#they mean an inordinate amount to me

[lilacthebooklover]

i got a drawing tablet, cower in the face of my wobbly hand

kindergarten toh doodles of my sillies <3

[torchickentacos]

Everyone talks shit on fanon, which I totally get sometimes and everyone's entitled to their opinions. That said, I think there is something special about how some details were never even HINTED AT in canon, yet everyone seems to adopt it as fanon anyways with no reason to. It's not even extrapolated, it's truly out of nothing, but everyone went 'yeah, sure' about it anyways. I mostly love it with tiny random details that hold no bearing. Just insignificant things that, for some reason, everyone agreed on. Like, a character's coffee order, or the kind of car they'd drive, or how neat or messy they are. It's so neat to see fanon develop little idiosyncrasies like that, especially when it's not traceable to any one popular work or canon moment and it seems to have just been widely adopted from nothing but collective vibes. I think it's really cool!

[erstwhilesparrow]

limited life fic recs

Not really more of theme to this one than "Hey, check out this good good writing!" Been meaning to do this one for. Um. A while. Did my best not to repeat authors. If you're on this and don't want to be, let me know and I'll remove yours!

Fics On AO3:

Sundown; astronomeridian - Nobody fucks on the page in this one but you know it's gonna happen. The various alliances of Limited Life settle down for the night and talk around or about having sex. Really incredible character voice the whole way through (made particularly impressive by the fact that Every Character Is In This).

Gallant; zornographic - Grian/Etho-centric Knight AU, in which Grian, badly injured and fleeing for his life, runs into Etho, a strange knight offering to help him, in order to pay back a favour Grian did for him long ago. Really gorgeous turns of phrase applied with perfect precision, and lovely glimpses of a much bigger world that is alive and specific, that the characters feel genuinely rooted in.

Close to Your Chest; foxgloveblue (cornflowerdye) - Canon divergence where Joel and Etho are the last two standing at the end of Limited Life. The visual details in this one make it downright cinematic -- you can see the wreckage of the Bread Bridge, the light falling on them both. Special commendation for the characterization here too: Joel and Etho both clearly know each other well enough that it give us access to both of them in fun and interesting ways.

everything anyone ever ignored; Sixteenthdays - AU where when you kill someone, you get some of their traits. Really really fun for (1) quick, sharp prose and (2) glimpses into each of the character's unique experiences with Being In Their Body. There's a relentlessness that matches the vibes of Limited Life itself really well.

the lamb & the knife; errorryx - Cleo tells Pearl they're going to summon a goddess of war, and Pearl thinks about summoning something for herself. It's good fun! Admittedly, my idea of 'good fun' is mild body horror and considerations of animal and human sacrifice, but also fun are Pearl and Cleo's usual contentious relationship, and Pearl's usual degree of getting herself into trouble.

tempering; farrondoc - Grian/Etho platonic kink around Etho being Grian's sword! Captures their characters really well in a very short space.

Cam-account Parenting; litbynosun - Bdubs and Scar have been mysteriously and abruptly turned into little kids. Cleo has to handle this while chat fervently discusses what's going on in the background. Banger fic, script format with some fun bonus touches, great character voices, excellent fandom commentary on the horrors of being a woman in MCYT spaces.

Poison; jabberwockysoda - Etho takes up smoking; he and Cleo argue about it. Vibes of "we know and dislike each other but there is an intimacy and comfort in the knowing and the disliking" -- a very particular, almost worn-down tone that is set immediately and then maintained the whole way through.

fulgurite; Thunderbirds_and_Lightning - The Bad Boys' deaths. One of my all-time favourite depictions of the Limlife timers and one of my favourite endings to a Limited Life fic too. Lots of wonderfully creative imagery that draws on popular fanon without directly copying it; very fun.

With Soul Intent; salemoleander (heartbeatsinreverse) - Canon divergence where everyone's clocks stop in the middle of the game. Hilarious. Pitch-perfect character voice. Every beat hits. salemoleander is also on Tumblr and has a few Tumblr-exclusive Limited Life ficlets that are awesome, but which I could not include on this list due to rules of my little game. Check 'em out!

the here and now; doctorletmebebrace - Joel wakes up at home, on Empires S2, after his final death. Jimmy's there, and they talk. Makes me really tender about them, for all that they spend most of it arguing. Full of grief and regret and so much love.

Fics On Tumblr:

(Note: In cases where a fic has been posted both on AO3 and on Tumblr, I've linked the version that's on AO3. These are the ones I couldn't find on there.)

[Knives and forks clink against the dinner plates]; wisepuma23 - Boogeyman Impulse tries to sit through a normal meal with the rest of TIES. Forever and always a big fan of the intermingling of domesticity and violence, and the visceral onomatopoeia makes this really fun background drumbeat to Impulse's narration.

["Do you have a clock yet?"]; dmwrites - Impulse gives Bdubs a clock, and Cleo makes an addition. It's sweet! It also makes me sad. Good thoughts re: Impulse's relationship to Bdubs over time, from both Cleo and Impulse's perspectives.

[What are you?]; the-amber-shadow - The Watchers hound Martyn for an answer to the question of what his symbol is going to be after he wins Limited Life. I think this one's fun both as a historical artifact (what did we as a fandom consider for symbols, and thus how did we interpret/emphasize different parts of Martyn's victory), and I'm a big fan of metafic. Martyn arguing with Watchers-as-audience is a great way to do it!

[Gem Cleo watches Scott leave]; jellieland - Gem in Cleo's body has a chat with Martyn, and Martyn tells her something about why he teamed with Scott this time around. jellieland is a fantastic writer whose fics are invariably fascinating, well-written, and insightful, and I do recommend you check them all out, but I had to pick this one because I read it and could almost physically feel something clicking into place in my head -- everything I have written about Martyn+Cleo since this has been influenced by this fic.

[Joel's gone soft on him]; zedif-y - Jimmy reflects on this new side of Joel he's started seeing this season, while petting Joel's hair. It's soft. It's nice. Joel gets to take a nice nap and cuddle with Jimmy and Jimmy gets to think about all the things he knows about Joel.

[Joel dies with blood in his mouth]; alittlebirb - Joel dies. He's furious about it, and then he's not. Love the wild, frenetic energy of this one trailing off into something quieter, something like resignation -- fantastically paced.

[Bigb watches Grian for a while]; theminecraftbee - Bigb watches Grian do something that definitely isn't mourning, and definitely doesn't understand it. You don't know what an agony it was to have to narrow this down to Just One Theminecraftbee Fic. But I'm sure you could've guessed that. The thing that gets me about this one is Bigb and Grian have such history and see such interesting facets of each other, and their team-up in Limlife is this resigned kind of "Okay. This is what we're doing now." The melancholy is excellent.

Mean Gills Quarantine Zone:

(I like Mean Gills. A lot. So I have a lot of fic recs focused on them. So that's why this section. This should all be AO3 fics?)

Stop; KieIsWrite - After the end of Limited Life, Martyn tries to reckon with the aftermath of his actions. There are corpses. Things get grim. Scott's ghost is there, maybe. This one's horror, so mind the tags, but the horror comes in slow and quiet, and very interesting things are happening with the blurring of bodies-as-death and bodies-as-erotic.

hold the night; solarcafe - Scott and Martyn cuddle. That's it, that's the whole fic. Sweet, charming fluff!

Hush hush; WhyB - After moving the beds down into their secret base, Scott gets a little comfort and Martyn gets a little absolution. The Scott and Martyn hurt/comfort fic of your dreams! Hits every beat perfectly, and really, this author just does good hurt/comfort in general for every fandom they're in. Check 'em out!

I want to say I'm sorry for stuff I haven't done yet; the_hypercube - Scott and Martyn have a tense conversation over breakfast, while the ghosts of the Third Life alliances haunt them (figuratively). I love the thread of uneasiness running through this whole thing, pulling tighter and tighter but never getting to a breaking point. I love all the little domestic gestures against the backdrop of [This Is A Death Game And Things Are Getting Bad].

