#I don't really want to main tag this but whatever

[peachesvault]

Sk8 after Eight

Situationship!Skater! Sero x Reader

⋆˚꩜｡ Late night adventures skateboarding with Sero Hanta

A/n: For my baby @bloomstream! sorry its not so good :( just wanted to get something out, but if the people want a part two I wouldn't be against it

"Pssst. Get up.”

Harsh knocking on your window woke you up. Grumbling, you groggily got up, throwing your windows open. You already know who it was.

Sero Hanta.

You sighed eyeing him.

"The fuck are you doing here at 2 in the morning?"

"We don't even have school tomorrow??"

"SO? I can still sleep on a Friday night dude, god forbid."

Chuckling lightly he pulled himself up onto your windows ledge, before inviting himself into your room, making sure to leave his shoes on the ledge. 'Manners' and all that. Manners your ass. Manners would be using the door at a normal hour instead of whatever the hell this is.

You let him in anyways.

Sitting on your bed like it was his, he leaned back, looking at you with that infuriating ugly lazy smirk that always-

"Took you a while to answer sweets. Tried dolling up for me?"

"I was butt ass naked. Don't get ahead of yourself" You replied dryly, eventually chuckling at his furrowed brows.

"Think your so cute hm?"

"The cutest."

You held his gaze, unfaltering even when he stared at you like that. Not the way a friend should stare at you. Neither of you had ever called it out, and you didn't plan on doing so anytime soon. His eyes dropped to your legs.

"Get changed. We're going out." He was staring you in the eye again.

"No. You're getting out and I'm going back to sleep" You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as a challenge.

Sighing, he got up and made his way to your window, pointing down to where he climbed up from. You followed, your hipbone digging into the sill as you leaned over to see what he was pointing at.

His skateboard.

You side eyed him.

"Really?"

Your face softened. You don't know why but his dejected expression pulled at your heartstrings as he murmured a quiet:

"Look I couldn't sleep. Your normally up at this time so I thought-".

Huffing you cut him off, grumbling but already walking to your closet.

Sappy feelings were never your thing, either of your 'things'. Your whole friendship was built off of bullying each other out of bad feelings.

Turned away from him, pulling your shirt over your head you started to get changed. You knew he didn't care, but that he would turn around anyways since he was so 'mannerly'. You had both gotten over the weird 'opposite sex!' awkwardness a long time ago.

You had both bought matching outfits last time you went vintage shopping. Denim jeans with a red star on the back pocket and graf tagged across the crotch, a large black jersey and a large black zip up. Considering he was wearing it right now, you might as well.

Humming to let him know you were done, you looked around for your fanny, putting your head through the loop to have it slung diagonally over your torso. It already had the basics inside; some wax, a silver skate tool for tweaks, A couple extra bearings incase any broke, a couple tissues, some snacks, a pack of gum and a silver paint pen if you found anything cool to do a throw up on.

Going over to stand next to him by the sill, you wrapped an arm around his neck, tucking yourself into his side as the other held your board. You felt his breath hitch, but chose to ignore it as he used his tape to lower you both out of the second story dorm room. When both feet touched the ground, you finally let go, albeit a bit disappointed but you started walking none the less.

Finally out of UA grounds, you dropped the board, letting it crunch over the gravel. You knew it was bad for the wheels but you were due for a change anyways. The two of you got on as you reached the main road, pushing them till the end of the road; just before the downhill. This was always the route you guys took to the skatepark, the steep decline exhilarating and nostalgic rather than the flat road round the other side that looped a million times to get to the same place.

You and Hanta lined up against the crack in the asphalt like you had done hundreds of times.

"Three"

"Two" You followed on.

"One"

Pushing off strongly at the count, you both barrelled down the hill, the wind blowing in your face making it hard to see as your hair whipped behind you and the chill of the cold night settled itself deep thin your bones. Looking to your right, Hanta was laughing, a manic crazed adrenaline filled laugh. You joined in, whooping and cheering as you only accelerated faster, just two kids who had the whole world to themselves with nothing to bother their undeterred joy. The moon shone brightly overhead, like an approving warm hug as you both prepped to stop as you approached the bottom.

Swinging your arms around to get the power for a powerslide, you clutched by kicking out with your backfoot and leaning back. Coming to a stop just centimetres from the tree, Hanta also stopped right next to you, following the same movements, but just as he skidded to a stop, he lost his footing, collapsing straight onto you.

"ge-roff me" You huffed as you pushed him off your torso. Your voice dripped of annoyance but maybe it was to ignore the way your breath had hitched when he first landed on you, the way you held his gaze for a split second and every cell in your body set alight and was hyperaware of every point of contact with him. Maybe it was an excuse as you brushed yourself off and tried to desperately push any lingering thoughts about his touch to the back of your mind as you offered him a hand and pulled him up. Maybe it was to avoid whatever the two of you are as you smirked lazily at him, taunting him.

"Didn't think you were such a rookie?"

"Maybe I did it on purpose hm?" He replied with identical inflection, a teasing lilt to his question.

Now it was your turn for your breath to hitch. Not sure how to deal with all the feelings swirling in your chest, you decided to just punch him in the arm before continuing to walk in the direction of the bowl, not turning around to check if he was following you.

You already knew he was.

© 2025 @Peachesvault - All rights reserved. Do not plagiarise/copy/post on other platforms. || Masterlist

[wallofchynax]

(90s)Shawn Michaels x Actress!Reader

request: i remembered that shawn had acting roles in ‘pacific blue’ & ‘baywatch’ and politely want to request AU headcanons of 90s actor shawn x actress reader falling in love on set?

got a request? send it over to me <3

tag list: @coffincorey @sultryfandoms @prettylittlegleek16 @dilanmoodboards @chaerityy @sparkinthedarkuk @vixenhatesyou

if you want to be added to the tag list: comment or answer this.

You want a guest role on an episode of Baywatch (or Pacific Blue, depending on your taste) for one week and it's nothing major but you are excited nonetheless. You love the ocean and it's nice to be doing something that's nonserious for a change.

What you don’t expect is to be paired up with some crossover guest star from the WWF. You roll your eyes when you hear his name.

"Shawn Michaels? What’s he gonna do - superkick the tide?"

Until you meet him.

He shows up to the first table read like a walking sunburned ego in Oakleys and a tank top Late. Of course. He waltzes in like he’s the main character, gives you a wink across the table, and sits way too casually in his chair. The second he opens his mouth to read lines, his voice smooth, teasing, laced with that smug Texas charm, you want to throw your script at his head. Or kiss him. You're not sure which.

He calls you darlin’ three times that day. You make fun of his hair once. The tension is already there.

On set, your characters both have electric chemistry. The script says your characters are supposed to hate each other at first, but somehow every argument ends with you inches from each other’s faces, breathing hard, staring at each other’s mouths like it wasn’t part of the scene.

The director never really cuts, just lets the silence stretch and tells you both;

“Whatever that was? Do it again tomorrow.”

Shawn often pretends to forget his life's. He'll corner your outside your trailer and be like, “Hey, think you could help me run this scene real quick? Can’t seem to get it right.” and you will yes, of course because you always do and you spend your afternoon pacing the beach with him, going over dialogue that he knows PERFECTLY well. He messes up on purpose but you can tell it's him trying to make you laugh.

At once point, you are yelling a line and he'll grab your wrist, which isn't in the script, and look at you softly.

"You're so good at this, you know that?"

You blink. You’re still holding the script, but your brain has gone blank.

