#stronger than blood zine

[buddydaddieszine]

🩵 PRODUCTION UPDATE 🍙

ALL ZINES HAVE ARRIVED! Mod Finn will check the quality of each book, then begin preparing for shipping patron orders (including getting packing materials and labels). Once they’ve done that, we may officially move on to our shipping phase!

🩵 MAY 4TH STATUS 🍙

→ ALL STOCK RECEIVED! Shipping will begin late May.

—Reblogs are appreciated, thank you! @zine-scene @atozines @fandomzines @zinefeed

[k--now--what]

My illustration preview for @buddydaddieszine ❤️ So happy to have been a part of this!!

Pre-orders are open until Dec 20: buddydaddieszine.bigcartel.com 💙

Everyone's done such an amazing job and I can't wait for it to be shared in full 🧡

[whumpsday]

Power Play

Writing Masterlist

content: kidnapping, ritual sacrifice, begging, hand whump, impalement, mouth whump, knives/skin carving, demon whumper, creepy whumper, major character death, gore

this is my piece for @zineofgid !! this was such an awesome project to work on :)

you can still buy the guys in distress zine here! proceeds go to the charity RAINN. there are limited physical copies and unlimited digital copies, as well as some merch left. do keep in mind that while my piece is sfw, this is an 18+ zine and a lot of other contributors' pieces are very much NOT sfw!

this piece was done as part of a collaboration with @whump-queen, with ocs we made together! he made art that accompanies this piece, you can view it here! it depicts the end of the story so you might wanna wait til after you read it though if you care about spoilers (also linked at the end)

-

Jonah’s breaths came hard and fast as Reese dumped him out of the large duffle bag, onto the cold floor of his basement.

He immediately tried to struggle to his feet, but his wrists and ankles had been bound with way too many layers of duct tape, making it impossible. Reese easily kicked him to the floor, placing a boot firmly on his chest and keeping him there.

“Ah-ah-ah.” his captor tutted, ripping the tape off his mouth. “I’m sorry to say that you will never see outside this room again.”

“You’re crazy!” Jonah screamed, unable to keep the terror out of his voice. His heart hammered in his chest, right under Reese’s boot.

“You have been messing with my campaign.” Reese countered, as if kidnapping was equivalent to Jonah doing his damn job. “Arnett didn’t start climbing in the polls until she brought you on as manager.” He dug his boot in deeper, making it a little hard for Jonah to breathe, pressing his bound wrists painfully into the floor under his back.

Despite admittedly-minimal efforts to retain his composure, Jonah found himself trembling. “So, what? You’re going to- kill me?”

There was no way he could fight this man off. Reese was bigger and stronger than him; it was pathetic how little he’d been able to struggle when Reese had initially incapacitated him. Now he was bound with tape and at an even bigger disadvantage. The thought that he could really die here blared through his mind like a siren, urging him to do whatever he could to escape, as if there was anything he could do.

“Not exactly. I’m not going to kill you.” Reese finally stepped off Jonah’s chest, only to kick him over and press a knee into his back instead. “Don’t mistake this as petty vengeance. I needed someone, and you happened to be an enticing target.”

It was only then, staring across the floor instead of at the ceiling, that Jonah noticed his surroundings.

A large pentagram, easily five feet, laid painted red in the center of the room, a hammer and nails set next to it.

“What the fuck?” he whispered in cold horror.

“Thanks to you, it’s clear that a good, honest campaign by a good, honest man isn’t enough to make it in politics. Luckily, there are other ways to get ahead in life, if you do enough research,” Reese explained, like it made perfect sense.

“Is that blood?” Jonah asked, voice small, staring at the red of the pentagram painted meticulously into the floor.

“It is. My very own.”

Jonah’s line of questioning was instantly interrupted when felt the side of a blade against his forearm.

He writhed, his struggles renewed. “Get away from me with that thing!”

“Hold still, or I might nick you. You want that tape off, don’t you?” Reese leaned down. Jonah could feel his breath on the back of his neck as Reese’s knee pressed further into his lower back.

Jonah went still, barring the tremors he couldn’t control. As much as he hated to admit it, Reese was right: aimlessly moving around with a knife millimeters from his skin would only get him hurt. He didn’t resist as he felt steel slide harmlessly against him, the layers of tape cut away and peeled off.

Before he could even think about running, Reese grabbed both his newly-freed hands and dragged him over to the pentagram. Jonah started struggling again, but there was little he could do against the iron grip.

Reese pointed to one of the triangles making up the pentagram. “You will kneel or I will make you kneel.”

He didn’t know what else to do, and pissing off his captor seemed like a recipe for disaster, so he knelt as indicated.

Reese bound one hand to Jonah’s body with more tape, bringing the other to a point of the pentagram. He pressed Jonah’s palm against the star’s tip, stepping firmly against his wrist to hold it there.

“Now, stay nice and still.”

Reese picked up the hammer and one of the nails.

“What are you doing?!” Jonah tried to pull his hand away, but Reese just pressed his boot down harder.

“What I said. Just making sure you stay still.” Reese positioned the nail in the center of Jonah’s hand, the sharp tip pricking at his skin. Jonah’s breath grew rapid in anticipation of what was about to happen to him.

“Wait, don’t, don’t don’t no no no-!”

Pain exploded in his hand as the THWACK of the hammer hit the nail and pierced his skin, and Jonah finally screamed. He tried again to pull his hand away, to pull his whole body away, but it was useless. He was trapped.

“Stop! Stop stop stop, you’re crazy!” he cried, tears spilling over and running down his face. The nail settled on the floor’s surface, just barely poking through the tender skin of his palm from the inside, making its way through muscle and ligaments and tendons.

“You can think what you like. Doesn’t matter to me,” Reese commented nonchalantly.

The hammer came down again. Jonah’s second scream was less intense than the first, as if his voice itself were scared, breaking off into a sob. A few more taps left the nail buried snugly in the floor, the head resting against the back of his hand as a bit of blood escaped from under it.

Jonah panted hard, adrenaline coursing through him. His hand wouldn’t move from where it sat fastened to the pentagram even after Reese removed his boot from his wrist: even twitching his fingers sent a horrible jolt through it.

“Good job, you’re doing very well.” Reese praised, patting Jonah on the head. “And now, the other one.”

“NO!” Jonah cried. “Stop! You have to stop!”

“Shh, it’s okay.” The sheer calm Reese talked about it with sent shivers down his spine. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Reese freed his uninjured hand, and Jonah clutched it protectively to his chest, shaking. “Leave me alone,” he begged tearily.

His captor grabbed his hand and brought it to the opposite point of the pentagram, stretching him out painfully and forcing his head and chest to the ground. Much to his dismay, Reese stepped down on his other wrist and readied the hammer and nails again.

Jonah strained his neck to look up at Reese, desperate. “What do you want? I’ll quit, okay? I’ll stop running Arnett’s campaign, you’ll never see me again. Just stop.”

“Oh, Jonah. Like I said, I needed someone. It just happened to be you.” Reese started on the other hand. No matter how much he screamed, it wouldn’t stop. Unlike the first nail, which seemed to slip in between his bones, this one landed right on top of the small, delicate bones inside his hand and smashed through them uncaring, the pain blinding.

Jonah was a mess by this point, sobbing into the floor. “I don’t wanna die like this,” he sniffled.

Reese cupped his face. “Look at it this way. You’re dying for something bigger than yourself. More powerful. Now, I think that’s about enough complaining out of you.”

The grip on his face grew tighter and tighter, fingers pressing tightly into the sides of his jaw, until Jonah was forced to open his mouth. Reese grabbed his tongue and pulled it, touching it to the center of the pentagram. Even among the throbbing pain in his hands and the horrifying situation, Jonah’s face crinkled in disgust.

Reese grabbed another nail.

Jonah’s disgust was immediately forgotten, replaced by overwhelming terror. He tried fruitlessly to shake his head away, making what little terrified noises of protest he could manage, as Reese settled the tip of the nail against his tongue.

A whine of fear escaped him, and he looked up at his captor pleadingly. Please don’t do this.

“Just try to relax,” Reese advised, as if it was at all possible.

The hammer slammed against the head of the nail, sending it straight through Jonah’s tongue and into the floor. Jonah wailed with intolerable pain, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, no longer able to form pleas. All he could taste was his own fresh blood, running over Reese’s painted on the floor.

Reese gave it a few more firm taps until the head of the nail almost crushed Jonah’s tongue under it, undeterred by Jonah’s cries.

“There we go.” Reese disappeared from Jonah’s tear-blurry line of sight. A moment later, he felt the side of the knife against the back of his neck. He squealed in distress, unable to even thrash against his bonds anymore.

But the knife didn’t plunge into him. Instead, it glided downward to the sound of tearing fabric until Jonah’s shirt fell limply in front of him. Reese ran a hand over his exposed back, Jonah’s tense muscles shuddering under the touch.

“This is the final step.” Jonah jolted as best he could in his immobilized state as he felt the tip of the knife between his shoulderblades- not digging in yet, but threatening to.

“Nghh!” Jonah couldn’t say much else with his tongue nailed down. He couldn’t even shake his head. Nothing he could do to indicate NO would be enough here, anyway. Reese didn’t care for his opinion.

He screamed as the knife buried itself in flesh, not deep enough to touch bone, but far from shallow. It glided along his back in a sweeping stroke, before Reese lifted it and picked a new spot to carve into him, no matter how much he cried and tried to writhe away from the sharp, insistent pain.

Slice after bold, swirling slice, Reese painted a pattern in the splitting of his skin, spending the most time on an intricate design between his shoulder blades. Jonah was pretty sure it was supposed to be an eye, but he was too hazy with agony and blood loss to tell.

Finally, Reese pulled the knife away from his mangled back. “There, all done. Soon you won’t even feel it.”

Jonah could only sob in response, trembling from pain and fear. Everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had been through a paper shredder. He could feel the blood running off the sides of his back and pooling beneath his folded-up legs, soaking his knees.

He watched as Reese lit candles in a circle around him, painting the room in a warm glow, and began chanting in a language Jonah couldn’t understand- Latin, maybe? What a pointless thing to die for. What would happen to him when none of this worked and no demon showed up? Would Reese concede and let him go? Probably not. Jonah imagined the knife plunging into his chest, the last thing he ever saw the face of his murderer. At least the pain would stop.

Slowly, as Reese chanted, The sigil carved into Jonah’s back began to burn.

Just a little at first, but getting hotter and hotter until Jonah was writhing in pain, trying to free his hands despite the nails holding them in place and hurting worse and worse the more he tugged on them. What was happening to him? It felt like someone had run boiling oil through the gashes in his skin. It was unbearable. He needed it to stop. Jonah squeezed his eyes closed, releasing a sound akin to a dying animal at the excruciating pain.

When he opened his eyes… a figure stood in front of him, half-materialized, like it was creating itself out of thin air. The warm orange glow of the candles began to shift to a cold, too-bright violet.

He strained his eyes up to see, the angle much less than ideal with his tongue bolted to the floor. He wasn’t sure if that was the reason they looked so massive, or if they really were abnormally tall, but a glance at Reese for comparison proved it to be the latter.

Everything about them looked unnatural, all bright colors that might mark a plant or animal as toxic, screaming at his nailed-down body to run. Glowing fuschia markings slithered all over their skin, the pattern looking suspiciously like the one Jonah could feel carved into his back. A giant scorpion-like tail snaked out from behind them.

Jonah stared up at the- the demon, apparently. As their form became more solid, Jonah’s back burned less and less, the only thing he could possibly be thankful for in this moment.

The demon eyed him back threefold, an impossibly-wide grin full of sharp teeth splitting their six-eyed face. Jonah couldn’t help but whimper under their gaze.

“Izuloth!” Reese shouted, suddenly seeming so much less intimidating compared to the monstrosity before him.

Izuloth broke eye contact to direct their attention to him, their smile faltering and their eyebrow twitching with annoyance. Several of their eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’ve summoned you! I’ve captured a sacrifice, carved your sigil, drawn this pentagram in my own blood. You will now grant me power, as promised,” Reese declared confidently.

The smile returned. “Awfully presumptuous, human. I don’t remember promising anything.”

“What- what are you talking about?” Reese sputtered. “That’s what it said in the book! You are now under my control!”

Izuloth smirked. “Oh, is that what it said. That was nice of them to put in there. Makes fools like you much more likely to summon me. Hm, I don’t think I care for your attitude, though.”

They snapped their fingers.

Jonah watched in horror as Reese’s body began to unravel in front of him. Skin peeled from muscle, exposing raw, bloody flesh and piling on the floor below in a wet heap that splashed Jonah’s face with blood- he could taste it on his outstretched tongue.

Reese tried to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle as his tongue joined the rest of his exposed muscles in shredding to bits, as if taken to on all sides, inside and out, with an invisible cheese grater. It was over within a minute: the remnants of his body collapsed to the floor, twitching with life for only a moment before going still.

Jonah was alone with Izuloth.

He whined in terror, too frozen to even try tugging at his restraints. If the demon could do that, it wouldn’t be any use anyway.

Izuloth, to his dismay, turned their attention back to him. “Now, where were we?”

They reached a hand down to pet his hair. Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensed up in anticipation.

Suddenly, Izuloth grabbed his hair and pulled. Jonah’s eyes flew right back open as his tongue ripped right out of the nail, bisecting it down the middle with an agonizing tear. His scream of pain cut short when Izuloth grabbed him by the frayed end of his tongue, their many-eyed face inches away.

“Pretty thing, I think I’ll keep you.”

-

ART BY AKIA WHUMP-QUEEN!!!

-

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

one-shots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthisiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

[zsbrainrot]

Hi Friends! There are just 30 minutes left to preorder the Stronger Than Blood Buddy Daddies Zine! It’s really cute, and includes what is possibly one of the fluffiest fics I’ve ever read, so if you’re interested, be sure to snag one!

@buddydaddieszine

[scumbag-monthly]

The Young Ones Were: A Final Word from Scumbag Monthly’s Editor 🖕💚

I was going to post this on 7th March – the birthday of the pan global phenomenon himself – but I think the emotion will be stronger tonight. Either way, I’ve chosen this post to say my last farewells to Scumbag Monthly and thank the people who helped make it what it was.

It was my decision as editor to end SM at Issue #25 and it was a difficult one to make. Although SM has come with both pros and cons, it’s something I’ve enjoyed creating and is something I’m very proud of. In a way, it would have been easier to carry on – sticking with the familiar is always easier – but I didn’t want our fanzine to drift off into nothingness. I thought twenty-five was a good number to end it at. Three years; twenty-five issues; three Rik specials; a zine for the fortieth anniversary – I think we’ve done alright, all things considered. More than alright! I’m so happy that we were able to add to the fandom in some small way.

I have a head for dates, so I can tell you with 99% certainty that I took on the reins of editorship at SM on 14th May 2020. It’s weird that that time feels both close and far away – international pandemics will do that to you. I’ve seen engagement and interest in this zine ebb and flow over the years. We’ve never really received enough submissions to keep us afloat long term. I used to ask my mutuals if I could add old art of theirs to zines to keep the Drawing Room full, and the amount of my fic that made its way into SM was not the result of an overinflated ego (I promise!), more the result of fic submissions falling even lower than art submissions. We’re a small fandom; that’s always been a problem for SM. While I’ve continually emphasised the importance of submissions to SM – how else would SM involve those not working behind the scenes? – the truth is that the end products simply wouldn’t have arrived on our website be it not for the so-called scumbag staff who dedicated their free time to making pages and content.

With a small fandom and ergo a small team, SM’s ambitions had to be realistic. We would all have loved to bring new segments out in every issue but, with a lot to do and limited time to get it done each time, this often wasn’t possible. I never wanted SM to become a burden to the people who made pages for it, as we all lead offline lives and SM was simply a passion project – we made this because we wanted to, because it was fun.

I won’t deny there have been points where SM burnt me out a tad. I think it was easy to lose sight of things during the lockdowns, or simply fall completely into one project. There are some zines where well over twenty of the pages were made by me because they had to be, and I’ve often feared that The People’s Poetry suffered because of this. I’m very pleased and grateful to point out that the page share became slightly less exaggerated after we found different people for each character, but (and I’m afraid I am going to have to be egotistical now XD) I’d be lying if I denied every zine since Issue #4 isn’t drenched in my blood, sweat, and improvised version of graphic design (not actually my passion, me being primarily a writer and all XD).

I hope this isn’t sounding too negative because SM really does mean a lot to me. I think it’s just that a mixed relationship is guaranteed with anything you give a lot of yourself to and I want to be honest here, at the end. It’s going to feel weird for me for a little while: no more new documents to set up, no more new pages to make, no more themes to discuss, no more Google Forms to collect. I will miss SM, but thanks to the internet it’ll actually still be here. We’ll be keeping the website up as an archive and the same with our Tumblr blog and Instagram (scumbag_monthly). For future runs of the Rik and Ade Fest, another blog has been set up (@rikandadefest). SM has also had a Redbubble on the down low for some time now and we’re planning on adding our designs of the lads there soon, if any of you fancy owning something with those on.

I realise this whole post comes at the risk of sounding pretentious and melodramatic… but sod it, you know? Here are the people I’d like to thank individually, on behalf of our fanzine.

@theevilesteviled -

First of all, the creator of SM: the reason you’re even reading this right now. During the period in which SM got going – that calm before the utter shitstorm of 2020 – we spoke nearly every day… though, living on different sides of the globe did limit our talk time to early mornings and late evenings. Ed is the reason SM ever launched. She did almost everything for the first few zines, often at the cost of her own sanity, and she inspired a passion for this fanzine within me.

In May 2020, when I found myself in lockdown limbo between college and university, Ed was struggling with the brunt of SM plus the new hell of online classes. When I took charge of Issue #4, I don’t think I realised the extent of what I was taking on – I certainly didn’t expect to still be editor nearly three years later! Even so, without Ed SM wouldn’t have gotten as far as Issue #4. I’ll admit when she initially proposed the idea for a The Young Ones fanzine, I didn’t assume it would ever actually happen. I agreed to take on Rick’s page, but never allowed myself to imagine we’d end up with a project that’d last three years. Surely, it was only other people who could pull off that kind of thing, right? Surely, a group of introverted young adults online weren’t really going to get anywhere with this, were we?

I’m not trying to make SM sound bigger than it is – I’m well aware how niche we are, have always been – but the point I’m trying to make is: thanks to Ed spearheading SM in the early days, I had the profound realisation that I can actually be creative and try new things and they’re not destined to fall completely flat on their faces. I think everyone involved with SM, be it through making pages or submitting their work, has experienced a version of this same realisation with the publication of each zine.

That’s thanks to Ed, so I’d like to formally express my gratitude. Thank you, ya bastard.

@xgardensinspace -

The lovely Deya! Deya has always been a big part of SM, right from the beginning. The portraits of Vyvyan, Rick, Neil, Mike, Balowski, and P that appeared regularly in our zines were drawn by them, as well as the ten portraits of our staff on our website. That’s not even mentioning the five exemplary covers they’ve whizzed up for SM!