Requiescat; enemyofrome - Martyn walks out of the end of Limited Life and finds Ren, building the ice boat course on Hermitcraft. Martyn's not entirely free of the Watchers, of Scott, of his time in the games, but he and Ren will work it out. This is in the quarantine zone because I have to confess a disproportionate amount of my adoration for this fic is because of the excellent codependent Mean Gills, but the rest of it is because it is tender and well-characterized and beautifully written.

ears pressed to the floor; GoodTimesWithScar - Scott catches Martyn sewing the Dogwarts banner for his red life skin. Wonderfully melancholy, even as Scott and Martyn fall into their usual banter. I like how lonely it feels, even when they're standing right in front of each other -- they've got separate histories to contend with.

the cut of your love; soapflowers - Selkie AU! Martyn has Scott's pelt locked in a chest in his basement, and this is Fine. Really really good at maintaining a tenuous balance where nothing drastic has happened, but they both keep flirting with the precipice. The tags on this include Implied/Referenced Kidnapping, Abuse, Non-Sexual Intimacy, and Gaslighting, and that is enticing to me, but I know it isn't to everyone, so mind the tags!

Call Me What You Like; orphan_account - A study of Scott's perspective on his relationship to Martyn, with some (a lot of) pining. Everyone's having a miserable time, except me; I'm pointing at this and going, "Ough!! A Mean Gills dynamic of all time in this one for sure!!" Delightful juxtaposition of physical closeness with emotional distance.

[daisywords]

"low-fat" this, "low-cal" that, "oh use cauliflower rice instead," "zero carb zero fat zero meat zero dairy zero calories" how about stop taking the food out of my food. satiety is not that easy to achieve for some of us. blease I'm so hungry

[megaerakles]

Au where the Batfam gets the “glowing numbers that indicate their kill counts” over their heads and everyone is freaking out cause at least Tim’s and Dick’s are way higher than anyone expected, Class’s is greater than thr one she knows about so she’s really distraught, and Damian, raised assassin Damian, is somehow the lowest

And then eventually someone squashed a spider and their number goes up and they figure out that it’s the number of spiders they’ve killed and Damian ALWAYS insists on doing the “cup and paper release back to the outside world” method

[habibialkaysani]

ngl I kinda really miss the days when I had beta readers. like just being able to bounce ideas off them, not feeling like I was bothering them w writing or sending them a chapter to read. and the thing is I can't just have any beta reader, it has to be someone who's familiar with my writing style and the characters etc but also??? somehow needs to be someone who I can send shitty first drafts to and not feel like I want to die seeing how shitty it is??

idk why I'm thinking about this now, maybe bc I just reread my multichapter engagement fic and have Observed it could have really used a beta bc there are certain passages that are in desperate need of editing. but also I've written myself into a bit of a corner with my latest chapter of my latest fic and need a second opinion yet I have no fucking clue who to ask for said opinion.

[poultryleg]

i think i actually hate him

[scealaiscoite]

halloween prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🎃 ꒱

-ˏˋ. dialogue ˊˎ-

⋆ "what do you mean you've never gone trick-or-treating?!"

⋆ "i really appreciate that you're getting into the halloween spirit, but it's ten in the morning. please turn off the slasher films so i can eat my breakfast in peace."

⋆ "ah, you've made the mistake in thinking that just because this is a couples/family costume that you get any kind of say in it. you don't, actually."

⋆ "i love you, i swear i do, but we're not wearing matching costumes."

⋆ "do you remember what happened the last time you tried to carve a pumpkin?! we'll get laughed out of a&e if i have to haul you down there over this again."

⋆ "you're like the toughest person i know! am i really supposed to believe that a horror film is enough to have you cowering into my lap?"

⋆ "stop squirming, you're gonna mess up your face paint!"

⋆ "not to rain on your parade or anything, but since when are gingerbread haunted houses a thing?"

⋆ "please, i'm begging you. don't make me watch the nightmare before christmas again."

⋆ "should i be worried that you know how to replicate fake blood this well? i probably should be, right?"

⋆ "come on, if there was ever a time for me to be superstitious it's definitely now."

-ˏˋ. actions / scenarios ˊˎ-

⋆ carving pumpkins together

⋆ having a scary movie marathon

⋆ going to questionable lengths to decorate their house/apartment

⋆ passing out candy to trick-or-treaters

⋆ throwing a halloween party

⋆ going to a carnival / fair

⋆ comforting the scaredy cat amongst them

⋆ putting an inordinate amount of effort into planning their costume

⋆ going to a pumpkin patch

⋆ laying wide awake at night after watching a horror movie that left them unnerved

[arkangelo-7]

It’s funny to me that Tim Drake shares all the traits of a toxic ex-boyfriend.

Stalker tendencies? Tim spent years keeping tabs on and stockpiling an inordinate amount of information on Bruce Wayne.

Doesn’t know when “no” means “no”? When Bruce declined Tim’s offer to be Robin, because he didn’t feel emotionally stable enough for that commitment, Tim straight up ignored him and did it anyway.

Keeps trying to get back with you even though you’ve moved on? He literally cloned his dead boyfriend. Enough said.

Always overreacts? When Bruce got lost in the time stream, instead of just waiting for Batman to do his thing like a normal person, Tim decided to go on a extremely perilous mission across the globe even after everyone told him to maybe calm the fuck down.

Is always the source of drama? Tim literally cannot stop himself from fucking with Ra’s al Guhl, it’s like one of his main character traits.

Lies about things, and may be in trouble with the law? Need I remind of the fact that Tim forged government documents in order to make it appear that he had an uncle? No?

But, yes. You get it.

[ctimenefic]

i’m obsessed w ur mean dom george and his boy scout knots, even more so w the events of this weekend and the weird amount of flirting him and max have been doing recently!! i could totally be barking up the wrong tree with gax vibes but they have been really fun this year

Okay forgive me nonny for typing directly into the answer box, the typos will be horrendous, but I'm in a tiny french café right now and unfortunately dom george gax has seized my mind so:

Max Verstappen propping up the VIP bar at the Bellagio is not George's problem at 9.04 on Monday, when his hangover is beating a tattoo between his eyebrows that even his largest pair of sunglasses can't hide. His GPDA hours are strictly 9-5, Wednesday through Sunday. On Mondays, he gets peace, he gets quiet, he gets to order precisely one hair of the dog Bloody Mary and crunch through the celery in private.

Max orders another gin and tonic without tearing his eyes from the door, and George sighs.

He'd texted himself, last night, somewhere between the first club and the second. Assumed, naturally, that Danny's one-man tour of the US would have to hit Vegas for Max's fourth, even if he was conspicuously absent from the race itself. But when he checks now, there's still no reply.

His "G'morning" rumbles out, frightfully inarticulate, throat still whisky-burnt. Max spares him a bleary glance.

"Is it?" He sounds dopey drunk. His mouth looks sticky. George's mum loves a G&T too; she used to tuck him in at night, suddenly fond and warm and cuddly, and the smell would tickle his nose, comforting and disorienting in equal measure. It's never the gin that lingers, always the lime and the lemon. Max should switch to Hendricks, with its cucumber twist. It would suit him better.

"Are you staying here?" he asks. Max blinks, makes a nod that's half a shrug. Good enough. "Are you packed? When's your flight?"

"It's my plane," Max says mulishly, like he hasn't got at least three friends - or maybe it should be colleagues at this point - booked in for AirMax. Not George, of course. George is travelling with Toto. He's quite looking forward to it, ten hours in quiet approval, thumbing through The Times on an iPad, starting from the Sport section.

He doesn't bother pointing out the obvious, but he does allow himself a couple of disapproving tuts. It's surprising when Max's shoulders curl, slightly, a flush crawling up from under the collar of his hideous team jacket.

George checks his watch. He's got time, he supposes, to play the good Samaritan.

(When Max's red eyes flick back to the door, he thinks he might've done it anyway, his fifteen minute buffer be damned)

"Let's get you to bed, then, shall we?" It doesn't take much to haul Max upright. They're all easy enough to throw about, if you've got the strength. But he's not expecting Max to tuck into his side, nod into his shoulder and chest.

He manoeuvres them both to the lifts with minimal interruption, which is a relief. Max is more pliable than at the bar, but practically useless. He's on one of the keycard-only floors, because of course he is, four time champ and maddeningly casual about it. George has to rummage through his pockets for it; Max makes an insultingly shocked noise when George slides long fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. "Don't get excited," he scolds.

