#so i'm missing some things here but whatever

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 9

Theme: pazzi fwb turned ex bf turned into whatever the hell this is

A/N: I'm back :) this is a long ass chapter compared to what I typically write, but I was on a roll I guess lol. I did not do a very thorough job of editing so if you see an error please let me know! This chapter is honestly setting up some fun messy shit that I have planned for next chapter... Anyways, hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: mention of injury, angst, I think that's it???

WC: 8K+

**** Chapter 9 ****

Paige was already texting her again—thumb hovering, jaw tight, the glow of her screen lighting up the dim dorm room like it might hold some kind of answer. She’d already tried once that morning. And again after lunch. No response. Not even a read receipt. It was technically an off day—no practice, no meetings—so it wasn’t like they’d just run into each other. But still. The silence was starting to eat at her. And yet, here she was, staring at the same thread, willing it to change.

Paige: Hey, are you around? Can we talk?

No reply.

She waited sixty seconds. Sixty-five. Then checked the status bar again—no “delivered.” No bubbles. No anything.

She flipped to Caroline’s contact. Typed “is azzi okay?” Deleted it. Rewrote it with less emotion: “Have you seen Azzi today?” Sent it. Nothing back.

Her foot started bouncing. Her brain spun.

Maybe Azzi’s phone was dead. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe they were still on that weird kind-of-friends-but-not-really energy that made texting feel like walking through a minefield.

Or maybe she didn’t want to talk to her at all.

But that couldn’t be right. Not after the bracelet. Not after the tiny white gift box she’d nearly missed completely—wedged in the back of her desk drawer like it had been waiting for the right moment to be found.

Inside: a friendship bracelet. Purple and pink beads, a little uneven, the stretchy string knotted with care. In the center, in blocky black letters—PURPOSE.

Underneath it had been a folded piece of notebook paper, torn from the middle of a spiral, the edges slightly frayed. Azzi’s handwriting was careful, almost too neat. Just a few lines, but Paige had read them over and over like they were scripture.

And somehow, it hit harder than any love letter ever could. Because Azzi didn’t say things she didn’t mean—and she definitely didn’t make things just to fill the silence. So if she was still thinking about Paige, still threading beads one by one, still tucking hope into a box like it might survive the fallout…

Then maybe—just maybe—this was the part where they stopped pretending they were fine without each other.

She glanced at her phone again.

Still nothing.

Her thumb hovered over Azzi’s name. She didn’t text this time. Just pressed the location dot she told herself she wasn’t going to use anymore.

She was home.

Paige grabbed a hoodie from the back of her desk chair and shoved the bracelet in the front pocket, fingers curling tight around it. This wasn’t a grand gesture. This wasn’t a speech or a declaration or anything dramatic. She just needed to see her. Needed to say something—anything—before it was too late.

She didn’t even realize how fast she was moving until she hit the stairs.

It was a short walk. Too short. Her pulse was already racing by the time she reached Azzi’s dorm. Her palms were sweating. She wiped them on her sweatpants before taking another step. Checked her phone one more time.

Still nothing.

The suite door was unlocked — like usual — and Paige slipped inside quietly, careful not to slam it behind her. It smelled faintly like popcorn and whatever candle scent Caroline was obsessed with that month. Something vanilla-adjacent.

Azzi’s door was closed.

She hesitated in front of the door, heart thudding so loud it felt like someone else might hear it. For a second, she just stood there, staring at the wood grain like it might blink first. The hope was still there—small, stubborn, buzzing under her ribs like static. She couldn’t hear anything on the other side. No voices, no music, nothing.

Still, she knocked.

Three small raps, like maybe if she kept it light enough, she could pretend this wasn’t a huge deal.

Footsteps. Then the click of the handle.

Azzi opened the door wearing a cropped tee and shorts, barefoot, her hair pulled half-up and frizzy in that way it always got when she’d been lying in bed for a while. Her cheeks were pink, her lips slightly parted like she’d just been laughing—or kissing someone. Paige couldn’t tell which.

Behind her, the room was dim. The bedside lamp was on. Someone’s hoodie was slung over the back of her desk chair.

And then a voice floated from somewhere out of frame, casual, familiar, too at home.

“Do you want the lights off or—oh.”

Lexi stepped into view from the other side of the bed, holding a bag of popcorn, her hair also slightly mussed, like she’d been lying there for a while and hadn’t planned on getting up.

She froze when she saw Paige.

Azzi did too.

“Hey,” Azzi said, blinking like it took a second to place her. “Um. What’s up?”

Paige opened her mouth but no sound came out at first. Her chest was tight, throat dry. Every warning light in her brain started flashing.

“I—sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She glanced behind Azzi, took in the soft lighting, the hoodie, the presence. “I thought maybe you didn’t see my texts. I just—”

Azzi’s mouth parted slightly, like she wanted to say something—like maybe there was something she should say—but nothing came out.

Lexi stayed quiet, her expression unreadable.

Paige forced a smile, the kind that felt too big and too bright, like maybe if she smiled hard enough, she could hold the rest of her face together. “Totally not a big deal,” she said, even though it was. “I was just walking by. Thought I’d say hi.”

Azzi nodded, slow and cautious, like she wasn’t sure whether to believe her. “Okay. Well… hi.”

“Yeah.” Paige shifted her weight to one foot, then the other, hands suddenly too empty. “Cool. I’ll… let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

Lexi glanced down, polite and distant. Azzi didn’t look away.

And that—somehow—made it worse.

Azzi didn’t stop her.

She turned and walked back down the hall, her footsteps the only sound, the silence stretching behind her like something fragile about to snap. She didn’t look back.

By the time she got to her floor, her hoodie felt too warm and not warm enough all at once. She didn’t take it off. Just walked into her room, shut the door behind her, and sat on the edge of the bed like her body didn’t know what else to do.

The bracelet was still in her pocket.

She pulled it out slowly, let it sit in her palm like it might say something she couldn’t. Like maybe if she looked at it long enough, it would explain why her chest felt like it was caving in. Why her throat was tight and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Why she still cared this much, even now.

She rubbed her thumb over the beads—lightly, like the letters might smudge if she pressed too hard. She couldn’t tell if it made her feel better or worse.

The word was still there.

PURPOSE

She swallowed hard.

She thought about how carefully Azzi must’ve made it. Threading each bead, tying each knot. Choosing that word. Not love or strong or something generic from a gift shop bin. No, Azzi chose something deeper. Something that meant something.

And Paige had let it sit in a drawer. Like it wasn’t everything.

She curled her fingers around it, closed her eyes.

For a second, she let herself pretend it wasn’t too late. That she hadn’t shown up one floor too low, one second too slow. That Azzi hadn’t answered the door with someone else’s laughter still floating through the room.

She wanted to be mad.

At Azzi. At Lexi. At herself.

Mostly at herself.

Because she could’ve said something sooner. She could’ve tried harder. She could’ve told Azzi the truth the second she heard she’d come out—stepped up, said what she meant, meant what she felt. But instead, Paige froze.

Because she was scared. Because she didn’t want to risk it. Because Kathryn was safe and Azzi was… everything else.

And now she was gone.

Not technically. Not yet.

But it felt like it.

The tears didn’t come all at once. They never did with her. They crept in slow, burning at the corners of her eyes, slipping down one by one until her vision blurred and she couldn’t read the bracelet anymore.

Maybe that was the point.

She stayed like that for a long time. Still. Quiet.

Her thumb traced over the beads again, gentle, careful, like maybe if she kept doing it, the ache in her chest would ease.

It didn’t.

After a few minutes, she stood up and crossed the room.

She placed the bracelet back on her desk, right in the middle. Not hidden this time, but not on her wrist either.

She couldn’t wear it. Not yet.

Wearing it would mean she still believed in what it stood for. And she didn’t know if she did.

Not tonight.

Azzi 

Azzi knew something was off the second she opened the door and saw Paige standing there. It wasn’t obvious—just a flicker. A barely-there shadow in her eyes, the kind that only registered if you’d spent enough time memorizing someone’s expressions. And Azzi had. She saw it in the way Paige’s shoulders tensed, in the pause that dragged a little too long before she spoke. Like she’d worked up to this—whatever this was—and wasn’t expecting an audience.

Inside, Lexi was curled up on the bed, barefoot and relaxed, eating popcorn straight from the bag while Netflix scrolled through autoplay trailers. She’d made a joke when she heard the knock—something soft and ridiculous like, “Should I hide?”—just loud enough for Azzi to roll her eyes and laugh.

And then she stayed. Just like that. And Paige had seen all of it.

She smiled—kind of. The type of smile you put on for strangers or cameras or moments that already feel like they’re slipping away. Said she was just walking by. That it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.

Azzi could see it in her eyes, in the way her voice missed its mark. Like the words had been meant for someone else. Or maybe for a different moment entirely. She could’ve said something. Asked what was really going on. Reached out, just a little. But she didn’t. She let her go. And for the rest of the night, she tried not to wonder what might’ve happened if she hadn’t.

****

She knew what Paige thought of Lexi. She’d said it plainly enough a couple weeks ago. “Just be careful. She’s a player.”

She saw Lexi’s swagger. Her reputation. Her timing.

Azzi had shrugged it off at the time, told her she didn’t need to be protected. But it stuck—because of course it did. Paige never used that tone unless she meant it. And the worst part was, for a while, Azzi had believed it too. That Lexi was just flirting to flirt. That she liked the chase more than the catch.

But Lexi stayed.

Even when the flirting turned into actual feelings, even when Azzi tried to pump the brakes just in case she was imagining the whole thing—Lexi stayed.

She brought coffee to study hall without being asked. Sat with her in the cold after practice when Azzi’s knee flared up and didn’t say a word—just handed her a heat pack and scrolled aimlessly through TikTok until Azzi started laughing again.

She was smart, funnier than people gave her credit for, and never once made Azzi feel like too much or not enough. She didn’t try to fix her. She just… showed up.

And yeah, she came on strong. But maybe that was just what it looked like when someone knew what they wanted and wasn’t afraid of it.

Azzi had been scared to want anything back. Scared that if she opened the door too far, it would come crashing down. But the thing was—Lexi never rushed her. She teased, sure. Made stupid jokes about “Azzi Fudd’s exclusive roster spot.” But she didn’t push.

And when Azzi finally let her in, it didn’t feel like pressure.

She was excited to see where it could go. Nervous, yeah. But still—hopeful.

Then came Notre Dame.

It happened so fast she didn’t even have time to process it. Second quarter, a scramble under the rim, and suddenly one of her own teammates lost their footing and came crashing down on her leg. Her knee buckled underneath her, sharp and hot and immediate.

She didn’t scream. Not at first. Just stayed there, stunned, blinking up at the ceiling of an arena that suddenly felt way too far away.

She didn’t see Paige at first.

But in the locker room, after the trainer had wrapped her knee and the adrenaline had started to wear off, Paige was the one who quietly appeared beside her. Didn’t say anything right away. Just sat down on the bench next to her and passed her a water bottle without making a big deal of it.

“Flight’s in a couple hours,” she said gently. “They’re checking you in early so you don’t have to deal with the crowd.”

Azzi nodded, still staring at the floor.

For a while, they just sat there. Not touching. Not talking. Just—together.

And when the trainer came back to wheel her out, Paige stood up without hesitation and offered her arm for balance. No fuss. No weirdness. Just the steadiness she always had, whether Azzi liked it or not.

She stayed close the whole way through the airport. Checked in on her during the flight. Asked the flight attendant for an extra ice pack when hers started to thaw. When Azzi’s knee started throbbing midair, Paige wordlessly handed her a pair of noise-canceling headphones and pulled her hoodie over her face so she could rest.

It was quiet care. Familiar care.

Azzi had forgotten what it felt like, being taken care of by her. It was soft in a way she hadn’t let herself miss.

And for a minute, just one—she wondered if maybe something had shifted.

Maybe they were finally finding their way back to something that mattered.

But then they got back to campus.

And Lexi was waiting in the dorm lobby, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, fidgeting like she’d been standing there for a while.

The handoff was seamless. Too seamless.

Paige helped her up the stairs. Lexi took the ice pack and adjusted the pillow behind her knee like she’d done it a hundred times. Paige lingered by the door for half a second—then left.

She didn’t say goodbye.

Azzi didn’t stop her.

Paige

She wasn’t trying to watch. Not really.

It just kept happening—little moments that made her stomach twist, the kind you weren’t supposed to notice unless you were still too invested.

And she was still invested.

Azzi getting hurt had gutted her. The second she heard, her heart dropped straight into her stomach. She knew that pain. The limbo. The waiting. The way everything felt like it was teetering on the edge of a worst-case scenario.

They didn’t know how bad it was yet. Everyone kept saying “a few weeks,” “precaution,” “just a sprain.” But Paige had been around long enough to know how fast things could go from minor to life-altering. She’d seen careers shift on a single awkward landing. And Azzi—Azzi was finally playing free again. Confident. Fierce.

She didn’t deserve another setback.

Paige had tried to be there. Had been there, on the flight, in the locker room, in the quiet spaces in between.

But now, back on campus, it was Lexi filling all the space.

Lexi waiting outside the training room after lift, leaning against the wall with Azzi’s favorite smoothie—green apple kale from the campus café no one else liked. Lexi walking behind her in the hall, gently steadying the backpack on her shoulder so it didn’t jostle her knee. Lexi sitting on the floor of Azzi’s dorm, shoes kicked off, quizlet app open, quizzing Azzi on their psych midterm like she had nowhere else to be.

It wasn’t performative. That was the worst part.

It wasn’t flashy or loud or even particularly flirty.

It was just… consistent. Thoughtful. Steady.

The kind of care Paige remembered offering once.

The kind she didn’t know how to give anymore.

She sat next to Aubrey in the film room one afternoon, eyes glazed over from watching the same broken press coverage on loop, and said it before she could stop herself.

“I think I might’ve been wrong about Lexi.”

Aubrey blinked, like she hadn’t expected Paige to say anything at all.

Then she nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking that too.”

“You have?”

Aubrey shrugged. “I mean, I still think she came on a little too hot, too fast. But I don’t know. She’s… good with Azzi. It’s not just vibes. She actually shows up.”

Paige nodded slowly, trying not to flinch.

“She’s better than I thought,” Aubrey added, almost gently. “I think we judged too soon.”

Paige didn’t say anything after that. She just stared at the screen while her heart caved in a little.

Because she’d wanted to be right. About Lexi. About what she saw, what she felt.

But she wasn’t right.

At least—not yet.

And the longer she watched Lexi take care of Azzi, the more it felt like someone else had stepped into a role that used to be hers.

Only this time, they were doing it better.

Seeing Azzi be steady with someone else made her want to be steady, too.

Not out of revenge. Not even out of jealousy, really. Just… out of longing. That ache for something sure. Something certain. Something that didn’t leave her checking her phone a dozen times before texting back.

And Kathryn was trying. More than Paige probably deserved.

She was funny. Easy to be around. She didn’t ask questions Paige didn’t want to answer. She knew when to talk and when to just sit there, their knees barely brushing, some dumb show playing in the background like they were both paying attention.

That night, Kathryn showed up to Paige’s dorm with a sleeve of Oreos and a promise that they weren’t going to do anything productive.

“Mandatory procrastination session,” she announced, flopping onto the bed like she belonged there.

They scrolled TikTok for a while, tossing commentary back and forth, until Kathryn nudged Paige with her elbow and said, “We should make one.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something dumb. Something chaotic. You need a brain break.”

Paige laughed, not because it was that funny—but because it felt good. The kind of laugh that made her stomach unclench, even just for a second.

So they filmed a couple drafts. One dance, one trend, one of Kathryn trying to toss an Oreo into Paige’s mouth and hitting her directly in the forehead.

It was dumb. It was fun.

It was almost enough.

Later, while Paige lay back against her pillows, Kathryn nestled in beside her, head resting lightly on Paige’s shoulder, one bare leg draped over both of hers like it belonged there. Her hand moved easily over Paige’s phone, editing clips with practiced ease, pausing every so often to show Paige a cut and whisper something dumb or flirty into the quiet space between them.

It wasn’t new, the way their bodies fit like this. They’d already blurred that line weeks ago.

But it still surprised Paige sometimes—how easy it was to let Kathryn this close. How natural it felt to lean into the comfort, even when her chest was quietly screaming that something was still missing.

It was warmth. Familiar. Safe.

And yet, a part of her still felt like she was standing outside the moment, watching it happen.

“Are you gonna post it for me?” Paige asked, casually. Like she wasn’t already bracing for the answer.

Kathryn hesitated, thumb pausing mid-scroll. “I wasn’t sure if you were ready to take things to that next level.”

Paige blinked. “What level?”

Kathryn looked up, meeting her eyes without flinching. “The part where people start asking questions. Where you have to start answering them.”

She smiled then—soft. “It’s kind of a big move, PR-wise.”

She said it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she was giving Paige an out, not a push.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because Kathryn was being kind. Thoughtful. Patient.

Exactly what Paige had asked for.

So why did it still feel like she couldn’t breathe?

She didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the remote and scrolled through the Hulu menu like it mattered.

But later that night, when Kathryn had gone home and the dorm was quiet again, Paige picked up her phone. Opened TikTok. Found the draft. Hit “post.”

It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t even labeled. No caption. No soft launch.

But it was public.

And for now, that felt like something.

She told herself it was enough.

Even if a part of her still felt like she was holding her breath.

Azzi

She hadn’t expected to like it.

The TikTok.

She saw it by accident—someone had reposted it to Twitter with a caption like “okay but why do they lowkey eat??” and Azzi, against her better judgment, clicked.

She expected to roll her eyes. Scroll away. Feel nothing.

But she didn’t.

It was Paige and Kathryn doing some trending dance in Paige’s dorm room. Slightly off-beat, too many inside jokes between moves, Kathryn clearly making up half the steps—but Paige was laughing. Really laughing, not that press-conference polite kind.

The top comment had nearly 3,000 likes.

“idc what y’all say this is endgame behavior.”

Azzi actually smiled watching it. Smiled, and then immediately rolled her eyes at herself for smiling.

The rest of the comments were chaos:

“Why is Kathryn actually carrying??” “This is giving girlfriend energy and Paige LETTING IT HAPPEN??” “she finally soft launched. our prayers worked.”

Paige’s fans were ride or die like that. A little too obsessed, a little too intense, but always loyal. They’d ship her with a chair if it looked at her the right way. Azzi knew that. She also knew Paige probably hated it, but kept the post up anyway.

And that—more than anything—made Azzi think maybe this thing with Kathryn was more real than she wanted it to be.

And maybe that—more than anything—was what made her stomach ache a little.

Because she’d expected to be angry.

Instead, she was… almost rooting for it.

Until she wasn’t.

****

The shift came two days later.

They were in the locker room post-practice, the air heavy with steam and static, sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile as everyone moved in and out—tired, loud, half-listening to each other like always.

Azzi was still catching her breath, towel slung around her neck, scrolling absently through her texts when Caroline came flying around the corner like she was being chased.