Rehearsing moments where your characters are flirting can get blurry. You both practice the scene in private, no cameras. Just the two of you. And the lines get a little slurred. A little slow. The space between acting and not acting vanishes.

You fumble a line or two getting flustered. But he just smiles and waits.

“Wanna run that again? I liked where it was going.”

The paparazzi get a shot of both of you on set, sunglasses pushed up on your head with his hand on the small on your back.

Next day, it’s TV’s Hottest New On-Set Couple? splashed across a grocery store magazine. You tease him mercilessly. He pulls out a Sharpie and autographs the cover.

“For my future wife,”

Your heart skips but you pretend to gag instead.

He'll write you little notes on your script. Mostly just notes like;

“If you get bored later, I’ve got a bottle of tequila and no plans. —Your favorite co-star 😘”

You'll then find him lounging in a deck chair like he doesn't have to be in a scene with you in twenty minutes. He'll give you a look as if to say "Are you coming over or not?"

After a long day of filming, he will often take you out for a long drive. Sometimes you don't really go anywhere but often he'll take to some dive bar, where the drinks are cheap and the jukebox only plays 80s rock ballads. He buys you a whiskey, rests his arm on the back of your booth. Sometimes you will both stay out till 3am. It's not just banter anymore. He listens. He opens up to you too about his life, being a famous wrestlers and things that he's never spoken to anyone else about,

During breaks, you both sneak off to hang out like two teenagers.

His dressing room becomes your favorite hiding place. He leaves notes in your script binder, terrible jokes, sweet compliments, his hotel room number scrawled in Sharpie. You steal his denim jacket and pretend it’s because you’re cold.

He steals your heart and doesn’t pretend at all.

When the episode airs, your scenes are highly rememberable. Your agent tells you to play up this sizzling relationship up - do interviews together, get caught by cameras and all that. There's no acting involved though. You are truly in love with Shawn.

And when the director calls that’s a wrap, Shawn just pulls you into a hug and says quietly in your ear:

"Let’s not let this be a one-episode thing, huh?"

[zshiftsrealities]

zshiftsrealities ✦ introduction

❛ hi, hello, welcome !

i'm z ✦ ‘07 — sept ✦ intj ✦ south–asian

꒰ ... and this is a documentation blog of my experiences with reality shifting, lucid dreaming, manifesting, and (newly added) astral projection ... ꒱

₊ ꒱ likes & interests — ★

anime, kdramas, highschool life (as depicted in media), summers, spring, red, rain, quiet evenings, starry skies, moon, black, cats, sleeping, comfortable silence, lively environments, friends, before dawn, ocean, clouds, trees, night outs, nature, tea, late night conversations, dreaming, the blue sky.

⌗ journey towards eternity ❝

꒰ i. 𖦹˙— reality shifting ✧

first found out about shifting in 2021 through youtube and tiktok ⋮ actually started attempting shifting since nov-dec 2024 ⋮ made more progress these 4 months being on tumblr than the whole of 4 years of having known shifting.

(mini) shifts ✦ first ⋮ second ⋮ third

꒰ ii. 𖦹˙— manifestation ✧

found out about subliminals and manifestation same year, just a bit earlier than shifting ⋮ had many results from subliminals, some even lasting to this day ⋮ got into loa after joining tumblr ⋮ recently manifested many things (small achievements, but a win is a win)

꒰ iii. 𖦹˙— lucid dreaming ✧

lucid dreamed once years ago and then forgot about it ⋮ came back to me on a random morning in december 2024 ⋮ lucid dreamed many times since then.

꒰ iv. 𖦹˙— astral projection ✧

wasn't ever really interested in astral projection ⋮ heard its unsafe (misinfo btw) so decided to just leave it as is ⋮ astral projected on accident recently, and am planning to look into it now :)

astral ✦ experience

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ’s realities .ᐟ

very few realities that i've put thought into and scripted. will add the links as I post.

‧₊ ⌗ my hero academia ── ⋆.˚✧ main dr ꒱

.ᐟ intro |

๑ moodboards | drself ✦ s/o ✦ friendgroup

‧₊ ⌗ jujutsu kaisen

.ᐟ intro |

๑ moodboards |

‧₊ ⌗ miraculous ladybug

.ᐟ intro |

๑ moodboards |

⟡ others ⋮ demon slayer dr, kdrama drs, multiple au’s for mha dr and jjk dr etc etc

ᵎᵎ ❛ dni if — x

! basic dni criteria + anti-shifter, disrespect people's choices / preferences / beliefs etc etc, force your ideologies onto others, islamophobic, pro-isnotreal / anti-palestine, entitled for whatever the reason might be, rude and hateful in general.

... you get the idea. I don't want weird people on here so just don't interact if you are one.

! don't care if you do or don't support race-changing. I race change, and if that doesn't sit well with you, you're free to leave.

— ❞ ⌗ tags ¿ ?

⋆˙⟡ customized tags : for navigation, and because it's fun to have them >_<

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 talks ✦ random thoughts

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 rants ✦ rants (if I do ever)

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 reblogs ✦ my reblogs

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ’s drs ! ✦ when I talk about my drs

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ’s moots ! ✦ wherever I interact with my mutuals !!

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ’s successes ! ✦ success stories (manifestations / shifts / lucid dreams / astral projection)

⌗ ⋮ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ’s shooting stars ! ✦ answered asks

© zshiftsrealities, 2025 all rights reserved.

[cherribangevent]

Some FAQs for the event!

Some of you might be wondering how it all works - so here is a helpful little guide that should answer any questions burning away in your mind. Don't see you question? Send an ask!

“Is CherriBang specifically for fics about Cherri Bomb?”

Nope! The name is just a play on the character name and the phrase 'big bang', to make it a bit more Helluva/Hazbin related. Fics can be about everyone!

“On that, since 'Bang' is in the name, are all fics explicit?”

Nope! The fics being written have a range of ratings, from gen to explicit – but for the explicit fics, that isn't the main purpose of them (so no complete porn without plots) – artists who pick a NSFW piece will have other scenes to choose from, and indeed if you pick a NSFW piece you will be encouraged to either do a tumblr-safe version of your art, or two pieces – one that is safe for Tumblr and one that... might not be ;)

“Is there an application process? How will I know if I got in?”

That's the neat part – EVERYONE GETS IN! There is no application process or anything to follow – if you can art, you're in the event!

“What characters are the fics about?”

There is an entire, huge range. There are over 40 works being written, some featuring the Vees, some featuring Alastor, Lucifer, Vox, Rosie, Vaggie, Angel, Blitz, Charlie... it would be impossible to list them all. Keep your eyes on the Bsky page for tiny peeks!

“Is this an event for ships/will there be ships?”

There are ships, yes – but there is also a wide range of non-shippy/gen content. Some of the ships that might catch your interest are RadioApple, RadioStatic, PolyVees, RadioRose, Lucilith, Chaggie, RadioDust, HuskerDust, Stolitz, Blitz/Fizzy – and so many more!

If shipping isn't your thing, we have found family, misadventures, QPRs – so many things you could think of!

“Is it all canon characters?”

For this, yes – OCs do not play a heavy part in any fic. However, there are AUs, so there are still lots of varied interpretations of the characters!

“What is the word limit?”

The minimum word limit for fics is 7k. There is no maximum! Some writers are cooking up absolute novels of content!

“Where can I read the entries?”

All entries will be posted on August third, on AO3. The art made for the fic will be linked within the fic, as well as posted on that artists individual social media.

