#tickticktick

[wewillflyagain]

It's not nothing. Call me sometime. I'm sorry to sound so melodramatic, but I'm honestly unsure how long you'll be able to do so. And calling from a correctional facility? You wouldn't answer, so...

[pndaroo]

One of the cutest things about my dog is that he makes a little tickticktick sound when he walks, but I think it's so sad that he will never be a good spy because of it :/

[macfrog]

what are joel, sarah, ellie, and reader doing on a typical day like today?

i had an ickle answer for you, non, but then @mrsmando sent me a tiktok and said it was scom coded, and - well. here's what my babies were up to today.

the whole world 1.8k words | series masterlist warnings: lots of sickly-sweet family love, couple teeny mentions of ellie throwing up, joel's a flirt at the end

“…beautiful blue skies all day today with highs of eighty in some parts, cooling down into the sixties as we head into the evening…”

Your skin still smells like the pool.

Chlorine, chemical summer – and the sweet spritz of sunscreen. It’s still glistening, still shiny and tacky on your arms.

The girls were bathed the second you got back inside. Sleeves rolled to your elbows; suds slipping down swollen, sun-kissed cheeks.

One hand at Ellie’s back, the other swishing water at her tummy to make her giggle. Joel knelt at your side, wrestling with Sarah over a soaked sponge the entire time.

He kept wringing it over her head, cracking up at the look on her face – water dripping from the tip of her nose and her pouted bottom lip.

Mama, she announced – with a twang even sweeter than her dad’s – I ain’t talkin’ to Daddy no more.

You scoffed, nudging a rubber duck along the water to Ellie’s open hands. I’ll believe that when I see it, Duck.

As the water drained from the tub, Sarah let Joel bundle her in a towel and follow her – a trail of damp footprints along the hall carpet – into her bedroom to grab her pajamas.

Lasted long, didn’t it? you muttered to Ellie, swaddling her in a dino bathrobe.

It’s May. Everything is alive and bursting with color. The birds and the bugs and the static from the radio. The windchimes and the orange slices and the tickticktick of the neighbor’s kid’s bicycle, whirring past the house.

Your daughters giggle, sharing secrets through nuzzling noses and flashing toothless grins. Nearly seven and just turned one. All their mom’s beauty with their dad’s old soul, so you’ve been told.

You figure it’s just a flowery way of saying perfect. Everything about them is perfect.

Everything about this is perfect. The slow-setting sun, needling between the trees as she slips from the sky. The cool shade under the porch, the soft tinkle of ice in your glass. The scrape of the dog’s claws on the wood as she slumps down.

This life you’ve dreamt up, held together by string lights and hanging plants; made real by the trike parked over in the corner, the teething toy wetting the tablecloth.

It’s all so fucking perf–

A clatter echoes from the kitchen.

“Shit – Jesus –” Joel hisses, another crashing sound swallowing the rest.

Sarah peers up at you, eyes wide. Knees tucked under her chin, tiny in the chair beside you.

“Did you hear that?” you ask her, lifting your eyebrows. Doing your best not to break into a grin.

The corners of her mouth twitch. She looks just like you, in this light. Same cheeky smirk. You never really noticed it until you saw it on her.

“No,” she mumbles, pressing her lips into her knee. She giggles.

Your eyes thin. “Mhm.”

“Mhm,” she mimics, reaching for her Barbie.

You lean back in your chair, arms wrapping a little tighter around the toddler in your lap. “You sure you’re okay in there?” you call through the house.

Joel’s arm swats around the kitchen doorframe. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. It’s just – goddamn it – it’s fine.”

“Heard that,” Sarah says. She stares at the doll’s hair, combing it flat.

“Shh,” you whisper, hearing the creak of the floorboards.

Joel materializes on the porch, balancing three plates in his arms. A stained towel slung over his shoulder, his shirt loose and chest dappled with sweat.

“Alright,” he pants, bending to set yours down first.

Ellie twists in your arms, her green terrycloth spikes flapping as she turns. The hood slips over her eyes and you pull her free.

You grab her hands before she can slam two tiny fists into the ravioli. “Jesus, Nel,” you snort.

She pulls herself to her feet, swaying from side to side on your thighs. Watching Joel intently as he sets Sarah’s plate down, then his own.