She practically skidded to a stop in front of Azzi’s locker, eyes wide, phone clutched in both hands like it might combust.

“Okay,” she said, breathless. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

Aubrey trailed close behind, her expression less panicked but equally intense. She raised her eyebrows like just wait.

Azzi blinked. “What.”

They didn’t answer right away—just closed in around her like she was the epicenter of something.

“What now?” Azzi asked, tugging her hoodie over her damp hair.

Aubrey flipped her phone around. “Someone left this comment on a Kathryn x Paige edit. Look.”

The video was muted, paused mid-spin—Paige laughing, Kathryn’s hand on her waist—and the comment sat just underneath it like a landmine.

“Y’all know Kathryn has a girlfriend back home, right?”

Azzi didn’t react. Not at first.

She just stared at it. Flat, unfiltered. No emojis. No drama. Just… there.

Caroline leaned in beside her. “It’s not just that one. There’s more. People have been stitching it, reposting screenshots. It’s getting traction.”

Azzi looked up slowly.

Aubrey sighed. “Okay, listen. Normally I would’ve said it’s just trolls. Haters. You know the drill.”

Caroline nodded, already scrolling. “But Aubrey went full FBI—”

“I did a casual deep dive,” Aubrey cut in, eyes narrowed.

“—and it’s kinda bad,” Caroline finished. “Like, bad bad.”

She tilted the phone again. Photos. A different girl, blonde. Arm wrapped around Kathryn in a tagged birthday post from three months ago. Kathryn in the comments: my whole heart. Another picture: same necklace she wore to the last team dinner. A hoodie Azzi had seen her wear in Paige’s dorm—now on the other girl, snapped on a porch in Vermont.

Aubrey added quietly, “And she’s still following her. Still liking her stuff. No explanation. No breakup post. Just… overlap.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Because deep down, something in her had already started clicking into place.

She thought about Paige—how off she’d seemed lately, like she was forcing something that didn’t quite fit. How quick she’d been to post. How quiet she’d been afterward.

How she looked the night of the Notre Dame game, half-asleep against the plane window, face pinched like she was trying too hard not to feel anything.

Azzi swallowed hard.

She didn’t want to be right.

****

The breakup was loud. At least, the hallway version of it was.

Azzi hadn’t meant to hear it. She just… did.

She was coming around the corner on the way to film, headphones in, hoodie pulled low over her head, when Paige’s voice cut through the air sharp enough to make her stop walking.

“You used me.”

Azzi froze.

She knew she should keep going. Head down, eyes forward. Mind her own business.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

Kathryn’s voice came next—lower, tired, like she’d already rehearsed her side of the argument and was just waiting for Paige to finish hers.

“You used me too, Paige. Let’s not pretend you weren’t looking over your shoulder the entire time, hoping it was her.”

Silence.

Azzi’s throat tightened.

Then:

“You don’t even realize how much you talk about Azzi. Like—how obsessed you are. I was a placeholder and we both know it.”

That one landed.

Harder than it should have.

Azzi shifted her weight, suddenly too aware of how loud her own breathing sounded. She felt like she was eavesdropping on a secret she was never supposed to hear.

She didn’t want to hear this.

Didn’t want the proof.

Because somewhere inside, she’d hoped she was wrong. That Paige and Kathryn really were happy, even if it stung to see.

But this—this was different. This was real betrayal, flipped sideways and thrown back in Paige’s face like it was something she deserved.

She shifted her weight, hugged her arms across her chest, and backed away—quiet steps down the hallway, heart thudding too loud in her ears.

She didn’t stay.

She couldn’t.

Because for all the things Paige had gotten wrong—this wasn’t one of them.

And Azzi couldn’t bear to watch her unravel at the hands of someone who never really wanted her in the first place.

Not when she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to catch her.

Paige 

Things had actually been good.

Not perfect. Not magical. But… good.

Kathryn had spent the last two nights in her dorm, still wearing Paige’s oversized UConn hoodie and stealing her phone to cue up TikTok dances they didn’t actually post. They’d ordered Chinese food, argued over whether orange chicken counted as protein, and watched three straight episodes of Love Island while curled under the same blanket.

She’d even laughed—real, full-belly laughter—when Kathryn nearly knocked over a candle trying to do the Dougie.

So when Nika knocked on her door the next afternoon, Paige wasn’t expecting anything more serious than a last-minute smoothie run.

But the second she saw her face, she knew something was off.

“What’s wrong?” Paige asked, still in sweats, hair barely brushed.

Nika held up her phone. “I don’t even want to show you this.”

Paige took it anyway.

It was a paused TikTok. A Paige/Kathryn edit with a comment pinned near the top.

“Y’all know Kathryn has a whole-ass girlfriend back in Vermont, right?”

She frowned. “Okay. Probably fake—”

“There’s a thread,” Nika said. “And receipts.”

Paige scrolled.

Photos. Birthday posts. A tagged girl with her arm slung over Kathryn’s shoulders, grinning. Kathryn’s sweatshirt. Kathryn’s necklace. A recent story reshared with the caption “come home already.”

“I thought this was a joke,” Nika said, her voice soft now. “But it’s real.”

The blood drained from Paige’s face so fast her ears rang.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even blink.

Kathryn showed up a couple hours later.

Paige opened the door without a word and tossed her phone onto the bed, the open screen still paused on the picture of Kathryn and the other girl. The caption: “my whole heart.”

Kathryn didn’t even flinch.

“You gonna say something?” Paige asked. Her voice was calm. Too calm.

Kathryn crossed her arms. “Is this where I’m supposed to grovel?”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t offer the full backstory.”

“You have a girlfriend, Kathryn.”

Kathryn’s expression barely changed. “It’s not that deep.”

Paige laughed—just once. Sharp. Dry. “So while you were in my bed, she was just, what? On standby?”

“I didn’t know we were exclusive.”

“You met my team.”

“And you still talk about Azzi like you’re waiting for her to pick you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Paige blinked. “Don’t turn this around on me.”

“I’m not turning anything,” Kathryn snapped. “I’m just saying, you’re acting like the victim when this was never that deep. We were vibing. That’s it.”

“This was real for me,” Paige said, her voice cracking. “Or I thought it was.”

Kathryn looked at her then—really looked. And for the first time, she didn’t look guilty. Just… bored.

“Paige. You’re Paige Bueckers. Do you know how much engagement you bring? Do you know what it meant—for my NIL stuff—to be seen with you? You were a business decision and a fun one. Don’t make it bigger than it was.”

Paige’s entire body went cold.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

“I let you in,” she whispered. “I trusted you.”

Kathryn tilted her head. “And I gave you attention. People saw you happy. You got to play normal for five minutes.”

That’s when Paige moved—too fast, too reactive. She grabbed the door and yanked it open.

“You need to leave.”

Kathryn didn’t move. Just crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re kicking me out now?”

“Out,” Paige snapped, her voice louder than she intended. “Or do I need to get my teammates to make it happen?”

Kathryn rolled her eyes but started walking. “You act so above it all, but the second things aren’t about you, you fold.”

They were halfway into the hallway now, voices echoing off the tile. A few dorm doors cracked open. Paige didn’t care.

“You used me,” she said again, sharper this time. Her throat burned. “And you didn’t even try to hide it.”

Kathryn turned to face her, still calm, still maddeningly indifferent. “You don’t even realize how much you talk about Azzi. Every other sentence—Azzi this, Azzi that. I was never your first choice, and you know it.”

Silence.

“I didn’t use you,” Paige said, lower now. Her voice was breaking. “I liked you.”

“No, you liked the idea of me,” Kathryn snapped. “You liked pretending you were over her.”

Paige flinched. It landed.

Around the corner, someone closed a door.

And suddenly the hallway felt too big. Too quiet. Too seen.

“I hope the followers were worth it,” Paige said quietly.

Kathryn didn’t say anything else. Just shook her head and walked away, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Paige didn’t move.

Not even when she realized she was shaking.

Not even when the silence came back in full force.

****

She closed the door behind her slowly. Carefully.

Like any sudden movement might break something else.

The latch clicked, and the silence hit her all at once.

Her ears were still ringing.

She stood in the middle of the room for a second too long, untethered, like she didn’t know where her body was supposed to go now. Then she sank down—right there on the floor, knees drawn up, back against the wall like she was trying to disappear into it.

She stared at the carpet. At the desk. At nothing.

Part of her kept expecting Kathryn to come back.

To knock. To laugh. To say it had all been a misunderstanding, a bad moment, a stupid fight that they’d both get over.

But the hallway stayed quiet.

And Kathryn didn’t come back.

She wasn’t going to.

The thing was, Paige could’ve handled a breakup.

She’d done it before—more than once. The slow drift, the mutual fade, the kind of goodbye that didn’t come with shouting or slammed doors. She knew how to let go when it hurt.

But this wasn’t someone walking away.

This was someone walking through her. Stepping into her life with both feet, smiling at the right moments, saying the right things—and taking pieces of her with them on the way out.

This was betrayal with documentation.

With captions and camera angles.

This was someone who got close not because they wanted to—but because they knew how much it would be worth.

She felt sick.

Not even angry, just... gutted. Like she’d been emptied out slowly, without ever realizing what was being taken.

She pulled the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands until her fingers disappeared. Tucked her knees to her chest like that might shrink the ache into something she could manage. It didn’t.

The embarrassment came in quiet, pulsing waves.

Every text. Every TikTok. Every half-asleep conversation about nothing. All of it tilted now. Skewed sideways, like she’d been watching a rom-com that turned out to be a mockumentary.

Like the whole thing was edited for laughs.

She’d let someone in.

Fully. Openly. In the way that only happens after injury and time and loneliness and maybe too much hope.

And that someone had seen value before they saw her.

Not a girl. Not a heart. Not a person trying to love again, clumsily, earnestly.

Just a headline.

Just a brand.

Just a girl with a name people recognized and a face that got clicks.

Paige Bueckers: UConn’s golden girl 

She wanted to disappear.

Or rewind.

Or un-know the last three months of her life.

But instead, she just sat there, alone in the quiet of her dorm room, the weight of it curling around her like something physical. Something heavy and low and hard to shake.

It wasn’t heartbreak.

Not exactly.

It was something colder.

It was shame.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most—how cleanly it slid in. How fast it settled.

How much she still wanted to believe it hadn’t been fake. That somewhere in it all, a piece of it was still real.

But tonight, that felt impossible.

Because the truth had walked out and left her sitting in it.

And she hadn't seen it coming.

Not even close.

Azzi

The group chat was new.

Not the usual team thread. 

This one just appeared—no fanfare, no subject line. Just five names blinking at the top: Aubrey, Caroline, Nika, Amari, and her.

She opened it half-asleep from a post-practice nap, thumb still scrolling instinctively through her notifications when the first ping hit.

Aubrey: ok so are we all pretending we didn’t hear that earlier today???

Caroline: no because it was bad

Amari: what happened??

Nika: Kathryn got exposed. she and Paige were screaming at each other in the hallway

Aubrey: not even like fighting fighting. it was like. betrayal movie monologue level

Nika: “you used me” was literally said. out loud. in those words.

Azzi blinked. Sat up straighter.

More pings.

Caroline: i feel like i should check on her??

Nika: no.

Nika: you didn’t see her face. Paige is wrecked and trying to act like she’s not. she won’t talk to just anyone rn

Amari: what do we do??

There was a pause.

Then:

Nika: Azzi you gotta check on her

Azzi froze.

The message lit up again, this time with an added reaction. A heart from Aubrey. A thumbs-up from Caroline.

And then another ping.

Nika: she’ll listen to you. she trusts you

Azzi stared at the screen like it might change if she didn’t blink.

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t tap out a heart. Didn’t send a message back.

She just sat there, the room quiet except for the hum of her mini fridge and the distant sound of someone watching Friends on their laptop down the hall.

She hadn’t seen Paige since the hallway moment with Lexi. And technically she hadn’t even seen her then. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t reached out.

She didn’t even know what she would say.

They were fine, supposedly. Civil. Friendly-ish. Not like before, but not awful.

Still, it felt like crossing a line.

But her chest ached a little.

Something was wrong.

And Azzi didn’t want it to be her responsibility.

But maybe it already was.

She looked back down at the group chat.

A new message had appeared.

Caroline: seriously, Az. if it were you, she’d already be there

That one stung.

Because it was true.

****

She didn’t knock right away.

She stood there for a few seconds first, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, heart thudding too loud in the hallway.

The lights buzzed overhead. Someone laughed down the hall. A door slammed somewhere behind her.

Azzi lifted her hand and knocked twice.

Soft.

Careful.

The kind of knock that could be ignored.

But it wasn’t.

A few seconds later, the door cracked open.

Paige blinked at her.

She looked… wrecked.

Eyes rimmed red. Hair in a messy bun that clearly hadn’t been intentional. Hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

There was a long beat of silence between them.

Azzi opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Then Paige stepped back, wordlessly, and let her in.

The room was dim.

Curtains half drawn, soft light filtering through just enough to cast a gold wash across the carpet. A pair of slides were kicked off haphazardly by the bed. Paige’s laptop sat closed on the desk, untouched. A mostly-full bottle of water was perched on the windowsill like it had been forgotten.

Azzi’s eyes swept the space automatically.

And there, on the desk, sat the bracelet.

PURPOSE, spelled in uneven plastic letters, still curled neatly on the corner of Paige’s desk like it had been placed there on purpose.

Azzi stopped.

Her breath caught in her throat for a second too long.

She didn’t say anything, but her gaze lingered—long enough for Paige to follow it, to see exactly what she was looking at.

Paige gave a small, tired laugh. “It got lost in one of my desk drawers. Like, junk drawer lost. I found it the other day when I was cleaning.”

Azzi’s lips parted, surprised.

“I wanted to say thanks,” Paige said softly. “I kept trying to find the right time. But it just… never felt like there was one.”

Azzi blinked, finally tearing her eyes away from the desk. She didn’t know what to say to that. Her throat felt tight in a way she didn’t expect.Paige shifted in her seat, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her hoodie. “I know you meant it as a birthday gift,” she said, voice low. “But when I found it… I don’t know. It felt like a perfectly timed lifeline.”

Azzi felt that line hit her square in the chest.

She hadn't known Paige had been that close to the edge. She’d had her own spirals after Oregon, but Paige—Paige had always looked like she was keeping it together. Holding steady. Playing strong.

But maybe that was the problem. Paige always made broken look like balance.

Azzi’s eyes flicked back to hers, surprised.

“I was spiraling,” Paige continued. “After Oregon. I kept thinking, like… what am I even doing anymore? On the court. Off the court. Just… everything.”

Azzi felt her fists clench lightly in her lap. She hated that Paige had felt that alone. That uncertain. And she hadn’t known. Or maybe she had known, but didn’t let herself go there.

Paige reached over, picked up the bracelet with both hands like it might fall apart in her grip.

“And then I opened the box,” Paige said. “And saw it. And I just—”

Her voice caught.

Azzi looked down, her own heart suddenly too loud in her ears.

There had been so much unsaid between them. Things she was scared to name, even now. But hearing this, hearing Paige say it out loud—like it mattered—made something shift inside her. Something she thought she’d buried.

“I know things got complicated,” Paige added, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know we’ve been messed up. But when I saw this again… it felt like maybe not everything was gone.”

Azzi leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together tight.

Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “It wasn’t.” And that was the truth. As much as she tried to push it away. As much as she told herself she’d moved on.

She looked over at Paige. 

Paige looked over at her. Really looked.

Azzi gave a tiny shrug. “I wouldn’t have made the bracelet if it was.”

The silence stretched between them, but this time it didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Like there was still something worth holding onto.

Like maybe, in some quiet corner of all the wreckage, there was still a thread that hadn’t snapped.

Paige set the bracelet down gently on her desk again. Not on her wrist. Not yet.

But in the open.

Visible.

Safe.

She let out a breath. “Thanks for making it.”

Azzi smiled, small and a little sad. “Thanks for finding it.”

Paige didn’t say anything after that.

Just sat there, arms loosely folded around her knees, eyes flicking to the bracelet one more time like it still had something to say. Like maybe it had saved her twice now—once after Oregon, and again tonight.

Azzi didn’t move either.

The silence wrapped around them like a blanket—warm, but weighted. She could feel the questions forming on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t ask them. Not right away. Not yet.

Paige had always been like this. She didn’t unravel easily. She folded inward first—slow, tight, quiet. You had to wait her out.

Azzi remembered the first time she saw it happen.

It was back in high school, on a random Tuesday night. They’d been FaceTiming—something stupid and casual, one of those marathon calls where neither of them was saying much but neither wanted to hang up either.

Only, Paige had been weird that night.

Short. Clipped. Not mean, but…off. Her answers came like bricks: heavy and hard to stack into anything that made sense.

And then finally, after Azzi pressed, Paige mumbled something about getting into it with her mom. Nothing big, she’d said. Just one of those nights where everything felt like too much.

Azzi hadn’t known what to say. She just listened. Stayed on the call even after Paige stopped talking, even after she started crying. Quietly. Almost like she didn’t want Azzi to notice.

That’s how she learned—when Paige was hurting, she didn’t reach out.

She shut down.

Azzi had always hated that.

And tonight felt the same. The stiff shoulders. The half sentences. The silence thick enough to drown in.

So she waited.

Let Paige breathe.

Let the seconds stretch.

But after a while, when the quiet started to feel more like suffocating than space, she leaned forward a little.

“What happened?”

Paige blinked, like she hadn’t expected the question.

Azzi kept her voice low. Careful. “With Kathryn.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her hands found the sleeves of her hoodie again, pulled them over her fists like armor.

And then, finally—“She used me.”

The words came out flat, like they had no weight. But Azzi knew better.

“For clout,” Paige added. “For NIL stuff. She had a girlfriend the whole time. Back in Vermont.”

Azzi’s stomach turned.

Of course she did. Of course it was worse than she thought.

“She said it like it was mutual. Like I knew,” Paige continued, her voice wobbling. “And maybe she’s right. Maybe I did, on some level. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.”

Azzi stayed quiet, letting her talk. Because that’s what Paige needed. Not answers. Not a rescue. Just room to unravel.

Paige’s jaw clenched. “She told me I made people look. That being with me helped her numbers. And the worst part? I didn’t even see it coming.”

Azzi’s chest ached.

It wasn’t just what Kathryn had done—it was how thoroughly it had gotten to her. Paige looked smaller somehow, like the weight of being Paige Bueckers had finally collapsed in on itself. And for the first time in a long time, Azzi didn’t see the sharp edges or the stoic calm. She just saw a girl who’d been used. Picked apart for what she could offer. Not seen for who she was.

Her fingers itched to reach out, to touch her knee, her arm, anything—but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to scare the moment away.

It wasn’t fair, Azzi thought, the way people expected Paige to be invincible. Like fame was supposed to make you immune to heartbreak. Like having a platform meant you didn’t get to fall apart.

They talked more after that.

Not all at once. Just little pieces. Shaky truths. The kind of things Paige would never say in a press conference, or even to the team.