“Is it too late to sign up?”

As a writer, yes – but artist signups are opening May 1st! And for writers, there will be the inverse of this event happening later in the year, where artists sign up first and writers sign up afterwards to write a fic for their chosen art piece!

“How will artists be assigned to writers?”

As an artist, you will have access to reading a synopsis, relevant tags, and an excerpt from each fic. You won't know who wrote it yet – you will be asked to fill in a google form numbering the fics you want to work on in order of preference, from 1-5 – with 1 being your most preferred, 2 being your second most... you know how numbers work. We will endeavour to give everyone one of their top three preferences, with a little bit of decision making only if multiple people have the same top preferences!

“Can artists draw whatever they want?”

The spirit of the event is collaboration – so making art based on something in your writers fic. Whether that's a scene, a comic – multiple spot art pieces if you feel so inspired (and have incredible time management skills). So long as you make at least one fully rendered piece, you can go wild with any extras you feel like.

“Is anything forbidden?”

Creators have been given creative freedom to make what they want, but for fics with darker themes, all appropriate trigger warnings and tags are noted in the fic synopsis.

“What happens if I need to drop out?”

If you're an artist, please reach out to a mod and let them know. We understand life happens, but we really don't want to experience radiosilence on it – you don't have to tell us details, just a quick “I won't be able to complete my piece because of work/family/etc” will be fine. Your writer will be assigned a pinch hitter if you were their only artist!

If you're an artist and your writer drops out, you will be given the chance to pick a different fic to work on, and you will be given additional time to do so. We hope this won't happen as authors have been working on their fics in the lead up!

“How often do I need to check in with mods?”

There are five check ins after artists join – May 30, to confirm you've spoken to your partner, June 13, to confirm you've got sketch/lines done, June 27 to provide an update, July 18 to provide further update, August 1 to confirm everything is ready to go for posting August 3!

“Who can I ask if I have more questions?”

We have several helpful mods. @dizzlypuzzled, who is the creator of this event – as well as @flywolf33, @phoenix-arising, @bonetrix-arts, and @mothballmilkshake. You can reach out to any of them on bsky or tumblr, or the event page on tumblr as well!

“What do I do if my writer/artist isn't communicating with me?”

Reach out to a mod, and we'll step in. If needed, above steps about dropping out may be taken, but we hope it doesn't come to that!

“I'm a writer and I don't like the approach my artist is taking. Can I switch artists?”

This is a collaborative event, and we encourage everyone to discuss with their partner what they want from the fic/art they are working on. If for any reason you find it impossible to come to an agreement, please reach out to a mod as soon as possible as we will discuss shuffling/pinch hitter availability.

“I'm an artist and I don't like the direction the story I chose is going/I think the synopsis was misleading. Can I change writers?”

If you get matched with your writer after choosing from the synopsis/snippet and find out the story is going in a direction that makes you uncomfortable, please reach out to the mods as soon as possible. If it is early enough, we may be able to shuffle a few people around until we find a better fit. All writers are encouraged to be as up front as possible about the direction of their fic, ships, etc, so we hope this won't happen – but understand if something unexpected comes up.

[sunder-the-gold]

Ending of a Grand Overture

Reposting my response on my own for the sake of anyone in the tags who wants more people to talk about this event.

Kinda funny but kinda sad but kinda funny that I saw Literally No One talk about the Siege event. -- cerastes

Sad is right, because that shit was depressing. A non-exhaustive list:

Londinium — the city, the infrastructure, the people who maintain both and depend on them to survive — is fucked; even the rich and nobility are Infected and desperately trying to hide it

to the common people, the Sarkaz who were born and raised in Londinium are now indistinguishable from the Sarkaz from Kazdel; they didn't leave with the foreigners as they retreated, but now they're being forced to leave their home anyway

a Columbian who honestly wants to help is annoying in a way that no one can properly explain to him because they don't want to point out that they can't trust his help since the CIA is funding the company he represents, and they don't want to explain all of their familiar Victorian bullshit that is getting in Londinium's way

the dukes are actively hindering the city’s ability to recover, and they keep hanging around specifically to make sure the people don't crown the woman who saved them as king

the people want to reward the woman who saved them by crowning her king and making her a symbol of hope, and they cannot understand why their hero refuses to give them what they want

a common hero of the people is sentenced to death for an impulsive act of ‘stealing’ the crown for the sake of the hope of the people — even when it turns out her death was faked, she's liable to die within a week anyway because her Oripathy is so bad

The Windermere medic that was such a stand-up guy in the main-story has become Infected, and he's addicted to opioids because he passed the real Oripathy suppressants to other people while he kept working too hard

Siege hates her job but she can't leave it; she can steal away a few days to visit the Glasgow Gang gym, but Morgan spells it out in her writing — they can never really have their friend "Vina" back, even if she's only the Speaker instead of the king

The Glasgow Gang has become basically helpless to assist Siege in any capacity now that the war is over, because Indra and Morgan are just a couple of common-born street thugs, and that one younger guy left

Baird is still fucking dead because she tied to help this one terminally ill guy who had lost his mind and shanked her, and she bled out alone without her friends around, and Siege still hasn't really accepted that she's dead, and Morgan is vexed because she's denied the context for the last words Baird wrote before she died

Dadga lost her noble family and formalized the end of the Tower Knights, and Delphine has to leave them to return home, and she might not be able to return like she promises

Allerdale has become Asshole Batman whom Siege must treat as an enemy even though Allerdale is trying to help people, because the most effective way that Allerdale can help people is by employing criminals and ne'erdowells towards productive work like smuggling native-born Londinium Sarkaz out of the city, as well as buying and selling painkillers on the black-market because there's not enough real medicine in the legitimate market and the dukes are blocking legitimate channels

The enemies in the combat stages are mostly just common people struggling to survive; frightened scavengers armed with planks of wood or whatever sword they found laying on the ground, young men who became thieves because too many factories shut down for them to find honest work, old men trying to protect their neighborhoods...

The final boss is a fucking joke and is based entirely on a bullshit "fairy tale" that Siege desperately slapped together to comfort a woman whom thought she was going to die the next morning, but only because Siege didn't tell her that she had already planned a way to smuggle her out of the city

Nazzsalem, the Sarkaz God of War, died off-screen in his own final battle scene; I didn't know that was even possible. We need a new Design of Strife event specifically so we can fight this man as he leads Chapter 11 and Chapter 14 Nachzehrer enemies against us in a massive two-phase battle.

[johannestevans]

Do you have any tips or tutorial recommendations for making your own website?

I actually really do like the Wordpress client now I've gotten the hang of it!

I did tell 1000 of my subscribers to kill themselves in an email header by accident, and also battered those poor 1000 people with something like 100 emails in increasingly frantically apologised for errors over the course of the same three days, but that was before I really Got it.

With the above oopsies in mind, if you want to import previous newsletters or posts, for the love of God, do not import your existing newsletter subscribers until after all of your backposts have been imported across. That is the main lesson I have learned.

I had such a vision in mind of a triumphant surprise email going "Hey, look what I did! Surprise! Isn't it sexy?!" and instead everyone got 30 notifications about chapter updates from 2 years ago and an email that said "It's Your Responsibility to Kill Yourself" followed by multiple deranged apologies from me.

So. Don't do that.

Other than that, I'd actually wanted a proper website for quite a few years even before Patreon got so antsy with hiding my content - I tried to set one up a few years back with Wix, and I cannot recommend that less, it's a fucking awful site to use, and it's far less user intuitive than Wordpress.

