#and yes please write some fanfiction...

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter I Proditores non laudo

{or read it here on AO3}

So I said fine, 'cause that's how my daddy raised me. If they strike once then you just hit them twice as hard.

* * *

It was cold. The kind of coldness that would not give a shit about the fact that April was almost over. The kind of coldness where one could easily sweat themselves to death at noon, only to be tortured with the ice-shaped fingers of a biting breeze as soon as the sun went down. The kind of coldness that made one wish themselves close to a crackling fireplace, wrapped in a heavy fur coat or a blanket of the thickest sheepskin, with a mug of hot wine in both hands.

Hans was shivering like a cobweb in a storm, and he would have killed to be at some fireplace and enjoy a mug of wine. His growing discomfort, however, had little to do with the coldness and more with this whole plan that was by far the stupidest he had heard in a long time.

When Henry had come back from Kuttenberg and told Hans about his meeting with Žižka, Hans had been overflowing with joy like a trough in the rain. Henry had beamed from the same happiness. There had been worry in his eyes, too, how could there not with the growing political instability in this country, and the two of them, once again, being pulled right into the middle of it? But his mouth had formed a bright smile when he talked about Žižka and Katherine, and the rest of the old pack, and Christ, how quickly that glee had spread over to Hans. The last time they had met up with Žižka must have been over a year ago. Katherine had paid her latest visit to Rattay even long before that, accompanying some trader that, apparently, her and Žižka were after at the time, for some reason only they under­stood. Samuel had stayed in Kolín for the past seven years do­ing God knew what, but Hans didn't doubt that it was highly important, or that at least Sam thought so. Henry had visited him occasionally when they passed by Kolín on their way to Podiebrad, but Hans had always been too tied up both in political and family affairs to join him for a meetup. And Kubyenka and Janosh? Shit, the last time he had seen these two must have been at his own wedding! They had all been there, blessed be their souls, even the Devil, lousily disguised as a fisherman, as half the land was still after him. And what a cele­bration it had been, with the lot of them! Hans couldn't remem­ber half of that night, and there could be no clearer indication that it had been a fantastic one. Žižka had started some philoso­phical debate about the shape of clouds, while the Devil had threatened to crush someone's skull in. Sausages had been men­tioned at some point, though not by Janosh, and then Sam had danced on a table, and Katherine was dressed in a nun's dress, and Kubyenka with two kittens? They had all gone down to the stream to take a naked bath in the moonlight, even Godwin, although he had found a horse somewhere that he had ridden through the water as if he was Saint George himself, and then Henry had almost drowned in that waist-high piss. Katherine had disappeared at some point, and when Hans had later re­turned to his chambers, he had found her there, together with Jitka. Doing girl things, they said.

He had missed these times. Had missed them dearly over the last seven fucking years. Had thanked God for his divine dis­pensation bringing them all back together now. And then Žižka had let them in on the current situation and on his brilliant plan, and Hans had craved nothing more than to return to Rattay right on the spot. To sit down in front of a fireplace with some hot wine. To forget all of this had ever happened.

The Devil was dead. That didn't come as a surprise, Hans had known for almost two years now. He had been a thorn in the flesh of the Kunštát family for a long while, fighting his battles against Sigismund's army and then against Albert IV of Austria, raiding both Austrian and Moravian land, then joining the troops of duke Albert's very own son, a boy hardly of age but already a strong supporter of King Sigismund. Nobody had shed a tear over Hynek of Kunštát's death, Jitka's father Bot­schek had even found it necessary to hold a small celebratory feast when he heard the news, and many toasts were spoken to Hynek's sudden demise. Hans hadn't said a word, because how could he have? To him there was no Hynek, no traitor in the family. The only man that existed for him was the Devil, and the Devil had been a fucking bastard, yes, a ruthless murderer, but also an ally by whose side Hans had fought, someone he had shared more drinks with than with any man at this feast, and certainly more laughs.

So the news about the Devil's death wasn't surprising in the slightest. What did surprise Hans, however, was that Žižka mentioned it at all. He hadn't even breathed a word of it when he last spoke to Henry a few days ago, or back then in Rattay when he had come to see them both, only a week after it had happened. “And what does it even matter?” he had said now, both hands pressed flat on the table, his brow deeply furrowed. “He had been fed up with the pack for a long time before, and he chose to fight his own battles, with or against us. We won't need him for this task, just as we haven't needed him for the last six years.”

Only that he lied. It did matter, to him just as much as to the rest of them, because this cursed affiliation of vagabonds had never been Žižka's, had never called itself Žižka's pack. It had been Dry Devil holding them all together like sticky honey, and now that he was gone, all the burden was tossed entirely on Žižka's shoulders, and he had fallen under the weight like Jesus under the cross. Of course Žižka knew that. It was evident from the way he had fixed his eyes on Henry as he tried to convince the two of them that he did in fact not need the Devil by his side. Christ's wounds, everyone in the room knew it! Janosh was fiddling around with the buckle of one of his belts as if he wanted to knead pastries out of it. Godwin had stared some­where into the distance, his mouth slightly agape, as if he was silently reciting some prayer. Katherine had her arms folded and her gaze on Žižka alone. No matter how hopeless every­thing seemed to become, at least she wouldn't go anywhere, she wouldn't leave Žižka's side.

Kubyenka's eyes had been on his feet that nervously tapped up and down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, but when Žižka spoke these last words, the Fuck him, fuck the Devil, we will manage just as good without him, if not even better, Kubyenka had finally looked up and his expression was one of anger and pain. “Don't you dare shit on his name like that, Žižka. God knows I love you, like an estranged brother even, but if you speak one more word like that, I won't be hol­ding myself back.”

“What? Is it not true then? Have I lied?” Žižka's voice had been shaking from anger, too, but it wasn't directed at Kubyen­ka. “Has he not been leaving the pack alone, has he not been cuddling up with the very man we fought against lately?”

“So what? The Devil was doing what we all are doing! Ta­king his sword where it is best paid for. This is not about mo­rality, it never had been. And all your late travels to Prague to listen to that Jan Hus preaching won't change that. We are mer­cenaries, first and foremost, and you should understand that better than all of us. Or do you seriously believe we don't know what you were doing up there in our Polish neighbour's lands just some months ago? Cuddling up with the enemy.”

Hans had in fact not known about it, but it made everything a lot clearer. He had been right then. This was a desperate at­tempt of Žižka's to bring the pack back together. Driven by bro­ken pride and a failing search for his own path. And something else. Rejection.

Žižka had narrowed his eyes so much that the left one al­most disappeared completely behind the scar. “Well, the Ger­mans declined my offer.”

Kubyenka had laughed, and it had sounded all shallow, a taunting display of disdain. “Lucky for us then.”

They had exchanged a few more silent looks that were so heated the whole room had felt like the fire of Hell. Then Žižka had glanced over at Katherine, and she had nodded, and he had taken a deep sigh and returned to his explanations as if nothing had happened. With King Wenceslas's sovereignty still being questioned, not only by Sigismund now but by the church, too, and with Poland fighting for its lands in the north, Bohemia was in a delicate position. And in the midst of this chaos, Jan Hus had emerged as an opposing voice against the clergy and a friend of the common people like the Messiah on the third day. Hans had only nodded in agreement. This wasn't new to him at all, he had heard it before, in all different tones and harmonies. Had heard it from Henry, who was affected by Jan Hus's postulations directly as a peasant, and indirectly through his father's support of Hus's side, and through Godwin, who had moved to Prague for this specific cause while still trying to meet up with Henry as often as he could. Hans had heard it from all different noblemen around the country, some showing great interest in Hus's stance against the church, some fearing for their own status and power with the growing unrest of their people. He had also heard it from Hanush, who was more often than not travelling out on his own account these days. Visiting some lords whose territories had been pestered by the plague of war and upheaval. Kindly talking to them and offering help, was what he called it. Threatening and robbing might have de­scribed it better.

In Prague, Jan Hus was still holding his chair as the rector of the university, protected by King Wenceslas himself, but that position was fickle. After his continuing defiance of the arch­bishop's prohibition to preach, and with the growing pressure on the King by both the bishops and the Holy Father himself – one of God only knew how many there were at this point! – the King could not uphold his support much longer. The people, on the other hand, loved Jan Hus and his ideas. Of course they did. More freedom might have been the one principle every human in this world could agree on. And that love made Hus all the more hated by those in power.

“We need to point the way,” Žižka had said. “Make them understand that Hus's theories are the only sensible response to the church's superior power and this whole schism that we are currently stuck in. We need to light a metaphorical and literal beacon of reason in these times. So. The plan is simple.” And then he had proceeded to lay down in great detail a plan that was as far away from simplicity as it could possibly get.

Hans wrapped his arms tighter around his body, letting his gaze wander up and down the gorge that Žižka had selected for this scheme. It had become almost too dark to see, the trees up above them forming a wall of shadows against a clouded sky. Just a few moments ago, some church bells in the distance had tolled for the evening prayer. St. Matthew's church, Hans had thought in a touch of melancholy, and then quickly discarded the idea. The bells of the newly built church in Vranov more likely. If anything, they'd rather be able to hear the church bells of Rowna near Skalitz than those of Rattay.

His eyes wandered over to Henry whose face was now eerily illuminated by the light of a lantern he had lit. Hans had offered to avoid Skalitz on their way to the set place, but Henry had ba­nished the thought immediately. It was the fastest route, he had said, and even though they had used horses until reaching Jezo­nice, just a short walk away from here, they couldn't afford to dawdle. Besides, he had added with a weak smile, he didn't in­sist on spending any more time in this itchy priest's cassock than was absolutely necessary.

Still he had kept his eyes lowered for most of the road that led around the ruins of Skalitz. Him and Hans had visited the place around a dozen times over the past years. To have an eye on the reconstruction of the village that was only progressing at a painfully slow pace. It never got easier.

“So.” Sam's voice echoed through the clearing like a cannon shot. “Can we discuss the plan once more?”

“You want to make sure everyone knows his task?”

The look that Sam regarded his brother with was as dead as that of a corpse. It didn't help that it seemed like he hadn't got a single hour of sleep in the last three days, ever since his arrival in Kuttenberg. “Oh, I do not doubt that. I just wanted to hear it again because I am still certain I must have missed the part that made you agree to this whole stupidity in the first place.”

“It is far from stupid,” Godwin objected, and he sounded like he didn't believe a single word he said. “Playing with the gullibility of people is actually a fool-proof plan, if you ask me.”

“If you manage to lead the conversation to that crucial part where you can play your little magic trick.” Hans took a deep breath, shifting his weight so that he moved a little closer to Sam. It felt good having at least one sane person on his side. The feigned optimism of the others back in Kuttenberg had been unbearable! “And given that you can get this Father Tho­mas to stop and have a little chat with you.”

Henry smiled, and the shadows of the lantern's light turned it into the wicked grin of a mummer's mask. “We are two un­armed priests on a pilgrimage. What could possibly unsettle them about us?”

“I tell you what unsettles me.” Hans could feel the whole si­tuation slowly taking a toll on his patience. “The word un­armed in that sentence of yours.”

“Clearly a priest won't attack other men of the cloth.”

“Well, maybe not, until those men of the cloth start talking about this great Jan Hus fellow that they met in Prague the other day. And about how his words must clearly be guided by God, because he gave them this glass ball, you see, and it glows and explodes whenever someone is using the true words of God, so you can know that it is nothing but the word of God that Jan Hus is preaching!”

Henry and Godwin exchanged a silent look that screamed louder than Hans had. When he turned back to him, Godwin shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we might be able to phrase it a little bit more convincing.”

“What if they don't even show up here?”

“Then we haven't lost anything either.”

Hans shook his head in disbelief. “What if Father Thomas shows up with more than four armed men? What if that little explosion won't make them believe in some divine intervention but in a secret attack on them?” His eyes wandered up to a spot between the trees' shadows that he couldn't make out from down here, but he had seen it before in the fading sunlight, had inspected it closely and shaken his head over it. “What if I don't hit that tiny thing, at this time of night, from that dis­tance?” I know that this is not your battle to fight in, Žižka had told him back in the church attic in Kuttenberg, and I would prefer it if I didn't have to drag you into this. But I need you for this task. After all, you're the best marksman I have.

“You will be here with us,” Henry said, and his voice was so soft and calm that it might have convinced Hans of everything he could have said. “You two will be hiding up there with our weapons at the ready. And Kubyenka and Janosh will guard the other side of the gorge. Six skilled fighters will be more than enough against four mercenaries, and a priest who will be get­ting in their way more than he will actually help them. You might as well have killed them all with your crossbow before one of them even gets the chance to draw his sword.”

“And what if they come prepared?” Sam's fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle of his left dagger as if he was ready to draw it here and now. “What if this Schwarzfeld has guided us right into a trap?”

Godwin straightened the fabric of his priest's robe. He made it seem nonchalant, but the time he took to reply betrayed his whole act. “Katherine and Žižka have both talked to Schwarz­feld themselves, and very extensively, I might add. We know that he is a small German lord who has always enjoyed many privileges from our King, while he has a hard time with the church due to the high charges the bishop imposes on him. So it seems like he has a lot of reason to support our cause. Do I trust him?” He shrugged his shoulders again. It was strange, Hans thought, how little the priest robe he had worn for so long suited him these days, how much weaker and older it made him seem. “What do I know! But I trust Katherine and Žižka and both their judgments.”

Hans shook his head. He could feel the weight of the cross­bow that was tied to his belt and understood now why Sam had his hand placed firmly on his weapon. A little bit of comfort, a shelter in this thunderstorm. “The whole plan is still totally mad. More so than anything Žižka has come up with before.”

“Doesn't feel so mad to me.” Henry smiled again. His eyes were warm and honest. “After all, it's nothing but simple alche­my.”

“Given I can hit the glass, without it being noticed by the priest or his men, and that this paste you smeared on my bolts actually does something to this strange smoke inside that phial.”

“It's finest firedamp, gathered from the mines. And since Sam took care of it, I'm sure it will work.”

Sam let out a hiss through his teeth that sounded almost like he had just exploded himself. “This gas might be the only part of the plan that I am convinced of.”

“We don't need your conviction.” Godwin stepped forward, and his voice was loud, demanding. “All we need is for you both to do as you're told and fulfil your task. Of the rest we take care of. Understood?”

