#stronger than blood zine

[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

[k--now--what]

My Buddy Daddies zine arrived! 🥰

[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)

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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

[cf8wrk4u-us]

I am so honored that my submission was accepted for this zine! The size of it had to be shortened in order to comfortable fit all the amazing art and stories, but I'm still happy how this all turned out ☺️

Please look at this amazing TOA Zine, a real love letter from and to all of us fans! And please feel free the read the full story submission below✨️

It Began With A Name

The troll that would be later known as Gunmar never did understand the importance of family. He came into to this world alone, crawling from the dead remains of Trollkinds first Heartstone full grown and very very hungry.

The first years of his life were basically a blur as he roamed about the continent. Killing when he became hungry or defensive, the most delicious meats not coming from the wild animals of the woodlands or the domesticated livestock of the fields but of the humans who toiled in them. Delicious fleshy-bags of meat, that crunched so satisfyingly between his jaws.

At times he would meet supposed others of his kind, many of those Trolls who would just run from his presence or others who attack and curse his existence. He paid no mind, such weaklings were below him. Below his strength. He was the strongest and deadliest being in this world, nothing else mattered but himself and the Hunger he proved to satisfy.

That is till he met HIM.

Their encounter wasn't anything new to him, countless groups of trolls and their leaders would approach him. Accusing him of invading their territory or attempting to forcibly recruit him into their tribe. No matter which they all fell before the deadly might of his bare claws.

But he was different, Orglak the Oppressor was a troll whose strength not only matched his own but his skill with the blade a deadly force against him. Try as he might, the dark stone troll couldn’t land a significant blow against the Gum-Gum leader who smirked as he dodged each swipe of his claws as if he was still a clumsy newborn. Soon enough Gunmar hide burned with each slash made by Orglak’s legendary Decimaar Blade, he was on the ground forced to look at the Gum-Gum leader feeling the sword just under his neck.

“Your a lot stronger than I gave you credit for, child of the dead Heartstone” sneered Orglak, his blood red eyes glowing with interest “Promise to kneel before me and you’ll live to see the next night”

The dark troll's only response was a snarl as he swiped the blade tip away, cutting him badly as he lunged once more at the Gum-Gum leader. Before the sword hilt hit him square between his horns and the world went black.

He woke up to the sound of crackling fire and the smell of roasted meat, rearing up from the ground he saw Orglak sitting by the fire beside him while the soldiers from his party set up camp. He was ready to attack but no sooner did he move Orglak just casually flashed his sword making him hesitate. For the first time in his life the troll has encountered a being far stronger than him, it was frustrating and unnerving.

Especially when Orglak chuckled at him.

“I see you're awake, good, good” he said before lifting something from the fire.

His mouth watered at the leg of meat, its juices dripping from the crispy flesh. He moved to take it from the Gum-Gum but was roughly grabbed by his horns.

“Wait” Orglak said sharply

The troll growl turned into a whine as he held up his hands to silently ask for the meat. Satisfied, the Gum-Gum chieftain placed it into his waiting hands. He sunk his teeth eagerly in the food but he noticed that the grip of his horns didn’t fade. Orglak claws moved from his horns to then gently pet at the top of his hair.

“Hmm….” Orglak hummed in thought “....Gunmar…”

The troll perked up with a mouthful of meat.

Orglak chuckled darkly as he patted his head “Gunmar! Yes! A fine name”!

And that was how the troll born from the first Heartstone was named Gunmar.

Soon enough Gunmar did kneel before the Gum-Gum chieftain, who was now his leader. He learned a great deal of things from the troll and his tribe. How to wield a sword was a start, then it was learning to lead raids and how to subdue other tribes, and then who their enemies were.

Turns out those fleshbags were a lot more troublesome than Gunmar thought, especially with their allies. The mage Merlin and his foolish little follower the Trollhunter.

Yes Gunmar learned a great many things, even the benefits of living in a tribe like this.What power it gave one to command so many trolls, ones who unhesitantly served you through loyalty or fear.

But still Gunmar couldn’t understand families.

At worst it seemed like a treasonous thing to allow outside loyalty from one chieftain to another, and at the least it seemed like such a weakness. Tying yourselves to someone that could just be used against you.

But if he could see himself close enough to call someone as close as kin…Gunmar would think of Orglak.

Orglak who named him, Orglak who showed him how to swing a sword, Orglak who taught him the most proficient way to butcher his enemies, Orglak who recognized his strength and made him his general, Orglak…who would now stare at him with suspicious and newly formed contempt..