Part of my issues with Wordpress were actually that a lot of website clients, unless you're building from scratch in HTML/CSS or another code, give you everything in Blocks, and because I remembered like 10 years ago where you didn't have to do that, and you mostly altered everything on the website with like, 10000 options tickboxes and sliders, I was like "wow this is awful". I will admit now, crotchety bastard that I am, that the Blocks system is better and more intuitive once you start to understand it. I just don't always do well thinking of things in three dimensions, so to speak, and I was shooting myself in the foot by going "WELL BACK IN MY DAY--"

Wix doesn't have a very good help section because they want you to talk to their people for help, but most sites for stuff like this do have really robust FAQ and help sections, and obviously, rely on those as much as possible.

At one point I was so upset with my inability to do something that Lorenzo literally came over and told me to leave the apartment (that was the day that I went to Pets at Home and spent a ridiculous amount of money on gifts for the cat), and while I was very grumpy about doing it at the time, taking breaks is crucial, especially if you get as frustrated as I do.

I realise that most of what I have said so far is niche tips for if you're stubborn and mentally ill, so in terms of actual website building, I would say it's important to have an idea of what you want the site to do.

Do you just want a landing page, so that if people search for your name or whatever, that this is the first result? That it links people to your books or your store, your socials? Do you want to have a gallery of work on display, or an archive of writing like I've made? Do you want people to be able to contact you, give tips?

I always wanted a robustly tagged archive with an in-depth tag page like the one I've set up now, and the goal for my Directory of Work on Medium and elsewhere was always that it would later be transferred to my website once it was built.

Then, I have an about page for people who are just curious about who I am and who I look like; commission info and information about booking me for events or inviting me to cons and such; the books I have for sale, publications I've been a part of, interviews and presentations on YouTube; my events calendar with conventions and such; the gallery where I'm showing off both art of my characters and where I'll later show art that I buy for my home and myself, such as the stuff framed in the stairwell or jewellery I buy from makers at markets and such; and then, of course, the subscriber benefits.

All of the above to go my goals which are, in order, to encourage people to read my work and make it easy for them to do so, to pay me money for my existing work or to offer me money for new work, and to show support for other events, artists, friends, and queer creators.

I would definitely advise thinking carefully about how visual or how word-based you want your site to be - I had to look for a recipe blog theme to find one that was stripped back in terms of images. Especially for adult websites, I'd be careful about payment providers and so forth.

Stripe is the default on the site, and I've been very careful about making sure none of my titles or descriptions that the Stripe client will see have words like erotica or adult in them - if someone from Stripe clicks through and sees the site, they might take issue with it, but that's another thing. I do get paid by Stripe through Medium, so I do already use them.

Most payment providers hate any kind of adult content, but are willing to give a tiny bit more wiggle room on erotica, or at least, they just don't notice it in the same way they do Real Porn, but there's nothing I can say other than "be careful and more importantly, be lucky" on that front.

Most of all, I'd say to try to have fun with it and try to enjoy the actual building process if you can - make something pretty and fun to navigate as much as you can, and if you can get some enjoyment out of it, your site users will as well.

[shiraishi--kanade]

A controversial opinion but I'm tired of seeing touch-averse characters in media who "get over" their touch aversion.

Not even because it's misrepresentation or not realistic, and not because it's a bad narrative tool. I actually think that, if touch aversion was a result of trauma for that character, them getting used to touch and tactile contact can be a pretty neat healing narrative if done right.

I'm sick of that because the only way we ever see touch-averse characters in media is when they're given a "recovery arc".

But touch aversion is not a disorder. It's not a mental illness. It can be a symptom of one, but not necessarily, and even when it is, it's still morally neutral.

Only getting touch-averse characters who get to "heal" and "learn how to hug" is disheartening because it's simplistic and only touches a part of what touch aversion is. Also, ultimately, in a society that near universally praises physical contact as one of the highest forms of expression love, stories about overcoming one's touch aversion are stories about conformity. So let me hear the story about non-conformity.

I want characters whose touch aversion is not traumagenic and they don't want to change it. I want characters whose touch aversion is traumagenic and they don't want to challenge it, either because they're not there mentally yet despite the fact that it hinders them or just because they're comfortable as they are and don't feel the need to change. I need characters whose touch aversion is a part of their identity and their boundaries are important to them, and when other characters break those boundaries it's not treated lightly or as a running joke. I also need characters who don't even know what being touch averse is, and that it's normal and not a moral failing on their part, and it doesn't make them less worthy or less "normal" than others, and who doubt if they even are touch averse.

I want characters who are touch-averse at the beginning of the story and stay touch-averse. I want characters who know exactly when they gained it, what caused it, and characters who don't, and characters who don't care. I want characters who have always been touch-averse since they were born. I also want characters who are not secretly touch-starved or suffering from their touch-aversion, and I want their companions to assume they must be and be wrong.

I'm tired of almost all scenarios about touch aversion being "oh no, I thought I don't like being touched but I actually do, and now I don't know how to ask people for it", or "everyone assumes a shy character is just touch averse but actually isn't", or the healing arc. Give me some nice and good "Welp, I thought my new friend touching me would be different, but it still feels as bad as a stranger touching me, how do I deal with that?", or "I can't communicate my boundaries for shit and my friend seems sad so I wanted to hug them once and it resulted in months of confusion and unwanted physical contact and I don't know what to do", or even the classic old people forcing themselves into touch because it's normal or they think they should.

Also: let touch-averse characters have romantic relationships. Let touch-averse characters have sexual relationships if that's feels right for them. It's challenging, it's difficult, it requires a lot of figuring shit out and emotional workload, but sometimes touch aversion doesn't let you make even one exception, even to the "most special people in your life", and you have to deal with that, and it's realistic and also a story I would read.

Or let them have an extremely specific hierarchy of who can or can't touch them, for how long, and in what way, and if they need to be asked for consent (which is, like, a good thing to do anyway, by the way), and let them stand their ground even as people and relatives get offended by it.

And lastly: if they do heal, let it be because they want to. For whatever reason, let them initiate the healing and have agency in that decision. Stories about overcoming touch aversion with other people just repeatedly breaking your boundaries without even asking and it somehow being healing to you make me sick and not how that would work out.

Touch averse people deserve to be seen without always having the "oh, but actually you're not really like that, you've just traumatised/not used to it/haven't found the right people yet" narrative showed down our throats. That would be neat, I think.

[lucasandlily]

Rui x Reader who is really affectionate, but can't touch him because of The Curse.

A/N: I'm alive!! Rui my beautiful beautiful tragic boy. I've actually been having a lot of brainrot for this game, particularly an isekai AU that made me contemplate making RP blog (I love you guys btw. This is probably my first fandom where they're so active, I've been really well connected with this fandom somehow and it's so fun!!), so I figured I might as well be writing it down now. This is an idea I've had spinning in my head for a while, so it's VERY self-indulgent/insert, but enjoy!! AO3 link here

Rui's POV. Second-person pronoun "You" is used. Angst! But also fluff!! (825 words)

You’ve always been an affectionate little thing. It’s something Rui finds adorable about you, staying optimistic despite all that looms over you, not letting any of the ghouls he KNOWS can be more than a little much sometimes destroy your positive attitude. It’s as if you decided to be the light in a place that literally has dark in its name, and he lov admires you for that.

He can’t help but feel the bitter green of envy though, when he watches you ruffle Lyca’s hair after he whines at you for treating him like a dog. 