Something twitches under his fingertips. The firm hard line of the keycard is nudged into his grip.

George raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin, and turns to tap it, secure their no-stop ride through a ludicrous number of floors.

Then he spins back, and Max's inordinately large mouth is fastened to his jaw.

Detaching him takes some effort. "We are going to bed," Max argues, as George cranes his neck away.

The lifts had seemed too big before, American big, a fun house of mirrors exaggerating the gilt and gaud of it all. Now he could do with a couple of square miles more between him and the drunk determined look in Max's eye.

He's looking straight at George, but not like he's ever looked at him before. There's nothing to recognise in those eyes.

("I saw Max in the bar," he'll tell media in three days, a wry smirk on like cheap perfume. "But he didn't see me." And then he'll get the recognition he wants, surprise and a flicker of heat, quickly doused. A bit mean, to do it for the cameras. But he'll know by then, that Max likes it mean.)

"No," he says now. He fits his hand across Max's chest, between the swell of his pecs. Palm against his sternum, thumb and fingertips pressed to his collarbones. The span of it makes Max look small. His eyes have gone lidded.

"No," he says again, and presses firmly. Max is lax against the mirrored wall, mouth still open. Drunk, but neither of them are passing a sobriety test right now. George's driver is probably getting a coffee right now, checking the time. George won't make him wait. He's considerate like that.

Four floors zip by in quick succession.

"Not until I say," he tells Max, firm. Forgiving.

He steps into Max's space slowly. Makes him wait, straining against the pressure of George's hand, until he deigns to lean down and lick into that gin-sour mouth.

Max is sloppy, uncoordinated. George keeps his hand where it is but lets Max grab at his waist, his arse. He grinds like a puppy when George slips a thigh between his, but his dick's either even smaller than the paddock gossip says, or suffering from one too many doubles.

It doesn't matter. It's always been enough for George to be wanted. To grant, or withhold.

It doesn't even sting now, when they're surprised to want him. All of his victories will always be a shock.

He stops Max from straying up his jawline or down his neck. He doesn't want to spend his flight sticky, grime against the prickle of a fresh shave. Keeps it to kissing, a light nip at Max's bee-stung bottom lip when he gets pushy.

He's got one eye on the dial, though, so when the door opens on Max's floor, with its implausible colonnade, George has stepped back, just a friendly finger and thumb holding Max's chin. The blue of his irises has almost disappeared behind the black of his pupil.

"Bed," George orders, sharp, and Max stumbles out with more speed than George thinks he'd get sober. Sober Max would fight all the way down; it'd take hours to get him sweet. It'd be time well spent.

He follows at his own pace, pleased to see Max holding the door open for him, hands shoved deep into his pockets in a poor show of casualness. It's lost the second George steps inside and Max is on him again, fingers scrabbling to pull George's shirt out of his pressed slacks.

When he pushes Max off this time, he wraps his hand against the base of his throat. Squeezes, just a little.

"Shirt. Jeans. Off. Bed," he orders, clipped and quiet. Max looks delightful when they hit home, stunned and open and young. George quite badly wants to put his thumb on Max's tongue, watch him drool around it. But he's being good; he's got a plane to catch. He holds himself still for the clumsy minutes it takes Max to comply, waits until Max is flat on the bed, duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed.

Bless him, he's still soft in his boxers. But his face is enough for George to know.

Daniel had liked it too, when George had put him on his back and told him to stay still. That cocky grin wiped off his face for a long minute, brown eyes blown wide. Maybe that's their problem, Max and Danny. No one to give the orders.

He allows himself just this: a trail of fingers, up the length of Max's leg, over the meat of his thigh, the softness of his stomach. A flick against a hard nipple, and a light chuckle at the full body jerk Max makes under him.

And then, with a flourish worthy of a Vegas magician, he yanks the duvet up to Max's neck. "Sleep it off, you madman."

Max's fury is a series of choked, inarticulate noises George would relish extracting in other circumstances. Luckily, Max has not regained any of his mobility; he fights against the duvet, but George has easily enough time to tuck himself up against his waistband, hidden by the fall of his trousers, and make it to the door.

"Congratulations again," he throws back, before it closes behind him. He finds he means it.

He's on the pavement, monogrammed carry on in hand, just as his driver pulls up. He makes a note to tell Alex, with some elisions. He could use a reminder of the value of punctuality.

There's a sign on the freeway, just before the airport. "What happens in..." and so on. Somehow, he's not convinced Max will see it that way come Qatar. But-

It lingers, the sight of Max's face. Not spitting angry, or dumb with lust, the need to submit. But tired and empty and hopeful nonetheless, eyes fixed on the entrance of the bar.

Disappointed not to see you in Vegas, he texts Daniel as Toto and Susie settle in opposite him. You should make it up to me.

That, Danny replies to.

to my winner? 👅👅💦

Yes, George types. Both of us.

[forever-rogue]

Hi, I love your blog so much it's amazing.

I was wondering if you could write some Joel Miller being jealous? Like they're in some kind of relationship but Joel doesn't want to put a word to it and arrive to some camp and a guy from there is trying to flirt with reader but she just has eyes for Joel, could be the first I love you confession from him, to make things official between them? Fluff because my heart can't handle anything else :').

AN | Jealous!Joel? Okay, okay, I see you!

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language

Word Count | 2.5k

Masterlist | Joel, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Joel Miller wasn’t a relationship type of guy; he hadn’t been for a long time and it seemed pointless to start now. And that’s exactly how you found yourself in a sort of relationship with him…a situationship if you will. 

He also wasn’t the jealous type either. You weren’t his girlfriend, or his partner, or what have you. You happened to be another person living in Jackson that he spent an inordinate amount of time with and had sex with. Lots of sex…he liked to think of it as stress relief. Yeah. That’s it - stress relief. Everyone could use some of that given the current state of the world. 

But, in conclusion, you weren’t anything more to him than anyone else. 

So why did he experience a definitely-not-jealous-feeling deep in the pit of his stomach when he saw you talking to one of Jackson’s newcomers?

He wasn’t jealous. No. Nope. Definitely not. 

He just wanted to strangle any man that talked to you, or looked in your direction. It was a totally normal reaction…or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Joel?” you found him stalking through downtown and had rushed to catch up with him. You hadn’t seen him in the last couple of days and when you had he’d barely spoken a word or even graced you with a look. 

You could see his shoulders stiffen for a moment but he slowed his stride so you could catch up with him. You quickly fell into stride, but you could sense that he was in a mood. You nudged your arm against his and he grunted in response, “what?”

“What?” you parroted back at him, frowning in response, “or like what’s been up with you lately?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” the man was stubborn beyond measure sometimes. You huffed and waited for him to expand but he refused to give in to you, “been busy.”

“Busy,” he refused to look at you, but he could feel you glowering at him, “we’re all busy, Miller. That doesn’t mean we don’t make time for each other.”

“You expect me to make time for you?” his twang came out as he stopped suddenly and you almost tripped over your own feet as you stopped as well. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, head cocked to the side. Your expression clearly said duh, “and just why would I do, sweetheart?”

“You’re being a jerk,” you pushed his shoulder, gently, although you doubted you could really do much damage to him, even if you wanted to, “last time I checked I thought we enjoyed spending time together. But over the past few days you’ve had such a-a bee in your bonnet.”

“Last time I checked I didn’t owe you anything,” and oh. Those words definitely stung, “we aren’t anything.”

“Oh wow,” you were hurt, but you weren’t about to let him know how much, “that’s rich coming from you. I don’t know what your problem suddenly is, but if you’re going to be a jerk, you can fuck off. And next time you need something, don’t bother knocking at my door. But if you decide to get over whatever this is, or want to talk to me like a grown man, you know where to find me.”

Your reaction had left him stunned; he knew you could hold your own when you needed to, but you’d never talked to him like that before. In that moment you definitely weren’t that soft, sweet girl he’d grown to love. Love. But he’d never admit it; truthfully he might not have even come to that realization just yet.

You stomped away, leaving him standing there and staring after you, a dismal expression on his face. He might have been a quiet man, but he wasn’t often left speechless. You’d just managed to do so.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You made it a point to avoid him over the next couple of days, figuring that if he really wanted to make things right he would come to you. You missed him, admittedly, but decided to throw yourself into doing things around town to keep your mind occupied. 