Not only is Deya an exceptionally talented artist, they’re also an enthusiastic team player. From Issue #11 onwards, they’ve been our resident Mike. As most of us agree, Mike is the most difficult young one to characterise – Deya rose to the challenge with full commitment. Alongside taking on Mike’s Moments, for a period of time in late 2021 Deya posted as Mike to SM’s Instagram every Thursday, providing all of us with funny insights into Mike’s sense of fashion. There have also been times when my SM workload proved too much and they stepped up to write Comic Strip reviews for our Strip Tease – in fact, one of my favourite reviews is the one of Five Go Mad on Mescalin we wrote together for Issue #18.

Deya has always been passionate about SM, even when it seemed there were only a few of us who were. They’ve been incredibly supportive and understanding, often one of the first to volunteer to make art or write pieces for specials. To put it lightly, SM would be left severely lacking without their endless contributions and help and for that reason I’m incredibly thankful to them.

Last spring, I was lucky enough to finally meet Deya, when they visited the UK on holiday, and they were just as lovely in person as they are online. Thank you ever so much for your work on SM, you really are a cool person.

@drinkysketch -

I felt it only right to single out Julia here. Fandom spaces are ever changing and the individuals who’ve contributed to SM are no different. Despite this, Julia has been a constant cover artist for SM – not only did she create our first ever cover art back when SM was completely unknown, she’s since provided us with five more pieces for our covers. As the clever trousers among you will have worked out, that’s six in total. Almost a quarter of our regular zines!

There’s something instantly likeable about Julia’s art style: the shapes, the bright colours, the insistence on always giving Vyvyan one eye bigger than the other. The cover of Issue #1 especially is representative of SM – it’s the establishing shot – and I couldn’t imagine a better piece of art than the one Julia provided us with. I’d like to thank her for always being so eager to make art for us, even as the world’s gotten crazier and crazier. True scumbag style!

@codrington-road -

It was April 2020 when Haley first emailed SM with a fanfic submission and an offer to make pages for Neil. These were the early days of SM – Ed and I were just about keeping up with the zine’s Rick and Vyv content but were seriously struggling where Mike and Neil were concerned. It’s thanks to Haley that Neil is the only young one I’ve never had to make a page for… well, aside from that time we switched characters for April Fool’s in Issue #14… and she’s been a constant, reliable presence at SM since Issue #4.

There probably aren’t many people who could come up again and again with hilarious horoscopes on purpose, and I don’t know for exactly how many Wednesdays Haley manned Neil’s entries to our Instagram stories, but it was a lot. 9th June 2021 fell on a Wednesday – a little daunting for anyone. Yet, I think it’s that entry from ‘Neil’, a touching piece about missing people who are no longer here while still carrying the warmth they gave us within us, that sticks out to me the most.

Haley has always brought the exact right levels of surrealism, humour, and bloody hippie moping to Neil. She is probably secretly Nigel Planer. She’s helped keep the excitement for SM alive in me when I’ve been at my wit’s end with it and is in fact the main reason this fanzine didn’t fold after Issue #19. Honestly, she’s great. Have you read the fanfic she’s submitted? Pure brilliance. Her reviews of Rik Mayall's Bedside Tales and GLC were sublime.

Thank you, Haley, for encouraging not just me but everyone behind the scenes of SM and for being our resident Neil for so long. I know you’re a girlie, but I hope the seed of your loin is fruitful in the belly of your woman. Ta very much!

@martian-martian-martian -

Part of SM since Issue #18, Wisely is a person who truly deserves so much love. I first spoke to Wisely on Tumblr when they signed up to write about Rick and Kevin in our second Rik zine, in 2021. Needless to say, the results of their endeavours were some of the most memorable pieces in that zine. Rick still hasn’t recovered.

After that, Wisely only became more and more involved in SM, until they’d taken on the enigmatic fifth housemate, that scumbag named Petyr, as a regular in our zine. They did this despite the graphic design element being out of their comfort zone and even came up with a whole new page idea to spearhead. Cliff ‘sHits – as well as having a perfectly Young Ones-esq name – is exactly the kind of thing I always hoped would start happening with SM: that staff would strike out with new page ideas when they had the time. Wisely has a talent for twisting well known verses to fit the scumbag agenda and we thank them for it.

A keen promoter of SM – they could frequently be found suggesting submitting to our fanzine in the comments of TYO fanart on Tumblr – they’ve even written fanfic to keep zines full of content. I’d like to thank them for joining the team and enhancing the zine in the process. SM is all the better for having them.

@the-tardis-in-221b-baker-street -

Zoe already has a name for herself in Rik Mayall circles outside the scumbags; what fan wouldn’t go absolutely crazy at the sheer time and dedication she puts into her many cosplays? Zoe has a knack for morphing into the bastards she portrays… physically, at least. I’ve always found her to be as friendly as Alan B’Stard is devious. XD

It was during SM’s hiatus, when the spot of resident Vyvyan fell vacant, that Zoe immediately jumped at the chance to help SM out. Since Issue #20, she’s provided the voice of the beloved punk as well as producing a page of her own design, Top of the Plops. Zoe has also been quick to help out where reviews of Filthy, Rich and Catflap and of the music in The Young Ones are concerned, for which I am very grateful. Despite being the newest staff member at SM, she’s thrown herself fully into it and offered much needed reassurance and submissions whenever necessary. Zoe has been an optimistic voice at the fanzine: always up for new ideas and competitions, always there with schemes to boost engagement. Her DnD stats for the lads in Issue #24 were incredible.

We’ve had many scumbags writing for Vyvyan at SM over the years – more than we’ve had for any other character – and I’m thrilled we got Zoe in for our final run. She even made the cover art for our last issue. Thank you!

@aspinecone -

Aspen is someone I’ve shared online fandom spaces with since 2017. We’re both fans of Red Dwarf, but it was our shared enjoyment of The Young Ones that finally got us talking to one another. Last autumn, we finally met in person when we went to see Ade in A Christmas Carol - a brilliant day with a great friend that I'll always remember.

Aspen has had a presence behind the scenes of SM since the beginning, often submitting fanart and the odd piece of fanfic, until they took on the role of resident Balowski at SM from Issue #16 onwards. Creating content for the character most out of the loop with the others isn’t as easy as you might think, but Aspen has always produced insane, amusing pages for him. Aspen was also the original cover artist pencilled in for Issue #21, but graciously stood aside when they realised offline commitments were going to need more of their time.

During SM’s run, I’ve sometimes had hairbrained schemes such as making the badges several scumbags will be receiving very, very soon. I’m no design whiz – Ed and I always made SM out of Word Documents – and Aspen helpfully volunteered to remove the backgrounds from designs and clean them up. Like I’ve always said, producing SM has been a team effort. I’d like to thank Aspen for always being in my corner.

@cloubdustings -

Ava, the mad meme machine! If I recall correctly, Ava first popped up in scumbag circles in late 2020. She surprised SM with cover art for Issue #10 and kindly took on the role of resident Vyvyan from that same issue until Issue #19. 2021 was not a fun year – in fact, I’d argue it was worse than 2020 in some respects – so having Ava on the SM team to handle all Vyvyan content was a great help.

Ava has a very distinct sense of humour and you can usually tell which British comedian she’s most recently become obsessed with by checking her Instagram. XD Even with changing tastes, she’s still making content about Mr Mayall and her brand of whackiness is most definitely beloved by the fandom. Thank you for sharing it with SM!

@lumivarjo -

Lumi was around at the very beginning of SM and is actually responsible for the piece of grey tape bearing the zine’s name that became our logo. He was our original resident P, producing pages for us during the autumn of 2020. Lumi has always been more behind the scenes than at the forefront of SM, but has nonetheless also always been supportive. Being an artistic sod, Lumi is to thank for many of the key headers SM used, which were all vital pieces of the SM brand… if we want to get really pretentious. Thank you for being there for the zine!

@serenpop -

Pol was also around when Ed was proposing this insane new idea of a fanzine for The Young Ones and was our first resident Neil. Offline commitments saw them have to drop the role, but they reappeared again to help us out when we needed cover art at a pinch for Issue #9. A lot of SM’s Drawing Rooms have featured art from Pol, so I’d like to thank them for brightening up our pages!

Additionally, I'd like to thank the other scumbags who’ve made cover art for us: @frankenbolt (who made three(!) beautifully chaotic covers, including everybody’s favourite Modern AU); @whatacompletebastard (for the fab Breakfast Club parody that’s always been popular with the scumbags); @heinzpilsnerbloody (another talented artist who drew me a whole bunch of cool stuff in an exchange and kindly helped SM out); @colourshot-draws (our first anniversary zine cover artist and a genuinely lovely person); @postpunkpontypandyphantomthief (a massive Rik Mayall fan and integral part of the fandom); thedinodoodles (for being ahead of the curve and bringing us pirates before the Tumblr obsession); @rikhead (for the sheer dedication to detail on her cover and for her legendary skills in Rik Pic Hunting™); and @smashingblouses (for providing us with the brilliant TYO 40th anniversary zine cover art). I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: SM couldn’t have functioned without its cover artists. Thank you all. Big respec.

There are a few final scumbags I wish to mention and thank - SM's cheerleaders, if you will. These people have brightened up my day on various occasions and their enthusiasm helped make the zine what it was: @anglophobias, @my-blood-is-maple-syrup, @friedhofcreative, @shotsofnovacaine, @5gogh2, @mariigoldmayall, and @fourstarsandahamster.

Finally, of course, I’d like to say a quick thank you to the people who inspired this fanzine in the first place. Without the canon, there would be no fanon. They’re never going to read this thank Cliff but without the brilliance of Rik Mayall, Adrian Edmondson, Nigel Planer, Christopher Ryan, Alexei Sayle, Ben Elton, Lise Mayer, and all the recurring comic guest stars of The Young Ones, SM would have quite literally never existed.

We need comedy in hard times – to call out the shits in power, to keep us grounded, to simply make us laugh. I count myself incredibly lucky to have stumbled across fans of this anarchic ‘80s sitcom on Tumblr. Despite the time gone by between 1982 and 2023 and the changes in society and sensibilities, I think it’s an incredibly good thing that this comedy still connects with us. Most of the people I’ve spoken to on here, like me, weren’t alive during TYO’s initial run. It’s often assumed by certain bastards who shall remain nameless that the youth are trying to kill comedy, that we take offence too easily, that comedy classics are a thing of the past. To them I say: UP YOURS, UGLY! As long as there are people, there will be laughter; and among those of us laughing, there will be the young ones.

So thank you, scumbag reader, for downloading our zines and supporting our bastardly endeavours.

Signing off from Scumbag Monthly for the last time,

- R / @neil-neil-orange-peel <3

"This is it! It's really happening! Who needs qualifications? Who cares about Thatcher and unemployment?! We can do just exactly whatever we want to do! And you know why? Because we're Young Ones. Bachelor boys! Crazy, mad, wild-eyed, big-bottomed anarchists!!" - The People's Poet, 1984

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Welcome Home zine! I think Jertiza would have a hard time rediscovering who he is, what parts of Emile still exist, after everything’s over, but Mercedes is more than willing to wait by his side till then.

…

…

…

…

Jeritza didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t know why he was standing on a cobbled pathway, a rickety gate creaking behind him every time the wind blew. He didn’t know why he was staring up at a one-story high wooden building, its body long and wide like a broadsword, its lights darkened due to the late hour. On a moonless night, he was all but invisible to any eye that accidentally peeked out the window, and it would be a simple step to turn and return the way he came.

Most importantly, Jeritza didn’t know why he was here. Emile would come here for his sister. The Death Knight would raze the place down. Jeritza was a teacher for only a few short months and even that hadn’t been out of choice. The orphanage in front of him had no place for a lost man like him, for a man who didn’t even know who he was, let alone what he wanted. All he had was the shirt on his back and the sword on his belt and neither really belonged here.

Through an open window, the scent of freshly made scones drifted through the air. The sound of laughter soon followed.

No, a man of war and blood, a man of death and destruction definitely didn’t have a place in a building full of children. Jeritza spun on his heel.

Before he could take a single step, the door behind him flung open. The smell of baking grew stronger.

“Emile!” A woman shouted. Mercedes shouted.

He froze.

“It’s you, right?”

He could hear her run down the porch’s stairs, her dress swishing at the quick movement. Her feet pattered on the cobblestone; she wasn’t wearing any shoes. How had she known he was here? Ever since the war—no, even before that, ever since their first battle against one another, he had wondered if she could read his mind. If she had maybe had a tracking spell on him, if her blood was somehow finely tuned to his.

“It is, isn’t it!” Unbothered by his silence, Mercedes flung herself forward, her arms wrapping around him. She pressed her face into his back and he could feel her smile, her sigh of relief. “I knew you’d come here. I knew you’d keep your promise. I’m so, so glad.”

“That…” Jeritza’s voice cracked. He swallowed and wet his lips. Perhaps there was more Emile in him than he’d thought; her touch shouldn’t affect him the way it did. “Yes.”

“You took so long, but that’s okay.” She finally let go of him, but kept him in the circle of her arms as she slipped in front of him. Even without the moon, Mercedes shone, as radiant as the sun. She smiled brightly. “You’ll stay, right?”

Jeritza couldn’t look away. “I…”

“You will, won’t you?” she asked again, no doubt in her voice or eyes. How could she always be so confident? Even when she’d first realized he was the Death Knight, she had never once flinched away in fear.

He should say no. He should keep walking away.

Something told him she wouldn’t let him.

Something told him he wouldn’t be able to. That if he left, he would never be able to put himself back together.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I will.”

-x-

Mercedes’ smile was no less radiant in the sunlight. Her hand clasped his tightly as she led him to the kitchen the next morning, as though he’d flee if she let go. Maybe he would. Even now, Jeritza wasn’t certain what his next steps were.

As though she read his mind, her grip tightened, and Mercedes pulled out a chair at the kitchen table for him. “Just wait right here.”

The room was a small one, hardly comparable to the high-class kitchen of the von Bartels or the expansive spaces for the Garreg Mach Academy. The orphanage’s kitchen was a tiny, cramped space, just big enough for a single iron stove, a fire, and some counter space. The kitchen table took up half the room. Across the ceiling, strung-up dried herbs filled the air with a pleasing smell. It felt more like a bachelor’s space, and he didn’t know how she could feed the mouths of a dozen or more children.

No, that was wrong. He knew exactly how—Mercedes had never been the kind of person to let such a tiny, insignificant setback get it in the way of her helping others. If finding out he was the Death Knight hadn’t been enough for her to withhold her hand, then this diminutive orphanage wasn’t either.

Mercedes hummed as she spun around the kitchen, her hands like magic as she kneaded dough. Bits of flour stuck to her face. She still was beautiful. She always was beautiful. Jeritza had spent years remembering her and his imagination couldn’t compare to the real thing.

“So,” Mercedes half-sang, her voice as cheerful as a lark’s. She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I don’t know if you remember Annette.”

Startled, he flinched, not expecting her to actually talk to him yet. When she gazed at him expectantly, he bit his cheek. “Annette…” She had to have been talking about a student, no doubt. A friend of hers, certainly. Jeritza had only cared for a handful of names during the war, and he couldn’t say if Annette had been a friend or a foe.

“Oh dear, you’ll have to remember her name next time then. She’s my best friend, after all,” Mercedes scolded him gently. Despite her words, she didn’t sound disappointed at all. She added a few droplets of water to the dough before kneading it once more. “She’s short and adorable and has the sweetest voice. You should hear her sing! Actually, the song I was singing earlier was one of hers.”

A tidal wave of information poured down on him and Jeritza could only stare as he tried to absorb it all. The more she spoke, the more familiar Annette was—vaguely, he recalled them walking together, though he couldn’t say if it was at the academy or on the battlefields.

“So now,” Mercedes chirped, smacking the dough. It gave a soft wet sound. She smiled, pleased. “There we go, that’s the right texture. So, now she’s researching crests with Professor Hanneman—she’s always been really smart, you know? They think they can figure out a way to help Lysithea. I know they can do it. Maybe we can have sweets together after. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

She stared at him and belatedly, he realized the question had been directed at him. Before he could reply, a small child tumbled into the kitchen. “Big sis!”

“Oh my!” Mercedes wiped her brow, either not noticing or not caring about the flour sticking to her forehead. She crouched down in front of the young boy. “Are you okay, Kanna?”

“I’m hungry,” he whined, stumbling to his feet. His silvery hair was a mess, though Jeritza couldn’t tell if that was before or after he’d fallen on the floor. For a small child, he didn’t seem to particularly care that he’d just hit the ground or that his nose was red from impact. Instead, he merely rubbed his belly and whined again.

“Is that so?” Mercedes ruffled his hair gently, scattering flour on him. Despite her air-headed reactions, she tugged the edge of her apron and cleaned his face. It brought back memories of Jeritza as a child, of Mercedes taking care of Emile. Her touch had always been gentle.

Every part of her looked like she was in her element.

“There we go!” Mercedes dropped the apron and stood up. She gently turned Kanna around. “Now, go wait in the dining room.”

Kanna fiddled with his thumbs, glancing up at her, then down at his hands. “Umm…”

Expecting that response, she laughed and pulled out a cookie from her pocket. “Oh, alright then. Here’s a snack.”

The boy snatched it up eagerly and dashed out of the kitchen. Noticing Jeritza’s stare, Mercedes rubbed her neck sheepishly. “I know I shouldn’t—Annette says I’m ruining their meals—but he’s so small. Growing boys need food.”

His breath caught. She’d said that of him once too.

-x-

Mercedes had settled in a quiet, peaceful town. One mostly untouched by the flames of war. It wasn’t hard to guess why she was here, why she had taken orphans and refugees to this haven. The townspeople donated generously, in addition to the noble funds Mercedes received from her old classmates, and some even volunteered their time for the daily chores.

All of them stayed away from Jeritza, as though they could smell the blood on him.

In times of peace, his skills were no longer needed, and Jeritza was left with an abundance of free time that he didn’t know what to do with. The only thing he knew how to do was kill, the only thing he was good at was granting death—his skills had a single, specific purpose.

Who was he, in a time of peace? What about Emile? The only one he didn’t have to worry about was the Death Knight—such a being couldn’t exist in such a world. It was one less voice in his mind, one less fear at night.

Contemplating this, Jeritza sat under a tree, staring listlessly at the sky. He’d sat here so many times the grass had flattened. A book from the well-stocked library lay on his lap. Today, he was alone, Mercedes nowhere to be seen. Jeritza didn’t mind; he preferred solitude.

A shadow fell on him and he looked down to find three young children standing in front of him, a girl and two boys. They couldn’t be any older than eight and all three of them struck a different pose. A blond boy covered his face, a pig-tailed redheaded girl had her hands on her hips, and a blue-haired boy held an open book.

“The Justice Cabal is here to play!” they chimed at the same time.

Jeritza merely stared at them. The children at the orphanage usually ignored him and for a moment, he wasn’t certain if they were talking to him.

The girl frowned and cocked her head. “I don’t think he gets it.”

“We didn’t shout loud enough,” the blond guessed, stroking his chin. He chuckled darkly. “It has to be blood-curling.”

