#yes I'm big nerd about this

[deliciouskeys]

Voughtazon's newly posted 360-degree tours definitively prove that— given that the Seven conference room is in Vought Tower— Homelander's penthouse is not in Vought Tower, but rather in the Flatiron Building or a tiny bit uptown of it. In this essay I will...

But seriously, judge for yourselves if you don't believe me:

The tall landmarks in yellow, the vantage points in red:

The view from the Seven conference room, juxtaposed with the view from the roof of Rockefeller Center:

The view from Homelander's penthouse juxtaposed with the view from the Flatiron roof:

It's so nice that Homelander is the Boys' neighbor!

On an even nerdier note, the pictures were taken pre-2020, when One Vanderbilt was completed, but post-2016 when the 4 Seasons was completed.

Requisite disclaimer after causing confusion: I’m kidding. Just pointing out that Vought Tower seems to exist in two different places in Manhattan.

[vipitis]

which of these consoles is what you see as YOUR console. either the one you grew up with, the one you have the most fond memories with, or the ones that you will defend until the end of time, no matter the actual quality of the hardware/software or games.

no nuance option, because i REALLY wanted the virtual boy on this. if you never looked at a nintendo game in your life then this poll is not for you. if you're a true game & watch or famicom fiend then i am sorry for not representing you </3

i started thinking about this because, for me, it's the nintendo ds. especially the lite? but any ds era type game will automatically be the best first and foremost. seeing people talk about the ds games i grew up with brings me immense joy, and i'll always find myself going back to the console or the games. nowadays i'm also an avid 2ds defender, but nothing beats the original

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 8 (finale)

Decem Faciunt Collegium

The Battle of Grunwald takes place. Apart from their enemies, Henry and the rest of the pack have to battle their own ghosts and find a path into the future.

{read it below or here on AO3}

(very short) tag list: @shmuel-ben-sarah-kcd2, @bad-system

☆

PREVIEW

What did the size of the grave matter? There had been thousands lowered into the ground on both sides.

He raised his eyes to the sky that was grey and clouded to­day. A swift wind was blowing from the north, carrying with it the ocean's water and cold. It moved the leaves of the trees, the tufts of grass that had not been trampled, carried a small group of young starlings that floated above his head, cherishing their freedom. Somewhere to his right, a bird chirped loudly and urgently, a kestrel perhaps, but apart from the wind and the birds, it was crushingly silent.

☆

If it's meant to be then it will be I forgive it all as it comes back to me.

☆

The tent reeked of death, when all it should have harboured was the smell of healing and life. Resurrection. Brought about by her own hands, like she was the Lord Jesus Christ, lifting Lazarus from his grave. Or like the Holy Father himself, brea­thing life back into the incarnate Son. Had it reeked like this back in the tomb, Katherine wondered, when the women had come with their spices to tend to Christ's body? What else would they have brought the oils for? But it must have been easier to bear, clearly, since the grave had been opened, the stone had been rolled to the side, and all that had been left of the rotting body of God's son had been strips of linen.

She looked down at the linen in her own hands, heavy and hot from all the blood it had soaked up, and then, with clouded vision as if through a veil, she looked to the body below. Her throat felt sore from all the pleading, and yet the man had not listened. Had not managed to hold still, to bring his body to rest, and so she had tried in vain to tie the fabric to the stump of his trembling and twitching leg, and when he had finally stopped moving, she had breathed out a hoarse “At last,” and had tried to continue her treatment, because that was what she was here for after all, was it not, until Czesław had placed his firm hand on her shoulder and told her with his old, but vigo­rous voice: “It's over, child. You cannot help him anymore.”

Senseless. Treating the dead and the dying. Senseless. Ban­daging wounds, stitching cuts, splinting fractures, relieving the pain, only to send them back out to the battleground. Senseless. Fighting a war for a king who had been nothing but a name and a story to most of them just weeks ago, to protect his family's land against foreign foes, so that his own men could later roam the country, plunder and kill. Jagiełło, von Jungingen, Sigis­mund, Wenceslas, empty words filled by the force of their com­mand and the blind actions of their followers. Senseless, sense­less.

“Dry your tears, woman,” Master Hildebrand said in a harsh voice, and when Katherine wiped her eyes with her forearm, she could feel the wetness. Sweat from the exhaustion perhaps, or had she truly started crying? She had not noticed. And what difference did her tears make anyway? The soldier on the plank bed did not move, did not breathe. “Now help me carry him outside. We do not have enough space in here to house the living and the dead.”

She followed his orders, because at least that gave her some sense of meaning. Threw the linen aside, into a bucket that was already filled with more cloth, more blood. The girl Jolenta would carry it outside later, to clean them properly as she boiled them in a cauldron over the fireplace. She was a brave young woman, Jolenta, barely grown, her face still that of a child, living in a small village in southern Poland right on the border to Silesia, in a house filled with chickens and younger siblings who she cared for. The youngest brother Jolenta had helped to deliver herself, had ripped his little wrinkled body out of her mother's lifeless womb. An exchange, a life for a life, and it had left its mark on Jolenta's expression. Or perhaps she had always looked like this, Katherine thought, had always looked at the world out of her slightly tilted, grey and always saddened eyes, because even before having her mother die right in front of her, she had always known about the senseless­ness of it all.

Katherine grabbed the arms of the soldier to lift him up. Li­thuanian colours on his chest, a stag on a blue field jumping a fence, with a golden cross pointed at its head. Carrying its faith high or being stabbed by it? Katherine could not tell. His head fell to the side as they lifted the man up. She could not have told from his face that was so distorted by pain, but there were signs of age on his neck, traces of a life long lived. A father perhaps, with a family at home. Or a lonely soul for whom no­body would cry a single tear. Fed into the battle by Grand Duke Vytautas himself, out there on the right flank of the formation, just where Kubyenka was. Had Kubyenka seen him lose his leg, had he raised his sword against the enemy in a vain at­tempt to protect a dying man's life? Or had the soldier seen Kubyenka fall long before he had been struck down himself?

The noise. A chain of wooded hills blocked her view of the battleground and of King Jagiełło up there with his own ban­ner, Janosh and Štěpán at his side, but Katherine did not need to see, could hear them as soon as she left the safety of the tent. The shrieking metal and the commanding shouts and the des­perate screams of horses and men. Over the past hour or longer she had set foot outside countless times, and yet it still made her stop for a moment to listen. To the cacophony of pain and death, to the thousands of voices mingling into one roaring wa­terfall, and she would try to pick apart all the different drops, to listen for their voices, to find his. Sometimes she would tell herself that she had heard him among the masses, and then her chest would lift in a sigh of relief, until her wits got the better of her again and reminded her that it was impossible. Sense­less. She would not know. Not unless the next man dragged to this tent by his horse or by his own feet or, motionless like a sack of grain, by his comrades was him.

“Move, woman,” Hildebrand snarled, and Katherine realised that she had once again stopped to listen. “Our idling is as deathly a weapon as their swords.”

And when we don't idle, Katherine thought, when we hurry to patch them up, staunch their bleed, release them back into this noise, this waterfall of suffering, have we not then killed them too?

She kept the thoughts to herself and nodded. Lifted the sol­dier's body onto a cart and took a deep breath of exhaustion. Jolenta threw her long, golden braid back and looked at her si­lently with those grey, sad eyes of hers. She would clean and cover him now, so that the priest Racimir could give the last rites for him and the others, speak a final prayer. Katherine went over to the trough, washed her hands clean off blood, and looked up to the hills and the trees and the patches of empty field that showed her no more than scorched earth and grass. Something in the noise seemed to have changed, had become quieter. She could even have heard the song of the birds, had they felt like singing on such a grim day. The silence made the hair on her arms stand up, and she washed her hands again, and more vigorously than before.

“Katherine!” Czesław's kind voice behind her. The young surgeon of the Krakow court was a strong contrast to the old Hildebrand, who served as King Jagiełło's very own medicine man, but she had come to value both of them for their brave­ness and their fortitude.

“Yes?”

“Help me with the saw.”

The young man inside the tent moaned in pain and fear. A battle axe had hit him right above his elbow, the cut running so deep that there was no need in trying to save the arm, and they could only stop the bleeding for so long. When they had sewed off the first limb earlier today, Katherine had asked Czesław if there was truly nothing else they could do, but the surgeon had only shaken his head. “Sometimes the most merciful thing is ending it.” But ending what?

Katherine was just about to go inside, when the sounds changed once again. For the briefest moment, the air became almost deafeningly heavy with nothingness. No screams and no shouts, no clattering metal, even the insects were holding their breath. Then it fell upon them like the sudden detonation of a thunderbolt. Hooves. That was the first thing Katherine no­ticed. Hundreds and thousands of hooves. Making the ground up on the hill rise as if dry earth and sand were rising from the ground, the riders themselves draped in a cloud of dust that reached from one end of the hill chain to the other. Shouting. Not Polish or Czech, Katherine could not understand their words, but she understood the universal language that they all spoke, that of pain and fear. And of death. Men and horses crying out alike, metal and dull leather and flesh hitting the wood of the trees, hitting the ground.

Katherine took a step to the side and watched. There was no­thing else she could do. Like being overrun by the towering, overwhelming clouds of a storm, and all she could do was stand, stare and marvel, at something so massive being so alive.

Then they broke through the rows of trees. Tatars on their small, shaggy horses, their long dark hair and beards flowing under pointed nasal helmets. Heavier armoured Lithuanians right behind them, without any banners to be seen, either lost in the chaos of the battle, or fallen long ago. And then somewhere up on the hill, in one of the empty spaces between gnarly oak trees, Katherine saw the Teutonic flag flying high, only for the shortest while before it disappeared again in the forest. Toge­ther with the German cavalry. So many of them that the ground below her feet started to tremble.

“Katherine!” Czesław's voice again, but this time he was so close to her that she winced, and then he had already grabbed her arm and pulled her back behind the tent so fiercely she lost her balance and fell. The very next moment, the army rushed past them as if a dam had broken. The Tatar Golden Horde, the Lithuanians. So close to where Katherine and Czesław were crouching on the ground, that she could hear the breath of their horses, feel the heat of their bodies, so much stronger still than that of the relentless sun, smell the fur and the leather, the sweat and the blood. Wood splintered as they rode across crates and racks in their way. Headless. The formation broken, the troops fallen into pure chaos. Where was their khan, where was Grand Duke Vytautas? Katherine dug her fingertips into the dry ground, without caring about earth and stone cracking her nails, ripping her skin. Where was Kubyenka?

The soldier in the medical tent behind her had started to cry like a child. Czesław's eyes were widened, the masses of sol­diers dashing past them reflecting in their light blue colour. Jolenta had fallen to her knees, her hands clasped in prayer. Fa­cing the hills and the trees, from which the last riders of the Lithuanian troops were fleeing, followed closely by the Order's banner bearer and the rest of the German men, crossbows nocked, swords raised high, some glowing ice-white, some red as blood.

You need to live, Kat, she heard Jan's voice in her head, and a single, hot tear ran from the corner of her eye and down her cheek, as hot as molten iron. Promise me that.

* * *

Kubyenka grabbed the reins just a little bit tighter and farted loudly. Enjoying life's pleasures one last time before the battle began, who knew whether there would still be a chance for this later. Or perhaps he would go down with a fart and a generous, wet shit. Not unusual for a dying man, and at least he would leave his enemies something to delight in.

Waiting and sitting and farting and waiting some more. He looked over to the other side of that little dried-up riverbed down in the valley, and squinted his eyes. Midday had come, and the sun burned down heavy from the left, making the armour of their enemies' lines reflect as if they tried to blind them. He was thankful for the kettle hat. Žižka and Henry had insisted on wearing full plate armour, but fuck it, in a heat like this he might as well have more luck fighting naked altogether. That the Germans had waited out here on the field unprotected for a good two hours would even give them a small advantage perhaps. But then again, many of the men on the other side weren't all too heavily armoured either, and while they tried to arrange their troops into these funny looking wedges like the better equipped Order knights left of them did, they did not exactly show much competence at it. Mercenaries then. Had they lost their minds?

Kubyenka stood up on his saddle as well as he could, pee­ring over to the left, where the German ranks reached far across the horizon. From the banners he could make out and the shi­ning metal reflecting the sunlight, it seemed as if many more knights were positioned on their centre and right flank too. Sending only their weakest troops against battle-experienced Vytautas then, and against the bloody Golden Horde. Ridicu­lous. Or particularly cunning.

The Tatar soldier next to him furrowed his brow, and mumbled something that Kubyenka understood shit of, but he nodded and grinned anyway. He let his eyes slide past the man to Vytautas's banner, could only catch the sight of the Duke's helmet, with all the men surrounding him, but it seemed like his gaze was fixed on other side fully. Waiting. Sitting and waiting and sweltering and …

Vytautas raised his head just slightly, his horse pranced back a few steps under his sudden movement. Kubyenka spun around and saw them. Cannons. The Order's left wing raised their cannons. The first few rows in that weird-looking wedge were equipped with small hand-held ones, and then they led their horses to the side a bit and revealed proper cannons. Finger of God kind of shit.

The Tatar warrior next to him cursed, so much Kubyenka could understand. He wanted to curse too, but the words were not leaving his lips. He wanted to pray, but realised that there was not a single full prayer he knew by heart. Instead he farted again. And then he spat out to the ground, and the Tatar spat too, and they looked at each other and nodded. Time to die.

A shout on the other side, then the cannons were pointed at their targets. The sun was burning. The air smelled of sweat and ash and fear. Vytautas waited. For what, damn it? If they didn't attack now, they might lose their only chance to do so. Another shout on the other side, clear enough for Kubyenka to hear and understand. “Feuer!”

The men behind the fucking Godfingers ignited the fuse. Waiting. And still no command from Vytautas. “Ave Maria,” Kubyenka said, cursing at himself for not having paid more at­tention to the priests' unintelligible words. “Just fucking help us, God damn it.”

And then the fire had finally reached the gunpowder. Ku­byenka could not see it because he was too far away to spot the tiny fuses, but he recognised it on the faces of the Order's men. In their confusion. Their panic.

Vytautas yelled something, and then further in the front, the Golden Horde's khan yelled something back, and then the Tatar warriors around Kubyenka yelled too, and suddenly their ranks came to life. Forward. Kubyenka did not need to understand to know what he had to do. Ride down fast into the valley, dash into their rows, attack swiftly, retreat, reform, attack again. Use this moment of confusion, this fucking gift from God. Ha! So Godwin was right, that bastard! God did not care about that stupid Roman language, a quick prayer in one's own tongue could do wonders too!

The Order's men had barely raised their swords and lances properly, when the Horde was already tearing through their ranks. Kubyenka tucked his own cannon under his armpit and fired it blindly. Someone screamed, someone fell, perhaps the one who had screamed, he could not see him, and he had al­ready stowed the weapon back into his saddle back, taken the crossbow instead. Aiming, shooting. Right through some Ger­man's left eye. More arrows flew past his head, and he lowered his body to the neck of his horse, just as some rope with a noose at its end was flung over him, winding itself around a Teutonic mercenary's throat and pulling him off his horse. He fell to the soggy ground down here in the valley, was dragged through the mud a few paces, spilling out gurgling sounds and flapping his legs and arms like a rooster, until his battle was stopped by a horse's hoof fertilising the ground with the insides of his head.

A loud shout from where khan Jelal al-Din was riding, then the Horde turned, and Kubyenka did the same. Retreating back up to the hill, recovering. A bolt hit his saddle, right where the cannon was stored, and it bounced off the metal. “Feuer!” someone screamed once again, and this time it were their hand-held cannons that were fired, and their sounds tore through the air, rang in his ears, a dozen shots perhaps, not more. The cry of a horse and it crashed to the ground, burying its rider under­neath its body. There was no time to stop, only for Kubyenka to avert his gaze.

Up on the hill, Vytautas still stood with his Lithuanian ban­ners and waited. His sword raised to the Heavens like a torch, waiting, waiting, and then he swirled it through the air, and khan Jelal al-Din shouted again, and the Horde turned. Back down to the Order's troops that were struggling to keep their formation up, especially on the far right side, and so the Tatars changed their direction just the tiniest bit and attacked that weak spot. More arrows shot, more ropes being flung. Kubyen­ka hit a man's throat, then another one's thigh, then a lance was armed at his horse's head, but he could pull the reins tightly and dodge it in the very last moment. “Feuer!” was shouted, and yet another cannon volley was released, this time right around them, and while the noise and the stench and the smoke were enough to disorient him for a while, Kubyenka could tell that it was only the smallest fraction of their firearms that actually worked. A sharp pain in his left shoulder, and at first he was convinced one of the few shots had hit him, but then he rea­lised that it was a whole cannon that one of the Germans had thrown in frustration. He dared to laugh, despite the pain. Ave Maria, blessed be thy name, you are the greatest wench of all!

The Golden Horde turned once more, but this time the Order was better prepared already, and blocked off their way. Metal screeched, Tatars and Germans fell. Kubyenka pressed his bo­dy to the neck of his horse again, and did not stop. Not until he had left the fighting behind him, had rushed up the hill, where his eyes found Vytautas's sword, and it circled, and Kubyenka pulled on the reins.

When he stormed down this time, the ground he rode over was covered in blood and bodies. Kubyenka did not look. Did not want to see how many of them were dead already and how many he killed just now as he ran them into the ground. The rows of the Germans had cleared drastically too, but more banners had lined up behind them, and new orders were yelled, and suddenly they were swamped from all sides.

A sword aimed for his head, and Kubyenka pressed his thighs firmly into his horse's flanks and turned around with his crossbow raised, aiming, shooting. The bolt missed, and the young soldier on his horse in front of him grinned madly. Hea­vy armour, the colours of the Teutonic knights themselves on his coat, but only a page it seemed. His narrow sapphire eyes glinted when he raised his sword again, flinging it around wildly.

Kubyenka tossed his crossbow to the side and drew his own sword. The lad wanted a proper battle? Fine, he could have it. He parried a hit at his head, another one at his arm, then he reached out and aimed for the lad's throat. The knight was quick to block and strike back, but it was clear that he had ne­ver proven his skills in the ruthlessness of a battle. He fought with the blade of honour and the feigned armour of valour because that was what he believed was expected of him, and Kubyenka wanted to laugh in his face. This is a battlefield, boy. Out here you'll either win like a bastard or take your honour with you to the grave.

Just as Kubyenka aimed for the page's horse, another young soldier came rushing in, a lay knight or mercenary judging by the armour he wore, and he had either heard Kubyenka's thoughts or understood the meaning of battle better than the first one, because he attacked without any warning, and at such a low angle that Kubyenka had no chance of blocking it with from his position. The sword hit his lower back, cut through the leather, through skin and flesh too much likely, but Kubyenka did not feel it. He only reached out, took hold of the second boy's shoulder, and pulled him closer. The German tried to shield his face with his free arm, and Kubyenka pommelled against his vambrace, again and again and again, until the steel was so dented one could have eaten soup from it.

The Teutonic page swung his sword again, and Kubyenka had to let go off his victim to block off the attack. He could hear the second lad scream in pain, as he removed his arm pro­tection with shaking fingers, rolling up his sleeve and exposing his broken bone with the scar-covered skin around it already bruising.

Kubyenka did not waste any time, lunged out and added another scar. One that would last forever. Then he ended the boy's suffering quickly by stabbing the end of his sword through his screaming mouth. The boy fell to the side, his foot got caught in his stirrups, the horse shied, reared up. The page only managed to widen his sapphire eyes before a hoof hit his jaw, breaking it with a disgusting sound, and then he fell back too, landed flat on the ground, choking on his own blood.

His coughs went silent. All the noise around Kubyenka went silent, drowned out by the rushing in his ears, no heat on his skin, only tingling in his head, as if someone had screwed it open for death-eating maggots to crawl in, and his vision got black as night. His hand was shaking when he reached back to feel for the cut on his lower back, just where the chest plate ended and the fabric of his hose began. Wet and hot. Ah shit. He could have really needed some booze now.

No, Kubyenka reminded himself, shaking his head. The boy would not have liked that. “Just a tiny celebratory drink after the battle,” he had pleaded earlier this morning, just after the first mass, but that fucker had been adamant. “We will cele­brate with kolachs, that should be more than enough. And hey, Kubyenka, look at me. We will celebrate, understood?”

Look at me.

He blinked a few times, turned his face right, south. Heat on his skin, bright sunlight in his eyes. The smell of horse and blood and shit. At least not his own. Now, that would have been embarrassing.

The noise of the battle came back to him from afar, as if a rain cloud was getting nearer, the drops falling onto the land in the distance and creeping closer with every passing moment. There was the standard of Saint George on the horizon, the Czech mercenaries, Žižka and Henry and Capon would be among them, still fighting, sill holding out, they had to. In front of him, up on the hill, Vytautas was gone. No, Kubyenka rea­lised slowly, he had joined them, had manoeuvred his men down into the valley, was fighting right by their side, they were so many now, more than enough to stand a fair chance.

Ah, to hell with it all!

He grabbed his sword tighter. Looked for his crossbow, but it was lying on the ground, half buried by the Teutonic page, and Kubyenka knew that there was no point in jumping down to get it, not if he didn't fancy to snap in two right in the middle as soon as his feet touched the earth. But there was a bow on the German's horse, and the animal was standing still enough for him to ride over and take it, and some arrows too, and then he turned around and rushed back into battle with a loud, motivating yell.

His motivation lasted perhaps for an hour or so, and ended with Vytautas calling out over the heads of his soldiers. In Li­thuanian and Tatar and Polish and Rus or whatever else these devils of men were speaking. Only one single word. Retreat.

It's a trick, Kubyenka thought. He had heard that the Duke had used this tactic before, that it was common practice among the Golden Horde. Fein retreat and come back all the stronger, like they had done this whole time. Only that now he seemed to actually mean it, or perhaps only his men believed so, but what difference did it make? Chaos arose. Some stormed off into all directions, until Vytautas shouted something again, this time in the tongue only they spoke, and then they all went east, up the hill and back to their camp, and Kubyenka followed them because what else could he do when he did not understand shit? The Tatars dashed past everyone else on their short, nimble horses, arrows flew past his head, left and right, and he leaned forward once more, as far as the wound allowed it, and held tight to the rim of that bloody kettle hat.

Up the hill, with the Order on their arse, into the lines of trees, shady, slippery, veined with roots. Horses fell, riders screamed, breaking like twigs, dying. More arrows, but they got stuck in the trees he came by. Down the hill to where the land cleared again. Where their camp was positioned, where Katherine was positioned, treating the wounded. And where then?

Katherine.

Kubyenka stopped his horse once he had reached the first rows of tents, looked around himself. Where was that fucking flag, the crowned eagle, the red cloth? Soldiers rushed past him, some only barely clinging to their horses. He ignored them. Forward. Left. The flag, the eagle, he had found it, had to get closer, closer, while the hordes of riders were still running past him. One Lithuanian man had to come to a full halt as Kubyenka blocked his way, cursed at him, and Kubyenka only waved back, shouting “Help me!” in Polish, and hoping the man would understand. He did. At least he followed.

They made it to the tent, just as the Order knights were lea­ving the cover of the trees, some stopping right there, lifting their bows. Katherine sat behind the tent, next to a young man whose ash-coloured apron was just as blood-sodden as Kathe­rine's dress. Another surgeon then, as he was most likely not a butcher.

“Mylady?” he greeted her, reaching down a hand, and when Katherine lifted her face, there were tears in her eyes. “The hand is just symbolic. I'm afraid that I'm a little torn right now about helping you. You'll have to get up on your own.”

She climbed up in front of him, while the surgeon took a seat behind him, and then he pointed into the tent and ordered the Lithuanian soldier to “Get the girl and the grandpa!” It was not ideal, but they would not have to endure like this for long. Only to get further into the safety of their camp. But to do what, damn it, to do what?

The troops had fled to the far end of the camp, where the clearing had forced itself into the woods like a wedge. A long, but narrow empty space, with wagons and barricades on all sides. Only a few hours ago, this had been the place where they had safely kept their horses. Now it had become their death­trap. Grand Duke Vytautas had taken off his helmet, his long hair falling over his back and his chest, and he was arguing with the Tatar khan. Both of them looked distraught, helpless. They had lost control.

Kubyenka turned. Here and there, between and above the tents that reached as far as he could see, the German banners were showing, but they had slowed down, as if they had got distracted. Looting most likely. And why not? They could take all the time they needed, because their enemies had just got themselves into a deadlock, with only one way out and one way in. Only one way in indeed.