That’s how you’d gotten to know the newcomers to Jackson. There were a few women and teenagers, along with some men. For the most past, they were all kind and wanted to keep out wherever they could. 

One of the duties you least liked was being put in charge of one of the community gardens. You had a green-thumb adjacent at best, and didn’t want to be the only one responsible for any bad vegetables or fruits, so you had recruited Max, one of the newbies, to assist you. If you were going down, he was coming right along with you.

You liked Max, so far. He was around your age, handsome in a tall, dark, and roguish way, with a nice smile and good sense of humor. And, unlike men had done since the dawn of time, he didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. So, you had decided, he was going to be your friend. 

“You’re horrible at this,” Max laughed as you fumbled around with some tomato vines, trying to get the ripe fruit without destroying anything else, “how are you making this so difficult?”

“Shut up,” you groaned but it quickly turned into a laugh as you fell onto your bottom from how you were teetering and crouching. You managed to knock the whole plant down (sorry tomatoes), “oops.”

Max had dropped the small shovel he had been working with, head thrown back as he laughed, “and you’re clumsy on top of it. I’ll remember that for the future.”

You grabbed a small handful of soil and threw it over at him, “bold of you to assume that we’re ever hanging out again after this. You’re bullying me!”

“So dramatic,” he snorted in amusement as he brushed off the dirt and came over to you, offering you his hand to help you to your feet, “come on, I’ll let you bully me in return.”

You took his hand and he gently hoisted you to your feet. You almost stumbled into him, but caught yourself by putting your hands on his shoulders as his found purchase on your waist. You looked at him in surprise and he smiled softly, causing you to relax. He was so close, and pretty, and nice, and you could just lean in and kiss him. Max must have been thinking the same thing because he started to lean in too. A shiver of excitement ran down your spine, until-

“Get your hands off of her,” the two of you jumped apart at the sound of his very angry voice. Your face flushed with warmth, a combination of being caught red-handed and annoyance because you weren’t technically doing anything wrong. Max’s glance shifted over to Joel and then back to you, “now take a step back.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed at him, “why are you here, Joel?”

“Are you two…?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

At the sound of Joel’s answer your eyes widened in surprise as your jaw almost dropped to the ground. Max held up his hands in a sign of surrender as he started to slowly back away, “hey man, I didn’t know she was your girl.”

“Don’t worry Max,” you offered him an apologetic look, “I didn’t know that either.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll see you around,” he said sheepishly, “bye!”

He almost ran off, leaving the two of you there, the tension so thick. After a moment you turned towards him and shook your head. You weren’t quite sure what to say so you decided to just walk past him, but not before giving him a full glare, “you’re such a dick sometimes. First you shove me away like I’m nothing and now you act like I’m yours. How about I make the final decision? We, you and I, are done. Whatever you want to call it, it’s over. Maybe then you can figure out your own feelings.”

But the man wasn’t about to just let you go. No, that was not his style. 

His fingers wrapped around your wrist and his strong grip kept you from walking away. 

“Stay,” he insisted gruffly, causing you to pout in that way that always made his knees weak. 

“Why? Are you going to apologize?”

He remained silent and you could see that the answer to that was clearly no. You huffed as you pulled your hand out of his and started to walk away. He remained silent as he watched you go. He could have just said everything he wanted to and gotten it all out there but…he’d chickened out. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, “fuck.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t run into Joel again for almost a week. You wondered if it was partly him avoiding you or you just didn’t happen to cross paths. Jackson was only so big; you knew the truth. 

But as your feelings would have it, you really, really missed the man. He’d become such an important and vital part of your life and not having him around felt like you were missing a huge part of your heart.

When you decided that you couldn’t take it anymore, you made a plan to take matters into your own hands. You left your place and made the short trek over to his, knocking on the door loudly. He was home; you could see the light and if he had sort of sense, he would open the door. 

After a few long moments of buzzy anticipation, you heard his familiar footsteps come towards the door. He opened it slowly and his brown eyes widened when he saw that it was you. He was a mixture of confused and happy.

“What are you…?” he didn’t get the opportunity to finish his question, instead watching as you made your way inside, brushing past him and causing sparks to shoot down his spine. 

“Can we just talk?” you were already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you looked at him softly. You couldn’t help it; you were a sucker for this man.

“Yes,” he agreed, coming in and mirroring your position on the other side of the counter. You wanted to be made, or at the very least annoyed, but you couldn’t find it in your heart, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Which part?” if he thought you were letting him off easily, he was so wrong, “the part where you said we were nothing, or the part where you changed your mind - unilaterally I might add - and decided we were something?”

“Both,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh, “I was an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “you were. What changed your mind?”

“That kid,” you could see the tick in his jaw as he frowned deeply. Ahhh. Yes, you knew exactly what was going on; Joel Miller was jealous. He just wasn’t going to admit it in those terms. 

“His name is Max,” okay, maybe now you were just doing it to get a rouse out of him, “and he’s perfectly nice. He was just helping me.”

“He wanted to do a little more than help,” the man tore his gaze from you and huffed. 

“Joel Miller, you’re jealous,” your smile was practically stretching from ear to ear as you beamed at him, “just admit it! That’s what all this has been about?”

“I’m a grown ass man,” he sounded anything but, “I don’t get jealous.” 

“Okay, so you weren’t jealous just…something incredibly like it?” you asked. He shrugged dismissively in response but gave away no emotions or anything, “huh, that’s interesting.”

“It’s not, no. I’m not the-”

“I get jealous too sometimes,” you admitted sheepishly, hiding your face in your hands, embarrassed to admit it out loud, “when those women practically throw themselves at you. Makes me want to…I don’t know, show them you’re mine.”

“What are you-”

“You’re such a man,” you flopped your head to the side, “those women - and men - love you. You’re sexy, and smart, and lots of other things, but apparently so oblivious. But I guess that doesn’t matter though.”

“What do you mean?” he was leaning closer now and you could smell his familiar scent; it made you want to curl up with him and let him swallow you whole.

“You said we weren’t anything so,” ugh. You wished you didn’t get so emotional over this, “it doesn’t matter what I think or want. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

“I lied,” and it was oh so hard for him to admit that, “that day. I was just…mad - not at you. I just thought, when I saw you with all the new people, that you liked them and they were all over you, especially that one kid-”

“Max.”

“Max,” he didn’t like the taste of the name in his mouth, “I just figured you’d want someone like that and not me.”

“You’re a fool,” you shook your head in disbelief, “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“I never…putting labels on things seems trivial,” he whispered, “how can what you mean to me be summed up with one word? I just never thought about it; it never meant you didn’t mean everything to me.”

"I…" you felt a prickling at the back of your eyes that caused you to try and blink it away, "do you mean that?"

"Yes," he reached over, hesitantly at first before settling his hand on your face  brushing your tears away with his thumb, "I mean it. You're very…important to me."

"You're important to me too," you put your hand on top of his and gave it a gentle, tender squeeze, "we don't have to put labels on anything. Just as long as we're on the same page about everything."

"You're mine," he promised and you felt yourself practically glowing. His words made you feel all warm and fuzzy, butterflies fluttering in your tummy. You nodded happily, "I know I'm not great with a lot of things but I do love you. I hope you know that."

"Hmm," you hummed as you closed your eyes contentedly, "I love you, even if you're a stubborn, tough man."

"Enough to accept my apology?" he had his answer already but needed to hear you say it. You rolled your eyes playfully.

"I suppose," you leaned in closer and smiled softly.

"Enough to let me kiss you?"

"Definitely."

[grandlinedreams]

|| special thanks to @miloonmetis for this specific brand of rot on discord yesterday lmao and happy fingering friday to my bbs iykyk

[Heads up!: inappropriate joke about Law's fingers, fingering (reader recieving), oral (also reader recieving), kinda mean dom Law]

You spend an inordinate amount of time staring at Law's hands. They're pretty, after all, almost as pretty as the man himself. Long, slender ㅡ with the letters of 'DEATH' tattooed on them in dark ink against tanned skin.