The blue-haired boy shook his head immediately. He lightly hit the blond on his arm. “That’d scare him.”

“We don’t want to scare him,” the girl confirmed, before glancing at the blond. She narrowed her eyes and added firmly, “Or anyone else. Right?”

The blond sighed, his shoulders drooping as he agreed. Clearly this was a normal argument. “Yeah, right, right. No scaring or death or—”

“We’re heroes, not anti-heroes,” the girl repeated, glaring at him.

Jeritza continued to stare. Nothing about this conversation was enlightening. There wasn’t even a caretaker to explain what he’d just heard. Was there a play? Was this a game? Were they mistaking him for someone else? Even more confusing was how the girl and the blond boy reached for his hand after that, not seeming to mind or care for his lack of reaction.

“Come, play with us!” they asked in unison, smiles bright as they gripped his hand tightly.

“That sounds fun!” Mercedes chimed in suddenly and Jeritza glanced over his shoulder to find her watching them through a window. She waved merrily. “Make sure you come back in time for dinner!”

And still confused, Jeritza got up, as though Mercedes’ words had been an order.

-x-

If there was one thing Jeritza couldn’t get used to here, it was the silence at night. War camps were never quiet; even in the late hours, the fires crackled, and someone’s armour clinked as they patrolled the perimeter. None of that was needed here and there was no one awake but him when he jolted up from a nightmare. A memory.

No one but him and his sister, and Mercedes was already sitting on her bed, her hands wrapped around her knees. When she had insisted they’d share a room, just like they had as children, he had refused, but now he was glad. In the night, the shadows felt darker, deeper, and he didn’t know when one of them would reach out for him.

Her candle flickered as she turned to him, the shadows long on her face. “Nightmare?” Mercedes asked softly, as though anything louder would alert them of her presence.

Jeritza nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Me too.” Her voice sounded hoarse. She pushed back her hair, slowly tying it into a braid. “It’s a moonless night. I hate those the most.”

“Why?”

“…I…” Mercedes glanced at him and then buried her face in her knees. “The night we parted…that had been a moonless night. And the war…I lost a lot of friends. We all used to be classmates and then we were enemies…I still don’t understand it. I don’t think I ever will.”

Jeritza studied her profile. And what did she think of him, as one of the main instigators of it all? Mercedes always skittered around the subject, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of cowardice or guilt or even fear. In the dark, it looked like a combination of all three, her body small as she curled into a ball.

“I hate the night,” he finally said. “You can’t hide in the dark.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” She lifted her head, her eyes dark in the dim light.

“There’s no one else,” he explained, his fingers digging into his thighs until he left crescent marks. “You only have yourself in the dark.”

And he didn’t even know who he was.

“Oh, that is scary,” Mercedes agreed before smiling at him. “But you have me now. And I have you. We’re not alone anymore.”

-x-

Her words still echoed in his head the next day, even as he walked under the blinding sun to his usual spot by the tree.

We’re not alone.

A sentiment both reassuring and not, both true and not. The problem was that Jeritza had never been alone, he hadn’t been alone for a long time. He’d always had Emile, always had Death Knight—facets of himself that were both apart and joined.

He would have preferred to be alone.

He would have—

“I want to be the Death Knight!”

Jeritza gasped. The old moniker knocked the breath out of him. Staggering, he leaned against the tree. He glanced up to find the same three kids from before standing in a nearby field, each of them holding a wooden stick. The girl, Cynthia, and the blond boy, Owain were arguing while their third friend, Morgan, merely watched, exasperated.

“Death Knight is the ultimate anti-hero,” Owain gushed, swinging his branch in the air above him to punctuate his point. He stabbed imaginary enemies. “Killing friends and foes alike, destroying everything and then yourself—he’s so cool!”

“Why do you always want to kill everyone and then cry?” Cynthia snapped, glaring at him. She whipped her stick through the air, as though she were swatting a fly. “That’s not what a hero does! And we’re playing heroes!”

Morgan stepped in with a sigh, holding his hands up before either could attack the other. He was the calmest of the trio. “I don’t really get it either, but Owain’s right—anti-heroes are heroes.”

Owain smirked, puffing his chest. “See?”

Ignoring him, Morgan continued. “But I don’t know if he’s really an anti-hero…I mean, when you think of all he’s done…”

Cynthia crowed, bouncing up and down. She smirked and taunted, tossing Owain’s words back at him, “See?”

“Then what is he?” Owain asked, pouting as he dragged his branch on the ground.

“He’s a villain,” Jeritza answered, unable to stop himself.

And villains never deserved happy endings.

-x-

His father stood in front of him, his lips twisted into an evil smirk. Emile’s blood boiled. It was a dream. Jeritza knew that, had experienced this same fantasy, this same nightmare a dozen times before. Despite that, the Death Knight struck, his long sword slashing his father in half.

“Emile?” His father whispered, his face shocked, his voice oddly feminine.

That wasn’t right. His dream had never gone like that. Jeritza opened his eyes to find Mercedes recoiling, blood dripping down her hand.

There was a dagger in his own. Blood coated its edge. Its sheath was still under his pillow. Jeritza’s eyes widened as he stared at it, then her, realization hitting him.

“Ouch,” Mercedes grunted as she steadied herself. She smiled at him weakly. “Whoops.”

“Shit.” Jeritza dropped the blade like it burned. Leaping out of bed, he didn’t grab his sword before dashing out. Out of the room, out of the orphanage, out of the city—he didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to go out. Only that it had to be away.

“Emile!” Mercedes shouted, her footsteps frantic as she chased after him.

He didn’t turn around. When he came here, all Jeritza had were the clothes on his back and his sword and he was fine with losing the latter. He had to go. He had to leave. It wouldn’t be long before she avoided him too, before disgust and pity clouded her eyes, before she realized what everyone else had: that he was someone to be avoided.

He didn’t think he could survive if he saw her give up on him.

Mercedes didn’t give him a choice. With a feral cry, she tackled him from the back, her arms gripping him tightly as they tumbled onto the cobbled path in front of the orphanage. She skimmed her arms on the tiles, his teeth rattled as he hit the ground, and still she didn’t let go. They lay there, his face pressed to the ground, her body weighing him down like an anchor.

“Stay,” she pleaded, trembling as she dug her hands into his back.

Jeritza struggled, trying and failing to escape her. “I can’t,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Stay,” she ordered, her characteristic softness vanishing into a steely tone.

And despite himself, despite knowing better, he listened. Her hands shifted to clasping his as she led him back to the porch, as they sat down side by side. Jeritza’s muscles were tense, his legs ready to flee at the first opportunity.

Mercedes didn’t let him. Her blood smeared his skin as she pressed against him. He flinched at the contact and looked away. “I have to go. I’m dangerous.”

“I fought in a war,” she replied lightly, as though he hadn’t just attacked her. “I’m dangerous too.”

“Mercedes,” he warned, half-growling her name. “You know that’s not it.”

“Emile.” She snorted, the sound odd and inelegant. “It is.”

“How?” Jeritza turned to her now, sitting up straight so his figure towered over hers. Even without his armour, he still cut an imposing figure, even more so in the dark. He lowered his voice until it was gravelly and hard, until it was more Death Knight than Jeritza. “For better or for ill, I killed. I committed crimes. I destroyed innocents.”

Mercedes didn’t flinch, her eyes clear as she looked back up at him. “You know, I also killed. Several times, even.”

“That was self-defence,” he retorted, dismissing the comparison. “It’s not the same.”

She pressed her hand in his. “The blood is the same. The regret is the same. The weight and the loss—it is all the same.” Mercedes leaned closer, her eyes side. “I’ve made mistakes too. I should never have left you behind. I’m your older sister, I should have protected you.”

He couldn’t breathe. Not when she looked at him like that, guilelessly, as though he were still that small boy she used to spoil. “I’m not Emile,” he forced himself to say, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “I’m not sure if I can be him again.”

“That’s fine,” Mercedes replied, no hesitation in her voice. “I told you, I love you. That’ll never change. Even if you’re Emile or Jeritza or someone else, you’re still my brother.”

“And if I’m the Death Knight?”

“Then I’ll scold you.” Mercedes smiled brightly. “That’s what older sisters do.”

He shook his head, recoiling. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” Mercedes disagreed, tightening her grip before he could flee. “Stay. Please. I can’t lose you again.”

“That…You saw me. I’m a danger.” Jeritza fumbled with his words, trying to come up with an excuse, a reason to go. A reason to reject. “There are children—there isn’t a place for me here.”

“Then I’ll just have to make you a place.” Mercedes chuckled. The dark did little to dim her radiance. “And if you’re a danger, then I’ll just have to keep an eye on you.”

Quietly, he asked, “Even if I’m never Emile again?”

“I’ll be sad but…” She raised their clasped hands. “Then we’ll just have to build a new bond.”

He should have known better than to argue with her. During the war, it had been her stubbornness that had taken off his helmet, that had forced him to fight at her side instead of at a distance, that had guided his feet to her door after the war had ended.

Even now, he couldn’t fight her words. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. There was peace in her presence.

When he didn’t say anything, Mercedes added gently, “You know, mother wants to come see you, but she’s afraid you hate her.”

Her fingers intertwined with his and the weight was heavier than anything he’s ever known.

“What do you think?” Mercedes asked.

Emile gripped her hand back, giving in. “She can come.”

She smiled and maybe, just maybe, he could trust the promise on her lips.

[blacksailszine]

🏴‍☠️  CREW MEMBER SPOTLIGHT: Sammy Heim🏴‍☠️

Sammy Heim is contributing a script to Freedom in the Dark!

Sammy is a nonbinary screenwriting student who loves to write fun, fantastical stories about underdogs and found families. His goals are to increase queer representation especially within genres like historical fiction, fantasy, and family animation.

Follow him on social media:

sammyrackham on Twitter

Welcome aboard, pirate!

[ID: White writing on a black background with red brush strokes reading ‘Black Sails Zine Crew  Member: Sammy Heim’ and the above mentioned social media handle, as well as an icon. End ID]

Read a preview of his writing below the cut!

INT. FORT NASSAU - ARMORY - MEANWHILE 

It’s quiet down here, away from the fighting above. All that  exists is barrels of powder and empty weapons racks. 

Anne Bonny creeps in, sword at the ready. Between the rows  and stacks of barrels, she sees a FUSE, a line of gunpowder  on the ground. Suspicious, she follows it. 

Admiral Bonny steps out of the darkness and swings at her.  Anne is startled but able to block it.  

ANNE: You fucking coward. 

ADMIRAL BONNY: I am not afraid of the likes of you, boy. 

Anne raises an eyebrow. He does not recognize her under the  dirt, ash, and blood. She smirks. 

ANNE: You should be. 

She strikes and they begin an epic back and forth. He is  bigger and stronger than she is, but Anne is quick on her  feet and anticipates Bonny’s strikes. 

[terminallydepraved]

Beyond the Pale (JayTim Vampire au)

Yo! My contribution to the @batsandbeasts Batman zine is now up on ao3 for your reading pleasure.

Read on ao3 here.

The sharp silhouette of Drake Manor against the pale, full moon cut a suitably somber visage against the autumn sky. A pervasive wind was blowing through the trees surrounding the overgrown ground, whispering like a poorly kept secret. Jason Todd lifted the collar of his coat out of habit, shielding the vulnerable flesh of his neck from its bite. He stared at the once-grand home while he let the wind claw and tug at his clothing as if in hope of beckoning him through the battered doors.

 In that regard, the wind seemed to be the most welcoming thing about the place. The windows had long been boarded up, the brick facade a patchwork of lichen and ivy so dried and desiccated that it looked black in the light of the moon. A once-impressive turret rose up to spear the bloated clouds overhead, appearing desperate in its struggle to stand straight while it slanted dangerously askew. Brittle, dead grass crunched beneath his heavy boots. No flowers grew in the planters by the wrapping porch. Only weeds that whispered alongside the breeze.

 If anything had lived here, it would have been decades ago. To an observant eye, that supposition would be the end of it. Drake Manor had been abandoned for years, the place left to rot and molder alongside the family that had owned it up until tragedy took them from splendor to the sepulchre nestled just behind the building’s sprawling expanse.

 “The whole family passed one by one,” echoed the memory of that old woman’s voice in the lilting chill on the wind. “It was… sudden. First the mother. Next, the father.”

 “And the son?” Jason had asked as he sharpened the stake by the hearth, staring at the small woman from across the tavern floor. She had kept her distance from him, like a rabbit smelling blood in the air. Everyone had. They might not have known they had a dead man walking among them, but something within them warned them of the danger of lingering too close to a Hunter seeking fresh prey.

 Wizened hands wound themselves with rosary beads. Jason’s eyes tracked them like pearls, reciting the words of her prayer silently out of a habit that hadn’t managed to die even after he had. Her eyes turned towards the rough wooden beams above their head. “We do not speak of it,” she said, talking to God more than the one that used to preach his word. “It is not the boy it once was.”

 No one would say what the boy was now, but that was fine. Jason had spent the bulk of his life—      both    lives—exterminating things better left unsaid. His hands roved over the holsters on his hips and the belt that held his stakes. Vials of holy water—freshly consecrated earlier that evening—studded the inside of his leather jacket. His shotgun was a reassuring weight between his shoulder blades. The small blade tucked inside his right boot pressed against his calve, more soothing than rumors could ever be.

 That woman had warned him to be careful; Jason had to think that the creature skulking away inside those dilapidated walls could use that warning more.

 The grass crunched beneath his boots as he moved towards the front door. In the dead of night the sound seemed deafening. Still, Jason didn’t try to muffle his approach. It already knew he was coming— in fact, it likely already knew he was here. A vampire couldn’t hope to steal six villagers from their beds and remain unnoticed in its lair. Humans were fragile, weak, and easily made victims to the shadows beyond the firelight— but that was where Hunters came in, evening out the playing field.

 Jason, for one, had long outgrown his fear of the dark.

 Pulling his shotgun over his head, Jason held it at the ready as he made his way up creaking, splintering steps, eyes narrowed for any sign of movement. He took care to keep his finger off the trigger; any other time he would prime himself to fire first and ask questions later, but the bodies of the stolen villagers hadn’t been found yet. Slim as it was, they could still be alive. He’d been trained too well to write off the possibility entirely, so his finger stayed flattened against the stock as he kicked down the front door with a resounding      bang!  

 The sound reverberated through the entry hall like a crack of thunder. Motes of dust rose in the air, stirring the spider webs hanging from the eaves and edges of practically every available surface. Jason resisted the urge to close his eyes as powdery flecks settled in his hair. It was quiet in the dead space, stagnant air heavy with the silence. Every step Jason took cut tracks into the layer of filth blanketing the wooden floor. If something had been in here, it hadn’t left a trail for him to follow. The dust was undisturbed as far as the eye could see.

 First course of business was to locate the missing villagers. They had been gone for at least a week, some of them closer to three. Vampires that took to creating larders tended to store their human pantry staples somewhere secure, contained, and without many options for escape. A place this big... no doubt it had a basement, maybe even a few cellars. He would need to find it before he went hunting for the vampire. Once the captives were out of the picture he’d be able to fight without holding back.

 Of course, that was all easier said than done. This place was enormous. Cavernous even, and Jason had spent a large part of his youth in a manor not that dissimilar from it. Maybe it was the lack of life in the place that made it seem so empty. The portraits on the walls had eyes, but their dead smiles were fixed in place, like spectral guides that escorted him through the halls. He paused outside a dark, rusted kitchen. Memories of his childhood flickered among the shadows.

 A board creaked behind him. Jason swiveled smoothly, body moving independent of thought. He pointed the barrel of his gun in the direction of a set of descending stairs just visible through a nearby doorway. His heart beat a little faster. That door had been closed a moment ago, hadn’t it?

 “Show yourself,” he called out. An old house like this would creak and groan naturally, but the timing was too perfect, too planned. Jason bared his teeth as he looked down the line of his gun. “I know you’re here. Stop hiding and let’s get this over with.”

 Another creak, this time further down the hall. Jason shifted without thinking, but this time he caught sight of movement just as it evaded his peripherals. A cold sweat began to bead on his forehead, the tiny hairs on his body rising in the wake of instinct telling him that he was sharing breathing space with a predator. It was in the area with him; of that there was no doubt. Hiding in the shadows and among the eaves above his head… Jason fought the urge to look up, knowing through experience that keeping his eyes forward gave him the best chance of reacting quickly when it inevitably came for his throat.

 Jason slowly backed into the kitchen, preferring a wider space for the fight that was soon to follow.

 “I’ve never met a hunter before,” a quiet, lilting voice remarked just as the silence began to weigh on Jason like lead. Again, he moved to face the direction of it, his shotgun slicing through the air with whisper. He found himself moving yet again though when that same voice spoke again from a different direction, “Are you truly as strong as the stories say?”

 “Stronger,” Jason grunted, knowing this game after playing it so many times. It would try to get close next, and he readied his finger on the trigger. “Even death didn’t stop me from killing your kind.”

 The words had barely left his mouth before the vampire made its move. Jason reacted with practiced grace, giving himself to his instincts as he twisted at the waist and fired at the pale blur rushing towards him through the kitchen doorway. The gunshot went off like a thunderclap, deafening in such a dead space. A spray of lead burst through a section of the door frame, ruining an enormous family portrait mounted in the hallway behind it.

 “Close,” an icy voice whispered in Jason’s ear. A pale hand wrapped around the smoking barrel. “But no cigar.”

 Jason recoiled, warning bells ringing like a cacophony of the damned inside his head as the gun was snatched free from his hands. He let it go without a fight—the creature could overpower him easily, so there was no point in wrestling for it—and darted back, hand reaching for a vial of holy water and lobbing it in the direction of the figure now standing in the middle of the manor’s kitchen.

 Jason’s eyes closed as the glass shattered; when he opened them again, the figure was gone, its voice still echoing around his head.

 The eaves. It’d gone for the eaves again, or maybe to the tops of the large shelves and cabinets scattered around the room’s upper edges. Jason scanned the ground for his gun, spotting it towards the door he had come through.

 “I know who you are, hunter,” the vampire crooned, smooth and melodic, the only warning Jason had before a pale hand descended from the dark to grab him from behind. Those lips met his ear once more as it hissed, “I know      every    trick in your arsenal.”

 White hot anger tore through Jason, overpowering the fear throbbing in his veins. “Oh yeah?” he spat, tearing free two more vials and crushing them in his bare hands. The glass tore through his palms, but that hardly mattered. Blood and holy water both sailed over his shoulders as he cast his hands back. The vampire let out a pained shriek, and the pressure on Jason’s back abated.

 The creature didn’t retreat far this time, giving him a chance to look, if only briefly, at his quarry. Even crumpled on the ground he could tell that the vampire was young and far more intelligent than the majority of the blood-starved prey he’d hunted in the past. Jason couldn’t look at him dead on for fear of being caught by that gaze, but what he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye was enough to tell him that the refined beauty spoken about in most vampire stories wasn’t a lie this time around, even with holy water burning black spots into his perfect, blood-flecked skin.