“The wagons!” Kubyenka shouted, first in Polish, but his knowledge failed him, so he continued in Czech instead, while Katherine helped him translate. “Get a few of the wagons from the side and push them to the front end! Like a wall that we can hide behind, a castle of horse carts!”

Silence followed. Such a long silence that Kubyenka was certain either none of the men had understood or they had al­ready given up. The camp folk that had followed them into this trap looked up to him with big eyes as if Kubyenka had just spoken in the devil's tongue to them. Well, to most of them it might not have sounded all that different.

Then Vytautas spoke. Loud and clear and commanding. First in Lithuanian, then in Polish, and then in something else entire­ly. “You heard him! Build a wagon castle!”

They were done in no time. Ten wagons on each side of the wall facing sideways, four in the middle placed in such a way that they could still be rolled back and forth, with a few stones and crates placed behind their wheels just in case. Vytautas de­legated the construction, his men built it, Kubyenka provided the plan, Katherine translated his words, she had learned Polish much quicker than him, while she still tried her best to stitch and bandage his back. When they were done, they formed ranks. Lance bearers to the front, archers to the back, shield carriers between them, to form a makeshift roof for the rest to hide under. And then they waited.

Sitting and waiting and listening and fearing and waiting, but at least Kubyenka did not feel like farting anymore, that would have been a shame with a woman like Katherine so close by. Outside, the Germans were still rummaging through their camp. Every now and then one of them got close to their wagon wall, tried to climb it but saw the lances on the other side, shot an arrow over the fortification, only hitting the layer of shields. “Lasst sie,” someone said with the fierce voice of a commander. “Die sind es nicht wert, dass wir uns die Zähne an dieser Wagenburg ausbeißen. Wir gehen zurück.”

“They'll leave us be,” Kubyenka whispered, and when he turned to the side, he saw Katherine placing a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. He took her into his arms, pulling her face to his shoulder with a hand on the back of her head. “We are safe, Kat. Yes, lass, let it all out. The battlefield is no place for honour.”

It seemed like it was a place for misjudgement though, be­cause he was wrong, once again. Their enemies were not lea­ving back to where the fighting took place. They weren't even leaving the camp. They did not make it that far.

Up on the hill to the east, out of sight for Kubyenka but as loud and clear as a church bell, an army neared. And from the lips of hundreds of soldiers poured, in Polish words, praise for their King Jagiełło.

* * *

Janosh raised his fokos against the first German he met, and, without slowing down the pace of his horse, he smashed his face to soup. It was easy to defeat Wallenrode's men, and it went quickly, so quickly that Janosh would have almost felt pity for them, had it not been their greed that cost them. Some of the Teutonic soldiers were already on their way back to the battlefield when a whole banner of Jagiełło had come flooding them from the south. They had already lost too many fighters down in the valley, were now scattered too far, and so they did not stand a chance. Most of the Germans were still inside the camp. Confident of their victory, proud and arrogant, hungry for a payment for their effort that had not been granted to them, so they simply took it on their own. Janosh broke the back of a man who had his arms and head deeply buried in a chest filled with fine clothes, and another one, who was just about to fill his pockets with Lithuanian złoty, he simply ran down with his horse.

He tried his best not to think of Boleszláv, but it was impos­sible. Confident Boleszláv, greedy Boleszláv. No one had been able to persuade him to stay and be satisfied with the life they had, not even his brothers begging him under tears. In the end, he had had it the easiest. Did not have to witness two of his younger brothers being murdered for the trouble he had started, and the youngest, the little nestling Janosh, fleeing the country, and then another country, and another, clad in the dresses of beggars and thieves. Greed. Greed leading the dagger, back then in the Ruthard's palace. A tap on his shoulder, flaxen hair around a freckled face, a wide grin, long front teeth, but he had grown into them over time. A dirty hand holding a piece of poppy cake. Eyes as bright as the sky above watching him cu­riously as he devoured it all within moments. Greedily.

Adder is dead. We need to find our own way.

Janosh raised his fokos again and slammed the pointed end so hard into a man's cheek, that he tore half his jaw off with it. The soldier sank to his knees, pressing his hands to his face, as if he could somehow hold it together, and without a useful tongue his pained dying screams was only gurgling noise.

“They are hiding in the back of the camp,” someone said, and Janosh pulled the reins tight to stop his horse and turn into the direction that was pointed at. “They have barricaded them­selves in with wagons.”

“Who has?” someone else asked. “What are their colours?”

Then a third one rode closer and lifted his axe. In between the gaps of the tents, Janosh could see how he hammered at the foremost wagon so hard the wood splintered around him as if he had hit an artery.

“Halt!” a voice from inside the fortification shouted, loud and fierce and commanding. “I am Grand Duke Vytautas,” the man said in broken Polish. “I am here with my banner. Step away and we will open the barrier.”

Janosh guided his horse closer and held his breath. Vytau­tas's men. Or whatever was left of the right flank. So many had died on the battlefield as the fighting had become more heated. He had watched it from his position on the hilltop, at Jagiełło's side. Had watched as they had turned to retreat, had looked at the flower bed of armour, broken shields, hacked flesh and blood that had just moments ago been standing there alive and fighting, and had searched for Kubyenka's padded jacket and his ugly kettle hat. It would have been easier to find the needle in the haystack. In a whole castle filled with hay.

The wagons in the middle of the barricade were pushed for­ward slowly, squeaking, and then the first people stepped out into the chaos that had once been the Lithuanian part of the camp. A few women and children and unarmoured men, cooks and sutlers and prostitutes. The two physicians and the young woman who had taken the tent at the outer part of the camp to care for the wounded. Katherine was not amongst them. Janosh took a deep, shaky breath and raised his left hand to the brooch, letting his fingers caress the golden bottony. He had had it hid­den for so long. Ever since it had cost András his life. Not greed that time, only the foolishness of children. When he had finally met Jagiełło and asked for justice, he had regretted ever hiding it. It was the only thing he still had of home, the mo­ment his father had pinned it to his heart one of the only things he remembered to this day.

And how the grass had smelled in summer. And how the em­broidered fabric of the curtains in the throne room had felt when he had used them to hide behind from his brothers. And how deep the valley had looked. Sometimes he wondered if it would still look this deep, now that he had long grown from the little boy he had been when he had last stood on the castle walls, feeling the cold wind of autumn on his face and the bur­den of his father's death in his heart, not yet able to understand that this was the end of what he knew to be home.

And then he had found a new home. On the Krakow streets, in a piece of poppy cake and a bright smile with large teeth. A brother, like the three he had lost, and then, as they had grown older, something more, something no brother could ever be. Together they had found a new home in Bohemia. In the Dry Devil, that bastard, and in that drunkard Kubyenka, and in the mercenary Jan Žižka, who knew grief perhaps as much as Ja­nosh did, and in Katherine and the ghosts she carried. Not only a home any longer. A family.

The camp followers had left their hiding place, and after them came Vytautas's Lithuanian soldiers, and at last the Grand Duke himself. Janosh felt his shoulders sink as he realised. The needle stuck into his thumb, he had squeezed the brooch so tightly, it had opened. Home. So fragile against a stolen title, against a wagon of silver coins.

The last men were leaving the fortification now, khan Jilal al-Din and his Golden Horde, and Janosh already wanted to turn his horse and scout the camp for any remaining Germans, when he saw them. A woman in an ash-grey dress, blood on her skirt, and it had rubbed off on her hands and her long, brown braid. And the limping man that she held securely by the arm­pit. He had taken off the kettle hat, was only wearing a short leather coif now, and Janosh was impressed by how confidently he could say that it was an improvement.

He put both fokos and shield down, dismounted his horse and went to them, marvelled at how their faces brightened up when they saw him, and then they wrapped their arms around each other and held tight for a long time. Breathing in all the sweat and blood that to him smelled only like summer grass and poppy cake.

“Look at you,” Kubyenka said when they finally parted again. “Not even a scratch.”

“And you?” He leaned to the side to have a look at Kubyen­ka's back. It seemed like Katherine had tried her best to hide the wound behind thick layers of bandages, but even those were starting to darken already. “Crack open like egg?”

“Ah, my shell is still holding together nicely, don't you wor­ry. Katherine here made sure of that.”

“I tried my best.” She had a tear in her eye, and Janosh felt some burning in his own too.

Then the moment of serenity turned into turmoil. Riders, but not their own. A few hundred from the sound of it, rushing along the camp and further up to the hill, where Janosh could see them between the trees, their white knightly armour, their standards, the chequered blue and white field with the black eagles on golden crosses of the Grand Master Ulrich von Jun­gingen himself. They had broken through the right flank that Vytautas's retreat had left unprotected, but none of them seemed to be paying attention to the camp. Pushing steadily south instead.

“Shit,” Kubyenka hissed. “That's what happens when you leave the fence gate open. Invites all the wolves in.”

“The King.” Janosh felt a pain in his stomach, as hot as a knife. “They go for King. And for boy.”

Just a moment later, Janosh found himself riding back to where they had left King Jagiełło behind, right on the tail of von Jungingen's troops, but not quite close enough. The Order reached the King's knoll before them. “Our man are coming back,” he heard someone yell from afar, before another man started screaming in fright: “They don't have straws, they don't have straws! It's not our men! Turn, people, turn!”

Too slow. Janosh heard the dreadful trumpets of death when von Jungingen's troop cut through the first rows of Jagiełło's retinue like a scythe through wheat. Then he had reached them too, his fokos ready. Smashing down everything that dared to get close, while his eyes were facing east. To where the battle raged down below, in the distance. To where, just a few paces away but separated by hordes of clashing knights, the red flag with the white eagle was flying high. The King's own banner had been furled to hide his position, or so it was decided before the battle, but Janosh knew that he couldn't be far. A bit to the south, if his position hadn't changed while Janosh had been down at the camp. Surrounded by his bodyguard, and with Ště­pán close by.

Janosh spurred his horse and dashed forward. Blocking when a weapon was aiming in his direction, hitting when he noticed a white coat or a black cross, and when someone came close, he struck and killed blindly, because nothing mattered now but the boy. His arm was aching from the weight of his fo­kos, his face was glowing hot from the sun and the blood that he spilled, sweat soaked his shirt, made the movements sticky and sluggish, like walking through honey. A spear hit the side of his horse. A gut-wrenching scream before it collapsed. Ja­nosh had already jumped to the ground, but then the spear got close once more. He blocked it with his shield, landed a hit on some horse's leg, then a sword scraped the plate on his left shoulder and he spun around, smashed someone's hand to pulp. His gaze darted up into the air, searched around wildly. Bright summer sky, and horse heads and peacock feathers and scarce tree tops. And the eagle.

The eagle fell. Like a shot down pheasant.

Janosh was not the only one to notice. There were shouts of fear and terror of the Polish and Lithuanian fighters around him, and cries of joy from the Order's men. “Polen ist gefal­len!” a Teutonic knight cheered, and Janosh did not need to know any German to understand his words.

He bashed the man's face in. Ran forward. The blows came raining down like arrows now, as if the Teutonic soldiers had gained new giant-like strength with the fall of the Krakow banner. He dodged a few, got hit by a few more, one sliced his calf open, cutting the straps of his shin guard too, but Janosh did not stop. Not until he had reached it.

The standard bearer was lying dead on the ground, his body covered by the red flag, his face sticking out. Eyes opened wide, lips pressed together in pain, but his teeth were still vi­sible through a hole in his cheek. Janosh bent down and ripped the staff from his fingers. Lifted his arms and raised the Polish flag up to the sun. For András murdered on the Krakow streets. For little Komar with the cake in his dirty hand. For home.

For just the briefest moment, all fighting seemed to stop as if the battle around him was suddenly nothing but a pretty tapes­try. Then a man shouted: “Der König!” and when Janosh turned right, he saw the white coat and the peacock feathers of a Teu­tonic knight fight their way through the stunned soldiers who served as Jagiełło's bodyguard. “My King, watch out!” some­one yelled, and it was the high voice of Štěpán, shaking with fear, but ready to fight, and the heavily armoured rider next to him with his cloak of red velvet and grey mink fur turned and readied his sword.

King Władysław Jagiełło did not have time to defend him­self. Another man rushed forward, pushing Štěpán aside, ma­king him stumble into his enemy's arms, and lifting a broken lance that he must have picked up somewhere. Royal secretary Zbigniew Oleśnicki stabbed the knight right in his side and knocked him off his horse. The peacock feathers disappeared between Jagiełło's recovering bodyguard. Swords were raised and brought down again, the man screamed and begged and died.

Zbigniew Oleśnicki looked as proud as a groom on his wed­ding day.

* * *

The two Rus banners fought as vigorously as men only could. Even after having witnessed what had happened to their third banner before. Completely annihilated, as if it had never exis­ted. Von Jungingen's force was like a wildfire, rolling over the land, swallowing every tree, every field, every village in its way. Strong enough even to afford separating a whole troop and sending them north, right into the now empty right flank of their formation. To go where? To Lake Lubian where their camp was situated? Or around the hills to give it to them from behind? Fucking whoresons. “They could have at least asked us first,” Godwin had joked, and that was about the only com­ment they both spoke about that matter. For anything else this was neither the time nor the place. And every worried word or thought would only distract them from the real task at hand: to strike these bastards down.

It had taken the crown's Grand Marshal Zyndram of Masko­wice some time to engage, as if he had more interested in wat­ching Vytautas's men on the right wing fight and fall than in any fighting himself, but when he finally gave the order, the valley turned into an ocean full of maelstroms. Seventeen Polish banners of more than two thousand men stood under his command, and all of them moved down in unison, like an ava­lanche set loose. The one who came to meet them down in the swamp that tore through the battlefield, was Grand Komtur Kuno von Lichtenstein, riding in the middle of his lines of just as many soldiers. White as pearls, a white cloak, a white horse in a white caparison, even his helmet was decorated with white swan feathers instead of the peacock tufts the other knights were wearing. An angelic vision that fought like the devil. Ma­noeuvring his men with the greatest skill and spurring them on to do the same. Let them then, Žižka thought. If they wanted to be devils, he would be the one to give them hellfire.

The hellfire had not even burned for half an hour or so when it died down to a pathetic little lamplight. Fatigued. Thirsty. Isolated. Somewhen in the confusion of the battle he had lost sight of Jan Sokol, and then he had separated from Godwin as well. Henry and his Lordship had moved further to the back, but he could not see them either. And what was there to be seen? Sunlight on armour that stung in his eye. Arrows in the air, swords and lances swirling around. Straw, straw? was the only question he asked himself, and at some point, not even that. His muscles hurt. His throat felt as if he had downed a whole bucket of sand. East and west, their enemy's side or theirs, it had all become the same, and the only way to tell where he was facing was by the position of the sun, but that had moved too, was standing right above him in the zenith now, and he felt like he was crushed underneath its force.

Then his horse gave in. Her knees buckled, and then she fell, and Žižka fell with her, toppling inelegantly to the ground. Ki­cking and wiggling to free his strained left ankle that had got stuck in the stirrups, and when the grip around his leg finally loosened, when he gathered the strength to crawl back a step or two, a tree collapsed right on top of him.

The tree was made of metal. The tree leaked hot onto his neck. The tree panted right into his ear, and then it coughed, and then it stopped breathing completely.

Žižka could not move. Could only stare up, to the empty sky and the blinding sun. At least his lungs were still intact, he thought, and the wet ground yielded enough that he was still able to gasp for air, but if someone else decided to die on top of him, it would not need a hammer to crush him, their weight alone would do all the work. He twitched his left fingers, the ones of his right hand did not seem to work at all, perhaps they had been broken from the way they were hit while being clasped around the handle of his mace. How inglorious, even for a bandit like him. To kick the bucket like this.

Heavy, dragged footsteps in the mud at the top of his head, and then a broadsword appeared in his sight. The tip was brought down to his throat with almost painfully slow move­ments, either because the man was just as tired as him, or he just wanted to make sure to get it right.

Just when the steel slid into the gap between his helmet and gorget, the man was shoved. Not by a weapon or hooves hitting him, but by flat hands pushing against his chest. The attacker was too quick for Žižka to see him, and when he moved away, he did so on his left side, where his dead eye complicated the view. Then he felt hands on his feet.

“Yes,” he mumbled, too weak and quiet to be heard over the roaring of the battle. “Pull me out, god damn it!”

The hands pulled. After they had opened the buckles around his lower legs, that was, and they did not pull at him, but only at his boots. Wonderful, Žižka thought bitterly. Not only fated to be entrapped for my last remaining moments under a dead man, I will also have to lie here robbed and half-naked.

A breeze on his feet as his boots were removed, then the bo­dy on top of him was shifted, but only further up his chest. The hands moved to his platelegs now. This was truly humiliating. More humiliating even than when he had had to fill Rosen­berg's cups with the weakest piss of wine. He tried to use his now freed legs to kick the robber off, and was granted a slap to his calf in return. A slap? “Stop wiggling so much, you donkey, I'm trying to help you here!”

“Godwin? What in Christ's name are you doing there?”

“Undressing you, as you might have noticed. And doing so while not giving up this perfect shield that you obtained for … Hold on!”

The hands left his legs, Godwin jumped to his feet, and now Žižka could finally see him. He looked utterly ridiculous. He wouldn't have, had he been out in a church somewhere, or in the Karolinum perhaps, because the dress he was wearing seemed to be one of his teacher's robes. But here on the battle­field, surrounded by two fully-armoured men, wielding a short sword and a broad shield, he looked as out of place as a flower on a dung pile. He had even taken off his helmet and ex­changed it for a that cap he always liked to wear. And yet, he managed to fight off one of his opponents, and keep the second one busy long enough for a Gończa fighter to stab him from the back. Divine protection, clearly. And one that was fully unde­served. No such madman should ever be granted this much luck, be it by Lady Fortune or God.

“Look, I would not exactly be opposed to the undressing part,” Žižka hissed when Godwin had kneeled down next to him again, “but this does not seem like the proper place for it.”

Godwin paid his objections as little mind as if the words had just been the breeze in the air. “I will lift this man off you now. And then I will immediately take those legs off, while you will get rid of your chestplate, understood?”

“Why should I …?”

“Just trust me, Jan!”

Žižka shook his head. Apparently it meant a sign of approval for Godwin, because the next moment, he started shoving and tugging the body on top of Žižka, and together they finally managed to heave the corpse away. Then Godwin's hands were back on his legs to remove the protection there, and without asking any more questions, Žižka took off the chestplate as fast as he could, helped by Godwin and by the outrageous advan­tage that their position on the ground seemed to give them. Then Godwin ripped the hauberk off him, and Žižka undid the buckles of his helmet, and threw that thing right into the face of the nearest man he saw.

He was pulled to his feet, and dragged along. Not far, just a few steps. Right into the deep mud that the dried-up river had left behind.

“What is your fucking plan, Godwin?”

“That,” Godwin pointed past him, and Žižka turned, follo­wing the gesture's path, “is my plan.”

Right next to them, with his hands and knees stuck in the morass, crouched the soldier whose sword had been pointed at Žižka's throat just moments ago. His armour and cloak up to his waist were wet and soiled from mud. He cursed, tore an arm free, then his left leg, wanted to get up, but his right foot sank down even further, and so he fell back forward, cursing even louder.

In a few paces around him, the ground was clear of anyone else. A bit further down, the valley was shallower and covered with stones, and whoever wanted to cross to either side was using that passage to do so. But no one dared to get close to the trap that the swamp formed. No one on a horse at least, or in full heavy armour.

“Push them in, make them fall,” Godwin stepped forward and raised his sword, bringing it up into Žižka's sight, that the blade sparkled in the sunlight, “slit their throats.”

Žižka laughed. In disbelief, and honestly impressed. “Did Kosovo teach you that?”

“No. That fella over there did.”

That fella over there was a grey-haired man with a pointed chin on a chestnut horse who Žižka first mistook for a common standard bearer, until he had a closer look. The armour of a knight. The posture and expression of someone who watched and waited for the right moment. A wolf amongst sheep, only that he was clad in the same fur as the sheep were.

“The Chełmno banner, isn't it?”

Žižka regarded the flag with the red and white waves and the black cross on top that the knight was holding, and nodded slowly. “But that's not the important part. What is that sewed onto his chest, Godwin? Tell me if my one eye is deceiving me.”

“A lizard.”

“Ah. I was right then.”

“Is he part of the Eydechsenbund? I believed those nobles stood against the Teutonic Order. Why have they still recruited them?”

“Forced alliance. Or a feigned one. We'll see.” As if the knight had heard or felt that they were talking about him, he turned his face, and his wolf eyes found Žižka's. He nodded, and Žižka brought his fist to his chest. It was just a brief mo­ment shared before the knight set himself into motion again, moving over the stone crossing into the Polish-Lithuanian side, followed by a few dozen of men with similar embroidery on their coats. Then, as if a window had been opened, the storm of the battle raged anew.

It was almost fun now, barefoot in the mud, with his mace in hand and Godwin by his side. And it was nothing but ridiculous how easy their enemies fell. Some of them stumbled into their boggy grave on their own, lured in by the easy target that the two men, one in his undershirt, one in a teacher's robe, seemed to pose. Others came running or riding over because they saw Žižka and Godwin standing here and expected it to be a safe passage, only realising their mistake when it was too late. Ma­ny more Žižka and Godwin shoved and pulled into the swamp with their own hands.

In the end, the method did not matter. What mattered was that they faltered and tumbled as soon as they stepped onto the wet and sticky ground. That their weapons slipped from their grasp when they brought their hands up in an attempt to catch their own fall. That Žižka and Godwin could run over to them fleet of foot, almost as if they were floating, and that an occa­sional “devil's work” and “witchcraft” was whispered as they approached their enemies to slowly colour the ground crimson.

They played this game for a while longer, until something over on the hill, where Jagiełło and his reserve must have been positioned, changed. “The Krakow banner has fallen!” some­one shouted, and then all eyes turned east to look for the sign of defeat, the sign that the Polish King had been killed or taken prisoner. The sign was there, or rather the lack thereof. Not for long, however, then the flag was once again raised high.

Not everyone had the patience to wait. “Vorwärts!” was yelled into the silence, and then the Grand Master Ulrich von Jungingen brought his banners forward, storming up the hills like a thunderstorm.

To Žižka's right, the lizard knight raised his left hand with the sword high into the air, then he brought the Chełmno ban­ner down. Ulrich von Jungingen had already rushed off too far, he did not see them yield, or how the whole lizard union turned their backs to him and fled off the battlefield, did not know that a hundred or so fighters of his had betrayed him. He would on­ly realise when it was too late. Or, if they were lucky, Žižka thought, he would never get the chance to find it out.

“After them!” a familiar voice shouted, and when Žižka faced its direction, he saw a blue cornflower flare up between all the people around him, and the distinctive longsword that the lance-bearer behind him carried at his side, both making their way to the hill, to pursue von Jungingen and his troops. Somewhere close by, a knight in white armour lifted his head and shielded his eyes against the sun with a black-gloved hand, before he turned his horse around to follow them.

* * *

“After them!” Hans shouted, and Henry did not need to think twice about it. If the Krakow banner had truly fallen, that meant that the King was, if not dead yet, at least surrounded by enemies, and then the same could be said for Janosh and Štěpán. And the pack was family. To fight for, no matter what, to die for if needed.

The turmoil that had followed the news helped them to ad­vance faster, and so they had just made it to the foot of the hill, when they saw the eagle on his red field fly high once more. Von Jungingen did not care, did not even slow his horse, neither did any of his men. Henry and Hans went after them as far as they could, before they were stopped by Teutonic fighters stepping in their way.

They were all here now. The three Order leaders, Jungingen and Lichtenstein and Wallenrode, facing thousands of Polish soldiers, and was that Janosh over there holding the Krakow standard? No, he was imagining it clearly, confused by all the chaos around him. Knights and pages and mercenaries alike, most on horseback, some by foot, encircling them, and Henry turned his horse so that his back was facing Hans's, and then they fought. Hans rammed his cornflower shield into some­one's face, sending him disoriented over to Henry who brought him down with a stab of his lance, and then Henry bent down far to aim for the legs of a knight's horse so that it reared up, giving Hans the perfect opportunity to lift his nocked crossbow with just one hand and shoot the man down. Back to back they fought, in perfect unison, lance and shield, crossbow and axe, using everything that they had managed to store in their belts and saddlebags and making every blow count. It made Henry's heart burn with reignited passion, felt like a dance to him, the dance that they had never been allowed to share, but after the battle they would, and then he would find another ribbon, and he would make that damned vow again, but this time sober enough to remember.