But she said them to Azzi.

Like she always had.

And Azzi took every one of them and held them like they mattered.

Because they did. Because Paige did.

Still.

And when the conversation slowed, when the words started to run out, Paige finally looked up at her—eyes soft and tired.

“Would you… stay?”

Azzi blinked. Her breath caught. “What?”

“Not like that,” Paige said quickly. “I just… I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, she hadn’t expected that.

Not the question. Not the softness in it. Not the way it pulled at something deep in her chest.

She wasn’t sure what this meant. What it would mean tomorrow. If it was a step forward or backward. If it would blur lines that were already smeared at the edges. If she was strong enough to keep holding the boundary she’d promised herself she would.

But then Paige added, almost whispering, “I’ll sleep on the floor or whatever. I just… I don’t wanna think. Not for a while.”

And that decided it.

Because this wasn’t about lines or boundaries or labels.

This was Paige. Asking for something without begging. Letting herself be seen without covering up the cracks. That didn’t happen often. Not even with Azzi. Maybe especially not with Azzi.

Azzi’s chest tightened.

She knew this wasn’t a moment to analyze. It was a moment to show up.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she said gently. “I’ll stay.”

She always had.

Even when she wasn’t sure if she should. Even when it hurt. Even now.

Paige shifted, already moving to grab an extra blanket from the corner of her bed, but Azzi stopped her with a look.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Azzi said.

Paige blinked. “I wasn’t—I mean, I was gonna—”

Azzi rolled her eyes, soft but insistent. “We’ve both got bum knees. Neither of us is built for hardwood floors anymore.”

A small smile tugged at Paige’s mouth.

“Seriously,” Azzi added, standing to toe off her shoes. “I’ll take the left side like always. You’re a blanket hog anyway.”

Paige didn’t argue.

And when the lights were off and the room was quiet again, Azzi lay there beside her, close enough to feel the rise and fall of her breathing.

It was quiet. Not just the room. But Paige.

And that, somehow, felt like enough. At least for tonight.

[ghouljams]

I'm fully smitten with Mr. and Mrs. Riley. Call me trite, but I love some good old high school sweethearts. But I also think that getting married that young would definitely raise a few eyebrows.

You know that feeling you get when you see people your age start to do grown up things, like getting engaged or buying a house? I imagine that's what your acquaintances at uni feel like when they find out you're married.

People know that you have someone, because every now and then there will be a mention of "my Simon". So you have A Simon, whatever that means.

Eventually it always comes up in conversation. Someone will ask if you have plans with your boyfriend for the summer, to which you respond "oh, he's not my boyfriend." This revelation causes the person you're speaking with to think they've fully stepped in it. Had the two of you broken up recently? Or were you just in some sort of long-term situationship? Their train of thought gets swiftly interrupted by you going "he's my husband."

While they silently question how the fuck someone in their early twenties has a fucking husband, you happily chat on about your summer plans.

It's not like you planned on getting married young. It's just that your Simon has a terribly dangerous job and a terribly big heart, and he won't leave a man behind. He'd looked so guilty telling you how he'd run into a fire fight to drag a man to safety, apologized, he knew he promised you not to do anything dangerous and-

Well... How could you not marry a man like that?

It does raise some eyebrows though. You try not to advertise your marriage. You don't have a ring, neither you nor Simon had the money for one. You don't have a house, again, money. You don't have kids, though you do think about them often. Really the only thing you have are the stories that you and Simon have made together. Walks in the park that had you pulling him out of the pond. Movie theaters that kicked you out for crying too loudly (and for Simon arguing with the usher). Nights at the pub that ended in great heaving laughter. You're sure you paint a pretty picture of your relationship.

Your Simon. You don't have anything else to call him, he is yours. More than just a husband, he's your best friend, and besides it still feels so strange to say that. ("My God we're like child brides," you'd told him as you were signing the papers. "Worse," he'd joked, "we're military wives.")

You make it through two years of university, and multiple deployments before any of your uni friends find out you're married, and it happens in the worst way.

Your Simon goes missing in action somewhere in Mexico.

You get a call as you're walking out of lecture, and when your friend asks what's wrong (following your complete breakdown into tears in the middle of the sidewalk) you tell them that your husband is MIA. They can't tell you where, why, or how, but they do tell you to prepare for the worst.

Weeks with no news. Barely eating, barely eating, only doing your work because there has to be somewhere for Simon to come home to if they ever find him. Two months pass in a sick haze of lectures and part-time work.

Another call, while you're working this time. You barely apologize to your boss before rushing out, a hastily scribbled hospital name clutched on notebook paper between your fingers. You don't even notice the distance, time barely passes from point A to point B. One moment you're at work, the next you're standing beside a hospital bed.

He looks rough, nose broken, eyes ringed in purple, gauze covering half his chest, leg broken, angry red scars raised on any uncovered skin, but it's your Simon. The brown of his eyes is as soft as it's ever been, and his cracked lips still smile when he sees you. He's alive, and this- this is far from the worst thing you could have prepared for.

And you're so young suddenly, crying like a child at nearly losing your best friend, big wracking sobs that nearly crumple you because your heart is still here with you. It's Simon that lays a big hand on your head and comforts you.

"Told ya I'd come back," He reminds you, "Jus'took a minute."

He doesn't give you any details until he's out of the hospital. Not until you're both cuddled up in the just slightly too small bed that fills your bedroom in your definitely too small flat. The duvet is heavy and Simon still can't rest on his side, but you cuddle close, listening to him walk you through Mexico with a heavy heart. Classified. He keeps repeating it, like that will make it easier for you to digest. The secrecy of it when he tells you about dragging Washington to safety. It makes your stomach squirm. 'He shouldn't have done that' you think guiltily, 'he should've saved himself.'

You don't feel as guilty when Simon meets Washington again and tells you, "'e did somethin' odd, not sittin' right wi' me."

Makes you feel better screaming and shouting when you spot Simon's brother in arms tailing you on campus, when he grabs you and you kick him in the balls just like Simon showed you. The cops find a gun on him, he spews vitriol, spouts manifestos. Brainwashed, they tell Simon.

It's hard to keep a marriage under wraps when the city paper writes a story about you. "Terrorism in Manchester" is front-page news, after all.

[loveroffemmes]

Spoiled Kisses | Pre-Crash Lottie Matthews x Fem! Reader

Warnings: smut, face-sitting, bitchy! spoiled! Lottie, banter, v slight enemies to lovers?, slight degrading?, reader is kind of persuaded into it?

Summary: You don't like Lottie, she's everything you aren't; spoiled, a bit condescending, and irresistible. Everything changes when you hit her car in the school parking lot. You fuck up Lottie's car and then you fuck Lottie.

Spoiled. That's the one word I would use to describe Lottie.

It was infuriating knowing she had everything handed to her, how she never had to worry about a single thing because Mr. Matthews would always provide. I didn't have that same luxury.

That's how I knew I was fucked when I hit Lottie's car after practice.

"That's a pretty big dent." Lottie called out to me, stepping out of her car.

"I-I know." I ran my hand through my hair, I was so fucked.

Lottie smiled, acting as if this was no big deal, "My car's custom." She added, "My dad bought it for me for my last birthday." Fuck.

"Yeah, let's just exchange info and I can hope a Genie comes and grants me three wishes to pay for this."

Lottie laughs, it's light and it makes my knees weak.

It makes my knees weak?

"Come to my house, my dad has a good mechanic, you can get an estimate and pay me from there. No reason to up your insurance or anything." Some hope for my empty wallet, "I'll lead the way, (Y/n), follow my car." Lottie said, getting back into her newly dented car. I got into mine and drove behind her.

Where she led me to the massive Matthews' estate. Fuck.

She parked in her driveway and instructed me to do the same, "It'll be a few hours before we can get an estimate, do you want to wait inside?"

"Nothing better to do." I reply, following Lottie inside her house. There's a massive staircase in the middle of her house. I follow her upstairs to her bedroom. It's just as big as I would have imagined, except her decorations aren't as glamorous as the rest of the house. It's plain, but comfortable. She has team photos plastered around her room, an organized vanity, and not much else. It makes the big room feel quaint. Less snobby rich girl and more girl whose parents happen to be rich. There's also a weird amount of clothes from TJ Maxx in here...

"We never get to chat much outside of practice." Lottie says, "I always thought that was for the best, but who knows? Maybe I'm wrong."

Spoiled.

"For the best? I should be the one saying that. I could have gone all year without having to listen to perfect miss Matthews--"

"You could have if you didn't hit my car." Lottie smirks and god is it infuriating and god does it make my heart pound.

It makes my heart pound?

"Whatever, you're the one who can't park."

"So, this is my fault?" Lottie asks, her eyebrow raised, clearly amused.

"Yeah! If you actually parked inside the lines, then I wouldn't have side swept your stupid car." Lottie doesn't respond, she just keeps that dumb, hot smirk on her face.

Lottie sits down on her bed, we sit in silence for a bit as I awkwardly stand in her room, not sure of where to sit, "Are you done whining?" I feel my jaw fall open, who does she think she is? Before I could fire off an insult, Lottie starts laughing, "It's fun how worked up you get, (Y/n)."

I roll my eyes, "I'm going to wait outside." I say, heading for Lottie's bedroom door.

"Aren't you worried?" Lottie asks and I stop in my tracks.

"About?"

"How you'll pay for it all?" Lottie stands up and makes her way towards me, her tone low, "I mean, you're not very well off, are you?"

"That's my problem to figure out."

Lottie's standing in front of me now, leaning down slightly to whisper in my ear, "It doesn't have to be your problem."

"H-Huh?" I can feel the temperature rising to my ears as Lottie's breath hits it.

"You cannot be that dumb." I don't have a chance to reply before Lottie shoves me back onto her bed, I catch myself and I sit up.

Lottie climbed over me, straddling me. Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of me. Her hands moved to my shoulders as a way to keep her situated.

"What are you doing, Lottie?" My words come out airy, I don't mean to sound so unsure, but my brain can't seem to focus on anything other than how good Lottie's legs feel against my thighs or how close her face is to mine or how good her perfume smells or --

Before another thought could pop into my head, Lottie's lips were on mine. It was raw, it was desperate, it contrasted the poised Lottie I had always kind of known.

"You think too much." Lottie mumbled against my lips. Her hands ran through my hair, entangling themselves in it before pulling my head back. I groaned and I could feel Lottie smirking. I opened my eyes and saw Lottie lick her lips as if I were her prey and she had caught me. She kept my head tilted back, her hands in her hair ensured that I could not protest. Her lips found my neck, her kisses were soft at first and I could feel the wet stain of her lipstick on my neck. Then, she bit down. I groaned again, shutting my eyes. I could feel her smile against my neck. Her tongue darted out, licking the slight indentation on my neck her teeth had left.

She pulled back, her hands leaving my hair and she stood up. Before I could stop myself, I whined from the lack of contact. Lottie laughed and I felt my heart skip a beat.

She lifted her shirt over her head, throwing it to wherever. In another swift motion, she pulled her skirt down and stepped out of it.

"L-Lottie, what--"

"I'm helping you pay back your debt." She replied as if all of this was normal.

My eyes raked over her body, trying to commit every curve of hers to memory. In another second, Lottie had dropped her panties to the ground. I felt my mouth go dry. I couldn't tear my eyes away from her.

"You're staring." Lottie hummed, the smirk never leaving her face. She pushed me back onto the bed fully this time and climbed on top of me. Her tone was low, her voice barely above a whisper, "Do you know how to repay your debt?" I shook my head and Lottie laughed, her dark brown eyes locking with mine, "Have you ever eaten a girl out?" The bluntness of her question almost made me choke on nothing. She didn't need an actual answer from me because it didn't take her long before her knees were on either side of my head and she was holding herself above me. Her hands reached for the headboard in front of me and she grabbed onto it to help keep herself upright.

I wrapped my arms around her thighs, locking her into place before pulling her down closer to my face. She was soaked. I tilted my head slightly, my tongue poking out and running through her folds cautiously. Lottie instantly bucked her hips, a soft moan escaping from her lips. It was all I needed. I pulled her down even more, barely any space between my lips and her skin. I slid my tongue through her folds again, slowly. Lottie bucked her lips every time without fail, grinding against my face without another thought. One of her hands moved from the headboard to my hair, gripping it and holding my head in place as she moved her hips against my tongue. All she cared about was using me to get off.

Spoiled.

I dug my nails into her thighs, I could feel her trembling. Her breathing was ragged, her knuckles were white from how hard she was gripping the headboard, and every movement of hers was desperate. One long lick and then I took her clit into my mouth, sucking hard. Her whole body jerked and I didn't stop, I only got rougher. I wanted her to come on my tongue. I wanted to be the reason that Lottie Matthews unfolded. One last buck of her hips and I could feel her thighs clamp around my head.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." A string of curse words fell from her lips as I licked every last drop of hers.

Lottie's grip on my hair loosened and she swung one knee to the other side of me, flopping down next to me on the bed.

"Fuck..." Lottie murmured, clearly fucked out. It was my turn to smirk.

I pulled Lottie's blanket up over the both of us and pulled her against me. Lottie's arm wrapped protectively around my waist and I placed a kiss on her sweaty forehead.

Lottie's voice was quiet, worn out from how loud she was, "If only you put that much effort into practicing, we would have gone to nationals a lot easier." Anddddd Lottie's back.

"Shut up, Matthews."

"Plotting on how to hit my car again, (L/n)?" Lottie fired back and I rolled my eyes. She smirked and pulled me flush against her chest. Even though Lottie never let ups on her stupid banter, her body couldn't hide how she really felt. I could feel Lottie's heart racing when she pulled me into her. I made her nervous and that thought made me smile.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Lottie?"

"Maybe I would."

[sirensdollesque]

𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒂 𝑨𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂- angst

𝑰𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 the wound chris made when he left never really healed.

a/n: contains mentions of drinking

since the day chris ended things it genuinely felt like your life had been ripped away from you.

you'd given him everything, all you had, and if you could you would've given him the moon, the whole damn sky even.

people told you not to give him your all, that he'd hurt you, but you wanted to trust he wouldn't, you wanted to trust that he loved you, and for a moment you did.

you hated it, you hated how much you fell for his sweet nothings, you didn't see what others could see coming from a mile away, how badly he'd end up hurting you.

you were at a party, you'd dragged yourself out with a friend, claiming it'd be "fun" and that you'd maybe forget about chris for a bit.

for a while, the party was fine, you'd taken a couple shots with friends, you weren't drunk, just enough to make you feel lighter.

you were at some corner in this house party, your friend off dancing wherever, your eyes scanned the room for nobody really that was until you saw chris.

you could feel the wound in your heart that was already opened just rip more, the pain in your chest was physical, it hurt worse seeing chris actually happy, like it didn't ever matter.

chris saw you too, you two locked eyes and as much as it was killing you. your eyes burned with tears and the room felt smaller, you couldn't keep looking at him.

by the time you got outside tears stained your cheeks, your breaths weren't even and your heart felt like it'd genuinely break.

you sat on the curb, staring at the floor taking deep breaths as you calmed down, you hadn't noticed chris exit with you at all.

"didn't think you'd be here." you looked up, chris stood awkwardly a good distance away, a small "puta madre" you muttered under your breath slipped out as you stood up, "what do you want chris?"

"I just wanted to see how you were, see how you've been i guess." chris mumbled looking down, you laughed, genuinely shocked at the stupidity of the question, "what do you think chris? how do you think I am? because you seem great and that's fucking killing me!"

maybe the shots from earlier had given you some confidence or maybe you were just so tired of being hurt, whatever the case was, you weren't hold back anymore.

"y/n look I'm-" "no chris, you don't get it and you're not sorry. I miss you so fucking much, and it's so fucking obvious," your throat burned from the tears falling staining your cheeks, "I wish, god i wish you felt what I felt, no, I wish you felt what I felt and more. because you look so fucking happy like nothing ever happened and it's killing me! this right now is killing me." chris stared at you, before you could process anything, his arms wrapped around you, and you sobbed.

"shh, I got you, I got you it's okay" chris tried comforting you but the tears kept falling, "every i love you chris, I fucking meant it. Every day I try to not cry because of you and I can't, this is killing me. I really fucking loved you and this is killing me. you're killing me."

chris didn't let go of you, letting you sob into his chest, letting you calm down, and once you did and you looked up at him, he wiped your tears, "can we talk about this more? I miss you too, so fuckin much."

torispeaks💌- this went different than expected tbh

tags- @fawnquette @sturns-mermaid @freshloveee @ch6rm @chrisissobabygirl @immaqulate @strnilolover @submattsgf @joces-wrld @throatgoat4u @jensturnss @sweetshuga @oopsiedaisydeer @lilolebambi @stvrniolostan @lyingonchris @courta13 @moth-feeet @stvrniolostan @sturniolo-szn2 @sturnsblogs

[cherry-blossom-honey]

Coffee and T.V (Bob Reynolds/Sentry x F! Reader smut)

Warnings: Cockwarming, riding, unprotected sex (don't do that!!), Sentry takes over while they wee wee, slight choking. I suck at warnings so let me know if I missed something.

A/N: Here I am to feed you all 🫡🤭 now that I proof read it, I realized that I might have put a couple of requests in a mixing pot and this is what came out of it.

The Thunderbolts were getting ready for a night out. All of them except for Bucky, of course.

—I'm too old for that— he sighed— Gonna stay here and take care of these two.

Bob and you never left the tower, and after spending so much time together, you developed something way bigger than a friendship.

In fact, something hotter that nobody else knew about.

Sneaking into each other's rooms late at night while the rest of the team was asleep to make out and occasionally have sex on the carpeted floor of his place to avoid any squeaky sound that could raise suspicion.

—Nah man, you should go with them. Maybe there's an old lady waiting for you somewhere!— you said, winking at the former soldier.

—Oh no, you should respect your elders!— Bob answered, following your joke and receiving an angry look from the black haired man— We'll be fine. I'm already making some coffee to drink while we watch a movie.

—We can play Tomb Raider! Would you like to come with us, Bucky?— Behind your innocent voice, there was a plan; you knew Bucky hated videogames, so he would decline and leave both of you alone for the rest of the night.

—Thanks, but y'know I don't really get along with those things. I'd like a cup of coffee, though.

Perfect

Bob and you headed to the tower's wide playroom, sitting down on the couch and turning on the tv. He broke the silence first.

—Are we really gonna play Tomb Raider?

—No— you bit your lip before kissing him eagerly— Maybe later.

Bob lifted you up like you weighted nothing, positioning you on his lap. At this point, you were wearing nothing but your pink panties and a short spaghetti strap tank top.

—Why don't you go grab the remote and search for a movie?— He kissed your cheek.

You understood his intentions clearly and got up obeying him.

When you came back to Bob, his cock was already out of his pants and you sat on it sighing in relief after his long fingers pulled the wet piece of fabric to the side.

The pleasant torture of his still member inside you was driving you crazy.