You toy with his fingers, curling and uncurling them, feeling the delicate work of the tendons and veins beneath. Your fingertips dance between the gaps, then you sigh. "You know, about these fingers of yours..."

"Hm." Law, having tuned you out about fifteen minutes ago, does not pay much attention to the deliberate bend of his fingers under your control.

"I think I'd like you to do these three to me." You wait patiently for him to drag his attention off of his text book review and to his hand. The index, middle and ring are extended out, pinky and thumb bent.

'EAT', it spells, and it takes Law a good minute and a half to register that, then what you're implying. You grin wickedly as color flushes his face.

"Oh."

He does as you ask, though. He's nothing if not a generous lover in terms of what you can ask for ㅡ what he gives you is an entirely different story.

"Close? Already?" His tone is teasing, hard edge of something else in his voice as 'e' and 'a' curl within you. His head tilts as you writhe, hips rocking to meet his shallow thrusts into your warmth as best you can when his other hand is trying to pin you to the bed. "Come on, you can take another finger, can't you?"

It's equal parts condescension as it is genuinely a question, and your cheeks burn for how eagerly your body responds to his words. You nod, and Law's lips curl. "That's what I thought."

The breach of his third finger aches in the best of ways, makes you whine as your cheeks burn, heart hammering and tummy clenching at how close your orgasm is.

And then Law stops. 'E', 'a', and 't' halt their delicious stretch inside you, the denial of your orgasm a cold bucket of water as you gasp, half-worded pleas spilling from your throat. "Keep going, please, please, I was so close ㅡ"

"Hush." Law's lips meet your thigh, pressing against the soft swell of skin, admiring the plush expanse as sticky fingers curl against you ㅡ and then his tongue is against your hot, achy center, and you almost wail in relief.

This too is something Law is familiar with, follows every jerk and twitch of your body as he curls his tongue, kneads at your thighs in comfort even as your orgasm begins to crescendo once more.

This time you anchor a hand in his hair, yanking hin closer to you ㅡ thighs squeezing in a bid to make him stay. He isn't going anywhere though, renewing his efforts as your noises pitch higher before you still against him, yanking as you cum.

Law lets you ride it out, waits until your hand eases up in his hair to pull away and peer at you from just below your groin. "Can you take another?"

It's clear what he means for the way he looks at you as if he's going devour you, and you shiver breathlessly before you nod, preparing yourself for a very long night.

[lilac-gold]

AAAAAH THANK YOU!! <33

I am the biggest Rococo fan confirmed, he's my weirdo and I love him :D

Congrats everyone! You deserve this lol, and thank you to the creator of the quiz! This has been a lot of fun :]]

(Am I going to use this as an excuse to make endless more posts about him? Absolutely)

THE MOMENT A SMALL AMOUNT OF YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR: THE OMORI TUMBLR AWARDS WINNERS

What it says on the tin. This is a hella long list so imma put the winners under the cut. Also note that this is PART ONE of the winners since Tumblr can only allow 30 images per post. I'll reblog the rest

Okay first off, the winner for the biggest Omori fan is.....

@misty-wisp!!!!!

The winner for biggest Sunny fan is...

@biocrafthero!!!!!

The winner for biggest Aubrey fan is none other than...

@nonbinaryaubrey!!!!!!

The winner for biggest Kel fan is....

@alex-just-vibing!!!!!

The winner for biggest Hero fan is OH MY GOD IT'S

@omori-sv-au!!!!1!1

The winner for biggest Basil fan is....

@idontmakestuff!!!

The winner for biggest Mari fan is (unsurprisingly)

@ecstaticmari!!!!

The winner for biggest Stranger fan is ME jk it's

@ksenya-and-the-artistic-cucumber!!!!

The winner for biggest SOMETHING fan is...

@something-is-drunk!!!

The winner for biggest Sprout Mole fan is...

@omocat!!

The winner for biggest Boss fan is...

Basil OMORI!!!

The winner for biggest Ye Old Sprout fan is....

Nurses I guess!!!

The winner for biggest Pluto fan is....

@ksenya-and-the-artistic-cucumber!!!

The winner for biggest Captain Spaceboy fan is....

@beepbeeplettuce613!!

The winner for biggest Space Ex fan is....

@beepbeeplettuce613!!! Shocker!!!

The winner for biggest S

IT'S @kaz-kazoo

The winner for biggest Snaley fan is...

ME!!!!!!! YIPPEE

The winner for biggest Mr. Jawsum fan is...

Gator Guys!!!

The winner for biggest Humphrey fan is...

@grey-spark!!!

The winner for biggest Marina fan is....

The Diamonds!!!

The winner for biggest Molly fan is... Uh...

The winner for biggest Medusa fan is surprisingly:

The winner for biggest Download Window fan is..

Spamton G Spamton!!!

The winner for biggest Life Jam Guy fan is...

@ksenya-and-the-artistic-cucumber!!!

The winner for biggest Doughie/Daphne fan is...

@neonscented!!!!!

The winner for biggest Biscuit/Bowen fan is...

@neonscented!!!!

The winner for biggest Mewo fan is...

@deathbylag2!!!

The winner for biggest Hector fan is...

YOU!!!!

The winner for biggest Abbi fan is...

@idril-la-wiccan!!!

The winner for biggest BYC fan is ...

Sunny OMORI!!!!

ALRIGHT THAT'S IT FOR RN I'LL GET BACK TO YOU ON THAT

[wordy-little-witch]

Okay but One Piece being in the pirate era and the lack of a frankly inordinate amount of sea shanties hurts me. Like you know DAMN well Roger was a partier, Buggy and Shanks undoubtedly know an incredible amount of shanties, from their first crews, from the new crews, from exploring and seeing and experiencing the world so thoroughly from such a young age.

Shanks would be the type to belt them, top of his lungs, but always adhere to the Codes, though he does think on it for a moment. People think he'd be a pirate head to toe, through and through, and he is! Truly, he is. He just doesn't really live by the Code and die by the Code the way some of the older generation does.

Buggy, despite popular belief, is the one to cling to those Codes with all he has. It's subtle, in the way he hums certain songs to himself but never sings the full lyrics without Meaning. He will sing and dance and party with his crew, they will make merry but they will do so properly. He's avant garde and nouveau expressionism but he's also old fashioned.

When he finds out Shanks taught this scrawny rubber twink everything the kid knows about piracy through sporadic meetings over a year, nearing a decade ago, he is absolutely livid. The swordsman is stupid but has a decent head on his shoulders for behavior. The redhead, from what he sees, knows more than most. He decides to put class in session.

He's surprised to be beaten so thoroughly and then furthermore to be removed succinctly. He's not gonna let it slide, obviously, but he'll play along. Sure. Could be fun. He was getting bored anyway.

Shit just so happens to hit the fan with this decision and all that follow. Shanks, knowing the truth of things, is simply VERY amused and Buggy is debating fratricide.

He's been playing this role for so long, it feels unnatural to drop it. It feels wrong. It makes him panic, makes him Itch.

It only comes to a head years later as he's humming to himself late in the evening on a certain day in September, having spent a good chunk of the day on his own, away from company and to the surprise of very few. Crocodile and Mihawk are among those who do not know why, but they alone are the ones to look for him.

Finding Buggy, singing softly to an animal as he gently brushes out their fur, surrounded by calm animals who seem to nearly build a wall with their bodies between himself and the world, was not anticipated to either men. Nor was hearing Buggy's voice, usually so shrill and rasped, flow gently over a melody with a grief filled expression. Ritchie, among the ones closest, gently head butted the clown with soulful eyes. Mihawk and Crocodile simply watch, seeing Buggy groom and pamper the creatures within the stables this far from town as he sings a specific sequence of songs.

Mihawk realizes first just what they're witnessing, and he grips the logia user's arm, guiding them both back. Crocodile, startled, goes to ask, and Hawkeyes simply shakes his head sharply. It is only once they are far enough that Mihawk breaths a stunned, "He's performing Rites."

"What?"

"Rites," the swordsman reiterates, sending the other a suspicious look. "The Rites of the Code."

The mafioso takes a drag from his cigar, gesturing for the other to go on.

Mihawk sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I forget," he remarks dryly, "how uneducated in ours ways you are."

"Excuse me-?!"