Hans rolled his eyes, shook his head, and answered with a mocking “Yes, commander”. There was nothing else to do. Godwin and Henry were all too adamant about this anyway.

The grass was wet and bitingly cold, as he crawled up the slope to where he was supposed to hide between the trees, with Sam by his side. There was a fallen tree up here, that had de­cayed during the cold winter days, crumbling under his weight as he sat down on it, but at least it would keep his arse dry. Sam seemed to have no need for that and rather stayed in a squatting position a few feet away, one hand still on his dagger, the other wrapped around a sheathed longsword. His father's sword, and Sam's only duty tonight. To throw it down to Henry as soon as the slightest form of trouble arose.

Sam looked like a cocked crossbow himself, Hans thought. Every muscle tightened, ready to snap and jump. Or perhaps not so much like a crossbow, actually, and rather like the very thing a crossbow would be pointed at. A hare, surrounded by the hunter and his hounds. Lips pressed together tightly, eyes squinted. His face was half covered by the shadows of trees and bushes, and the faint moonlight only enhanced the hollow­ness of his cheeks and the dark rings under his eyes. A hare perhaps, but a very tired one.

“This whole plan hasn't given you much rest either, eh?”

Sam kept his eyes solely on the road below them on the bottom of the gorge. He also looked like he was in no mood for a conversation, but that had never bothered Hans before, espe­cially not when his own nervousness made him seek out the comfort of talk more than ever. “What plan? This trickery that is entirely built on the trust in a man we barely know?”

“Well, from what I understand Schwarzfeld is closely tied to this Father Thomas, who is in turn a member of the Prague sy­nod, the very one who stands strongly against Jan Hus, so he seems to be a suitable candidate to perform our trickery on. And since Schwarzfeld knows this priest so well, he should be able to convince him of going through these woods late at night to avoid the robber bands in this area.”

“Or at least so he claims.”

The road below them was empty now, not even the light of the lantern could be seen. Henry and Godwin had disappeared somewhere to the left, where they would wait until the carriage of Father Thomas and his mercenaries would appear in front of them. Only then would they set themselves into motion and act as if they had been walking all this time, on a pilgrimage from Prague, where Thomas was supposed to be returning to. And what great wonders they encountered there in the presence of Hus! What Hans hadn't given to change positions with Godwin now and be down there in priest robes next to Henry. Partly, because he knew how convincing Henry could be, and he would have loved to experience his act up close. Partly too, however, because he hated seeing Henry walk right into danger while being too far away to intervene when it all went to shit.

Above them, bats were screeching on their hunt for the first harbingers of summer, gnats. The air felt more like winter though, so freezing cold by now, that it lifted Hans's breath to the sky in the form of glistening clouds of smoke.

There was no such cloud in front of Sam's face, Hans no­ticed. Maybe all his insides had cooled down to ice a long time ago. “You aren't so keen on trusting, eh?”

“Does it surprise you?” Sam still didn't give Hans the ho­nour of looking at him. If he just loosened up a little bit, it might help him to enjoy something in life for once! After all, the only times Hans could remember ever seeing Henry's bro­ther truly happy was when he was drunk. “I have lived through more deceits and betrayals than you can even imagine.”

“Believe me, betrayal isn't such a strange concept to me ei­ther.”

“I doubt that you can compare that.”

And there it was again, so suddenly that it made Hans's heart stop for a moment or two. A face he had forgotten, a love he had sworn to never feel again, because how fucking much could this love hurt. Only Henry had managed to make him break this oath. Only for Henry had he opened his chest to the threat of being stabbed again, and he hadn't regretted this deci­sion once in the past seven years. And Henry had helped him heal, had shown him that it was not only possible but worth the risk to take down the walls he had built. That it was worth to trust, back then at Suchdol during that damned siege after Hans had found Samuel breaking into his room, and now it was Sam again who dragged these memories out of the deepest pits of his chest so they could torment him once more. The same hol­low cheeks, but eyes like the night sky. It wasn't fair, Hans thought. Because back then Samuel had said something that had proven any comparison to him wrong, had given Hans en­couragement, the sweetest gift ever given to him. He had tra­ded that gift of encouragement for Henry's love. Trust wasn't an easy task, Hans knew that too well. But Sam had taught him a lesson Hans would never forget. Don't make the same mistake I made. As a lily among thorns, so is my love.

Hans shook his head. The distorted face didn't disappear. Maybe it was the moonlight, he thought, that made Sam's eyes seem darker and larger too. He looked away. It wasn't fair, he thought again. Not to Sam, and not to himself. “Let's just agree that we know each other too little to judge that properly.”

The bats were screeching. A breeze bent the tops of the trees above their heads, carrying the smell of wet grass and blosso­ming flowers. The breeze was warm. It felt nice for the mo­ment, until it left a more piercing coldness than before once it was over.

“Look.” Hans could hear Sam sigh in annoyance when he started to speak again, but he would not stay quiet now, not when his hand was shaking and his heart was racing. It was way too cold for a late April night. “I agree with you that we shouldn't put our lives in the hands of someone we haven't even shared a drink with. But it's not really this Schwarzfeld guy that we're trusting here. It's Katherine and Žižka. If they are certain he told the truth, then I am certain of it too. Besides, Henry was right. We're all here to help them. You have his sword ready, I have my crossbow, Janosh and Kubyenka will strike from the other side. There's really not that much risk about this part of the plan.”

“If they appear.”

Hans pulled his knees closer to his body, wrapped his arms around them, hoping it would help him warm up if he twisted himself into a pretzel in the oven. “Well, otherwise we just freeze our arses off for nothing, I suppose.”

“I'm not talking about that priest.”

Hans narrowed his eyes, examining the forest on the other side of the gorge. He had never seen the ocean before, but this was what the authors in his books used to describe it as. Huge and unfathomable, engulfing and dark. The air smelled of grass and flowers and frost. A shiver crept down his spine. “They're clearly there already. We just cannot see them from here, be­cause it's simply too fucking dark.”

“Hm,” Sam made, and it sounded as weak as the wind.

Hans looked over to him again, and now Matej was gone. Too much scepticism, too little hatred. “Where do you think they are? Still in Uzhitz, having had one drink too many against the nervousness?”

“There are many possibilities.”

“Hm.” A sound out of Hans's own throat this time, he could feel it, but the voice was unfamiliar to him.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the emptiness. The bats were dashing across the sky, the leaves were rustling. Down below, the road remained deserted.

“Farkakte drek!”

Hans winced at Sam's sudden jump to his feet. Above them, a bird rushed away from its resting spot in the branches with a protesting caw.

“And this is what I left my people in Kolín for?”

“Keep it a little quieter, will you!”

“Why?” Sam flipped around to him as quickly as a bow­string let loose. “There is no one else here! Not down on that road and not over there in the forest either.”

“They are there.” It was a strange feeling, Hans thought, to always be the sensible one when he was with Sam. And he couldn't help but notice how much this role annoyed him. “The priest will show up too, we haven't even waited all that long. And then …”

“And then what? Then Henry will walk up to this galach and his four men to perform some little magic trick, dressed in nothing but these woollen robes!”

“He is used to such robes, believe me. Did you know that he lived in a monastery once, as a monk?”

“It is not about the robes, Hans.” He took a step closer to him now, his eyes hidden from the moonlight, painting them pitch black. “Žižka is using him as bait. Seven years, and no­thing has changed!”

“Žižka knows,” Hans tried to keep his voice as calm as he possibly could, “that Henry is capable of carrying out this plan. Probably the only one of us who could.”

“Žižka was desperate.” Sam's voice was as sharp as a blade, his accent more clear than ever now, every word coming down like a hammer. “Because the Devil is dead, the Teutonic order has rejected him, and half of his men are on the risk of leaving. If they haven't already.”

Hans took a deep breath. His annoyance about being the voice of reason wasn't helped by Sam reflecting his very own thoughts back to him like a vicious mirror. “You are worried. I am, too. There is nothing wrong with that. But we should not forget that it is Henry we are talking about here.” He tried to smile. It must have looked little convincing. “You might not trust Schwarzfeld. You might not even trust Žižka. Fine. But I think we can both agree that we should trust Henry.”

Sam took a deep breath, shook his head, averted his gaze. The hand that he had wrapped around the sword's handle loo­sened a bit, even as the rest of his body remained tense. It was clear that he wanted to say more, had more doubts, more fears weighing down on his chest, but he kept them to himself. As usual. Sam was right, Hans thought. Seven years, and it almost felt as if nothing had changed. Yet everything has. And we have grown older, we have moved on. Perhaps that was what made all of this so damn hard. They weren't barely matured striplings anymore who would agree to every bold plan Žižka could come up with. There was a family to look after for Hans, a wife, a realm, three children. A home built anew from the ruins for Sam, stepping into his grandfather's shoes, guiding his flock. There was so much more to lose for both of them, as ex­citing as the prospect of new adventure felt. And then there was Žižka. Still a mercenary, still on the search for his purpose in life, still lost.

Maybe that was why Henry had been the first to agree to his proposition, and so eagerly as well. Because in this regard he wasn't all that different from Žižka. Always lost, always loo­king for his path. To Henry, stepping out of Rattay had been a relief, a breath of rediscovered freedom. He could swear as ma­ny oaths as he wanted, and perhaps they weren't even lies, per­haps he wanted to stay by Hans's side until his last day, Hans wanted just the same. But not as his knight, his advisor, not tied up in duties that would bind him to the Rattay court forever. Almost ironic, wasn't it, how Hans would be the one they called little bird, while Henry was right there next to him, al­ways on the search for new adventures and restless as if trapped in a cage when he couldn't find it for too long. And yet he had stayed.

“Believe me,” Hans began as softly as he could while his voice was shaking, “I care for him as much as you do. Ten years ago, I couldn't have dreamed of being where I am now, and I wouldn't even have wanted to. To be the patriarch of the family of Leipa, yes, the Lord of Rattay, that too. But being married, with three children? Delegated to rule over all these possessions, these people, so many problems to solve, so many hungry mouths to feed. My own family's and that of the whole land.” Something rustled in the undergrowth next to his feet, a mouse perhaps, somewhere on the other side a brown owl was calling. Once, Hans had longed for this with his whole heart, the silence, the serenity of nature. Now he couldn't even re­member when he had last set foot outside the Rattay city walls. “But I am happy. Because through all of this responsibility, I always have your brother by my side. To help me make deci­sions, to calm me down whenever I feel like I could never be suited for the role. To give me love, make me feel safe. I never thought I could have that.” He laughed. A sound almost as croaking as the owl's scream. “Much less with a man!”

Sam turned, looked at him. He didn't say a word, but there was a deep understanding in his expression, as if he knew. Maybe he remembered what Hans had said before, sensed what this was about even when he couldn't quite tell why he would be sharing it. Christ, Hans didn't even know himself! To calm them both down, perhaps, take their minds off the task ahead. To lift the weight of memory off his chest, more likely. As if taking parchment and a feather when another poem had been twirling through his thoughts a whole day long, writing it down, relieving his mind. They had come and settled down in his heart now anyway. His words, his eyes, his hatred.

“You know, Henry wasn't the first man I ever had such fee­lings for. Though I was much younger when it had last hap­pened. Fourteen, to be exact.” Hans shook his head at that rea­lisation alone. The ridiculousness, this passing of time. “Christ, I'm twice as old now!”

Sam still didn't say a word, maybe he wouldn't dare to, but he listened, and then he placed the sword on the ground and lowered himself to the tree trunk next to Hans. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel his presence, his warmth, smell his scent. Pungent leather and sweet herbs like the incense burned at mass, and something that reminded Hans all too much of Henry. Hot iron perhaps, straying sparks on wood, a smouldering fire.

“He was a stable boy in Rattay. I do not even remember his name.” Nor his face, Hans thought. His hair had been brown as chestnuts, almost red. Like a squirrel, Hans had liked to say and he had meant it as a compliment, and then the other one had laughed and called him straw head, because Hans's own hair had been fair as hay back then, had only darkened a little over the years. “He was much older than me. Past twenty already, although he didn't look like it. I thought he was beauti­ful. I liked him. But I didn't know what to do about this … li­king.” Neither his uncle nor his nurse Vjenka nor any other person he knew had ever taught him about it. He had looked for answers in the tales he knew and loved. Eneas and Pallas, Siegfried and Gunther, Lancelot and Galehaut. It didn't explain shit. “One night, I went to see him in the stables, and then I … I touched him. Carefully. And he returned the touch, and then he showed me … love. Well, it wasn't actually love, it was sex, and it wasn't very pleasant for me either. But it was new, and exciting, and I came back for more. He made me come back. Told me he needed to see me again, because of what he was feeling for me.”

Hans paused for a while. The lies one was so eager to be­lieve when young and in love. Or perhaps it had been entirely his own nature that was to blame. The gullibility of people was fool-proof, Godwin had said. It surely was when that priest they waited for was any bit like Hans. Still as naive as a child, Hanush would say. When will you ever grow up?

A light appeared below on a road, silver in colour, crawling through the gorge like the water of a stream. Just the moon­light. Hans wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. “Our secret meetings went on for quite a while. And then finally, he revealed what it was exactly he was feeling for me. He asked me for a promotion. He wanted to become a knight.” There was a sound to his left, but Hans couldn't quite tell if it had been produced by Sam's throat or some animal or the wind in the branches. “I told him that he was only a stable boy, that he could never be a knight, and that even if it was possible, I was in no position to grant that to him.” Hans swallowed. He had reached a point where the memories were starting to hurt. Sam didn't push him, didn't urge him to continue. He just waited. Understood. “All of a sudden, his touches grew painful. And he began to threaten me. Promised that he would tell the whole of Rattay about us, if I didn't go and convince my uncle some­how.”

Bare, naked, helpless, pressed into the hay in the far corner of the stables. Fingers on his arms bruising. What, you wanna scream? Want them to find you like this? You have any idea what they do to filth like you?

“Of course he could have never actually told anyone. The consequences for him would have been much graver than those for me, I was a noble after all. The worst thing that could hap­pen to me was a slap on the wrist and a scolding from my un­cle, while he would at least end up in the stocks, if not be ba­nished or hanged for defiling me. But I couldn't see that at the time. I was scared. I was only fourteen!”