He straightens, running the towel between his hands. “Can I sit next to Mama?” he asks his daughter.

She shakes her head. “I’m showin’ her my Barbies.”

“Can you show her them from your own chair, Duck?”

Another head shake. “How is she s’posed to see ‘em?”

His eyes flash up to yours. His expression sets like stone.

All these years, all that time you spent desperately trying to crack him. Chiseling away with tools made from jokes, from teasing. From frisbeeing his newspaper and aiming for his plant pots.

A little smile; a quiet, “How am I s’posed to see ‘em, Joel?” – and you melt him instantly.

He breathes a laugh, shaking his head as he wanders around the table. This huge, broad man, squeezing into the space by the windowsill. Dotted with toy animals and scattered miniature accessories.

He pulls the chair out and settles back into it.

You nudge his calf beneath the table.

Joel’s hands find your knees, slipping around them. He pulls your ankles into his lap, thumb trailing circles on your skin, and picks up his fork.

“Alright, Duckie,” you elbow her gently, “Barbies down. Look what Daddy made us.”

She fixes the pink pumps back onto the doll’s feet, straightens her spacesuit, and sits her carefully on the edge of the table.

Ellie blows a raspberry and collapses again into your lap. She yawns, turning to snuggle into your chest.

“You wanna try a little?” you whisper, blowing on a piece of ravioli.

She steals it from your fork and suckles on it. Her long lashes blink slower and slower until her eyes are closed, full cheeks still chewing.

Joel scoffs. “That’s her mom. Right there, that’s all you.”

“Fallin’ asleep with food in her mouth?” you chuckle, kissing her head. “Glad I’m leavin’ some legacy.”

“Uhuh,” he replies, tongue in his cheek. His eyes flash golden when they meet yours, brighter than the sun.

Ellie’s warm under your cheek; her skin still as soft and plushy as the day you met her. She quietens, stills as she drifts off. She’s solid in your arms – sturdier than her sister ever was at her age.

Or, as her uncle Tommy said, the first time he held her: She weighs a goddamn ton, don’t she?

She weighs nothing to you. Your arms were made for cradling her. Hips were designed to hold her. She’s the perfect size to fit in the crook of her dad’s arm. Her favorite game is being tossed in the air by him until she throws up.

“Ah-ah, Duck. Not right now,” Joel says, shaking his head. “Wait ‘til we’re done, or she’ll just beg.”

Sarah huffs, lifting her fork from the dog’s mouth. “Sorry, Shim.”

The shepherd trots around to Joel’s side, settling her chin on his thigh. She breathes a pleading sigh.

“I know, girl,” he ruffles her ears, “I ain’t fair to ya, am I?”

She falls to a heap under the table, and spends the meal pouncing at scraps Sarah accidentally drops.

The sky drains, the world darkening until you’re lit in shades of orange and gold; the candles flickering and stretching funny shadows across the porch ceiling.

Joel bribes Sarah with staying up later, so long as she helps him clear the table. She babbles away as they fill the sink with dishes; follows at his heels and catches him up on the politics of second grade.

He leans down to take Ellie – sound asleep and snoring – from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, and kisses you. “C’mon, Duckie,” he groans as she climbs into his other arm. “Bedtime.”

Upstairs, you split off into the girls’ rooms. Shimmer follows you into Sarah’s, curling up at her feet in a nest of pink blankets.

Your firstborn is already tucked under her covers, her nightlight spinning hazy stars around the walls.

“How much do I love you?” you whisper, stroking her hair.

Sarah takes a few seconds to answer, sleep already overcoming her. “More…more ‘n the…” she yawns, “…more ‘n the whole world, Mama…”

“The whole world,” you repeat, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams, little Duckie.”

Joel meets you in the hallway. He holds the baby monitor up. The screen lights; the fuzzy outline of your baby in her cot. Arms outstretched, above her head; fists balled and a determined frown on her face as she snoozes.

“Like a log,” Joel mutters, nudging you over to the stairs. “’nother thing she got from her mom.”

You smile – a loose, sleepy thing. “’s my girl.”

He follows you downstairs.

The reflections of the candles glint from each photo frame on the wall, lighting them one by one as you pass. First birthdays, first Christmases. Sarah perched atop a pony in Jackson; Joel in a suit holding Ellie, seconds before she spat milk down his tie.