Not a surprise given that Gunmar had recently been far more bolder in his dissatisfaction in Orglak policies regarding how their tribe was run. The Gum-Gum’s had the potential to be more than just a band of marauders but a mighty military force that could rule this continent, but Orglak kept hesitating or more so kept refusing to let Gunmar make any changes on how things were done.

Gunmar was a threat to Orglak power, that was something every member of the tribe could see. So in the end they came to blows.

Orglak was as strong as before but Gunmar was now even stronger. And at the end of the fight while Gunmar might have lost one of his eyes, Orglak lost his head.

But as the crowd cheered and hollered at his victory, Gunmar couldn’t help but stare at the gray rubble that had once been his leader. Seeming to debate something the new Gum-Gum chieftain reached down to take a piece of stone from the pile.

Gunmar wasn’t sure what he was thinking, what he wanted exactly, but a part of him couldn’t see the legacy of the great Orglak the Oppressor fade from this world forever.

The first troll who took him from the wilds of the woods and showed him his true potential.

So in the privacy of his tent Gunmar held the stone he acquired before reaching at his chest and pulling off a piece of his own flesh. Then just as he observed other troll couples do during their union ceremonies he combined the stones together between his hands. Breathing hard Gunmar forced the life energy, the one that thrummed deep in his flesh from the first Heartstone, and sent it into the newly made Birthstone.

It was sometime in the later months Gunmar was looking at the Birthstone in interest, with the egg wobbling back and forth inside the nest he made it.

All of a sudden a tiny little fist burst from the stone and all at once a mound of dark fur tumbled out. Gunmar’s one eye was wide as the tiny creature practically hissed and spat around, its pudgy paws swatting at the air. The warlord reached over to brush the ebony locks that matched his own but soon the little red eyes focused on him. Gunmar stopped, sure that there was a look of recognition in those familiar crimson eyes. But instead the little babe snapped onto his fingers, already so hungry.

A rumble emerged from Gunmars chest, then turned into a full belly laugh.

The whelp stopped his chewing to stare at him curiously.

“Bular” Gunmar said slowly, tasting the name of his new son.

Maybe Gunmar still didn’t understand the meaning of family, but he did know the importance of HIS family. His son, who was now a part of the bright and glorious future he planned on creating for the both of them.

“Yes, Bular” said the warlord tickling his dagger like nails under the whelps chin making him giggle “What a fine name”!

[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.

[the-maddened-hatter]

I'm kinda 50/50 about actually responding, but I love ask & tag games!

Name(s): Hatter or more occasionally Ozzy for the internet

Pronouns: ooh that's kinda tough idk what I more fully prefer yet, but I know I like They/them so let's stick with that for now

Star sign: Sagittarius

# of siblings & fun facts about them (if you have any): I don't technically have siblings, but I do have a friend I grew up with who I consider to be my brother (usually when he comes up on here I refer to him as my brotherneighborfriend)

# of pets & their names: Sadly none currently, my dog Shadow passed away last year, but she was a wonderful mutt who my family and I think had some Rottweiler in the mix

Fandoms: Ohhh I have a LOT of media I enjoy, a few I can think of off the top of my head in no particular order are Steven Universe, Brokenwood Mysteries, Father Brown, Muppets, Bob's Burgers, Pokemon, Star Trek (DS9 or Voyager are probably my favorites of them), The Magnus Archives, and Madoka Magika

Favorite color: Orange

Favorite song: I think the 4 in current ties with one another are Crazy Train by Ozzy Osborne (because I heard it at a very specific point in my life and it helped me get out of an unhealthy mental state so now I love it forever), Starry Starry Night by Don Mclean (because of its beauty, subject matter, and how uncomfortably relatable it feels during periods of depression), Under Pressure by Queen (I heard it when I was younger, but the depth of the message and the emotions connected to it only get deeper & stronger as I get older), and People Like Us by Kelly Clarkson (because I heard it at the first ever drag show I went to this year and it was beautiful)

Favorite author (of anything readable-- books, fanfics, zines, webtoons, whatever!): Neil Gaiman, most especially for his short stories! Also one of my favorite ever books is The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

Hobbies: Loom knitting, baking, I like cooking but I do it less than baking, and I *like* writing but it's hard for me to get my ideas out

Favorite fic type: I'm a sucker for a good (or at least enjoyable sickfick/hurt&comfort fic. Also while I don't tend to get terribly invested in them, I think Au fanfics are really cool & creative when done well!