 That must be the boy. The woman from the tavern hadn’t spoken his name, but Jason had done his research, had seen that face staring back at him from the portrait sporting buckshot behind him. Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. He had been on the cusp of adulthood when he went missing, and it was clear now that he’d stayed there for decades after.

 Jason dove for his gun. Dust rose in the scramble, the vampire darting forward to cut him off. Inertia carried Jason forward as he committed to the move, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact as he slammed into the vampire and sent them both tumbling through the doorway and back into the hall. Sweat stung Jason’s eyes but he didn’t dare close them, not this close, not as he fought with every ounce of strength he had to pin the slighter body to the floor.

 “What did you do with them?!” Jason grunted, forcing his forearm against the vampire’s throat until there was no way for Drake to bite back. “Where the fuck did you put the villagers, Drake?!”

 Cold fingers wrapped around his arm, holding tight but not as tight as Jason knew he could. “You can call me Tim,” whispered the vampire through a smile. His eye teeth curved over his bottom lip, ruining whatever charm the expression might’ve held once upon a time. “Can I call you Jason?”

 Jason couldn’t smother his reaction, his shock. It widened his eyes, slackened his grip. Drake— Tim—      the vampire    took the chance it was, pushing hard and rolling them over, pinning Jason to the floor like a butterfly to tack board.

 He had to look at Tim now, and God, the stories had never been so true. Pale skin, startling blue eyes, and lips like roses, blood red and temptation incarnate. Those shy lips curled back into a revealing smile, but even that barely shattered the illusion. Jason shut his eyes as quickly as he could, scrambling for one of the stakes at his waist. He shoved upwards with every ounce of strength he had and barely,      barely    managed to roll them over.

 His elbow clipped a door frame, warning him too late that he should have aimed better. Jason lost hold of the vampire as they both tumbled ass-over-tea-kettle down a flight of rickety steps. The stake in his hand was lost along the way. Jason felt a few more splinter by the time he reached the floor.

 It wasn’t a graceful landing, and he knew without looking which of them would recover from it first. Jason hit the ground hard, his breathing rushing out of him upon impact. He forced himself to keep moving, rolling onto his knees as his hand reached for the knife he kept in his boot. The air was heavy and dank, his surroundings as black as pitch once the sound of a door slamming shut cut off the sliver of light just above his head. The dirt beneath his feet told him well enough that he had fallen into the manor’s lowest level, but without moonlight or a torch his options on finding his way back upstairs were worse than limited.

 “I waited for you, you know,” came that voice again. “Did you think it was strange how loudly that village called for you? I knew you would come, Jason. I know everything about you.”

 “You don’t know shit,” Jason snapped, swiping his knife into the empty air. The vampire was pitching his voice somehow, projecting the sound so it echoed all around him. Without light there was no way to tell where he actually was. A burst of paranoia had Jason twist on his heel, slicing wildly at the space behind his back. He met nothing but nothingness, and it pissed him off even more.

 “Jason Peter Todd,” recited Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. “Street rat turned hunter. Made apprentice to the best and fell victim to the worst.”

 Jesus Christ. “What the fuck do you want?” Jason snarled. He couldn’t smell any rot or blood, and this had to be the basement. Where were the villagers?

 “You said it yourself; death makes things stronger.” Something cold brushed Jason’s neck. Jason tried to lift his knife but a slender hand wrapped around his wrist, squeezing like a vice until he was forced to drop it. “I waited for you,” Tim whispered, soft hair and cold breath ghosting across Jason’s cheek. “I used to watch you, before. I watched you, and then you disappeared.”

 Right. Jason had died, slaughtered by that monster just to come back as one thanks to elements far beyond even his ken. The struggle had left his body, telling the logical part of his brain that Tim must be staring into his eyes right now, mesmerizing him through the darkness. He never should had let the vampire get close to him. He never should have come here alone.

 “The… villagers…” Jason forced himself to ask, even as his knees gave out beneath him. “What did… Where…?”

 When Tim laughed, it sounded like bells. “Back in their beds. I only needed a story to get you here. But that’s okay, isn’t it? You’re here, and you’re tired, aren’t you?” Jason felt an unnatural exhaustion begin to seep into his limbs in time with the lilting words. His eyelashes fluttered; he couldn’t seem to make his arms move. “Don’t you want to sleep now, Jason? You can sleep. I’ll watch after you.”

 That voice was just a whisper. Icy fingers ran through Jason’s hair. Lips as cold as death brushed his cheek tenderly as his body settled on the floor.

 “And don’t worry,” Tim breathed, those lips ghosting over his throat. “Even death didn’t stop me from wanting you.”

[notfunnydean]

Pairing: None Warnings: None Word Count: 2.212 Challenge:  @sqz-zine​ Summary: When the end comes, Castiel has an idea how to save them all. It even gives him a new job. One he likes a lot more. Link (if posted on AO3): https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353596

“There is nothing you can do Castiel.”

Chuck’s grin is almost disgusting and while there were quite a few moments where Castiel would’ve loved to punch his father. This one takes the cake. Or… maybe the pie? Dean loves pie more.

“C-Cas.”

Castiel swallows dryly. He doesn’t know what to do and he doesn’t have much time anymore either. He knows Sam and Dean don't have much time anymore.

“So Castiel what is your plan here?” Chuck says and with a small movement of his hand some kind of throne appears out of nothing. Chuck sits down, suddenly a guitar in his hand, and starts to play a melody that Castiel doesn’t know.

“To beat you.” Castiel says and he looks to his left. Sam’s breathing is harsh right now, he’s clearly in a lot of pain. Dean is already unconscious. 

Castiel had always hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but deep inside him he had known it for some years. That doesn’t mean he is ready. He doesn’t want to lose the two best friends he had ever had.

“Doesn’t seem like this is working out for you, huh?” Chuck says and Castiel clenches his fists. He needs a solution. If he could just stop this all together.

No.

Wait.

If he could prevent everything that happened to the Winchesters, to could save them so much tears, blood and pain. 

Castiel looks down, searching for his grace deep in him. He knows he is not at full power but he needs to make this work. His concern about the Winchester Boys always helped him to find his strength. 

“It’s f-fine.” Sam tries to say, but Castiel ignores him. He would save them. He would not only give them a better life, but himself as well.

“Castiel, come on. We both know that you can’t stop this.” Chuck says again, still looking so utterly pleased with himself. Castiel knows that he is right. In the end he is not stronger than his father, as much as he would want to be.

No, maybe Amara could beat him, but not Castiel. But right now this isn’t his plan anyway. He just has to distract him.

“No, I can’t.” Castiel says, down on his knees by now, but he can feel his grace rumbling through his whole body. Almost like tiny thunderbolts. 

The guitar vanishes and Chuck looks honestly surprised. Maybe he hadn’t thought that Castiel would give up so easily. Well, Castiel won’t but he hopes Chuck believes him. 

Sam’s eyes flutter shut as well, but Castiel can still feel both their heartbeats. They are both fine and it would stay that way.

“Glad you -” 

“But I can start it all over again!”

Castiel’s grace literally explodes all around him. He doesn’t have the time to look into Chuck’s stupid face. Instead he presses his right hand on Dean’s shoulder again, where he once marked him before. His left hand finds Sam’s arm.

When the light grows too bright even for him, Castiel closes his eyes.

They’re safe.

*

It’s fall.

It’s still warm outside and Castiel enjoys seeing the leaves falling down from the trees, coloring all the grey streets and front yards. He’s standing at the small window right now and looks outside.

He’s glad that his plan worked out. Dean and Sam are safe and for the first time Castiel feels fully relaxed.

Sure he has a new job, but he really likes this one. Likes all the responsibility that comes with it. This is his new purpose and unlike the last time he had a job in heaven, this one on earth, makes him happy.

“John?”

Even though Castiel is not being the one called, he turns around and smiles even wider when he actually sees the small room, he’s standing in.

The walls are a pale green and there are toys everywhere. Castiel likes how cozy it all looks, but his favorite is probably the mobile above the bigger bed. Sure the angels don’t look like him, but he doesn’t care.

(But what’s with humans and those halos?)

There is even a tiny poster of an Impala on the wall and Castiel knows in the colorful box next to the bed are a lot of tiny cars. Castiel has to say he understands why the boy loves them so much.

“John, we need to go.” Mary says again and it seems like her husband is sitting on the couch downstairs. Castiel wanders down to them, slowly looking at all the lovely pictures on the wall right at the stairs.

“I know, darling. Just waiting for the babysitter.” John calls back and Castiel enters the living room. He’s glad that they can’t see him like this. He doesn’t like lying to either of them and it’s not really lying, but he has a job.

Protect Sam and Dean. What can he say - it’s a full time job.

“Look Sammy like this!” Dean says and he sounds always so excited when he can help his baby brother. Castiel can see them on the carpet, playing with said toy cars. Of course. Dean loves to play with them all day.

Sam can’t really play with him for now, with only five months and a few weeks he’s not good at any games, but he adores his big brother already.

“Did he say when he wanted to come?” Mary asks and she comes into the living room away. She’s beautiful like this, so happy, free of a hunting life. She’s wearing a white summer dress and kisses John’s cheek.

“Should be here any minute.” John promises and he turns off the TV, to get his jacket. Castiel looks back to the kids.

“Oh uh Sammy, that’s not the street.” Dean giggles and he pushes Sam’s car on his own through the finish line. Sam clasps happily at that, not caring that he needs Dean’s help for that.

“I hope you two will be good.” John says, wearing his jacket now and Dean looks up. His bright green eyes wide. 

“Yes daddy.” Dean says smiling brightly and John ruffles his hair. Castiel’s heart beats faster when he sees this loving family like that. No pain, no blood. 

Castiel smiles and then vanishes.

*

The door rings and Dean is the one who runs to the door. He has to stretch to actually open the door, but before he can do so, John catches him easily and opens the door himself. Dean whines loudly.

“You’re late.” John says and opens the door wider, before he puts Dean down again. Dean toddles closer, holding already his arms out for a hug.

“I’m sorry, I was distracted.” Castiel says and he kneels down to get Dean into his arms. Dean cuddles against him, thumb already in his mouth and he still manages to grin at Castiel.

“Cas!”

Castiel gets up again, Dean still in his arms. He knows Dean wouldn’t let go for some time now, but Castiel has to say he enjoys seeing Dean so utterly happy. Castiel is so glad that he can spend more time with them. Happy time.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel mumbles into Dean’s soft hair.

“Ah all good. Mary is even ready this time. So we will probably be back by midnight. I mean you know what to do with them anyway.” John explains and Castiel nods. Mary comes towards him and kisses his cheek.

Castiel remembers a time where she was always so careful around him and didn’t trust him with Sam and Dean. He’s glad she can do that now.

“I wish you a lot of fun.” Castiel says and Mary kisses Dean goodbye. At first it was harder, Dean had often cried when his parents left for a date, but now he just waves at her and focuses on Castiel again.

“Play?”

“Of course, Dean. What do you have in mind?” Castiel asks and he walks towards the living room. Sam is still laying on the carpet but he glucks happily when he sees them.

“Cars! Uhm if it’s okay.” Dean says and Castiel strokes his face. He puts Dean down next to his cars and then sits down himself, after he puts his trenchcoat on the couch.

It’s the only thing he kept from the old time. Otherwise he dresses in soft sweaters and jeans now, so the cuddles with the boys are even softer.

“Of course it is Dean. I know how much you love cars.” Castiel says and he tickles Sam’s stomach, who giggles adorably. They have to eat dinner in a bit and then need to get a bath before it’s bedtime already.

Castiel enjoys bedtime the most.

“Oh did you get a new car?” Castiel asks and Dean smiles shyly up at him, before he holds up his new red car. It looks pretty, but then again Castiel likes most cars.

“But Pala is my favorite.” Dean says and points at the Chevy Impala that is currently in front of Castiel. The angel smiles, because he seems to be the only one who is allowed to play with it.

Dean never allowed him to drive the Impala, but this feels just as good. Dean fully trusts him and Castiel would do anything to deserve that trust.

“Well, she is beautiful.” Castiel says and Dean smiles so happily again. Sam plays with his own toys now (or tries to) and Castiel spends the next half an hour playing little races with Dean. Of course Dean wins each time.

“Cas?” Dean says, rubbing his eyes already and Castiel thinks about skipping bath time, because of that. Dean doesn’t get cranky easily, but sometimes it’s all too much when he’s tired. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m hungry.” Dean says sheepishly and Castiel rolls his eyes inwardly, but laughs. Yeah well some things don’t change. 

“Of course, you little monster.” Castiel says and he tickles Dean, before he helps him up to walk to the kitchen. He is glad that monsters are just not a part of Dean's life anymore. 

“You hungry too, Sammy?” Castiel says and picks Sammy up who yawns. Castiel presses a kiss to his cheek, glad it doesn’t feel awkward. Once ago he didn’t even know how to answer a hug.

“Sammy needs his bottle!” Dean says in the kitchen, because he is still very protective of his brother. Castiel is glad some things don’t change. He warms the milk up with his grace and then pulls out a finished meal for Dean.

His Grace is very good for chores.

“Here you go.” Castiel says easily and then sits down next to Dean, Sammy on his lap. He enjoys this too. Dean babbles while eating his food way too fast, but he’s smiling so hard and Castiel answers to each question.

Sammy drinks his bottle without any fuss, but he falls asleep during it. Castiel smiles down at him. So glad he’s allowed to be this lucky.

“Don’t forget your vegetables, Dean.” Castiel says and Dean eats some of his carrots next. He is not overly excited about them, but he always does what he’s told. Castiel strokes over his hair.

“I need them. I wanna be tall like you.” Dean explains and Castiel grins. Well he knows exactly how tall Dean will grow and he grimaces at the thought to look up at Sam again. 

“You will be.” Castiel promises and then pulls out a tiny piece of pie. Dean squeals happily, so Castiel shushes him, because Sammy is stirring a bit. 

“Thank you, Cas. You’re the best.” Dean says so cute and polite, Castiel’s heart just melts. Dean manages to smear the pie over his face and Castiel takes one hand to clean that up with a towel.

“Messy Boy.” Castiel whispers, as fond as ever. 

The next steps are fast. Castiel cleans them both again with his grace, puts Sammy in his Baby bed and then helps Dean brush his teeth and go to pee before bed. Dean is rubbing his eyes again.

So it will be an easy night.

Castiel helps Dean into his bed and softly tucks him in. Dean blinks up at him, that cute smile on his face again.

“Story?”

“Of course.” Castiel says and oh boy, he will be in a lot of trouble as soon as Dean realizes he has Castiel wrapped around his little finger.

Castiel sits down on Dean’s bed, making sure with his grace that Sammy on the other side of the room is fine and then starts to tell his favorite story.

“Once upon a time there were two brothers...” Castiel starts and he knows exactly that Dean easily falls asleep after just a few minutes.

Castiel looks down at Dean, who sleeps peacefully now. His fingers firmly tucked into his mouth. Castiel strokes through his hair.

“Sleep well, Dean. I will watch over you.” Castiel says and the same goes of course for Sam. He smiles, when his eyes shine in a bright blue. His grace bathes the room in a soft light. Almost like a baby light would.

Castiel sits down on the chair in the corner. Keeping his promise to watch over them. Castiel gets his angel blade out and smiles.

Azazel could come. Castiel will be waiting and he will be ready.

[myghostmonument]

13xReader: Inhibitions

Notes: I’ve been writing a lot more “canon” pieces recently (non-readers, posted on my ao3), but it feels nice to go back to my fandom roots, so to speak, and finish off some requests like this one! Each style has its own challenges to work through, and it’s fun to move between them and keep things interesting. I plan to keep writing for both, so no worries to anyone who prefers one over the other. This is, as always, gender-neutral for the reader, and is also border-line a disaster!reader fic, a loose characterization style created by the incredible @lilaccoats​ that I stole bc she loves me 

Summary: The Doctor takes you and the fam to a trendy bar, promising a night of relaxation and fun. Shenanigans ensue when you maybe-not-so-accidentally get a little too inebriated. 

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, drunkenness, hangovers, mentions of vomit, and attempted assault. It’s more an uncomfortable conversation than anything, and nothing graphic happens, but please be warned!

WC: 7500 please don’t look at me like that I just picked at it to unwind as I worked on my zine piece and it got entirely out of hand honk honk goes the clown mobile 

The decision to go to a bar had been Ryan’s. That alone, that the destination had been picked during his turn, ought to have been enough forewarning; it seemed that whenever a trip went sideways, it almost always fell on Ryan’s turn (or the Doctor’s, but you and the others excluded that data — her choices were always catastrophes and not worth including in the risk analysis amongst yourselves).

But faced with the usual question of “where and when to next?”, Ryan had requested a bar, and the Doctor had delivered. You had landed on an asteroid, which according to the Doctor was the location of a top-notch bar, situated along a very popular intergalactic trading route. It was certainly busy, as you all left the TARDIS in an alley and approached the sleek, shiny building; there was a short queue to get in, but people — aliens and humans both — congregated in clumps around it and as you moved through the line and entered the bar, you even looked up and noticed people on the roof.

“So,” Yaz said, propping a hip against the bar counter and taking in the sights. “This is where the great Ryan Sinclair works his magic.” She let her eyes rove around the noisy crowd, and grinned over at Ryan. “You feeling right at home then?”

Ryan shot her a scowl, his hands shoved firmly in his pockets. “Ha ha,” he said. “This is not what I had in mind when I suggested drinks.”

“What?” The Doctor asked, looking around at him. “Really? I thought I did all right.” She put her hands on her hips, surveying the crowded, noisy bar.

“Well I think it’s great Doc,” Graham said, already perusing a menu with interest. She beamed at him.

“Thank you, I try my best,” she said. She had her hands in her coat pockets, something that usually indicated she was being (or feeling) cautious. In this case, you thought she was merely trying to avoid knocking into anyone, or any drinks; the bar (if that’s what it was, it did seem more like a sort of club) was packed with people, and it would be all too easy to hook an elbow or bump a precarious drink.

Yaz and Ryan were still bickering, and although you generally enjoyed wading into those sorts of things, a menu caught your eye and you pulled it closer. You could read it, thanks to the TARDIS’ help, but translation could only go so far.

“Are these all alcoholic?” you wondered aloud, frowning at something listed as a Greyhound.

“Are they even all drinks?” Graham added, and you glanced up with a smile, knowing he was hoping for food.

“I think so,” the Doctor answered, moving over to you. She reached over to pull your menu towards her, and her sleeve brushed against your shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, still standing very close. “Sorry Graham, all liquid.” She didn’t actually sound all that sorry, you noted. Graham obviously noticed it as well, because he gave a theatrical sigh.

“Every drink has an inebriation agent of some sort,” the Doctor continued, scrunching her nose. “Different sorts for different races and species, this is a very diverse bar.”

“Are they all safe for us?” Yaz asked, also crowding your shoulder to look at the menu.

“Y-e-s,” the Doctor said slowly, followed by an “actually no,” and an eye-roll from Yaz. “Well, sort of. Depends on what you mean by safe. Humans are common enough here, but some drinks will still have a stronger or weaker effect than they would for their intended consumer. They’re coded, see?” She flattened her (your) drink menu on the counter and pointed. “This is the symbol for human, with standard colour rankings. Green means intended for you, yellow means it will have less effect, and red more.”