He pointedly turns away from the look Ed gives him over your head when you relax into his chest after he leans over your shoulder.  

He just laughs along at your drunken antics when you nuzzle into Haru’s hand, somehow even more touchy when your cheeks are flushed with alcohol. 

He tries not to remember the flash of hurt, confusion, the first time he’d backed away from your hand when all you wanted to do was give him a pat for a job well done. He doesn’t know if it hurt more when your face morphed into regretful understanding, or when you apologised and told him you’d try not to do it again. 

Rui tells himself it’s for the better when he notices you’ve been avoiding him for the past week. He’d have done the same to you anyway, if he realised his feelings were starting to fester. He tries to not let it get to him when he hears you enter the Obscuary mansion, only to quickly patter up the stairs without stopping by the bar first, as you would have done previously. 

Maybe before, he would have made it a little competition to see who could mess up the other’s hair more. He’d watched you run your fingers through Lyca’s after you’d tousled it out of place, anyway. Maybe in another life, you’d gently hold his face as you showered him with kisses. He’d do the same to you anyway, if he wasn’t forced to keep his hands to himself. 

If he didn’t notice you hold your hand back every time you saw his mask slip. If he didn’t see your hand stop short before pulling it back to tell him he had a bit of hair out of place. 

It’s all just part of the cursed life, he tells himself. He should be getting used to it by now, he sighs as he walks down the hall over to his room. 

Behind him, he hears the jingle of the bell you like to wear on your keychain. He turns at the sound of your quick steps approaching. 

“Rui! Ruiruiruiii!!” You call.

“Ah, there you are! Haha, I’m not going anywhere you know~ though I guess I don’t mind being chased?” He teases as you approach. 

You smile up at him brightly, “I have something to show you!” You tell him, he notices now that you have a hand behind your back. 

“Hm? Aw, did you get me a gift? And here I was thinking you were hiding from me!” He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. Your smile falters a bit as you blink at his confession. 

But before he can backtrack with a “Just kidding!” your smile lightens again, eyes filling with some sort of resolve as you pull out… a glove on a stick? in your other hand.

He doesn’t pull away when he feels the simulation of a hand on his head. He can’t, when you look into his eyes with such unmistakable fondness. The awkward, stilted movements as you try to run the imitation hand through his hair communicates how long you’ve wanted to do this, and the tears that well up in his eyes betray how much he’s needed it. 

He feels the cloth soak up the tears when you move the glove down to hold his face. It feels soft under his skin, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“How long did it take you to make this?” He asks as you let him lace his fingers with your hand extension. He squeezes the plush hand, feeling the soft give before it reaches the stick inside, inspecting where the glove and stick are attached. 

“Um! A week? It took a bit of experimenting to get it to stay on… And they don’t really sell gloves on campus either.” 

Your eyes crinkle when you look at him, the corners of your lips pull up triumphantly when he lets go of the hand to let you pat his head again. 

“You deserve at least this much,” you tell him. “I know it’s not really the same or anything, but I don’t wanna leave you out, y’know?” 

“It was worth it though, if it made you happy.” You look into his eyes as you say this, and he can’t help but believe you.

Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! I love you (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

[shimmerandfists]

I definitely don't speak for everyone and I'm aware enough to not die on the incest hill, of all the hills to die on. But guys, you've got to care about something more meaningful.

The way I view ViJinx is 2 adults in canon, who don't live together, can't have kids, and grew up for 7 years in the most important developmental parts of their lives without each other and without the others influence. They're fictional. They're not real. They both appeal to me how they look and they're little paper dolls I smush together. They love each other dearly and that's the main appeal to me.

The incest isn't the appeal, they just happen to be sisters, for me. And some people are into it for the incest specifically. That ain't me, I'm not going to speak on that other than I'm not going to go around harassing people for what FICTIONAL content they're looking at. I don't know what they've been through and they don't need to have been through anything all all either. Frankly it's none of my business I simply block them if I wish to not see it or move on.

All that said I try and be a normal fucking human about what I do, like anything else and keep it out of peoples spaces that don't want it. Which as a default I'm assuming most people. I block people who post anti ViJinx. I ask for them to block me. It's mutually beneficial.

"It makes me want to vomit" damn bro that sounds like it sucks but then you go into explicit details imagining what we imagine. Sounds like a you problem and I hope you get better at moderating your own experiences. You guys have GOT to, got to stop sticking your noses in places you don't want to smell and getting angry when it smells bad to you.

I'm sick of having these real conversations every time content comes up that isn't "the norm". You're responsible for your own life and your own environment to a large extent on the Internet. Go, literally, anywhere else brother.

[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.

[beevean]

I feel in a very generous mood, and after I talked about how much Lenore fails as a character, I wanted to for once praise the few times when she was pretty well written for who she was meant to be, a professional abuser, liar and manipulator with excellent strategies to make Hector lower his guard. All of these scenes happen in S3E6, for some reason: before and after, she's actually rather sloppy and in your face, and only succeeds because Hector was lobotomized by the writer lol. But this episde is what I mean when I say she had potential.

First, the part where Lenore "offers" the leash:

Lenore: Now then, would you like to go for a walk? Bit of fresh air in the starlight? Hector: I think I would, yes. Lenore: Good. Sadly, there's a condition. *shows leash* Hector: Oh. Lenore: Not my idea. Striga insisted. It should be quite comfortable. She just wanted a little extra security. Hector: You're ten times stronger than I am, Lenore. Lenore: Striga pointed out that you're a magician. And you do want to go for a walk, so… would you mind?

So.

Lenore kickstarts the episode with some fresh humiliation, because she has no time to waste. She jokes that Hector is now walking "on his hind legs" and looks "almost human", jokes again that she dressed up Hector so that his dick won't be stolen by birds, and asks him to smile in the face of his embarrassment like a creepy old man harassing a waitress.

This is the prelude to her downright falling into sexual abuse, which is this entire part.

The request is obviously unfair. Hector has been cooped up in his stagnant cell for what could be weeks, so it's only natural that he would enjoy some fresh air. But in order to get that basic comfort, Hector has to accept being treated like a literal dog for no good reason. And his braincell does activate for a moment, as he points out that yes, there is no good reason to force a leash on him, because Lenore sure showed him how strong and fast she is:

There is no way Hector would even attempt to run away, not when he has no tools at his disposal, he's starved and weakened, the castle is full of other vampires, and Lenore could snap his ankles in a second Annie Wilkes style.

But Lenore is undeterred. First, she says that it was Striga's idea. It's still ambiguous if she was sincere or not: Striga couldn't give less of a fuck about Hector and shows no reaction when, later in the episode, she sees the two on the balcony. That being said, the fact that she is the one complaining, in E8, that Lenore is taking Hector "on fucking walkies" implies that yes, Lenore lied and mentioned the queen who was less likely to bother Hector. As a bonus, she doesn't blame Carmilla, despite her being the first one who put Hector on a leash as he himself points out later on, therefore creating a precedent, because Hector already has beef with Carmilla, and Lenore is aiming to make him get over his resentment. Hence, the name of a vampire he does not care about. (although, logically, Morana would have been better because Striga will have to work closer to Hector once he starts to supply an army, but eh, I guess even Lenore forgot about her lol)

But whoever had the idea doesn't matter, actually. What matters is that Lenore is shifting the blame on someone else. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I wouldn't do this to you, but I'm a poor little girl and I had no choice 🥺 blame her, not me, I'm just the cute princess obeying superior orders 🥺". And since Hector doesn't know Striga at all, and she has no intention of talking to him, he can believe that. She also subtly blames Hector, because well, he wanted to go on a walk, and she's just giving him what he wanted! He should be grateful, really!