"Rites," the other interrupts, "are a form of mourning. Frequency varies, and the honoring actions can be altered as well. The constant component are the shanties sung in remembrance and the flags flown. For some, a single instance can be sufficient..." Golden eyes drift to the side, unfocused, as he continues. "For others, there is a need to continue doing so. Often, it is a crew mourning a commanding officer. Unlike Marines, Pirates all share an unspoken connection. Though paths may vary and goals may differ, we all care Her in our veins."

Violet eyes love to the expanse of blue, the horizon bleeding across the world. He knew. He may lack some of the nuance of the Code from his priorities laying further inland, but he knew this. How could he not when his own blood sang salted sprays? He knew this much at the very least.

"So the clown is in mourning."

"Yes."

".... why?"

"...... ....... it is September."

"And?"

"The 28th."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You were there, too, 25 years ago. Loguetown."

Silence falls.

The wind rustles branches overhead. It carries the faintest wisps of a voice. The two men pointedly ignore it and the choked quality it had.

".... I see."

"..... yes. That is my theory, at any rate."

"............. Hawkeye."

"What?"

"He was on the King's crew."

"Yes, this has been established."

"Why?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Why him? Why the clown? He's not even 40 yet, so that day... he'd have been, what, 15, at the most? He'd have been on the crew for years by that point. He was there before the man was crowned, after all."

"Shanks was, as well. I believe the earliest mention was when he mentioned an incident from their childhood. He'd said they were... oh, what was it? Seven? Thereabouts. To be on a crew so young..."

"To be there so long, Hawkeye. The brat would have been with them since childhood. That crew was infamous for the things they did - the clown does not fit the pattern."

"He does not boast anything nearing the decorum expected of a fledgling of a King..."

"He knows the Codes, something never mentioned to us nor taught explicitly to his crew that we know of. He served under the King and kept it hidden from the world government for decades. He escaped the Grandline and settled as an East Blue nuisance for years. He was imprisoned in Impel Down with no sea stone."

Golden eyes widen. "You believe he has been hiding more than simply his heritage."

"What makes more sense? This, or what we have thought so far."

"How would we confirm it?"

"Just ask me, maybe?"

Neither man will admit to being startled when a new voice chimes in, soft and hoarse, drowsy. Buggy leans into Ritchie's side as the lion purrs loudly, the clown rubbing his eye.

He continues. "Tomorrow, though. It's late, I'm not feeling well, and Ritch and I have a date with my blanket nest."

"The lion?" / "Blanket nest?"

Buggy giggles softly. "Weighted blankets are expensive. Weighted Ritchies only cost snacks and chin scritches," he remarks softly. "As for the blankets, nests are the way to go. Good night."

Two dark haired men are left by a drowsy clown and lion in the woods on the edge of town with much to thing on and a list to compile for the next day.

The first question? How Mihawk had not sensed him whatsoever on approach.

[zenless-zideblog-zero]

ZZZ sexuality headcanons

Because everyone else seems to do it.

~Phaethon Sibs~

Wise: Biromantic (slight preference for women) Pansexual, but like Theater Kid Bi/Pan. He IS LGBT+, but he's so dramatic about it the only people he ends up falling in love with are those with big dramatic reveals and backstories (Lycaon, Caesar, ETC.)

Belle: Demi on both accounts. She finds herself falling for girls more often but to be fair, an inordinate amount of the people she's around are Girls.

She has some Trans Vibes™ to me, but also just as likely to be cis.

~The Cunning Hares~

Nicole: Likes Women, and Certain men. Aromantic, but willing to be in a romantic relationship.

Anby: Sex positive Asexual, Panromantic. She only recently figured this out since she escaped her mysterious past.

Billy: Okay, him being a Robot, even a sapient one, makes the whole Sexuality/Romanticism thing weird to consider, but given the fact he has some kind of attraction to Monica that seems to be deeper than an emotional infatuation, so like. Straight? But also I reserve the right to change this in the Future.

Nekomata: Okay, as a bisexual it's hard not to make everyone like both men and woman as a form of projection, but also. Shooting her with the Bisexual Beam™.

~Belobog Heavy industries~

Koleda: Pansexual Demiromantic.

Grace & Anton: I am putting these two together because I cannot begin to fathom what is going on inside these People's heads. Should either of them have a sexual and/or romantic partner, they won't care what their partner is, in a way that is impossible to distinguish between Bi/Pan/Omni/Etc and Asexuality.

Simultaneously, I can also see them both being DEEPLY Homosexual, OR in the vein of "HRT Hit me like Freight Train" trans, but not both gay and trans.

Ben: Either the straightest man ever or the least flamboyant gay man in history, because on one hand he's a Bear (Heavyset Hairy Man) and a Bear (Furry) but also he's the accountant, which means he likely was in Business classes in college. I have never met a gay person good at math.

~Victoria Housekeeping~

Lycaon: I think he is like, pan/Omni/etc, but he's so deeply uncomfortable with being open to those he doesn't know he seems like he's demi.

Rina: Again, as a bisexual it's hard not to make everyone like both men and woman as a form of projection. But also, *Bisexuality Beam*

Corin: She really hasn't put much thought into it, but to seem 'normal' her kneejerk reaction to such a question is to claim that she's straight, even though she's still very much figuring herself out.

Sapphic, with unclear feelings towards men.

Ellen: (BisexualProjection.TXT) Sapphic, but Demi with guys, sort of like how Nicole is described.

~Criminal Investigation Special Response Team~

Zhu-Yuan: Comfortably Pan, terribly single.

Qingyi: Same thing with Billy where it's different because she doesn't have "Organic" Impulses, but also she's lesbian.

Jane Doe: She's so deep into the "Flirty Femme Fatale" Persona that she's forgotten what her actual preferences are. When is the flirting real, and when is it a ploy? If it was real would it actually be for this Guy/Girl?

She lands somewhere between Lycaon and Corin's deals in this way. I don't Think it's that clear to her, let alone to anyone else. She just needs to be allowed to be honest with others to be true to herself, and figure it out again.

Seth: Sex-Neutral Ace, Panromantic. He WILL Cuddle you after and he WILL Make you breakfast in the morning.

~Sons of Calydon~

Caesar: Bi, heavily leaning towards men because that's mostly what she can find in her romance stories.

Lucy: (BisexualProjection.TXT) As a revolution against her dad, she went HARD into being a lesbian, but the freedom and kindness provided by the Sons have let her really consider her options. She does like women a LOT, but sometimes ... she wouldn't mind a guy treating her like the princess she wants to be.

BUT TO BE CLEAR. She is a Disaster Lesbian for Caesar specifically. Caesar is basically the pinnacle of Sexual Attraction to which she bases all other potential partners against. She does not realize this and it is part of the reason she fights Caesar so much because of the Weird Feelings™ She gets.

Burnice: Literal Flaming Homosexual. The MOST Lesbian. If the bad word for gay (F**) didn't already have the hitorical context for it's existence, Burnice would be the origin of it.

Piper: Also a lesbian. She had a wife ten years ago, but they've divorced. This cannot be surprising to anyone.

Lighter: GAY GAY HOMOSEXUAL GAY-

~Misc.~

Soukaku: A Child. Do not bother.

Soldier 11: A Good Soldier's only love is for their country, and their only marriage is to the code by which they live!

The amount of Psycho-sexual issues this Woman will have if she ever uncovers her own personhood will be Deep and Troubling. and HOT.

[atlantic-riona]

Though I Walk Through the Valley

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. A Catholic college student and a vampire take a trip to the Underworld. Shenanigans ensue. There are four parts.

I. A Visitor of the Vampiric Variety

I opened the door to find Malachy standing on the steps, one hand raised to knock. He looked about as surprised to see me as I was him, and after a few moments spent staring blankly at each other—vague remnants of thoughts regarding grocery lists and the possibility of afternoon naps still floating about my mind, Lord only knows what was circling his—he pulled himself together to give me a strained imitation of his usual annoying smirk. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”

I slammed the door in his face.

Honestly, upon later reflection, I should have left it like that. I still had no intention of getting mixed up in his world, even if Isa—well. My best friend and I were cautiously on speaking terms now, but the argument we’d had loomed forbiddingly in the background of every interaction, even though by silent, mutual agreement we didn’t acknowledge it.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door again, just a crack. “What.”