“Get in,” Ryan said, and you knew without having to look that he was perusing the red-coded drinks.

“You don’t want to try a Red,” the Doctor said sternly. “It could have any number of effects.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Ryan muttered, and then it was Graham’s turn to bicker with him while you and Yaz  scanned the menu.

“How do you think we order?” you wondered, after deciding to try the Greyhound, which was coded green. Yaz had decided on yellow-coded drink, which cited a lack of alcohol. Its kick came from the flavor combination and carbonation, apparently. Yaz’s particular choice sounded disgusting, and you were very much looking forward to watching her try it.

“Yeah, I don’t see a barkeep,” Graham added, craning over the counter and apparently done with trying to persuade Ryan to make good choices. “Though I suppose you might not be able to pick one out from this mess.” It was true; though you were congregated around a counter, there was no discernible life-form keeping tabs or otherwise running it, and the crushing ebb and flow of the crowd was a confusing riot of clashing voices and species. Over it all thrummed the heavy beat of music, alien but still somehow recognizable as upbeat and catchy. You had the distinct sense that this was a trendy bar, and wondered how the Doctor even knew about it.

“It’s simple,” the Doctor said, and she bent over you to again point at the menu, her arm resting against yours. “You see this bit here? You press it with your finger, then press the box next to the item you want.”

“How’s that work then?” Ryan asked dubiously.

“It’s DNA activated,” the Doctor said calmly, as if that were in any way a normal thing for a drinks menu to be. “We were all scanned when we walked through the doors, didn’t you notice?”

“Did we notice the DNA scanners in an alien bar filled with aliens?” Graham asked. “No, must have slipped my mind Doc, no idea how I missed them. ”

“Well,” the Doctor said loftily, “you were scanned. So order your drink like I said, and it’ll be brought to you.” She bent over her menu, some of her hair brushing against your face. You sat very still, swallowed, then reached for a menu and dragged it towards you (seeing as how your own had been commandeered.)

After some consideration you ordered your Greyhound, and it arrived in an interesting, fluted sort of glass, delivered by a waiter. The drink was a pleasing sanguine colour, complete with a wedge of fruit on the glass rim. The whole effect was quite good, too, which was more than Yaz could say for her yellow-coded drink, which she almost choked on. You didn’t deign to try it after that, but Ryan and the Doctor both made a big show of tasting it and being subsequently horrified. Graham, equable as ever, took the abandoned yellow in hand and sipped it serenely, something the rest of you took in with an impressed sort of horror. The Doctor drifted away shortly after with no drink of her own, which wasn’t too surprising; you rarely saw her ingest anything more than a taste of food or drink before flitting away, like some sort of overgrown and absent-minded hummingbird. Ryan and Graham wandered off too. You lingered at the counter with Yaz for a while, as she ordered a new (and improved) yellow-coded drink. You found your own glass empty, and after some hesitation, shrugged and ordered another Greyhound. It hadn’t been too strong; you simply felt warm, and bright. It was nice. Second drinks in hand, you and Yaz decided to do a circuit, it was dark and loud and you were quickly separated in the swirling crowd. No matter, you thought cheerfully, as you took another sip. You’d catch Yaz up eventually, no doubt. The music was blasting, and you unconsciously matched your footfalls to the beat, feeling it warm and sizzling in your blood along with the drink. You tipped the glass in your mouth at the end of the song, and were surprised to find it empty. “Well that’s rude,” you told the empty glass, which flashed  in your hand in a thoroughly unimpressed manner. You pivoted in the press of bodies around you, trying to find a free table and a menu. You needed replacement drink, seeing as how your current one was clearly faulty. “Must’ve shorted me,” you mumbled to yourself. “Typical. Think I can’t handle my glasses - I mean, hounds. Dogs. Drinks.” You stumbled as you pushed through a group of people, but regained your stride easily enough. You even spotted Ryan in a shadowy corner, chatting with a very lovely alien indeed. She seemed to be trying to entice Ryan to dance; you wished her the best of luck. Ryan was a hilarious dancer. Not bad, but definitely hilarious, and he took some convincing. You reached a table on the edge of the dance floor, and pulled a menu towards yourself. It took you a couple of jabs to correctly order your Greyhound — your finger kept slipping. Or maybe it was the menu, actually. “Faulty drinks, faulty menus,” you complained to the room at large, leaning back against a pillar as you waited. The people swirling around you were difficult to focus on, and you wondered suddenly if the room was tilting — surely the room itself wasn’t faulty! “Have to get the foundations checked,” you informed the alien server who appeared with your drinks. They gave you an odd look and vanished. You reached for your drink, but paused, hand outstretched as you considered the not one but three glasses set before you. Two Greyhounds, and one that was something else, a smaller, opaque glass. The liquid shimmered in a very interesting way indeed, and it was difficult to look away. Well, perhaps they had brought you the extra drinks on the house, in order to make up for all the faults you’d been uncovering left and right. You stumbled as you pondered this, which as far as you were concerned was proof enough of the foundational flaws; you were, after all, standing still, so what other reason would you have to stumble? Unbelievable. You reached for the Greyhound, but your hand paused, then changed course halfway through and grasped the smaller, shimmering cup instead. It was very light in your grip. You tasted it and stumbled again; it had hit your tongue with a wallop, your entire body was fizzing with a bolt of what must be pure electricity, there was no other possible explanation. Everything around you was abruptly brighter, louder, richer. You blinked, fascinated. “Not too many humans can handle their reds,” a voice said next to you, and you set the cup down with a thud, squinting as the alien next to you came slowly into focus. “You usually so squiggly?” you asked him, and he titled his head, dark eyes moving from you to the half-drunk cup, and back again. His smile flashed in the low light, and for a moment it was all you could see, becoming somehow the brightest, sharpest thing in the room. “It’s a curse,” he said, and you nodded sagely, taking another sip. His eyes followed the cup, and his smile sharpened. “Could cut myself on that,” you observed. “Teeth,” you added, when he looked confused. Perhaps he was drunk; it was ridiculous how many people couldn’t hold their liquor! “Want to try?” he asked, and his hand was on your arm. You weren’t sure when it got there. “Excuse me?” you said, loftily, aiming for a bit of the Doctor in your speech. You thought you did quite well, but the alien didn’t look as annoyed as anyone on the receiving end of one of the Doctor’s questions usually did. Rude. “Do I want to try what?” you asked belatedly, and realized that you were being towed towards the dance floor. When had you made that decision? Time seemed to be leaping ahead and then stalling out in great lurches, and everything was fuzzy and dull. You felt the glass taken from your hand, and were vaguely surprised to find that it was empty again. Another faulty glass? Really? You might have to register a complaint. “Not a lot of humans here,” the alien said, and his hands were on your sides, moving you to the music. People pressed all around you, bumping your shoulders and making it difficult to get your bearings. Your shoes squelched on the slightly sticky floor as they moved. You wanted to stop and see if you could get the room to stop spinning so much, but the hands on you kept you in motion. The alien was speaking again, close to your ear so you could hear him over the din. “You come here alone?” he asked, his fingers warm against your side, and tight. You tried to pull back to get a better look at him but he kept you where you were.“No,” you said, blinking as you tried to orient yourself. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus. “Came with m’friends.” “And they left you all alone, to drink a red?” he murmured, and his grip tightened. He was pulling you across the dance floor; the light was fading, and you realized all at once, as you moved into a more shadowed section of the room with only the gleaming crescent of his smile visible, that you were actually quite drunk, and didn’t know where any of the others were. “Should - should get back to them,” you tried to articulate, and he laughed, one of his hands sliding lower. “You’re right where you want to be.”  You stiffened, and tried to pull away. “No, I want to find my friends,” you slurred, jerking back. He held your arm, and pulled you into him in a great twirl, and suddenly your back was against a dark, slightly sticky wall. He loomed over you, one hand still vise-like on your arm, the other pressed against the wall by your head. He smiled down at you, except it didn’t really look so much like a smile anymore, but just a lot of very sharp, gleaming teeth. Your face was very cold, and you wished the room would stop spinning enough that you could push him off and find the others. “I could be your friend,” the alien said, his breath fanning across your face, his hand sliding lower again. The hand on the wall touched your hair, curled a lock of it musingly through his fingers. “I just love red-drunk humans, all alone and lost and looking for a friend to help them.” You struggled again in his grip, and this time he let you go. You lurched sideways along the wall, falling against the corner in a heap. You thought you should feel sick, but you only felt annoyed, and cold, and something else, something like confusion that was tipping towards fear. The alien lifted you back up, hands on your arms, then pressed you back against the corner, his weight against you. Annoyance flared and you tried to push him away. “Let go,” you ordered, but he only laughed, touched your face. “You don’t want to be alone right now do you little Red?” he asked. “I’m sure that’s true,” a new voice interrupted. It had a familiar, lilting cadence, but you didn’t recognize the sharpness to it, or the way danger simmered beneath the surface. The alien didn’t glance away from you. “We’re busy,” he said, touching your face again. “Find your own —” but then he was ripped away from you in swirl of grey fabric and flashing eyes. You swayed, then jerked back as hands touched you again, but — “It’s okay,” that voice said, “it’s alright, it’s me,” and you recognized it this time. The Doctor tucked you against her side and you inhaled that familiar scent of tea and vanilla, and it cleared your head a little, enough to let out a shaky breath. “He’s being - rude,” you told the Doctor, your voice muffled as you glared at the alien. “Yes, he is,” she answered. Her voice was still light, and soothing, and you weren’t able to see the way she was looking at him.  He scowled, gaze darting from you to the Doctor and back before making a dismissive sort of hand gesture and melting into the crowd. The Doctor stood very still for a moment, and you all you could hear was the thunder of her hearts. She let out a breath, then turned you. Again you found your back against that wall, only the hands on you were gentle, and cool. The Doctor touched your face as she looked at you, and that was better too. “Are you okay?” she asked, and you wondered at the appearance of that crease in her brow. She looked dangerous, in the half-light, but her hands were still so light. You nodded, and suddenly her grip on you was tight as she kept you from toppling over. “Wouldn’t - leave me alone,” you told her. “Rude.” “You already said that,” she observed, removing one of her hands to fish in a pocket for her sonic. You blinked at her, swaying on your feet as she ran it over you. She read the output and exhaled. “Tell me you didn’t drink a red.” “I didn’t drink a red,” you repeated dutifully, and watched as her entire face scrunched up in exasperation. It was nice.“You’re so pretty,” you informed her. It was important that she knew in that moment how pretty she was, with her face all scrunchy and the flashing lights making a halo of her head. “So pretty. Too pretty.” You stumbled, and again she caught you. “Okay, I think it’s back to the TARDIS with you.” “Says who,” you slurred, even as she steered you away from the wall and towards the exit. “You’re not — you’re not the boss of me.” “I certainly am,” she muttered. “Especially when you’ve gone and had a red, and I explicitly told you it was a bad idea.” Her grip on your arm was firm and cool, and infinitely preferable to the alien’s. The other alien, that was, because obviously she was alien too. So many aliens! “You’re the best alien though,” you mused aloud, and she darted a quick look at you, tongue poking briefly out of her lips. You liked that quite a lot. You wanted her to do it again, in fact, but she had drawn her lips back into a thin line as she watched you. She steered you towards the exit, but the crowd seemed to have doubled in size, and she was forced to shove her way bodily through the dancing, yelling patrons. A much larger person staggered into her and she grunted as she took the blow. “I think I hate bars,” she said, her voice all but inaudible over the din. “That’’s new. Maybe.” Someone else knocked into her, and the force was heavy enough to jar your arms from her grip. She receded from you in a blurry tunnel of light and sound, and then it was just you, pressed between strange bodies on the dance floor while the music thundered through your bones. Huh. Almost everyone was taller than you, and you had no idea which way the exit was, or the Doctor. You didn’t care much about the exit, but it’d be good to find the Doctor; you had felt less…. fuzzy, when her hands had been on your arms, and more like yourself again. And also she was just so pretty. Wandering in a blurry haze of music and voices, you began to wonder if maybe you might locate another drinks menu. You weren’t so sure about another red, but it also didn’t seem like quite as bad of an idea as it had an hour ago. That was interesting. Weaving and stumbling, you tried to push through the press of bodies, and had made a little bit of progress when — — hands, there were hands on you again — You lurched sideways as you tried to bat those hands away, but there was nowhere to go, the wall of people bounced you back, and the lights were flashing and people were shouting and there were hands on you again — “ - alright? Hey?” The hands succeeded at spinning you around, and a person loomed out of the crowd. Two things followed in short order: you recognized Yaz, and you threw out a defensive fist. They didn't happen in the optimal order, however. “Oi!” Yaz cried, dodging your fist and catching it in her own. “It’s me, what the hell?” She was still sliding in and out of focus, but you were aware of the fact that she was quite pretty too. "’M sorry,” you told her, wondering why she was pulling away from you. You hadn’t actually hit her, after all. Had you? “Sorry,” you repeated, swaying.She was peering at you, her hands firm on your arm. Her eyes were very dark, but they reflected the dancing lights all around you and you blinked, fascinated. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. “Absolutely corking,” you slurred, proud to remember the phrase you had heard Graham use (and Ryan mock) earlier. You weren’t sure why it made Yaz look so alarmed. “Yaz — oh, good —” The Doctor popped into your view as she squeezed between two dancing aliens who took no notice of her, which was probably good because her expression was quite stormy indeed. She still looked quite pretty. How’d she manage that? It wasn’t fair. “Doctor,” Yaz said, turning, “I think something’s wrong —” “Someone decided that they should have a red,” the Doctor said, grim. “I also had two - three - I had - greens!” you told them both, proud. Yaz’s look of alarm deepened, and it was so comical that you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. When that did nothing except make her and the Doctor’s brows both snap into synchronized, angry little v shapes, you only giggled harder. “Right, TARDIS,” the Doctor said ominously. “Yaz, can you find Ryan and Graham and let them know?” Yaz nodded and between one blink and another, she had vanished again. “Just like magic,” you told the Doctor, wondering why your lips were numb. She gave you a swift, searching look, her eyebrows still angry little vs and her tongue still poking between her lips. “Come on,” she said, wrapping a cool hand around your wrist. The contact was steadying, and very nice. She kept you close, clearly not wishing to be separated again as she towed you towards the exit. “Don’t want to go,” you told her abruptly, and you couldn’t hear your voice over the crowd and the music. You didn’t even know why you said it; it wasn’t true, strictly. You still felt like you could fit in another drink or two worth of fun, but you didn’t really care where you went, not if the Doctor was with you. Even if she looked so angry as she glanced back over her shoulder. She had heard you, evidently. She had very good hearing; you and Ryan and Yaz had been working on an experiment to test the limits of it, but hadn’t put it in action yet. Someone bumped into the Doctor hard and she grunted, but her grip on you remained iron-clad and she pulled you closer, actually folding you into her arms to protect you from the jostling crowd.“This is not what I had in mind,” she muttered, her lips very close to your ears as she spoke. It was nice, and extraordinarily distracting. “Do people actually enjoy these places?” “Ryan does apparently,” you said, remembering him chatting up that pretty alien. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” the Doctor mused, moving again and pulling you with her. You were still very close. “I don’t suppose we’ll be letting him choose the next adventure. Ah. That’s better,” she added as she stepped out of the bar and into the night, towing you with her.  A blast of cool, humid air hit you, wrapping around your body and cooling your cheeks. Even though the bar itself had been fairly dark, your eyes still relaxed as the flashing lights fell away.The Doctor let go, and the sobering effect of the night seemed to pull back, a little, as if you’d lost your anchor. The world tilted around you, the stars overhead wheeling and dancing. It made you feel a little bit sick, but it was also beautiful. The Doctor was talking, and you struggled to focus.“Think we parked just over there, yeah, must’ve. Let’s go — where are you going?” The last was delivered with an air of extreme exasperation as she turned in time to witness you bolting away. “I want to be colder,” you told her as you stumbled through the night. You were on pavement (alien pavement, anyways) but in the distance you could see the shadow of what had to be trees (alien trees) and maybe some grass (alien grass). You wanted nothing so much as to lay down on that grass. The Doctor’s protests followed you as you reached the tree and hurled yourself down at the cool earth. Well, not earth. Whatever passed for earth here. What was dirt on an asteroid called? A shadow fell over you, blocking the stars, and you turned your cheek in the grass to look up at the silhouette of the Doctor, hands on her hips, stray hairs blowing in the wind.“You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” she said. “You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” you replied cheerfully, and even though you couldn’t see her expression very well in the darkness and swirling stars, you could feel the scrunched-up scowl she leveled at you. “Come on,” she said, and her voice was exasperated but her hands were gentle as they lifted you off the ground. Gentle again, as they caught you when you stumbled sideways. “Careful, now. Come on.” “Don’t feel - so good -” you told her, and it was true; the fuzzy, warm glow was fading and the whirling of the stars wasn’t so much aesthetically pleasing as it was now sickening. “I expect not,” the Doctor muttered. “What could have possibly possessed you to drink so much? To drink a red?” “I didn’t mean t�� order it,” you defended yourself. “It was just - just there.” “And you drank it? Something you hadn’t ordered?” the Doctor demanded. “Surely you know not to do that!” “Just trying to have fun,” you mumbled, guilt rising up in you alongside the nausea. “Just wanted —  didn’t mean to — I wasn’t —” “Okay, it’s okay, I know,” the Doctor said, her voice softening. She shifted you against her as she spoke, and you realized she was fumbling for the TARDIS key. The blue box was humming at an almost inaudible frequency, but you could feel it moving through you bones, cooling your blood, steadying you. “Thanks,” you said weakly, patting a hand on the wood as the Doctor steered you through. The interior slights dimmed as you came in,  and it was a soothing balm on your eyes and raw nerves. “She’s spoiling you lot,” the Doctor muttered, but you could hear the fondness threading through her voice. “She likes us,” you thought, or maybe said. The Doctor made a soft sound, not quite a word, and you weren’t sure if she’d heard you. Weren’t sure if you’d spoken. “Okay, try and eat this,” the Doctor said a few moments later. Or maybe hours, you still weren’t entirely sure how time was progressing. Her fingers brushed your lips as she placed a fizzing sort of tablet on your tongue, and you realized all at once that your lips weren’t numb anymore, but blazing with sensation. “Swallow it, it’ll help,” she added. You blinked, looking into her face, so close to yours. There was still that furrow by her eyebrow but she didn’t seem angry, anymore. Not like she had with she’d stared down that rude alien. Her eyes were bright, glittering like the star field outside of the bar. “Too pretty,” you complained, then promptly choked on the tablet you had forgotten on your tongue. “Swallow,” she repeated, placing two fingers on your mouth. Your breath hitched, which did not help the choking one bit. You did, at least, in the midst of the resulting coughing fit, manage to swallow the tablet,  but it burned and your eyes streamed as you blinked at the Doctor. “Good,” she said, placing fingers under your chin. Her touch was somehow both cooling and blazing, comforting and so very distracting. You made an indeterminate sound, and her eyes flicked to yours, a brief touch, before flicking over your face. “That should kick in soon,” she said, dropping her hand. “Is it — gonna cure me,” you asked, and the breathless quality to your voice was due to the lingering affects of drunkenness, surely, and not the Doctor’s touch. She snorted, pushing hair out of her eyes.“It’ll speed up the process, burn the chemicals out of your system faster,” she said. “And it’ll make for a quicker hangover.” She fixed you with an amused look. “Quicker, but not easier. You’re in for a fun night, I think.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on the couch. You regretted it at once, as your head spun and your stomach roiled, but the drama of the moment had dictated.“I didn’t mean to,” you complained, shutting your eyes as the lights spun around you. The spinning didn’t stop, in the darkness behind your eyelids, but it was a little bit better. Maybe. A cool hand brushed your forehead, and that definitely was better. “I know,” she said, and you could hear the gentleness in her voice. “Am I going to die?” you asked, not because you thought that you were — you’d been sick before, though admittedly not from alien alcohol — but it had the right flair of drama to it. It also made the Doctor snort again, and regrettably, her hand slid from your brow. “You’re drunk, not dying,” she said, and her voice was receding as she moved around the room.  “Humans and their substances, honestly.” Something was placed on your brow, cool and damp and soothing. The Doctor tucked the cloth against your head with deft, gentle fingers even as she continued to explain her thoughts on humans and all of their myriad of flaws. “You’ve never been drink — you don’t drunk —” You stumbled over the words, and felt her fingers still, then fall away from the cloth. You opened your eyes and with the room spinning and the dim light and the serious, difficult to read expression on her face, she looked as remote and otherworldly as she actually was for all that she was your friend. “Time Lords are an advanced race, we certainly don’t have the same genetic predispositions towards inebriation or the desire to attempt so,” she said finally, still looking down at you. You grunted, considering her words as they slid in and out of your head.“Didn’t answer the question,” you observed, and were rewarded with a scowl. “Hm,” was all she said, but she was smiling slightly. “Try to rest now, and if you need to be sick —” she kicked something on the floor that gave a hollow thud. “Try to aim in here, yeah?” “I am not going to be sick,” you said firmly, and the Doctor’s smile flashed in the dim light. “I hope not, the pill’s supposed to help with that but,” she shrugged expansively, and even through the spinning room you were able to focus in shocking clarity on the pull of her shirt across her frame she did so, “I don’t really know what combination of ingredients you drank, and how they’ll react to the other things you drank or your own biology. So. Bin.” She nudged it with a boot again. “I’m going to check on the others, and you’re going to stay here. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t want her to go, but you were feeling worse by the moment as the alcohol was burned out of your system and, as far as you could tell, migrated to your head. You could feel each heartbeat rattling in your skull like knives, and your roiling stomach kept speed with it. You moaned something that the Doctor took for agreement. Time passed, although you weren’t in any way able to keep track of it. You suspected it had been a century based on the pounding in your head, but it could have only been a few heartbeats. Either way, you were still alone when you realized that what you really needed was some water. Nobody was around to hear you, but you still complained and groaned and generally made a spectacle as you swung your legs off the couch, sitting upright. Your stomach made a solid pass at leaping out of your throat, but you steadied yourself with a snarl; you were not going to need the bin, you were not going to be sick. And you were right; all thoughts of nausea fled as you pushed yourself to your feet, because your skull might as well have shattered. Your headache pounded so violently that you thought it might be slamming you through the floor; it felt too heavy, too thick, too white-hot with blinding pain. Death was infinitely preferable to this miserable thing called life. “Never — drinking — again —” you vowed, swaying, hoping the floor might just swallow you whole and end your suffering. “A noble sentiment,” the Doctor said from behind you. “But one rarely adhered to, I suspect. What are you doing off the sofa?” She appeared at your side, a steadying hand on your elbow. “You didn’t sick up somewhere did you,” she added with sudden trepidation, looking around your feet apprehensively. “I just wanted something to drink,” you told her, wretched. Your head was still pounding, and even the dimmed lights were still too bright. They stabbed your eyes with sharp, splintering shards of pain. You groaned, and leaned your head instinctively against the Doctor’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink,” she said, with a touch of asperity, but her hand was gentle as ever as she smoothed hair back from your forehead. “Water,” you clarified, your voice muffled from the folds of her coat. It was soft, and cool, and smelled like home. “Ah,” the Doctor said, steering you back to the couch. She eased you down again. “Stay, I’ll get you some water and a new cloth.” “Where are the others? Are they coming?” you asked miserably as she reappeared, setting a glass of water in your hands. It had a truly spectacular bendy, swirly straw that was almost as long as the glass itself, a vibrant purple and orange that hurt your eyes to look at, but you appreciated the gesture as you lifted it to your mouth with weak hands. “They’ll be here soon, they’re trying to find Ryan,” the Doctor said. The cushions dipped as she settled on the other end of the sofa. “They might have to expand the search,” you said, thinking of that alien he had been speaking with. You groaned as your head gave another spike of pain, and slid down the couch as sitting became too much effort. “Just rest,” the Doctor said. “It’ll pass.” “Promise?” “I promise,” she said, and your eyes were closed, but you could hear the slight smile in her voice. “I am the best alien, after all.” You could definitely hear the smile, now, and something niggled at your memory; you suspected that the Doctor was poking fun at something you had said while in the bar, but the memory was sliding in and out with tremendous spikes of pain and you let it go. You suspected that you had said many unfortunate things, and you could only hope that the Doctor hadn’t heard or remembered most of them. You drifted for a time, after that, surfacing to occasional bursts of pain or nausea or, more welcome, cool hands on your brow as they took your temperature or readjusted the the damp cloth. Clarity — and more importantly, an absence of that all-encompassing pain — arrived abruptly. You sat up gingerly, feeling weak and shaky and not even remotely good, but it was a normal not-good, not I’m going to die and if not I wish it would hurry up about it not-good. “Ah, here we are,” the Doctor said, and you looked over to see her curled up at her end of the couch, a book in her hand.  She closed it and tucked it in the cushion. “Feeling better?” “Yeah,” you said, peeling off the now warm and dry cloth from your head. You looked down at it, then the mercifully empty bin at your feet. Something else rolled in your stomach, almost worse than the earlier nausea: shame, with a side of guilt. “Ah. Sorry, about all that,” you mumbled, darting another look at the Doctor. She was watching you, a slight smile curving her lips, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked over you, still assessing. “Accepted,” she said, scooting over to you and fishing her stethoscope out of her pocket. “Deep breath,” she said, resting it against your chest. “You don’t have anything to apologize for anyways,” she added.  “It’s not your fault you got served a red, or that someone tried to take advantage of you for it.” You had forgotten about that, had forgotten about that other alien and his heavy, unwelcome hands, and his sharp, hungry smile. You shuddered, and the Doctor’s eyes touched your own, a welcome distraction. “I’m okay, you don’t need to waste time on me,” you muttered, but she was pushing a fresh glass of water into your hand. “Drink. And yes I do, or do you not remember bolting up and trying to climb the  TARDIS console?” You goggled at her. “Apparently not,” she said with a wicked grin. “No, don’t apologize again, it’s okay. You got me out of that bar anyways, I really wasn’t vibing with it. ”You had been awash in horror at your actions, but the Doctor’s last words snapped you out of it. “Vibing with it?” you repeated, incredulous.   She shot you a look, tongue poking slightly between her lips.“Yeah, am I using that right? Ryan taught me.”  You were still goggling at her, but the sound of a door opening and a rush of voices distracted you both. “Ah, finally,” the Doctor said, brushing off her legs and standing up. “I wonder what kept them. We’re in here,” she added, pitching her voice to carry to the others and making no effort to define where “here” was; it was obvious to her, and that apparently was to be enough for everyone else. It was very her. Everything she did was very her, you mused. Not just because it was her doing them, but because she did everything with such one-hundred percent commitment, energy, and enthusiasm. You smiled slightly, watching her as she stood with her hands on her hips. She’d taken off her coat at some point, and she looked smaller without it, more wild and fleeting, something ephemeral. She glanced over her shoulder at you and smiled when she met your eyes. That smile was also wild, fleeting and ephemeral, but it grounded her, a little bit, in the here and now. And you, too. “Hello,” Yaz said, stepping into the room. She looked tired, her hair coming out of its braids, her jacket mussed, but it was a happy sort of tired. “Have fun?” The Doctor asked as Yaz threw herself down on the couch next to you. “Yes,” Yaz said, leaning her head back on the cushions. “Not as much fun as some other people, though,” she added, and turned her head to fix you with her dark, glittering eyes. “How are you doing?” “I feel like death,” you told her, and stuck out your tongue when she grinned. “That’s what you two get for going off-book,” she said smugly, wiggling her shoulders deeper into the couch and kicking off her shoes before lifting her legs and curling them up on the couch. “Oi, I didn’t drink a red,” the Doctor said, indignantly. “Not that I would have been affected, if I had. You humans are so — ” “She been going on like this the whole time?” Yaz asked you, and the Doctor gave her a dark look. You giggled, and it only made your head split down the middle a little bit. It was worth it, for the expression on the Doctor’s face. “Definitely,” you confirmed, wincing as you lifted a hand to rub your temples. “This is the thanks I get, for spending my night chasing after red-drunk humans? Mockery and false accusations?” “Not you,” Yaz said, rolling her eyes. “I was talking about — “ “Hellooooooo TARDIS!” “That,” Yaz finished, turning to watch as Ryan crashed into the room, with an aggrieved Graham in his wake. The Doctor groaned, throwing her hands up. “Ryan! Not you too!” “Guilty your honor,” Ryan crooned, spinning a wild circle and narrowly avoiding the couch with his flailing feet. You hastily copied Yaz, drawing your feet up onto the cushions and settling in to watch the show. “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love! Congratulate me.” “You’re not in love, son, you’re drunk,” Graham said wearily, trying to grab Ryan, but he spun out of reach. And fell over. The room shuddered. You gasped, Yaz clapped a hand over her mouth, Graham cursed. The Doctor closed her eyes. “Ow,” Ryan said, but he was smiling beatifically up at the ceiling. “What happened?” The Doctor asked resignedly, crouching by Ryan and taking his pulse, then pulling out her sonic. He ignored her, still smiling happily up at the ceiling, his toes clicking together as he hummed. He was still firmly in the “fun” stage of the Red inebriation, it seemed. “What do you think, Doc?” Graham answered tiredly, moving to stand by them. “He wanted to impress a pretty girl.” “Did he?” you asked, interestedly. The situation was a lot funnier when it wasn’t happening to you, it turned out. “Well, he chugged a red and challenged some bloke to a dance contest,” Yaz said. She was grinning, and it was the grin of a sober woman witnessing the carnage wreaked by foolish friends. “We almost didn’t get him out of there.” The Doctor stood up, pinching her nose. She came to a decision.“Right. I’ll get him a pill, but I’ve done my babysitting duty for the night. He’s your problem after that.” She stode from the room, and you heard her mutter something about never going to a bar again. Yaz heard her too, and you shared a grin. Ryan, it turned out, had very little interest in taking the hangover-speed-up pill from the Doctor. It also turned out that red-inebriation or no, he could still move very quickly, and it took the combined efforts of Yaz, Graham and the Doctor to get the pill in his mouth. You filmed most of on your phone you'd fumbled quickly out of a pocket, which as far as you were concerned did just as much to help the situation as any of them. The Doctor threw herself down on the sofa next to you with an explosive sigh. “I am never,” she said, tipping back her head, “taking humans to a bar. Ever again.” Ryan moaned from the floor, punctuating the statement with eloquence. Yaz sat down on the Doctor’s other side, then scooted over to make room for Graham who was looking silent and shell-shocked. You found your shoulders rubbing the Doctor’s, and you curled your feet up under you to make more room while leaning your head against her shoulder. You could hear her twin heartbeats, and after a moment she rolled her head so that her chin was resting in your hair.“You’re all on probation,” she said, firmly. You hummed skeptically, and Yaz snorted. Graham was still grimly silent, but you knew he’d come around. Silence, for a moment, interrupted only by Ryan’s increasingly pathetic moans.“Shall I pop in a movie?” Yaz asked finally. “Go on then,” the Doctor said, resigned, but you could hear the smile in her voice. “We’re going to be here for a while.” “‘’m never drinking again,” Ryan groaned from the floor.  He clapped his hands over his ears as you all began to laugh, which did exactly nothing to help. “Humans,” the Doctor said to the TARDIS ceiling, but she was still smiling. “You love us,” Yaz said, standing up and moving to put on a movie. “Yeah,” the Doctor said after a moment, so softly that you thought you might be the only one who heard it. “I do.”