Naturally, this excuse falls flat on its face because even if Striga was the one who suggested the leash for "extra security", it's Lenore who decided to make a sexual game out of it. She is the one who has expressed multiple times her attraction to Hector, first by kissing him after beating him to a pulp, and then by playing some more "genuine" compliments during the interrogation - as genuine as they can be after she spent the entire interrogation making him realize how much of a dumbass he was. She didn't need to do any of this. She's having fun for her own amusement, lording her power over Hector.

(mhh, Lenore using sexual abuse for no reason? It's almost like it's a pattern :) it's almost like being a rapist is in her character :) )

On top of this, notice how hypocritical she's being. Lenore is often treated as inferior to the other three, like she's just a silly girl sitting among adults and not one of the important queens. She clearly resents this, to the point of, as linked above, beating Hector to a pulp when he too underestimated her. But here? She'll gladly pretend Striga is her superior and he has no other choice but to comply with her request. Now that it's convenient to her, she'll happily play the part of the powerless little princess in a den of evil queens :)

But she's not done! Because at Hector's "You're ten times stronger than I am", Lenore retorts (again blaming Striga, because she has to look blameless) that he's a magician. This is a profoundly stupid excuse because Hector is not a magician, he's a Forgemaster who can't do shit without a forging tool: if he were a "magician" like, say, Sypha or the one who brainwashed an entire village, Lenore would already be a pile of ashes. But again, logic doesn't matter: what matters is that Hector is painted like the real threat to Lenore, the one who has the power to hurt her and not the other way around. See, she's just trying to protect herself from the mean Forgemaster, poor thing! This comes into play later.

Now, were Hector a stubborn person who valued his own dignity, this would be the moment where he'd show Lenore the middle finger and resign himself to staying in the stagnant cell. But Hector is not stubborn. Hector doesn't care about his own dignity and honor: he wants to feel safe and cared for. Plus, Lenore has already beaten him at the first sign of defiance: how does he know that she wouldn't punish him again if he refused her proposal? Even just by taking away the few "gifts" she had given him. So, powerless and too weakened to put up a mental fight, he caves in, because he's willing to give away his humanity for a few minutes of comfort and pretending Lenore is taking care of him.

Before I move on, I need to point out the half-clever, half-frustrating ironic echo the "magician" line gets in S4E6 that almost redeems it:

This is what in a vacuum I would call a big dick move lol. How delightfully sassy it is for Hector, after getting his heart broken and biding his time by coddling his abuser's feelings, to throw Lenore's excuses back in her face to put her in a position of helplessness! Oh, he can't be trusted because of his powers, and that was the reason he was treated like a dog and had a slave ring brute forced onto his hand when he would have willingly agreed to becoming Lenore's pet? Well, then Lenore was a giant idiot for trusting him after raping him into slavery and believing he would be harmless and happy with her, right? :)

(it would have been better if they used the exact word again, but whatever, nitpick)

Sadly I can't be fully happy with this scene because, despite his satisfied smirk shown here, Hector isn't really getting back at Lenore for the disgusting way she treated him, but he's instead trying his best to protect her with no malice in his heart, as shown when Isaac arrives and as shown by how he apologizes before trapping her. The parallel between Lenore "protecting" Hector by ruining his life because of her selfishness and Hector returning the favor is obvious, but it's as unsatisfying as possible, because by now the story wants us to feel sorry for Lenore, and Hector's gesture is meant to be tragic, not the rightful comeuppance. Also, due to how wishy-washy the worldbuilding is, I really can't tell if Hector deliberately used the wrong word as a reference to make Lenore really feel bad for her past actions (unlikely, given how he forgave her of everything, but a girl can dream), or if he's seriously calling himself a wizard, which even in the context of the show is very wrong and would be yet another way the animated franchise has watered down the concept of Devil Forging.

That being said, I can ignore the rest of the episode and pretend Hector was being snarky against his abuser 💖 I don't care if it's OOC and it's not like Hector to be this spiteful 💖 go king 💖

After this digression, back to S3E6, before Lenore became a woobie love interest and was still a vile manipulator.

I talked about this scene here, and mostly said that it was wasted potential for Lenore's final act in S4 for multiple reasons. But, for the purpose of this post, it is another nice attempt at manipulation, even if it's a basic "look how nice this place is! You'll enjoy it every night if you'll work for us!". Symbolically, it could be seen as Lenore dragging Hector away from humanity and towards the world of vampires... which would be poignant if Hector didn't start already as someone who turned his back against mankind in favor of vampires and hasn't budged from his beliefs. But eh, I get the idea, and it can be seen as foreshadowing to Lenore allowing Hector free roam of the castle once he becomes her pet. It sure is a nice gilded cage, isn't it?

Then, we have the scene on the balcony:

Lenore: Does it hurt? Hector: No. It just reminds me of the last time someone put a collar on me. Lenore: In Braila? Hector: When Carmilla almost killed me. Lenore: Well, she does have a temper. But she would never have meant to kill you. Hector: No. Because she needs me to be her forgemaster slave. Lenore: No, because if she'd meant to kill you, you would quite simply be dead. Hector: Hmph. Lenore: And if she'd meant to torture you, you would have arrived here carrying your guts in both hands with a spike up your arse. Hector: I suppose that's true. I mean, I can see her doing it. In nightmares and such. Lenore: She does have a temper, but she's logical. She never lets it run away with her to the point of, oh, I don't know, condemning the entire human race to death? Just a recent example of what being genuinely insane with murderous rage looks like. Hector: All right. Lenore: You may not have been treated like a boy king on your way here, but you did show up alive. Hector: Might have been nice, though. Lenore: Have you considered that you're only alive because you listened to Carmilla back in Dracula's castle? Hector: I hadn't. She tricked me. Lenore: I don't think she did. I think she made complete sense to you, and you felt guilty, understandably, about how it all played out. Hector: She made me betray Dracula. Lenore: No, she didn't. She showed you the old man was insane, and she saved you from the consequences. Nobody here wants to harm you. We just don't quite trust you yet. Hector: Trust me? Lenore: You did try to hurt me, Hector.

I still don't know why I can't find a clip of this part. With how crucial it is to their development (and you know, shippers would get a kick out of seeing the peggable boy leashed by the dommy mommy having a cute bonding moment), you'd think there'd be plenty of videos.

Nevertheless, this is the only time Lenore disgusted me in an intentional way, which I appreciate. His character development on stall, Hector has no moral qualms about working for vampires who want to turn humans into livestock, but he is still angry at Carmilla for tricking, beating and imprisoning him, understandably so. She is the only reason Hector still hasn't accepted Lenore's proposal: he doesn't want to work for her out of spite. So what does Lenore do with her amazing diplomacy skills? Launch herself into some pristine abuse apologism, the likes of which are only paralleled by Lenore stans themselves, using every excuse in the book to downplay Carmilla's brutal, sadistic beatdown of Hector, because oh, she just has a temper! Oh, it was just a one time thing! Oh, she saved your life nonetheless, even if you were treated less than royally! Oh, but Dracula was even more insane, so you can't be mad at Carmilla, she was just trying to help!