—You're not moving until you find a movie I like— He whispered in your ear. This more dominant side of him wasn't helping with your situation.

As you changed channels, one of his hands slid under your tank top to play with your nipples while the other travelled between your folds.

—Fuck— you whimpered.

—Yeah, I know. Everything seems pretty boring, right?— Bob teased, smirking. He knew what he was doing.

—Bob... Robert, please. Let me move.

Your voice sounded desperate, hungry for whatever he could give you. When you called out his name, Robert put you closer to his chest grabbing your neck.

—You can call me Sentry.

His strong hands turned you around to face him; his look was different, dark and filled with lust, but there was also something else you couldn't figure out.

The grip on your hips hurt, but you weren't complaining.

That man was giving you what you needed most, bouncing you up and down his cock and touching every right spot.

—Bo-Sentry, please don't stop!— you cried out loudly. He let go one of your sides to cover your mouth.

Sentry whispered in your ear once again, this time with a tone that was very deep and low. He didn't sound like Bob at all.

—You don't want Barnes to hear us. Do you, pretty girl?

You shook your head no. All that pleasure made you forget that another person was in the tower.

Then, he started kissing you passionately to hold your moans.

And his own.

The Almighty Sentry surrendered to a simple human.

Burying his face between your now uncovered tits as you squeezed him, he spilled his seed inside of you. You followed his high almost instantly, collapsing on top of him.

After catching your breath, you looked at each other smiling.

—Did I hurt you?— he asked

There was Bob again.

—That's certainly gonna leave some marks, but I can live with it.

—Right— Bob said, pecking your lips— Coffee's cold now.

—Make it iced, then.

[vefania]

sup, here I come with my delusions again, so, remember the map we see in TBOSAS, when Lucky is explaining the weather given the inactivity in the arena? I don't know if it appeared somewhere else or whatever

District 10 is basically Texas and part of México, specifically what seems like Chihuahua, Durango, Sonora and Coahuila, and I'm tired of moodboards with orange barns and Yankee cowboys, so, imagine this other half of the district kinda like:

Drought-resistant flora like mesquites, yucca, sotol, and ocotillo.

Dry grasslands and ranching plains, with caves.

Regional livestock like goats, criollo cattle, and mules.

White-tailed deer, puma, coyote, and roadrunner.

Nopaleras (prickly pear groves) —but not cartoonish cactus landscapes.

Rarámuri and Yaqui influences, although the majority would be mestizos.

Dried meat, queso asadero, and flour tortillas

The use of colorful skirts and rebozos.

Textile art, basketry, or pottery with geometric patterns.

Regional dances.

But adapted to Panem sure. I know that many parts of northern Mexico have more American influence than central or southern Mexico, which is why I didn't add things like Día de Muertos, but it's also an option; same with many traditions such as Holy Week or patron saint festivals since I don't know if Catholicism prevails in Panem.

Anyway, kinda like:

The poverty is missing, you may say, but trust me, my grandmother lives like this and we still depend on Government's money so 👍

Also I tried to find images from these states but you know how internet is, I'm sorry if some images are from somewhere else. 😪

[grotesquevi]

cw # 18+ mdni, jock!vi x ballerina!reader, gay situationship, yearning, public sex, agnst, spit, fingering, oral sex, based on a nonnie ask, long headcannons? dont know what this is. wc: 3k

jock!vi who's giving you hell of a rough time lately after she admitted the fact she's not ready for anything serious, making you cut any tie that linked you back to her cause a heartbreak is nothing but a pain in the ass. tossing yourself to an exhausting routine you've been following religiously.

jock!vi who spends the first two weeks — or is it a month? keeping herself busy, cause she cannot afford being sentimental, admit that she needs you back, that she's actually scared of feeling anything else more than this anger that dictates her movements, something that will get her away from her comfort life.

"practice is closed to public," she deserves the coldness in your voice, the way your gaze is so quick to find hers through the mirrors and look away, still in that fucking uniform she loves—. "you can't be here."

ballerina!reader who's always wrapped in pink. pink uniform. pink nails. pink ribbon holding your hair there in a bun as vi once again find herself looking after her boxing practice. matches so damn good with her own hair it's almost a joke to remember how devastating you are in her eyes.

how did she get there anyway? when did her mind played tricks on her long enough to make her change the path to her bike all the way up to the ballet studio? like she already belonged there after all the times sneaking out the weight room to see you practice. she made fun of you at first, but now? fuck, it's so hot when you mention some movement's name in remarkable italian, making her big hands hold your waist when you're spinning in one leg and vi's mesmerized by the grace of it, the delicacy, how you seem to be everything she's lacking.

"no, don't go" the pink haired begs as she notices how you were already gathering your stuff, tossing your shoes to the gym bag still in your pointe shoes "don't go. i need to talk to you... please."

her mind drift away as she speaks, can't help it cause see you again is much like breathing a deadly flower. you're so quick to settle back in her system, ready to live under her skin if asked. you're sweaty, heavy breathing cause hell, you always push yourself harder than the rest, you always stay there an hour of two cause you can't stand disappointment, being less than you force yourself to be even when vi's repeating again how good you are every single time she's there looking, on a sleek suit (and a huge bruise in the right eye) making everybody stand up when you're up on the stage, nervous as ever when you pick up her bouquet of flowers in the end, holding it tightly against your chest.

"five minutes. you just have five minutes and i’ll leave. got better things to do."

fine, whatever. she can actually do it in fucking three.

jock!vi who thinks she's not going to be that pathetic for the first fifty seconds until her tongue takes over and she's spitting truth after truth without any filter at all: maybe she's tired, maybe practice leaves her dry and unable to think for herself, maybe you're the one who has that crazy spell over her, wrapped around your finger even when she tried so hard to avoid it.

"i miss you so much," the words came out of her mouth since her brain can fuck off right now, her own body making decisions on its own — "i'm so tired of pushing you away, of trying to turn off my feelings for you cause i like to pretend i don't really understand them. and i'm so fucking sorry for it."

"no more bullshit, promise to me" you state, and vi can see the tension still lingering on your shoulders, making you stiff and constantly stressed. "if you make me mad i will dump you-"

jock!vi who takes your words as an invitation when she's pulling on that little transparent skirt wrapped around your waist she don't understand at all, one that covers nothing, but its enough to get you closer, to make you shut up, give you time even, to pull away if you wanted to.

and her kisses are messy like everything she does, cause vi has no control over her necessity over you, on how it makes her hands shake almost of the withdrawal of medication, her mouth's all over — invading like a battle of the middle age, your knight who’s taking until you're out of breath and she can see how swollen your lips are, how your gloss rest now in her skin too.

"don't get any weird ideas, vi. not here."

"yes, whatever you say. now come here you fucking tease," she tries to be funny for a damn second, tries to be cool even when her tone is fileld with desperation, tossing her boxing gloves and her own gym bag to the floor. "won't do nothing weird, just need a few kisses."

her arms wrap around you like you're something sacred, a victim of her good intentions overshadowed by a layer of bad behavior, can't think of consequences or anything else more than how good you fit against her, how you keep her warm, complete.

"i can't stop thinking about you," vi's breathing against your neck before pressing soft kisses against the side of it, gentle bites cause she lacks of force now that she's sore and tired after practice, letting her own desires speak for their own, her mouth betraying her own brain — "i can't stop thinking about this, about us and what we have."

"and what do we have huh? i'm not really aware."

"i dunno. you tell me."

ballerina!reader who stumbles over her own words, nervous as ever cause vi's too close, too cocky, too confident for her own good. her teeth pull on the skin of your neck, and you're openly whining about your next presentation being close to the weekend and how you cannot be suffering from her hungry hickies.

"behave," you almost beg her, but it's too late for that already when she's nodding at your words and you know how it works: when she's giving you the reason but she's not capable of stopping herself from taking what she wants, when you cant remove yourself from her either since you have poorer self control as well. that would've explain why she's all over you still, why her hands are so quickly to grab your ass in response, roughly squeezing both cheeks only to get you closer to her.

"i am behaving," vi replies convinced she has it under control—. "you'd be in much more trouble if i weren't behaving."

"vi-"

"please, don't you think i've suffered enough already? that i've missed you long enough?" it's almost a plea, ready to beg if you wanted so. "there's no one around but you and me- don't make me beg, practice's over, this is my time and you're taking it away from me..."

how can you ever deny her special needs?

jock!vi who's touch get more and more demanding by the seconds, almost forgetting where she is still, like the mirrors don't replicate the image of her groping on all the right places, touching and enjoying the curves of your body, the smell you've been reeking after been jumping around, twirling and dancing your guts out.

"it’s the damn uniform" the boxer admits, almost ashamed of having to admit her lack of jurisdiction— "the fucking uniform-- s'making me think a lot."

“i can't change it, pretty sure its mandatory.”

"i'm not complaining. the designers here- really onto something. makes me think pretty nasty stuff when i see you," its a new confession when she's making sure to coax as close as possible, until there’s no more space and she’s all you can breathe. "stuff that would make you remember me we're in public and not in my dorm room in that voice of yours when you're mad" — "pulling a restraining order on me."

jock!vi who has trouble in not messing with you: how is she supposed to not pull the soft ribbon holding your hair only to watch it fall against your shoulders? you're furrowing your brows together but you cannot be mad at her when she's stealing a new kiss in response, not like this anyway.

"don't give me that look, it was already falling. sides i'm keeping it" doesn't matter how sweaty you are, how you scrunch your nose when her fingers get under the tight grip of your leotard that got vi mentally thanking on how summer makes you not wear those sheer pantyhoses you use in winter, cause your underwear's thin enough to be good as damn nothing and it gives vi enough access to touch — "i missed you. shit- i missed you so much."

tightening the grip in your waist, she's cornering you against the wooden ballet barre, almost making you see the tattoos on her back since she's wearing this damn tank top and hell; the mirror gives access to every detail, every muscle: if she's doing that on purpose? her success is imminent.

jock!vi who's turned on by the adrenaline rush, who's muscles burn after a rough session of training, after eternal minutes of running under the sun. vocal already cause fuck: this is medicine for the soul.

"gonna fuck you here so everyone knows who you belong to" she states, making your head spin, "if someone comes in, well they better be thanking me for keeping their star dancer in peak cardio shape. you're damn welcome too."

"interesting. are you always this horny after practice?"

ballerina!reader who contrary to all beliefs, it's actually very bad at remembering why it's a bad idea all sudden, when the cold mirror makes you shiver at the unexpected contact, the perfect excuse on why you’re experiencing goosebumps everywhere the jock's touching.

"ten minutes," vi promises already fond of the mirrors, of both of your figures mixing up in the image that repeated all over again in a room with such a rich space, so much that made it felt crowded even when there’s only two people there. "i promise, just ten minutes. no one has to even know."

"if i don't cum in ten minutes, we are finishing this in my room."

"the showers."

"i said. my damn room, needy mess."

"well. ten minutes it's actually a lot in situations like this. generous even."

jock!vi who's dropping to her knees seconds after, not as sign submission but devotion, of the love that flourished when she's making you rest your leg right against her shoulder. her hand push your waist against the mirror, and you have to hold the barrer cause vi catches you flying low, hella low when it makes your legs shake in nothing but the expectancy of it.

"amazes me how you stand there and have the audacity to call me needy when i'm not even touching you," you'd reply, sassy, intelligent as ever cause even when you're turned on, you can think still, at least until she's using a hand to spread you open, using the wet of her mouth to lick over the fabric of your ballet uniform until it latches to your cunt after, make it stick to your skin like's not there and you're too invested into looking to say anything at all — on how you need that leotard for tomorrow, how you should've accept her shower idea.

"you're needier than me, if that doesn't made it clear" you're mumbling something about needing her to shut up, however, vi's not playing around when her spit mixes up with your own arousal, covering her chin, landing on her tongue when spreading you apart with the skilled muscle of her mouth. just a few touches and its enough to pay special attention to your clit, to make your hips move slowly against her face.

so good. she's making the fabric of the spandex to the side and before you can say something about how she's testing her limits, she's coating two fingers with your own need, lubricating them to push them against your entrance.

ballerina!reader who keeps eye contact like a damn champion when vi admitted one time how much it turns her on, how her blue orbs stare at yours while eating you, her fingers slowly pushing inside until she's knuckles deep. she’s kind, nice even giving you time to adjust, to savor the moment as you cunt seems to squeeze her digits as a warm welcome, as a way of driving them deeper, somehow rougher.

"oh good fuck," vi moans when she has the perfect look of your pussy opening up for her fingers "fuck- this is so hot. so hot sucking my fingers until there's no space.”

"no fucking-"

"no fucking" she promises, lies lies lies—. "i don't see how this could be considered fucking. we'd call it quick fun from now on."

and the boxer's entranced by the smell of you right over her nose, how you move right against her face, looking down, burning holes in her skin through the reflection. vi’s her knees are sore, puffy lips, she's always been messy in general, but today? today it takes the fucking cake when vi's unaware of her own shirt being stained but the combination of fluids, a testament to the comeback, to the need of being one.

jock!vi who likes to make you watch. makes you entranced to the way her arm flex every time she thrusted her fingers inside, how the flesh disappeared and the room's filled instead with a wet, lewd sound that seemed to travel in space. she's having no damn mercy when her digits curve all the way in, when she forgets about the barrier of layers of your leotard and she becomes pussydrunk instead, starved and hallucinating on whatever hallucinogen you carried on your sweat.

"do you see that?" vi asks, voice rough, strings of saliva still connecting her lips to your swollen cunt—. "gonna fuck you in front of mirrors all the time now. see those pretty tits bouncing, the dumb expression in your face- mhm we're definitely fucking in front of the mirror in your dorm."

jock!vi who's a pervert every single time. who's panties dampen while impatiently trying to rub her legs together, soothe the ache. she's such a visual learner she gets off at the sight of you, from your erratic movements, the way she's using actual force to keep you standing, leaning against the mirror and not crumbling in her arms.

you try to be silent and it's so damn nice to see you like this, to know how she's reducing you to pieces when your biting your lower lip hard to muffle the sound of your moans, how you cunt suck her fingers until they're fully in, open, warm and inviting, vi’s ready to cum from the sight only.

you're so in control all the time, snarky comments, sarcastic as fuck, you always have something to say until she's turning your world to misery, until she’s tormenting you, consuming every thought, every inch of your being, installed in your lungs.

"c'mon stay on your feet," vi says, blushing at her own words cause she's supposed to be the one who's able to carry you around, used to always move you around at her needs — "m'tired too baby. do it for me."

her words slur together, her mouth's getting tired, her muscles burn now as they keep moving, keep fucking you against the soreness installing on her body after the adrenaline's already settled.

"yes-" you reply trying to be of help, pulling on vi's hair cause it's so long now you can actually play with it, tug it and wrap it around your digits. “i’m trying i promise, i’m trying.”

good girl. she'd try to vocally praise you, but vi's too invested in making a feast out of you, on have you making the most delicious sounds as she's pulling the leotard entirely to the side and her tongue finally swipes from all the way to your abused hole back to your clit, face-deep in your folds cause no. it’s simply not enough.

ballerina!reader who can't help but be loud when peaking. who's clumsy when falling, unable to hold her weight anymore. who got vi closer than ever when you finally cum, pushing her closer, rougher than before. half lidded eyes, drool on the corners of your mouth: that's the look vi wants to see on your face every day, the look of being throughly spend, used.

she's working you through it like it wasn't already enough. like she isn't pushing on your boundaries enough as she overstimulates you. insatiable, ravenous, eternally greedy when it comes to you.

"sweet fuck," you breathe out, tangled limbs, sticky and damn dirty at this point—. "do you think anyone saw?"

"no" she replies, but in reality, vi doesn't care about been seen "we were quick. pretty sure it was less then ten minutes also."

both of you're unaware of the camera hidden in the right corner of the room at least until next practice when your soul's leaving your body:

camera. she ate you out in front of the security camera.

so vi heard it multiple times already when she’s wrapping the pink lace of your hair now in her favorite boxing gloves: she has such good intentions, but she's a victim, as usual, of her bad behavior.

[ocstabler]

I really like Tanner and hope she returns. Her and Stabler had a good bond, as she did with Vargas as well. I like how she looked out for El as well, telling him he should be with his mother and later sending him home to get some sleep.

As much as I miss Bell, I love that Vargas got more time to shine in these last two episode and really prove his worth to the team. El only had him to rely on this whole time and they worked great together. I like the gentle teasing with 'your BFF says hi'.

I still don't care about The Collective. I'm glad the storyline is done.

Bernie's health scare was different to what I had anticipated. I'm glad it wasn't too serious and she's on the mend (it seemed like maybe she recovered a tiny bit too well, I guess the Stabler genes are strong).

Her speech to them at the end was a nice touch. I liked how she acknowledged them all and it didn't focus just on Elliot, but all of them. But it did give me major vibes of them killing her off at the end of the series. It seemed like the perfect way to do it. Having Kathleen there of all the kids felt significant because of their bond and history. I can see how they might want to orchestrate a way to write Bernie Stabler out rather than have it taken out of their hands, plus as the ailing mother story, I'm not sure how much longer they can do this story. Her passing peacefully in her sleep would be the very least they can do to if they're going that way.

I loved Kathleen. She's really taken on the role of mother for the family, coming in and reminding them about Bernie's meds straight away. I LOVED that she and Randall sent Elliot back to work. What a role reversal from the family guilt tripping him for doing his job! And is it me, or did their seem to be a little weirdness with Randall towards Kathleen? The way the spoke to one another when they were first at the hospital, and how Randall said to go and see Bernie before Kathleen gets there. I don't think it's any major drama, but it's maybe something they'll come back to again.

Her worrying about her Dad and Randall and how they might be unprepared for Bernie passing was so lovely. And Elliot's response was equally touching. How he's prepared for whatever might happen and at peace with it as best he can be.

She was never shown to be frustrated when he got called for work. LOVE THAT.

The fact that they hugged and said I love you. Ugh! This is the cleanse from Eli I didn't know I needed. And my favourite scene, the one that made me cry is how Kathleen picks up on her Dad being upset and excusing herself, going to find him, reassuring him that she'll be there for him when he's old (his isolation at home must be so much at times). Telling him she's proud of him. My heart! After all the shit he's had with Eli, her support here is so crucial for him.

I love Kathleen. She's perfect.

So let's get to the big drama point that is Elliot's health.

We know stress can be a trigger that may hinder his recovery and putting himself in the extremely stressful situation of being very close to a bomb that could kill himself and Tanner didn't seem to help him much.

We see Elliot having to wait for his shaking hand to calm down before he can attempt to save Tanner and luckily, it didn't have much impact on saving Tanner.

Now, interesting thing is does Vargas catch on to what's happening with Elliot?

The top right of Vargas' screen shows the view from the camera El is wearing and he does look at his shaking hand so it would be visible, but clearly Vargas is distracted with saving Tanner's life so it's easy enough for him to miss this.

But Tanner herself seems to be able to see Elliot's struggle. It's clear enough he sounds a little distressed as he's stalling until he's recovered enough to continue and she does her best to reassure him.