Hans fell silent again, and for a while he wasn't certain whe­ther he wanted to continue. The shadows of the trees on the other side formed the outline of an enormous wall that seemed to be getting closer now with every other word he spoke, and he felt locked in, despite the cold breeze on his skin, despite the birds and bats and mice, despite the dampness of the wood and the grass. He closed his eyes. The smell. The smell was what he could hold on to. Incense and leather. Hot iron. Familiar. “In my desperation, I went to someone who I believed was close to me. Close enough to confide in. Other than the stable boy's, his name I do remember very well. Matej.” Black hair, black eyes, always narrowed, always wary. He must have been sixteen or seventeen at the time, not quite a man yet, but just as broad as all the other soldiers that he trained with. “He was a squire un­der Sir Bernard. Of course, I couldn't tell him what exactly had happened between me and that stable boy, not at first anyway. I just said that he had threatened me. And Matej didn't hesitate. Went straight to him and threatened him back. Told him that he would make his life a living hell if he didn't leave Rattay at once. Matej could be quite intimidating, you know. The stable boy never stood a chance.”

Drinks and talks and laughter, even though it was rare to get a laugh from Matej. It always sounded wrong. Like a parasiti­cal insect that had clawed its way out of his throat. An occa­sional touch, after enough tankards of wine. A hand on Matej's arms, his neck, in his black curls, Hans's skin burning as if the squire's body was made of flames.

“We got closer after that, Matej and me. So close that it made me start to see things that … just weren't real. And one day, I told him everything. We were a little too drunk and we were all alone, and I felt safe. So I talked about what I had shared with the stable boy. And I talked about my own feelings for him. For Matej.” The black eyes widened for once. In sur­prise and disbelief, that Hans had been able to tell. The hatred and disgust he couldn't see. Too much wine, too much childish naivety. “He was taken aback, of course, that wasn't surprising to me. It also didn't come much to a surprise that he stood up and left. How could he not after hearing such news? But it did surprise me then, how he came back to me the next day. And how he asked me if we could meet up later that night, alone, down by the river.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam's hands clen­ching into fists, and his jaw twitched as he pressed his lips to­gether more tightly. This wasn't a happy tale, Sam knew that. Wasn't a stranger to betrayal himself.

Hans turned away, faced the darkness next to them instead, hiding the shame that Sam wouldn't care for, but what would it matter, as Hans himself cared. “I was a fool, yes, but please bear in mind that I was still a child. Naive and hurt from what had happened before and hopeful that this time it could be different. But well, that doesn't change anything, eh?” A dark forest just like here. A short walk away from the city, east­wards, where Hans liked to ride out to every now and then. It had been summer time, Hans could remember that because of how shallow the Sasau had been. Matej had stood there like the dark knight out of Hans's books, but his face had shown no signs of chivalry and love. He also hadn't come alone as pro­mised. “Matej had his dog with him. A huge, black hunting dog. He … Well …” It was too dreadful to say it out loud.

“Farshittn mamzer.”

Hans understood these words without actually knowing them, and the fact that Sam had finally opened his mouth just to growl this curse, made him laugh, despite everything. It was a short laugh, but a welcome, healing one, and it finally lifted the weight of shame and fear off him and allowed him to breathe. He noticed how Sam looked over at him in confusion, and shook his head to him softly, and Hans nodded, with a ge­nuine smile playing with his lips. “True that.”

“What did you do to him?”

Hans had to chuckle again, and Sam lowered his brows sceptically, couldn't understand how good his blunt remarks felt to Hans. “Nothing really. I was too ashamed to tell my un­cle the truth, and I didn't have to anyway. It took me a while to recover from the injuries his dog had inflicted on me. And the ones he had caused afterwards, before he had left me there, bleeding and barely conscious. When I was finally allowed to leave my sickbed, he was gone. Sir Bernard told me he had asked to leave for Sasau, but he didn't stay there for long either. God knows where he went.”

“A kind zol nokh im heysn.”

“A child should …?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders, his face blank. “I hope he died.”

“Ah. Yes, perhaps.” He hated the thought of wishing death upon anyone really. But there was no denying it, some people had it coming. “In any case,” Hans looked up to the trees again, and they seemed much less threatening now, like a rain cloud maybe, or not even that, “all of this taught me a valuable les­son, you see? That I should never trust that easily.” A few of the trees on the left stood out above the others like a bell tower. An outstretched hand, ready to catch those that might fall from heaven. “Then, a few years later, you came along. Back then in Suchdol. I don't know if you remember. But I do. I remember your words very well, because this time it was you who taught me yet another and perhaps even more valuable lesson. That some people are worth the trust. Like a lily among thorns, so is my love.” Hans only caught the last traces of the change in expression on Sam's face when he turned back to him. The faint remnants in his tired eyes. Grief and pain and regret. “Thank you, Sam. From the bottom of my heart.”

* * *

They had sat next to each other in silence for a while after these words, both lost in thought. How cruel people could be to one another. They act out of fear and ignorance, his mame would have said. In the end, it is the heart of those who stain it with such actions that suffers most. But what good would that do? What good would it do to know of the suffering of the trai­tor when his actions led to the pain or death of someone else? Besides, more often than not these words would prove to be nothing more than a nice saying, because these mamzers didn't actually suffer. Málek clearly hadn't suffered. Not until Samuel had taken fate into his own hands and gutted him like a sheep.

Samuel couldn't tell for how long they sat there. An hour at least, two or three more likely. The sky had become even dar­ker, almost as dark as the row of trees, melting into them to form a parchment covered in ink all over, a wall of nothing­ness. The dampness of the trunk had long crept through the cotton of his trousers, and he tried to move as little as he could to not make the feeling more uncomfortable. Then all of a sudden, Hans Capon did something that complicated move­ment even more. He tipped over to the side as if all strength had left his body at once, and rested his head on Samuel's shoulder.

“A rose of Sharon,” he mumbled. His tongue sounded heavy as if he was drunk, but he had only taken a few sips of wine during their wait. Tiredness. Samuel felt it, too. Tired and ex­hausted and scared, and he hated it all. Wanted this to move on, wanted to act, wanted to prove his own doubts wrong. “You never told me the whole poem. A shame, because you made up something so pretty there.”

“I did not make it up.” Hans could barely hold his eyes open. Damn it, Samuel's own eyes burned too, and he wanted to do nothing more than close them, get some rest, but he knew he wouldn't find it, and one of them had to stay awake anyway. “It is a poem of my people. And I only learned of it through,” his lips formed silent words that his heart didn't dare to speak, “someone else.”

“Well, then this someone has a great taste in poetry.”

“She had, yes.”

“Oh.”

Too much, he had said too much. And it hurt, and he wanted to take it back, because already he could feel the cracks ripping into the wall, the blood streaming from them. He had buried it all, and it was for the best. Had left it behind like he had left her grave, never to return. How could he possibly have re­turned after what he had done?

“What was her name?”

“Hannah.” Neyn, his own voice screamed helplessly inside his head. Nit an ander vort!

“A beautiful name. Was she just as beautiful?”

“Even more so.” The cracks tore open, some of the bricks had crumbled to dust, he could feel it in his heart, and if it hadn't been for Hans's head on his shoulder, he might as well have jumped up and ran. Ran where? Back to Kolín? Back to Kuttenberg? To her? There was no back to run to and nothing to run from but his own soul. And he had already succumbed to that chase.

“Was she …” Hans's words were barely intelligible now, but Samuel doubted he noticed. “… the poem …”

“One of her favourite poems. I think she felt that it was able to say things she couldn't. Or wouldn't. Because I wouldn't have listened anyway.” Esthera's hand shaking as she handed him the paper. Some of the words had been slurred, Hannah had never been the most careful when it came to writing. “Ir­responsible was what she often called me. And she was right. I cared more for childish ideas of revolution than for her, and for us. And in trying to do justice to both, I failed both. All my great schemes to stifle the support for Sigismund in Kuttenberg went to shit.”

He had known as soon as he had climbed through that window that something was wrong. That fucking custodian wasn't in his bed where he was supposed to be. And he hadn't heard Hannah's hands and feet on the scaffolding either. The soldiers hadn't worn any armour and they had moved as quietly as rats, he hadn't even noticed them storming the alleyway below him. But then Hannah had screamed and coughed and vomited blood and died. And all that had been left to do for him was to run. “I never got to tell her that I loved her. And in turn, she took her own secret to the grave with her. She only told me with that poem and with the lines she herself had added to it.” And Esthera had confirmed it with nothing more than a silent nod because as Hannah's closest friend she at least had known. I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys. As a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. Under its shadow I delighted to sit, and its fruit was sweet to my taste. He has brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me is love. And then Hannah had painted two small ornaments under the words, a flower and a tree, and in her scrawled handwriting she had added: And from my beloved's fruit new seeds have fallen, and the ground where they landed was rich and welcoming. They will bring forth a lily or an apple tree, and me and my loved one shall stand by its side to water it and watch it flourish. “She had been with child.”

His words faded away in nothingness. Hans had fallen a­sleep. No one had heard them, except Samuel himself and the one who always listened. Who knew it all.

Samuel closed his eyes. They burned too much. A single tear broke its way through his lashes and ran down his cheek into Hans's golden hair. Hannah had been a good climber, and sometimes they had found their way up to the roofs of Kutten­berg, had sat there for a while, watching the sunset, dreaming of better times. He had dreamed, that was, she had listened. Had placed her head on his shoulder, just like Hans did now, her fingers entangled in his.

He tilted his head, rested his cheek on Hans's hair, dried his tears. I'm sorry, he wanted to say, but it would have been foo­lish. Hans wasn't her. And he wouldn't have heard the words anyway, just as Hannah would never hear them.

They had bought her body free from the city guards. Samuel hadn't been with the other shomrim, hadn't watched over her body and soul as he should have, hadn't been there when they lowered her into the ground. Hadn't wanted to think about the second soul that he needed to keep watch over. Instead, he had sought out Málek. Málek had begged and whined like a dog, down on his knees to Samuel's feet, his hands reaching out as if he was praying. Samuel hadn't wanted to hear him beg and whine and pray. Had only wanted one answer from him. “Sil­ver or freedom?” he had asked. “What have they offered you?”

“Freedom,” Málek had croaked out. “Please, Samuel, I am telling the truth, you have to believe me!”

Samuel had nodded. Not because he believed, but because it didn't matter anyway. Then he had pulled the moser to his feet to cut him open from pubic bone to navel. He thought it only just.

Esthera had been at Hannah's grave when Samuel had got there later that night. She had seen Málek's blood on him. “Oh, Samuel,” she had breathed out, “what have you done?”

There had been no need to explain himself. She understood, better than anyone else could. She had left, and once he had been alone, Samuel had finally broken down. His knees hitting the heaped up earth, choking on tears and screams, fingers star­ting to hurt, it had taken a while until he noticed why, had only dawned on him when he fell down in exhaustion. Maybe if I stay here, he had thought. How long may it take? And the words from Hannah's poem had echoed through his mind like a prayer, sung in her own voice, a lullaby so that time could pass faster. And the ground where they landed was rich and welco­ming. They will bring forth a lily or an apple tree, and me and my loved one shall stand by its side to water it and watch it flourish.

His wish had not been granted. The sun of a new day had al­ready painted the sky in blood red when Samuel stood up from the grave and never returned. Esthera had waited for him at the mikveh as if she had already expected him, and not a single word of horror or condemnation was uttered, even as she no­ticed the earth underneath his fingernails. This time, she hadn't left him alone. She had stood outside the mikveh while he bathed and cleansed his body of blood and soil, stood watch as if she herself wanted to perform shemira on him. But she was standing guard at the wrong place. The graveyard was where he had left his soul.

A light on the road below, and Samuel straightened his back so suddenly that Hans almost slipped off him. “Oy, shvoger!Wake up! Something is happening!”

“Huh?” Hans blinked a few times, leaving the realm of sleep slowly, way too slowly for someone who was supposed to exe­cute a masterful shot every moment now. Samuel gave him an additional blow with the elbow for good measure. “Ouch! How dare you! I am awake, alright?”

He lifted his hand, pointed down to the road, and to the fli­ckering, orange light, approaching from the left. A few more moments passed, and then two figures appeared, bodies wrapped in black and white robes of wool, their heads bowed down as if exhausted from a full day's walk. Henry's dark hair was covering his forehead, it was dishevelled, making him seem more innocent and harmless. Godwin's head reflected the light of the lantern in his hands like a piece of molten iron.

“They must have seen them then.” Hans removed the cross­bow from his belt, taking one of the prepared bolts out of the leather bag Sam had brought him earlier. “Which means that Father Thomas and his men should …”

Another light, this time on the other side of the road, and the rumbling sound of carriage wheels. Armour chattered, but they had been expecting that, and when the group of men finally ap­peared in their vision, Samuel counted only four men in total, the priest on his carriage and three mercenaries by foot, one less than Schwarzfeld had predicted. They were well-equipped, with swords and maces and bows on their hips, but then again one of them wasn't even wearing a helmet, perhaps thinking himself safe from the previous lack of dangerous encounters on their way so far. Should things stray from the plan, he would be the first to die.

The priest steadied his horses and brought the armed men to a halt with a single raise of his hand. Henry and Godwin stopped as well, eyeing the group in front of them as if they were surprised to meet them here, then they bowed and greeted each other. A warm and cheerful tone, but their voices were too quiet to understand them.

“Can you hear what they're saying?”

Hans shook his head, squinting his eyes, keeping them on the road, even as he placed the crossbow on the ground so he could cock it. “Not a word.”

A lower mumbling as one of the mercenaries chimed in on the conversation. The priest seemed to grasp the reins more tightly as he bowed forward. Godwin laughed, but it sounded strained. Not good.

“They are talking for way too long already.”

“They need to get Father Thomas to a point where he would actually believe them when they show him a Jan Hus inspired magic trick.” Hans breathed out a quiet laughter, probably due to the ridiculousness of it all. “Of course it's gonna take some time!”

Samuel narrowed his eyes to improve his vision against the darkness, but the trees on the other side of the gorge stood too close together to let any light through. Still, there should have been something, should there not? A movement of the bushes, the flash of moonlight on steel.

He grabbed his father's sword, lifted himself off the trunk.

“Sam!” Hans was whispering, but it was high and sharp. He felt it, too. “Where are you going?”

Samuel took a few steps along the edge of the slope, never letting his gaze leave the opposite side, so that he couldn't miss the slightest sign of them. Nothing. No shadow, no flicker of light, no matter how much he changed his angle. “Did you ever see Kubyenka and the Hungarian show up?”