She's hitting every point possible to make Hector give up his grudge, because who cares about how he was treated, he's alive now, right? He should be grateful that he was "rescued" from Dracula's insanity, shouldn't he? Which is very similar to Lenore's overall attitude, like when she lowkey implied that she was the only one in the castle willing to treat Hector nicely after brutally beating him into submission :)

And as the cherry on top, she is blaming him for that, too! Hector tried to hurt her, the meanie, so really, no wonder he's being treated like a dog! No one wants to hurt him, she swears, it's just that these four super strong vampires are scared of this human prisoner! And if Lenore beat him to a pulp the other day (not that she is directly mentioning it, of course, the accent is on how he tried to hurt her), well, it's all his fault, so he can't complain. Mhh, reminds me of another scene where Lenore downplays her disgusting actions by shaming Hector...

Goodness, but Lenore must have gotten a degree in abuse apologism with flying colors! Look at that flawless DARVO! She would be a brilliant portrayal of a self-centered piece of shit who refuses to take responsibility, if I knew it was all intentional!

I also like that, near the end, when she's rebuking Hector's protests, for once she doesn't sound insufferably smug, but like she is patiently correcting a stubborn child making him reason. This is much better than her usual tone of voice that can only be described as "I get wet at seeing you humiliated", and not just because it's less grating on the ears: she is supposed to sound trustworthy and well-meaning, emotionally comforting Hector and not making fun of him. This is the tone she should have had from day one. It also would have helped distinguishing her and not making her sound like Carmilla 2.0, BDSM patch included.

The rest of the sequence speaks for itself. Lenore gives Hector a bigger cell (with added symbolism of her tugging his leash to lead him to it, showing that she is forcing all these comforts on him), complete with a book about vampires that he might find interesting, and engages in yet some more sexual play by removing the collar in the most erotic way possible for the joy of the shippers and the thirsty fans. But I want to focus on two things.

One, the book.

When it came to convincing Hector that nighttime is better than daytime, thus the vampire world is better than the human world, I said it was redundant because Hector already feels closer to the former than the latter. This, however, is a much better way to lure him in: Lenore is welcoming Hector even further in their world - or rather, her world. She is sharing their knowledge, the secret knowledge lost by humans and preserved by vampires, much like when during their walk she flaunted the castle's hypocaust that keeps the cells warm ignore that it's normally kept lit by slaves, giving us some unintentionally clever foreshadowing. In E8, Hector is genuinely fascinated by it:

Lenore's strategy of "humanizing" her race, and thus herself and the council so that Hector won't be scared, is pretty obvious but efficient. It's a shame that it's redundant because Hector has no prejudices, nor has he shown any, against vampires (because that would have created conflict between him and Lenore's plan): but hey, better be safe than sorry, right? In a way, it's a continuation of Lenore's abuse apologism, when she tried her best to paint Carmilla as a logical person "with a temper", and not as a violent beast to be scared of. "I keep telling you, we're not monsters." Because if we act like monsters, it doesn't come natural to us, the civilized species that we are, so you must have done something to provoke it :)

Most importantly, this really hits one of Hector's weakest spots: feeling appreciated for his talents. It's all but said that the reason he feels more comfortable around vampires is because they mostly value him for his Devil Forging and necromancy, unlike humans who chased him away for that. For a human being who feels no connection to mankind, being offered a peek into vampire culture must have felt a honor.

Lenore giving him that book "given his profession" shows that she's meeting him on his level, and she doesn't simply see him as a tool like Carmilla, but someone whose blasphemous knowledge is respectable and worth nurturing. She didn't need to do that: Hector is already a genius in Devil Forging, so it's not for him to study to become more efficient. But it's basically a kind gift based on his interests.

But the really brilliant line is this one:

The levels of mindfuckery here!

Lenore coerced Hector into wearing a dog collar and leash for the simple purpose of walking around, making him feel like it was his fault he had to be treated that way, and all for the purpose of gaslighting him into forgiving Carmilla for hurting him. And after that gratuituous display of power over him, she is acting like they just went on a date and she is sheepishly asking permission for another one. (There is no clip, but the tone sounds soft and honestly grateful, too, like he's really doing her a favor.)

This is the exact same strategy of blaming Striga for the leash. She's passing the responsibility onto someone else: Hector, in this case. Lenore is pretending Hector has any power over their encounters. She's just a poor girl who wants to spend quality time with him, but she would never intrude upon his space without permission 🥺 even thought she just literally did by nearly kissing him while taking away the collar before he could ever express any interest in her 🥺 no, really, she leaves the choice up to him 🥺 (so that everything that follows will be his fault, obviously)

But Lenore doesn't just delude Hector into feeling like he has control right after stripping it from him: the point is, naturally, making him feel wanted. Not just as a thing to play with, because otherwise Lenore can just visit him whenever she pleases, but as a person worthy of respect. She likes spending time with him, and she demurely asks if he too wants to see her - and after popping a boner after her little stunt being lovebombed like that, of course Hector can't say no. Not after feeling genuinely cared for as a person, his biggest weak point.

How nice, after their rough start, they're finally developing a relationship of equality and respect despite their circumstances!

This is what Lenore should have been since the beginning. Wearing the mask of the demure little girl whom others make fun of, who is completely harmless (unless the other person deserves it), really, her hands are tied but she always tries her best, look at her gifts made from her pure kindness of heart! And subtly but constantly snipering at Hector's heart, sensing the chinks in his armor and pouncing on them like only a consummate liar and inherent predator can do. Not smugness, not humiliation, not sexual molestation: the believable lie of love and affection, targeted to someone who would sell his soul to taste those crumbs.

Or worse, the other interpretation is that this isn't even malicious lying at all. Now sure, Lenore can't spend one second in S3 without that obnoxious smirk on her face because she's just enjoying so much taking advantage of the power she has over her prisoner, and sure, I have proof that the ring was a pointless act of cruelty that nullifies all her hard work... but who says every word out of her mouth is a lie meant to harm and psychologically break Hector? Maybe it's just 90% of them! Maybe she's genuine when she shows attraction to Hector, and compliments him, and is happy when gets "permission" to see her again because it also makes her feel wanted (after all, Lenore's priority is feeling good about herself). Maybe she does care about him and she was earnest when she tried to "comfort" Hector after raping him into slavery - oh, my bad, into a position of pet... problem is that she is still a vampire, who cannot conceptualize love as humans do, and sees relationships as inherently unbalanced where she is the one where she has to have all the power. And she's willing to do whatever it takes to gain it, say every lie that comes to her fangs, twist every word, shift every ounce of blame, as long as it's for her pet's own good. Because that's what vampires do.

It's a shame those are the only instances Lenore is well written as a villain, because man, the depths of the realistic, relatable horror displayed in one episode are staggering and well conveyed. And most of this behavior is still carried into S4! ... completely by accident, which ignites my fury like few things.

She could have been a great, viscerally repulsive villain and an accurate depiction of an abuser who truly thinks she's in the right, and not just mere masturbation fodder. Now, if only Hector was written with more spine than a beached jellyfish...

[quatregats]

I love going on the TTTE Wiki, you learn something new every day <3

[redge]

This has been on my draft since September, wayback when I did not know how Oshi no Ko's story will progress. So the setting of this story is after chapter 159.