It'll be interesting to see if Elliot gets caught out for this in the next episode as he feels like he's really going rogue in the last episode.

I also don't feel like they'll wrap up Eli's story this series. I think he'll just still be in the police force and it maybe continues next series. And if Bernie goes, I don't think Joey will die too. It would be huge overkill to have them lose both of them, so maybe Joey makes it but Bernie doesn't.

[butchsophiewalten]

There was another space last night. Only found out about it this morning and apparently they mentioned a dog animatronic named Ringo. Could you do a recap on it?

OK twitter space recap again. Just for clarity, a lot of these answers are effectively verbatim, but have been chopped down for clarity and to remove some less relevant information.

-Someone asks what the hardest part of making an episode is and Martin goes 'Fucking, coming up with what's gonna happen in it.' And talks about how like, if TWF4 took three years to make, half the time was just preproduction and him figuring out what the hell was going to happen. He talks about how TWF4 was originally going to be a return to form for the series, and then one day he woke up and thought about it and was like "this is fucking shit." and that's when he decided to make it more cinematic.

-Someone asks if TWF4 will have Spanish subtitles, and Martin says no, because writing the English ones was a pain and he doesn't want to go through that again.

-Somebody asks who Martin would cast for Brian if The Walten Files was a live action series, and Kyle extends the question to 'Who would you cast for Everyone?'. They spend the next while just spitballing answers, which I've condensed here:

Kyle thinks it'd be fun to cast Jack as "Weird" Al Yankovic, and Martin thinks that's funny. He doesn't know who he would cast for Jack. Martin says Brian would be "The guy from Whiplash", who is Miles Teller.

Martin says Derek Collins would be Michael Mckean, but Kyle picks Clancy Brown.

Kyle says Charles should be Adam Driver.

Martin says Felix would be Michael Douglas as he is in Falling Down, and says that he's always thinking of him whenever he goes to draw Felix.

Martin says Sophie would be Ally Sheedy as she is in The Breakfast Club, and how Allison Reynolds (Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club) was in part inspiration for Sophie's character. Secondary pick Martin gives is Mia Goth, but says they aren't the same in the face or the mannerisms, just that Mia Goth would make a good portrayal of the character because she's such a good actress.

Martin picks Shelley Duvall for Rosemary, saying again that they don't really look alike, but that she'd do a great job portraying the character. Kyle says a young Jane Kaczmarek would make a good Rosemary, too, and Martin mentions that he could also see a very young Carol Burnett, "...because she has a very smile-shaped smile."

Martin says that they aren't at all the same physically, but that Tina Parker would make a great Susan. Inspired heavily by her role in Better Call Saul.

-Martin hems and haws for a bit about who a good Jenny would be, saying that it's difficult, because she has such a particular face. On the topic, Kyle brings up how fans so often portray Jenny as "chubby", and how that's really impacted how he thinks of Jenny as a character, where he imagines the fanon version of her before even the canon one.

Martin agrees like, "This kinda influenced the way I draw her. I've been drawing concept art for Jenny recently and I noticed I've started drawing her a little chubbier. Not to the extent of the fanon, but the way I look at the character has changed a lot because of the way the fandom draws her... But I could definitely see Jenny as a chubby character, she just has that vibe." (<-Mostly paraphrased)

-Martin and Kyle say they both keep running into a funny problem where they google Charles using his full name, and wonder why all of the results just call him 'Charles Walten Files', forgetting that his full name is not public information yet.

-Martin says that if there was anything he would change about The Walten Files, he'd make Bon less adjacent to Bonnie from Five Nights at Freddy's. He says he wishes he'd made Bon a dog named Ringo, and that the name "Ringo" has a specific lore reason behind it (Unrelated to. The Beatles.)

-Martin talks about how when he first named Bon's Burgers, he thought he was being really clever, because in French "Bon" means "Good", so it was like calling it "Good Burgers".

-Someone asks what Martin would rename Bon's Burgers to if Bon's name had been different, and he says he'd call it "Wonderland".

-Martin gives a story about him actually seriously injuring himself opening a can of Palmitos, slicing his palm open and needing to get stitches, but how the main thing he was worried about was it keeping him from releasing TWF4 on time, and how he was really scared of the fan reaction of like, 'he always fucking does this, he always delays the episode', before he talked to some friends and calmed down about it. This all happened like less than a week ago. He tells everyone not to worry to much about it, that he's still in some pain, but he's fine.

-Someone asks about the "Bontest", the contest where people could submit their original characters to appear briefly in TWF4, and Martin says that he plans to work on it last, as a reward for himself.

-Someone asks if a Welcome to Bon's Burgers remake could ever happen, Martin answers: "No. I would have wanted to, but I'm really trying to stay, like, legally distinct from Five Nights at Freddys. So no more Welcome to Bon's Burgers, ever."

-Martin asks Kyle, "Is Charles mean? or nice?" and Kyle says he thinks Charles has like. Fun Uncle energy. That he's the sort of person you'd maybe think was mean, but that he's ultimately pretty silly and laid-back. He calls him the type of person to doodle in the margins of his work.

-Someone asks if Boozoo is a magician or a ringmaster, and Martin says that he is both. When he's not on stage, he falls into the ringmaster persona, but when he's performing he's doing magic tricks and the like. He switches between both.

-"Boozoo has a mechanism where he can take off his hat, and there's a very tiny plush rabbit in his hat"

-"Will we ever get to know how Jenny and Sophie met and/or became a couple?" "Yes. We will see it in the series, I have the whole thing planned out. Yippie!"

-Martin talks about how when making WTBB, he went through a phase where he really hated Banny, and took her out of the game. Then he was like, fuck, I need a new girl character, and that's why he created Sha.

-"Who has been your favorite character to develop personality-wise and role-wise?" "Felix Kranken. I fucking love but I fucking hate Felix kranken... I feel like the viewer keeps indirectly giving Felix chances, like, to make things right. And you will see how he uses those chances."

-Someone asks for a Felix Fact, and Kyle jokes that he smells bad. Martin says he disagrees, and that he thinks Felix smells like car air freshener.

-Actual Felix Fact: He loves Louis Wain's paintings, and has many in his office. Martin says he really connects with the story around them, and that he also feels a deep connection to cats.

-"How many takes did the phone call in BunnyFarm take to get right? Was the wavering in Jack's voice before he got angry intentional?" "It took three takes and yeah, yes it was. I did one take that was like, screaming angry, and another one was very whispery, and then i got the version that was used." They talk for a bit and then Martin goes "I think Jack here like, works best when he's not like, exaggerated, but you can tell that he's on the verge of just-- punching you fucking skull, but he doesn't like, explode. And it's this tension of like, when will we see this character like, genuinely lose his mind, yknow?"

-Someone asks if Bon could ever learn to like or be nice to Banny, and Martin says that if the showstoppers had any kind of linear story then he would probably grow to be nicer to her eventually, but because they're in like an episodic thing where everything resets, he's just gonna hate her forever

-Linda Lore: This isn't necessarily canon, but Martin kinda imagines that she'd move out of hurricane after only a couple of weeks because it's such a ghost town, so she moves to Nashville end ends up starting a family there and having two children.

-My question! I asked Kyle and Martin what musicians/bands they listen to. Kyle lists Gorillaz, Tally Hall, and Tenacious D. Martin lists MF Doom, Tyler, the Creator, and Canserbero.

-Martin mentions an incident with Bon's Burgers where a guy showed up and stood on a table demanding to eat pizza, and stayed there for 20 hours demanding to eat pizza.

-Martin imagines a funny scenario where Charles' car breaks down on the way to work and Jack gives him a ride. Charles asks to listen to some music, and Jack starts playing "obscure 30s music", and Charles is like, "what the fuck?", while Jack is bobbing his head like he's listening to heavy metal.

-Someone asks if there's any Autistic characters in The Walten Files, and Kyle brings up his personal headcanon that both Sophie and Jenny have autism, but that Jenny has it comorbid with ADHD. Martin mentions that it's actually canon that Charles has ADHD, and how it was one of the first things he decided on for his character.

-Kyle specifically asks if there's any Walten Files characters Martin can imagine being Autistic, and Martin gives a long answer I've written out as follows:

"Okay, so, this is really complicated, but the episode 5 draft is finished, and I sent it to Eva, and- this episode has a bigger focus on Sophie, episode 5, and I think a lot of things- Eva- I talked a lot about it with Eva, and she mentioned how Sophie, was like, had many many traits that imply that she is autistic.

And, while I said yes, that the intention was to like, sorta allude to it? I would never confirm it because I wouldn't be able to represent it properly. I would never be able to fully represent it, because it's not an experience I've gone through. But there's a lot of like, unintentional double meaning with Autism, with like, what's going on in her head and how like, she behaves, in a way?

But I feel like, from what Eva told me, from her experience as an Autistic person, she told me it was a really good representation, for like, the character. Even if it wasn't intentional, because she's never represented as like, mentally unstable, or not fit to, like-not competent... But you can still see some of her personal struggles in her behavior."

-They talk for a while about how Kyle likes to think that Boozoo is gay, but he's not especially a fan of the relatively popular ship between him and Bon. Martin says that a better Boozoo ship idea could maybe be Pete the Hippo, provided that the recasted his VA.

-On the same topic, Martin agrees that Boozoo and Bon would be a bad ship idea, because he doesn't like the idea of Bon being with anybody who he treats poorly, and how this is the reason why he really tries to be nice to Sha, even if he isn't especially good at it. Martin mentions that the thing that really makes Bon like Sha is that she's the one person who can really tell him off, and for a while he was a little scared of her.

-Martin talks about a funny showstoppers story he's thought of, where Banny gets a crush on a girl from school and Boozoo and Sha help her work up the courage to ask her out, but the girl is just so unapologetically mean to Banny and totally breaks her heart, and so all the showstoppers come to defend Banny, and they go and beat up this teenager on her behalf.

-Someone asks for a "Susan Fun Fact" but typos it as "Susan Gun Fact". Martin says that Susan would think that the American attitude towards guns and gun control is one of the things most wrong with the United States. Kyle says it'd be funny if she was the type to believe that, but then own a gun anyway.

-Martin says that he really loves Susan's voice, and thinks it's so perfect for her character.

[icantalk710]

Haven't posted too much since this week was hectic [😩], so it me after a slightly longer jog earlier (thankfully it's warm enough to sensibly go jogging) and then coming back to trim the beard/shave some 🪒🚿😌

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 2

In Dubiis Libertas, In Necessariis Unitas

But in the end, if I bend under the weight that they gave me, then this heart would break and fall as twice as far.

* * *

Žižka is forced to deal with the aftermath of his failure. Hans and Samuel look for the root of betrayal. At Zlenice castle, a young boy sets out for adventure.

{read below or here on AO3}

* * *

Štěpán of Tetin was bored. So bored in fact that, had the way back to Zlenice been any longer, his wandering thoughts and daydreams may as well have thrown him out of his saddle and into a blissful sleep on the muddy ground. Sure, he had known what he would get himself into, not only this morning when the messenger of Sir Tammo of Ledna urged him to finish his breakfast sooner than expected, no, he had known for over five years now, ever since he agreed to help his guardian Ondřej Dubá with his service as the King's highest judge. And it wasn't the iudicium terre bohemiae, the Bohemian common law, that bored Štěpán so much. He admired the importance of that task, craved for the structure and order that it provided, and was, at least for a seventeen year old beardless man, as Sir Ondřej liked to call him, way more interested in books full of title deeds and legislative records than would have been good for him.

“When I was your age,” Zlenice's commander Sir Nikolai had told him once, “the only law I was interested in was the law of lovemaking, and the only writing I would care for was the one my cock left on the skirts of some pretty girl.” And Štěpán would have all the assets required to be a great philan­derer, Nikolai had asserted! The full dark locks of Iwain the lion knight, the slim fingers and legs of King Charles himself, round cheeks, full lips and long lashes that every girl in the whole of Bohemia would swoon over. Štěpán had as little interest in skirt hunting as he had in the hunting of anything else, nor was he as convinced of his own talents in this regard as the old knight was. But then again, Sir Nikolai had also told him once that he'd make a fine sword fighter, and the whole of Zlenice knew how that one had ended!

His interests clearly lay elsewhere. Which land belonged to whom and for what costs, for example, and more importantly, under what circumstances could this established order be re­voked. In recent years, he had also developed a certain affinity for the exceptional rights and authorities of the church, espe­cially considering what was happening in Prague. That myste­rious white knight, Petr of Haugwitz as he called himself, wasn't particularly fond of Štěpán's interest in the latter. While Štěpán wasn't particularly fond of Petr of Haugwitz.

Just as little as he was fond of the disputes that both nobility and commoners alike called him over for these days. Or rather, that they called Sir Ondřej for, but since the lord had seen his nineteenth spring already, he had bestowed these tasks upon his ward Štěpán. Tasks that included the innkeper Adam selling his beer for a quarter groschen too many, or the guild of the tanners missing to organise their second required procession this year, or baker Marek leaving his horse unattended in the middle of the village square, and on a market day of all times. And God knew how many of those disputes Štěpán had to settle today!

The sun had long set when he led his horse across the draw­bridge marking the entrance to the main castle of Zlenice. There were stables outside the castle walls in the outer bailey, but Štěpán preferred to have his chestnut mare Šárka as close by as possible. One could never know when it was needed to flee the castle unexpectedly. Or when adventure might strike.

The light of Jan's torch was so blindingly bright that Štěpán had to cover his eyes for a moment. The guard had stuck the torch into the wet earth of the ground, while he himself had taken a seat on the lowest stairs inside the castle gate, playing dice against himself. And why shouldn't he? Nothing ever hap­pened on Zlenice. The guard still had enough vigilance in him, though, to raise his head as Štěpán passed him by. “Good night, Sir.”

“Good night to you as well.” He pulled the reigns tighter, and Šárka pranced around on her crooked hind legs. Tiredness started to get to her too. “Would you happen to know where I can find Sir Ondřej at this hour?”

“He ate early today, Sir. Wanted to find some rest, the cough had got worse again.”

Štěpán took a deep sigh and nodded. No surprising news, it always got worse on days like these when the weather changed so drastically, bringing cold air up from the river, chasing away the warmth of spring. Sometimes, when it wasn't only the tem­perature of the air that changed but also its humidity or the force of the wind, Sir Ondřej used to cough so much his whole face would first get red as poppies and then white as milk. “It's always a shame,” Sir Nikolai had told Štěpán once when his guardian's cough had been so bad he had just quit breathing altogether for a while, making everyone believe he must alrea­dy be standing on the threshold to Saint Peter's door. “But he has lived a long life, longer than the rest of us can even dream of. And eh, who knows, lad, you might inherit a thing or two now?” Of course Štěpán wouldn't. He wasn't related to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice, was only the grandson of one of the lords Sir Ondřej had once bought the castle from, the eleventh grandson, that was. He hadn't been sent to Zlenice in the hopes of inheriting anything, but for two simple reasons alone. To help out the King's highest judge with his work in his old days, and, by fulfilling this duty, strengthen the ties between the Du­bá family and the lords of Tetín. And because for the eleventh grandson, the youngest brother of seven, there was no better use for him back at home anyway.

“Have they sent for the physician again?”

Jan shook his head and put the dice down. “Haugwitz didn't think it necessary.”

“As if he could tell,” Štěpán pressed out through gritted teeth.

“Well, with all due respect, Sir, but the old lord is a tough fella. This cough couldn't get him for the past ten years, and I doubt it will tonight.” Jan chuckled, staring down into his torch, as if the flames had just told him a very entertaining joke. “If that old lord dies, it might just be because he slips on his way to his shitter.” He was still smiling when he raised his gaze again, but winced immediately under the stare that Štěpán regarded him with. “Forgive me, Sir.”

Štěpán shrugged his shoulders. “We should make sure to keep the steps to his latrine always clean then.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Is Haugwitz with him right now?”

“No, Haugwitz is over there.” Jan nodded into the direction of the stables. “Wanted to take care of his horse.”

“Ah. I see.” Štěpán looked over to the small shed with the flickering light inside, and swallowed down the lump that had quickly formed in his throat. Maybe using the stables down in the outer bailey didn't sound like such a bad idea anymore. Ha, so much for adventure calling!

He dismounted Šárka and went over to the castle stables by foot, hoping that it would help against the quick pumping of his heart and the growing numbness in his legs. Štěpán wouldn't have considered himself to be a particularly scared man. Weak yes, that he was, and lacking any skill when it came to handling a sword, that too. But he had always longed to leave this castle one day and see the world, only that such an opportunity had never presented itself to him, keeping his travels confined to the local villages and his actions to those sealed with ink on parchment. That didn't mean he wouldn't like to follow the sweet song of fate wherever it led him, of course.

Šárka shied, threw her head back and neighed. Perhaps the horse felt it too, and what was wrong about it? Certain events and certain people just required a little more wariness.

Petr of Haugwitz was standing next to his black stallion, his back turned to the entrance. He had lid the torch on the wall, and its light made his perfectly white armour and his golden hair shine like paper thrown into a fireplace. The horse and the saddle bags he was rummaging through were hidden under the shadow that his tall, broad body cast.

Šárka neighed again and pulled on the reigns more firmly. Štěpán put a soothing hand to her neck and imagined their roles to be reversed and that she was in fact the one giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “Jesus Christ be praised.”

He refused to call the white knight Sir, ever since Haugwitz had come riding through the castle gates in late December, just a few days before the beginning of the year 1410. Pale skin, pale hair, pale armour, pale as the snow that had surrounded him. Only the glove made an exception, a single black leather glove wrapped around his belt, that he never wore but carried with him every day. Petr of Haugwitz was a strange man in all regards. A noble that spoke and growled like a bloodhound, and everything that he said seemed to be only uninformed opinions that weren't even his own. He spoke ill of the Prague demands for church reforms without knowing much about it, claimed to be a strong supporter of the King, but was tightly involved with Heinrich of Rosenberg's affairs who had been known for his loyalty towards the Hungarian usurper Sigismund. Still, in the mere span of a month or so, the white knight had managed to form a suspiciously close relationship to Sir Ondřej, yet ano­ther reason to be wary of him. And then of course there was his most obvious flaw, the one thing that kept Štěpán from ever using the title Sir when addressing him. No book or legal docu­ment Štěpán had consulted could provide him with any evi­dence that a Petr of Haugwitz had ever existed.

The white knight didn't utter a word of greeting, but he raised his head and looked over at Štěpán as he led Šárka in­side. Pale eyes as well, cold and wet, like dripping daggers of ice.

Štěpán turned away to hide the deep breath he was taking, but it was quiet enough in the stable for his breathing to be heard. Perhaps Haugwitz could even hear his heart and see the blood rush through his veins quicker and hotter than it should. With this stare of his it wouldn't be surprising. “I heard that my guardian's health has been put to the test today, while I was gone.”