[buddydaddieszine]

🩵 PRODUCTION UPDATE 🍙

The zine proof has arrived—@robo-nonagon’s covers have been brought to life, as has everyone else’s gorgeous work! There is an error in page order that we’re working to correct, however with this proof, we may now order in bulk.

↓ Detailed Production Status Below ↓

🩵 APRIL 7TH STATUS 🍙

→ IN PRODUCTION: Zines

→ IN TRANSIT: Acrylic Charms, Sticker Sheets, Die-Cuts

→ RECEIVED: Bookmarks, Heart Buttons, Polaroids, Prints

—Reblogs are appreciated, thank you! @zine-scene @atozines @fandomzines @zinefeed

[planceeverafter]

Zine Contribution: Writer

Why do you love Plance? I love Plance because their interactions are so pure. I adore how they work so well together and all the possibilities their relationship holds. I feel that they can grow old together and be that cute old married couple that constantly banters with each other.

A sample of your work:

Sharp, blinding pain was the only thing his brain was focusing on. The pain encompassed every part of him. He felt as though the cells that made up his very being were bursting.

'Pidge'

Where was she? His brain screamed at him for focusing on more than one thing. He had to get up though, had to power through. Lance mustered all of his strength and slightly pushed himself up. Shaking arms barely held his weight and he collapsed back on the cold ground.

'How did this mission go so wrong?'

During the briefing only hours ago, Allura had informed them of a Galra base that may have some valuable information. Information about Matt. The base seemed to be abandoned and it should have been a relatively easy mission.

The base was indeed absent of Galra, but they left wonderful goodies behind. Bombs were littered all over the base and some were delightfully invisible.

'We must have set one of them off'

Green. His eyes focused on the pop of color that was halfway across the destroyed room.

'Pidge!'

Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he desperately pushed himself up again. Indescribable pain exploded in his body, but Pidge needed help. He somehow got on his feet and took shaking steps towards her. Lance almost fell down a multitude of times, but he finally got to her. He tried to gently drop on the ground, but his body betrayed him. Lance clunked heavily onto the ground and he was sure to see bruises cropping up in the next couple of days.

"Pidge" his throat detested the attempt at talking. Her slim body was crumpled on the ground, but it looked like nothing fell on her so that was a good sign. Lance gently felt for a pulse and his fingers felt the faint rhythm of life.

'She's alive!'

Relief flooded through his body, but he knew they weren't out of the woods yet. She was still unconscious, likely from hitting her head so hard on the ground when the bomb went off. Lance tried to contact the other paladins and the Castle through his helmet com, but alas it was busted.

"Alright Pidge, we are just going to try and get to Blue ourselves." He still felt the presence of Blue through their bond, so at least he had that. Lance delicately put his hands under Pidge and began to slowly pick her up. His pitiful muscles were in so much pain even though Pidge wasn't even that heavy. He finally had her in a stable position in his arms, when he noticed something.

"Dios mio." The words were barely more than a horrified whisper.

Blood. A huge pool of blood. The culprit was a sharp piece of metal debris. Her vunerable body fell on it during the explosion. Its lethal edges went right through her armor like it was butter.

Lance began to panic. Amber eyes began to flutter open.

"Lance..." A feeble cough from her lips.

"Oh Pidge! Stay with me here, we are going get back to the Castle. You are going to get in a pod and get all healed up and-"

"You're rambling like me now." A soft, dry laugh escaped from Pidge's chapped lips.

Lance could tell she was in a horrible amount of pain. Tears were flowing freely, her eyebrows were scrunched together, and she was taking short, labored breaths.

"I guess you're right." Lance tried to respond with some lightness in his voice. He wanted to make this situation as painless as possible. She didn't deserve any more pain.

"Here's the game plan Pidgeon, we are going to try and make our way out of this place and into Blue."

Pidge winced as he started moving. "That's a very simple plan."

"How do you still manage to be snarky when your body is in this condition?"

"Exsanguination."

Lance could feel Blue's presence grow stronger. "Excuse me?"

"Exsanguination. The process of a person's blood draining out of their body. My blood is draining out of my body at this present moment-"

"Yeah, yeah I got it!" Lance snapped, but with no heat in his voice. He knew he should have tried to do something to the wound to stop the bleeding from the beginning, but what would he put on it? He supposed his hand would do. He readjusted Pidge and put a good amount of pressure on the wound.

She whimpered at the pressure, but didn't protest. The whole rest of the trip she didn't say anything more. Lance guessed that her body couldn't handle the simple action of talking anymore.

When they finally reached Blue, Lance's worried heart began to beat faster. They were almost there, almost to the help Pidge desperately needed. Blue's forcefield came down and let the teens in.

The blue light washed over him with comforting familiarity. He tenderly put her down in his seat and went to get the first aid kit. When he got back Pidge was thankfully still awake. Lance did the best he could with what he had and set a auto-piloted course for the Castle. Using Blue's communication, he sent a message to the Castle about their situation and to get a healing pod ready.

"See, I told you we were going to be fine." Lance knelt down to Pidge and gave her forehead a soft kiss. Her ghastly pale face gained a light pink hue from the action. Pidge has had feelings for him since the Garrison.

Lance decided that right now wasn't the best time to confess his feelings for her. Even if he did, she might not even remember it from the state she was in. When she was all healed up he would tell her. When her amber eyes had that fiery spark to them again.

Lance placed his hand on her head and started to carefully rake his fingers through her knotted hair.

They were going to be okay.

Tumblr | AO3

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Winning Pair

Word Count: 1,800+ (oneshot) [AO3]

Genre: Romance/Fluff

Characters/Pairing: Nara Shikamaru/Temari

Summary: Shikamaru has come to a decision. The only part left is how to make it memorable for the love of his life.

Written for the Leaves in the Wind ShikaTema zine.

~0~

Shikamaru was grateful to his teammates for many things. But Ino and Choji realizing from the few times they’d noticed him and Temari together that they were seeing each other, keeping track of when Temari was going to be hanging around Konoha, and casually informing Shikamaru so he could make time to meet her there...Well. That was a quiet but special mark of the bond they shared. 

And here he’d been, under the impression that they had been real subtle about their relationships, too. Neither were big on flashy displays of affection, but he figured that there was nothing he could hide from his oldest friends. He would have to find some way to actually acknowledge that and thank them for it, especially after this, because a week prior to today, they had informed him that Temari would be staying in Konoha for a couple days. For some diplomatic task or another on her brother’s behalf; Shikamaru hadn’t really cared much for those details. 