Favorite holiday: I really like Christmas! It's fun to decorate, bake, and I like getting gifts for people, I'm not good at showing affection even when people mean the world to me, so that's a good bridge for me

Do you have any partner(s)? (romantic, qpp, anything!): I do! He's not on Tumblr though

Fun facts about you / anything extra you wanna share!: 1. the person who tagged me and I compiled a list of trans & otherwise gender affirming resources (link in my pinned). 2. I once made brownies that drew blood. 3. I'm 4' 10" (ALMOST 4' 11" so sometimes I'm allowed to count as that)

Tags: @cingulata @garlic-the-gnome @a-walking-fandom-reference @sweetsbunni @sunnyhouseplant @crustaceousfaggot @arthurdoe @digital-magus

I got bored so here's a little get-to-know-you tag game I think could be fun :3

Name(s)

Pronouns

Star sign

# of siblings & fun facts about them (if you have any)

# of pets & their names

Fandoms

Favorite color

Favorite song

Favorite author (of anything readable-- books, fanfics, zines, webtoons, whatever!)

Hobbies

Favorite fic type

Favorite holiday

Do you have any partner(s)? (romantic, qpp, anything!)

Fun facts about you / anything extra you wanna share!

────────

Name(s): Loki (highly preferred), Elye

Pronouns : they/them mostly, he/she okay too

Star sign: Pisces

# of siblings: I've got 2! An older sister and a younger sibling. The fun fact about them is that they're also both queer; in fact, my mom is too. The only non-queer person in my immediate family is my dad.

# of pets: 4 cats! Phoebe & Frankie are our girls, Lenny and Murray are our boys :3

Fandoms: MCU (kind of), BSD, OFMD, Ranboo (does his fanbase count as a fandom?)

Fav. color: Don't have one

Fav. song: Aurora Borealis by Lemon Demon

Fav. author: Alice Oseman

Hobbies: singing, acting, drawing, writing, procrastinating

Fav. fic type: Fluff, definitely. I am a sucker for well written coffee-shop and flower-shop aus, too. Smut's fine, but only if it's romantic. I can't do angst if there's no comfort.

Fav. Holiday: Hanukkah or Halloween! I love autumn and winter

Partners?: Yes! I have a girlfriend (queerplatonic) who I love very much, and a boyfriend (romantic) who I love very much :]

Fun facts:

- Even though I'm a cat person, I really, really want a dog.

- I actually used to play sports. Because I don't do gendered leagues anymore, I don't play, but I've been looking for mixed/gender-neutral/queer sports teams. Baseball and basketball specifically!

- I started questioning my identity in 2019; I'm no closer to finding a label now than I was then. The difference is, now I don't want a label. I just am. :]

tags: @neonganymede @cha0ticlesbian @x-chiara @exceleo @brinnybee @autistic-katara @gandalfthemorallygrey @ohboyanotherlokiblog @roachandrenfri @ourflagmeanslokius @exceleo @edettethegreat @swiftlyspidey

[buddydaddieszine]

🩵 PRODUCTION UPDATE 🍙

Our full stock for Sleepy’s bookmarks, @xander-wolk’s heart buttons, @shiaroo’s polaroids, and Nana’s prints have all arrived! Mod Finn will check the quality of these while we wait for the rest of our items to ship!

↓ Detailed Production Status Below ↓

🩵 MARCH 19TH STATUS 🍙

→ PROOF IN PROGRESS: Zine, Acrylic Charm, Die-Cuts

→ IN PRODUCTION: Sticker Sheets

→ RECEIVED: Bookmarks, Heart Buttons, Polaroids, Prints

—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 🧡

[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. 

[fedzkun]

Psst! Over here….

Happy Father’s Day!

If a Dadmight zine is ever created, please let the title be “Successor: A DadMight Zine”… or could be something else but on that same line of thought

[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.

[splenderai]

CHIP I'M REBLOGGING THIS BECAUSE YOU MANIFESTED THE ZINE

i just got a chance to read through the entirety of bdq, and i got so emotional the entire time. what an absolutely wonderful story paired with your charming art !!! the bd fandom really has the most talented creators who are just so passionate about this series; it really warms my heart. i just wanted to thank you for sharing this lovely treasure and all of your other art. cheers ! 💕

omg thank you for your kind words!!!! 🥺💞💞 Totally agree the bd fandom has so many great artists and writers(almost makes you think where is the bd zine! 🤨 /hj) and I'm so elated that you were moved by my story!!! I'm more than happy to keep making art for this show hehe my hyperfixation hasn't passed by just yet. Cheers!!

[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.