Shouting on the other hillside that reached down to their camps, and when Henry looked over, he saw the Grand Duke Vytautas come riding in, followed by hundreds of Lithuanians and Tatars. They had not fallen then. They had used their time away from the battlefield to regroup, and to now come back stronger than before, and fuck it, if they had survived, then Ku­byenka might as well have too!

“They are backing down!” Hans pressed out between two pants, freeing his right foot from the stirrup and bringing it forward to give a German's shield hand a good kick. “Lichten­stein has taken his banner down. They are retreating.”

“But Jungingen is not,” Henry said, slamming his lance's hilt into the face of a man who had come riding up behind him, breaking his nasal bone with a vile sound. “Doesn't look like he even thinks about yielding. No, he will fight until death.”

Ulrich von Jungingen was now surrounded by so many men that every part of his body was hidden from Henry's view. Even the Grand Master's own men had left him, but he still kept on fighting. It was futile, but he did not seem to care, and Henry found himself stopping for a moment to listen. To the sounds of swords hitting steel armour and soft flesh. To the panting and the grunts of pain. No screams. Ulrich von Jugingen did not scream, nor did he cry or beg. He only fought. And then it was over.

No one had to say it out loud, and no one dared to. But they all knew without having to hear or see it, like one would know in their heart that a staggering thing had happened, that a new time was about to begin. Or that one was about to end. The Grand Master was dead. Many of his men had fled already, and the ones who hadn't seemed to be caught by the dreadful reali­sation one after the other, as they began to lay down their wea­pons. The movement went through the thousands of men like a massive storm blowing over a forest, and like trees being up­rooted and knocked over, they fell to their knees.

Hours of fighting. And now it had ended, just like that.

“It's over,” Hans whispered, as if he had heard Henry's thoughts.

Then another voice spoke. Deep and growling, and distorted by fury. “It's not for you, bastard. And not for your Jew brother either. Or for that pretty lovers of yours.”

Henry turned. Painfully slow, not even his horse seemed to react to the tug on the reins or the pressure of his legs, or per­haps he wasn't even tugging and pressing at all, because his bo­dy had stopped working just as his lungs had.

Erik's white armour was covered in blood. Teutonic blood or Polish blood? Henry wondered if Erik knew it himself or if he simply did not care. Even his bright eyes were coated by blood, and red tears were glittering in their corners. His right hand was wrapped around the handle of a sword, shaking. Black leather, tight, a bit too small. The touch of a ghost. “I swore to tear out your heart. And I will do that. Bit by bit.”

“What did you say about Samuel?” Henry breathed, and he could not understand from where he took the strength to speak, because inside of him it felt as if Erik had made his promise come true, as if Henry was already a dead man. Perhaps he had been for a while and had only refused to acknowledge it. With­out Istvan there to make him aware.

Erik grinned. Blood on his teeth too. His own or of someone he had killed? “I have my eyes and ears everywhere. And they have brought me stories, nice stories that sang me to sleep last night. Of little Samuel getting caught like a rat in a trap. Of the Crusaders breaking his every limb and weaving them around a cross. Was a nice boost for their morale, I heard, a sight to de­light in. The crucified Jew.”

“Does not seem to have worked well for them,” Henry re­plied and his voice was as weak as the hot summer breeze. He is lying, he told himself. Wants to rile me up, like I did to him, to destroy me before our weapons even cross. But he doesn't know. He can't.

“He might not be dead yet.” Erik's smile widened so far that it looked like it cut through his whole face as if someone had sliced his head open. “If I'm lucky he's still breathing when I'm done with you. Then I can go to him and offer him a sponge with vinegar wine.”

Next to him, Hans put down the crossbow so he could draw his sword. Henry raised a hand at him. “Don't. This is my battle.”

“And it shall be yours,” Hans responded, and then he se­cured the shield with his right hand too, so that he could put the free left hand on Henry's leg. A touch that made Henry remem­ber to breathe again, honesty in his eyes that struck down the weight on his chest. “Kill him,” Hans said, and it was no com­mand, not the permission of a Lord to his vassal, just a request. “And I will do what I should have done a long time ago. Be there for my family.” He turned his horse. Tried his best to hide the tears, but Henry could hear them in his voice. “When we return, together, we will celebrate, yes, Henry? Us three will have a toast to our victory!”

Then he rode off. To save Samuel. To save himself too, even if he might not have realised that yet. Because he did not know Erik as well as Henry did. Because he had never felt the hatred Erik and Henry had once shared. Only that Erik had got stuck in it. A water wheel in whose spokes all the rubble of loss and abandonment had gathered, but the water masses around him had not stopped flooding in, and it had broken him completely. While Henry had built himself a dam. It had taken time, years to erect it fully and the help of responsibilities and loved ones, and to this day, the dam was still leaking and crumbling now and then, the work was never done, but it stood. Right now it stood more secure than ever.

“It's just between you and me then,” Erik snarled, and the smile was still painted to his face, but it was clear that he re­gretted having let Hans go. Could not keep his word then. Or if he still wanted to, he'd at least have to dig his claws right through Henry's chest. A well-known, lilting voice in the back of his head wanted Henry to let him try.

“Surrounded by a few thousand more men, that is.”

Erik tilted his head left and right like a snake. “We can go somewhere else if that suits you more.”

“No,” Henry replied quickly. Because he would not allow Erik to lure him into a trap, he said to himself, but it was a lie. Erik wanted a fair fight, perhaps more than Henry did. But out here, Henry felt safe. In the place that had given him a sense of purpose for the first time in years. In the place that had become a grave for so many poor souls, when to him it had given him freedom. “I find this more fitting. With all the corpses around us. Will be a good reminder to you, a window into your fu­ture.”

Erik's grin did not falter still, and then he said with so much honesty that it made Henry's blood grow cold in his veins: “I am ready to die. Are you?”

He attacked Henry without any warning. A pointed and fierce blow at the level of his head, and Henry barely managed to dodge it and move his horse out of reach. A few paces for­ward, until he turned, getting on Erik's right side, his lance raised and ready. The lance would give him an advantage, of­fered him more reach, but Erik was desperate enough to make up for that.

Henry stormed forward, at the same time as Erik did. His lance was aimed directly at Erik's chest, just until the moment that they got close to each other when he lifted it just a bit. Erik was quick enough to realise the ruse and blocked it with his shield, with so much force that it almost made Henry loosen his grip. Hours of fighting had taken a toll on him, while Erik seemed to be as rested as if this was his first battle of the day, despite all the blood telling a different tale. They turned again. The sun reflected on Erik's visor that he had been careless enough to keep open. Careless or cocky. Either way it meant that this here could be over with one single hit.

Four more times they darted forward, hit and blocked, rode past the other one and turned again. Circling each other like wild beasts, and then watching for a while, lying in wait, before they rushed forward again. Over the bodies of the dead and the dying. Over hardened soil covered in dried grass and wet blood. Between others who were still fighting, trapped in the same hell as Erik and Henry were, incapable of letting it end.

A fifth time, and Henry's lance scraped the side of Erik's cheek, ripping his helmet off. He cursed silently for that fucker had not even cared to fasten it properly, he might as well have torn his whole head off otherwise. Erik still howled and raged. The sound alone made Henry's chest tingle with delight.

“How kind of you,” Henry said when he turned his horse once more, “giving me a chance to see all of your ugly visage. Cannot believe Istvan actually dared to touch that. No wonder he always wore these gloves.”

Erik bellowed like a dog when he spurred on his horse again. So furious now that his blow lacked any accuracy, ma­king it as easy for Henry to parry as if he was battling little Heinrich.

“It reminds me, though,” Henry took a deep breath before turning, to not let Erik see that he was struggling, that the taun­ting was only a provocation to wear Erik down when neither the sun nor the previous fighting had achieved that yet, “you said you had your eyes and ears everywhere. But you weren't really talking about your own eyes and ears, now, where you? Whose are it? Rosenberg's? Or have you found a new Master already? The dog needs his leash after all.”

Erik only screamed when he ran at him, his face twisted to the grimace of the monstrum of some puppetry. Henry lifted the shield. Blocked the sword, pushed it out of reach and lifted his elbow at the same time, driving it right into Erik's armpit. Kurva. Had he been any less of a boar, that hit might have dis­located Erik's shoulder completely, but this way it only made him yelp in pain and frustration.

Henry already opened his mouth for more mockery, when he turned and felt his heart stop for a moment. Erik wasn't alone anymore. There was someone standing right next to him on the ground, a man, though it was hard to tell. Splinters of glass had torn the flesh of his face apart, one had even pierced into his eye, making blood and ichor run across his cheek, and the left side of his head was crushed in so heavily, it had dug a dent into his skull. And yet, Istvan Toth was standing and smiling. “You're doing so well, dear boy,” he said, and at first, Henry was certain his words had to be directed at Erik, until he rea­lised that the one eye that was still intact was facing him. “On­ly one more taunt, and you can hack him to shreds. Another name on your list crossed out. Leaves room for more. Rosen­berg's has already been added, has it not? And perhaps the men who are killing your sweetheart and your brother this very mo­ment. The ink is still fresh, boy. Write their names down. Write them all down. Until that parchment is covered in black.”

Henry brought his left arm to his body and pressed it onto his stomach. Like Hans used to do whenever the nightmares had returned. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he breathed.

“How could I? I owe this to you.” Istvan stepped closer. He reached up for the splinter in his eye, twisted and pulled it, lau­ghing all the way until he had ripped it out and the eye with it. Then he tossed it at the feet of Henry's horse. “Freedom. You felt it, did you not, why deny it? The killing made you feel free. And it will continue to do so, one murder at a time, until some­thing magnificent is born.”

“As magnificent as him?”

Erik bared his teeth. “Who? Who are you talking to, you whoreson?”

“How easy it has been for you to abandon Capon. How re­lieved you felt when you fled to Prague. Breaking the chains of a decade-old love. Because Capon does not see you the way you truly are. So magnificent.” The grotesque image of Istvan had reached him now, and he finally stopped and lifted his hand, the right one, placing his naked skin on Henry's fingers, and Henry felt it so clearly as if he was not wearing a gauntlet, as if that creature was not only a phantasm of a tortured mind. “You do not need him. I am always there with you. And I love you, in that magnificent shape that I sculptured you into.”

“What are you waiting for?” Erik screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Kill him,” Istvan Toth whispered. “End it once and for all.”

Henry spurred his horse on. Raised the lance, missed. Erik did not. The sword cut deep into the flank of Henry's horse. It cried out dreadfully, but managed to stand upright.

“Cross out his name,” Istvan said, “you don't have a chance anyway. The stronger dog, boy. Prove to me that it's you.”

I am no dog, Henry wanted to answer, I do not need to prove myself to you. You do not own me, you did not create me. He turned his horse around. Raised his lance again.

Just before he got close, Erik changed direction, rode to Henry's left side instead. Henry was not quick enough to bring his lance over. Erik's sword dashed through the air and slid his horse's throat.

The ground shifted and Henry fell, rolling a few paces, get­ting stopped by a corpse. It cost him a few moments until he had regathered his senses. His hip burned as if someone had set it on fire. The old battle wound, Erik's gift. Get up, Henry! someone shouted in his mind. His own voice, Istvan's, Hans's? He could not even tell. Do not let him kill you here. Be the stronger dog. Fight.

It was a miracle that he managed to, but somehow Henry got to his feet, and then he drew the sword from his side. He was dizzy from the fall, but Erik was clear to see, all white and red, and when he came riding at him, he screamed loud enough for people to hear all the way down to Tannenberg. Henry brought father's sword forward and aimed at Erik's right leg, but Erik had not fallen like he had, was still quick-witted and fast enough to parry. His attacks became rapid. Storming at Henry from the back and the side, and from the front again, until Hen­ry felt like a spinning top caught in some cruel child's game.

“Stop being a coward!” Henry shouted into the empty air, as Erik had already pulled his horse around to approach him from a different angle yet again. “Get down to me! Prove to your Master that he has trained you to be the stronger dog!”

“You will die here!” Erik yelled to Henry's right, and he turned around just in time. “That will be prove enough!”

Henry aimed blindly, hit something soft. The horse screamed, hot liquid spilled onto Henry's face. The movement of air just in front of him, hooves kicking up wildly, and Henry stumbled a few steps back to get himself to safety. The horse lost its balance and fell. And everything went horridly silent.

Henry stood still for a while, in anticipation, until he finally decided to take off his helmet, wipe the blood from his face. Stretched out in front of him lay the two dead horses. From be­neath one of them, a leg in white armour stood out, together with a hand covered by a black leather glove. Erik was not mo­ving.

Emptiness. That was all Henry could feel. No happiness or relief, not even shock. Just a hole full of nothing where his heart should have been beating, because apparently Erik had kept his word in the end.

Further up on the knoll, the joined Polish and Lithuanian forces started to move. Henry did not notice until they had reached him, and then he was already forced back and pushed along by the masses. “We are going to the enemy's camp,” a Moravian mercenary said, putting his hand on Henry's shoulder and grinning right into his face. Henry did barely hear him, did not see him either. His eyes were facing up the hill into the di­rection of the horses he had left behind, of the man underneath. “It's over, lad. He, don't you hear? We've won!”

“No,” Henry whispered. “No, I haven't.”

* * *

It was a simple thing, to escape the battleground once the news about Ulrich von Jungingen's death were spreading. Using the moment of surprise, of uncertainty to rush past allies and foes alike, making his way south until he had left the outer rows of soldiers, and then turning west, riding quickly along all the noise and chaos to where he saw the Teutonic camp on the op­posite chain of hills.

Henry was stronger than Erik, Hans told himself. Henry was more sane at least, and he had more reasons to fight for. And Henry needed him. Not up there on the battlefield, but with his brother.

There was no one trying to stop him when he rode along the battlefield. Everyone was busy with last desperate attempts at a hopeless fight, or with yielding, or with trying for their own es­cape. Only when he had already reached the Order's camp, did someone step in his way. Two knights emerging from the barri­cades that he was just about to enter. One had a long, hay-coloured beard that parted around his mouth like a fork, the other's pointed chin was clean-shaven, and his bright eyes were flaring up like those of a wolf.

“Wer bist du?” the one with the fork-beard said in German.

“Ignatius,” Hans replied. “Ich bin …” He tried frantically to recall all the German aventiures he had ever read, but it seemed like the word for mercenary had never appeared in it, or if it had, he had not paid it enough mind.

The two men exchanged long and weighted looks. Then the one with the wolf eyes scratched his chest, right below the em­broidered symbol of a lizard, and then he stretched out his hand and pointed at Hans's shield. They whispered something to each other. Did not sound like German, but perhaps the noise from down in the valley hindered his hearing.

The one with the fork-beard nodded. “Go inside,” he said to Hans, in Czech. “Ulrich's tent is further up the hill. There is a nice little chest below his bed, hehe.”

“Thank you,” Hans replied in slow astonishment. He had al­ready guided his horse past the two men, when he stopped once more, looking back to them. They had made it to their own hor­ses that they had left outside the camp, getting ready to mount up and leave. Hans would not stop them. A foe shared was a friend found, or something. Though that did not mean that their animosity would stop at the Teutonic knights. Hans grabbed the sword a little tighter when he raised his voice to ask them. “Look. I'm not here for looting, you know? I've come for a friend of mine, for my … for my brother.” He swallowed. Felt like he was melting to a puddle under the sun that had already been unbearable before. “Samuel. He's a Jew. We sent him to infiltrate the camp last night.”

The one with the fork-beard narrowed his eyes, and Hans was certain that he was about to reevaluate his previous deci­sion, when he was interrupted by the other one's laugh. “Hans,” the one with the wolf eyes said, and Hans shook his head in confusion. “Not Samuel. Yes, he came here. Caused trouble. Oh, such trouble.”

“Is he … Is he alive?”

The man swung his leg over his saddle and gestured to his friend to follow him. “Prisoners are far in back, blue tent, two torches in front. But only prisoners, is not for dead. If you're lucky, will not be empty.”

With that they rode off, and Hans hurried to make his way into the camp, his throat now painfully dry from fear. If you're lucky, the man had said, as if this was only a game. As if Hans had not promised Henry to bring his brother back to him, alive enough so they could celebrate. As if Hans did not remember all too well the feeling of being lulled to sleep by Sam's voice months back in the gorge, of how his chest, heavy with worry, had lifted more and more as they had shared their grief, their reluctance to trust, and now here Hans was, risking it all for this madman. Audentes, he told himself over and over again, be brave, and luck will reward you. Just this once.

The camp was anything but empty, other than Hans had hoped, but most of the people here did not even grant him a single glance, either because they were merely uninvolved civi­lians or because they had already caught wind of von Jungin­gen's demise and did their best to prepare for a hasty flight. The ones who did regard Hans, did not seem to feel suspicious about him, and that was not surprising. To them, he was no­thing but a mercenary with a cornflower crest that they did not recognise from their enemy's side, and with blood on his sword and armour. For all they knew and cared, he could just as well have been one of them. As long as he did not open his mouth and had his literary German fail him once more. But he would do his best to keep it quiet.

He led his horse through the camp in a slow trot, examining his surroundings closely. Tents upon tents, with one or the other cooking site or crafting bench in between, and they stretched out to the horizon that he felt like a little insect trapped in a meadow of flowers. A blue tent, in the far back, the lizard knight had said. He had already come by dozens of blue tents at this point, and what fucking end did he mean? The one to the north, to the west? Good God, finding Sam here would be ei­ther the work of sheer, unmerited luck or of some divine inter­vention. Even more so to find him alive.

Hans chose the left way that wound up the hill like a snake, ending by a large wooden tower with a cross banner hanging from its front. The smell of something burned hung in the air, of food but also of something foul, as if a whole dunghill had been set on fire. Or human flesh, Hans thought grimly. They have built a stake and burned him alive. He shook his head. No. One of their scouts would have noticed. And if Erik was truly well enough informed to know that Sam had been cap­tured, he would have certainly known that too.

A cooking site to his left, and on the other side, the barking of dogs. Hunting dogs perhaps, and hungry ones at that, jud­ging by their growls and grunts. No animals Hans was particu­larly fond of, but he still found himself feeling pity for them. Abandoned, with their owners perhaps never to return. And would the Polish King have any use for trained, German curs? He would much rather let them starve to death. Or be merciful and end their misery by ordering them to be slaughtered quick­ly.

He rode up the hill to the bulky tower and past it on its right. There wasn't much way left ahead of him until he had reached the far end of the encampment, at least on this side. And from what he could tell, there was a blue tent right in front of him, with two torches burning next to its closed entrance, despite the summer sun standing high above the earth. A smile flit across his face, that he swallowed down quickly. Too early to cele­brate. Please be there. Please be alive.

Hans dismounted his horse in front of the tent and gave a silent nod to a man kneeling nearby and watching him with pale eyes in a face that sun and weather had long turned into copper-coloured leather. The man turned away from him unim­pressed, continued rummaging through a chest. He did not seem to care enough about Hans getting close to the prisoners' tent, if it indeed was the right one, but how would he react if Hans got back out with the very man by his side who had infil­trated the camp just the night before? Perhaps he was lucky, and they had left some ropes or chains that he could drag Sam behind with. I'm just bringing him somewhere else, he would say. Or They might have won, but I can still make them suffer. What was suffer in German? Sakra. Sam would have to help him out. Now that would be a sight to behold, the prisoner prompting his capturer the words with which he himself got taunted.

Well, if the man became too curious, Hans could also kill him. That was always a suitable solution, though none he would like to resort to if it could be avoided.

He lowered his sword and opened the entrance to the tent. Empty. No Sam, and no other prisoner either, only traces of feet scraping the trampled ground and a few shackles tossed carelessly to the side. The disappointment wrapped itself around his throat like an iron gauntlet. It must be the wrong tent, he thought foolishly, looking at the shackles. Or Erik had been wrong all along, had only lied to get under Henry's skin, and Sam had never been caught, had escaped and made it back to the Polish side, had just not managed to find them in all the chaos. Or he had been freed already. Because the Teutons had no use for him, or by Mirtl perhaps, who knew, maybe Sam had not been mistaken about her and they could actually count on her.

All fully plausible, wasn't it? And yet, the words of the li­zard knight echoed through his mind like the Trosky bells, in his broken Czech and with that wolfish grin in his voice. Only for prisoners. Is not for dead.

Hans turned his back to the tent and returned to his horse. For a short moment he considered asking the man with the lea­ther face if he had noticed anything, but Hans did not know how to explain it without the man smelling his lies, not even in Czech, and so he just got up on his horse and took a look around. He could try other tents, but there were so many of them. Or go back to that burned stench. Search the ashes for remains. For a rosary, or whatever it was that Sam used to pray. Hans did not even know. Because, without even realising in his hopeless fight to cling to his power, Hanush had been right all along. Hans was no Lord, no ruler. He had failed them. And in this very moment, Henry was out there alone on the battlefield fighting Erik to the death, or perhaps he was already lying slain on the ground, in the middle of all the other corpses, and then Hans had failed him too.

He rode down the hill again following the stench, because it was the only thing he could do. The pyre they had built and burned down was positioned a bit off the main road and with only the tents of craftsmen around it, as apparently no knight had wanted to sleep close to it. Shit. It smelled of shit. And there were bones in the ashes, but not human ones, they were much smaller, of hares perhaps and fowls, and of fish. Refuse, nothing more. No man had been burned here. And hanged? He craned his neck, looked out over the rows of tents further down the hill, but there were no gallows to be seen. Not inside the camp, at least.

Hans turned back around and led his horse back to the en­trance of the fortification. The dogs barked and howled. “Poor things,” he said, and looked over to the enclosure that had been built for them, half from iron like a cage, half bounded by a wagon, and far too small for the five of them. “Once I found him, I might come back to …”

The words got stuck in his throat as if drowned by thick ho­ney. Not five dogs, but four. Four giant mastiffs, hungry and thirsty from the heat, their tongues hanging out, drool dripping from their slack lips, heavy iron chains around their necks binding them to the fence and only barely so it seemed. And a man. Crouching on the ground with his back pressed against the wagon, fully stripped, his skin burned by the sun, beaten and bruised, and with a similar chain around his neck too.

“God's bones!”

Sam lifted his head. Blood coated the full right side of his face, stemming from a wound on his temple, it seemed, but it must have long dried. His bright eyes still looked dazed. Dazed and utterly terrified.

“Wait. Wait, I … Christ, I got you.” Hans got off the horse and ran back. To the pile of ash, sticking his fingers in and dig­ging for bones, pieces of meat or innards, anything that these dogs could be interested in. The smell was nauseating, but he barely noticed it. Only rushed back with everything he had found, bringing it over to the fence. The mastiffs turned and barked at him. One was pitch-black, just like Matej's had been. Teeth in his flesh, the certainty that he would die here, down by the Sasau, where no one would come to help him, die all alone. The heat of Sam's body close to his, his words like a lullaby. He did not die. And he was not alone.

“Here. Take this, you beasts.” He placed the remains close to the fence but outside of it, and the dogs reached out their paws and pressed their snouts against the iron, trying desperately to fill their hungry stomachs. It would not be enough to satisfy them, and as soon as they had devoured it, they would turn their attention back to Sam and him. Not to idle then. He had climbed the wagon in no time, looking for the place where the shackles were secured and found it. Henry would have known how to unlock this. Sam would have too, but even he needed a pick for that, and it wasn't as if the Lord of Leipa just ran around with one all the time. So, the old-fashioned way. He took the shield off his back and crushed the chains with the mighty force of Hedwig's cornflower. Two times, three times, four times. It broke. Then he climbed down the other side and wrapped his arms around Sam's chest.

Sam winced under the touch, but Hans chose to ignore it. “This is not the time for false shame, you hear me? And it's not like you're the first naked man I've seen, far from it.”

“Hans …”

“You can thank me later, alright, just get up to your feet, you ox, I cannot do all the work on my own!”

Behind him, the black dog had gulped down his piece of meat under loud, disgusting grunts and slurps, and was starting to bark again. Even hungrier than before, it seemed.

Hans heaved Sam up on the wagon, and jumped after him. Then they sank down and sat for a short moment and breathed. Sweat had gathered in his eyes, and Hans wiped it away with his sleeve. Sweat from exhaustion and heat, but even more so from a fear that he had almost forgotten for the shortest while. “Who treats their dogs like this? They are starving!”