What was important to him was that he’d gotten plenty of time to plan in advance the move he wanted to make. Always a nice thing, in both shogi and life. Most of his free time this week had been spent alone in silence planning, eyes closed and fingers interlaced. Or sitting with his father, over tea or dinner or game, discussing the matter. He had considered going to all of his friends about it. After all, they would end up becoming involved one way or another (Ino and Choji certainly already knew of, or at least suspected, his intentions), and some of them were already knowledgeable, even successful, in the art of courting. But no: Nara men did it differently. He and Temari did it differently. 

So, Shikamaru waited. He planned. He fine-tuned the details, like an artisan filing out the tiniest parts of an intricate wooden design. Such as the cube puzzle in his hands right now, that he was fiddling with as he sat at the back of his home to wait. He glanced upward every so often to watch the sun, and to track its progressing arc across the sky.

This was good. Clear sky, barely a single cloud out there. Bright light and visibility. Only the slightest of breezes out to disturb the air, barely even strong enough to ruffle his hair. He would never have called himself the sort of man who had real refined taste or appreciation for great beauty; he supposed he was just like his father in that way. But even so, he couldn’t help but think that he couldn’t have made a more perfect day if he had made a damn checklist for it. He’d made backup plans, of course, in case of rain or lightning, but he was glad he didn’t have to rely on them. This fit better with the scene in his head.

His girl was always the strict and professional sort on the job, and so she was perfectly on time today. Right when the sun moved a little past the highest point of its arc, he looked up and all of a sudden there was Temari’s silhouette up in front of him. The pale rays of light glinted off her bared-teeth grin. 

“Hey there, handsome. Have you really been sitting around here with that thing all day?”

Shikamaru set the puzzle box aside on the planks next to him. “Waiting around, yeah. How’d your meeting go?”

Temari waved her hand dismissively. “Just fine, same as always. I’m more interested in you.” 

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he said, giving her a wolfish smirk, and received a half-hearted whap on the head with a closed fan for his trouble. 

“Not like that, smartass. Your friend Akimichi told me you wanted me to stop by because you wanted to spend quality time with me. Were those your words or his? Him I expect that kind of sappy stuff from, but you? Hell no.”

He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from giving away his whole game with a quick and snarky, Oh, really? Temari was sharp, and she was better than any girl he’s ever met, up to and including both Ino and his own mother, at figuring out when he was up to something. Sappy stuff...Even she really had no clue what she was in for.

“Choji’s words,” he answered, standing up to look her directly in the eyes, the color of the sea in storm. He wondered if she could truly appreciate that the way he does, being from the desert and all. “I did have some plans in mind though, if you’re up for it...”

He stepped back and raised his hand in a non-hostile challenge stance. “How about a little sparring match? Since the courtyard’s all empty and there’s nobody here to bother.”

Temari tilted her head to the side, hand on her hip. She was trying to give him a skeptical look, but he could tell that she was trying not to laugh. “Really? That’s what you wanted me out here for? Some extra training?”

His smirk broadened. Exactly how he had predicted she would react. His next scripted line really would fit in perfectly. “So how about we make it a little more interesting than that?”

“Oh, yeah? What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s say...” He pretended to think about it for a moment. “Let’s say that if you win, I’ll give you a grand prize.”

“A grand prize, huh?” Temari snickered. “You’ve already got something in mind, don’t you?”

Yeah, nothing gets past you, hon.

“Maybe. You’ve got to win to find out, don’t you?”

“I guess I do. I’ll go easy on your house, if only for your parents’ sake, but don’t expect me to do the same for you, Shikamaru. Got it?”

He almost laughed. “I never would.”

Before the words were even out of his mouth, Temari was flying at him, the winds picking up a bit in the space around them. It wasn’t exactly his speed that Shikamaru prided himself on, but like any shinobi worth his salt, he was more than fast enough to dodge both her kicks and the strikes of her half-closed fan. When they would spar, their flashier or more destructive techniques were left to the spacier areas of Konoha, the training forests and the extensive wilderness inside the village borders, where a fallen tree or a few flying branches were of relatively little concern. 

(And there was that sole, memorable occasion where he had been the one to travel to Sunagakure and had to very quickly get used to walking and navigating on an endless field of shifting sand. He’d stomach the idea of moving out there if it was what Temari wanted, but all the same he certainly hoped it wasn’t.)

Here in the tiny, grassy arena of his courtyard, taijutsu was their default style of choice. It didn’t get Shikamaru’s blood pumping the way another kind of fight could, but then again, that had never been something he looked for. This way, he could truly appreciate the way his quick, short, and decisive movements clashed with Temari’s slower but stronger sweeping strikes, studying the minutiae between their styles in order to augment his existing tactics and let new ones form. Even better — he had been significantly surprised to realize that this came higher in his priorities — when they were this close to one another, he could take the split-seconds of calm to drink in every last part of his beloved.

He’d respected her strength first and foremost, when they had been children and she had been just an obstacle to his primary goal of finding someplace to sleep through the rest of the Chuunin Exams. Her smarts, always gleaming in those sharp eyes of hers, had come shortly after. A clever girl who could handle herself in battle and carry on a decent conversation after? Not the rarest gift, but still the most precious one. 

Not that he’d ever tell her so (he knew that even a genius couldn’t make it sound like a compliment), but he had noticed her beauty last. No...That didn’t sound right. He had always known that Temari was beautiful. More accurate was the sentiment that he had taken years to realize just how deeply her beauty struck his heart. 

There were her arms slinging around his shoulders or hugging his waist tightly from behind, never so lightly that he couldn’t feel the strength of her muscles. Her lips, so surprisingly gentle as they pressed against his own, or laid soft lines up his neck, when they were entwined together in bed. Her smile, which made something swell in his chest every time he saw it. It calmed him when his nerves were frayed, excited him when he was cold and flat, lifted him back up out of the deep waters of grief. It — she — was the most radiant thing he had ever seen. 

Even the sharp shock of her flesh on his, the muffled clang of thin mail, was more gratifying than it had ever been with any other person. What was that old saying that Naruto was so fond of? About how true warriors could understand each other’s feelings through the wordless exchange of blows? They weren’t trying to hurt each other, far from it. They were only becoming closer to one another.

So Shikamaru didn’t mind at all when one blindingly fast round sweep from Temari’s fan caught him in the backs of the knees, and sent him pitching backwards to the grass. He landed with a thump on his back, and there was only a short beat of silence and spinning blue sky above him before Temari was standing there instead. She planted a foot lightly on his chest and tipped his chin up with the end of her fan. Her smile was triumphant this time, and his heart skipped a beat. 

“Looks like I won, then. So what’s this grand prize I’ve earned?”

Shikamaru smirked, and gestured to himself. 

“How about this hand?” he said, and Temari tilted her head to the side, puzzled. 

“What? I’m not about to cut off your h —“ She blinked, a spark of realization in her eyes, and then burst out laughing. “You absolute sap! You don’t mean hand in marriage, do you?”

“Yeah, and if I did? Is that a prize you’re interested in?”

“You know, I’d say you’re giving yourself too much credit, but...I can’t seem to do that.” 

Temari stepped back, then reached down to pull Shikamaru up from the ground and into a quick but deep kiss. 

“Tell me, though,” she purred, her face still so close to his own. “Did you just let me win as part of a proposal setup?”

Shikamaru hummed noncommittally. “Did it seem that way to you?”

Temari snickered. “A kunoichi’s pride is nothing to toy with, Nara Shikamaru. Tell you what: you give me a rematch, with nothing on the line this time, and you’ll have yourself a fiancée.”

Shikamaru grinned. His girl’s fire was as strong as ever. “Deal.”

[icymakesazine]

Poll: Which Patreon Exclusive Fic would you like included in "A Collection of Langst Volume 3" in the event the first stretch goal (25 preorders) is not reached?

I’m trying to remain optimistic, but as we get closer and closer to the closing of preorders (a little over 1 week left) and the numbers for “A Collection of Langst Volume Three” are stuck at 16, I’m forced to be realistic that it’s unlikely we’re going to be making that stretch goal for a zine exclusive fic.

I based the stretch goals upon previous numbers the Langst zine volumes sold (62 and 51, respectively) and felt that 25 was a more than attainable number to include that zine exclusive fic for this run. Sadly, whether it’s COVID, lack of interest or a combination of both, we’re just not there. 

Since I left about 4-5k of space in the zine for this fic and I want to still reward those that did purchase the zine, in the event we do not reach that stretch goal, and I felt the best way to do that was to include another fanfiction but to sweeten it I’ve chosen to select from my Patreon exclusive Fic of the Months :)

Please only vote on the following poll if you have either a; purchased “A Collection of Langst Volume Three” or you are planning to. The options are:

The Chill of Loneliness

Summary: Lance couldn’t be more thrilled. A special mission that only he and the Blue Lion could undertake due to the insanely cold temperatures and a way to further their slowly growing bond? Sign him up! But when the mission goes sideways Lance finds himself all alone with no hope of backup, slowly freezing to death and he can’t find his way back to Blue. He had hoped to prove himself on this mission but… but it looks like all he’s going to do is die instead.

Crimson Puddle

Summary:  Lance tried to stop it. He did. But the blood just keeps coming; gushing, oozing. It’s everywhere now; his leg, his hands, all over the floor. The crimson puddle keeps growing while he only grows weaker, the world going dark and cold and numb. And he never… he never thought he’d die like this.

The Power of a Hug

Summary: A retelling of the fight in “The Depths” where Hunk is stronger, faster, more ruthless and will do anything to keep his queen safe and warm, even if that means hurting his best friend. And where Lance knows if Hunk discovers how badly he hurt him he will never, ever, forgive himself. So there’s only one thing to do: hide his injuries and hope that no one, especially Hunk, ever finds out.

The Warmth of a Scar

Summary: Lichtenberg scars, Hunk explained softly. That was the term they used on Earth to describe the dark lines seared into Lance’s skin from the lightning strike, the strike that had also taken his right eye. Those scars represented pain and loss and despair. But to Allura… they were beautiful. They felt safe. And she hoped she could help Lance to see the same.

VOTE ON THE POLL HERE!

And if you were still interested, you can PREORDER YOUR BOOKS HERE for both the Langst zine and my other titles. Preorders will close on October 22.

Thanks everyone who has purchased something for your support ♥ 

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @plusultraretro zine! I couldn’t resist rehashing the classic Clue, with a strange set of bedfellows. Twice is a lot of fun to write.

…

…

…

…

There were six dead bodies in the living room. A big (small) number. Twice wasn’t sure how he felt about it (no, actually, he knew exactly how he felt). Tugging on his handsome (ugly) bowtie, Twice grinned at the people watching him anxiously in the crowded room. Including him, there were seven people.

All together? Thirteen. What an auspicious number.

Maybe he should have added more seats to the room before gathering everyone here. There were three people crowding together on the two couches, one person sitting on the desk beside him, and everyone else stood scattered around the room. Well, stood or lay—Twice eyed the limp hand peeking out from behind a couch. Maybe he should have put a table in here to stack the bodies.

“Are you going to speak?” Momo asked timidly as she perched on the couch, valiantly ignoring the dead body seated next to her. Despite her status as a politician’s wife, she had been oddly quiet and docile for most of the evening. Then again, the parties she hosted probably didn’t have nearly as many bodies as this one did. She tugged her gloves on as she awkwardly looked around the room. “We need to find the murderer before the police arrive.”

“Right! Of course we do! That’s why I stood here!” Twice laughed, rubbing his neck sheepishly before growling, “Who cares about the murderer? We’re all going to die.”

From the other side of the couch, Toga laughed. She twirled a knife, undisturbed by the blood on the blade. “We’re not! I’m going to kill them first!”

“Of course you are, honey!” Twice smiled brightly at her, before dropping his jaw. “Wait, did you really kill all of your husbands?”

Toga grinned brightly, looking absolutely radiant despite her pitch-black clothes. “Maaaaybe.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to admit it like that!” Twice glanced at the second couch in the room, where a dog-like person in a police uniform sat slumped over. Or was it a human-like dog? “Good thing the cop’s dead.”

Tired of the nonsense, Enji banged his hand on the desk. It was hard (easy) to look at him, the flames on his face almost as bright as a bonfire. His quirk really did react to his emotions. His mustard-coloured suit looked uncomfortable on his thick frame.  “Cut the crap,” he snarled, stepping forward. “We know she did it. I’ll hold her down while you get the cops.”

He directed that last sentence at the black-haired beauty leaning against the desk. Dressed like a dominatrix, all tight-fitting leather with little to the imagination, it was all too easy to guess what her job was. Nemuri glanced idly at Toga, then at Enji and raised a brow. “She doesn’t look nearly strong enough to have killed everyone.”

“SHE COULD BE STRONGER THAN SHE LOOKS!” Hizashi exclaimed as he stood next to the fireplace. If Enji was blinding to look at, Hizashi was deafening to listen to. His hideous (beautiful) purple suit did little to prepare someone for just how loud he was. “I’LL CALL THE COPS.”

“That’s not how this works!” Twice interrupted. “That’s exactly how it works.”

“Wait.” Their last living member finally spoke, halting them. Twice had almost forgotten about Fumikage, who, true to his name and quirk, had spent almost all of the evening lurking from one shadow to the next. Even now, it was hard to see him as he stood behind a door. It certainly didn’t help that his black feathers melted in with the shadows.

“Are you trying to look mysterious?” Momo asked, perplexed.

“I think it’s cute.” Nemuri winked playfully. “I know a few girls into roleplay. I can send them over if you want.”

Fumikage flushed. Coughing, he ignored her and stepped out of the shadows. “We don’t know the truth of tonight yet. We need to retrace our steps and—”

“Retrace?” Twice bounced forward, liking (hating) the sound of it. It’d be the most fun he’d had since they’d piled the dead bodies in this room at least. “Good idea! It’s fucking terrible.” He bounded out of the room without another thought.

“Ohhh, can I kill more people to show how it happened?” Toga asked, chirping cheerfully as she followed.

“What?” Fumikage’s beak fell open. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh god, we have to keep an eye on them,” Momo muttered as she rushed out of the room, raising her long skirt so she didn’t trip on the hem. “She’ll really kill someone.”

“NOT WITH US AROUND,” Hizashi shouted as he strolled after her. Despite his status as a former detective, he sounded utterly unperturbed by everything.

In contrast, Enji, who was still a cop, growled, “I had enough of their crap,” before rushing out after them.

“Always in a hurry.” With a languid shake of her head, her black curls messily falling over her shoulder, Nemuri sauntered after. As she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, but I was serious about the girls. Let me know if you’re interested.”

All of this left Fumikage alone in the living room. No, not alone; there were still six very dead bodies after all. He took one look at the one closest to him, a tall, leggy blonde, and quickly hurried out after the rest.

-x-

Twice stared at the front door. While he had never been one for drama as a child, it came to him naturally now. He could almost feel Enji’s angry flames behind him (What passion! How fucking annoying). It was time to connect the pieces of their mysterious night together, starting with why six strangers were invited to this mansion.

Donning a bright smile, he opened the door. Outside, it rained like cats and dogs, like it had been doing for almost the entire night. “Hey, Momo! Go away!”

In the foyer, Momo stepped back, startled. “Huh?”

Twice glanced over his shoulder, breaking character for a second. “We’re doing a speedrun of tonight. Can’t that big brain of yours keep up?”

“Oh.” Momo flushed. “Sorry. Keep going.”

“Why are we—” Enji winced as Nemuri elbowed him in the gut. “Nemuri.”

“I want to see what happens, shut up.” She glared at him, not in the least intimidated by his hulking body or murderous glares.

“HAHAHAHA!” Hizashi laughed, his voice booming like thunder now that they were in the open foyer of the mansion. An old place, it had a single staircase leading upstairs, and the rest of the foyer was an open hall leading to many rooms.

Ignoring them, Twice returned to his performance. “She asked why we’re here. I have no idea. I took her coat, put it up.” He mimed it before rushing from the doorstop to the library just down the hall. Toga skipped after him, giggling, while Momo hurried along too. The rest stood where they were, watching him as he gestured at an imaginary person to get in. “Drink some poison. Have some treats while you wait.”

Pretending to hear a doorbell, Twice ran to the door again. “And then Enji came.”

“ALWAYS SO PUNCTUAL!” Hizashi snorted.

As Twice ran back and forth with imaginary guests, Fumikage tapped his beak. “At this point the maid, Yu, and the cook, Kaminari, were still alive. The cop, the traveller, the telegram guy, and Kurogiri hadn’t arrived yet.”

Momo leaned against the wall, realizing it was smarter to just wait by the time Twice ferried over the fourth guest. Breathing heavily, she added, “I doubt this was set up beforehand.”

“With this mess?” Enji sneered, his flames finally dimming to a more muted yellow. He still looked like his head was on fire. “It’s too sloppy to be anything but a murder of opportunity.”

“Ohh, sounding more and more like a cop,” Nemuri praised, smiling coyly. “Why did you retire again? Or was that…fired?”

Enji’s flames turned red but before he could respond, Twice dashed to the dining room. “And then we ate!”

“It tasted disgusting!” Toga chimed as she continued to skip beside him. Despite running around back and forth multiple times, neither of them looked out of breath. “I could have killed the cook for that.”

“Me too! Did you?” Twice asked.

Toga giggled in response.

Fumikage sighed. “We should go too.”

They all piled into the dining room, the plates and now-cold soup still sitting there. The room was ornate in an old-fashioned way, the table-cloth looking like it belonged to the sixties. Twice started pulling out chairs and sitting in them. “And Toga sat here.” He got up and moved to another one. “And Fumikage awkwardly plopped in here and Nemuri smirked as she sat beside him.”

“How do you remember all of that?” Nemuri stared at him, sounding amazed and concerned.

“That’s cause there’s nothing else in there,” Toga explained with a grin as she tapped her head.

“What she said! That’s mean!” Twice didn’t skip a beat as he pretended to serve dinner next.

“So, you two definitely know each other,” Momo stated, crossing her arms. “You lied earlier.”

“You didn’t ask the right question! It’s not a lie if you don’t ask!” Toga bopped Momo on the nose before she could react. “Just like you didn’t ask about my daggers.”

“WE DID ASK,” Hizashi countered.

“What about you, Enji, and Nemuri?” Toga smirked.

Nemuri glared at Hizashi before rolling her eyes. “It’s impossible to keep anything quiet with him around. You first—”

“And dinner was served! It was weird.” Twice interrupted, ignoring the entire discussion. “Momo ate the food and said it was her favourite. I hated it. Nemuri wondered if it was poisoned. Fumikage threw up.”

“I did not throw up!” Fumikage snapped, cheeks red.

“You threw up,” Twice repeated, “You didn’t do it. Then we went to the living room! Dessert time!”

Now used to it, everyone hurried over to the other room. Even Enji, who bristled and snapped at every discussion, piled after them. The bodies were still in the living room. Twice returned to his position by the desk.

This time Momo spoke, if only to hurry the whole process up. “We all sat down, asked why we’re here, and who invited us in. All of us were strangers.” She paused glancing at the others. “Well, that’s what I thought at least.”

“And then the bell rang! I hate that bell!” Twice ran to the front door again.