“Well, they are supposed to hide. They'd do something wrong if we were able to see them.”

Below on the road, Henry had opened his bag, pulling a glass ball out of it, then a stick, placing the ball on top of it by a designated recess on the bottom, then he raised the apparatus to the sky. The lamplight made it glow as if he was holding the sun itself on a leash. The fire of God, the spark of his words.

Hans took a deep breath, lifted the crossbow.

Eight pairs of eyes, all waiting for a miracle.

“Something isn't right here,” Samuel hissed.

Then a bolt shot through the air like a lightning. The priest let out a gurgling sound, trembling hands raised to his throat, where the bolt had pierced right through. It didn't take long for him to die, and even less for two of his men to draw their wea­pons while another one ran off immediately. The one conve­niently not dressed in full armour.

Henry took a step back to dodge the swing of a mace, raised his face to the mountain top. Samuel followed his eyes, saw Hans kneeling next to him, crossbow raised, bolt still nocked, his eyes widened in shock. “That wasn't me!”

“That mamzer has betrayed us!” He didn't hesitate for ano­ther moment, stormed over to where the slope was flat enough to get down without falling. “I will go to them!” he shouted back at Hans. “But be careful, there must be another archer …”

A hit against his back, and Samuel got pushed forward, crashed down on the ground, with someone else weighing down on his back, pressing all air out of his lungs. Father's sword was still sheathed and the man sitting on top of him didn't give him enough room to pull it out, but he managed to slide the other hand under his body, grasping the dagger and bringing it back, slicing through flesh. The man died on top of him, screaming pain and fright into Samuel's ear, until it was finally over.

It took some effort to crawl out from underneath the body, and when he had finally freed himself and turned on his back, he saw that the space around them, where Hans and him had thought themselves alone just moments before, was now filled with men, two of them already lying on the ground, the one whose belly Samuel had cut open and another one with a bolt in his eye socket. They weren't heavily armoured thankfully, hadn't dared to it seemed as not to give their ambush away through sounds, but from the way they moved Samuel could tell that each of them was skilled. Hans had thrown his cross­bow down, now occupied with fighting one of the men by sword, while another one rushed forward with an axe, swinging it for Samuel's head. He turned quickly, unsheathing the sword in the same motion, before he got up on his feet. Another turn, a swing with father's sword, parried by the axe with such strength that Samuel felt the impact all the way up to his shoul­der. He went for another blow, got parried again, but this time he was prepared, raised the dagger. He didn't even get the time to watch the fucker choke on his own blood, before two more attackers came for him, wild as hounds, and before he could react, one of them had his short sword lifted, bringing the pom­mel down on Samuel's wrist. A biting pain in his arm, a flash of light blurring his sight, then a gloved hand hit his face, sending him to his knees.

“Hold on, Vojtěch!” someone screamed to his left. “One of them is a nobleman!”

The man called Vojtěch, who had his weapon raised above Samuel's head like an executioner's sword, examined him closely with a tilted head, as if he was looking for the word no­bility being written somewhere on Samuel's skin. Given he could read.

Another, familiar voice cut through the air, using this short moment of hesitation. “This is your chance, Hans! Flee! I will distract them!”

Hans didn't have to tell him twice. Samuel threw his body forward, running his dagger into the man's upper thigh, just be­low the crotch, two, three, four times, then he let it fall, twirled around and grabbed father's sword. Someone's mace got dan­gerously close to his legs, but he dodged the blow, started run­ning without turning back.

“Hans, he said,” the leader of the pack exclaimed behind him. “That one is the noble then. Don't shoot him!”

“What about the other guy?”

“Just some Jew, I think. He won't be missed.”

A few hasty steps down the slope, and his right knee gave in, but Samuel was quick in catching his balance again, kept on running. Some more steps, and he was close enough to throw the sword safely, even with his left hand. “Bruder!”

Henry gave the man in front of him a kick against the shin, looked up. He caught the sword by the handle firmly, twirled around, gutted his closest enemy. Good.

Samuel turned back, climbed up to the top of the mountain again, where Hans was on the ground now, surrounded by the four remaining men, a fawn circled by hawks. One of them was injured on the back of his head and had taken his skullcap off. A mistake. Samuel pulled the second, shorter dagger from his belt and threw it with one single, precise motion. The blade hit him right in the neck, and he crashed down like a felled tree.

“Oy!” Samuel shouted at them. “Khazerim!”

They turned around in confusion. That was all Hans needed. One swing sliding through two pairs of legs, the third man got a blow straight to his back. He gave them no rest when they lay on the ground, ended it quickly. Then he stumbled forward, fell to his hands and knees, and coughed. It was over. Time for the pain to set in.

Samuel made his way across the bodies over to Hans, rea­ching out his left hand for him. Better not to waste any thoughts on the smell of blood and intestines, on the lives ta­ken, not yet anyway. “Are you alright?”

Hans took his hand, pulled himself up. “Yes.” His eyes quickly wandered across Samuel's body, settling on his right wrist that was already starting to swell, painted in the darkest violet, a stark contrast against his pale skin. “What about you?”

“I'll survive.”

Hans nodded. His expression revealed that he knew too well that Samuel made it seem better than it actually was, but he ac­cepted the reply for now.

They didn't have to hurry as they climbed down the moun­tain side this time. Henry and Godwin had long got rid of their two opponents, and without any major injuries, too, by the looks of it.

It still didn't keep Hans from rushing forward and throwing his arms around Henry's neck. “Henry!”

“I'm fine.” Henry returned the embrace and for the briefest moment his lips found Hans's neck.

Godwin didn't seem like he was in the mood for tenderness. “What the fuck happened here?”

“It wasn't his fault.” Samuel nodded at Hans. “Someone else shot the priest.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed, letting go off Hans, but staying close enough for their hands to touch, “we could see that it wasn't one of your bolts.”

“They were hiding up there between the trees close to us. I counted ten of them.”

“Ten?” Henry's eyes widened. “And you didn't notice them?”

“We were more focused on the things going on down here,” Hans hurried to say, leaving a big part of the truth out, and Sa­muel nodded in silent acknowledgement. The things shared be­tween them had not been meant for anyone else to hear. “Be­sides, most of them didn't even wear any steel.”

“No steel.” It wasn't a question. Godwin had already expec­ted this. “So they were confident enough to fight us without much armour.” His gaze wandered over to the carriage, from which the priest hung down, his limbs twisted from agony like the threads of a rope. His left hand was still dripping from blood, as he had tried to tear the bolt out of his neck, but in vain. “Making it all the more unlikely that this shot was a miss.”

“And they were well-informed,” Samuel added. “They knew about Hans, and took good care not to kill him.” Or me, for that matter. He would have to thank Hans later in a proper way, once this here was settled.

“While they didn't even hesitate to sacrifice a priest.”

“You think this was all planned?” Hans broke away from Henry to better look at him. “Including the killing of Farther Thomas?”

“One of them ran off as soon as the bolt hit, we didn't even get a chance to go after him. And he was prepared for it too, just barely armoured.”

“Making sure he would live to tell the tale,” Godwin con­cluded. “He won't even have to make anything up, we gave him all he would need. Two disciples of Jan Hus, stopping them in the woods and killing the man who was just on his way to Prague to speak out against said Jan Hus fella.”

“But sacrificing a priest for that cause?” Hans asked again, as if his mind still had trouble believing it. “Don't they have any honour?”

“It seems to be more important to them to let everyone know that we don't have any honour. More food for their wild accusa­tions of dismembering and slaughtering clergymen.” Godwin's eyes found Samuel's, and his mouth twisted into a pained smile. “A kind of defamation that your people are already fami­liar with.”

“All too well.” Especially since they started to understand Wenceslas as a friend of the Jews, Samuel thought bitterly. And the Hussites too, people didn't like to differentiate much. They are pouring hot pitch over the tonsures of our priests, and just the other week I heard of a young monk whose cock and balls they squashed with metal plates until he died from the torture! And most of them didn't even bother to ask whether they was supposed to mean the Hussites or the Jews. It was all the same these days. Religious deviants. Rebels against the divine might of the church.

Henry turned around, pointing up the mountains. “What about Janosh and Kubyenka? Did you see them?”

“No,” Samuel replied. “And there were no attackers on that side either. So they cannot have ambushed them as they have done to us, at least not here.”

“You think they may have been stopped on their way?” Hans bit his bottom lip as the thought settled in, his eyes widened in horror. “Fuck.”

Henry nodded. Then he turned, picked the glass ball off the ground and slammed it against the carriage with a loud curse. The biting stench of the firedamp filled the air. Just some fric­tion, Samuel pondered, or a single spark and the carriage and that damned priest would go up in flames. But what good would that do now? “We need to report what happened here to Žižka. And then find a way to clean up this whole mess.”

It was already morning, when they arrived in Žižka's hideout in that Kuttenberg church. The sun had risen, piercing through the beams of the roof like arrows of silver smoke, dancing in the air. The new day was warmer than the last one, not a single cloud darkened the sky, birds that nested in the corners of the church roof celebrated that warmer times were to come.

The sweet caress of spring didn't seem to have passed by Katherine and Žižka either. When the others climbed up the ladder to the church attic, they were sitting together at the table that Žižka used to store all his documents on, each of them on opposite sides, but leaning over the books and parchments to­wards each other. A little too close.

“A whole house?” Katherine whispered in feigned surprise.

“An estate.” Another gasp of Katherine, and Žižka smiled with an audible hum. “A castle.”

“What on earth would I need a castle for?”

“You won't. But if I have the means to, I would not hesitate to give it to you. I'd give you all I have.”

“All of it, really?”

Samuel pushed himself over the edge onto the floor of the attic, struggling, with only one hand and an elbow to use. Ka­therine passed him a quick glance, and nodded, then she leaned back on her chair with crossed arms. “Before you have ac­quired enough money to buy me a castle, you may as well have died of old age. Time is running, Žižka.”

He let out a laugh that sounded more like air being squeezed out of a bellows. Then he turned around, looked at Samuel and at the others who had followed right behind him, and all the ease and joy vanished from his face at once. “One look at you, and I know that the whole plan went to shit.”

Henry was the first to step forward, of course he was. Other than Samuel and Hans, he had been behind the plan with all his heart. He hadn't spoken much on their ride back to Kuttenberg, but it was clear he felt just as responsible as Žižka must feel, if not more so. “You can say that out loud! We were betrayed. Ambushed by almost a dozen more soldiers. The whole thing was set up.”

“One of them got away before we could stop him.” God­win's voice was as clear and strong as it could get, a soldier re­porting back on his mission. “He clearly went to tell everyone about what happened.”

“And what did happen?” Žižka moved up from his chair now, his eyes wandering from one to the other. Samuel felt as if he looked right through their souls with that blind, pale one. “What about the priest?”

“Dead,” Henry answered plainly. Žižka's gaze shot over to Hans in shock, and Henry raised a pacifying hand. “It was one of the attackers up in the woods. And it didn't happen by acci­dent.”

“They created a martyr.” Katherine's voice was as weak as the spring air whistling through the roof above them.

Žižka let himself sink back against the table, breathing in and out a few times. It was more than that, he knew it. Creating a martyr was only the start. Rumours would spread quickly, and the rumours would ask for consequences. Banishments, prohibitions, death sentences, persecutions. Žižka had wanted to help. Had wanted nothing more than to find a cause they could all agree on, igniting their fire again, including the spark in his own heart. He had navigated them right into disaster. “The one who got away, where did he go?”

“North,” Henry answered. “To Prague.”

“Yes, but unless he had a horse hidden somewhere close, it would take him almost a whole day to get there. I reckon he rather went for a meeting point that was more in his immediate vicinity. A place, perhaps, that is in control of another conspira­tor of all this.”

“The Zlenice castle is close by,” Katherine suggested.

“Ondřej Dubá? Well, he serves as the highest judge in the re­gion, but he is loyal to Wenceslas.”

“Only that Wenceslas isn't all too loyal to Jan Hus anymore. Besides, wasn't Dubá a member of the League of Lords once?”

Žižka nodded without looking at her, thinking it through. Sa­muel could feel his own patience slowly flying off to the sky, together with the swallows under the gable. “He was, but not for long. And the man is ninety, Kat. What reason would he have to get himself tangled up in political strives at his age?”

“You should know that better than most.”

Samuel took a step forward now, his heart pounding almost as heavily as his head and wrist. “What does it matter where they went? Wherever they fled to, they must have reached it by now, and soon the word will spread.”

“Sam is right.” It was a relief that Henry didn't seem to be any more interested in this game of guessing than Samuel was. “The best thing we can do now is to clean up this mess we made as quickly as possible.”

There is one particular mess to clean up first, Samuel thought. That fucker Schwarzfeld who must still be in the room they offered him, only one floor below. Sleeping the sleep of the just. “And take care of that traitor who ratted us out.”

He felt Žižka stare him down for a long time, brows pulled together tightly, the pale eye tearing open his soul. Samuel defied his gaze. There was nothing for Žižka to see that he had to be ashamed of. Žižka's eyes were still fixed on him, when he asked them all with a harsher voice than before: “Where are Kubyenka and Janosh?”

“They never arrived at our meeting place,” Henry answered.

“Did you search the area for them?”

“We did, but only the surroundings, and it was still dark. Though I suppose they must have been stopped before ever getting there.”

“Dear God!” Katherine raised a hand to her mouth.

“Hm.” Žižka's half-empty stare was still buried in Samuel's soul as if that sound was supposed to have carried some other hidden meaning just for him. Samuel couldn't care less.

“We must search for them again,” Hans stepped forward un­til he stood right next to Henry, hands and voice raised, “and we should do it now that it is daytime! Track down the whole way they must have taken, from Uzhitz to Jezonice!”

“We will. And we won't stop until we haven't at least found some trace of them. Dead or alive.”

“Alive?” Henry shook his head in surprise. A string of silver morning light hit his hair, painting it grey where it touched him. “You think someone could have taken them hostage?”

“I doubt it.” Žižka's voice was cold as ice.

Samuel had lost all interest in this fucking staring competi­tion. “You can go look for them.” His fingers had found their way to the handle of his dagger, he hadn't even noticed it but now he felt all to eager to take it and slit someone's throat. “I will have a word with this farreter Schwarzfeld.”