Haugwitz started looking through his things again, waiting long before he gave an answer. Not as long as it felt, most like­ly, but in the white knight's presence, the grains of the hour­glass of time always seemed to get drowned in sticky honey. “He is sleeping now.”

Not the answer Štěpán had hoped to get, but then he also hadn't posed a proper question. “Sleep will do him good for sure.” His voice was so quiet and frail now, not even the voice of a seventeen year old weak student of the law, but the voice of a frightened child. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Haugwitz didn't reply but the silence said it all. The shared understanding of secrets Štěpán would better not ask about. The threat of what would happen if he still did.

Noise outside at the gate. The rattling of armour, steel scra­ping over steel as a weapon was drawn. Someone gasped from exhaustion, someone screamed. Jan. “Not a step further, you hear me?”

Štěpán rushed outside, closely followed by Haugwitz. Jan had left his place on the gate's stairs, the dice had fallen down, lay scattered across the dirt. His sword was raised, its tip aimed at the neck of a man who had appeared on the drawbridge. He stood bent over, hands resting on his thighs, panting heavily. The man was armed with a sword himself, but had it sheathed on his hip. He wore armour, but only on his legs and forearms, while a padded doublet was the only protection for his chest. Grey and brown cloth from what little Štěpán could tell in the dim torchlight, and there didn't seem to be crest on it.

He stepped forward until he stood next to Jan, and placed a hand on his wrist lightly, reminding him not to act without his command. “I am Sir Štěpán of Tetín, the ward of Sir Ondřej Dubá, who is the lord here in Zlenice. Who sent you?”

“No one, Sir.” The man's voice was only a hoarse rattling, winter wind in the castle walls. “I just ran, Sir, ran as quickly as I could. I saw the castle up here and hoped for help. I need help, Sir, you need to help me.”

“Help with what? Where did you run from, what happened to you?”

“I'm a mercenary, Sir. I was serving Father Thomas of the Prague synod. But he is dead now, Sir. Killed. A bolt in his throat, shot from the bushes like some animal.”

“Go and wake Lord Ondřej.” Haugwitz's harsh voice, a command that he had no authority for, and Jan moved without any hesitation. Štěpán couldn't blame him. The soldier was just as scared of Haugwitz as he was, and how could he dare to question him in a situation like this?

There was more Štěpán wanted to ask, but Haugwitz stepped forward now, ordering the man to come into the castle with them, to drink some strong wine and wait for Sir Ondřej. Fine then, Štěpán thought. After the shock and the fright from before and the hardships of the day, he could really use some of that wine now, too.

Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice had to lean on Jan as he dragged himself into the dining hall, and his bloated face was slack with fatigue, but at least he had stopped coughing. “So,” he wheezed as Jan had finally managed to help him sit down on his chair, which creaked under his weight, “tell me what happened, boy. And don't leave out a single thing.”

The boy in question was a man of at least thirty years, Ště­pán could see that now in the brighter light of candle holders and fireplace, but to a man of Sir Ondřej's age everyone quali­fied to be called boy. “My name is Lukas, my Lord. I was hired as a mercenary together with two other men to accompany the priest Thomas of Prague on his way to the synod there.” He was speaking much calmer now, the wine seemed to show an effect. It helped Štěpán to sharpen his wits too, and so he no­ticed how the man strictly avoided to look at Haugwitz who had taken his place at the side of the hall, leaning against the fireplace. “We just passed through a gorge close to Jezonice, when we got approached by what seemed to be two other priests.”

“When was that, boy?”

“Just after sunset, Sir.”

Štěpán furrowed his brow. “Why were you travelling at that time of the day? There would be no more inn to stop at for at least ten more miles.”

“I know, Sir, but we had just rested until this afternoon, in Uzhitz, that was. We had met two other men there, a Hungarian and a … a drunkard with a croaking voice. Kubyenka was his name, I believe.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Štěpán could see Haugwitz ba­ring his teeth at the mentioning of these men.

“But they were witty, especially this Kubyenka fella, and Father Thomas shared some wine with him, and they played dice and talked. They seemed trustworthy, and when they told us about robber bands roaming these lands who were on the look for merchants, during the day of course, when most mer­chants would travel, well, it made sense to us, Father Thomas believed them and so did we. So we stayed until the afternoon, and only continued our way then.”

“Hm.” Štěpán tried to put as little judgement into his voice as he could. If there was one thing the solving of too many a mundane village dispute had taught him it was to listen to the whole story first without much questioning, because any of that could twist even the most well-meant truth into a lie of uncer­tainty. “These priests. Did they say anything to you?”

“They did, Sir, and quite a lot in fact. They claimed that they had just stayed in Prague themselves and were on their way back to their parish now. They also said that they had met with Jan Hus. That he had shared his believes with them, and that they would know that those believes were God's true words, because our Lord had performed a miracle while Hus was spea­king. And that there would be miracles whenever someone re­peated these truths. They wanted to show us.” He raised his eyes. There was fright in them, a mortal terror, and for a brief moment his gaze fell upon Haugwitz, and the flicker of fear be­came a wildfire. “The younger one of the two took out this … construction. It was made of glass, like a lantern, but all empty inside. And then he said that the only word a Christian should follow should be that of the Saviour, not that of any priest or nobleman, and that no priest or bishop and not even the Pope himself could claim to be holy by his ordination alone, that it were only the life a clergy man leads that would make him ho­ly, his chastity, humility, poverty. And then he raised this lan­tern above his head, and suddenly … suddenly …” He swal­lowed, tears turning his dark eyes into ink. He took another sip from the wine. “Someone shot Father Thomas. With the bolt of a crossbow, right into his throat. And there were so many armed men up in the forest, and I was scared, I was so scared, and I just ran for it. I am so sorry. I should have stayed, but I couldn't, I …” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand, before he looked up, first at Štěpán, then at Jan and finally at Sir Ondřej, but not at Haugwitz this time. “Was that the will of God, Sir? Was it divine punishment that Father Thomas had to … That he was …”

“No, boy. That was only the doing of conspirators. Traitors to the land, and to the church. And to God.”

“How many were there?” Štěpán could feel the other's looks weighing down heavily on him, especially Haugwitz's. He was suspicious about the mercenary's story, the white knight knew it, and he didn't like it. “You said there were armed men hidden in the forest. How many exactly?”

“I could not tell, Sir. It was dark, and I … I ran as fast as I could.” Lukas ducked his head between his shoulders like a scared fowl. Surely he was just as aware of the punishments for cowardice as Štěpán was. “But there was the one with the crossbow, and others too, lots of them, men with swords and axes and all that, I could hear them, see a few of them even, I … I don't think Jenda and Maretschek stood a chance.”

“The other mercenaries?” Sir Ondřej asked.

“Aye.”

“But why so many?” Haugwitz's ice cold stare pulled tight around his neck, strangled him like a noose. Štěpán noticed how he brought a hand down, but not to the handle of his sword but to the glove on his belt, wrapping his fingers around it, as if he wanted to entangle them with the empty leather ones. “There were only three of you and a priest. While they had two men in disguise, probably skilled fighters too, an ar­cher with a crossbow, and all these other men that you saw.”

“I … I suppose they wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what? That they got rid of you all? But to what end? They clearly wanted to set an example, so what good would it do them if there was no one left to tell the tale? And why then go through all this effort, the disguise, the theo­logical discussion, if they just planned to murder you anyway?”

The chair next to him creaked as Sir Ondřej moved around on it with a groan. Next to the hissing fireplace, Haugwitz squeezed the glove so tightly that the leather let out a desperate whine. “Perhaps they wanted him to escape. Let him run, so he could spread the message.”

“And what message would that be? That the followers of Jan Hus are dangerous and mischievous, not to be trusted at any cost? How could that be in their own interest, how would that benefit their cause?”

“What are you suggesting here, Štěpán?”

He shook his head at Sir Ondřej, at a loss for an explanation. Getting duped over the price of beer, or finding someone's horse parked in the middle of the market street seemed so much more appealing all of a sudden. But wasn't this just the change he had waited for for so long, the adventure he had craved? Only that for this adventure, a priest had died, as well as two mercenaries and a few more men perhaps, and somehow Zlenice was now tied up in all of this too, and if the church found out about it, if the archbishop got wind of the murder of a synod member from Prague, ambushed by Hus supporters out on the streets close to Zlenice, it would be a political disaster. “Something about all of this stinks to high heaven! And I would strongly advise not to jump to any hasty conclusions.”

“And do what instead?”

Lukas buried his face in his wine cup again. Sir Ondřej had his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair so tightly, his knuckles went all white. Haugwitz plucked something off his armour and threw it into the fire. The smell of burned cot­ton filled the air like a threat. “I will go to this gorge myself.” Even Štěpán himself was taken by surprise by his own confi­dence, but there was no stopping now. “I will have a closer look at the scene of the crime, and tell you what I could find afterwards, so we can take proper actions.”

Haugwitz shook his head, his lips formed silent words that none of them could or should hear, before he actually spoke. “So how long do you plan to wait until we take these actions? Until their bodies have gone cold? Until someone else finds them and gets word out to Prague before we can?”

“We won't get word out to anyone,” Štěpán said with a firm­ness in his voice that seemed to confuse Haugwitz too, because he lifted his eyes from the fire at these words, fixed them at Štěpán instead. “The sole accountability here lies with Sir On­dřej and Sir Ondřej alone.”

“Then I will go with you at least. Two pairs of eyes will see more.”

“No, I will go on my own. When looking for evidence, any additional man would just get in the way.”

Haugwitz showed his teeth again. The face of a rabid dog. “This is foolishness.”

“I agree.” Sir Ondřej's cheeks took a deep shade of red as he tried to shift his weight from one side to the other. “With both of you. You will go alone, Štěpán. Gather whatever information you can and then report it to me. But hurry. The murder of a member of the church on my lands is a delicate affair, and one we must not leave ignored for too long.” He coughed. Coughed until his face went pale once more, and then paler than before, and sweat pearled from his brows and upper lip, mingling with saliva around the corners of his mouth. He reached out his left arm like a helpless rooster whose wings were clipped. Jan took hold of it and helped him up to his feet, dragging him over to the door. “If you haven't returned with the ringing of the bells at noon,” Sir Ondřej said before leaving the hall, every word accentuated by a cough or a sharp inhalation of breath, “I will see myself forced to write to Prague without your consulta­tion.”

“Yes, Sir.” Štěpán stood up and bent his head to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice in a bow that only the mercenary and the white knight could see. “I won't disappoint you, my lord.”

* * *

“Shit!” He swung his arm. The head of the mace described a picturesque circle in the air before it slammed into a wooden pillar of the attic. Under the roof, high up above their heads, a handful of swallows scattered out angrily into the Kuttenberg morning sky. “Fucking shit!”

“Calm yourself, Žižka.”

He turned around and laughed Katherine right into her an­noyingly blank expression. “Calm myself? Calm myself? How exactly am I supposed to calm myself with this fucking disaster that went on out there?” He pulled the mace out of the beam with some force, wood splintered. Damn it all, he should have rammed it straight into that little bastard's stomach before he sent them down to have a word with Schwarzfeld. It wouldn't have helped, Samuel wasn't to blame for what had happened, but perhaps that would have at least made him calm himself! “One of the priests of the Prague synod is dead, we tarnished the reputation of Jan Hus, two of our own men have stabbed us in the fucking back, how is any one of us supposed to stay calm?”

“You don't know what happened.” Katherine tried to sound oh so reasonable, and it was a joke, because there was no rea­son in what she said. “You don't know if Kubyenka and Janosh really betrayed us. What if they are dead? What if Sam is right, what if it was only Schwarzfeld who turned on us, and Kub­yenka and Janosh were rotting somewhere in the forest near Uzhitz, and you were desecrating their memory right now, what then?”

“Then,” he lowered his voice and stepped forward slowly, a demonstration of his anger, he didn't want to scare her, but he could still see her warm, morning haze eyes widen in a way that made his skin crawl from shame, “I'd be a happier man. Then I could proudly say that they were the soldiers, the friends, that I rightfully set my trust in. Believe me, I'd rather desecrate their memory a thousand times over than see them become traitors.”

Katherine didn't reply, only breathed in deeply, but she would understand. Would see that his anger wasn't for her, wasn't even for Kubyenka and Janosh, and that he had wanted to beat that little shit Samuel up only because something in that boy's defiance reminded Žižka of himself ever so often.

“I understand your frustration,” Henry tried to keep his voice as quiet and placid as he possibly could, “but Katherine has a point. This is all just speculation. We need to find them first, and even if they're still alive, we don't have any clue yet what really happened, or what went on inside their heads.”

“It doesn't mater, don't you understand? They weren't there, and the whole plan went to shit. My plan!”

“Your plan, yes, but we were the ones to execute it, and Schwarzfeld was our informant, and even if someone here betrayed us, it still doesn't make it your fault.”

Žižka turned to him. His voice had lost all its fury when he spoke again, it was low and growling now, a threat. “What am I, Henry?”

“What?”

“What am I? To you,” he pointed the head of the mace in Katherine's direction, “to her,” waved it around, at Henry and Godwin, at Hans and Samuel downstairs, at the swallows above him, “to anyone here? What role am I playing in this goddamned tragedy?”

Henry didn't answer, just kept his lips pressed together, his eyes big and bewildered like a beaten pup.

“What am I, Henry, tell me!”

The boy swallowed. “The captain. Our commander.”

“Your commander, yes.”

The next words spoken weren't uttered by Henry, and not by Katherine either, but by the priest who had been silently wat­ching until this very moment, and unlike with the other two, there was nothing reassuring or calming in what he said, only blunt coldness. “You are right, Žižka. It is all your fault. You fucked up. You came up with the plan, and you commanded it. You questioned Schwarzfeld yourself, and apparently to no avail, you couldn't even keep an eye on your own men. We are deep in the shit, and while we all made our contribution to this endeavour, in the end, we only answer to you. So yes. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.”

The silence that followed was so deafening that it roared in Žižka's ears like carriage wheels on a stone road. The boy's eyes were widened as he stared at Godwin, Katherine had her gaze lowered to the ground, her red lips slightly agape. Even the swallows seemed to have ceased their song, but Žižka paid them no mind. Cranes. The unmistakable grating sound of cranes, as they waded across the freshly frozen ground, sear­ching for food. Fog in the air, hovering above the river to their right, breaking the light of a rising sun. Some of the sun's rays landed on Hynek's scarred face and on his ginger hair, painted it the colour of dust. Must have been the morning haze. “Do not try to keep me, Žižka. This life, settling somewhere, raising stray dogs together, ha. That is not for me.”He had tucked his hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. Must have been the cold. “They are yours. You can grapple with them now. Like it always should have been.” Then he had left. Off to Austria. And Žižka had left to Humpolec and Krumlov, dealing with Rosenberg, and failing. When he had finally returned north, Hynek was gone. Not to Austria, and not to some other godforsaken land, but to Hell, where a Devil belonged. And the pack was in shambles, some scattered, some had moved on with life. Wenceslas had offered Žižka work in Prague. He hadn't refused it, but hadn't exactly accepted it either. He could have used his military skills for none other than the King him­self, could have settled as a burgrave, but he didn't know how. So he had scraped up the pack once more, or what was left of it, because Henry had properly taken roots in Rattay with his Lord it seemed, and Godwin had built a more theoretical pro­fession for himself in Prague, and the rest, the few he could find and motivate to return to Kuttenberg, had come to him like a horde of headless chickens, waiting for him to throw them some grains of purpose, and so he had fled once more. This time, he hadn't even told Katherine where he went, but they all found out anyway. Found out when he came back to Kutten­berg with his tail between his legs because the Teutonic Order had declined him. It is all your fault. You fucked up. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.

Žižka nodded. The swallows had started singing again, or maybe they had never stopped, only the noise of the cranes had ceased now. “Henry. I need you to write two letters about what happened out there last night. Explain everything in full detail. One will be addressed to Wok of Waldstein, the other one to Jan Sokol of Lamberg. Leave out any unnecessary formalities and apologies, and don't ask them for support either, it should only be a prosaic rendition of the events and their possible con­sequences so that they know what they have to prepare for. Once these letters are written, you will ride out and deliver them to your father at Vyšehrad. He will know where to find Waldstein and Lamberg, and you will report to him too, by word of mouth. We will join you in Prague soon. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Then leave us alone.”

Henry took a brief bow, turned and walked over to the ladder. His broad back straight as a lance, the steps firm. A blacksmith, an advisor, a soldier, a knight. His hair had grown longer, his beard too, he had matured so much from the boy Žižka had left back then in Suchdol, but into what, Žižka couldn't tell. He hoped Henry could tell at least, hoped it for him.

His eyes wandered over to Katherine, who was looking up at him now expectantly. “You too, Kat,” he said, and Katherine responded with a nod. “I need to talk to Godwin in private.” She left without a word. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say, Žižka could tell, but she would safe them for la­ter, knew that this mattered to him now. She always knew so well.

Žižka waited until he heard both their footsteps disappeare downstairs, before he set himself into motion. He walked over to where the silver rays of light were dancing on the parchment he had spread across the table. Maps, letters, charters, requests, so many names that he had long drowned in. It smelled of ink and wax, dry wood and dust. “I appreciate your honesty, God­win.” He gave a soft laugh that didn't really carry any amuse­ment with it. “In fact, you seem to be the only one here who's not trying to butter me up like a cake.”

“We barely made it out of this ambush alive. Kubyenka and Janosh are missing. The Prague church might be on our tails soon. It's only understandable that they are worried about you.” “I don't need them to be worried, much less about me.” He turned, faced the priest. He wasn't wearing the cassock any­more that Žižka had got for them, had changed it for a simple brown tunic and a black cotton hose. It suited him much better. “I need them to follow my orders and not shy away from being honest with me when my plans turn into a catastrophe. How can I be a commander when they are not fulfilling their roles as soldiers?”

Godwin shook his head and smiled softly. It was a miracle how little he had changed since they had last met. His bald skin as smooth as ever, full cheeks, a faint stubble, dark, not grey, even his brows had some colour left in them. Prague certainly did him good. “Don't be too hard on them, Jan, and please, don't judge them by my standards. I know what it's like to serve in a war as a proper soldier, they don't. All they know is how to fight amongst friends.”

It is true, Žižka thought. They had fought battles before, had called him captain and commander, but that was only ever a technicality, because he had been the one to come up with the plans, to give the orders, and occasionally they had even fol­lowed them faithfully, and afterwards they had got pissed toge­ther, had laughed and quarrelled and got into a brawl. Because they had never been an army, a troop, had only been a pack, a pack of drunkards and outcasts and robbers, a pack of devils. But a pack that was pretty damn good at what they did, because through all this they had never faltered in their respect and trust for each other. “I won't blame them for their friendship. I wel­come it, in fact.” He turned around to the table again, took the tankard and poured wine into the two cups next to it, bringing the one Katherine had drunken from to his own lips, before he handed the other one over to Godwin. “There have been whole armies that were just made up of friends, did you know that, Godwin? I even heard of some Greek troop that only hired lo­vers. Lovers, can you imagine?” Žižka took another sip, and the wine caressed his tongue and burned in his throat, and he laughed. “They fought like no other army did, because they had a cause to fight for, not only abstract concepts of honour and patriotism, but friendship and love.”