“All the better.” Sam let his head sink back against the side of the wagon, squeezed his eyes shut and screwed up his face in pain. “They wanted to hang me with them. The Jewish way.”

“What does that mean?”

The grimace turned into a grin, but it looked just as strained. “Let's just say it had not been the noose that would have killed me.”

Hans nodded, as if he could understand and fought back the fury building in his chest, by turning his attention elsewhere. Bit by bit he took off his armour, and then the clothes under­neath. “Here,” he said, throwing Sam the padded jacket and his hose. “And don't even think about declining it.”

“I wouldn't.” Hans kept his gaze averted until he was sure that Sam had at least put the hose on, and when he turned back to him, he saw a crooked smile on his face. “For a man who has spent the last hours fighting, your braies are looking extra­ordinarily clean.”

Hans huffed out a laugh. “Believe me, if something had made me shit myself, it would have been these creatures here. And now, let us go. The battle is over. We won, you know? I finally want to celebrate that. With some good wine, perhaps. Not for you though. You heard what Žižka told us.”

“I don't need wine to celebrate. I only need fire.”

“Fire? Fine, wait here, I will get it for you.”

Sam was swaying a bit as he walked over to the tower, with the torch in his hand that Hans had brought him from the pri­soners' tent, but he tried his best to hide his pain, and Hans did not ask about it. He only watched in silence. Watched as Sam looked up to the menacing, white banner with the black cross above his head, watched as he took a deep breath, lifted his arm, watched as he threw the torch through the air. Watched the cloth be set on fire, the flames licking up from the ground, hi­gher and higher, until they kissed the cross and devoured that too. Watched the fabric curl in on itself under the heat, crumble to ash, float down like the leaves of a tree in autumn. The sight felt blasphemous almost, but Hans decided that he could not be bothered. Sam deserved this. They both did.

And then Hans heard the noise behind him, turned and watched something else entirely. An army. A retreating one, but an army still. Waving the very banner that Sam had just burned down, together with the one of Great Komtur Lichtenstein, and as they got closer to the entrance of the camp, Hans could see that their faces were torn by anger and fear and desperation.

* * *

When Mirtl heard the Teutonic army approach, she was certain that luck had finally left her for good. Not that it hadn't turned its back on her and shat in her face before already. But after all the frustration of the past hours, this was truly the last blow fly on the horse turd.

After the second mass, when she had finally left the others as she should have done long before, her way had first led to the village of Grünfeld. Most of the houses stood empty, at least for the time that the battle would be fought, and so no one had cared when she had made her way up to someone's yard, sat down on a bench there and waited. With her eyes and ears focused on the action inside the nearby camp, until she had been certain that all the German soldiers had left for the battle­ground.

Only then had she gone there. Had got past the two guards at the entrance with a smile and a kiss, it was easy for her. Had managed to take a few steps through the rows of their tents. He must be alive, she had thought. If he hadn't escaped yet, he was certainly still here. The torturing and painful killing of a spy was too fun of an activity to waste it on pre-battle nervousness. No, they would have only seen to it after they won, to reward themselves for the exertion. Because that was how men worked. She had heard it plenty from the men that had come to see her. And she had felt it herself. Václav had saved the bea­tings for later too. For when he came back home from the mar­ket, reeking of kettle and beer, exhausted from his work, hung­ry for lust and blood.

Mirtl had made it to the first turn of the path perhaps, when she had been stopped by a woman. Or a girl, rather. Two long, brown braids on her back, the soft, round face of a Madonna, and a body that seemed too slim and fragile for the bulging, round belly that her poppy-red dress had long failed at being able to hide. “Help me with the water,” the girl had said, and Mirtl had heard enough from the German babbling of drunk men splayed out on her bed to understand her well enough. “I want to wash the children's clothes.”

You're just a child yourself, Mirtl wanted to reply, and Can't you see that I'm busy?, but there was no one else around who could have helped the girl with the heavy buckets she had ga­thered from a trough, and what excuse could she have given to absolve her of her womanly tasks in this camp, and so she just nodded and went with the girl, keeping the curses to herself.

And then she had been stuck. Stuck in a part of the camp that was full with nothing but children and four dozen women, some of them wives of the German soldiers, others being there to fulfil more practical tasks. The women talked. All at the same time and way too quickly for Mirtl to follow along, and all she could tell was when they laughed over a jest she could not understand, or shared their sorrows with each other to which Mirtl could not offer any condolences. So she just kneeled silently on the ground, scrubbing and wringing the clothes, and spent the time pondering.

She should not be here. She should not be here at all. Not at this camp, not in Poland. Should she have ever even been in Kolín? She could not tell anymore. She had tried to make her­self believe that she had not been given a choice. Heinrich von Rosenberg was too powerful of a man for someone to free themselves from his grasp once they had angered him. And an­gering was too weak of a word for what she had done. The failed ambush in the alleyway, killing four of his men. And then Samuel had given her a chance and spared her life, so she had taken the chance. That was what she had tried to tell her­self for a while. A lie. Six years working in the Nový Venátky had taught her well, to lie to others and to herself. The ambush had failed, yes, and it had cost Rosenberg's men their lives, but she had only been a pawn in that. It had been Erik's plan all along, he was the one who had wanted to wring Henry's neck, while Rosenberg was only interested in Jan Žižka. And she had played her part well, the failure of the ambush had not been on her.

What had been on her though had been to give in to Samuel when they had fought in the Nový Venátky. To spare his life and risk her own in return. And for what? For some niceties? Because he had asked questions that went beyond his mission, had shown interest? How pathetic.

The battle had raged on, the chess pieces were moved from one side to the other and then down into the valley and up to the hill. The sun had crawled across the horizon, had got hotter still, however that was even possible. Her fingers had become soft and wrinkled from all the soap water, and Mirtl had looked over to the rest of the camp, to the tower with the Crusaders' banner, and realised why she was truly here. She owed it to Sa­muel. Owed it to him for having shown her a way out. Not out of the brothel, but out of the hell Václav had put her in, that she had never truly escaped, not even after he had beaten himself into such a rage on her that he had simply dropped down to the floor, perishing miserably from a cramp in his heart and the spew gurgling in his throat.

The expecting girl with the braids and two older women had started singing. A lass with a prominent but not uncomely birthmark next to her left eye told the children some jests, and they laughed as if they had never heard anything funnier in their lives. Mirtl looked around herself once again and felt like a cow dragged to the butcher for slaughter. She needed to get out. And quickly. Needed to find Samuel. Owed it to him.

Something down on the battlefield changed, and Mirtl knew that it was over. The noise of the fighting became quieter. The armies were shifting. One group set itself into motion, over to their camp. The jokes stopped, the singing too, the woman with the birthmark got up to her feet, clasped her hand over her mouth. “They are coming back,” she breathed in shock. “Their banners are lowered. They have lost.”

“It's not over yet,” the girl with the braids said with the nai­vety of a child. “They can recover here and go back out to con­tinue fighting. Look how many there are left of them. Thou­sands. They still stand a chance!”

“They will be followed,” Mirtl whispered, in Czech, and she felt everyone's eyes pierce into her like arrows. She did not care. Her knees felt stiff as she finally pushed herself up, but she looked at them with all the sincerity she could muster, and repeated her words in German as well as she could. “They will be followed. They will try to hide here, but the King's men will come after them. They will tear down everything in their path.”

“We need to flee,” one of the older women said.

Mirtl looked past her to the tower and saw the Teutonic flag burning. Two men standing underneath. Samuel she recognised at once, and then she recognised Hans as well, because who else would be mad enough to stand next to Samuel under the burning banner of his enemies with nothing but a sweat-soaked shirt and his braies on? “It's too late,” Mirtl said, and it was the truth. Not for her and the women perhaps, but for Samuel and Hans, because the two of them would not have to wait for Jagiełło's troops to kill them, no, that job would be done by the hordes of Teutons once they got here.

“Then let us pray,” the girl said, “so we can prepare our­selves for dying with our brave soldiers.”

Mirtl shook her head in disbelief. “Are you mad?”

“What else should I do but pray? My husband is among them.”

What has your husband done for you, Mirtl wanted to shout at her, than put a child in your belly and then move out to sharpen his dick on the steel skin of other men? “Your husband might already be dead. And even if he isn't, dying with him will serve neither him nor you. Nor the child.” Did she understand her broken German? Mirtl could not tell. For all she knew, the girl looked as sheepishly as she had done the whole time. She turned to the others. Someone had to understand. “Their deaths are already written. But yours are not.” She was lying, but only to them, not to herself this time. The brothel had made it so easy for her. “Let me help you save yourselves.”

“Who are you?” the old woman with the birthmark asked. “Who has sent you?”

“No one has.”

“Was it God? Are you a Saint?”

She meant it, and Mirtl had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “No Saint, far from it. Mirtl. Just Mirtl. And now come with me. You will not die here today.” But those men will, she thought bitterly. None of them will set a foot into this camp. None of them will get close to him. How many lives could one life outweigh? As many as was needed.

A wagon barricade, Mirtl thought as she led the women and children to the front entrance of the camp. Kubyenka had been yapping on and on about it over the past few days, even as Žižka had chided him for it, claimed that he lacked any tactical thinking. Mirtl disagreed. She knew not nearly enough about warfare to estimate whether one could defeat another army hi­ding in a wooden castle. But to lock yourself in, or even better, lock your enemies out? Now the idea might be of much there. And for even more than that, if her plan succeeded. If Polish men pursued the retreating Teutonic ones quick enough.

How many lives, Mirtl, how many lives?

“Here,” she said, pointing to a place about thirty or forty pa­ces away from the entrance, where the path was narrow enough so they could close the gap between the barricades on both sides in time. It was still tedious work. Half of their group were children, and of the other half many were either too old to lend a helping hand in pushing the wagons, or they were expecting, or they were expecting and a child, or expecting and old, who could really tell? The Order's troops had just marched close enough for their words to become clear, when Mirtl and a handful of the other women pushed the last wagon into place. Then she stepped back, put her hand on her trembling bosom, right where the dagger was hidden, and waited.

Fingers were placed on her back, as gently as a lover's touch, and when Mirtl turned, she saw one of the older women look at her with a kind, beautiful face and fondness in her hoo­ded eyes. “They sent you, did they not?” the woman asked, nodding into the direction of the still smouldering banner on the tower. “You belong to them.”

“They did not send me,” Mirtl replied honestly, and then she paused and swallowed before she spoke her next words, be­cause even she could not tell this time whether they were a lie or not. “But you're right. I belong to them.”

The men were loud. Loud shouting and commanding, loud clattering of iron boots as they made their way into the camp. Loud curses as they realised that their path was suddenly blocked. And then loud hammering as they beat against the barricade. Loud screams of fear when the Polish troops arrived.

The girl with the braids and the child under her heart pressed her hands to her ears, and when the fear of the men finally turned into pleading and wailing and into the certainty of death, she sank down to her knees and cried. “What have we done?” she whimpered again and again. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. What have we done?”

Mirtl did not even flinch, she just stood and listened as they died. Dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, caught be­tween the Polish army and the trap she had built. Unable to see them but imagining them perfectly. Lying on their back, wa­ving their legs and their left arm around like a fly in a cobweb, the right hand was pressed to their heart, slowly suffocating on the vomit in their throats.

How many lives?

It did not matter.

* * *

The first thing Štěpán did when he rode his horse into the Or­der's camp, was to puke his guts out. In a high and skilful arc, right onto the pretty boots of secretary Zbigniew Oleśnicki. “Apologies,” he mumbled while wiping his mouth clean, noti­cing that neither Oleśnicki nor Štěpán himself cared much about that apology.

He had seen the fighting on the knoll up close. Had wit­nessed men being sliced open, smashed into the ground and cut to pieces. But the carnage that awaited them here was nothing compared to anything he had seen before. This here did not even seem like something that was allowed to exist, in Hell perhaps, but not in a realm that was watched over by God's grace.

From the entrance of the camp to the now opened barricade of wagons that had been built a few dozen paces in front of them, bodies covered the ground like haystacks in harvest time. They had been shifted to the sides to make room for the King and his retinue as they came riding in, some of the piles were so high they towered over Štěpán's head while sitting on his horse. In this place, Štěpán noted in his mind to write down later, as he slowly trotted through this graveyard, more corpses were found than in the whole war together.

King Władysław Jagiełło rode through the camp and his ga­thered soldiers in silence and with his head held high. It was strange, Štěpán thought, letting his eyes wander across all their faces. Some of them bowed to the King and to him as one of the King's men, some of them cheered, some raised their fists or their swords, some cried, some even sang. Yet he felt no­thing like joy or pride. The fear had still wrapped its ice-cold hands around his body, made him quiver like an aspen tree, ever since the battle had shifted up to the hill a few hours ago, since Zbigniew Oleśnicki had pushed him out of the way and right into the looming mace of one of his enemies. The air was still filled with the stench of blood and rot and fire, here more than it had on the battlefield. And, apart from Janosh, Kubyen­ka, Katherine and Henry, the others were still nowhere to be found, and that hurt the most.

Štěpán raised his hand and pulled the cap back as it had slid into his eyes again. Was this what Žižka had warned him of, why he had been so persistent about Štěpán not going to battle with them? Was this feeling, this shivering, this dread down to his bones, the price a soldier had to pay for victory?

The first time King Jagiełło spoke, was when he had made his way up the hill and stopped his horse in front of a watch­tower and the charred shreds high above them that must once have been a banner. “Who did this?” he asked the soldiers stan­ding close by in a tone both of curiosity and reproach.

“We don't know, Your Majesty,” one of them hurried to say. “It was already like this when we got here.”

King Jagiełło nodded and dismounted his horse. Then he stepped closer to the banner, folded his hands and sank down to his knees. To Štěpán's far right, Grand Duke Vytautas lowered his gaze to the hands resting on the hilt of his sword, whether it was in devotion or aversion Štěpán could not tell.

He took off Žižka's cap and bowed his head too, as King Władysław Jagiełło prayed, and for the first time since they had come here, silence spread across the whole camp. The si­lence of the grave, broken by nothing but the King's words. Prayers of gratitude for their victory. Prayers of repentance for their sins. Prayers of invocation for the salvation of the souls of all who had fallen, no matter the flag they had fought under, no matter their stance or belief.

When the prayer was ended, King Jagiełło asked for a chair to be brought to him, and then he sat down under the tower and told his men to search the camp for anyone who might still be hiding here, while he gave the order to have another troop pur­sue those enemies who had already retreated west. Whoever still dared to fight should be killed without mercy, but the ones who put down their weapons and surrendered, were to be brought to him here on this hill, so the King himself could pass judgment on their fate.

Štěpán joined Kubyenka and Janosh at the eastern side of the hill, and it felt calming for the first time, familiar. All the time they had spent together in Prague, the two of them and that young, naïve boy Štěpán had been. He raised his head to the sky and marvelled at its colour. The battle had lasted almost the whole day long, and the sun had started to set. The blue that had burned in his eyes what felt like moments ago, had been wiped off the canvas and replaced by the rich colours of dark grapes and a warm fireplace. He longed for one now, despite the air still buzzing from heat. For the quietness of a chair and the flickering flames and a book on his knees. He would even take his own fireplace back at Zlenice, he thought, as surreal as the thought felt to go back home. Home. The word had a strange sound to it.

“It's over,” Kubyenka said, putting an arm around Štěpán's shoulders. ���The prayer, I mean. You can put that hat back on, lad.”

“I don't know.” He kneaded the cap between his fingers, felt its leather and fur, and thought that he could even sense the smell of Žižka that it emitted, even when he had no idea what Žižka smelled like. “It doesn't feel right.”

“And why is that?”

Štěpán spun around, hitting himself right on the eye with Kubyenka's outstretched hand, but he barely took notice of it. Žižka was standing in front of him, with an unusual smile on his face and dressed in the most peculiar clothes that Štěpán had ever seen him in. A white cloak draped nonchalantly over his left shoulder, the only cover over the simple shirt he was wearing. His dark hose stiff from dried mud that reached from his knees all the way down to below the legs of his boots it seemed. And a hat on his hair that was entirely made of thick, chestnut-coloured fur, beaver perhaps, or squirrel.

“Plan on returning it to me?” Žižka asked, winking a little clumsily with his healthy eye. “There's no need for that. I found a new one already.” He turned his head left and right, as if he was so proud of his new acquisition that he needed them to admire it from all sides. “What do you think? Now, I know what they say, don't walk around in a dead man's shoes. But I might be too fond of this one to stick by that rule. Besides, it's not a shoe, I'd argue. Not primarily.”

“For winter is good, ey,” Janosh answered. “For summer, when air is hot and wet like over cooking pot? Ah, not so much. Will give you louses.”

“Look, our favourite priest made me wade barefoot through the bog, just some hours ago. So if the gnats and leeches have not proven to be a threat to me, neither will lice.”

Next to them under the tower, King Jagiełło lifted himself from his chair as yet another captive was brought to him, and he even bowed his head. The man had a long face like a horse that was made even longer by the beard that reached all the way down to his breastbone. He was proud. So proud in fact that he did not seem to think about returning the courtesy the King had granted him.

“Lord Kasimir von Stettin, if I'm not mistaken?” King Jagiełło asked. “I am delighted to see that you have survived the hardship of the battle, and honoured to call you a guest in Krakow, until your family will have redeemed the unfortunate financial damage my kingdom has suffered through your ac­tions.”

“A prisoner more likely,” Kasimir von Stettin hissed back. “And you can call that redemption by its rightful name, Your Majesty. Ransom.”

“Well,” the Grand Duke next to the King returned with a spiteful grin, “the treasury won't refill on its own.”

“So you have been with Godwin,” Kubyenka started once Lord Kasimir had been brought down the hill to a place where he would want for nothing, as the King assured him. “Where is he now?”

“Taking care of the dead,” Žižka answered, and then he took a deep breath before he turned, the smile from before wiped from his face. “What about Katherine?”

Štěpán picked the smile back up, and saw the tension lea­ving Žižka's body immediately. “Taking care of the living. I'm glad you're alive too, Žižka.”

“And I can say the same thing about you.” He lifted his hand and made Štěpán regret that he had still not put the hat back on as he used it to ruffle his hair. “Looks like I was wrong. You might be more suited for battle than your meagre build has made me believe.”

He tried to ignore the mocking words and the belittling ges­ture. “Well, you know, there wasn't exactly much for me to do out there. And the one time I actually got into any real trouble and came close to an enemy's weapon, a mace just like yours, can you imagine, that brave man here saved me. With only one hand, you should have seen it, holding the standard in the other, it was mad impressive!” Štěpán interrupted himself, as he re­membered something, then he took the dagger from his belt. It was the right thing to do, yet it made him feel uncomfortably naked and alone. “Be it as it may, I don't think I'm a warrior. I did not even use this one.”

King Jagiełło was sitting back down on his chair, drumming a steady rhythm to its armrests that reminded Štěpán of rain­drops on the roof of a tent, but he stopped briefly, lifted his hand to wave at the next group of soldiers. This time, they had not brought any captives to him, but the spoils that they had found in the camp. A whole crate of them, coins and weapons, silk cloth and books. The bystanders on the hill cheered at their discovery with roaring and the stomping of their feet.

“What is this going to be, lad?”

“I don't even know how to use it, Kubyenka.”

“You will learn it quickly, when the time comes, trust me. It's yours. Keep it.” He wrinkled his bulbous nose and gave Štěpán a nudge. “And don't ever try to return my own gifts back to me, you hear me, boy? Or I might still make my threat come true and prick out your ears.”

The soldiers carried the crate over to the sides. A new group came, neither with captives nor with crates in their hands, but with the largest barrels Štěpán believed to have seen in his whole life.

“And the others?” Žižka asked.

“We have see Henry, ey.” Janosh's eyes took on a tinge of sadness. “He need time for own.”

“Did,” Žižka opened his right eye a little bit further, “did something happen to Capon?”

“No,” Kubyenka said quickly, “at least not that we know of. The Bird left. To this camp here, to be precise, but none of us has seen him since.” His gaze wandered past Žižka to the King and the barrels that had been placed in front of him. Štěpán felt the urge to give him a slap. Or try using that bollocks dagger properly for the first time.

“Take them away,” King Jagiełło said. “There is no need for them here.”

“Your men have fought hard, my King.” Grand Duke Vytau­tas spoke as carefully as Štěpán had ever heard him speak. The battle had taken its toll, not only on the soldiers, but on the King and his cousin too, and this was not the time or place to provoke a quarrel. “Don't you think they deserve to celebrate?”

“They may celebrate, when celebration is in order. But our foes have barely fled this field. Will you be bearing the conse­quences when our returning enemy assaults and murders them in their drunken stupor?”

“Just one drink, my King, there won't be any …”

“Enough! I made my point clear, but if the temptation is too strong to follow your King's orders, it might be needed to de­stroy the object of allurement. Is there anyone here strong enough of will to do so?”

“Well, fellas,” Kubyenka stretched his arms and made his knuckles crack, before he stepped forward. “This looks like just the right task for me.”

“But don't drink it all at once!” Žižka laughed at him.

To Štěpán's surprise, Kubyenka did not drink a thing. In­stead he only took the mace from Žižka's belt, walked over to the King, bowed before him, as low as he could with the cut in his back, losing his balance and saving himself with an awk­ward hop and a foolish giggle, then he raised the mace and bat­tered the barrels to pieces. The crowd broke out in a loud, dis­sonant song of both cheering and booing. Loads of blood-red wine ran down the slope of the hill, splattered onto the gathered masses, some stretched out their tongues when the liquid hit their faces, laughed when they were able to catch a drop. The strong, acrid smell filled the air, biting into Štěpán's nose that it made him feel almost as dizzy as if he had downed it all. Perhaps that had been Kubyenka's plan all along, getting him­self passively drunk on the odour alone.

“What about Samuel?” Žižka was watching Kubyenka with a smile, but it did not quite reach his eye. “And his girl?”

Neither Štěpán nor Janosh knew an answer to that. On his chair under the burned down cross banner, King Jagiełło shook his head, hiding the faintest expression of amusement, as Ku­byenka threw his arms up and revelled in the thunderous noise of the crowd, a broad, oafish grin on his face.

From over where the soldiers with the captives and their loot were still lining up, an uproar started. The men stood too close together for Štěpán to see the squabblers, and at first he was certain that they had simply started to fight over the treasures they had found in the camp, but then the loud sound of a slap tore through all the cheers and shouts, and the crowd parted to avoid any more flying hands or feet. In the now cleared space stood a few soldiers and a group of women. Mirtl's face was almost as red from fury as the evening sky. “Do not even think of touching me again, you swine!”

The man grunted and reached for Mirtl's arms, pulling her closer.

“Genug!” Another soldier stumbled backwards, holding his bleeding nose that had cruelly been assaulted by an aptly wiel­ded elbow, and Samuel ran forward, giving the first one who still had his hands on Mirtl, a firm push. The man growled and drew his sword. People screamed and gasped for air. Then the man's bell-shaped helmet was hit by a tankard of pure, shining silver with an impressively melodic clatter.

“Don't you dare hurt him,” Hans snapped, “or I will rip your fucking head off!” His threat fell somewhat flat considering he was dressed in nothing but his braies and had just given his only weapon away by tactical throwing.

“Won't you look at that,” Žižka mumbled, before he turned back around to Štěpán and Janosh, reaching up and loosening the cloak around his shoulders. “Well, lads, looks like the fun is over. I think we might be needed there.” The cloak sank to the ground, right into a puddle of mud and wine.

“To the task?” Štěpán asked, finally breathing freely, finally laughing again.

Žižka did not reply. But he took the cap from Štěpán's grip, and placed it back onto his head like he had done the last time, and then he turned and threw himself into the turmoil.

* * *

Godwin made the sign of the cross over the carpet of freshly upturned soil that stretched as far as his eyes could see. “Re­quiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.” He tried to speak the words as clearly and sincere as he could, despite the tiredness that had eaten into every muscle, every bone of his body. “Et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

He had to speak the Amen himself. There was no one else around.

All nobles and knights that had fallen, no matter their side, had been prepared in the early morning hours, wrapped in white linen and buried with a modest ceremony on the Tannen­berg cemetery. The highest-ranking Teutonic knights had been given additional care, had been properly cleaned and clothed and wrapped in finest purple. Their bodies were to be brought north to Marienburg where the Order could see to the funeral in their own manner. Godwin had agreed to escort the bodies him­self, and the pack had declared to accompany him. He was certain that it had less to do with honouring the dead and more with getting closer to the sea of which they all had been talking about the whole night.