While other OnK readers absolutely believe that Aqua likes Kana or that them ending up together is endgame, I am one who won't believe anything unless the character says it himself or until the story is concluded. It's just that, I've seen this built-up chemistry for so many times, a short-haired-not-main-character girl falling for the main character, but never ending up together. I don't write stories, but if my favourite OnK character will end up in an "unrequited" love, here's my prompt. It's somehow inspired by them.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Scenario: Ruby successfully had a solo tour concluded at Tokyo Dome. A congratulatory party is being held and former members of B-Komachi were invited, Kana included. Amidst the busy party, Kana finds herself at the balcony, Aqua approaches.

Kana: Isn't this familiar?

Aqua: What is?

Kana: When we were preparing for JIF, we were also at the balcony. Only difference is you're here as you are and not disguising as Pieyon.

Aqua: You're right.

Kana: I briefly remember you telling me all sort of things I haven't said to anyone about and that you were my fan. Were you, Aqua?

Aqua: I am still a fan.

Kana: That feels nice, finally hearing it without a mask.

Aqua: ...

*Kana drops her keys*

*Aqua kneels down and picks it up*

Kana: Haha! This also looks familiar! Remember how you knelt down at the playground and persuaded me to become an idol?

*Aqua stands up, keys still in his hand*

Aqua: That sure feels like ages ago.

Kana: My logic was telling me back then that "no" was the only possible answer to that offer but I saw potential on Ruby right there and then. Come to think of it, I even thought of her having similarities with Ai-san, even without knowing yet that she's your mother.

*Kana gazes at Ruby as she is being surrounded by influential people from the industry congratulating her on the success of her solo tour*

Kana: Ruby is really meant to be an idol.

Aqua: It was her dream, and Ai's dream for her.

Kana: What about your dream? How is medical school going?

Aqua: I'm now a resident in the nearby hospital.

Kana: Really?! Good for you, Aqua! Never once doubted you! I was sure you'll be able to fulfill your dream of being a doctor.

Aqua: ... By the way, I saw your latest movie.

Kana: You did? I was good right?

Aqua: You've always been good at acting.

*Kana laughs proudly*

Aqua: ... In the end, I was not able to watch your graduation concert last time. I'm sorry.

Kana: I noticed. But don't worry about it. There were so many things that happened that time. It can't be helped. I'm just glad we were able to conclude that tour without trouble.

Aqua: But if I did, I would have...

*Aqua gets cut by a guy who approached Kana*

Kana: Is it time already?

*the guy nods*

Kana: I'm sorry, Aqua. We have to go.

*Aqua lost in his own thoughts*

Kana: Hey, would you mind handing me my keys?

*Aqua forgot that he's still holding the keys. When he opened his hand, he noticed the keychains were a glove catching a ball, and the word "dream"*

And in a split second, everything flashed in his mind. That first catch ball with Kana. The second time where they talked about their future plans and dreams.

Kana: Aqua?

Aqua: I'm sorry. Here you go.

Kana: Thank you. It was nice catching up with you.

*Kana walks a way, her hand being held by the guy*

Memcho passed by as Kana was leaving. Kana said her goodbye as they had other commitment to attend to. Memcho approached Aqua at the balcony.

Memcho: Kana left already.

Aqua: "Ah-kun". It's funny. I never cared for it too much, but it's a bittersweet feeling to hear Arima call me as Aqua. Just Aqua.

Memcho remembered how happy Kana was when she started calling Aqua "Ah-kun". It was something that belonged to Kana and Aqua, and now it's gone.

Memcho places her arm in Aqua's shoulder, leaning her head towards Aqua and silently comforting him. Kana and Aqua are two dear friends she watched closely. Memcho knows that Kana likes Aqua from the time they went home after JIF. And she knows that Aqua cares a lot for Kana which is why he distanced himself from Kana in order to protect her. So many things could have been said but it's too late.

The party ended and they went home. Aqua headed to his room. He sat on his bed, sitting idly, staring at the corner of his room. He then noticed the luggage that he and Kana bought. He pulled out the luggage, opened it, and brought out what's inside, one by one.

The script to "I'll Go With Sweet Today" where in he got to act with Kana again. A stack of books with trivial contents, the same books Kana likes to read. The umbrella that Kana placed over him when he was drenched in the rain, after accidentally hurting Kana. The hat that Kana left on the street as she was running away from the reporter. Kana's white glowstick. He picks up the glowstick and thought of that concert that he missed. He would have waved this glowstick for Kana. Her dream was for him to look at her not knowing that her dream already came true. But it's too late now. That time is gone and he already lost the opportunity to say anything. He returns everything inside the luggage, slowly closing it down and kept it again in the corner of his room, just as how he kept his feelings in the corner of his heart.

***

Kana: That was nostalgic.

The guy: Are you still...towards Aqua...

Kana: Oh no, not anymore! Though I won't deny the fact that a huge part of my youth was seriously in love with him.

Kana picks up her keys from her purse, and caught a glimpse of her keychains- a glove catching a ball, and the word "dream".

Kana: Ah-kun was my dream. But some dreams were just not meant to be realized.

☆ ☆ ☆ end ☆ ☆ ☆

[james-stark-the-writer]

just finished Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, and it is a game written by cowards for cowards.

the final twist genuinely ruins the game. it's so stupid as a narrative decision. i hate it so much. it almost makes me understand what the people yelling about The Last Jedi being too subservient to its themes were yelling about (OBVIOUSLY not the ones that were being bigoted and loud and wrong about it, but just the ones who had actual issues with its narrative directions/execution). genuinely, the twist takes what could have been an extremely solid 8.5, maybe a 9/10 game down to a 4/10 game with nothing of interest to say deluding itself into thinking it's saying anything of worth by thoughtlessly repeating patterns as if that's supposed to generate meaning without any real effort of actually committing to that meaning, or seeing the world as anything beyond its basic binary worldview of Good and Bad.

putting that twist in fundamentally cuts the legs out from any actual, interesting and substantive critique it could have leveled at the legal system and our feelings about people on trial and their perceived guilt or innocence, and it just ends up reinforcing it as a power of good that Will Ultimately Prevail In The Search For Truth, as if that is even remotely a thing any legal system is concerned with, especially the one in the game that mostly just stumbles into The Right Choices because it's a game controlled by the player. it's frankly ideologically incoherent to the point of saying nothing because its critique is unfocused and toothless. best it can muster is "maybe some people are corrupt and lying, but if You take Advantage of The System, you can beat them" as if malicious compliance is supposed to change the system. fuck off.

ran out of tags but. i'm serious about this lol, i really hate it as a narrative and ideological choice. the game threatens to say something bold and interesting and then just pulls the rug out from underneath you. it sucks. it's very much like 12 Angry Men in that way, i think, except at least that movie Knows what it's saying and that its basic premise is its ideological downfall, this just doesn't really feel like it says anything much interesting or coherent, ultimately, because the criticism either drowns in the length and comedic nature of it, or just ultimately isn't focused and pointed and nuanced enough to actually say something meaningful. like ik someone's gonna do a "kid's game" thing but hello, kid's shit has always been nuanced and just bc it's "for kids" doesn't mean it has to abide by some binary ass morality that flattens all its interesting critique, especially when you're constantly led, structurally, to the more interesting and nuanced narrative choice only to have a twist completely ruin it and making it all feel like a waste of your time. plenty of things are nuanced and interesting and "for kids" without deflating their themes and messages by writing a stupid twist that undercuts the interesting parts of its arguments.

[enhanced-operatives-division]

The ships in this fandom are like toys to me

[crying-over-cartoons]

seriously considering making a ninjago AU comprised entirely of speculative biology about serpentine because their whole everything is pretty inconsistent but I really like snakes so I wanna fix it up a bit