“I did not know that.”

“It is a blessing, I suppose.” He took a deep sigh. Above them, the wood of the church's roof truss cracked, as it shrunk under the heat of a new, warmer April day. “I forgot what it feels like, you know? To command this group. The pack.”

He couldn't even remember how many years had passed and how exactly it had happened. There had been beer involved, and a hot bath, and cold steel pressed to his neck. “You hate the lords of this land, don't you?” Hynek had snarled. “And you want money, even better when it's their money, am I right? Well, I have an offer for you.”And then he had introduced him to his pack, some of them, that was, while they had recruited the rest over the following year. Freeing them from prison, or being thrown into the same battle by fate, sometimes as allies, sometimes as foes. The requirement for joining the group was simple. They had to be bastards, lusting for money and willing to kick some nobility's arses. And that had worked well for a while, but times had changed, and they had grown older, and at some point money and a certain thirst for violence had stopped being the only two things that mattered.

Žižka drunk from the wine again, and was surprised to find the cup empty already. The wood cracked, the swallows chirped. It was warmer today. “Perhaps I even forgot what all of this entailed for me. What they needed from me. Perhaps that is just why Janosh and Kubyenka aren't with us right now.”

“Perhaps.” Godwin shrugged his shoulders in the same non­chalant way he always had about him. “But pondering on that won't bring them back.”

“You're right, it won't. That's what I like about you, God­win.” Žižka rubbed dust out of his right eye as he returned to the table to pour himself another cup. The other one had no feeling left in it, the sight had been gone long before, after one misfortune too many. What did it matter? One eye was plenty, and he still had his ears to hear, his brains to think, and his heart, yes, his strength of will and bravery and resistance, and maybe that was all he needed. “You are straightforward. You focus on your target, not on courtesies and forced kindness.”

Godwin laughed cynically. “Well, I'm not sure whether that's always a good thing.”

“You are a soldier. And that's what I'm in dire need of right now. A soldier, not a friend.”

“I cannot promise you to be one without the other, Jan.” The priest smiled again, that damned soft smile of his, that always felt like it was mocking all the suffering of the world, as it made it everything appear so easy. “But that doesn't mean you cannot count on me. And if it's only a kick in the arse you need, well, I can provide that both as a soldier and as a friend.”

Žižka nodded. Then he sank down on the chair where Ka­therine had sat before, and it gave him courage, feeling both close to her and to Godwin alike. “I fucked up.”

“You did.”

“We lost two of our men, and it might have been my fault.”

“It might.”

He emptied the whole cup without putting it down. Good wine, sweet but strong, and it tingled in his fingers and his thighs and made his thoughts run faster. Just what he needed now. “The man I myself brought here to give us the informa­tion we needed seems to have stabbed us in the back, which not only ruined our plan, but might also soon put the whole church and the Prague militia on our arses.”

“Very likely, yes.”

“We also don't yet know why we were betrayed.” Žižka watched as Godwin came over to him to empty the rest of the tankard into his own cup, but he remained standing. Looked down on him with those warm, impartial eyes, waiting, antici­pating. “Given that Schwarzfeld volunteered his help to me on his own, he was either played himself, or he already came here with the intention to obstruct our plans. In either way, I doubt he acted alone. No, he was sent by someone way more power­ful. And I already have a hunch who that could have been.” The biggest bastard of them all, Žižka thought bitterly. The one who brought the League of Lords together, who helped im­prison the King and crown the usurper, who had used his power to pressure commoners and lower nobility alike all around Trotznow. And Žižka had got him back good for a while. Infil­trating his gold mines in Humpolec, and then Rosenberg's very own estate in Krumlov, serving him under a different name, pouring the fucker his wine without him ever noticing. Hein­rich of Rosenberg had long stopped caring about Sigismund and Wenceslas. No, this had become personal. “But that's only speculation, and we can't go to war over baseless accusations. Perhaps Hans and Samuel will find out more.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that.”

“It's also a good thing Kobyla, Waldstein and Lamberg will be informed, so they can take precautions for similar ruses be­ing planned against them.” Radzig and Jan had after all been dealing with Rosenberg themselves over the past year, but he was tough, that sly cur. “But this is not only about us. Hus has just been prohibited from his sermons for heresy, and I might have just made the whole situation much worse for him. So we have to head out for Prague to let him know directly, only that I don't know yet how to best arrange that.”

“I think I may be able to help out with that.”

He raised his right eyebrow, looked up at the priest. There was a strained grin around Godwin's lips that was both intri­guing and concerning. “You do?”

“I may have made it sound a little easier than it actually is,” Godwin stammered, the words broken by an occasional ner­vous chuckle. “But we do share a certain group of friends, and I know the church he still goes to to preach, despite the archbi­shop's edict, and well, I also know the place where he's tea­ching. In fact,” a sip of wine, another chuckle, squinting his warm eyes, “I live there.”

“Where?”

“At the Prague university.”

“You do? Ha, Godwin, a man of a thousand talents, you've become a scholar now!”

“Oh, far from it.” He waved his cup around as if in defence, and a few drops of the good wine spilled over. “At least not as long as Hus is rector there, and we can only pray that he stays such for a while longer. But I am willing to learn, and I like to engage myself in theological discussion from time to time.”

“So what's stopping you then?”

“Well. Hus is. And my,” he cleared his throat, “lifestyle.” It was clear that he had no intention to elaborate on it further, but Žižka didn't know what to make of his insinuations either, and after a short pause he finally added: “Let's just say, a man like Hus who is holding values like decency and austerity in high esteem is not all that keen on a man who was kicked out of his own parish for drinking and whoring around. And,” he scratched his neck in embarrassment, “I may even have told Hus about it myself. Over a drink too many. So we're not on the very best terms.”

Žižka wanted to laugh, but he held it back, as not to humi­liate Godwin any further. “I see.”

“But, as I said, I happen to share friends with him. So if you want me to, I could try convincing them to arrange a meeting or at least deliver our message.”

“That may fully ruin your reputation with Hus.”

“Oh, I doubt that surrounding myself with mercenaries and robbers will come in any way as a surprise to him.”

Now he couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. To his relief, Godwin didn't seem to mind, the tightness even vanished from his expression and made room for a genuine smile. “Damn it, Godwin, you really have made a horrible first im­pression on that man, hm?”

“Perhaps one of the only things I'm truly good at.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and suddenly Žižka thought he could feel a hand twist his left arm back, and a blade pressed to his throat, and the rush of danger and excite­ment pumping through his veins. “Well, you certainly made an impression on me, and I can't claim it was a bad one.”

“A knife on your throat doesn't make a bad impression on you?”

“Quite the contrary. It was everything I needed to convince me of your qualities.”

There was certain fondness on Godwin's face now, and Žiž­ka wondered whether he was still thinking back to their first meeting at Nebakov or to other moments they had shared. God­win kept it a secret. When he stepped forward to put the empty cup on the table and place a hand on Žižka's shoulder, he was all soldier again, and even more so, a friend. It was probably for the best. “Well. Off to Prague then?”

“We will wait for what Hans and Samuel can find out from Schwarzfeld. Then we'll pack and saddle our horses. I wouldn't like to stay under the same roof with a bloody traitor much lon­ger anyway.” He stood up, and his legs felt steady despite the wine, filled with new courage, new hope. “Time for a reloca­tion.”

* * *

“Sam. Sam, wait!” Hans quickened his steps to catch up with Samuel, who was storming ahead like an angry bull let loose. He reached out a hand, to hold him back by his right arm, and when Sam twirled around, his face was twisted both in anger and pain. Fuck. Hans knew that he had some bruises and cuts on his hands and face too, and when he had scratched his beard before, he had felt dried blood clumping the hair together as if he had spilled his last drink all over himself. Whatever he must look like, though, could not have been worse than this. Shit, even Sam's hand up to the root of his fingers was darkened and swollen. No wonder he was bursting with fury. “Just steady down a little, yes?”

“What?”

“We want to talk to him first. I doubt he will tell us all that much if we just beat him up.”

“Torture makes every man sing in the end.”

Hans closed his eyes for the briefest moment and took a deep breath. So, here we go again. God, give me strength to deal with this fool! “Yes, but it can also lead to them not telling you what you actually need, but only what they think you want to hear. Besides, I'd be happy if we could do this without any torturing.”

“You want to show him mercy?” Sam took a step closer to him now, so close that Hans could smell him again. Not so cal­ming now. The leather, incense and hot iron were only barely recognisable, overshadowed by sweat and blood and dirt. “Do you think he would show any mercy to us?”

“That doesn't mean we need to sink to the same level.”

“We could never sink so low.” His voice was all rough and growling, his eyes had taken the colour of grass overgrown by frost. “They act only out of greed and maliciousness.”

“Who is they? This isn't only about Schwarzfeld anymore, is it?”

“Of course it isn't! This is about something way bigger than him that you just won't understand!” He was screaming now, and Hans looked down the stairs of the tower, hoping Schwarz­feld couldn't hear them from his quarters in the adjacent com­munity hall. “And this is about me being fed up with always getting betrayed!”

“But this time, it has nothing to do with you or your people. This is about Jan Hus, and Žižka maybe, and who knows what­ever …”

“It is always the same, don't you see that? You tell me your story, and you do not understand it yourself!” The words hurt more than they should have, felt similar to the betrayal. He hadn't told Sam these secrets of his past, things he hadn't even told Henry before, only to have them used against him. “It does not matter to them whether it is people with a different faith, or a different political ideal, or a different way to love. To them we are all just vermin. Disposable tools used in their feuds. Even a lord like you.”

“Fine, fine, I get it! This is all a big chess game to the people in charge, and we are all just pieces on the board, even Žižka.” He would not be treated like a naïve child any longer, he was a ruler now, a proper lord, a fucking father! And when he now forced himself to keep his voice down and talk reassuringly to Sam, it almost felt as if he was instead talking to Heinrich or Hedwig. “But that is just the thing, you see, Schwarzfeld is ve­ry likely just another piece on this chess board himself, the same as Janosh and Kubyenka may have been. So if we truly want to find out who plays this game, we need to talk to him. Without violence.”

“I am done talking! My zeyde only talked when they hunted us down and expelled us from Prague. Your lords only talked when they blamed Liechtenstein and us for every bad deed that was ever committed in this country and hunted us down again and expelled us from Kuttenberg. Just as we had been doing nothing but talk a few years before, when they accused us of conspiring against Sigismund's uprising, when Hannah …” He pressed his lips together as if he had to physically stop more words from spilling out of him. The things he had said must have already been painful enough.

Hans nodded. “Yes, but back then you tried to cease the tal­king and take action instead, and it's not like that worked out.” He saw Sam's eyes widen in shock, as he realised that Hans had listened. It wasn't like he had tried to deceive Sam in any way, sleep had overcome him last night and rendered him un­able to speak, and Sam's talking had served as his lullaby that Hans had slowly drowned in until the very last bitter drop. “Look, I understand that you feel angry. I do too. We were supposed to die out there. Well, you were.” He could see that Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Hans interrupted him with a shake of his head. “You don't have to thank me for it. Would things have got any more dire, I'm sure I could have just talked myself out of it by showing them my ring.” It was a lie of course, there had been four of them surrounding him in the end, they would have never given him enough time to throw his fucking family crest in their face, given they could even recognise it, let alone see it in that darkness of the forest. “But it's not only about me. Henry was down there too, ex­posed. This could have ended up a lot worse.” There were tears burning in his eyes all of a sudden, and he swallowed down the fear that had crept into his throat. A long, rough night lay behind them, Sam wasn't the only one in need of some good sleep anymore. “Henry swore to protect me once, and I did the same. I know he hated the last seven years when he was stuck at the Leipa court, but at least it was safe there, for the most part. It kept him out of shit like this.”

“I doubt that he hated it or felt stuck there.” Even Sam's voice sounded rougher now than it usually did, and something in his eyes had become softer, warmer. The frost melted, lea­ving behind fresh and vibrant grass, swaying soothingly in the breeze. “At least things moved on for you. He has found his place …”

“Believe me, he hasn't.”

“He has found you.”

But is that enough? Hans thought, not daring to say the words out loud.

“I tried to build something for my people in Kolín, but in the end …” Sam shook his head. Not angry anymore, only tired. “Prague, Kuttenberg, Kolín, it's all the same. I did not only join this mission to do Henry a favour. I have heard of Jan Hus too. We do not share the same faith, but his opposition against cleri­cal and worldly rulers and against them justifying their rule by some allegedly God-given laws, I can agree with that. I had hope that this here could change something for once. But it's like you said, we are all just chess pieces. And it makes me feel helpless, and I don't want to …” He struggled for a little while, finding the right words, before he gave up.

Hans nodded. Reached out a hand and put it on Sams's arm, the left one, and as lightly as he could. “Fair. Totally fair. And that is exactly why we need to handle this with reason.”

Sam returned the nod, then they smiled softly at each other. They were both scared, they had both suffered, had both been betrayed, but if they handled this together and with a cool head, they might still get some revenge, or some answers, or at the very least some fucking rest.

They went down the last few flights of stairs a little faster, then took the door at its end that led them right into the com­munity hall, where Father Čeněk had offered them a few rooms to stay in, with the first one on the left being assigned to Schwarzfeld. They were both surprised to find Čeněk in the noble's room as they entered, and from the looks of it, both men weren't any less startled by their sudden appearance. They didn't get to ask any questions about it, as the priest just straightened his back and left with a short bow and a mumbled “My lords.” He just called all of them lord, just as he called Katherine lady. He was too old, he said, to remember which one of them held a title, and which one of those titles were also acknowledged by the King.

Sir Robert Schwarzfeld was sitting at his table, with a book and a piece of parchment in front of him. He had his sparse auburn hair covered by a cap of dark blue velvet, adorned with a peacock feather, as if he wanted to make an impression. On whom though, remained the question. Žižka had forbidden him to leave the church for at least three days now.

Schwarzfeld took in the sight of Hans and Sam for a little while, letting his eyes wander down their bloodied and bruised faces, resting on Sam's wrist a little longer, before he finally had the decency to open his mouth in shock. “Did they fight you?”

“Whom?” Hans stepped forward until he was standing right next to the writing desk. The room had no windows, the only sources of light were a candle on the table and the fireplace at the back wall, and both painted long, dancing shadows on Schwarzfeld's lean face. “You mean the four men that you pro­mised us? Oh, do not worry, Sir, there were just three of them, and one of them even ran for the hills right away. Just after that priest was shot. And not by our men.” He waited a while, examining the way in which Schwarzfeld's expression slowly changed. He was a bad actor and a worse liar, so horrible, how­ever, that it served as the perfect cover for whatever he truly thought or felt. “You set this up. You lured us into a trap.”

Schwarzfeld shook his head so vehemently that the peacock feather almost bent down all the way to his long, hooked nose. “I did not know this would happen.”

“Du falsher khazer,” Sam hissed behind him.

Hans raised a hand, demanding him to keep quiet, without taking his eyes off Schwarzfeld. “You know what, Sir? I actu­ally believe you. Because I consider you way too unimportant to be assigned a task like this. And not nearly clever enough to execute it all on your own either. But still, these men, a dozen or so of them,” Hans crouched down next to Schwarzfeld with a crooked, dangerous smile, “they knew us well. They weren't only informed about where all of this would take place. They also knew who we were. In fact, they knew more than we ever let you in on.”

“See?” Schwarzfeld's face brightened up so much that it seemed someone must have set it on fire. “It could not have been me then, could it?”

“Oh, it could. It's just that someone else must have informed you. Someone who knew more than you and brought you all this knowledge. So that you could use your money and influ­ence to gather a few more men and have them stab us in the back.”

“What, you think there is some ominous man behind me who would know all of this?”

“I think there is one, yes, but he doesn't care about the de­tails. He just pays you and gives you the ideas that you could never come up with on your own.” He tried to hurt Schwarz­feld's pride as much as he could, but it was hard to tell whether it worked. The lord's face changed its mood and colour so vi­gorously with every next sentence Hans spoke, it could have meant anything. Time to catch him by surprise then. “But Ku­byenka and Janosh knew. And since they aren't here with us right now …”

Schwarzfeld let out a laughter that could have carried any­thing from an injured pride to disbelief. “And yet you are ac­cusing me!”

“Yes, I am accusing you. Don't you want to ask me who Ku­byenka and Janosh are?”

Schwarzfeld's face changed his colour once more, he got paler around his long nose, Hans could tell even in the candle­light, and this time he knew very well what it meant. Nervous­ness. “Well, two of your men much likely.”

“Oh, clever. But you did not seem surprised in the slightest when I mentioned their names.”

“It …” He stumbled over his own words, and not deliberate­ly now. “It was evident from what you said.”

Behind him, Sam pressed out air between his teeth. “This doesn't lead anywhere.”

“You're right.” Hans nodded, then he stood up and took a few steps back, still keeping his gaze fixed on Schwarzfeld as if it was a nail that Hans had driven into his lying body. “It doesn't. We should change our tactics, I suppose.” He gave a nod in Sam's direction. “You may. If you still have some anger to let loose.”

“Oh, lots of it.” Sam didn't waste any time. In just the blink of an eye, he had rushed forward, hitting Schwarzfeld in the face with the back of his left hand. The man started to whimper and beg immediately. “Did they come and visit you in private? Did you speak with our friends?”

“I … Please, I … I don't know what you're talking about!”

Sam hit him again, just on the same spot, and a little harder now. Hans flinched from the sight of it. “Kubyenka and Janosh. The two men you just all so eagerly remembered. Did you meet with them?”

“I …”

This time, Sam didn't even give him any time to stammer out more lies. He just grabbed the lord by the neck and slammed his forehead down on the table. The blue cap flew off, knocked over an inkwell, black liquid turned the peacock fea­ther into that of a crow.

“I did!” Schwarzfeld pressed out, the words muffled and dis­torted with his nose pressed against the wood of the table. “They came to me! They said they didn't trust … didn't trust in Žižka anymore, and asked me if I could … could help them, and … I didn't know they planned an ambush like this, I just thought they might want to leave your group!”

Sam bowed down to him now, bringing his face so close to the other man's ear, Hans was certain Schwarzfeld could hear even the snarl in his breath. “Stop lying! Even if they wanted to leave us, they would just do so, instead of organising a dozen men to kill us. They wouldn't have dared to, nor would they have had the means to.”

“No, you're right, you're right, they wouldn't! But I'm sure they didn't have to. It was Egghead, yes, it must have been Egghead!”

Who? Hans wanted to ask, but he kept quiet for now, left the questioning to Sam, and he didn't have to wait long anyway.

“Who the fuck is Egghead?”