For the rest of the fallen soldiers, mass graves had been dug where the battle had taken place only a day before. One on the foot of Jagiełło's knoll for the Polish and Lithuanian men, and an even larger one further down in the valley for the German warriors. But what did the size of the grave matter? There had been thousands lowered into the ground on both sides.

He raised his eyes to the sky that was grey and clouded to­day. A swift wind was blowing from the north, carrying with it the ocean's water and cold. It moved the leaves of the trees, the tufts of grass that had not been trampled, carried a small group of young starlings that floated above his head, cherishing their freedom. Somewhere to his right, a bird chirped loudly and urgently, a kestrel perhaps, but apart from the wind and the birds, it was crushingly silent.

Godwin turned his head to the song of the kestrel, and saw a single figure standing alone up on the hill, right where Ja­giełło's men had fought. The skin of his lowered face was pale, of the same colour as the tunic he wore, even his dishevelled hair looked grey, but that might have just been a reflection of the clouds.

He lifted his head, when he heard Godwin approach him. “And?” was all Henry said. His expression was as blank as those of the fallen soldiers Godwin had cared for. When he had first noticed it the night before, Godwin had been certain it must have been the horrors of the battle that were still clawing at his soul, but then Henry had come to him early this morning and asked him for a favour. A futile one. Still, Godwin hadn't had the heart to refuse him.

He shook his head, and the blankness on Henry's face turned into the faintest hint of disappointment. “Erik might have worn the armour of a knight or the false name of one,” Godwin hoped that the tone of his voice sounded more encouraging than he felt, “but he was no knight. His body was most likely thrown onto a cart with dozens of others and emptied into the mass graves down there. There were thousands of fallen men here, Henry. I could not possible watch over them all.”

Henry's eyes lowered to the dark, wet earth in the valley. They looked pale too, paler than Godwin remembered them, reminded him all too much of those of that madman Erik. Not only in colour, but in the glint hiding there. It was a sight that made Godwin shiver down to the bone.

“Don't even think about it, lad.”

“About what? Do you believe I would just go down there and dig through all the dirt and the corpses?”

“It does not matter what I believe.”

“I …” He wanted to defend himself, assert that he wouldn't. The words did not leave his mouth. “If he's not here, Godwin,” Henry said instead, “if he's not truly dead, none of us will ever be save from him. He would come back, again and again like an upir, he does not, he cannot give up.”

“But you can. And you should.” He raised a hand and put it on Henry's cheek, frightened for a moment at how horribly cold he was. “Look, son, even if he somehow managed to sur­vive, you saw him falling with your own eyes. You said that he got crushed by his horse. An accident like that has severe con­sequences. His body will be battered and broken, so if he sur­vived and was still thirsting for revenge, he could not find it. Even Erik would understand that another battle would be his end. You have to let him go.”

“He was not moving,” Henry whispered. Even the kestrel's screams were louder than his voice. “His body was lying still. But how … how should I know, when I … when I wasn't …”

“When you weren't the one who killed him?”

A single tear broke free from Henry's eye, and Godwin caught it with his thumb, wiped it away.

“You should be thankful, Henry. A terrible decision was ta­ken from you. A deed that would have only darkened your soul. It's better this way. Trust me.”

Above them, the swarm of starlings crossed the sky in all forms and shapes, carried by the wind. Freedom. A thing too difficult to see when the air still reeked of death.

* * *

“Kutyafasza! Harcolj velem paraszt!”

Whatever Janosh had just screamed at his opponent, the giant, white bird did not seem to care the slightest. It only opened its beak wide and croaked disdainfully, before it shot back down like an arrow, distracting Janosh with a cunning slap with its wing into his face, grabbing the sausage and flying off. Janosh gazed after it with the sulking expression of a child whose pastry had just been stolen.

Samuel could not help but laugh as he leaned back, digging his hands into the soft, heated sand and lifting his face up to the sky. Warm and humid, and so full of salt. He was certain that after spending the evening here at the shore, all off their faces would have to be covered in a thick layer of white crust.

“They still frighten me,” Mirtl said with a shiver in her voice.

“They are just birds.”

“They are way too big. And they have absolutely no shame.”

On his other side, Hans exhaled a hissing laugh. “See, I un­derstand why that first quality would frighten you. But the se­cond one you should be all too familiar with.”

“Don't you think,” Mirtl retorted with a sharp pronunciation on every single word, “that this joke is slowly getting old?”

“You're right, it must be almost as old as you.”

“I'm not even forty!”

“Yes, and he's barely thirty.”

Samuel opened an eye, blinking against the sinking sun. The white giant birds screamed, and it sounded like a taunting cackle. Hans ducked his head between his shoulders.

“What does that have to do with it?” Samuel's voice was as dry as the sand under his palms.

“Well, I just assumed …”

“You should stop assuming when you lack the knowledge to understand.”

“He he he!” Henry interrupted, putting an arm around Hans's shoulder, as if he had to protect him from Samuel's words. “No fighting, yes? Not here, not on a day like this.”

“I was simply stating a fact.”

“And so was I,” Hans snapped back at him.

Žižka raised his one functional eyebrow and passed them a chiding glance, as he walked by, crouching down a bit away where Štěpán was sitting. Cross-legged, the parchment on one knee. He did not even seem to notice that the waves splashed over the stones on the shore every now and then, licking across the sand with their wet tongues all the way up to his feet, or perhaps he liked the feeling. He had, after all, taken his shoes off, and placed them neatly behind him on the ground. A strange boy he was, but Samuel realised that he had grown more fond of him with every passing day. “You're not writing about Janosh's fight with that seagull, are you?”

“What?” Štěpán jerked his head up, making the hunter's cap slip down into his eyes. “Oh, don't worry, this isn't for the world to read. This is just for me. I call it The few adventures in the otherwise not so adventurous life of Lord Štěpán of Tetín. It's my means to remember, you know? Until the next adven­ture, that is.”

“And that book for Oleśnicki? Is it done already?”

“No, not yet. I will complete it on our way back to Bohe­mia.”

“So we still have a chance to look at it before you have it brought to him?”

Štěpán pushed the hat back so he could squint his eyes better at Žižka. “Do you not trust me?”

“We do trust you,” Samuel interjected. “It's just that some things might not need to be written in there. Like my involve­ment in the German's ammunition becoming useless.”

“Or what happened later in their camp,” Mirtl added. “The Germans do not need to know that their brave battle survivors were actually the ones responsible for the demise of thousands of their men. These women have suffered enough.”

Her voice broke when she uttered these last words, and Sa­muel lifted a hand and placed it lightly on top of hers. “You could have saved yourself, instead of staying at the camp,” he said quietly. “You didn't owe me anything.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, shook her head and turned her dark eyes up to the evening sky. “I know. That's why I didn't do it for you. Also, you wouldn't have had to leave for that foolish night mission, you know? You didn't owe that to me.”

“Right.” He pulled his hand back, lay back down on the ground until he could bed his head on the sand and its cushions of seaweed. It had been five days now, but his limbs still felt numb and ached when he moved, and he might not be able to pay a visit to Henry and his mutt any time soon. “And I didn't do it for you either.”

He saw the questioning look that his brother gave him be­hind Capon's back, and turned his face away. This was only to concern Mirtl and him. And as of now, there was still a certain lack in defining what this this even meant.

“It was an impressive idea though,” Godwin interrupted the awkward silence, from where he stood next to Janosh and Ku­byenka close by the water. “To use the wagons as a sort of trap.”

Kubyenka crossed his arms and laughed. “I wonder where she could have got that idea from. And it's called a wagenburg. At least that's what I heard the Germans say, and I like the sound of that. And it worked, didn't it, Žižka? I was right all along!”

“It worked, yes, in either direction, I suppose.” Žižka got up to his feet with a sigh and a smile. “You were right.”

Kubyenka gave him the proudest grin.

“What about that other book, what is that called?” Hans moved his arse a little to the left, until he was side to side with Henry. “The one you're writing for Oleśnicki.”

“Cronica conflictus,” Štěpán answered, his eyes facing back down to his parchment.

Henry threw his arms up as if he wanted to give a speech to his people. “The cronica conflictus,” he blast out in the worst Latin Samuel had ever heard, “written by the not-so-adventu­rous Lord Štěpán of Tetín! Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

“It might, but that doesn't matter.” Štěpán seemed to try his best to make his voice sound indifferent, but it was clear that there was disappointment hiding underneath. “My name cannot appear in it. Imagine if word got around and Sir Ondřej found out about it, ha! Although I could see him just refusing to be­lieve it.”

“Or the news would finally make him croak,” Kubyenka said.

“He! That's my guardian you're talking about.”

“Apologies, my Lord, but you know the man. At some point, I believe, you have reached an age where you need to stop clin­ging so desperately to life.”

Kubyenka flinched when he was hit on the forehead by a lump of seaweed that Henry had thrown at him. “So, have you reached that point yet, Kubyenka? I heard how you moaned and grunted this morning when you hunkered down to take a shit!”

“You try taking a shit when you have almost been sliced in half! I'm lucky when all that stuff doesn't fall out in the middle.”

“Oy.” Samuel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the feeling of the sand and the smell of salt and warm stones and fishy waters, instead of that. “Not a sight I needed to ima­gine.”

“Speaking of age.” Katherine had been unusually quiet the whole day long, for a few days already, when Samuel thought about it now, and she tried to keep her voice as low as possible, but it was quiet enough out here on the shore for all of them to hear. “Could I talk to you for a moment? Just the two of us, from one woman to another?” Samuel watched Mirtl push her­self off the sand, and the wind carried some more of Kathe­rine's words over to them as they walked along the ocean, be­fore they were finally out of earshot for good. “How long has it ever been for you, you know, the time between the bleedings?”

Hans lifted himself up too and went over to a place under the shelter of a few larger rocks where they had stored their saddlebags. When he returned to the others, he was holding his cornflower shield. “You know,” he stopped in front of Štěpán and weighed it in his hands, regarding it thoughtfully from all sides, “if you ever want to live through another anonymous ad­venture, I might know a way for you to do so a little more … discrete.” He reached the shield out to Štěpán. “As Ignatius of the Cornflower, knight of Krakow. Here. Take it.”

“What? No, Hans. I cannot accept that.”

“I believe you have proven yourself more than worthy of carrying it. Besides, it doesn't come without conditions, you see? Two, to be precise. Number one.” Hans lifted the free hand up and poked his finger into the salt of the wind. “When a certain Lord of Leipa seeks you out and demands to borrow the shield and the name for a while, you will have to hand it over without any further discussion, yes? And number two. Sir Igna­tius of the Cornflower and of Krakow will have a certain duty to fulfil. Namely, to come and visit Pirkstein. As often as he can.”

“Thank you,” Štěpán whispered, and he even placed his stack of parchment down on the ground when he took the shield into his hands. “Thanks, all of you.”

“Now, that is something to drink to, is it not?” Kubyenka laughed as he kicked off his boots. “And I feel mighty thirsty. Who wants to drink with me?” And then he limped off into the ocean, jumping in pain as the stones cut into his souls, before he finally let himself fall down into the water with a loud splash.

“Not without Janosh, ey!”

“Come on, Henry.” Hans took both of Henry's hands in his and pulled him up to his feet. “I want to feel it!”

Henry shook his head, but there was a smile on his lips, a serious smile that made Samuel happy too, and he let himself be dragged along by Hans despite his protests. “Feel it all you want, Hans, but I don't know if I should …”

“We won't go far, I promise! And I'll hold your hand all the way. He, what about you, Štěpán? Come with us, you might never get another chance!”

“Oh, actually I still have some more things to … Oh Lord.” Štěpán had just turned to put the shield down on his shoes when a wave broke on the shore in front of him, sending sprays of foam into his face and fingers of water up the sand. Over Štěpán's feet and legs and arse. Over the parchment too. Re­treating back into the sea once its mischief was done, taking the few adventures in the otherwise not so adventurous life of Lord Štěpán of Tetín with it. “Oh no, oh no!”

“Ey, you do come join us?” Janosh watched curiously as Štěpán leaped past him through the water like a wild rabbit, trying to save what he could, but everytime his hands reached down into the water, the parchment seemed to slip from his grasp again.

“It's times like these,” Godwin mumbled, sinking down onto the sand next to Samuel, “when I'm questioning my decision of becoming a teacher.”

“I'm sure you're brilliant at it,” Žižka said with a fond smile. “And I cannot wait to attend one of your lessons, when I come to Prague with you.”

“You will?”

“Ah, you know, I promised it to someone.” His gaze had found Katherine now, who was standing a fair bit away on a small overhang that the waves had dug into the land, with Mirtl close by her side. She had placed a hand on Katherine's body. On her belly, to be exact. “And I am sure Jan Hus can need more than just teachers and preachers, considering all the re­sistance he's met with. I want to be a part of that. Together with you. With a friend. Because a soldier is all well and good, but having a friend, that is invaluable, is it not? Or perhaps, mul­tiple friends.” He turned and regarded Samuel with an expec­tant look. “What do you think? Prague?”

“Oh, I believe Kolín is where I am more needed.” Samuel looked out to the ocean. To the water, glittering like a field of snow-white gemstones, reaching endlessly into the vastness of the world. “I will try to educate myself further in medicine. Help my mame. And others.”

“You could study medicine properly,” Godwin said. “At the Karolinum.”

“Godwin, you know that there is no place for me there.”

“As long as I am at the Karolinum, there will also be a place for you. Wherever I go will be a place for you. And,” he turned his face to the sea, where in this very moment Janosh continued his battle with the white thieving birds, Kubyenka tried to fight them off with a fish he had somehow managed to catch with his bare hands, Štěpán floated on the water surface, frantically flailing his arms and legs around as if he was a fish himself, albeit not a particularly gifted one, all while Henry and Hans tied what looked to be ribbons made of stinking seaweed to each others wrists, “for them too, I suppose.”

Samuel shook his head and sank back down into the sand. Who knew, he could perhaps give it another thought. As long as his mame was feeling well enough. And as long as he would not have to go alone. He turned his head and watched Kathe­rine and Mirtl down at the shore, the skirts of their dresses floating in the breeze, blue like Ignatius's cornflower, red like the wine spilled under that fucking torched down banner.

“What do you think they're discussing?”

“Hm,” Samuel made with a smile, not looking at Žižka but at Katherine and Mirtl, and at the wind and the glittering ocean and the setting sun far away on the horizon, shining like a bea­con of hope. “A miracle perhaps. But not one of firedamp trapped in a tiny glass ball. Something that might have a higher chance of coming true.”

[insertpinkchiphere]

anonymous asked-  ‘ TRUTH ‘  + how many people have you slept with? TRUTH SERUM TIME !  (accepting!)

Lambda splutters at that, eyes as wide as plates. He's lucky that he hadn't taken a drink beforehand, he surely would have choked on it.

"Kind of a personal question, don't'cha think?" He should not be surprised in the slightest and yet, he is. Thin metal fingers come to fiddle with each other. Pink painted lips press together in a thin line in some attempt to keep himself quiet.

"I dunno.", he mumbles, having failed to do so, no thanks to the serum coursing through his veins. "I wanna say like, niiine people? Ten at the most? Maybe?"

[bulletbilltime]

Oh y'all are sharing Spotify Wrappeds? Oh sure here's mine. I'm still waiting on my actual year-end list though. Yeah I'm making a homebrew year-end chart. Yeah it won't be ready for another 24 days. Yeah I use homegrown weekly data points harvested from local scrobble aggregators. Wait where did everyone go

[d1mndnthr0ugh]

you actually can't triangulate with only two cats unless you yourself are the third point bc triangulation is finding the approximate location of something by finding how far it is from three different points and then finding the intersection of all three circles of the respective radiuses

granted two different rays that intersect can only intersect once so you can find the thing by checking where their lines of sight meet but that's not triangulation

cats are really good at looking at things. very useful

[theblogofoppinions]

Hello to all!

my intentions here are to show the world what I think. How I feel. My perception of right and wrong, good and bad... things that every human experiences differently. I called this "the blog of opinions", but they are only my own. Aside from input, of course!

You may agree, you may not. I may change your mind, it may stay the same.

Either way, I am just as right in my mind as you are in yours.

This is my perspective.

So:

Hello, world, I am Fox!

[presepohne]

Currently I have this thought of Johnny being the perfect fuck boy (what do you mean by the perfect fuck boy) who has got all this charm and very charismatic aura around him that does attracts men and women alike (my boy bi), and then there is you the nerd who is trying to get dicked down because everyone makes fun of you as the innocent virgin friend.

Johnny has a mate, Simon who is also a fuck boy, but more on the scary side— totally your type, big, buff, scary dog privileges. Oof— but he doesn't do virgins, inexperienced sweethearts; so when you come up to Simon with your request he's flicking you off ain't got time for innocent birds sweet'art and dismissed you.

So you go to his best mate, Johnny ofc to get fucked. And Johnny complies because you're such a sweetheart stuttering and so shy asking and almost on the verge of tears because Simon rejected you. And Johnny does fuck you good, so good but the whole time you're crying on his cock over Simon's rejection.

Johnny has never been turned on and annoyed, he just fucks you harder because Lass I'm the one making ye feel so good, why thinking about that wanker? Hmm?

(in my head simon joins the fuck, it's a threesome)

[nanamisgirly]

part.1 part.2 part.4

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliiies <333

virgin!nerdjo, ever the diligent student, stumbles upon tutorial on nipple sucking—so what does he do? he goes to the nearest pharmacy and buy a baby bottle to practice on. he got a baddie to please, after all. one who's already let him come inside her by the way and in record time. but also one who's experienced. and he's…well, him.

virgin!nerdjo frowns at the taste the moment he tries it, straight-up plastic. but still, he follows the video instructions step by step, phone in one hand, bottle nipple in his mouth, trying his best to mimic the motions—rewinding it over and over determined to get it right.

but of course, he's super bad at hiding stuff :( so the next time you're in his room you spot it on his desk, half-hidden behind his clutter of notebooks and cables. it's sightly chewed at the tip. and it definitely got your attention. “satoru…is this…yours?”

virgin!nerdjo goes red in seconds—like a cartoon character caught with porn.  “w-what? n-no…” he tries, voice already cracking. you look at him, eyebrows lifted, tilting your head in amusement as a smirk tugs at your lips like you knowevery single embarrassing thought he's ever had. 

he groans in defeat, “yes…it is.” his eyes are glued to the floor, cheeks blazing. he feels like if the ground could just swallow him whole right now, that'd be great. but for some reasons, his mouth had other plans, seems like it can't just shut up for his own good, “there was this video. a bunch of them, actually. about,um…nipple technique.” he stammers, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes still avoiding yours “y'know like…oral stuff. and one of the top comments said it helps to practice on biberon because…it's kind of squishy? and it has resistance…” 

you just stare at virgin!nerdjo, blank and expressionless. he feels so so dump. even dumper than when he cum in two seconds top-chrono in you. “i wanted to do it right!” he blurts, tugging his collar, desperately trying to get himself out of this. “last time i—uh—i lasted like one second. inside you. and you were so nice about it, but i wanna be better. I wanna make you feel good, not just…blow in my pants and cry.”

you walk slowly to him, eyes soft, voice lower. “so you practiced. on a baby bottle.” he nods, mortified. “and did it help?”

“no…it tasted like a melted barbie leg. i almost threw up.”

the next thing virgin!nerdjo knows, you're pushing him onto the bed as you pull off your top—he freezes in place, mouth open, glasses fogging like he's in the middle of a hentai scene he never thought he'd survive. and from where you stand between his thighs, you can see the bulge tenting his pants. poor baby probably got hard just thinking about this moment :(

virgin!nerdjo has his big hands clutching your ass, as your fingers tighten in his white soft hair—pushing his face to one of your nipple. “c'mon, nerd, show me what you've learned.” 

virgin!nerdjo starts so awkwardly. there's too much tongue, too wet and sloppy—his teeth scrape a little too hard and you flinch. “ah—! ‘toru…gentle, you’re not chewing gum.” he recoils instantly, looking like he just failed a final exam. “shit! i'm sorry—i didn't mean to—fuck, i'm such an idiot, i—”

“heyy, baby," you coo, cupping his cheek, brushing his hair from his eyes. "it's okay. try again, would you?” he nods quickly at your words, blinking hard. you swear there are tears building in those pretty blue eyes but you don't have time to think about it as this time he goes slower, sucking tentatively, trying to remember the tutorial steps : tongue flat, lips soft, light suction—add it progressively. he's shaking with focus, sweat dotting his brow as if he's taking an exam worth his entire GPA.

but it seems to work because your whimpers grow louder, virgin!nerdjo's tongue turns messy, fast. he's drooling and panting as his hand clutch to your ass like he might float off the bed. every gasp you make goes straight to his cock. he grinds on your lap helplessly, every moan from you like a five-star rating on his progress. he groans, mouthing at your other nipple, “you taste so much better,” he muffle, tongue flicking on the neglected nipple.

virgin!nerdjo is leaking through his boxers, one hand going to the nipple covered in spit—massaging with his thumb, watching it shine. the other hand drops to your upper thigh, where he humps like a dog in heat.

“you're doing so good, such a good boy, aren't you?” virgin!nerdjo moans your name like a prayer, sucking harder, hips stuttering against your thigh—he's leaking all over himself, so desperate and clumsy.

your sweet virgin nerd couldn't help himself. he had to make a sticky mess in his boxer :(

✩*:.⸝⸝>o<⸝⸝.:*✩

[wxxpingangxls]

mr munch!

he slammed the door, huffing. "what the fuck is your problem?" you asked, watching as he throws his gym bag on the floor.

"no one believes i have game!" he whined. armin scrunched his face as soon as he heard you snort, not taking your eyes off the tv, once. "something funny?" he asked, clearly unhappy with your response. he pathetically plumped himself on the sofa next to you.

armin was a nerd. your typical tv nerd. one who knew wayyy too much about things that were less than ideal, academically gifted and zero game when it came to getting women. i mean it wasn't his fault that he was sooo eager to please his teachers. sure, he was cute with his glasses that seemed more like a magnifying glass glued to his face, and not to mention that fuck ass bob of his. but you know what, he wore it well. and you had to give him that much.

"ok so, how do you pick up a pretty girl then?" you asked, now directly facing him. he fiddled with his bony fingers before swallowing harshly. "well?"

"well i'm charming?"

"according to who?" you bellowed out in laughter as he pouted. "you're a nerd, and there's nothing wrong with that," your hand rubbed on his knee as you gave him a pitiful smile.

"are you...giving me pity right now?"

"no? i'm comforting a friend," you said curtly.

"can i ask you something?"

you smiled expectantly, knowing that he was probably going to splutter out some fuckary. however, nothing could ever prepare you for what came out of his big mouth.

"what's a munch?"

your eyes widened in shock.

"is it a bad thing? everyone was asking if i was a munch, so i just said yes,"

"why the fuck would you say yes to something you don't know the meaning of?"

"well to be honest, it seemed like a good thing..." he put his head down as his face grew hot.

you weren't any better because now your palms were sweaty. "armin, aren't you like, a know-it-all?"

"oh please, i'm not that smart..."

"clearly," you couldn't help but pity the poor baby. and he didn't like that. he didn't like it when others looked down on him especially with pity.

"so, are you gonna tell me?"

"a munch is a man who loves to eat pussy, okay?"

"but i've never...done that before,"

"i can tell," you huffed out while he visibly blushed. "well now the whole school knows that you loves to eat pussy," you giggled loudly. you half expected armin to whine like he always does, but he stays silent. "oh come on, i'm just kidding, laugh a little,"

"so, being a munch sounds fun, i wanna try it out," he turns to face you.