He barely got time to turn on his heel. Žižka jumped forward so quickly that there was little room to react, and he had his mace at hand all of a sudden, putting the heavy metal head to Samuel's chest. No, he thought. Not this time. He pushed the mace away with his right arm, used the left hand to draw the dagger. Žižka was quicker, and he had the advantage of kno­wing that Samuel would not actually hurt him. He closed the distance between them with another firm step, and grabbed his broken wrist with the free hand, squeezing it tightly. Samuel let out a sharp hiss, his vision exploded in blinding light from the pain.

“Not so fast, youngster.”

“Take your hand off me.”

“I cannot do that,” Žižka's voice was low and rumbling like thunder, “unless I am fully certain that you won't do anything foolish.”

“What are you protecting Schwarzfeld for?” Henry came closer to them, but he didn't intervene, even as Samuel could hear in his voice that every fibre of his body wanted to. “He is a traitor! He led us straight into a trap, risking all our lives, sullying the reputation of Hus, he may even have Kubyenka and Janosh on his conscience!”

“I won't deny that he might have played a role in all this. But he is not responsible for what happened with these two.”

“What?”

One more deep breath, one more piercing glare with that cursed dead eye, and then Žižka finally let go off Samuel's wrist, stepping back to the table. Another wave of pain rolled over him, so vigorously he almost fainted. “Schwarzfeld knew which road the priest and his men would take. But neither Ka­therine nor I told him a single word about where exactly you would meet with him, let alone where Janosh and Kubyenka would be staying during the day.”

“So what?” Hans's voice got so high that it cracked. “He knew about the plan, that was more than enough. Those armed men he set on us might have just followed us all the way!”

“From Kuttenberg to Uzhitz? A dozen men, without any of you noticing them? No, they clearly waited there the whole time. They have received their information from a very reliable source.”

“What are you hinting on here, Žižka?” Henry's voice was a strong contrast to Hans's, deep and growling, a dog that had sensed his prey.

Žižka took his time to reply. The silence was filled with an­ger and fear, the lowered looks from Katherine and Godwin who both didn't seem so surprised about Žižka's assumptions, the singing of the swallows who didn't care for the pain of the humans underneath them. “Look. I don't like this any more than you do. But Kubyenka has expressed his concerns about all of this many times over the past few days. So the idea of betrayal is one that we have to entertain.”

Samuel took a step back to the ladder, but he lifted both his hands reassuringly, only a weak attempt with his right one. “All the more reason then to entertain this Schwarzfeld a little.” His grin was all teeth, and he assumed that it looked just as vicious as it felt. “To talk to him, friendly of course.”

This time, Žižka didn't stop him, but Samuel could still see him nod in Hans's direction, before he turned to walk back over to the ladder. “Go with him.” Footsteps behind him, one pair, then another one. “Not you, Henry. I need you here.”

[bythehearts]

not to bring tiktok drama on tumblr but like every time a ‘scandal’ comes out with one of these ‘production companies’ that make fan films i always hope we’re finally gonna discuss how they professionalize something that should be an hobbyist endeavor… and yet every single time i’m disappointed.

[dontforgetoctober3rd]

Come Go With Me

A Michael Gavey fic.

EDIT: Now with art! (just a sketch tho)

Summary: It's the spring of 2007 and Michael Gavey has so far kept to the vow he made to never socialize again after Oliver ditched him. Then he meets a cute girl at a coffee shop. Will the vow stand strong or immediately go down the drain?

Word Count: 3986

Rating: T (plenty of swearing, instances of misogyny, objectification of the female body, atrociously incorrect bagel eating, New York City slander, etc.)

Author's Note: yes, the title is the song by Expose. Also, I'm a corny writer.

Divider by @cafekitsune

“I don’t know or care what Oliver Quick is doing this summer,” Michael said, continuing to type on his laptop, not even making eye contact with whoever asked the question.  The guy who asked left without saying anything further.

Some random guy in the library asked Michael if it was true that Oliver was going to be spending the summer with Felix on his family’s estate.  It was more about prying into Felix’s business than him wanting to know anything about Oliver, Michael thought.  Oliver was not on the same level of being interesting (in the eyes of the general student populace) that the Cattons were.  

Michael didn’t give a shit that Oliver was going to fancy fucking Saltburn with his new, snobby, loser, nepo baby friends for the summer.  Really, he didn’t.  When Oliver humiliated him at the bar, he made the decision then to swear off any further socializing at the university.  It was the best thing he ever did.

Already, he felt less anxious.  He had more time to focus on his coursework.  More time to read new books, attend off campus lectures.  Walks in the park by himself were quite relaxing when he didn’t have to think about topics to keep a stilted, dying conversation going.  He even went so far as to set aside time to play video games again.  Every weekend, for one hour and a half, he lost himself in Fable on his Xbox.  

Michael still felt the sting of the bar betrayal from time to time, as he thought he had finally found a true friend in Oliver (or at least, the potential for him to become one).  The new, lone path taken had helped him realize that he was not the problem.  Oliver was just an asshole, like the majority of those who went to Oxford.  

Sometimes Michael wondered why people didn’t like him.  Must be how smart he was.   There was nothing weird about being good at math.  What was so awful about being good at math, anyway?  He guessed that most peoples’ biggest issue with his smarts was that it reminded them they were stupid. Oh well!  Plenty of time for activities by himself now.

One of those activities was fast became his favorite, after only his fourth visit.  Visiting a little coffee shop he had discovered near the river, he was able to “mingle” among people without having to talk to anyone. No one would bother him here and he would still get his dose of human contact which, after all, was vital to the psychological constitution of a person.  As rigid as he intended on being with his new No Socializing At Oxford vows, Michael did not intend on becoming a psychopath.  Besides, the baristas never got his order wrong. They never talked to him beyond the perfunctory taking of his order but after the third time, when he walked in, instead of asking what he would like the person at the register had asked “The usual?” and Michael would just say yes, thank you, and then pay.

Michael packed up his laptop, shoving it and the charger into his reusable Tescoe bag along with his notebooks. He stood and adjusted his sweater, checked all his pant pockets were buttoned up and zipped closed.  He kept his visits only to every other day so as to not have the monotony grate on his nerves. The coffee shop made fresh bagels every day, however, and he had been looking forward to enjoying one all morning (his favorite was blueberry).  He liked to eat his a certain way, scooping out the insides of each slice before finally eating the hollowed out crusts.  Someone at school would surely have an opinion about his bagel-eating method (not that he cared) but at the coffee shop, Michael was left in peace.

 Walking briskly through the library doors and outside in the crisp spring air, he didn’t even look in direction of Oliver walking up the steps into the library with Felix.  They were laughing about something but Michael didn’t even breathe in their direction.

—---------

The delicious smell of bread baking hit him in a wave as he stepped into the coffee shop.  It looked like a rush had just hit, the baristas busy cleaning and restocking various items.  

“Hi! I’ll take your order right over here.” came the chipper voice.  Michael turned.

Oh god, a new hire. An American one (he was pretty sure the accent he heard was American) Maybe he wasn’t entitled to feel irritated about changes in the store, it's not like he owned the damn thing, but Michael felt irritated just the same.  This was HIS spot and someone new had just invaded it.

The new girl had long hair parted in the middle, tied back in a bun.  The hair was turquoise. A very bright turquoise, almost neon, he would say.  It pissed him off even more. Dyed hair was so fucking tacky.

He trudged to the register, hating every second of anticipating having to deal with someone new, someone chatty, even for something as impersonal as coffee.  

The girl was almost as tall as he was, eye-level to him, smiling the fakest fucking smile he had ever seen.  I mean, it had to be fake.  Who looked this happy to be taking a stranger’s order? He didn’t even bother attempting to smile back.  Whatever.  Get my coffee, bitch Michael though.

“I’ll have a large vanilla coffee, sugar free, with a blueberry bagel.” 

“Ah, so just cutting back on the sugar but can’t quite quit it altogether, eh?” the girl said with a wink and another smile, totally unperturbed by his attitude.

Michael pursed his lips and said nothing.  The girl, still unbothered, looked down and clacked away on the touch screen.  He quickly looked over her in the few seconds she imputed his order.  

She had long, acrylic nails, painted a pastel kind of purple.  Her name tag said Cat, which he guessed was short for Catherine.  Maybe.  Also her boobs were big.  Not normal big, but stripper big.  Not that he would know, but still.  Too big for the word “boobs”, for sure.  Tits seemed like a more appropriate word.  If he had ever been to a strip club he was pretty damn sure stripper tits would look exactly like hers.  And she had tattoos covering the entirety of her left arm.  Classy, he thought condescendingly. No wonder she was working here instead of somewhere like a bank.

Michael wondered if she had tattoos on her chest as well…he was so sure he could avert his gaze before she noticed but suddenly her fingers snapped and her head lowered into his line of vision, a smug look on her face.  Small wisps of hair hung in front of her ears, he noticed.

“You lose something. buddy?” she asked.  

“I didn’t mean-I was just looking at your name tag.” he sputtered, fidgeting with a cuff of his sweater.  

“Look, it's fine. They’re tits.” 

Michael flinched slightly at her casual use of the word.  It was one thing to talk like that with other guys, but girls? What was she trying to prove?  Tits tits tits. He made a point to stare straight into her eyes and not look away while she continued to speak. “Its not a big deal, I promise,” she said, finishing up his order on the register and offering her hand to take payment. 

Choosing not to respond, Michael set his Tesco bag on the counter so he could unzip one of his pockets to get at his credit card.  The pocket it was in was hard to open and the zipper always caught, so two hands were needed.  

“You can look, you know,  just don’t be creepy about it.” she continued, as he struggled slightly with the pocket.  

Michael did not look at her as he handed over the card. 

Being branded a “creep” was the last thing Michael needed.  He was already the Lonely Nerd at university, he really did not want to become the Creepy Lonely Nerd (that ogles stranger’s tits).  Not that he would give a shit what people thought, but one less socially crippling label was better than one more.

“I mean, it’s not like I can leave them at home, right?  I don’t mind a little look here and there!” she said with a laugh, handing back his card. Unbelievable.  She was still talking about her tits! 

“Can I get that to go?” Michael answered more than asked.  

“Sure thing. Uh, what’s your name?”

“I’m Michael.” He was not staying here. He was not going to stay and become the Creepy Tit Guy.  Given her outgoing nature, Cat would probably have something to say about the way he ate his bagel, too, he was sure of it.  He would become Creepy Tit And Weirdo Bagel Eating Method Guy if he stayed. Maybe dealing with this at university would have been easier but this was supposed to be his relaxation spot. The coffee shop was ruined for him now, he would never come back.  Ever.  Fuck this place and fuck her.

“Alrighty, dude. Be right back!” 

“My name is not…dude..” Michael stepped away from the register, his voice fading away to nothing as Cat got his order ready, unable to hear him.  There was no one else coming in right now, it seemed he came during a lull. The other employees were still cleaning and restocking. 

“Here you go!” Cat said with a smile, handing him his bagel in a paper wrap and his coffee. 

Still not looking at her, he took his bagel and his coffee and got the fuck out of there, practically powerwalking away. 

 It was only until he made it to a nearby park bench that he finally saw what Cat had written on the other side of his bagel wrapper.  A whole paragraph, practically.  Michael, sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. I was just trying to be funny, I swear.  Enjoy your coffee.  Hope you come back! 

Michael felt relief for a moment, before loudly groaning and spilling some of his coffee as he made to slap his forehead with that same hand.  He had left his fucking Tescoe bag at the coffee shop.  His bag that had his computer, his notebooks, his finished papers for a couple of classes. 

He had to go back.  Fuck.

“Yeah, sorry, but she said she knew you.”

Michael swore. The cashier informed him that Cat had just left, her shift was over.  She had taken the bag with her to the Oxford library.  Apparently, she was a student there?  Who fucking knew!?

“You need me to call the police?”

“No, that’s all right, I do know her.”  Michael lied.  “I told her earlier I’d be headed to the library later.  She probably figures she can catch me there.”  Without a single, civil ‘thank you’, Michael practically fled the shop.

He didn’t care how dumb it looked that he was frantically looking everywhere in the library for the familiar, turquoise hair.  People always looked at him funny.  It’s not like he could go to each of them individually and ask them hey could you please stop snidely whispering every time you look in my direction? Old Michael would go back to his dorm, have a cry, wonder why no one liked him and then quickly finish his homework in his dungeon of a bedroom before crying some more and then going to sleep.

New Michael didn’t give a shit.  New Michael was focused 100 percent on his academics and self-care, and right now his academics were in jeopardy because that Tesco bag held papers he had yet to type (Michael liked to hand write his work first, he felt it was more thorough). Also, maybe New Michael should better remember to not forget his shit at random shops.  Old Michael wouldn’t have forgotten. Whatever. 

After scanning the entire first floor of the library, he stomped to the second floor.  If she was a student here, how had he never seen her?  The hair would have been hard to miss.  Of course, it's not like he made it a habit to people watch anymore, especially in the library. 

Suddenly, he saw her.  Way in the corner, at a table right under a huge window, he saw her returning with her nose in a book from the shelves.  On the table, his bag.  

“Give it here.” Michael said, approaching the table.  Cat looked up from her book.

God, she was pretty.  He felt like a troll next to her.  It was so fucking unfair. More importantly though…why was he telling her to hand the bag back?  It was HIS.  He should just take it and go, without a word.  She had basically stolen it.  The girl was a thief and took it to give him a hard time because she was a bitch, like every other pretty girl he had ever interacted with and been cut down by. Maybe he could like her if he gave it a try…but the days of trying to get people to think he was cool or amazing were over.  She was a bitch and he knew it.

Mmm not what the note on your bagel showed, an annoying voice in his head began. That note could only have been written if she liked you because who would write that for a random customer?  You should talk to her an-  

Oh, fucking christ.  Old Michael.  Desperate-to-be-liked-by-someone-ANYONE Michael.  Shut the fuck up, Old Michael. You are dead.

“Yeah, no problem, I mean it is your bag!” Cat said cheerfully, closing her book and holding the bag out to him. “Sorry you had to run all this way to get it, Michael.”

“Um, it’s ok.  I run fast.” Michael said, immediately regretting it. God, that sounded so fucking stupid. He reached out for his bag.

Oh, so we’re no longer on that socializing ban, huh, Mr. Comedian?  I mean, what was THAT?!  Old Michael thought slyly. Shut up shut up shut up shut up!!!!! And, look!  She remembers your name! SHUT UP.

“-couldn’t just leave it there, you know?” Cat had finished saying.