“The kind of man that you seek out when you need help with all kinds of fiddle that you cannot tell anyone else about. He will always help you, but only as long as you pay him better than someone else would.” Schwarzfeld tried to twist out of Sam's grip, but it only tightened more around his neck, as if all the strength that had left his right hand had flown into his left one instead. “I referred your friends to him! I told them I would want nothing to do with it, but that he could help them. Maybe they didn't even plan all of this either. They just wanted to get out. But I suppose they told him a thing too many, and he must have used that. Maybe he was already paid by someone else, I don't know, you got to believe me!”

“And where can we find this Egghead?”

“In Prague!” Schwarzfeld shouted out the word as if his life depended on it, despite Sam neither changing the position of his hand nor hitting him again. Sam could be frightening, Hans thought, but Schwarzfeld seemed to be scared to death. “I don't know where he lives, but there is this establishment that he fre­quents, Nový Venátky, a brothel, in the new part of the town, close to Charles Bridge. You just turn right once you cross the Vltava, not left, that's the way into the Jewish quarter, and you do not want to …” This time, Sam did take action, raising Schwarzfeld's head slightly by the neck and bringing it back down with force. The man groaned. Only out of pain, and not nearly as terrified as he had been before. “Ah no, no, I didn't mean it like that, I …”

“Stop babbling and get to the point!”

“Yes yes, Egghead, in Nový Venátky, you will find him there, I promise you! You cannot even miss him, he is bald, and his head just looks like an egg, and … Please, that's all I know, I swear, you must believe me, please …”

Hans stepped forward and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam wasn't his brother, and it took a while for him to respond. Then he finally let Schwarzfeld go with another unsatisfied snarl, and the lord slowly lifted himself up, twisting his head to all sides to ease the pain in his neck. “We do, Sir. We do believe you that this secret meeting with our friends was the only time you betrayed us.” Hans tried to put as much empha­sis into these words as he could, to let Schwarzfeld know that his cooperation changed nothing. “And we're willing to take your honesty into account when we bring word to Žižka now.”

“Thank you.” Schwarzfeld's eyes were as big as plates again, and once more his exaggerated expressions obscured any true thought or feeling he may hold. “Thank you!”

Hans tugged on Sam's shoulder again. “Leave him be and let us go.”

Sam only spoke when they were back on the stairs of the church tower. “I hate it when you order me around like a dog.”

“But it worked, didn't it? You played your role well, we both did, and we didn't even have to rehearse anything.”

Instead of walking up the stairs again, Sam made his way out onto the gallery, and Hans followed him. Watched him lean down onto the parapet, looking down to the altar. Tinted blue light fell on his face through the church windows, making him seem more exhausted than ever. “I am not so sure we actually succeeded.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Not a single word.”

“Good.” Hans stopped next to him and lowered his eyes to the sanctuary. Father Čeněk had lit some candles to its side, their smoke crept up like snakes to the flat ceiling, above which Žižka and the others were hiding. “Because neither do I.”

“He gave in way too quickly, and his words kept running like water from a well. I did not even hit him all that hard.” Sam looked down on his hand, opened and closed his fingers, light flashing on the gemstones of the rings. A sapphire, an amethyst, a pale emerald in the colour of his eyes. “I've ex­perienced much worse without saying a single word.”

The words echoed heavily through the emptiness of the buil­ding. Hans wanted to ask, but he didn't dare to. Brabant, he thought, and it made his skin crawl. He had been the one who had introduced that Frenchman into their group. He had been the one to tell the others how useful the baron would prove. Then Brabant had killed Adder for some bloody silver. Had tortured Sam to a point where it had taken him weeks to reco­ver. Betrayed. Over and over and over again. “I …” He took a deep breath, blew the air out towards the roof, following the snakes of the candle smoke. “I am lucky enough to never have experienced torture myself. But I know what it can be like and what it does to you. From Henry.”

The amethyst flickered as Sam clenched the hand into a tight fist. He did not look up, didn't say a word, but Hans could see that this was an information he hadn't expected to hear.

“It was a long time ago. Shortly before we met you, in fact, back then at Trosky.”

“Von Bergow?”

“Yes. Or rather Istvan Toth on behalf of von Bergow.”

“Hm.” Sam furrowed his brow. Hans couldn't tell whether it were only clouds outside the window or something else entire­ly that painted his expression a few shades darker. “He never told me.”

“He wouldn't have told me either. But unlike you, I share a bed with him. Naked.” Hans tried to make it sound cheerful, failed miserably and relinquished the plan. “There are certain things you can hardly hide in such an intimate situation. Like the injuries that a knife leaves on your flesh. Or tongs, or a hammer.”

Sam pressed his fingers so tightly together now, that his knuckles turned white as snow. His right hand didn't even twitch. “I cannot believe that mamzer is still alive, while so many good people have died.”

“I know how you feel.” Oh, how well he did! He hadn't asked Henry about it on their first night together, and not on their second or third one either, even though back then the scars had still been fresh. He had waited until they had finally re­turned to Rattay. In part because he hadn't dared to ruin the excitement and joy of their first shared love with such painful thoughts. But he had also been scared of the answer he would get. That Henry would say Otto von Bergow's name, the man whose life Hans had defended with his honour. “But he's a nobleman. It's not worth getting yourself killed for. And since he fled the country, allowing me to never see his face again, he might as well be dead to me. So, as a wise man once said,” he gave Sam a smile, and didn't fail this time, even though it was all coated with sadness, “we should leave the dead behind and rather take care of the living.”

Sam nodded. The fist loosened a bit. “He really was wise. I wish we could have understood more of his wisdom.”

Hans had to chuckle at the thought. “Well, I'm not sure if much of his wisdom actually exceeded the lusting for female bodies.”

“And souls. Do not forget their souls. Adder could be quite romantic sometimes.”

They shared the laugh, and it was a welcome feeling, eased the anger and the fear and all the frustration of the previous hours. It brought back the exhaustion too. Jesus Christ, what Hans hadn't given for a soft bed and a good sleep now! “Come on.” He gave Sam's arm a pat, before he straightened himself to leave for the staircase. “We need to tell Žižka what we found out. And then we may need to pay beautiful Prague a visit. Schwarzfeld might have spoken nothing but lies, but I doubt he made this Egghead fella up. Maybe he can be someone to find out more from.”

They didn't have to search long for Žižka. They didn't even have to walk up the stairs, in fact. It was Žižka who came ru­shing down to them, closely followed by Godwin who had a pained smile on his lips, and Katherine who just shook her head silently at Hans and Sam as soon as she noticed them.

Žižka didn't care. He just laughed, put his hands to Hans's shoulders, and gave him a few strong slaps that almost tossed him over. “You're back, boys. Fantastic! Tell us what you found out on the way. We will leave for Prague!”

* * *

The place reeked of death from a few hundred feet away. It was a miracle nobody seemed to have taken note of it yet.

Perhaps it was still too early for anyone to come by. The sun had only just heaved its body over the horizon, birds of the night still shared their song with the birds of the morning, and both promised that there would be a wonderful day ahead.

There was no trace of that wonderful day out here in the gorge. On the first glance, it was only a carriage, stopped in the middle of the road, and some strange and twisted figures both on top of the carriage and in front of it. For any wanderer who wasn't familiar with death, it would take a while to understand that the horribly pale sack of rags hanging from the coachman's seat was actually a priest drained off all his blood. Then they would realise that the two other bundles on the ground where in fact the lifeless bodies of young men, sliced open neatly by swift strokes of a sword. And only then would they lift their gaze to the right and see the rest of the carnage. The corpses scattered across the slope of the hill, staining the grass the co­lour of copper.

Kubyenka and Janosh were more than familiar with death. They noticed the smell and they recognised the twisted shapes of a men who had died in agony. And yet, even Kubyenka had to swallow down his disgust at the sight of it.

“This is bloodbath,” Janosh breathed out behind him. “Look just like …”

“If you say anything about any kind of mashed food now, I swear, I'm going to forget myself.”

“What you think Janosh for? Heartless ox?”

Kubyenka ignored the remark and got closer to the carriage. Judging by the colour of their skin and the stiffness of their bodies, they were clearly lying here for a few hours. So this had happened just when their little fraud should have taken place. And things went horribly wrong. “Well, we left worse things behind.” They could only pray that it had been the pack who was responsible for this slaughter, instead of being on the receiving end.

Kubyenka kicked over some splinters covering the ground next to the carriage with the toe of his boot. “That must be this spark of God or whatever shit Žižka called it.”

Janosh stepped past him and made the sign of the cross, before he reached out to turn the priest around carefully. Blood was covering his whole neck like some pretty fur collar, a bolt had hit him right into the windpipe. “You think Hans miss?”

“Hans never misses. He's a better shot than me, even a better shot than the Devil was.”

“So someone else come and kill priest down?”

“Not only someone. You don't get ambushed by two diffe­rent groups at the same time and place by mere accident.” He kicked the glass again, this time with more force, causing it to fly up high into the air and into the bushes on the side of the road. “Fuck!” They should have been here when this had hap­pened. Would it have changed a thing? Who knew, with so many bodies lying around, armed men all of them, from what Kubyenka could tell. But at least they would have gone through this together. As the pack that they were!

“If only bald guy not hold us back.”

“Aye. That bald guy.” He made his way to the slope that the bodies covered like cobblestone covered a pathway. It had all gone according to plan so perfectly. They had come to Uzhitz early in the morning, had waited there for the priest to arrive, Janosh had even rejected some local woman for their cause. Around noon, the priest had showed up and settled in the inn for a few hours. They had watched the priest and his men care­fully from a distance, just as Žižka had wanted them to. And then this bald guy had approached them. Had offered Kubyen­ka a game of dice and some beer, and fuck, he should have declined, but wouldn't that have only drawn attention to them? So he had agreed, played, won, and the bald guy had left for another round of beer, and he had handed it out both to Ku­byenka and to Janosh. It had knocked them out as good as the kick of a horse. When Janosh had finally woken him with a slap to the face, the priest and his men were gone, and night had long fallen over the land.

Kubyenka kneeled down to take a closer look at another dead body. Only few pieces of armour, but a good sword in his hand. Had died of stab wounds, right into the thigh. Kubyenka grunted in frustration. “This doesn't make any sense. I get that all of this must have been a trap from the start, and that this bald guy played a role in it too. But for what reason? Sure, they killed the priest that was supposed to carry the tidings of joy to Prague for us, but is that all? And so much effort.” He looked up, counted the bodies. Four here on the slope, but there were more up there on the top of the hill he couldn't see from his po­sition. “All these people … And where the fuck are our men?”

A rustling above, and the breaking of rotten wood. Kubyen­ka shot up to his feet. There was movement up there. At first he believed it must be one of the bodies that wasn't as dead as he had believed him to be, but then he saw that it was another man instead, hunched over the corpse like a feral dog. Pressing his own chest close to the dead one, as if he wanted to embrace it. No. He was hiding. Playing dead.

The man let out the panicked scream of a child as Kubyenka grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the corpse, only to throw him right back into the grass next to it. Before the man could even react, Kubyenka had drawn his knife, holding the blade to the other one's throat. He was a child, Kubyenka could see that now. A boy still gifted with the soft features of a girl, without a single hair on his chin. His youth hadn't stopped him from rummaging through the belongings of a dead man, though.

“What the hell happened here?”

The boy whined again, and tried to raise both his hands to show that he was unarmed, but from the way Kubyenka held him down, it remained a pathetic attempt. “Let go off me, and I will tell you everything you want to know!”

That little shit thought he could negotiate. In his position! Kubyenka let the blade dance across the boy's jaw, up to his ear, and watched him quiver with a proud smile. “How about I cut your ear off, and then you tell me everything I want to know while you beg me for mercy that I don't cut your other ear off as well?”

“Alright, alright! Please, do not harm me!” A little shit, yes, but a coward too. Perfect. This should be easy then. “My name is Štěpán of Tetín.”

“Oh, how good for you, but I did not ask you for your fu­cking name, sonny, I asked what happened here.”

“Well, I don't know either! I just arrived.” He nodded clum­sily into the direction above his head, and when Kubyenka raised his eyes, he saw a grey, feeble horse with crooked legs gawking at him from the bushes.

Kubyenka used some more force on the knife, and the blade cut into the boy's flesh, drawing a single drop of blood from his white skin and a loud cry from his mouth. There were even tears in his eyes. Kubyenka paid it no attention. “Don't fuck with me, boy. When we came here, you were already digging through the corpses like a vulture.”

The boy lifted his head and peered down the hill, only now noticing Janosh, it seemed, who was still at the carriage loo­king for explanations he wouldn't find. When the boy stared back up to Kubyenka, his wet, walnut eyes had widened and his face had brightened up as if there wasn't still a man with a knife pushing him into the ground. “You … You are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

Damn him. He sounded just as excited as if he had just met the hero from one of the old wives' tales his nurse had sung him. “How do you know my name? Who told you?”

“A man named Lukas. He was one of the mercenaries who came with the priest. He said he had a long talk with you and the Hungarian in a tavern in Uzhitz.”

Kubyenka furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is he bald?”

“No?” A question, not an answer, but Kubyenka would take what he could get.

“Then we never talked to him.”

“But you are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

He whistled in annoyance through his teeth and turned the knife a little as a warning. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“No, listen. He knew your name! Kubyenka and the Hunga­rian, that's what he said!”

“Janosh,” Janosh proclaimed behind him. Apparently he, too, had realised that the carriage wouldn't hold anything of value for them, and had joined them on the hill instead.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, or tried to at least. “Well, he didn't seem to know your name.”

“Hm.”

“But he claimed that the priest talked to you in this tavern. And that you were the ones who convinced him of going by night.”

“No,” Kubyenka shook his head, “Schwarzfeld told him. We spoke to the priest just as little as we spoke to any of the mer­cenaries he had hired.”

The boy bit his bottom lip as he pondered. “No, Lukas didn't mention anyone by the name Schwarzfeld.”

“Interesting.” And it truly was interesting, became more in­teresting by the minute, but it also made his headache grow with every new piece of information, as if he hadn't been vexed by that enough ever since drinking that fucking beer the bald guy had brought them. “Did he talk about our men at least? Four men, two of them were dressed up as priests.”

“Yes, he talked about those priests! He said that they stopped them here in the middle of the road, and spoke of Hus and his preachings. And then they got ambushed. The priest was shot from up here, apparently, and his mercenaries got attacked by all these men.”

“But not our men. I don't know any of these people.”

“And we not here to kill anyone,” Janosh added. “Only wan­ted talk to priest.”

“It was a trick,” Kubyenka explained, wondering why he even bothered, but somehow he had taken a strange liking to this boy. “A magic trick, or at least that's what Žižka called it.”

“Žižka?” The boys eyes widened again. “Jan Žižka?”

“What is he to you?”

“Nothing. I mean, he's quite famous around these lands of course, but that's not it. I just got curious because Petr of Haug­witz mentioned him. A lot, in fact.”

“Who?”

“A knight that came to my guardian Sir Ondřej Duba of Zle­nice a few months ago.” He stopped himself, thought for a while, then nodded as if he had just answered some question no one had even asked. “I think he knows you too.”

“Who does? This Haugwitz fella? I don't know anyone of that name.”

“No.” The boy laughed. “Neither do I.” Then he raised his hands all of a sudden and grabbed Kubyenka's arms, not to push him away, but to hold him, as his eyes widened again in excitement. The fear from before had vanished fully. “Listen, you need to come with me to Zlenice right now. We need to convince Sir Ondřej that this here had nothing to do with you or with Jan Hus and his followers. Because if we don't get there in time, he will send a letter to Prague, telling the archbishop that you were responsible for this massacre!”

“We're no followers of Hus, boy.”

“Even more of a reason to come with me then! Help me sort this out! For us and for yourself. Perhaps we can even find your friends this way.”

Kubyenka looked back to Janosh, who only shrugged his shoulders. Might as well give it a try.

“Fine.” He lifted the knife off the boy's throat by dragging it slowly across his skin as a warning. “I think I might like you enough to trust you. But if we find out that you're only playing us here, I'm gonna forget that liking very, very quickly. And then I'm gonna cut off more than just your ears.”

“I understand.” He swallowed nervously and still had the guts to beam like the star of Bethlehem.

Kubyenka shook his head in disbelief, before he finally got up, offering a hand to the boy to help him get to his feet as well. Then he glanced over at the old mare that grazed peace­fully just a few steps away from them, as if the whole ground that surrounded her wasn't covered in stinking blood and rot­ting flesh. “Now I just hope that this Zlenice of yours isn't too far away. Because Janosh and me didn't bring any horses with us. And I doubt this nag of yours will be able to carry all three of us.” And if it is far, he added silently, then I will be the one to ride. Let Janosh and the boy run! He for one was getting far too old for this shit.

[dnalt-d2]

Alright-y, so in case anyone missed it, we've recently gotten some information from Quackity that he's most likely doing some new project, that seems to involve multiple languages, once again. Kinda like QSMP?

Maybe EXACTLY like QSMP…????

Or maybe not

Basically, the way I see it, it is pretty likely that this is QSMP-Related, what with the images that he's been posting recently, with the GODDAMN EYE GUY

However, even if it is QSMP-related, there is something that would need to be addressed

And that's that it's incredibly unlikely we'd be getting QSMP back in the form we knew it as

Honestly, I don't really see many of the Admins returning, Egg or otherwise. Whether it's by their own choice, or the choice of the powers-that-be. And I think we all know that all the Admins, Egg or otherwise, were a huge part of what made QSMP special

In addition to that, there's also a chance that with that sort of outcome, a lot of the Creators wouldn't be coming back either. I could kinda see some of them not returning even if the Admins DO come back. I know a few of them had more sour experiences with QSMP than others did, and I couldn't really blame them for not wanting to give it another shot

So even if this is QSMP, there's a HIGH chance it won't be the same server we knew

But I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing. After all, I'm pretty sure the Eggs weren't initially MEANT to be as big as they were, which means that there HAD to be some plans for other stuff at one point or another

Hopefully…

Now obviously this is ALLL just, as usual, ✧˚⊹SPECULATION~!⊹˚✧

I'm not a psychic, and I don't know jack-all about what's been going on behind the scenes regarding QSMP or anything Quackity-related. I'm just making educated guesses and reminding everyone to temper their expectations, and try not to be too disappointed if this isn't exactly what you were hoping for

Because even if it isn't, I think it could still be something pretty fun, and I'll probably at least give it a chance regardless of whatever it winds up being

(Except maybe Purgatory 3, because I think I had enough of those vibes during my recent Purgatory 1 Re-Watch)

…

(Oh who am I kidding I'd probably end up checking out Purgatory 3 at least once I have a problem okay???)

[enterstellars]

guys i cannot wait to move

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[seaofreverie]

NEW CONCERT ON THE HORIZON..... Going to see Franz Ferdinand next year !!!

[briar--rising]

I have been successfully endoscopied and colonoscopied. And it's a good thing we did this, because they found a bunch of ulcers in my stomach and small intestine. They're going to do biopsies to see the cause/if I might have some kind of inflammatory bowel disease or something. So this whole process has really sucked but it seems like it might have been necessary.