"sorry? armin, are you fucking okay? you don't even know how to eat it,"

"how am i supposed to learn?"

and that's how you ended up with your legs held all the way up to your ears, with armin and his bob between your legs. his tongue piercing swirled on your clit. "you're...you're a fucking liar!" you squealed, as his mouth suckled on your clit. he moaned, completely ignoring you. unbeknownst to you, he was smirking as your syrupy slick dribbled down your ass crack. but that didn't stop him.

his tongue trailed all the way down to the winking hole, as his thumb rubbed your bud with ease. you were unbelievably wet as he tongue moved up towards your hole, squeezing it into your tight pussy. you pulled on his hair, bringing him impossibly closer to it, smothering him completely. each time, his tongue subtly stretching you out. he grunted and groaned, sending vibrations straight to your heart. that lying bastard. he's not fucking new to this shit.

you mewled, watching him remove himself from your cunt for a hot minute. "what's wrong? i'm just showing you what a munch is," he slyly grinned, his chin covered in nothing but slick and saliva. fuck, was he nasty, fingers never leaving your clit. your toes started throwing gang signs as tears formed in your eyes. before you could tell him to move his ass and finish his meal, he's already attaching his mouth in a suction motion onto your clit. you played with your nipple as your hips literally bucked up into his face, greedily trying hard to get more. more of that attention he was giving to the entirety of your sweet pussy.

honestly, you were mad you hadn't just sat on his face to shut him up sometimes. and trust me, you'd thought about it. the ball of his tongue piercing rolled continuously on your clit with speed, as you damn near closed your legs in overwhelming pleasure. this nerd was flicking your clit raw, but you loved every moment of it. "just like that," you whined, yanking his hair a little too harsh. if you had pulled it the right way, he might've just cum in his pants for the second time that night.

"mfphm, fuck armin!" you squealed a little too loud, that wretched piece of metal and his tongue making you cry tears of and pleasure. it seemed almost sadistic with the way he kept repeating the same motion that made your legs shake and quiver. "okay, armin, m'cummin!" and all those words did, was spur him on. watching as he attempted to push his face into your sticky cunt, your leg locked up, with your back arching steeply.

you came hard, but that didn't stop armin from flicking his tongue on your clit, over and over again. and the worst part? you couldn't get him to move away. "okay, i get it!" you moaned out, damn near screaming. he was lucky that your legs felt weak, or else he would've been crushed by your thighs, not that he would mind. "armin, i'm done!" you sobbed out, and the obscene sounds of him slurping and sucking on your pussy never stopped. your hand moved to place itself on his head and attempt to push him away.

a feeling arose in your tummy, something unfamiliar, and at the point you were crying hot tears. you even couldn't let out one coherent sentence before you came again. even harder than the first. you genuinely felt ethereal, ringing in your ears and seeing nothing but white. your heartbeat was in your ears as he finally removed himself after riding your orgasm out.

two slim fingers slowly slipped into your cunt. "you bastard,"

"hey, that's not anyway to talk to the guy that just gave you the orgasm of your life," he pouted, fingers curving upwards towards your g-spot as you moaned out loud. he swiftly pulled them out before slapping your cunt.

you sat up immediately, and gave him one harsh slap across his face. "you said you've never eaten pussy, what the hell was that?" you huffed out.

"thanks!"

"it wasn't a compliment,"

that sneaky bastard. of he knows how to eat it. but now you had to find out if he could lay it down. well, you actually didn't have to worry about that, cuz baby, despite cumming in his pants twice, he still had more in him.

that fucking nerd.

[tonycries]

SECOND masterlist! This masterlist has all my writing from 02/10/24 up until now — for my earlier works check out my FIRST MASTERLIST <3

👻 = from my Kinktober!

MONSTA! 👻

WILD WILD WILD 👻

Bad Bad Boy 👻

PONY 👻

Girl, I'm Into It! 👻

KNOTTY GIRL! 👻

NNN

Madam.

BUTTER

FEVER FEVER FEVER

BUMPIN' THAT!

DDD

CHERRY-POP!

JUNO

O-O-O-OBSESSED!

D!LFMAS?!

BIIIG STRETCH.

STICKYYY

Like a Dog!

P*SSY POWER!

TALKIN' BOOODY!

STUFFED.

OL-F*CK-TORY ETHICS?!

ABRACADABRA

Can't Feel My Face.

ATTACK ON P*SSY!

BIG BOYYY!

TRACKSTAR?!

JUICY!

FEVERRR?!

KREME!

RAW-MANCE!

Jujutsu? Gnarly.

FIT CHECK?!

FAST N' FURIOUS!

BAD INFLUENCE

Animals — Yes, your best friend is secretly an alpha. Yes, he acts like a fúcking anímal when he rúts. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alíve. 👻

Corpse Groom — Till déath do you part…or does it when a déathly error leads your newly-wedded husband to be from beyond the gráve? 👻

The Initiation — From now onwards, you’re the madam of the Gojo clan - and your clan leader husband is going to prove it to everyone.

Cake or Fake — The only birthday gift your brother’s best friend wants? You. And not just for fake-dating…

Sweetheart Online — Isekai-ed into another world, or isekai-ed into your pants?! Gojo Satoru is in danger - in danger of losing his prized, otaku vírginíty, that is.

Knight of Roses — You, heir to the throne and fated to be married off to a royal you’ve never even met. Gojo Satoru, your personal knight and the one man that will not let this happen. He will not.

Night(wing) Crawler — Trapped with a too-smug, too-handsome Nightwing by the very same villains you were trying to swindle was not how you planned to spend your night. Luckily for you, Gojo can think of a much better way to pass the time.

To Tame A Monster — Gojo Satoru, the most dangerous underground fighter in all of Japan - and the…hottest, too. You, the cute nurse that takes care of him, and totally not his favorite prize, right? Right?

STRONGEST — The strongest. The most feraI. Gojo Satoru’s powers aren’t the only thing that goes out of control after a battle.

Hot Nerd Summer — The best way to beat your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival during finals? Fúck him!

Cruel Summer — The five times Gojo Satoru would rather díe than marry you, his (infuriatingly pretty, oh-so-irresistible) arranged fiancée - and the one time he comes back from déath to.

Amen (Hey, Men!) — BIoodshed. BIoodIust. Vampires. It was no wonder you’d turn to the charming new priest in town during dark times like these…but Father Gojo seems to be interested in you in ways that are more than sinful. And there’s nothing holy about him, either.

Heavy Metal Lover — A group project with your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival and your handsome punk best friend? Oh, you’re getting a D++

Love Thy D!LF — Yes, your neighbor is a hot, pérvy D!LF. Yes, he’s a total tease. No, you don’t think your poor new bed frame is going to stay in one piece…

Bed Chem — No, you’ve never gone through a heat. No, your big bad neighbor, Toji Fushiguro, hasn’t had a rút in years. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive when all that changes with your…bed chem.

Bat(man) Romance — Running into Batman AKA your ex-husband, Toji, after a heist? Could this night get any worse? Well, there’s also one tiny problem…you’re both covered in séx pollen.

Lady & The Sick Man — Most people would run away from the ghost in their shabby new apartment, Toji Fushiguro makes you lose your mind.

To Have Your Eyes — Toji Fushiguro - strong, hot, and your steadfast personal knight. And his duty to the crown means that Toji should…help the princess he’s always loved with obtaining an heir, right? Right?

SCREEN QUEEN! — To see a movie or to make one? Four times Geto Suguru absolutely ruined you for the cameras, and the one time outside of them.

Video Game Lover — Suguru Geto, the resident nerd who “helps” you with your homework. Tall, gloomy, mean, and- and an alpha? And he’s in rut?!

Heavy Metal Lover — A group project with your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival and your handsome punk best friend? Oh, you’re getting a D++

Sweetener — You, hit by your heat cycle and accidentally calling your best friend over in a daze. Choso Kamo, your utterly sweet best friend - and totally not an aIpha, right? Right?

Madam Kamo — Bréeding kínk? Going feraI? What the hell is that? Maybe your sweet clan leader husband knows the answer…

Hey, Venom Boy! — Venom’s had enough of his host’s racing heartbeat and tíghtening pants around you. So he does what any good symbiote would do - help Choso lose his vírginíty, of course!

Heat Waves — The two things they don’t tell you about a hot emo half-curse? 1. He’s in heat. 2. He needs you badly.

Your (Super)Man — He’s not a bird. He’s not a plane. He’s…just Nanami Kento from the journalism department. But you have a feeling that Nanami’s hiding a super big secret - and not just the one down there.

50 Shades of Kento — You help your hot uptight boss blow off some much-needed steam, and he makes an absolute mess of you - that annoyingly flirty new employee of his. Deal?

Heaven — An aIpha? Please, your arranged husband was the perfect gentleman - soft, strong, shy to even look your way and- and damn feraI when he’s in rút?

The Duke and I — Dearest gentle reader, it is with great pride that we introduce this season’s most eligible bachelor, Duke Nanami Kento. However, ladies be warned, rumors swirl that our most gallant gentleman already has his eyes (and hands) set on a particular chambermaid. You.

My Oh My — Trick or treat! The mean ínmate in Room 6/9 doesn’t want halloween candy - he wants something else much, much sweeter. 👻

Executioner Style — How long does it take for the demon king, Ryomen Sukuna, to figure out why you summoned him? Three hours. How long until you wonder whether you’ll make it out of the bed aIive? Well…

Type Dangerous — Five times Ryomen Sukuna’s “wingmanning” family is the biggest cóckbIock in existence, and the one time he finally gets what he wants - you, his nephew’s hot preschool teacher.

©2025 tonycries. All work belongs to @tonycries. Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms. This includes themes, headers, and pinned.

[madamechrissy]

Just Friends!?

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and popular F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

Warnings - Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- this chap - lots of tension, angstyyy, misunderstandings, emotional, some kissing and heavy desire but mostly this chap is sfw, mutual pining, lots of feelings - Tag list closed

Based HEAVILY on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazingg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙

<<<Part Four - Masterlist - Playlist- Part Six>>>

Part Five

It’s been two hours since Satoru said he’d meet you, and you are as dressed up as you have been in years, hair curled to perfection, beautiful dress that’s hugging every inch of your body, pretty and dark red, long sleeves with lace all over them, and black tights underneath with thigh high boots. Your parents had been gushing over you when you’d walked out, doing a little spin and giggling.

That was two hours ago.

Now you’re touching up your highlighter, blinking mascara coated lashes that are far longer than you’re used to. He was used to models, so surely your skills wouldn’t be that level, but you wanted to at least try to look pretty for this… date. Yes it was going to be a date. He's only seen you casual so far, you're literally wearing lace panties and not Sailor Mars this time too.

The thoughts of last night make you blush, even as the moments tick by. To feel like that underneath him, so fucking beautiful and desired, with the boy you adored? It seemed worth whatever hurt that was coming when he went back home. You want to believe him, that he won't forget you again, but as the clock ticks it's hard to know if he's staying true to his word.

You call again, it's the third time in two hours, you hope it's not too much but now you're almost a little worried, shooting him a text instead, biting your lip as your fingers dance across the cool screen. 

Satoru, are you okay? It's fine if you can't make it! Just let me know you're safe, the roads are covered in snow.

You sigh, setting down the phone as your mom walks in where you're sitting by the window, watching the snowfall gently. “Hey honey, are you staying for dinner?”

It's your mom's sweet way of distracting you. “He might still come, mom.”

“Absolutely! But I am getting ready to cook, you know.” She puts a hand on your shoulder, gentle now. “You're so stunning.”

“Aw, mom...” You look back to see her blinking emotions, making your heart ache.

“He'd only be so lucky to see you like this. You know that?”

You look down shyly. “You see him. He's a whole model.”

“And you're you. And that's special too. Don't get too upset if…” She trails off a bit no. “Just, seeing you like that after he left was really hard for me is all.” You stand now, hugging her and inhaling the familiar scent of her as she blinks back emotion.

“You're scared I'll get hurt again.” She nods, sniffling now as you brush aside a tear.

“That was worse than watching any breakup. I'm really scared for you, it's not that I don't still love Satoru. I promise it's not that. But you're doing so good now.” you smile sadly, remembering the days you laid in bed after, crying and not leaving your room for weeks aside from essential needs.

You wouldn't get that way again. Even if he…

“Just watch your heart, it's a million sizes too big.” You smile tremulously up at her, holding her hands now.

“Get that from you two.” You both smile now, and a knock sounds at the door, making you jump in excitement, rushing to where your dad was opening the door now, and then pausing.

“Sukuna how have you been!?” Your dad says, and Sukuna chuckles, coming into view as he puts his hand on your dad's shoulder.

“I've been good, how about you, old man?”

“Old man!? I'll show you ‘old man’. Got a football you know!”

“Oh yeah? I'm down for a challenge.” He grins, and your mom blinks in surprise, looking at you, then at the door, when your dad invites the tall man in, and his ruby eyes catch you, making him falter, his lips parted.

“Sukuna…” You trail off, while his gaze drifts over you, heating you up with his look, before clearing his throat, walking over to you.

“I was right in the neighborhood and thought I'd say hi to the family. You look… beautiful, shit.” He rubs the back of his neck as he murmurs it, and your dad shuts the door to the cold, leaving you all basking in the warmth of the well heated home.

Beautiful, Sukuna had never said that sort of thing when you dated - maybe sexy, hot or whatever ridiculously horny statement he used to make, but then he had changed a lot. So had Satoru Gojo, and here you were, still the same girl, with two famous men back in town showing up, the doubts creeping as you realize how excited you were for it to be Satoru at the door.

“Are you going out or… getting back?” He asks then, you watch as snowdrops dissolve on his black overcoat, he brushes some off his pink locks, just a little damp from them melting.

“Thank you, I’m so delayed in my responses.” He chuckles as you get just a little flustered, he’s eyeing you so intensely right now, while you’re fidgeting with your hands in front of your lap. “I had a date but… he hasn’t um, showed up or answered the phone. So I don’t know my plans.”

“Idiot.” You glare, and he sighs. “Sorry, but only an idiot would not show up.”

“He could be… caught up with the show, or something. So I don’t know, he should still come. But for now, um… I may help mom cook?”

“Looking like that?” He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, as your parents walk up now, and your dad has busted out his football, Sukuna chuckles over at him - he’s much thinner than he probably remembers, but he’s so much stronger than he was years back. “You’re ready to get your ass kicked, old man?”

“You’re a pro, but I’m old school.” Your dad winks over at you, and you giggle just a bit. He’d always loved Sukuna, where your mom was not his biggest fan, they had some weird male football bond happening.

But you haven’t seen your dad so excited in forever, he was a huge fan of Sukuna’s team, so you’re sure this is a trip for him. “You came to see my parents, or me?”

Your soft question earns a raised brow and an arrogant smirk, smacking you right back to the girl fawning over him in high school. “Both, I didn't know if you’d be home or not, but I was hoping. But also I wanted to… see him too, if that’s cool?”

“Of course it is.” You grin now, a hand on his broad shoulder, and he exhales, leaning a little low. “How are you two gonna play in the snow!?”

“Tch, it’s nothing brat.”

“Brat!? No, no. Not calling me that again.” You shove at the big man, as your dad starts bundling up, and you look at him with concern. “Dad are you okay to…”

“Honey, let him. He needs this.” Your mom whispers, and you nod then, smiling as your dad looks at you curiously.

“You worried about your ‘old man’?” He teases, kissing your head affectionately, and you’re so thankful for Sukuna then, something you’d never thought you’d say.

“Don’t catch a cold, now! Sukuna, take it easy on him.”

“Psh, no way.” Sukuna grins deviously as the two men run outside in the cold like psychos in the darkening sky, you stand by the door and giggle as you watch them, the sky a snowy mix of purples and pinks as nighttime comes.

“You’re awfully popular again, I feel like I need to make these boys ask permission again.” Your mom teases, you roll your eyes, hugging your arms as the brisk air hits, then peeking back at your phone.

No response.

But your text was read.

You swallow a bit, feeling sick to your stomach - was he… with Samantha? He said he wasn’t interested, but they had a history. This morning you’d laid in his bed for longer than you should have, inhaling his scent, lingering memories flitting through your mind until you’d finally left - and it took far, far too much effort, that room really felt like you and Satoru’s personal snowglobe.

“I’ll call one more time,” you say, and your mom nods understandingly, bundling up in her jacket now. “You headed outside?”

“I gotta see your dad like this for a few. Then we can cook dinner together, maybe Sukuna can stay?” You nod and smile at her, hand shaking when you’re left alone, pacing nervously. Your heels click on the old hardwood floors as you do, as it rings and rings and rings.

Did Satoru break his promise?

*****

“Shit, shit, shit. No reception. Fuck, do you have any, Samantha?” The blond model pouts, brushing back her blong locks.

“No, I wish! Ugh this town is so fucking stupid! Why aren’t we moving!?” She leans out of the window then, screaming out - “Move, townies, I have to take a fucking piss!”

He’d been stuck in this car in traffic for an hour with her, barely moving inch by fucking inch from some really bad accident, a four car pile up according to the radio - which is the only thing that’s working. Neither of them have reception, and no internet access on any of their devices in this particular area, maybe because of the storm, he’s not sure.

But this is hell.

You’re going to think he broke his fucking promise, you’re probably already giving up on him coming, and he had everything perfectly planned, for it to all start to fall apart, and now in this car with a psycho brat and nothing to pass the time, just the windshield wipers and the fucking heat blasting, with some fuzzy radio. He peers at his phone again, glaring at it.

“Boring, so boring! Ugh this whole trip! I can’t wait to fucking get back home, out of these backwoods.” She rolls up her windows and pouts, pressing closer over to the heat that’s blasting from the vents.

“Yeah, yeah I know. You’ve hated being in a ‘small town’ you yap about it enough.” She scoffs, crossing her slender arms and scowling at him.

“Well you’re no fun, all fucking broody over the little girl from the bar.”

“Yeah we are not talking about her.” His jaw clenches, blue eyes flashing, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re just gonna fuck her, so do it and get on with it.”

“What!?”

“It’s what you do - fuck women, leave them. Or fuck them when you feel like it if they’re cool with sharing. Lucky for you, I didn’t give a fuck, because I had my own roster,” her words are the first serious things he’s ever heard from her, while she looks out the windshield, hugging herself under her jacket. “But that girl won’t.”

“What are you even on about, you didn’t want more than sex,” Satoru trails off then, when her eyes meet his again, softer than he’s used to. “You were fine just fucking, we never dated.”

“Well yeah, you don’t date, everyone in the industry knows, you have serious issues, you know?”

“Me, issues!? Samantha-”

“No. You do. Soon as we fucked you had a ride waiting for me as if I was some… escort? And all my friends say you did the same. Ever think it made any of them feel shitty?” Satoru’s stomach twists, looking back down at the phone and then at the road, avoiding her gaze. “Well, it did.”

“You felt great under me, all of you did. I’ve never had a complaint in the bedroom, okay?” She laughs a bit, sighing.

“You are a superb fuck, but if that’s all you’re gonna do to her, leave the poor girl the fuck alone.”

“You don’t know shit of how I feel for her.” He scowls at her, and she just shrugs a narrow shoulder, a nasty smile on her face.

“I know you, I know men like you, you’re an industry standard.”

“And so the fuck are you.” She snorts now, rolling her eyes again.

“Sure am, but I know what I am - you’re trying to act like you’re any better. Go fuck her then, and leave her like you do. Think that’ll be good? She’d be better off with me.”

“With you!?”

“Mmm, yes. At least I’d give her some affection after.” Satoru’s heart races as her words hit. “I kept fucking you because I liked you, I really liked you - until I realized you’re shallow.”

“You are not calling me shallow, you tell everyone in the city they’re poor because they don’t wear designer clothes. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You’re as shallow as me.”

“You know, shut the fuck up please.” He keeps peering at the road, as the cars finally start moving, he checks the time and curses.

“Best you don’t make it, save her the heartbreak.”

“You’re suddenly really deep, Samantha. I don’t like it anymore than you being annoying as fuck.” She looks out the window, shaking her head.

“You don’t know any of the women in your bed. You don’t bother to.”

Satoru can’t argue it, he knows Samantha is right, and she’s read him like a fucking book, her words swirling through his mind - would he just hurt you? No, it’s different, you’re different, you’re the reason he became this way. The hurt that day, the rejection he thought he was going to get, along with Sukuna and everyone, it had made him high tail it and run.

And he changed.

Fuck who was he? Sometimes he’d look in that mirror at his perfect features and contemplate just that - who was he? Satoru Gojo, a model, a famous man on the runway with endless women, or was he that nerdy boy, the one who laughed with you till your tummies hurt? Who made popcorn and oreos for the two of you - the weirdest thing ever but you loved it - and watched movies in your room?

Could he ever be that boy again truly, was last night any sort of real attempt, or would he fuck it all up and hurt you again?

He can’t live with himself if he does.

“You’re right,” his murmur brings her attention to him, he’s exhausted from the shoot and the drive, and so is she, but her eyes soften a bit. “I was a dick to you, and everyone.”

“Understatement.” He just sighs, clenching the wheel with tight hands.

“Were you different before you were famous?” He asks, he’s never asked shit about her, it’s true - she was just fun when he wanted a psycho in the bed, he didn’t even see her as a person.

Sure she was indeed insane, but he didn’t have to treat her like shit.

“No, I’ve always been this way honestly. I didn’t change because I got famous, but I grew up rich.”

“Ah.” It’s quiet, as he takes a breath now. “I feel a lot for her.”

“I know, it’s written all over your face when you talk about her.” He looks at her once more, before focusing on the road again. “If you feel something, say it, I never hold back shit I want to.”

“No you don’t.” He laughs a bit and so does she, shifting a bit, eyes brightening now.

“I have internet, oh fuck yes. I can drown out your moody ass.” He sticks his tongue out, and she returns it, slipping in her ear buds as they come to a red light, and he pulls up his phone finally, seeing your missed calls come through and texts.

Shit, shit, shit.

He picks up the phone, calling it finally, but it keeps ringing, and he hangs up and tries again, only for it to do the same thing, making his stomach twist in knots. Did you think he wasn’t coming!? Were you upset, or mad? Were you ignoring his calls- god a million what ifs occur as he tries to focus on driving, to get Samantha back to the hotel so he can see you.

*****

“Oh god, yeah I remember that! So embarrassing!” You’re covering your face as your mom starts getting the plates ready and you have busted out your old pictures, Sukuna and you in football and cheerleader gear.

“You sucked at cheer, you were only allowed because you were so pretty.” He teases, and you gasp, shoving at him playfully.

“Oh whatever!? No way!” His hand comes to the small of your back as he grabs the plates you can’t reach, pressing him too closely against you.

It’s been another half hour or so, and at this point your phone was just by the entryway, you couldn’t keep calling and texting, you would come off super pathetic, so you’re just enjoying the ambience of being with your parents and Sukuna. He’s made your dad damn near giddy, and you’re thankful for that, but your mind keeps drifting to Satoru.

“I think everything is ready! Drinks?” You say then, and Sukuna smiles a little. “Let me guess, beer?”

“I’ll drink whatever you’ve got.” His tone and eyes make you tremble just a bit, as you remember being with him - sex was never your problem, your problem was Sukuna was a little shit then. He was your first, and the memories hit your mind a little too vividly, and he seems to notice, leaning low. “What ya thinking about?”

“Nothing!? Nothing. Um…” The doorbell rings now, you figure at this point it’s a neighbor, your hopes of Satoru are just shoved back so it doesn’t hurt as much.

“I’ll go get it.” Your mom says then, smiling over at you two, when Sukuna brushes his rough, calloused fingers against your delicate cheek.

“Kuna…”

“There’s that nickname?” You glare, and he just chuckles, tilting your chin up to make you look at the tall man then. “What is on that mind? Memories?”

“Of you being a dick.” He sighs, dropping his hand then.

“Yeah, I was. A big dick to you. An idiot.”

“No, I mean, look at your life? It’s amazing.” His jaw clenches a bit, hands gripping the counter a bit tightly as you hear murmurs coming from the living room, but your heart is hammering in your ears, blocking it out.

“It’s not all amazing, okay? I thought of you alot. I wanted to reach out-”

“Satoru is here, honey.” You blink in shock, as you turn to look at Satoru Gojo, for once a complete disheveled mess, breathless almost as he smiles at you and then it falls, as he sees your proximity to Sukuna. “Sukuna came over and is having dinner, do you want to join us?”

Satoru wants to kill him, he wants to rip his arms off for being near you - which is irrational, it’s stupid, but it brings back every memory of longing and need while he watched the girl he loved in Sukuna���s arms. When Sukuna dated you he stopped being an ass to Satoru, it wasn’t until after the split he started being a dick again - a big dick to many people too, just particularly Satoru.

The hatred and resentment burn him so badly, he hardly notices you until he blinks it away, sighing, seeing your gorgeous dress. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, you’re so fucking beautiful tonight, dressed to go out and dressed to kill, that dress hugging every curve he was dying to touch, to hold, to kiss upon. Earrings dangle off your pretty ears, reflection against your dress as you look at him.

“I am so sorry, I… can we talk?” He asks then, softly, and you nod, trying not to let your hurt or worry make you angry at him, you need to hear him out.