Michael froze. “Huh?” 

What had she been talking about?  Shit. “Uh, why not?” Please let that be the right response.  Please let that be relevant to what she was fucking saying, Michael thought desperately. 

Cat rolled her eyes, but still sounded…not like a bitch?  “The laptop would definitely have been long gone if I hadn’t taken the bag.  I couldn’t just leave it there.”

Oh.  That was it.  That had been all she had said. Michael nodded and mumbled his thanks, ready to go…except Cat still held onto the bag. And stopped him with her next words.

“You play Fable a lot?”she asked.

It’s a trap.  She is going to make fun of you, he thought to himself.  Just get your shit and go. His hand was also still on HIS bag.  That she was not letting go of, for some reason.

“Yeah, I like it a lot.” 

Oh, how riveting.  That will make her swoon! Old Michael chimed in. 

“Really?” Cat responded.  Her tone wasn’t mocking.  It was…interested?  “I like it too but it feels unfinished, somehow.  I wish they would release Fallout 3 for these new consoles already, I bet it would be 1000 times better than this crap that Lionhead put out.”

Michael nodded.  She liked Fallout? She was impatient for the release?? Ask her to go with you to the midnight release next year!!! Ask her ask her ask her ask- No.  Shut up.  Be normal, for once in your life, be normal and chill about something. 

“-able doesn’t feel like it’s TRULY a good rpg, where you can do whatever you want, you know?  You can only go in one direction and can’t put off the main quest at all.”

She was still talking about Fable.  She was still talking about video games, something they both liked, something they had in common.

This is your chance, you know. Old Michael piped in.  Did any of those other people ever show even the slightest interest in the stuff you were into?  Ever? Ask her out!

“Ok,” Michael began. “I see your point, but the mechanics of the game aren’t the star so much as the incredible story and character designs-” 

While he continued to go on a tangent of Fable’s good qualities to Cat, trying his best not to sound too rant-y, Michael frantically gave the idea of asking her out some thought…

What if she said no? Hm what if she says yes? 

It’s stupid. The release for Fallout 3 is next year.  No, not even.  It’s October of that year, so…over a year away!  Almost two fucking years! What kind of weirdo would ask someone on a date almost two years from now?! Plus, she isn’t even into me.  She just likes video games, like any other person.  

Why is she still holding onto your bag, then? Old Michael thought smugly.  Why did she write that little note on your bagel? Why did she remember your name? Why-

All right, all right.  

“Right, so…want to come? To the midnight release for it?  For Fallout 3?” Michael asked, throwing all caution to the wind and swallowing his preemptive rejection rage that already was bubbling up.

“For Fallout?” Cat said, still holding onto the bag. “Which store you going to?” 

“Target.” Please say yes.  I don’t even know you and I know it’s weird to ask you somewhere practically two years from now but PLEASE SAy YES, Michael thought.

“Mm, nah.” Cat, said, letting go of the bag to dig in her bookbag.

Shit. 

Michael’s chest began to hurt, the hand holding his bag falling limply to his side.  He could feel his eyes begin to water.  She was just like the rest of them. Pathetic.  So pathe-

“You should come with me to Game on Queen Street, they always price cut!” Cat said, whipping out her blackberry. “Whatever price we show them for the game, they’ll shave 5 off it!  I mean, it’s not much but I’ll take what I can get! Here, put your number in.”

On sheer autopilot, Michael put his number in.  He felt ashamed the entire time, having choked back a scathing insult at the last minute before Cat had shoved her phone at him.

“Are you ok?” Cat took her phone back, eyeing him with a concerned look.

“I’m fine! It’s just-probably something I caught the other day, I can already feel the sniffles coming on and whatnot.  It’s nothing!” Michael babbled.

It cannot be this easy, Michael thought.  It’s been this easy the entire time?  Hanging out with a girl?  Talking to her?  Making plans?  Why did Oliver never like him when they had so much in common?

Holy shit, forget about fucking Oliver! You have a date with your future wife! Old Michael practically screeched. Jesus fucking Christ, you are desperate. Shut the fuck up!! Be Normal!

“You wanna go back to the shop and get another bagel?” Cat asked, putting her books away and sliding on her bookbag. “ We could use my discount, that way-”

“Yeah, let's go.” Michael cut in.  Grabbing her wrist and not waiting for her answer, he turned and began to swiftly move through the library.  He tried not to get excited as Cat uttered a quick ‘cool’ and kept pace with him.  

He also tried not to think about how awkwardly he was holding her hand. Everyone in the library was staring, he saw it in his peripheral.   It had looked so cool in his brain but now everyone could see how his stupid hand around her wrist slightly resembled him holding his limp-no no no no noooo shut up shut up SHUT UP. 

“Blueberry runs out quick.” Michael said, as they both briskly walked.   “I went one time at around this hour instead of my usual time and I had to settle for onion, which is gross as shit.” You’re rambling, Old Michael chided.  She fucking works there, she doesn’t need a play-by-play of bagel supply issues. Let her say something, idiot!  The reason he never noticed her before, it turned out, was that she hadn’t dyed her hair yet.  Cat also began to tell him about her history degree.  Something about the American Gilded age and how she was deep into research of the British Astors or something.  Michael surprisingly found himself not bored.  Were her eyes fucking green?  Oh, fuck, they were green!

They finally saw the shop in the distance.  Right after his anti-onion bagel tirade and her talk of her studies, he set straight into a long-winded verbal onslaught on the statistics of how rare green eyes were.  Micheal thought his heart would fall out of his asshole when Cat adjusted their hands so her fingers were laced with his.  About halfway through the distance, he had cut in when she mentioned her favorite bagel flavor (pineapple) and talked her ear off the rest of the way about his bagel eating method, insisting on its practicality but really prepping her so that she wouldn’t be horrified when she saw him do it and ditch him like fucking Oliver.  She laughed. 

“That’s so L.A. of you.  New York would hate your fucking guts, though.” she said, with a grin.   “Good thing I’m a California girl!  I’d rather deal with horrible traffic and scooped bagels than having to fight rats for sidewalk space.”

Right before they got to the doors, Michael went for it.  “I’m telling people that you’re my girlfriend.”, he said seriously.  She hadn’t run off when he had taken her hand (wrist).  She had noticed the Fable stickers on his computer.  She had remembered his name after one interaction. The American thing was a slight issue but hey, no one was perfect! 

“Cool, because I already told the staff that you were my boyfriend when I took your bag!” Cat responded. “I told them you like to pretend you don’t know me when you get mad and I just play along to pacify you.  It was the only way they were comfortable letting me take your bag!”

Be cool!  Do not fucking freak out! Act fucking normal! Do NOT scare her away! Say something a fucking weirdo would never in a million years say! Old Michael reminded him.

“Let’s go back to my place after and study some calculus.  Your grades in that sound horrendous.” Fucccccck.  You just got yourself a girlfriend and this is the shit you respond with?! Old Michael panicked. 

Cat smirked. “Only if you promise to fuck me into your mattress after.”

Michael stared at her, almost daring her to say she was kidding.  When she didn’t and her gaze briefly dropped to his lips, he abandoned any doubts he had and turned to walk away from the shop, practically dragging Cat with him.  

Cat giggled and adjusted herself to clutch at his arm with both hands, her legs and his in perfect sync as they made their way to Michael’s room.

—------------

“What the fuck?” Felix said to Oliver, pointing. Both were sitting on a bench, relaxing a bit before their next class.

 “Didn’t he go fucking mental at you the first day? Not to be a dick or anything but is she safe with that guy?”  

Oliver followed Felix’s finger and froze.  

He gaped at what he saw:

Michael fucking Gavey, math genius slash freak of nature, walking happily with the pretty American girl who had said no to their bar hopping invite just last week.  It was definitely surprising, but Oliver was now more determined than ever.  If a fucking social reject like Gavey could get what he was after, then someone like himself was sure to have the same luck if he continued to put in the effort.

THE END

[that-one-scared-gay]

someone please ask me about the mikoshogun fic i've started writing it won't leave my head

[thekats]

Me @ a piece of media: Yay, something new I can latch onto! It stimulates the brain juices just right! This is my newest special interest!

Me when it ends: who am i. what is existence. empty. cry. yes cry. give me back my safety.

[catsushinyakajima]

I have a decent amount of irritation towards folks who put down creators on tiktok. I understand that every social media platform has a different general crowd/content and people categorize tiktok content to be more superficial than other platforms. But that doesn't mean that people who put their work out there deserve being degraded.

I'm aware this happens to an extent on every app, but my aggravation is mainly fueled by the reception that "tiktok poems" get. There's a regular cycle of someone posting poetry on tiktok, the post going viral, and then several different videos being made about how the poem was laughable, people have no depth when it comes to writing, bring back "real" literature, etc...

It seriously pisses me off. If you didn't like the poem, fine. If it genuinely offended you, also fine! But do people not realize that in order to write great literature...you must first start off with scrappy writing? And that too it's their own opinion that the writing was bad! It's not some boldly stated fact that everyone missed.

No writer comes out of the womb preaching prose. All this "great poetry and literature", all of it was built on piles and piles of awkward experimentations with styles and cringy writing. One must blunder and stumble before they learn to fly. And by bashing people who put their work out there, you are actively quashing their attempts to grow.

People are complaining about the decline of literature and they're right to protest about it. Even I have my woes about it; I think a lot of things that are being published are cheap money grabs with no real depth. But that being said, putting down new and budding writers does not solve this issue. Rather, it further deteriorates it.

The key to reducing superficiality in creation is to create more. Not like some robot working in a factory- but a more authentic variation: we must live more, exist more, and create more. We must experience the world around us and push our perspectives out into the world. As long as there are people doing this, it doesn't matter what big company is producing what, true creation will persevere.

Putting down creators-not just writers on tiktok, but anyone, anywhere- halts authentic creation.

[famewolf]

'It’s like the sun has entered Gary’s very soul. Every part of him burns with those words as they pound with each beat of his heart. Engulfing his body in divine flames, he is consumed entirely. This is all that exists.' - Chapter 1 of Better the Devil You Know

finished editing the first chapter of a project I wrote 2 years ago and plan to finish in November. it's a wordy, indulgent fic about my two favorite traumatized men from a campaign long, long ago.

it is explicit in nature, though the first chapter is mild, the content warnings are marked in the tags.

[misslisamiray]

Time for the other thing I promised (and sorry it's a day late): An update on the Rick and Morty fanfic I'm writing! With bonus pic of the pretty space-themed binder it resides in. Also, from this post on, said fic will be referred to by its actual title.

Current page count: 80!!! (Which is so much longer than I expected this fic to get, but I am not complaining.) Status: Not done yet, but I'm entering the final stretch. I've given up on setting a goal date for when it's going to be finished, but I feel like I can now safely say SOON. Also, until the full fic is up on Ao3 & ff, you'll now be getting excerpts every Thursday!

Summary: Rick has a nasty cold... which he initially tries to pass off as an alien virus that can mimic any illness. Morty does his best to take care of him, and Rick (of course) makes things so, so much more difficult for both of them than they need to be. No one is surprised.

Meanwhile, Beth and Summer are out of the house, and Jerry is searching in the attic for the 90's anime VHS he's sure will help him figure out EXACTLY what to do (keep in mind he's the only one who still believes Rick's alien virus story). 😅

And now, without further ado, excerpt & dumbass title reveal below the cut!

Excerpt from Down With the Rickness by MissLisaMiray

"That's more like it. Okay, Rick. Here you go." Morty sighed. He carefully filled the medicine's accompanying measuring cup to the top line and tried to hand it to Rick.

"I don't want it." Rick grumbled, waving it away.

"Seriously?! Why not?" Morty asked, exasperated.

"It looks gross. I'm too stuffed up to tell, but it probably smells gross, too. And I know it's gonna taste like shit. So no, I don't want it." Rick explained, stubbornly turning his head. Morty barely held back a scream.

"Are you kidding me?! I thought it was gonna be something about this stuff being inferior to anything you'd make, so you were like, insulted by it. But it's just that? Of course it's gonna taste bad. Doesn't all medicine? Just swallow it quick and get it over with." He held the cup in front of Rick, who shook his head and continued refusing to take it.

"Of course this would be the one thing in the whole damn universe you won't drink. Rick, come on! It's for your own good. Stop acting like a 4 year old and take it!" Morty argued, climbing onto the bed and shoving the small cup in front of Rick's face. Rick opened his mouth to argue further, which Morty took advantage of by quickly pouring the medicine in before the old man could react.

Furious, the second he'd swallowed it down, Rick began sputtering, "Ugh, that's even worse than I thought it would be! Cough! Cough! What the hell, Morty?! Not cool! You can't force strange liquids down people's throats like that!"

"You think I enjoyed any part of that?! And don't be so dramatic - alI I did was make you take some cold medicine. Also, there's no way that's the most disgusting thing you've ever swallowed." Morty pointed out.

"Well, if nothing else, I can't argue that part. Still, that shit is foul. Yuck." Rick complained, still looking disgusted. He grabbed his flask and took a swig to wash away the taste. Morty considered saying something about that not being a great idea, but quickly decided it was a losing battle he wasn't interested in.

[chussyracing]

Charles jealous and possessive please! SMUT

you may have mixed me up with somebody else, because none of these words are in my dictionary except for "charles". sorry anon!

[carolofthebell]

Golden Tags:

#So I'm good enough to witness your wedding but not where you hid the body? #WHY DO YOU THINK I EVEN WENT TO LAW SCHOOL? #Less worry over how long l've been planning this for more signing my retainer #Yeah and initial there #FANTASTIC now let's paint each other's nails and you can tell me all the murder deets

This lawyer went through law school just to get to the Tea, the whole Tea, and nothing but the Tea.

Star of the new and improved:

Ace Attourney

The legal drama we’ve all been waiting for where nobody is sleeping with anybody. They were all worried about the gay agenda when they should have been worried about the Ace Agenda. Those not distracted by carnal lust have more time and attention to devote to plotting.

Your legally married spouse is the one person in the world that you get to choose, who doesn't have to witness against you in court. So if you're thinking of marrying someone, consider these two questions:

Do I trust that this person would 100% help me hide a body, no questions asked?

Do I trust this person enough that if they asked for my help to hide a body, I wouldn't hesitate?

