin: Parent Bad :( Verdict: Well I’d take Dad over Big Imp any day and I think John would agree.

9/19/2009 Wheel Spin: being silly :3c Verdict: John, Mid-Ogre Ambush: 'haha where are my trick handcuffs?'

3 days’ worth of pages here because work has been eating me alive and time to write about Homestuck has been tragically limited. I will keep this so so short and focus only on what’s really important.

Currently, John is facing down two adversaries. One is the Crude Ogres, the physical challenge, and the other is GG, the mental challenge. I am delighted to learn that these higher level enemies are called ogres so that I can stop referring to them as Big Imp.

‘Hanging from the tree is your TIRE SWING. In a kid's yard, a tree without a tire swing is like a proper gentleman without a monocle. That is to say, HE CAN HARDLY BE CONSIDERED A TERRIBLY PROPER GENTLEMAN AT ALL.’ This is from page 27 (!!) and now on page 663, one of the ogres has stolen the swing and equipped tireswingkind. I guess any semblance of this still being John’s yard and John’s house is gone. The other ogre has taken Sassacre’s, while the imps have plundered the magic chest. I guess I’m thinking about how everything in John’s home that means something to him is now being used to hurt him, how he doesn’t get a place of respite or even a safe place to keep his possessions, which only highlights the need for the captchalogue system – for John and as a part of the story.

I’m so excited about Dark Kingdom Politics based on how the small imps are scared of the big imps. Thinking of them as chess pieces, it would not be correct to say that pawns are scared of rooks and bishops, as in chess no piece can threaten another piece of the same color. But seeing them as soldiers from a ‘kingdom entrenched in darkness’ (p.424) engaged in a war against the light, this fear does make sense, suggesting a more complex social order and NPCs with an inner life and a motivation beyond ‘grab object and attack.’

With that in mind, ‘You stop being the imp because that was stupid’ (p.657) is too hasty, I think that command giver was onto something. Your name is PAWN #413. As was previously mentioned you are AN IMP. A number of your SIBLINGS are scattered around this house. You have a variety of INTERESTS. You have a passion for SILLY HATS. etc. I am being silly but I really would like to get their perspective, especially if it complicates the binary of light and darkness in ways that might affect John’s choices further in the game.

But the real star of these ogre pages is the visuals. The ogres are comically big, to the point where it’s hard to get a scale of how big in comparison to John. Seeing John’s house from a bunch of different vantage points, and then seeing a single toe curling in through the window or a hand slamming down from the roof as imps react in terror. I really enjoy quickly flicking through all these different angles of the house. I think this section would be cool as an animation too, like a faster paced version of the one on page 250 – I don’t know which version I’d like better but it’d be fun to compare.

The Sweet Bro & Hella Jeff on page 663 suggests we’ll cut back to Dave now, who, like John, is preparing for a dangerous rooftop encounter. Goodbye for now John <3

On page 651 we are treated to the LONG AWAITED GARDENGNOSTIC REVEAL!!!! We just get her silhouette (and pronouns, on the next page) so while I think the spikes on her head are just messy hair, it could also be a fun hat. This is a low bar to clear I’ll admit, but so much media has a lot more male characters than female, so I do appreciate Homestuck keeping things more balanced among the leads.

John’s dreams are represented in clouds. The two other places we’ve seen clouds are above John’s house before he was transported to the Medium (for example, p.82) and surrounding Skaia as it is described by Nannasprite (p.422-423). So it’s kind of like John is able to see all the way to Skaia in his dreams, and he sees his dad, a birthday cake, a box of Gushers, a harlequin emblem, Slimer, Harry Anderson, and finally his friend gardenGnostic. We then get a quick flash through the Sburb installation screen, a pumpkin, and a spirograph, as John suddenly wakes. Seeing the installation screen is especially wild – it’s like Sburb is reloading in his mind as he wakes.

Getting the GG sighting almost felt like a ‘be careful what you wish for’ moment, because John’s conversation with her on page 652 is the most frustrating thing I’ve ever read. If someone tried to message me like this I would block them. In past conversations GG has seemed mysterious, now she’s just obnoxious, and I don’t know if she’s reacting to John saying she ‘seems like a pretty regular girl’ and is trying to prove him wrong, or if there’s another reason.

For example, there are definite inconsistencies in how she talks about the meteor that might have been near her house, and possibly other things too. In the first Pesterlog we see between GG and John (p.169) she says ‘GG: there was a loud noise outside my house!! GG: it sounded like an explosion!!!!’ and also asks John what Sburb is, and if he got her package. On page 293, GG reports back and says that she ‘went to investigate the explosion’ and confirms that it was a meteor, describing it as ‘pretty big’ while not being allowed to get too close.

Then things start getting weird. On page 382, GG tells Dave about her present for John, saying that ‘GG: he will not open it GG: he will lose it!!!’ Based on timezones this conversation takes place 49 minutes before the earlier one with John. On page 442, GG gives Rose the tip about Sburb’s ability to resurrect Jaspers the cat, although does not mention Sburb by name.

Both of these stand out, but have plausible explanations. But what really tests the limits of possibility is this new conversation on page 652, in which GG says she ‘was confused’ about the meteor, ‘fell asleep for a while’ and ‘lost track of time’, that the meteor is ‘hard to explain’ but she ‘know[s] what it is now’ and strangest of all, ‘and now i know everythings going to be ok!!!’

????????

So originally I was wondering if GG might be two people, twins perhaps, one who has a psychic connection with a god or other powerful entity and one who doesn’t. That doesn’t explain how an explosion (that could be confused for a meteor) could prophesize good fortune, though. What might explain it is a UFO crash, manned by aliens who were somehow able to share some knowledge with GG. Given John’s movies, it is about time we got some aliens in this story. Honestly I’m pretty lost and don’t have a solid theory that explains everything even after sitting on it for a few days, but Rose and Dave are right. There’s something weird going on with this girl.