“Sure. Just a minute, Sukuna.” He nods then, and you walk out to Satoru, he takes your wrist gently, pulling you over by the stairs, exhaling as he eyes you up and down slowly, as if he was caressing you with his blue eyes.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, my god.” You look down nervously, biting your lip a bit, and he tilts your chin, leaning low, making you vividly remember his kisses. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Oh, thank you Satoru. I didn’t know where you… were… taking me.” Your pause speaks volumes, and he sighs, pulling out his phone now.

“I called so many times after I got service, there was a horrible accident and we got stuck for hours. I’m so sorry.” You hear it then, the desperation, as he shows you his phone. “Your messages didn’t come until then, I am so fucking sorry, I tried to get here as quickly as I could. But… I guess I’m too late.”

“What, no, no. You’re not too late.” You step closer, and he exhales, pulling you against his chest now, resting his head against yours. “Sukuna came to see my parents, we’re not on a date or anything.”

“Fuck…” His relief makes his shoulders slump.

“Were you… worried about that?” Your whisper makes him laugh softly, pulling back to look into your eyes, cool hand cupping your face.

“Yeah. I was.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeats, while your hands cling to his soft sweater under his black jacket. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“How serious can we get if you leave soon?” Your voice is full of hurt, full of worry, and he can’t blame you one fucking bit, especially after soaking in what Samantha said.

“I will never just abandon you again.”

“Will you forget me again?” Your tears swim in your eyes, and you step back, shaking your head. “Fuck, ignore me, I’m tired I guess.”

Your words crush his heart, he feels it, the pain he put you through now, blinking back his own emotions. “I never forgot you, how could I?”

“You did.” You look away, and he turns you back to him, you fall again and again, over and over, body reacting, heart gravitating toward him against any better judgement you should have.

“No, I never fucking did.” His husky declaration is met with your mom peeking out now, concern on her face.

“Are you all going out or staying for dinner? There’s plenty, Satoru.” He clears his throat, watching you rub your arms nervously, a million things he’s dying to say to you, to tell you, all stuck in his fucking throat.

“We could just hit the movies and eat here, what do you think?” You say to him then, looking back up, as he runs a hand through his white locks.

“Think you look too beautiful not to take to a fancy restaurant, but I also think I’d love your mom’s cooking again.” You smile tremulously at his answer, sighing and trying to compose yourself.

“Then let’s go.” You take his hand, it feels too good, your little one engulfed in his warm palm, while Satoru sets his jacket and pulls out a chair for you, glaring over at Sukuna, who just smiles.

“Satoru, I should… say sorry for being a dick.” He says then, making Satoru blink in surprise.

“What?”

“I was a dick. Football makes us go to therapy, it’s really making me a little bitch but, here it is. I’m sorry.” He blinks once more, while he sits on the other side of you.

“Shit um, thanks I guess.” He mumbles, he still hates him, but he’s not going to keep the tension at the family table. Sukuna reaches around you to pat his shoulder, smiling a bit.

“It’s like a reunion huh?” Sukuna says teasingly, hand now finding your thigh under the table, making you look wide eyed at him, burning over your black tights. “It’s kind of nice being here again.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Satoru’s hand comes to your thigh now too, and you shift just a bit, Satoru’s is higher, thumb brushing circles on your soft inner thigh.

Some reunion.

“It’s nice to see you all getting along, and seeing you all again. I know she really missed you a lot, Satoru.” Your dad says then, and you hear it, the tone. Your dad was very protective, and he was never cool with his daughter being hurt - with Sukuna you both mutually broke up, but Satoru…

He really just left.

Satoru feels it in his gaze, sighing now. “Yeah well, certain people made High school shit for me. So I left.”

Sukuna looks away, sighing, and you feel the pain in his voice. “Not everyone was so bad.” You say softly, he nods then, hand on your thigh squeezing as Sukuna’s eases off.

“No, someone was amazing, and I shouldn’t have just left her.” His words are said in front of the room, and the tension eases, your dad smiles just a bit.

“She is amazing, you know.”

“Dad!”

“She is.” Satoru agrees, then he nibbles on the food in front of him, sighing. “I’m losing my abs this week.”

“You are not, silly!” You giggle with him, as all of you begin to reminisce, to talk softly, until food is done, and you’re going to help your mom clean up, but she stops you.

“You have a movie to get to, go on.” You smile at her knowing gaze.

“Satoru, have her home safe.” Your dad says, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m twenty six!”

“Still!”

“I’ll have her home safe. Unless she… wants to stay at my place again. But we’ll let you know, promise.” He nods then, hugging Satoru firmly.

“Please do, the roads are slick, be careful you two.”

“We will be, dad.” You look to see Sukuna saying his goodbyes as well, and Satoru glares at him, he can’t help it, the jealousy raging.

“Let me warm up the car, mmkay sweets?” He says softly, and you nod, but he shocks you by planting a kiss right on your cheek in front of everyone, making your skin heat up against his lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Thanks, Satoru.” You go to grab your jacket, but Sukuna has already gotten it, gently placing it over you as you two step outside into the cold, and you look up at him in the now dark night, just the porch light illuminating his silhouette. “Thank you so much for coming over, Sukuna. Truly.”

“I had fun catching up, your old man’s strong, he’ll be fine.” He pats your head affectionately, when you hug him tightly.

Satoru watches from his car and feels sick. He can’t hear a word you fucking said, but Sukuna showing up when he was supposed to already left him one step behind. Sukuna wraps his arms around you, you literally disappear in the big man’s embrace, while he gets the heat going, looking away before he does get sick.

He wants you to be his.

Is it selfish, is it fucking foolish? What future could you two even have? And you were a girl who needed a future, security, loyalty. You weren’t a girl he could just have and ever let go, but all he can think of is having you, over and over. All he can imagine is his lips bruising and marking every inch of your skin, not leaving the bed for days and just ordering food when you need it, fuck he’d hand feed you.

Shit Satoru Gojo has never thought of doing.

“You’re welcome, brat.” Sukuna says softly, after you thank him for spending time with your father.

“No, it meant alot. Truly. You’ve changed so much, but you weren’t all bad back then you know.” You tease, he chuckles then, sooty pink lashes lowering over those ruby eyes as his breath comes out in a puff of condensation.

“I fucked up with you. If you ever… figure out… all that.” He gestures his head to the car, and watches as you blush furiously. “And it’s not what you want, you have my contact info now. I’ll always answer your call, okay?”

“Sukuna, that's corny!”

“Fuck off, I know.” He glares, and you giggle again.

“That therapist should be famous.”

“Bye, now, brat.” You giggle and smack a kiss on his cheek, up on your tiptoes, watching a blush form on his cheeks. “It’s an open offer.” He says, husky toned, you nod then.

“Please drive safe!”

“You too, be careful tonight.”

“I will. Good night, Sukuna.” He nods with a half turn of is lips and walks over to his own sports car as you get inside the warmth with Satoru, smiling and then gasping as he yanks you against him. “Satoru?”

“I’ve been dying to do this all day.” He whispers huskily, before pressing his lips against yours, holding you against him in the warm confines of the car. He drinks up your sighs as you melt in his embrace, those shocks coursing through your veins from his plump lips, from his touch.

“Mnh…” Your soft cry makes him throb in need, but he tries to hold back, taking a breath instead, looking down at your now swollen lips, caressing them with his thumb.

“I never forgot you.” He repeats what he said earlier, you kiss him again, eagerly, tenderly, and he moans as you do, tongues dancing as lips keep pressing, melding against each other. “How could I?”

“Toru, I’m scared.” Your whisper makes him pause, he pulls back a bit, hands on your face now, shaking his head.

“I know. And I’m sorry you are. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing when I forgave you long ago, just… don’t hurt me again. Okay? I can’t handle it.” He nods, feeling your vulnerability, and you then relax, kissing him over and over, until he presses you against the door, leaned over, his hands dragging down your body, you whimper so sweetly he almost devours you there in that car.

“Shit, shit. I need to…” He backs off, watching your breasts rise and fall, he has never felt this, the insane need, once you all kissed he knew it was over, but every kiss drives him more out of his mind, as he falls just as bad as he had then. “I’ll fuck you right here if we don’t go.”

“In front of my parents!?”

“Full high school nostalgia.” You laugh then, and so does he, to break the tension, as you shakily put on your seat belt.

“None of that, gonna give my dad a damn heart attack. He has enough shit to deal with.” He presses one more kiss before he backs out of your driveway, an arm over the seat, brushing against the back of your neck.

“He looks healthy and good, I was really glad to see that.”

“Sukuna cheered him up playing football.” Your words are innocent and sweet, but he feels it hit - the inadequacy. He was supposed to be your best fucking friend in the world, and an ex had a better connection and was more involved.

The pain and guilt eats at him, and it’s quiet then, as the snow lightens up, and Satoru drives carefully in the night, you put a hand on his thigh, and his falls right over yours, squeezing it tightly. “Thank you for even going out with me tonight.”

“Of course, I want to… spend as much time as we can.” Your soft voice hits his ears, as you lean close, pressing a kiss on his neck.

“Me too, I was so stressed out, god being stuck in the car with Samantha was torture.” You laugh a bit, but he can hear it’s tense. “Sweetheart,” you two come to a stop, and he looks at you now, the streetlights casting a red glow over him while the snow finally stops falling, and the look he gives you makes your breath catch. “I only want you, okay?”

“Satoru you don’t-”

“No, I do. There’s nothing between me and her alright?” You nod then, swallowing nervously, as he kisses your forehead far too sweetly. “I used to sleep with her. But we never dated, I… never dated anyone.”

“Never?” You asked quietly, and he laughs without humor, looking back at the road now.

“Never. I guess I had someone in my head. I guess I had someone’s faded picture in my pocket.”

“You… what?” He taps his pocket, and you reach down now, emotions hitting your throat when you see it, the last picture he’d taken of you. You’re bright, cheerful and so, so happy. “You kept this?”

“You didn’t like it, and were gonna throw it out, remember? I got mad about it, so I swiped it. It was beautiful.” Your tears fall on the faded, crumbled up polaroid, taking several shaky breaths now as the meaning sinks in.

“I didn’t like it then, but… now I do.” He smiles, the weight off his chest while you put it back in his pocket. “Why didn’t you reach out?”

Satoru sighs, pulling up to another light, hand on yours gripping tightly as he studies you with that lidded gaze, with his plump lips parted just so, eyes that you have always loved looking into. But now they’re different, they’re jaded eyes yes, but there’s so much unsaid in them, so much it makes you falter, when he takes your hand and kisses the back of it, lips brushing your knuckles.

“I was terrified of feeling it all again. Every feeling I had for you, I just… thought it was best to shove down. But, I guess they never left.” The words in the yearbook flash across your mind now.

Did he mean them?

“I guess I never shared all my feelings, either.” You say softly, he is driving once more, but keeps your hand up by his lips.

“You have no fault in anything, here. You were just… you. And I love that, how you’re you. You are still you.”

“You’re still you, too, Satoru.”

He blinks a bit, sighing again. “Am I?”

“I think so.”

You hope so.

You wish it so.

You have never felt what this is, even with him before, the intensity of just being near him enough to drive you insane, every breath and motion leading you deeper into the abyss that is Satoru Gojo. Opening your heart to someone who could so easily crush it all over again, who can tear it all apart so casually, but it’s as if you would take it all if it meant having him for just a bit.

“What movie are we seeing, hmm?” Your whisper breaks him out of his thoughts, of how the fuck he could make this work, of how he could express everything that’s been bottled up inside. Of how he could be that Satoru for you again.

He looks over at your gorgeous face, bathed in moonlight, as beautiful as the day he first met you in school, the inner beauty just radiating with your kindness, your heart, all too much to even look upon. Momentarily stunned he doesn’t compute your question at first, instead just drinking in the love in front of him, the love of his life that he shoved aside like she was nothing.

He’s not even sure he deserves you near him, but he’s not going to fuck this up, aside from life literally already fucking the first part of the evening up.

“It was your favorite, they’re doing a whole re-run of it. And we have time to catch the last showing.”

You bounce just a bit in your seat, so cute then, he fucking melts, he aches, your smile so precious he can’t fathom how he lived with just the memory of it. You’re brightening up his heart, his world, as he just stares at you, so enamored that he has to get honked at to drive at the light again.

When the two of you arrive in that movie theater, he can hardly focus on anything but your laugh, your glittery eyes as you two settle with your snacks in the old theater, that hasn’t changed one damn bit. He’s so lost in you he can’t remember what the movie is called, or what it’s about, an arm wrapped around as you nibble on popcorn, snuggling up.

It feels too perfect, and Satoru can’t fuck this up. Knowing he’s had you for years existing across the country and could have had this the entire time makes every bit of money he’s had feel hollow. His phone keeps going off, he keeps ignoring the vibrations until you pull back curiously.

“It may be important, Satoru, check it.” He sighs, looking now that it’s his manager. “Go ahead, take a call, I'll be fine.”

“Fuck it, he can wait.” He says then, checking the texts and his heart drops as he sees it.

He has a shoot coming up tomorrow night and then he has to get back to Hollywood for a magazine interview and photo shoot for Vogue. One more measly day with the girl he’s been missing like a piece of his heart? How the fuck could he even tell you?

“What’s wrong, Toru?” You whisper, he just turns the screen off, leaning close and kissing you, tasting salty popcorn on your lips and licking it, making you laugh breathlessly.

“Nothing, it can all wait.” His words reassure you, despite the lingering concerns, as he pulls you back against him and reclines the big black leather seats, the two of you snuggling under the blanket he’d brought as you fall into your favorite movie.

But you also fall deeper for him, for the boy you knew and the man you’re trying to learn, who’s heart thuds steadily under your cheek.

Could you handle him leaving you again, or just enjoy this while it lasted, savor every moment, could you let him go again?

Next chap will be smutty AND emotional AND angsty, yayyy hehe

taglist #1- @pinkyvomit @saitamaswifey @kachowness @vraiao @artbligh @psychoartiste @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @bsenpai @simp-for-wanderer @rjreins @emonaculate @myahfig4 @casua11ycrying @psycren @blushedcheri @ureuphoriasworld @frozenmallows @kanaojacksonofc @rcveriees @xlilycoco @yukimaniac @sypnasis @tokina @sharkubi @tztuoo @hyori2 @yesdere @gradmacoco @gamerhere @seikamuzu @xinsonyax @vvaoo @angie420 @ria54sworld @blue-musingss @mysticmyth @asimpinamillion @arabellasolstice @ilovebeansyay @notme000 @emochosoluvr @iv-vee @heh123321 @fushikamo @danilovesboba @spookyy-gracee @satorusleftnut @clqxuds @femaholicc

[nerdlvr]

⋆₊˚⊹.𖥔 zoom, click, panic !

with your platform growing it's about time you get your own personal camera man! you probably should've put in the job description that the position involved working with a camgirl... maybe then sweet virgin nerd lee donghyuck wouldn't have applied for the job. now he's stuck with you, but he's determined to make it work.

alternatively, hyuck is a photography nerd who needs money for a new cameras and lenses, and you're a camgirl in desperate need of a cameraman.

virgin nerd!hyuck x camgirl!reader

genre : humor , coworkers? to lovers , college au , fluff , suggestive , haechan is an inexperienced LOSER we love to see it

warnings : sex jokes , death jokes, mean ass insults and comments , descriptions of sex and dirty acts , haechans first time seeing pussy irl , reader is open about sex and her body shes hot asf ofc

notes : two of my favorite things put together haechan and nerdy men (and he's a virgin hehe). i'm gonna enjoy this one and write as much flustered hyuck as i can. i'm gonna go with the flow with this one too which is why i'm not putting so much in the genre cause i wanna see how it goes and how i want to develop this plot.

playlist : positions , ariana grande | freak , doja cat | guess , charli xcx | kiss me more , doja cat | flamin' hot lemon , jaehyun | up to you , prettymuch | more than a woman , bee gees | telepatia , kali uchis | all mine , brent faiyaz

status : ongoing , updates x2 a week , tuesdays and thursdays

taglist : closedd !

yn’s group , hyuck’s group

intro

1 -> that's not my dick or anything

2 -> THE lee donghyuck

3 -> chat spam mommy

4 -> beyoncé eliminate him

5 -> big nerd dick

6 -> chicken nuggets

7 -> yes ma'am

8 -> pussy milk

9 -> i got something for u

10 -> sick to my stomach fam

11 -> king of dancehall

12 -> HUGE textbook

13 -> music production

14 -> *said in sexy alpha jeno voice*

15 -> blank stare

16 -> hyuck is so edible

17 -> da fuq...

18 -> recreating the squid games.

19 -> NOO MY SHAYLAAA

20 -> this isn't my y/n

21 -> he took everything

22 -> i bleached my asshole

23 -> anonymous dick

TBD

extras :

TBD

[agustdtown1]

CLOSER TO YOU II [JJK]

PAIRING: nerdy!roommate!jungkook x fem!OF!reader

GENRE: smut, roommates au, nerd!jk, photography major!jk, friends to fuck buddies, OF!reader, slight fluff.

SUMMARY: After getting various comments about your poor filming skills for your OF page, you finally decided to give in and reach out to the one person that could help you with your problem. However, what started as your roommate just helping you to film your video turned into you begging him to fuck you.

How long would it take for Jungkook to finally give in? After all, all he ever wanted was to be closer to you.

WC: 4.5k

WARNINGS: pwp, this is pure smut (mdni), unprotected sex, smacking, choking, dumbification/slight degradation, jungkook wearing a silver chain (trust me, that needs a warning), riding, jungkook being a complete meanece for real this time, teasing, a lot of pet names, nipple play, slight fingering, jungkook saying that one line from that one live, big dick!jk, very slight fluff at the end bc i didn't know how to end it. lmk if i'm missing something.

A/N: part 2 is here woo! i cannot even explain how much i love this jungkook, like omg nerdy!jk is just a yes for me. Anyway, i hope u guys like it and enjoy it as much as i did writing it. As always lmk ur thoughts on the comments or through asks, feedback is always appreciated. Happy reading <3!

part 1 | masterlist

Moans, lewd and whiny moans filled the room. A mixture of breathless words, nonsensical chants and obscene sounds engulfed both of your ears, pulling you into a dreamy dimension where only your and Jungkook’s body existed. The reality of it all was that the man in front of you was taking you places that you never thought of reaching, all in the comfortness of your bed. His hands, once timid and careful, were now running wild over your body, eliciting the most beautiful noises out of you. His avid fingers were pressing hard enough in the right spots while his mouth was eagerly devouring yours. 

It was only you and him, him and you; nothing else mattered in the world, only the warm touches and harsh curses thrown to the wind whenever either of you would bring pleasure to the other. The video —which was the main reason for you two to end up like this— was long forgotten, with the camera still aiming to the spot you two were sitting at but neither of your bodies were in sight. Jungkook was nice enough to carry you to the bed and lay you down to get more comfortable.

“You deserve better than just pillows and a blanket.” He said, waiting for you to wrap your legs around his waist to finally get up.

Everything leading up to this moment felt like a fever dream, the attempts to dirty talk, the way Jungkook used his fingers to pleasure you, the pet names and the look that coated his face when he watched you come on his hand; it felt like the most cliche plot for a porno. Asking my roommate to help me with something ends up with us fucking; you were sure that if you browsed for a few minutes in the hub you would find at least ten videos with the same storyline, but here you were, being another addition to the list, the only difference is that this wasn’t a raunchy film that you could find on the dark side of the internet, it was your life, and you were about to fuck your roommate.

“I need to ask before this goes any further.” Jungkook's breathless voice sounded so good that it almost distracted you from what he was saying. “Are you completely sure about this?”

“Kook, baby, I appreciate you asking, but if you don’t put your dick in me, I’ll kick you out of the apartment.” You deadpanned. 

Jungkook chortled at your response, pulling away just enough to undress. You waited patiently, enjoying the view he was providing you with. His honey-like skin glistened under the neon lights after taking off his black shirt; abs were in full display along with his big biceps. His right arm was adorned with an array of tattoos that he collected all through the years he’s been living with you. Who would have thought that under all those baggy clothes was hidden such a hot body? It often baffled you how different his appearance was compared to his personality; Jungkook looked like a cinnamon roll with the body of a certified fuckboy, however, he wouldn’t catch you complaining, especially not now. The brown-haired guy took his glasses off, carefully placing them on your night-stand, and just as you were about to protest, your roommate was quick to form a knowing smile on his face.

“I know you like them on me, but it’ll be impractical to fix them all the time while I fuck you dumb, don’t you think?” It was ridiculous how much his voice and words affected you. “Let’s keep them away from now.”

You couldn’t even form a proper response to that, other than a meck nod. You were hypnotized by the way he was taking his clothes off. Jungkook was now left with his usual pair of baggy jeans that were low enough to show the hem of his Calvins, he also had a silver chain wonderfully hanging from his neck; you often daydream about it, imagining how the cold material would feel against your skin, dangling just close enough to your face that you could simply take a bite and pull him down to meet your lips. It seemed like you were about to find out.

“Can you leave it on?” You requested signaling to his chain. 

“Sure thing, pretty.” He flashed you a smile, pulling away his hands from the necklace. 

You really needed to get used to this side of Jungkook, otherwise you weren’t going to survive the night, although you had a feeling that it wouldn’t really make a difference considering what was about to happen. 

Both of his hands drifted down to undo his pants, pulling them down easily and tossing them somewhere in your room. Next thing was his underwear, a pair of black Calvins that were just tight enough to reveal his evident hard-on. Even with the fabric covering that area you could still make out its length. It looked bigger than what you were expecting, which only added to your eagerness. Without further ado —and driven by the sudden confidence, Jungkook took them off, letting his thick cock spring free from its confinements. You couldn’t help to let out a tiny gasp, zeroing on his reddened tip that was already leaking precum. It was in fact bigger than what you assumed he would be, nothing too crazy but drastically larger than the other guys you’ve been with. It was slightly curved to the right, the perfect angle to reach the places you wish him to reach. The veins adorning his cock made you salivate at the thought of what it would feel like against your hot tongue. Would it feel heavy? Would it make you gag? Would it get you crying and turn you into a spit mess? Maybe you will have to wait to find out. Tonight was all about you and him enjoying each other in a closer way, getting a taste of him would have to wait. 

The more you stared at him the more your hands were eager to reach out and stroke it, to see if it would be able to fit in your palm, because judging by its looks, you even doubted that you could take it all. 

“You like what you see?” Jungkook’s voice was the embodiment of sin. Low and raspy with a hint of hesitation that he tried to cover with a faint chuckle. 

Deep down he was feeling nervous once again, feeling too vulnerable and exposed, however, backing down wasn’t an option for him, so instead of letting his insecurities conquer his mind, Jungkook decided to act driven by desire more than rationality. 

“I do, actually.” You answered, staring at him with such a look that made the guy weak in the knees. “Come here, pretty boy.” 

Pulling him by his chain you crashed your lips together, both liberating a satisfied moan when the head of his cock brushed through your folds. His hands, that were on each side of your head, caging you in, fisted the soft material of the pillow in which your head was resting on, all due to the sensation of your hot cunt against his length. 

“Shit.” You breathed out after pulling away. “Do that again.” 

Jungkook only shook his head, confusing you with the sudden rejection. 

“You’re missing something there.” He added, eyes never leaving yours. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come on, pretty. I know you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own.” His answer was followed by a harsh smack on one of your thighs. “Aren’t you?”

“But I don’t—” Another smack delivered to your tender flesh interrupted you. “Fuck, wait…” The next time his hand impacted against your skin a sting of pain mixed with pleasure spread within you. “Jungkook!” You whined, trying to create some friction on your own. 

“I thought you said you were gonna be good for me.” He mockingly said, colliding his big hand with the flesh of your ass this time. “Why don’t you look back on your manners, hm?” 

This fucker. 

Jeon really was full of surprises, or so it seems, because just when you thought he would go easy on you, he pulled this. 

“Seriously? All of this over me not saying, what? Please?” You sassily argued back. 

“Is that how you wanna act right now, doll?” He raised one of his eyebrows, questioning you in such a way that got you wondering what would be the appropriate approach. “I’d be careful with what I say if I were you.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

The question hung in the air for a few seconds before Jungkook pulled away from you completely. His hands reached out for your waist, holding you with a strong grip. 

“Turn around.” He ordered. A few more seconds passed before he turned you around himself. “And just so we are clear, I’m not repeating myself tonight.”

Ass in the air, completely exposed to him. It excited you what his next move would be, but it was also killing you not knowing what he was up to. 