Fumikage poked his head out as Twice opened the door again and then ran back to them. “Do you have to do that every time?”

“Yes! No!” Twice stopped by the body on the lone chaise. “Kurogiri sat here.”

“HOW DOES HE SEE LIKE THAT?” Hizashi asked, scrutinising the strange man. While his body looked the same as any other person, his head was a black void. A literal dark void that somehow had talked and seen things hours ago. Now, red bloomed on his chest like a flower, and there was no coming back from that.

“How do you talk like that?” Nemuri shrugged. “Quirks are weird.”

“GOOD POINT.” Hizashi rubbed his chin.

“Either way, he came and revealed that he was blackmailing us. And that he had gifts.” Fumikage clicked his beak as he glanced around the room, stopping only when he spotted the candlestick. “The candlestick.” He turned till he saw a wrench on the ground. “The wrench.” He turned again. “The noose. The dagger. The pistol. The pipe.”

“And then he challenged us to kill him,” Momo finished, rubbing her chin. As she focused on the mystery, she looked healthier than she had for the past few hours. “Odd thing for him to ask.”

“He was cocky.” Despite himself, Enji was drawn to the mystery as well.

“Even then…” Momo shook her head, doubtful. “Why invite all of us here to murder him?”

“Stop stealing the spotlight! I’ll kill you,” Twice demanded, drawing their attention away from the body.

“And then the lights went off,” Toga added cheekily, flipping off the switch. The room plunged into darkness and Momo screamed. “Bang!”

“Yeah, like that!” Twice commended as the lights flipped back on. Lying on the floor, he waved at them. “And Kurogiri fell like this, dead.”

“I CHECKED,” Hizashi added. “DEADER THAN A DOORNAIL.”

“And then we ran to check on the cook.” Once again, Twice rushed out of the room, the others following shortly behind him.

They ended up re-enacting every one of the murders that happened that night: the cook died in the kitchen, clubbed by a wrench. Kurogiri’s body disappeared then reappeared in the bathroom, bloody from a candlestick blow. A stranded motorist, Izuku, was stabbed in the back in the lounge. The maid, Mina, choked to death. A passing cop in need of a phone, struck by the lead pipe. A gunshot killing a random masked stranger ringing the bell.

All in all, six bodies, six deaths, six weapons, and all of it unrelated.

Once more, everyone stood in the living room. The bodies were still there. Nemuri frowned. “Did all that running around really help?”

“Of course it did!” Twice laughed. “I have no clue who did it.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” Toga chirped, dagger in hand as she stood in the center of the room. “I did it.”

Ending A

“Toga! You’re not supposed to admit that!” Twice groaned, shooting her a grumpy glare. “We’re supposed to solve a mystery.”

“Eh? Why not?” Toga twirled her blade, smirking at the others. “Besides, we’re just going to kill everyone else here, right?”

“What?” Momo dashed behind the couch. “You both were in on this?”

“Honestly, is it really that surprising?” Nemuri shuddered. “She’s been licking her knife all evening, it’s actually really obvious she did it.”

“But why?” Momo gestured at the dead Kurogiri. “He was the one blackmailing everyone.”

“I like killing,” Toga replied simply. “Why else would I do this?”

“It doesn’t matter. We just have to restrain them until the police arrive.” Fumikage felt a gentle tug as his shadow came to life and hovered next to him.

“Oh, a game.” Toga suddenly wielded five scalpels in each hand and she licked her lips. “I wonder how many I can get.”

“Be careful! Let’s get them all,” Twice shouted, raising his fists as he prepared to fight.

“I’LL TAKE TOGA.” Hizashi loosened his tie.

“I can do it myself.” Enji burned bright again, shooting past them as he tackled Twice.

Nemuri snorted. “Did they think these two were in the police business for fun?” She leaned against the wall, watching as Hizashi, Enji, and Fumikage brawled with Toga and Twice. “They really didn’t think this through.”

“I…” Momo lifted her hand to help but there was no need. It was a surprisingly quick, anti-climatic fight. 

Within the hour, Toga and Twice were in jail, the bodies cleared, and everyone was on their way home.

Ending B

“No, you didn’t.” Momo bit her lip as she shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Why?” Nemuri gestured at the scalpel that hadn’t left Toga’s hand all night. “All she said all evening was how much she wanted to drink our blood.”

“Just a sip,” Toga corrected, offended. “I want to know what you taste like.”

Nemuri gave Momo a flat look. “See?”

“Yeah, but…” Momo gestured at the bodies. “They all died from things other than knives. She wants to stab us, but some of these guys don’t even have a scratch.”

“She has a point,” Enji concurred, scrutinizing Mina the maid’s body. The bruise on her neck made it easy to see how she went. “And I doubt she’s strong enough to have done all of that.”

“They think she’s weak. Toga likes to stab,” Twice added sagely, nodding.

“Someone strong enough to do all of this…and to use all of these different weapons…” Fumikage crossed his arms and pondered it. “Momo could have set things up with her quirk…”

“Maybe, but she would also have to be adept in different fighting styles and know how to shoot. A lot of skills for someone of her status,” Nemuri countered, cocking her head as she inspected the bodies.

Momo nodded eagerly. “I will admit I do know my fair share of hunting, but…I did not do any of this.”

“Someone strong, someone trained in multiple combat styles.” Enji stood now and loosened his tie. “Fumikage, close the door. I don’t want Hizashi to escape.”

“Huh?” Hizashi stepped back, shocked.

“Don’t act surprised. We had the same training. The same skills. You didn’t forget that after leaving the force.” Enji’s flame grew brighter and he pulled off his jacket as he slipped into a fighting stance.

“THAT COULD APPLY TO YOU TOO,” Hizashi shouted, looking at the others desperately. “HE COULD BE THE MURDERER.”

“He kept disappearing every now and then,” Momo murmured, stepping to her right to block off Hizashi’s escape route to the door.

Nemuri cracked her knuckles, stepping forward. “You know, I was wondering why you shouted all night. I just assumed your quirk had gotten worse, but…that’s not the case, is it?”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Noticing Toga circling him from the back, Hizashi swiped the gun from the table.

“You talked normally a few seconds ago,” Momo explained, pulling a pole out of her chest. “Was that so we’d keep thinking you were too loud for something like this?”

Hizashi stared at her and sighed. Laughing, he pointed the gun at Enji. “I knew I should have killed you first. Guess I’ll fix that now.”

The second he pulled the trigger, everyone sprang into action. Enji dodged, the bullet grazing him before he tackled Hizashi to the ground. Fumikage helped as Hizashi countered, trying to escape. The two of them overpowered the killer, pinning him to the ground. Nemuri already had the rope ready, tying him down with some expertise that left one wondering if she used such knots in her night job.

The police rang the bell, the case was solved, and everyone rested uneasily knowing that Toga was still wandering free.

Ending C

“Seriously?” Momo scrambled backward and away from Toga.

“Of course.” Toga licked her scalpel. “It’s fun.”

“I’ll hold her down, you get some rope.” Police training hammered into him, Enji barked orders at Hizashi and Nemuri. “We can hold her until the police arrive.”

“She didn’t do it all.” Fumikage stepped back into the foyer, his shadow looming high above him. Dramatically, he pointed at Enji. “You did it too.”

“He did?” Twice blinked. “What a two-faced bastard.”

“Don’t act surprised. You’re also tricking us,” Fumikage added, his shadow growing in size. “In fact, you all are.”

Momo recoiled. “What are you talking about—”

Fumikage puffed his chest, looking more like a parrot than a raven. Pride filled his voice as he patiently explained, “You don’t really think only one person did all of this, do you? The different murder types, the alibis that fit for some murders, but not others?”

“Big words.” Nemuri raised a brow. “But how do you prove that?”

“These bodies…they’re all connected to you.” Fumikage gestured at them one by one. “The dead cook used to work for Momo. Toga stalked one of these strangers. Kurogiri was Hizashi’s old partner.  Enji had been fired by that cop. Nemuri was using the maid to send messages to Russia. And Twice,” Fumikage paused dramatically, letting the words sit with everyone before finishing, “killed the masked stranger at the door. A stranger who was a former gang member that hurt one of his friends.”

“Nice theory.” Enji scoffed, cracking his knuckles. “Doubt it’ll hold up.”

“IT’S ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR WEIRD STORIES,” Hizashi added tensely.

“How could you know all of that?” Momo asked, her skin paling at the thought.

“Easy.” The front door opened behind him, a dozen cops piling into the house. He pulled out his badge. “I’m in the FBI and we’ve been trying to take you down for months.”

“What the hell? Isn’t that more of a plot hole than the first ending?” Twice turned to Toga, worried.

“You’re not supposed to break the fourth wall, silly.” She bopped him on the nose affectionately. “Besides, we can still fight our way out.”

Speaking of fourth walls, their fight didn’t go any better in this ending. There were, after all, a whole squad of agents this time. In the end, everyone was arrested, the bodies were transported to the morgue, and the mansion was surrounded with yellow tape as the feds collected the evidence.

Fumikage stared at the cars as they rolled away, his fellow dinner guests still pleading for their innocence. That had been the world’s worst dinner party.

Hopefully, his boyfriend could make up for what had been a long and tiring day.

[deafwestnewsies]

there will always be someone to your rescue

Sarah Jacobs will stop at nothing to find her brother. 

davey x jack, sarah x kath

read it on my ao3! 

read part one (and from his lips came forth the world) here!

read part two (and oh, don’t you want to get better) here!

“What the fuck!” the girl barked, before slamming her fist down on the computer’s keyboard. Illuminated only by the light of her screen, the bags under her eyes became more prominent with every passing second. Typing away furiously, trying (and failing) another safety measure, she unconsciously began chewing on the ends of her hair. Another girl, more fair, more well-rested, slowly approached the working woman. 

“Darling, I know this is difficult-”

“He’s missing, Kath. No one has seen him in days.” Sarah jerked her shoulder out of Katherine’s tender touch, the other girl backing away with practiced patience. She flicked on the overhead light, exposing the forgotten cups of coffee, the leftover crusts of a sandwich Kath didn't even remember making, to the 3am world. 

It began with the phone call, the one Sarah made after her brother never returned home from what was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill job. Davey disappeared into the night and never came home again, causing Sarah to spiral into a cycle of worry and anger, with a hint of secrecy. Lying to her parents about where he was. Calling him, day and night. Trying to reactivate the tracker inside of his suit, the one that randomly sputtered out near the apartment village on campus. Sarah spent her days stalking the outside of that building, anxiously looking for her brother in every face that passed. 

“Please come to bed,” Katherine pleaded with her. “He is smart, and he is alive. And he will stay that way when you wake up, I swear. How can you help him when you’re half-dead yourself?” 

Sarah turned in her chair, the days of exhaustion clear on her face. Standing without warning, she crumpled into Kath’s arms, body wracked with sobs that couldn’t produce tears. “I hate him,” she whimpered. “Where did he go?” 

Katherine pet the top of her girlfriend’s head, feeling just as useless as before. “He’ll come home soon. He’s Davey.” 

&&&

 “What the fuck?” Race asked incredulously before slapping Davey across the face. “First, you go around robbing people. Second, you try to kill my boy, multiple times. Third, we take you in because we are clearly superior and stronger than you,” Davey’s jaw clenched in anger, an angry red handprint already forming on his cheek, “Fourth, you break a window in an apartment we lease, and fifth, you try to kill Jack and set half of Kohler park on fire. I liked it there, you asshole!” 

Jack did nothing but stand by, his body language steeped in anger. He wouldn’t protect David, not after what he had done, the lies that he had told him straight to his face. “I could do anything for you, too.” The words echoed in his head, louder than the blood pounding in his ears, causing him to blush furiously. He was so embarrassed. Jack had a duty to protect this city and the people he loved, and he let himself get distracted by a boy? A supervillain boy? It was enough to retire altogether. 

“Race,” Spot came up quietly behind the (still yelling) boy. “It’s 3am. We’s got neighbors.” Race angrily shook Spot’s hand off of his shoulder, his pent up rage redirecting itself. 

“We should kill you.” Race finalized, causing Jack to react for the first time.

“We aren’t killing him,” he said quietly. “We’re dealing with him in the morning. I’m-” Jack struggled to find the words as he locked eyes with David. He was silently pleading. “I’m going to bed.” Turning towards his bedroom, his final words followed him down the hall. “He sleeps on the couch tonight.” Pathetic. 

&&&

“Wake up-” Sarah felt hands shaking her awake. “Wake up, darling. You’ve gotta hear this!” She sat up, confused, just to have a computer screen shoved in her face, the unnatural light blinding her. “I was reading the paper and look!” 

Blinking through the pain, Sarah slowly read the headline of the article- Fire Set Late Last Night at Kohler Park, Source Unconfirmed. “Was anyone hurt?” She asked, the fog slowly clearing. Katherine, not answering, clicked to a different tab, revealing a police report. “How did you get th-?”

“Don’t question my methods, just read.” Robbery occurring at 52nd and West, unidentified white man, approximately 6’2, medium build. Witnesses saw a ‘bright light’ that appeared to be moving from one place to another that followed the culprit. $17,000 stolen, exactly. “And isn’t that how much Davey needed for tuition?” Katherine asked, practically bouncing off of her side of the bed. 

“Zine behsechel,” Sarah muttered under her breath. “Once I know he isn’t dead, I’m going to murder him.” 

&&&

Davey couldn’t stop counting the ceiling tiles. There were forty-nine in the living room, and thirteen that he could see in the kitchen. Round and round he went, the numbers always remaining the same, the only constant that was left in his life. 

He was in deep shit. There was no better way of saying it. 

The money had flown away as if by magic, all seventeen thousand that he had taken from that corner bank, the memory of bills slipping through his fingers stinging more than it should. The light of the fire still shone behind his eyes, the image of a lightning bolt, his lighting bolt, splitting a tree down the middle. His powers had grown in that moment and he felt it down at his core. Blinding light filling his lungs and carrying him across vast distances, Davey had felt faster than ever before. It was fueled by fear, however, and anger. He had just gotten so furious, so horribly angry at the world, the life he was meant to lead, that everything spiraled out of hand until it was all gone. Until there was only Jack. 

Pathetic. He was so pathetic! In his most vulnerable state he had just outed himself like that, his absolute pea brain thinking that that moment was a good time to tell Jack how he felt. Good, righteous Jack, Jack who had never done anything with a hint of malice in his life, Jack who had given him ten thousand second chances, Jack. How could he resist him? Sure, he had been their ‘prisoner,’ but they poked fun at him, let Davey in on their inside jokes, helped him muddle through a midterm. He felt whole again, something he hadn’t had for a long time. And now here he was, lying on a grimy sofa, split again into a million pieces. 

“Zine behsechel!” His mother’s favorite swear, and saying it out loud made him feel okay again, if only for a second. 

&&&

Sarah stared at the hundred dollar bill caught underneath her foot, halfway burnt to a crisp. The park was taped off, policemen roaming the area, and Katherine and Sarah stood in the corner. Katherine had flashed her student reporter badge claiming she was with The World, and as an officer asked to see it a little closer, Kath thanked him loudly and pulled Sarah under the caution tape with her. They now stood still, clutching their hands together tightly, unable to tear their eyes away from the wreckage.

This was more than a fire by a long shot. One tree lie on its side, split clean in half, the scorch marks still smouldering slightly, and Sarah couldn’t stop imagining her dear baby brother in the middle of all of this. Davey, who cared so much about their family, Davey, who sat with Les as he cried over math homework and secretly paid the bills when their parents couldn’t. He was just a little kid in her heart, but he was forced to grow up so fast. 

“I can’t believe he’s so… strong,” Kath whispered to her. “Where did he get all of this power?” 

“He’s always been able to do this,” Sarah said, the pain clear in her voice. “He’s been holding himself back.” 

Before Katherine could respond, a police scanner lit up behind them. “Sargent? We found a GPS device of some sort. We’re sending it your way.” 

&&&

Jack set a mug of coffee between them. “Drink it.” He demanded, the first words he had spoken all day. David carefully picked it up, surreptitiously smelling the drink. “It’s not poisoned, David. Just drink it.” His voice was tired. Jack was tired. 

“Can we talk about-”

“No.” Jack cut him off. “We’ll talk about that when I’m ready.” 

David took a sip. “‘S good.”

Jack nodded, already getting up. “It’s infused with rosewater.” 

&&&

“If I’m right, which I am, this will lead us to where he’s been the whole time,” Sarah crowed triumphantly. “Whoever disabled this was good, but I’m better and I-” she popped a panel out, “have all of the answers.” With a second of shaking, a small end ejected itself, and she plugged it into her computer. 

Getting the GPS back had been one hell of a ride. Katherine had a small notebook on hand, so she began asking questions to the nearest detective about ‘citizen concern’ and ‘exactly what action they were taking to catch the person who had done such a dastardly thing,’ while Sarah eyeballed the evidence table behind him. After three minutes of Katherine making questions up on the spot (“Always the mark of a good reporter, Sarah.”) they watched another man lumber by, dropping the GPS Sarah had so carefully handcrafted on the table. She winced at the rattle of parts, but gently touched Katherine on the arm and said she was using the restroom, only to slide past the table and pick up her creation. Minutes later Katherine had met her in the car, wrinkling her nose and tearing up the police officer’s number, which he had given to her “in case she needs to know anything else.” 

Now peering over her shoulder, Katherine scoffed. “That’s the same apartment building. That doesn’t help.” 

“Maybe so, but I am smarter than that.” Sarah stopped for a moment, turning to face her girlfriend with feigned shock. “You know I am smarter than that, right dear?” She kissed her quick, turning back to her computer. “I could track his footsteps, too. That way, if I were his eyes on a job, I could keep him hidden. But right now, that tells us exactly which apartment he walked up to.” She banged on her keyboard some more until she had an address.

Katherine was already grabbing their jackets as Sarah swept out of the doorway.

&&&

Race was pleading with David, which was quite the feat. “C’mon. I know we’re like, fighting over whatever right now, but pleeease play along.” David sat stone-faced, holding the script to the Merry Wives of Windsor, refusing to read lines with Race. “I’m begging you. We start tech week tomorrow, and I’m not even half memorized-”

“I don’t know what a tech week is,” the disgust evident in David’s voice, “but I can’t exactly turn the pages with these on.” He held up his hands, still bound by the specialized handcuffs. 

“Sure you can! Just kinda,” Race struggled to flip the pages with his wrists touching, “and then a little bit of,” adjusted the script in his lap, “and bam! Easy!” 

Rolling his eyes, Davey moved his legs apart and let the script fall to the ground. “Oops,” he said plaintively. A knock at the door saved them both from sparking another argument, and instead slapped Davey on the top of his head with his script. It reminded him of messing around with Les, in a way. Goddamnit, I almost killed his best friend and they’re still nice to me!

David was not prepared for Race to fall to the ground holding a bloody nose as soon as he opened the door. Sarah Jacobs stood on the other side, eyes blazing, and shouting, “Give me back my brother, you dipshit!” 

i just really wanted an excuse for katherine to call sarah 'darling' so i wrote this anyways this series is getting really dark and i don't think i can promise a happy ending just yet.