In the twilight shadows of evening, his slightly ominous expression would have sent shivers down any onlooker’s spine. Here in the warm afternoon sun, it merely looked out of place. “There’s a problem.”

“Yes, it’s called an irritating vampire refusing to get off my doorstep,” I retorted. “Was there something new, or…?”

“The Circle,” he said simply, and my blood ran cold.

“Goodbye,” I said, and shut the door firmly. I could hear him calling me through the door about needing my help, but I ignored this. And when I heard the windows rattling, I picked up my spray bottle, helpfully labeled “HOLY WATER,” and pointed it meaningfully (label side facing the window) in his general direction. He got the hint. At least I assumed he did, because the windows stopped rattling soon after.

Still, just in case, I went around the house, double-checking that all the windows and doors had crosses nailed above them, or rosaries wrapped around their handles. Call me paranoid, but I’d seen a lot of movies, and I was taking no chances.

I didn’t see Malachy for three days. And good riddance, said I. So when he showed up at my doorstep, looking inordinately pleased with himself, I certainly was not pleased myself.

I leaned against the door, which was open just a crack, and said clearly, “Go away.”

“Lili, you’ll want to hear this,” he said, grinning. Somehow he’d recovered his equanimity in the past three days, and I didn’t think it was for any reason I’d like.

The grin annoyed me. I pointed at the miniscule amount of space between the door and its frame, and said, “You see this? It’s about how much interest I have in whatever you’re about to say. And it’s only open so you can hear me tell you to go away, which means realistically my interest is much lower.” I had briefly considered shouting at him through the closed door, but regretfully had set that plan aside. I didn’t want him trying to crawl through the windows again.

“It’s about Isa,” he said. 

Through the opening, I gave him the old stinkeye.

He laughed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Did Isa send you?” I asked coldly, and not without a little pointedness.

His composure slipped a fraction. “No,” he admitted after a long minute. “I’m here without her knowing.”

I knew I’d regret this, but I still unhooked the chain and pulled it all the way open. “What is it, then?”

I had forgotten the secondary reason for keeping the door mostly closed, but it quickly sprang to mind when Theresa’s excited shriek from the living room deafened me. “Is that Malachy?”

“No,” I yelled back. “Go do your homework!”

But it was a fruitless endeavor to tell your little sister to do something as dull as solving for x when there was a live, breathing—well, dead and unbreathing—vampire at the front door, and it was doubly fruitless when said little sister had been obsessed with all things supernatural (especially the fanged variety) for years. Theresa came sprinting out of the living room, vaulting an armchair in her enthusiasm and skidding to a stop in her pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “Malachy!” she cried happily. “Come in, come in, I have so many questions!” She’d already nabbed a clipboard from somewhere and was now squinting through her glasses to locate a pen.

As the point I wanted to make was already moot—namely, that inviting vampires into your house traditionally never ended well—I settled for giving Malachy a stare of loathing as I removed the cross hanging over the door, before stepping out of his way. He, in turn, gave me a brilliant smile, one that prominently displayed his sharp white teeth, before stepping inside.

He clearly thought Theresa was cute, but easily brushed aside, since immediately after greeting her with amusement, he turned to me, as if to continue our earlier conversation. How quickly he’d forgotten! I didn’t feel motivated to disabuse him of his misunderstanding, so I merely settled back, arms crossed, to watch the show.

“You remember how we found out that Isa’s condition is because she’s a descendant of—” he began, but broke off with a startled look when Theresa briskly pinched his arm through the leather jacket he was wearing. “What the hell?”

“Language!” I hissed.

Theresa ignored the both of us, scribbling something down on her clipboard. “So you’ve got pain receptors,” she said, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “Which means your brain is capable of receiving and translating signals, even though it’s technically not alive, according to my research. Or is it alive? Does the blood you consume reanimate your life systems? Is that why you need to constantly replenish it?” She looked up inquiringly through the bright pink frames of her glasses at Malachy, who stared at her.

“Er—yes. I do need blood to…operate, as it were.” For the first time in my memory, he seemed discomfited.

Theresa nodded. “Right, blood’s very important to staying alive and operational, but it’s not really the only thing you need. How about oxygen? Do you need to breathe?”

He blinked at her, and then at me. Like I was going to rescue him from his flailing. I was enjoying myself too much. “To speak, mostly. And habit. I don’t actually require it.”

“Interesting.” Theresa scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, elbowing me when I tried to peer over her shoulder at what she’d written. “Then I wonder how you’re accomplishing cellular respiration. Of course, blood transports oxygen, so I thought that might be why vampires needed it, but if you don’t need to breathe, then how are you getting that oxygen? And how are your organs functioning? Or are they functioning? Are they rotting inside you right now?” She took a step forward, as if to start looking, and Malachy actually backed up a step.

“There will be no autopsies in this house,” I said loudly, “especially if you’ll be finding rotting organs. I just cleaned the carpets.”

“My organs are not rotting!”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, they probably are, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

“They are not—”

“I have a scalpel, we could check,” Theresa piped up, beaming. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your regeneration and healing capabilities, anyway.”

We both looked at her.

“How old is she?” Malachy asked me in an undertone.

“She’s turning twelve on Friday,” I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. “And speaking of, Theresa, if you want a party Friday afternoon, you’d better finish your homework ahead of time. You can bother Malachy afterwards.” I’d probably pay her to do it, if he was overstaying his welcome.

She gave me a pleading look. “Just a couple more questions?”

Behind her, Malachy was shaking his head no. I bestowed a beautiful smile on him, and told her, “Of course! You can have three.”

Theresa was physically incapable of sticking to three pre-planned questions. I let her herd him into the living room, talking at the speed that only middle-schoolers could achieve, and went into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

I came back out to find Malachy eyeing Theresa warily as she industriously wrote out calculations on her clipboard. He was sitting on one of the armchairs—the one that happened to be farthest from any doors or windows, I noticed. Coincidentally, these were all covered in crosses.

“Homework,” I said firmly, and she sent me a pleading look, but I shook my head at her, and she sighed. Collecting all of her things, she dragged herself out of the living room. As I set the vase down on the end table. I could hear her sadly thumping her way upstairs and into her room.

Malachy nodded at me, which was probably the closest I’d ever get to a “thank you” from him. Then he sniffed the air, and frowned over at the end table by the couch. “Is that…?”

I arranged the garlic flowers in the vase to display their purple petals a little more prominently. “Just testing out some questions of my own. Say, if I spilled some beans just now”—I had, there were a few on the floor by the couch—“would you feel compelled to clean them up?”

He had been regarding the garlic flowers with narrowed eyes, but turned away from his contemplation long enough to give me a scornful look. “I’m not a jiāngshī, am I?”

That piqued my curiosity. “There are different types of vampires?”

Malachy laughed. “As many as there are legends about them. Hollywood doesn’t have a copyright on the supernatural world, you know.”

“Great,” I muttered. So not everything I knew about vampires would apply to every one. Lovely. Guess I’d better start stocking beans in my purse alongside garlic and rosaries.

“That’s not really important right now,” he said, and I stared at the carpet. Normally Malachy never passed up the chance to mock my understanding of the supernatural world—if he was doing so now, the world must be ending soon. And I didn’t want any part in the trouble he’d probably brought with him, but on the other hand—Isa.

Just because my best friend had started dating a vampire—and been drawn further and further into a world that seemed bent on killing her—didn’t mean I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help her.

And right now, she wasn’t doing too well. Apparently, one of her direct ancestors had been attacked by a very powerful vampire, one who’d been thought to have perished ages ago. But now he’d resurfaced, and Isa was experiencing side effects from it. Odd dreams and lethargy being the least of them.

That was my understanding of the issue. The Circle had other ideas. 

“What’s the problem?”

“You remember the Circle,” he said, and I grimaced. Yeah, I remembered them—the organization of witches that basically wanted to run the supernatural world, and the ones who’d taken issue with some of my critiques of said world. It was kind of hard to forget, since Isa and I had fought over her decision to work with them, among other things. The fight had culminated in some fairly harsh things being said on both sides—but I didn’t like to think about that.