His hands were caressing your sides slowly, distracting you for a second with his touches from what was coming your way. 

“It seems like you can’t keep up with your promises.” It was sudden, completely unexpected; the sound of skin being slapped echoed through the room. His tattooed hand colliding with your ass. “So I might need to remind you what you asked for.” 

The next one felt harsher than the last one, eliciting a deep moan out of you and making your whole body move forward. This is not what you imagined that your night would be like, and you were definitely not expecting your roommate to turn into such a brat tamer. However, what surprised you the most is how much you actually liked it. This whole scenario in which Jungkook was simply handling you in any way he wanted was far way better than what your fantasies were about. The way he talked to you; the fact that he knew just the right amount of strength he needed to use to make you whimper in pleasure rather than pain; the tender touch he would provide you with before delivering another slap, as if he were preparing your skin for the collision. Everything felt like the perfect wet dream. 

After delivering one last slap to your ass, Jungkook leaned down to place wet kisses all over the area, before admiring the red imprint of his hand on both cheeks. 

“You think you’re ready for me now?” He mockingly asked. “Or should I check?” Not even expecting an actual answer, he slipped two fingers inside your entrance, moving them painfully slow. 

“Jungkook, please…” You whined, burying your face into the pillow. 

“Oh, now you know how to use the word, hm?” His fingers never stopped moving. “How convenient.” 

You shook your head, whimpering and squirming under his touch. “No more, please…”

“No more what? Tell me doll, what do you want from me?”

“No more… teasing.” 

You struggled to answer, letting out a deep breath before looking over your shoulders to glare at him. In hindsight, you should’ve known better than doing so, because the way his sweat-coated skin shone under the red lights almost got you coming on his fingers again. 

“Oh god!” You moaned when his fingers dug deeper into your velvety walls. “Right-fucking-there!” 

And just when you started to feel your walls getting tighter and your stomach feeling funny, Jungkook pulled out, stroking your clit a few times before flipping you over on your back. 

“Why did you stop?” 

“You’re the only one getting all the fun, baby.” He simply answered. “And next time you come, I want you to do it on my cock.” He placed a kiss on your lips before adding, “Where are the condoms?” 

Jungkook wasn’t dumb, he knew you had to have some hidden somewhere in your drawers, he’s seen you buy a package before, and while he had some himself, the brown-eyed boy didn’t think it would be practical to go to his room for it. 

“No need.” Just before he could question your answer, you added, “I’m on the pill.” 

Jungkook couldn’t comprehend what good he did in his past life to get this lucky, but he was thankful for it. 

“Should’ve said that from the start.” 

“Why? You like it raw that much?” You chuckled.

“Only when I have a pretty girl like you under me.”  His lips brushed against yours with a fleeting touch, making you chase after him which caused a smug laugh out of him. “Patient, doll. I’ll give you what you want, but you gotta be on your best behavior. Can you do that for me?” 

You nodded, adding a quick yes right after. Jungkook leaned down once again, placing his hands on each side of your head just like before. He started up kissing your neck, placing wet kisses all over it before reaching your mouth again. It was the perfect distraction from him lining up with your entrance. Before you even knew it, Jeon was pushing his tip right in, slowly and steadily. 

“Oh, fuck, ah…” You moaned out, hands flying over his shoulders. “Jungkook.” His name came out of your mouth as a whimper. 

“I know, pretty, I know.” He rested his forehead against yours. “Fuck, you’re really tight.” 

The brown-haired guy kept pushing in, careful to not hurt you and stopping every now and then to help you get used to his size. It was more than what you would normally take, so it took you a few seconds to go from slight pain to pleasure. Your nails were digging into his honey skin, eliciting a hiss from the guy above you, but not even once did he complain, if anything it looked like he enjoyed that sliver of pain.  

“Oh god, you feel amazing.” Jungkook whispered against your lips when he finally bottomed out. His breath was agitated and it was evident that he was struggling to keep still, yet he managed to do it, waiting for your permission to move. “You're doing so good, baby. Look at you, you took me so well, it’s all in.”  

You tried to look down to where both of your bodies were united. It was just there that reality really hit you; having all of his manhood nestled deep inside you was a whole new sensation, a different kind of feeling. You knew that there was no coming back from this, no going back to normal, no getting the same feeling from anyone else. You could only hope for this to be good enough for your roommate to stay with you. 

“Let me know when I can move, yea?” His breathy voice brought you back from your thoughts, preventing you from overthinking. 

A small nod was your first response, “You can… You can move.” You softly said. 

“Alright, I’ll be gentle okay? Promise I’ll make you feel good.” A sweet kiss was placed on your mouth before his hips started moving. 

Jungkook commenced thrusting in and out, sliding with enough ease inside of you while maintaining a steady pace. You could feel the entirety of him, stretching you out deliciously good. His cock was hitting the right places over and over again, eliciting moan after moan from you. His face had the most beautiful expression you’ve ever seen. Eyes connected to yours, lips parted while panting and cursing, eyebrows furrowed with a slight coat of sweat covering his forehead. Everything was just right.

Jungkook was loving every second of it, the way you were clenching on his length, while looking right up at him with pleading eyes and your nails scratching his skin was something he never thought would love so much. It was until then that he questioned if he was into pain, because the burning sting of your nails digging into his toned back was getting him more excited than it probably should. 

“Shit, Kook, you feel so good right now.” You panted, connecting your lips into a messy kiss. “Faster… I need it faster.”

“Anything you want, doll.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice; going at a slow pace was torturing him. Jungkook was quick to speed up, thrusting in and out of you with such strength that almost made you scream. He continued to fuck you like that, pressing his chest agaisnt yours while leaving a trail of wet kisses from your neck to your collarbones, sliding down with ease until he reached your tits. Jungkook admired them for a few seconds before diving in to close his mouth around one of your nipples. 

“Ah, Jungkook.” You whimpered, feeling his hot tongue circling your already hardened bud. His pace never relented even when his sole focus was on devouring your tits. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He whispered against your skin. His teeth made contact with your sensitive nipple, stealing a gasp from you while some incoherent sentences flew out of your mouth. “What was that, pretty?” 

Jungkook was fucking you so good that it was difficult to even utter a single word. Everything felt so intense, and he was taking good care of you that it felt almost unfair to only lay there and enjoy it, that’s why you tried to compose yourself to voice your request.

“Come on, baby, use your words. Or is it hard for you to speak with your pussy stuffed with my cock, hm?” He mocked you and your little sounds. 

You’ll pay for that later. 

Trying to push him away would be futile so you didn’t even try, instead you glared at him while saying, “I wanna ride you.” It was clear and straight to the point, you needed to experience being on top of Jeon Jungkook while taking all of his cock as deep inside you as you could, at least once in your life. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me, doll.” He breathed out, “But okay, show me what you got.”

In a split of a second, Jungkook was laying down on your bed, staring right at you with lustful eyes and a smirk plastered on his face. His big hands were resting on each side of your hips, caressing your skin tenderly, almost encouraging you to get going with what you wanted to do. With no further ado, you guided his twitching dick to your folds, sliding through them and smearing your juices all over his length; you were enjoying the sensation of his tip nudging your clit when a harsh smack was delivered to your ass.

“No teasing.” Jeon warned you when you looked at him pouting, however, you complied, lining his cock with your entrance, sinking in slowly to enjoy how good he was stretching you out. “There you go, fuck, that’s it, pretty. You’re so good.” He hissed, holding your hips with a stronger grip than before. 

“You feel so big like this.” Throwing your head back, you whimpered out of pleasure, losing yourself in the sensation of his cock reaching deeper into you in this position. 

You started to move, back and forth with a steady pace; hands now resting on his chest to get more comfortable. Little by little you gained speed, sliding up and down just like you always wanted, the sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with the filthy sounds coming from both of your mouths. 

“Shit, that’s it. You look so pretty bouncing on my cock.” Jungkook loved the new view, not only did you feel amazing in this position, with your walls clenching on his girth, but also the way your tits were bouncing up and down with every move was driving him crazy. 

One of his hands reached up to hold your tit, fondling and kneading your tender flesh, however, his hand didn’t stop there. Jungkook felt bold enough to push his hand further up, slithering smoothly until his fingers reached a certain part of your body. Without even thinking, Jungkook wrapped his hand around your neck, just tight enough to make you gasp in surprise but without any ill intent. Nonetheless, it seemed like you weren’t the only one being taken by surprise, because the sudden pressure on your neck was like adding fuel to the fire, encouraging you to fuck yourself harder and faster on his throbing cock, and Jungkook noticed how your whole demeanor changed.

“Look at you,” He chuckled, “You liked being treated like this, huh? Like it when I choke you and smack you hard enough to leave a mark on you?” 

It was cruel the way he was speaking to you, but you couldn’t deny it, if anything it only pushed you to speed up, making your thighs ache and almost fall on his chest completely exhausted. 

“Ju-Jungkook…” You tried to call his name in a pleading voice. It was only then that you recognized the hot feeling forming in the pit of your stomach. Your orgasm was, once again, approaching.

“What? Can’t you answer the question? Are you that dumb to say a simple yes, hm?” His mocking smile was as infuriating as attractive. “Come on, doll, I know you can do better than that.” 

You really tried to hold yourself together, but the more his cock hit your sweet spot, the more your strength crumbled. 

“I- I’m…” It was getting pretty hard to voice your thoughts with his hand around your throat. 

“Am I making it difficult for you to speak?” The hand he placed on your waist was helping you to keep moving, but the one adorning your neck never lessened the grip. “Do you want me to take my hand off? You just have to say please and I’ll do anything you want, pretty.”

How could such a sweet and nice guy turn into a complete meanece in the blink of an eye. Jungkook continued to prove that judging a book by its cover it’s never a good thing, because the way he was acting with you in that moment, was beyond what you imagined he would be like in this type of scenario. 

“Ple-Please,” You begged, “Jungkook… please.” Not even a second passed before you could breathe properly again, his tattooed hand away from your neck. 

You felt like passing out, but his angelic voice brought you back from your hazy state.

“You okay there, Y/n?” He smiled softly at you, confusing you and making your heart skip a beat. Jungkook looked at you with a split of concern and tenderness for a brief second, making a weird feeling spread through your body, one that you were too scared to address. 

“I’m… yes, all good.” You nodded. 

“I’m glad to hear that.” Both of his hands were back to holding your hips. “Because I’m not done, understand?” His eyes had that evil glint once again.

Before you could even ponder on his switching attitude, his strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, forcing you to rest on top of him, chest to chest and face so dangerously close to yours.

“I know you’re close, baby, stay like this and I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

And so you did, burying your face in the crook of his neck while Jungkook positioned himself the right way to slam his cock into you with hard and fast thrusts. Your whimpers were muffled against his skin, while his moans filled your ears. He sounded so pretty, chanting your name the more you clenched on him.

“Shit, I’m getting close too.” Jungkook announced. 

“Please, I wanna cum…” You begged, pulling away from his neck to look at him with pleading eyes. “I can’t hold it.”

“I’m almost there, doll, wait for me, come on.”

His hands started to slide down to get a hold of your ass while still thrusting into you at such a relentless pace. So persistent and intense, every touch, move and caress felt ten times more than before, your whole body was sensitive that it was so difficult for you to hold it together, you desperately needed to have your release. Jungkook was aware of it, it was so painfully clear how bad you needed to cum, how desperate you were for him and his cock.

“I’m gonna fill you up so good.” His husky voice rang through your ears, making goosebumps coat your skin. “Fuck, I’m right there, baby, come with me. Make a mess on my dick.” 

It was automatic the way your body reacted to his command. A needy moan abandoned your mouth while your hands fisted the sheets in which the both of you were laying. You finally came on Jungkook’s cock, clenching so deliciously tight, meanwhile your whole body shook with the intense feeling of your awaited release. 

“Fuck, so good… Y/n, shit.” You couldn’t even pay attention to whatever the brown-haired boy was saying; completely lost in the moment and how well you felt. “I’m gonna come.”

With a final thrust, Jungkook finally unraveled, filling you to the brim with his warm cum. Hips stuttering and voice completely hoarse while calling your name. It felt so good to hear him like that, so breathless and spent; weak and whiny, so needy for you and only you. 

It took you a few minutes to fully recover from such an intense moment. Neither of you dared to speak once the rush of your orgasm finally subsided, you laid there, on his firm chest, breathing his scent and relishing in the sensation of his fingers caressing your back with a soft touch. 

“Are you… Are you okay?” There was a pinch of shyness in your roommates voice, almost as if his dominant persona vanished the moment he got his release. “I wasn’t too much, was I?”

You giggled against his warm skin, lazily shaking your head to answer his concerns. 

“It was way better than I expected.” You confessed, feeling your cheeks heat up due to that. “I gotta admit that you surprised me, though. I didn’t know you could be like that.”

Jungkook sighed softly, feeling satisfied with your response but slightly amused by your comment. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, yet.” 

It was the way he said it that piqued your interest, promising and inviting, as if he was trying to lure you into discovering just how much you still needed to learn about him. And just like Jungkook wanted, you fell right into it.

“Maybe you can show me.” Lifting your head slowly, you stared into his beautiful brown eyes, waiting for a reaction.

“Are you sure you want to get into that?” 

You nodded, eyes drifting down to set on his puffy lips. Jungkook didn’t think twice before leaning in to kiss you, slow and soft, with so much care that almost made you feel dizzy. 

“Alright, I’ll show you all of me.” 

taglist 🏷️: @petalsofink @goldietigers294 @ggukieshoe @jk-190811 @hanamgi @internetbelle @songbyeonkim @berryonasummerevening @lanyia @rpwprpwprpwprw @brokebitch-101 @satisfied18 @nikixkoo @susansemolinathrower

[sbcdh]

You know where the word cocaine comes from? Its Quechua. Just the name of the damn plant. I think it was 1971, maybe 72. I dunno- 

Could you start at the beginning?

Huh? Yeah, sure. Course. Uhh. Lets see…

Take your time. 

Woof. Lets see…I started in uhhh, 72. Some tiny little bottle-rocket firm sweatin for talent, head broker was this big red fatass named Ron Spade, hell of a guy, but the place got bought out by Bear Stearns in 73 when the shit really hit the fan. It was a rough time to be on a trade floor. IRS just put out the whole hypnoeconomics thing. Half the big firms were runnin’ around with their hair on fire, the other half felt invincible. Every day was a party. Party party party. 

Was that your first interaction with hypnostimulants? 

I guess. Its funny. First guy to give me quori was a cop. 

You mean an agent of the FDA? 

No no, like an old fashioned NYPD beat cop. Met him in the bathroom at Pink during a bender. Moron was so faded he thought I was his informant. Just gave me a phial. 

And you tried it?

Not right away no. To be honest I thought it was kinda faggy. Sorry. Its just what I thought at the time. The shit was sparkly, you know? What kinda drug comes in phials? Shoulda known something was up. 

Would you say hypnostimulants were popular at the time? 

At the time? Depends what you mean by popular. People didn’t know about that shit yet. You heard stories, dudes shooting up in the woods upstate, gettin found with their eyeballs exploded. It was early days, ya know? But like, that didn’t happen. That was urban legends. You know who was actually fucking around with the early stuff? Accountants. 

Accountants?

Yeah, you know, the bookkeepers. See,  I’m really just a plumber. I move money from one pipe to another pipe. But instead of wrenches and sprockets or whatever, I use charm. Its pretty easy if you ask me. Imagine if you could just tell water where it already wanted to go. You’re water’s best pal. Nah. It was those nerds in the basement, the spreadsheet guys that figured out how to expense shit so the IRS couldn’t get ya. Those were the fuckers who really dove in. 

What got you using regularly? 

Same shit as everyone else. Makes the job easier. 

How so?

You can feel the money in their pocket. Its like, I dunno how to describe it. Its like…Its like, a turd sitting in a hammock. You can feel how the money bends everything around it. You can see it, smell it. You can hear it over the phone. You can’t ignore it. Shit is nuts. You take enough, and its like you can’t see anything else. Or. No. Its like…You see that you don’t need to see anything else. Money is everything. You’re money. I’m money. Its all just rivers of money flowing through everything. 

By 1973 you were a regular user yes?

Regular makes it sound normal. But yeah I know what you mean. “Regular user.”  76 was the sweet spot. The drugs were good, but the regulators hadn’t stepped up yet. You and some buddies could set up in a club bathroom with nothing but a blindfold and a pile. You ever seen a stock floor with a headfull of that fancy government shit? 

Would you like to discuss the raid? 

No. Not really. 

I understand you were the only one in a sub-emmanation state when Hypnoregulators arrived on the scene. 

I don't want to talk about it. 

Very well then, my associate will be happy to take you to prison as per the agreement you signed. 

Alright alright, Christ. 

Please. In your own words. 

From what I understand, you pulled spade outta bed. Got a confession and everything that morning. 9 fuckin AM, and 200 IRS agents come busting in the doors. I was in the bathroom seeing shit. It's marble lined, lots gold filigree. All that jazz. Special made. Listen. I'm serious about the stock floor shit. Whatever you guys have, it's different than what we had back then. I mean, the shit was still cut with cocaine. A stock floor wasn't a stock floor, it was like…

The raid, please. 

I'm getting to it! You gotta know this shit okay? I need you to understand what you goons fuckin wrecked. It was perfect okay? A garden of Eden . Ripe fruit. Everything just works. You don't have to worry about shit. You're a hunter, a killer, the great fuckin god pan, and the floor is your field of delights. It's like being a beating heart, like being struck by lightning. You can feel the sun in your pocket, and how it's all flowing through everything. And then you fucks showed up. 

It was cold. I felt it first. Like I just threw the biggest party, and mom and dad were coming home early. But you know what I saw? You know those Chinese dragon dancers? Or, lions, or whatever they are? You know how there's two guys in the costume? I saw a dragon, a beast with eyes like the sun, teeth dripping gold, a bunch of IRS suits holding its pelt on their shoulders like you carry your baby home. 

Your statement alluded to some additional information. 

Yeah…there was something else… I dunno how to describe it. The fuckin…eyes, like the sun. Thats how you feel when you're on this shit. You're seein’ gold. I looked into the dragons eyes, and it's like, it's like I saw me. Like I was the dragon, and I was looking at me. Or…no. I was the sun. I was looking at myself. It was like, in that moment I knew something. I learned something. 

What exactly is that?

I dunno. It doesn't fit into words. But like. You aren't regulating shit. 

I'm sorry? 

Yeah. All this shit. The dragon. The field. The dancers. It's all just the sun.

[usuallydyinginside]

TLDR: Francesca Bridgerton is Autistic. Fight me.

Okay so I did not go into Season 3 of Bridgerton expecting to have any feelings about Francesca Bridgerton. We have seen her only in glimpses in the show and I have not read the books, so I knew basically nothing about her before binging the first four episodes.

But guys. GUYS. I will die for this autistic queen.

Okay, so starting with first impressions. We know that on her big day, Francesca went out of her way to avoid her nosy, loud family by having a very early, quiet breakfast by herself and then calming down via playing the piano (clearly a special interest of hers).

In her first balls, we see Francesca light up any time she talks about music (clearly her current or forever special interest) but as soon as men try to take it to a flirting place she IMMEDIATELY shuts down. It's clear that even as she states very matter-of-factly that she plans to marry this season, she also is baffled and uncomfortable any time someone tries to actually, ya know, court her.

At one of her first shindigs, she got attention and then went up to her brother and (while making almost no eye contact) told him (rather than asked him) that she needed a sec.

She then sat by herself in the side of the ballroom.

Later on, she left a ball in search of quiet and solitude to fix her sensory overload, so she went outside this time. (A thing that we know from pervious seasons is a HUGE no-no, particularly unchaperoned. But she was very respectfully near the door so maybe that's fine?) The point is that she cares very much about staying respectable so she can get this marriage thing over with and get people to stop perceiving her, yet she risks some scandal by going outside just so she can be somewhere quiet alone.

Enter: this absolute (also autistic) Prince Charming.

He says hello (so she knows he's not like trying to sneak up on her in the dark like a creep) and then just stands there. 10/10, no notes, best way to flirt I have ever seen in my life.

Seriously just look at this. I'm in love. Never before has there been a greater sign of love at first sight than in this "standing politely five feet apart in total silence in the middle of a ball and enjoying each other's company."

I need to go watch these first four episodes about a hundred more times, but I THINK this might be the first sincere smile we see from Francesca??!? I at least got the impression immediately that this is the first time she's felt genuinely comfortable and happy while not entirely alone this season.

Like, these nerds did not even exchange names. They barely exchanged a word. Yet you can see them falling head over heels in love right there in that moment. I don't even LIKE love at first sight tropes and they have my whole heart. They are the only exception.

Then, of course, you have this second absolutely iconic Scene of Silence where the entire Bridgerton family stares in neurotypical confusion a these two amazing weirdos. The way these two do not know each other but they DO know each other. The way they are both so happy and so comfortable but also still playing the whole society game the way they were told they had to?? I just don't have words right now.

LOOK AT HER SMILE, GUYSSSSSSSS.

Look how happy this tiny, silent moment is making her. How she understands immediately what he's doing and is absolutely delighted to participate too even knowing her entire family is hardcore judging them from not that far away.

And then you get this smug little look from him and it's like you can see his autistic ass thinking, "Yes. I calculated correctly. This was the correct romance option. Gold star to me." (Okay, maybe that's just how my brain works but shhhhh)

Which, of course, brings us to this absolutely hilariously awkward ND attempt at flirting. We start off with some fairly normal "whoops, I'm flustered cause you make me nervous" sort of moments, but notice how little eye contact she makes. How she only looks in his eyes very briefly and it seems like she almost has to remind herself to do so when she's doing the "polite" answers (OR later when she's genuinely interested in a topic).

So as soon as Francesca is like "oh shit, I ruined it. I forgot how to neurotypical. It's over" then she loses patience with the practiced social niceties.

I spent like 30 minutes trying to find a GIF and I should already be asleep so I'm not going to go learn how to make one BUT I needed to look up exactly what happens next cause it's basically the most autistic thing I've ever seen.

WHICH IS that in response to the second awkward silence after Francesca shares all of this, John's response is, "That is helpful. If you'll excuse me."

Then dude bro just WALKS AWAY WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD.

Like it would be awkward anyway but now Francesca thinks she misread a social cue so she's feeling sad, and meanwhile this absolute king is over here on a romantic mission no one asked him to do because he is that set on showing her he's listening and cares.

The man shows up at the ball and as soon as he had a paper we were all screaming "he wrote her a song!!!"

Again, notice the eye contact (or lack thereof). I think with period dramas and women, it's easy to just go "oh she's just shy" or "she's just being demure like she's supposed to" but like NO. This girl does not want to meet anyone's eyes.

Until she does. Because in moments where she's talking about music or enjoying quiet, it's worth it to purposefully meet his eyes and see how he's feeling too. To make sure he can see she's happy.

ANYWAY, it was so much better than him writing a song for her.

SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Because he didn't just give her any ol' music. He sought out the music they'd specifically heard in the street, and he took her exact specifications on what was "wrong" with the music, and he FIXED IT. He then put the whole thing on sheet music and handed her a copy with no further explanation than this.

Our autistic lass was so excited she basically sprinted out of that ball so she could find a piano. (Which, the fact that she does this rather than try to stay and flirt/dance with the man who just gave her this incredible gift ALSO says a lot, just saying. Daphne could never.)

So our girl finds a piano and GUYS. LOOK AT HOW HAPPY SHE IS.

I'm pretty sure this woman would accept a proposal right this second. Maybe make one herself. She is so head over heels in love with this man that it's absurd. We have watched her mask in these first four episodes, but the last two where she's interacting with John are the first times she seems genuinely happy and like the real her is shining through.

Like, does she enjoy her family? Sure. But it's obvious (and she even tells us) that she finds them overwhelming and generally to be A Lot. But these scenes? This gesture?

You can just get how seen she feels. How weird and wild and amazing it is to her that this man can see who she actually is and wants to join her there instead of making her play some part of the perfect Bridgerton who likes to be the center of attention.

(And even here - the EYE CONTACT. She glances at people when she's talking to them, but the way she looks at the sheet music is so much more intense and intimate and personal than anytime she's looking at the average person in the show. She still even in places she's most comfortable, such as sitting at the piano, makes very little eye contact and only at very specific moments.)

Anyway I'm going to sleep now but I'm sure I'll add more thoughts as they come to me. Feel free to add your own case for why Francesca is autistic and/or otherwise neurodivergent. I want to hear allllllll the thoughts.