[mx-pastelwriting]

Saving My Fanfiction Work

First. Side note: This post was only intended to give resources to fanfiction writers and enjoyers. My talk on recent political events was a context/reasoning on why I made this post. Also I’ve had to add more information to this post over time due to people’s confusion in my comments. Explaining it was to make sure that this post didn’t come off as out of the blue for my followers and this community. Which is fanfiction.

Also, why I made this post was from people asking if they could download my fanfiction because of the recent political events in America hence why I named it “saving my fanfiction work” and added my context. So this was also a post to tell people that liked my fanfiction they could download it as long as it was for their personal collection. I merely just wanted to list resources to people who wanted to download fanfiction and don’t know where to start or don’t have the immediate resources. I’m not here to fear-monger. I am just giving resources and the reasoning on why I’m giving them along with urging people to look into those information/recent events as staying aware is important. I respect everybody who’s given their opinion and yes, some of my grammar in this post is not adequate as this post was merely made for giving/stating resources.

Lastly, I will no longer update this post with comments as I’ve said my peace, nor will I pay attention to the notifications as they are muted. As my page is for fanfiction not politics. Thank you for the people in this community who share this post for the resources see you around the tags! Stay safe friends!!✨ Remember I love you! And you are loved!💛

-

Due to the recent events in the United States. To clarify the recent events being Trump becoming president of the United States, Project 2025 more than likely going to be integrated. If you are not familiar with Project 2025 I urge you to look it up.

Along with the KOSA bill that has many problems and it has passed the senate now needing the finally vote in the house, which both are majority red. Go here to learn more on why it needs to be stopped and how you can. This is another component that will harm our communities. Go to: stopkosa.com

With all of its harmful plans some of the plans are to take down/restrict internet sites that have LGBTQ+ communities that means communities like the fan-fiction communities/sites in the United States.

I am only giving resources to those inside and out of the US in case they banned sites that hold fan-fiction. Better safe than sorry.

Being that I live in the US the possibly of mine and many others Fanfiction has the possibly of being in danger. Therefore I'm giving you recourses. (I'm not leaving or stopping my writing, I'm here for the fight!)

For those wanting to save my fanfiction, I give you permission to download them off of AO3 and to be used for your personal collection. Meaning, your eyes only. To clarify I’m saying this as others have asked if they could download my fanfic so for those who would like to you can.

If you do not know how to download them many others on online have tutorials on how to download them and add them to our phone libraries.

Here are some links to tutorials:

Downloading Fanfic

Adding to Iphone & Android Library

Adding to Kindle Library - Video on How (On TikTok)

Adding Book Covers (At the bottom) - Good EPUB Cover Changer (I use this)

Types of Files and What they mean

Please stay safe out there! Remember to follow the rules below.

DO NOT share the downloaded file anywhere online.

DO NOT repost the downloaded file under your name.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does give consent to "reblog," sharing links to direct work, and being in recommend lists.

Please stay safe out there friends! I love you so much! Know that there will always people that love you and in for the fight to make sure you are loved!

And here are some resources in case you don’t feel okay! Resources here

[pitchsidestories]

See You in Lisbon II Alexia Putellas x Arsenal!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1606

summary: Reader is Arsenal through and through. Her girlfriend, Alexia, on the other hand, bleeds blaugrana. Both can't wait to see each other at the final in Lisbon.

author's note: Hi everyone, when we started writing this fanfic, we never imagined the game would unfold the way it did. We hope this story brings you some comfort, no matter which team you were supporting in the final. And we'd love to hear your thoughts after you have read it. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

“Any plans for the weekend?”, you asked casually, the phone pressed to your ear. While waiting for an answer from your girlfriend, you traced the rim of your coffee mug standing abandoned on the couch table in your London flat. You bit back a smile, thinking about the weekend when you’d finally get to see her again.

“Yes, winning the Champions League.”, Alexia answered without missing a beat.

You rolled your eyes, still wearing an affectionate smile. That was typical Ale, always thinking about football.

With a smirk, you said: “See you in Lisbon, love.”

“Sure.”, you heard her grin, determined to keep this rivalry up until the final whistle of the Champions League final.

You paused, raising an eyebrow. “Wow. No Sure, amor?”, you asked, feigning a pout.

“No, not before the final.”, Alexia teased.

“Alright.”

“Maybe afterwards.”, your girlfriend added, relenting just a little.

“Can’t wait.”

“Oh, trust me. You won’t have anything to celebrate afterwards.”, she half-joked.

And yes, maybe you felt the same way: excited to see her again which you didn’t do as often anymore since your transfer to Arsenal but also absolutely ready to give it your all and bring that trophy home.

The day of the final promised to be something very special. Sold out stadium, sunny weather and that impeccable atmosphere only a Champions League final could provide. You could feel it as soon as you set foot inside the stadium.

While you focused on getting ready for the game, across the tunnel in the Barcelona dressing room, they were still busy teasing your girlfriend.

“Nervous, Capi?”, Jana asked her as Alexia pulled on her shirt.

She shook her head: “Not at all.”

Esmee grinned at her: “But you’ll see your schatje again.”

“No.”, Alexia replied calmly, shutting the young player up quickly.

Ona giggled from the other side of the room: “Oh wow, that’s brutal.”

“I won’t even talk to her until after the game.”, Alexia added with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Arsenal’s dressing room was equally alive and you were the centre of attention.

“Codi and Vic, stop smirking at me like that.”, you said, trying to sound as serious as possible but eventually, a grin broke through.

Laia blinked at you with exaggerated innocence: “We’re not doing anything.”

Victoria exchanged a quick glance with her before turning to you with raised eyebrows: “Yeah, we’re not the one who’s dating the enemy.”

“The enemy, huh?”, you echoed with a smirk.

Laia nodded eagerly: “Si!”

“Only for a game. It’s not like I’m dating a Chelsea player.”, you said with a nonchalant shrug.

Luckily for you, the Arsenal captain intervened: “Leave her alone, you children.”

“Yes, we’ve no time for that now.”, Renée added, glancing expectantly at the clock, it was almost time.

Quickly, you reassured her: “Don’t worry, we’re ready and fully focused.”

Before your team left the dressing room and stepped into the players’ tunnel, you formed a huddle. Your coach addressed you all one last time before the match: “Then I’ve nothing else to say but to quote the legendary Johan Cruyff: Go out and enjoy.”

“Let’s go and win this.”, you continued, your voice brimming with excitement.

Leah, who was standing beside you, added: “For Kim and us.”

“Can you keep me out of this, please?”, the Arsenal captain said, clearing her throat, uncomfortable with the attention. The midfielder didn’t want the added pressure; she intended to give it her all on the pitch regardless.

“Sorry.”, the defender replied with an apologetic look.

Determined, Kim clapped her hands together, and the huddle slowly broke as each of you headed for the tunnel: “Let’s go.”

The game felt like it lasted an eternity and yet, also like the blink of an eye. But luck was on your side. Stina, who came on late in the match, scored the winning goal.

When the referee blew the final whistle, you leapt into Alessia’s arms. Tears formed in both your eyes as she whispered in disbelief: “We did it.”

Euphoria pulsed through your veins until Laia’s serious voice grounded you: “Y/n? I think someone needs cheering up.”

Your heart sank when you spotted your girlfriend sitting on the grass, looking sad and dejected.

“Ale?”, you called softly.

She looked up and rose to hug you, murmuring into your ear: “Congrats.”

“You all played brilliantly you almost had us at the end.”, you remarked sincerely.

A pained smile crossed Alexia’s lips. “But you were better.” Seeing the concern in your eyes, she quickly added: “I’m alright.”

You hesitated: “See you later, or would you rather be alone?”

“I think I want to be alone.”, she answered. The Barcelona captain wanted you to enjoy the special night ahead with your teammates.

You nodded reluctantly: “Okay.”

“Come on!”, Victoria shouted.

“Go celebrate, amor. Tonight, I’m mad at you but tomorrow I’ll be proud we lost to you,” Alexia declared, giving you a gentle push towards your celebrating teammates.

Your heart was full of love for her, and for your team. You turned to look back at her and responded: “I can live with the hate for tonight, if tomorrow’s only love.”

“Disgusting.”, Beth grimaced playfully. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her.

Unlike you, Alexia pretended not to hear the winger’s teasing remark. In her quiet confidence your girlfriend promised: “I’ll see you tomorrow. “

“Bye.”, you said softly, watching her turn her back on you. Before she disappeared into the group of Barça players, you felt someone tug on your arm.

You turned to see your coach pulling you into the direction of the stands.

“Renée, I can’t run anymore.”, you complaint through laughter. But of course, there was no way you'd miss out on celebrating with the fans.

“That poor girl gave her everything!”, Leah called over, thankfully jumping to your defence.

Renée still didn’t let go: “Yeah but I could see her getting sadder by the second.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, being read so easily by your coach was slightly embarrassing.

“It’s called empathy and this was about my girlfriend!”, you protested.

“Your girlfriend has three of those already, she will survive.”, Renée teased with a grin.

You paused to think about it, then nodded: “Good point, actually.”

“It’s time to celebrate yourself.”, Renée reminded you.

But you never even made it to the stands because Laia wrapped her arms around your waist and lifted you off the ground like it was nothing, She was beaming, absolutely exhilarated by the achievement.

You squirmed in her arms and laughed: “Laia, put me down!”

“No.”, she replied simply.

“Please, it’s time for the medals!”, you called out, pointing over toward the stage.

“Okay, but only because of that.”, Laia finally gave in and set you back down.

“Thank you.”

During the guard of honour, your eyes continued to drift, trying to find Alexias. She still looked crushed, only offering you a weak smile once the medal was around your neck. But you decided to give her the time she needed, tonight was for celebrating with your team.

The celebrations went on until the early morning hours. You only made it to bed when the sun had already started to rise so when it was time to get up, you felt groggy and disoriented.

Still half-asleep, you opened the door of your hotel room as you were already running late for breakfast. You nearly knocked over a bouquet of flowers waiting at your feet. You rubbed your eyes and picked it up without much thought.

“Who got you the flowers?”, Lia asked cheerfully, appearing down the corridor with Mariona on her side.

You blinked down at the bouquet like you were seeing it for the first time.

A quick check of the off-white card attached to the bouquet revealed the sender.

Grinning, you replied: “It’s from her. But you know what the note says?”

“What?”, Lia asked, intrigued.

“Enjoy the moment but next time, we’ll win again.“, you read the note out loud.

The Swiss woman remarked, amused: “That definitely sounds like her.”

“Seems like she’s already ready to go again.”, you realised, relieved.

Leah, who you hadn’t seen coming, gave you a light hug from behind and commented confidently: “Don’t worry. We won’t make it easy for her.”

With a finger pressed to your lips, you signalled for them to be quiet as you received a phone call from your girlfriend.

Mariona laughed quietly: “Ooh, she’s calling.”

You took a few steps away from the banter of your beloved teammates, heading to a quiet corner where you could look out at the sea.

“Morning, amor. Did you receive my surprise?”, Alexia asked gently.

Filled with deep gratitude, you answered: “I did. Gràcies.”

“You’re welcome. And I mean it—next time, we’ll win.”, your girlfriend emphasised.

Smiling, you shook your head. It was good to see her in that spirit again: “Lee already said we won’t make it easy for you.” You paused for a moment, then added lovingly: “Ik hou van jou.”

“I believe you. But we’ll be better then.”, she replied.

There was hopefulness in your voice as you asked: “See you soon?”

“Yes, promise.”

You had a few days off before joining the Dutch national team for the Nations League matches, but you already knew where you’d be heading first. You might play for different clubs, but beneath it all was a love that only grew deeper with time.

Lisbon had been wonderful, but you couldn’t wait to see her again in Barcelona where it all began between the two of you.

Home was no longer a place. It was in your girlfriend’s arms.

image sources: https://www.instagram.com/wchampionsleague/p/DKCwVPmIBVD/, pinterest

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Toasty, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you. 

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face. 

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter. 

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place. 

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names? 

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key. 

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung. 

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet? 

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this. 

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa. 

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with.  The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds. 

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence. 

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her? 

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly. 

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics. 

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered. 

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn. 

Someone passes him another. 

Someone else claps him on the back. 

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element. 

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is? 

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking. 

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump. 

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often. 

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..." 

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless. 

He's right. 

You do hate this. 

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be. 

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here." 

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it. 

The other one is… 

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head. 

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter. 

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall. 

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling. 

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him. 

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making. 

And he's admitting it. 

Voluntarily. 

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom. 

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect. 

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor. 

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room. 

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately. 

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish. 

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention. 

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief. 

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment. 

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid." 

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you. 

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual. 

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks. 

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier. 

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice? 

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball. 

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining. 

In small doses. 

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you. 

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure. 

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious. 

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food. 

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it. 

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue. 

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it. 

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest. 

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you. 

Good for him. 

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing. 

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise. 

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food. 

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table. 

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes. 

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters. 

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused. 

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size. 

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics. 

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly. 

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant. 

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion. 

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen. 

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol. 

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions. 

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination. 

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver. 

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty. 

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued. 

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower. 

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern. 

He knows you shouldn’t drink that. 

You know you shouldn’t drink that. 

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink. 

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

goal: 600 notes

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim @btstrology @vialattea00 @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[thepandalion]

Heyyy guess what guys?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64527916

Sequel time!!

okay idk if ur still in the house md fandom but i am BEGGING to hear more abt your werewolf!wilson au. i just. i desperately need to see the ‘chase eats rocks’ thing written. i need foreman to just staunchly disbelieve in magic, like. He Does Not See It Is Not There. vampire cuddy will be on my mind for days now - ur art for it was so cute !!

Hi hello thank you so much??

I. have so much planned for this AU actually. Like I actually forgot how much I have planned for it and then I put my hands on the keyboard to finish writing the first oneshot fic for it and just... so many ideas?

Anyways, thanks for inspiring me to get back to writing for this AU, I kinda forgot how fun it is to just make stuff up.

Anyways, I just finished writing the first fic in the series thanks to you! Link:

So. Yknow. have fun with that one ^^"

(Other fics planned include, but are not limited to:

Wilson is a therapy dog: the full moon decided to show up around the afternoon and now are intrepid protagonist is following best friend's "pet dog" around as the dog sneaks into the kids' rooms in oncology. Y'know, because dogs take after their humans, or whatever.

Cuddy is a vampire, apparently: and uses her thrall abilities to get house to do more clinic hours. This works for longer than he would like to admit.