Suffice to say, I disliked the Circle and the feeling was mutual.

“What about them?” I said, as neutrally as I could manage.

“They have a lead on Isa’s condition,” he said, “but it involves a trip to the Underworld.”

After a polite pause, in which I gave him ample time to crack a smile at his joke, I reluctantly concluded that he was being serious. “Underworld? As in Hades and the three Fates? Hercules?” I’d really only ever seen the Disney movie.

“Hades, Annwn, Hel, Yomi, Elysium—whatever name you call it by, yes. There’s a key there that might help in a ritual, apparently. Something about using a key from the land of the dead to break the connection between her blood and the vampire’s. Sometime in the next week, the Circle—and Isa—are going to try to summon this key. I’d really rather avoid the risks of Isa attracting the kinds of beings that populate the Underworld, and so I’m proposing to nip in and retrieve it before this becomes a mess of drastic proportions.”

I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to curl up on the couch. It wasn’t that cold, even for October. “Okay. So what do you need me for?”

He gave me a long look. “You’ve heard of Orpheus?”

I shook my head. 

“The state of education is shameful, these days,” he muttered. “To cut a long story short—Orpheus was a musician whose wife died. He traveled to the Underworld to ask for her life back. He got it, but at a price. On the way up, if he turned to look back at her, she’d be lost to him forever. Three guesses as to how the story ends.”

“With the redemptive power of love and faith leading to a happy ending?” I said defiantly.

“Wrong. He looks back just once, and no more wife. She was sent back to the underworld forever. Then he died.”

“Of grief?”

“No, actually, he got ripped apart by a group of madwomen later in his life. For disrespecting the gods, I believe. But I digress.”

I slouched back, the soft cushion of the couch dipping under my weight. “That’s a terrible story.”

“The point is, that you must have heard of any number of stories where human champions descend underground to a supernatural world. Alice in Wonderland? Labyrinth?” He caught my surprised look at the casual references to modern fiction and arched an eyebrow. “I’ve lived a long while. You fill up the time somehow, and television’s everywhere now.”

I tried to imagine Malachy sitting in front of the TV, watching as the cartoon Alice in her poofy blue dress spoke to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and couldn’t quite manage it. For one, where’d he get the TV from? It’s not like he had a house—would the cable guys set one up in a crypt?

Did he even live in a crypt? When he wasn’t crashing on Isa’s couch, I mean.

“The point is that getting to the Underworld’s not so bad, dangers and guardians notwithstanding. In some cases, it’s disturbingly easy to do so. It’s getting out that’s the problem. See, you need someone who…well. Can withstand temptation. Strong moral character, and all that.”

“…” said I, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Some people would take that as a compliment.”

“Wow, the undead creature of the night that makes it a habit to drain people of all their blood thinks I have strong moral character because I—tell him that what he does is wrong? Amazing. I’m truly astounded you managed to find one person to fit your criteria with that level of moral understanding.”

Then again, it was a world that apparently thought vampires were sexy precisely because of the undead blood-drinking thing, so maybe he had something there. Case in point: every time I went to the internet to research supernatural creatures, I had to wade through pages of supernatural romance shows, books, art, what-have-you, before I ever got to what might be considered even slightly academic. If not practical—somehow I doubted that the researchers at Harvard had ever had to deal with the problem of a vampire inviting himself over to tea once a week. I declined to share this thought with him, however.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Well? Will you do it?”

“What kind of temptation are we talking about here?” I was reluctant to commit, even though I knew in the end I’d do it.

“Any and all.”

Helpful.

Actually, I’d share that thought with him. “Helpful,” I said. “Elaborate?”

Malachy gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Death’s more attractive than you might think. And if not that, then fear.”

“Of…?”

“The unknown? Being left behind? Of it all being a trick? Remember, Orpheus turned around.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And the chances of getting out?”

He gave me his most charming smile. “I have every confidence in your talents, Lili.”

I arched an eyebrow of my own.

“Being the most stubborn, uptight, Miss-Morally-Righteous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in death,” he said, still smiling. “Also, you know, very strong belief. And you know how important that is, when it comes to my world.”

I did. Crosses, as far as I understood, hurt vampires—at least the kind I was familiar with—because (depending on what belief one subscribed to) they symbolized the resurrection of the dead, which vampires couldn’t partake in due to their unnatural state, or the power of God, or Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Explanations varied. 

While crosses and other holy objects (Christian, so far as I had experienced—jury was still out on other religions, though with Malachy’s reveal of different kinds of vampires, now I wondered) all had the ability to make vampires flinch back, it was the item holder’s faith that gave it real power. And it wasn’t just faith in the item, but what it represented.

Months ago, Malachy had seen me keep back a vampire with nothing more than the Sign of the Cross and two popsicle sticks held in a cross shape. So I suppose to him, that was a sign—no pun intended—of my strong faith.

I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I didn’t think that being able to hold back creatures of the night was more faith-filled than, say, volunteering my time at a soup kitchen, or helping old ladies cross the street, or any number of good works that I could be doing instead of coming home at the end of a day filled with classes and multiple shifts, collapsing on my bed, and promptly passing out, repeat ad nauseam.

But there wasn’t really any point to having a theological debate with this particular vampire about anything, much less Matthew 7:21-23.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

That really should have been the end of it. I told him I didn’t have a day off until Saturday, two days from then (and conveniently for me, the day after Theresa’s birthday party, because there was no way I was planning, hosting, and then cleaning up a party for middle-schoolers after literally going to Hades). We set a time, he told me what to bring, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Because Friday afternoon was when the school called to tell me Theresa went missing.

The first thing I did was—well. Panic, to be frank. This wasn’t the first time Theresa had gotten in trouble, and since the last time it had happened, it had involved a vampire of the non-Malachy variety—that is to say, not reasonable in any way and really rather bloodthirsty—I felt I was a little justified in doing so. Then, of course, I searched the house, called the school back, did all the normal things to check if her disappearance was due to something, well, normal.

Then, and only then, I called Isa.

The phone rang, and rang, and then—click!

My hopes were dashed when the voice I heard was the pre-recorded kind. I left a message, and then for good measure, texted her—though Isa had a flip phone, so I didn’t have real hopes of her texting back. And then I immediately called again. And again.

The other line connected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Isa. I know it’s not a great time, but—”

“She walks through the long dread valley of night,

hand-in-hand with the hunter and his queen.

She sleeps under snow, she sleeps under ice—

and she fades away from the springtime green.”

The voice on the other end was soft—almost mechanical in its recitation. Yet there was something mesmerizing in the quiet rhythm of the words, hardly discernable through the crackling of the poor connection. As soon as the last word was spoken, the voice started over from the beginning. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to the strange voice.

In fact, I was still listening, transfixed, when I sensed something behind me.

I whipped around, one of the kitchen knives in hand, to find Malachy regarding me with a raised eyebrow. Without lowering the knife, I lifted the phone away from my ear. I could still hear the voice tinnily in the background. “What was the last thing I said to you when you were over here on Monday?”

“It was Thursday, and I believe it was the equivalent of, ‘go back to whatever hell you spawned from,’ only the politer equivalent due to attentive young ears,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter. “Have you heard from Isa?”

Damn. So it was really him. With trembling fingers, I put the knife back in the block. “No. I’ve been calling. Listen to this.”

Without the usual malicious pleasure I would have taken in doing so, I shoved the phone up next to his ear. 

He listened to it a few times, ended the call, and scrubbed at his face, which was looking a little paler than usual. For a corpse, at any rate. “She’s missing.”

“So’s Theresa,” I said, feeling cold. I put the phone away, reluctant to even look at it. It was strange to have something so obviously supernatural happen over such a modern device as the phone. “What do you think is going on?”

“I found out that the Circle was ahead of schedule and carried out their ritual at midnight. Apparently, they lost track of Isa at noon today.” He said this in a way that indicated to me that someone in the Circle had been left very unhappy when he discovered this. “When did your sister go missing?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but the school called me around one.”

“Not promising.”

“Do you think—”

“—it’s related? Probably. At least, you’d better hope, because I only know a potential method to track Isa, not your little tagalong.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Where do you think—?”

“Better grab your jacket,” he said. “Looks like we’re making an early start on our road trip to Hell.”