Chase is eating rocks on main: y'know how Chase's dad fucking dies? he also forgot to tell his son that magic exists and, slightly more importantly, that after his death chase will become really fucking magical, or whatever. So now chase is stuck in both grief and hunger and only has half a guess on how to fix either of those. Feat. cuddy informing chase that his hunger is different to vampire hunger. also friendship I think)

[bweirdart]

EVENT OVER! THANKS EVERYONE WHO JOINED IN U ALL DID AN AMAZING JOB <3 SEE YOU AGAIN NEXT YEAR IN MARCH FOR #mARTch OR NEXT OCTOBER (2024) FOR A NEW SET OF PROMPTS!!!!!

OC-TOBER 2023 PROMPTS!!

general tag: #oc-tober / my prompts: #bweirdOCtober

F.A.Q:

Do I have to draw EVERY DAY?

NO! I highly encourage skipping as many days as you need to avoid burnout! There are 10 main days in the event (marked with a ⭐ star) that you can focus on if you don't feel up to doing every day, or you can choose your own adventure and just do the prompts you personally like!

Do I have to DRAW?

NO! You can also write fanfiction snippets, repost older art that fits the theme, tweet headcanons/backstory, roleplay in-character as your oc ... genuinely anything that fits the theme is OK!!

Can I start early?

YES! I understand some people work at a slower pace and might need a head start! So long as you wait until October to post it, you can start working as early as you need!

I missed the start of the event .. do I have to catch up?

NO! Please don't stress about days you missed, you're allowed to just skip to the current prompt!

RULES:

1. MAKE FRIENDS! The community is the best part of this event .. please try to follow new people, ask questions about ocs you like, compliment people's styles, ask friends to create with you, etc!

2. TAKE IT EASY! Skip a day if you're tired, busy or just not interested in the prompt. You don't have to catch up on it later. This is supposed to be fun, not work!

3. BE KIND! Please think about the people around you - don't give people unwarranted harsh criticism, content warn for themes/imagery in your work that could trigger someone, don't create anything hateful, etc

MORE:

text version / tips and ideas on bweird.art or below ↓

star = main prompts | no star = optional

INTRO WEEK

1: FAVE OC ⭐

-Which of your characters is your favourite right now?

2: NEW OC

-Who is your newest OC?

-Design a new OC right now

3: OLD OC ⭐

-Do you remember the first OC you ever made?

-Is there an OC you haven't drawn in a long time?

4: RE-DESIGN

-An OC who has changed a lot over the years

-Take an old OC and update their design right now

 

BACKSTORY WEEK

5: RELATIONSHIPS ⭐

-Who is important to your OC?

-Do they have a partner?

-Do they have a best friend?

-Are they close to their family?

6: SYMBOL

-What imagery do you associate with your oc?

-Are there any colours, flowers, animals or concepts that symbolize them?

7: PERSONALITY ⭐

-How does your OC behave?

-What are their positive traits?

-What are their negative traits?

-Are they extroverted or introverted?

8: PAST

-What was your OC like as a child?

-Where did they grow up?

-Are there any significant moments from their past that shaped who they are?

9: FUTURE ⭐

-Does your OC have a goal they're working towards?

-What will your OC look like when they get older

-Do you have a planned ending for their story?

PALETTE WEEK

10: pumpkin patch palette

#251604 #1E3807 #5B5E1A #A2A657 #EBA00F #F3ECCC

11: hot cocoa palette

#520B13 #BB382E #E27E6D #88392C #AF5D40 #E1AFA4

12: midnight zone palette

#000007 #000049 #183885 #004D4F #0E8788 #FFF1C0

13: peachy palette

#DE6450 #DB9171 #FFC1AE #FEE1AD #FFF2E0 #D9D8D8

14: haunted house palette

#552506 #6E25AA #ED690B #F925A0 #8F8BA7 #A6C1AA

FUN + GAMES WEEK

15: MEME ⭐

-Post memes that remind you of your OC

-Draw your OC as a meme

-Fill out a character meme (classic deviantart style)

16: FOOD

-What is your OC's favourite food?

-What is their least favourite?

-Can they cook?

17: EYES-CLOSED ⭐

-Draw your OC with your eyes closed! No cheating!

-Write a scene without looking at the keyboard! Keep the typos in!

18: SWAP

-Swap the style or aesthetic of two of your OCs

-Species or gender swap AU

-Invert an OC's colour scheme

19: INSPIRATION ⭐

-Is your OC inspired by any pre-existing characters?

-Are there any particular songs/lyrics that inspired something about one of your OCs

-Do you have a dedicated pinterest moodboard for your character?

20: INVENTORY

-What does your OC carry around with them on a daily basis?

-Are there any objects that have sentimental value for them?

-Loot drop for your DnD OC

 

FRIENDS WEEK

21-25:

There's no specific daily prompts for this week, but here are some ideas you can try ...

-Art trades with friends who are doing the event with you

-Your OC interacting with a friend's OC

-Gift art for someone whose OCs you like

-Work together and collaborate on something with a friend

-Roleplay an OC scene together with someone

 

HALLOWEEN WEEK

26: FEAR ⭐

-What is your OC scared of?

-Draw one of your OCs trying to scare the others

27: MONSTER

-Do you have any monster OCs? (eg: vampires, werewolves, creatures, ghosts...)

-Draw a human OC as a monster

-Design a new monster

28: TRICK

-Play a trick on an OC

-Do you have an OC who would play tricks on people?

29: TREAT

-What is your OC's favourite halloween candy?

-Give an OC a special treat to make up for yesterday's trick

30: MAGIC

-Do any of your characters have magical powers?

-Give an OC a magical or cursed artifact

-Create a magic-using OC like a witch or wizard

27: COSTUME ⭐

-What is your OC dressing as for halloween?

[thatdeadaquarius]

About your language brainrot. I see your "Reader's writing can't match tyvat's long and flowery writing" and bring you "Tyvat isn't used to books over 50 pages long so a short story to the Reader is a whole dictionary to tyvat readers".

Seriously, have you seen how thin the books are? They don't wrote novels, they write short chapters formatted in the way really old stories are. As in, summarizing all the events down into one smooth story then adding a few quotes. Fanfiction writers are insane. They will willingly sit down and write hundreds of words at a time. To them, a proper modern day story of maybe, oh 10k words or so, would probably be like the Oddessy itself.

If we were to combine the two headcanons. It would end up as many historians being intimidated by this insanely long written scripture in the language of the forgotten.

I'm going to take this a step further and say that if the creator asked some people to proofread their things, it would establish a hiarchy of who is able to actually finish the book the creator read and who isn't.

NOW THIS, THIS IS MY FUCKING JAMMMM

I'm so sorry this is so old!! u probably all know this by this point that I've really slowed down as the year has gone on, but I graduated university and then got my first job so its been pretty crazy!

Sun: Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: dash of all the book/nerds of Genshin, heavy on Sumeru?

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: Cussing, 16+ Mature Audiences, Spoliers for Sumeru Archon Quests/Scaramouche, & Trigger Warnings: mention of shipping/characters shipping themselves with you.

Comment if any missed, please.

☆

FULL STOP.

THE AKADEMIYA, FONTAINE RESEARCH INSTITUTE, HAVE BEEN WAITTTINNGGGG ON YOUR ASS LMAO

You fall from the fucking sky like a 5 star, or pop out of the Irminsul or whatever

and immediately are mobbed by scholars. LMAO jkjk (not really, bc that's what it’d feel like)

can you even imagine the dread older stories(”the classics” to them), that was instilled in the poor students around Teyvat??

id like to think ur works are the most preserved over the thousands of years of Teyvat archeologists excavating them, in comparison to other authors (teyvat just likes you more, suck it William Shakespeare)

also, bc I cant resist language differences/world building I'm sorryyyy 😭 😭

the vocab of Genshin lang vs. ours, has significantly less vocabulary like their actual dictionary is 1/3 the size of ours type of energy

(Omfg all ur fanfics being considered like insanely long realistic romantic classics or tragedies like Jane Austen-level, and only the richest and biggest play companies put on plays about ur stories bc the script goes on for hours)

(ur plays only get put on for rlly big events bc of this, like Lantern Rite or like a Summer/Winter festival/your birthday, which is, yes, an international holiday)

dude the sheer power move of anything you’ve written being essentially “Journey of the West” to them, like Damnnn.

endless like adaptations, plays, Teyvat-short stories condensing it, (THEIR OWN FANFICTION ABOUT UR STORIES)

the power is, in fact, going to your head every time another scholar both deflates at how long ur stuff is, but also lights up bc they get to read it

speaking of scholars… you know who snatched you up first. you know. you don’t even need to read the next line.

Alhaitham.

sneaky bastard he is, absolutely manipulated, mansplained (and manwhored bc he knows he’s handsome, cheeky little shit) his way into getting you to sit down with him and interview you about both translating other classics, your own, giving your own analysis of others works and ur own, and picking ur brain apart of how/why you wrote urs, etc. its fucking endless,

Kaveh had to come rescue you bc u were starving to death after getting stuck with the Haravatat scholar in his office for nearly 7 hours of interrogation discussion about literature

and Alhaitham wasn't even nearly done, he’d informed you as you left that he already had another appointment for later conversation scheduled (how?? you don't even know ur own schedule??? you have a schedule???) and was looking forward to more of your “creative and enlightening input” :)))

(you’re never going to escape him, not even Nahida herself can save you from his stubborn ass)

On another note, Xingqiu is quaking when you agree to autograph his copy of your stories (of which he has all hard covers of the first edition translations)

Zhongli/Rex Lapis is known for having a near-lifelong passion for searching for your works specifically, and learning how to translate them better into Teyvatian vernacular

like the same way he can absolutely speak on Rex Lapis facts/rocks/adepti info, is the same confidence he speaks about knowing ur work lol

(yes he did also ask for several autographs and another sit-down talk about the works, tho a lot more sneaky then Alhaitham bc he just casually gets u guys into it during dinner)

Barbatos/Venti has written some of the most famous songs based on your stuff, he has his favorites too,

but he always claims the best songs are any that have been written in the story, like either when a character sings something, or there are like quotes from songs ur fanfics are based on lol

(he also demanded to hear what they actually sound like from you, yes, you have to sing them for him lol)

Venti also can surprisingly drunkenly ramble the entirety of at least one of ur stories, like, word for word lmao

(Diluc gave in and did give him a drink on the house for that one, just once, Venti doesn’t remember it lol)

(I forgot to mention, u guys still speak the same language, just like, different versions of it)

ur works being one of the few things all the Archons can freely talk about with each other, like it’s neutral ground bc they’re all fangirling about it lmao

Furina and Neuvillette have had like,, fierce debates over the decades about character dynamics and the general drama of ur stories, they’ve gotten into it enough they’ve stopped talking to each other for a couple days a few times lol

Albedo, Sucrose, Kokomi, Yae Miko, Ei, Raiden, have read every single work they’re gotten their hands on in Teyvat (it took them like a literal year or longer)

Albedo drew you fanart for every single story, bc he’s hyperfixated on everything related to you ngl,

Kokomi had commissioned smaller pocket versions of ur works (which later got popular thanks to Yae Miko) both the OG and the Teyvat shortened versions

THE HARBINGERS ARE THE MOST DOWN BAD LMAO

Childe has literally tried to recreate battle scenes from ur works lmao

and gets especially riled up about fighting someone who resembles any characters from them (esp villains, what a cutie)

You cannot fathom the amount of research throughout Teyvat that has been secretly or indirectly funded by Pantalone/Tsaritsa

from the experts to analyze them, to funding play companies to act them out, to actually excavating places to get more of ur stuff unearthed

(the Harbingers absolutely are the first group of people that got to read several of ur stories first bc of this, like the world’s most exclusive secret book club lol)

Scaramouche used to clown on Childe all the time about how he was too impatient to even “sit down and read the King’s classics”, and he was downright insufferable when he found out about Tartaglia’s habit of recreating battle scenes/that being what motivated him to fight sometimes lol

that being said, Wanderer surprisingly never forgot ur stories.

Even when his memories were wiped for a bit, he found comfort in these fantastical epics still sticking around, even when his old names did not

(he mayyyy or mayyy nottt have secretly namedhimselfafteroneofthetragicprotagonistsherelatesto- )

oh btw, Nahida also found joy and comfort in ur stories when she was trapped, they also helped her literally grow as a person bc she had ur stories to help her sort of process the world/what life was like outside of her dreaming prison 🥺💔❤️‍🩹

◇

OMFG

ANYWAY FULL TONE SHIFT LMFAO-

the ABSOLUTE SPIRAL-RED-STRING-CONSPIRACY-THEORY-BOARD ENERGY IF THIS WAS A BLUNT LANGUAGE AU LMAOOOO

like specifically how Teyvatians like to give all the context ever thru their words, but older deities/beings like you just do simple phrases that can have deeper meanings (whereas teyvat just explains all the meanings behind their words)

STOP there’s like an official display at the Akademiya and Fontaine Institute of red string theory boards 😭😭 (look what you’ve done to themmm LMAO)

for like every story of urs, INCLUDING THE FANFICS STOP

IMAGINE THE SHIPPING WARS IF U EVER WROTE ONE THAT WASNT EXPLICIT OR LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN ROMANTIC INTERESTS HAD CHEMISTRY WITH OTHER CHARACTERS HAHAHAHAA

that's actually what Akademiya scholars argue about the most viciously, it’s like politics you can’t just bring up ships from ur stories casually in regular convos 💀

(poor Cyno has to deal with a shipping war once a year bc someone always makes the mistake of reading ur work for the first time (without being told to not talk to others abt ships lol) and it starts an all out brawl in the cafeteria every time LMAO)

Also yes.

Cyno is a fanboy.

(he has read Creator x Reader-insert fanfiction.)

(As have most of the characters mentioned, and those not lol)

…

(I'm gonna make a whole Creator x reader fanfic post one day i stg lmao)

☆

an iced coffee? for me?? :0

ok but real talk…

wtf do you guys wanna see for new years!!

i didn't do a inktober/october days thingy bc i felt too unprepared (and bc id wanted to post that 1000+ followers eldritch au for Halloween)

but now i kinda wanna, at least for a few days :o

ill post a poll in a minute, so check it out!! but still, please feel free to comment some ideas here! :)

Safe Travels Deafening Dreamer,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

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