Each one a tiny thread, linking you from who you were to who you are now. Stringing you together, binding the wound you never knew how to tend to.

At the bottom of the stairs, you feel a tug from your back pocket.

“Joel –” you giggle, stumbling into his arms. “We got dishes to – Joel –”

“Come on,” he whispers against your lips, stealing soft kisses. “It’s a nice night, let’s just sit for a while.”

He leads you out front and rocks back on the swing. He sets the monitor down at his feet and opens his arms. A goofy smile on his face, eyes twinkling.

You fold your arms. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I know. But I love you.”

Your breath catches, the way it always does. Almost seven years, two kids and a fucking joint mortgage – and it still catches you off guard when you remember.

He loves you. He always did.

“That’s what makes you the idiot,” you reply, stepping forward. You slip into his lap, knees either side of his hips, and link your arms around his neck. “Fell in love with your nemesis.”

“Hm.” Joel’s arms scoop around your butt. “All that time, I thought we were friends.”

You laugh, leaning in to him. “We were never friends,” you say, “I never wanted to be just your friend.”

His chest rumbles beneath yours. He presses more kisses into your neck, kneading your waist. He takes your jaw, pulling back to look at you.

This man, and the silver through his beard, and the marks on his careful hands. This man, who never looked surer of himself – never looked more like the gleeful kid you once spotted in a photo frame – than when he has one daughter in one arm and the other slung over his back.

This man, who once built you a closet in exchange for a fake date. Who, drunk on liquor and something more, followed you back to your hotel room and changed you forever.

Made you his, forever.

You forget what it ever felt like to be anything else.

[faorism]

(really in my feels about the ot3 because of the @powerpolyculeshowdown so here's some propaganda)

parker and hardison allow eliot to be sillier. more ridiculous. outragous, even. eliot sings the stupid ditties hardison writes special for him, and he rolls his eyes at parkers pokes and prods and the occasional "accidental" face slap, and eliot can express himself for what actually bothers him no matter how nitpicky, versus having to calculate what he should say. (he still argues with hardison that throwing in on a brewpub was a stupid plan given its risk, no matter how many times hardison claims it was always a gift for him.) eliot laughs more. real laughs; you can tell because his smiles look more and more like grimaces: the way his ma perked her mouth which his dad always teased her about (though it was his favorite thing about her), rather than the wide toothy grins eliot learned because he knows, tactically, they are best for charming. parker and hardison let him not feel like he's a monster. or... parker tells him she always thought the big bad wolf had a bad rap, and hardison says some stupid shit about monsterfucking being the hip thing the kids are into these days, anyway.

hardison and eliot allow parker to feel deep. it's food that tastes like a hug and it's gadgets made just for her and it's loving and being loved and it's being one another's real families. she doessn't want to run away, anymore. or... she wants to run but with her friends beside her. or... running cons is all she's ever wanted to do, and all she did, for so long. parker is good at it. she loves it. she loves that hardison and eliot love it too. but... feeling deep is also being deep. she's no longer just her piles of money because she is no longer afraid of herself. her past. the memories that hurt. the habits she thought she needed to grow out of but always missed. these habits, like bleeping sounds that arent words and hands move move moving. hands that were once made to stay now can fly because hardison buys her fidgets and designs some just for her and keeps locks in lucille for when parker feels like infinity and needs the vibrations of ticktickticks to bring her back to herself. and eliot lets her braid and unbraid his hair; he won't let her blow dry it, not yet, but... he lets her pet his hair while it's still hot, now. it frizzes his hair a little, and parker feels her pulse rush throughout the day knowing she did that to him. eliot and hardison kiss her knuckles when they burn.

parker and eliot allow hardison to be mean. vindictive. he is nicer than he needs to be. wants to be... what he needs to be is nonthreatening, for the most part, in many places. he knows what it means to be him: tall and black and queer and gaining muscle and too smart for his own damn good and so very, very tenderhearted. hardison loves so damn deep, and he cares so damn much, but part of caring (the other side of a coin) is not giving a fuck. it's the boiling point of rage and betrayal. the i need to walk away from this fight because you are dead wrong and imma about to say something imma regret, so go fix yourself. the im not gonna forget, im not going to forgive, and im going to get my revenge. parker and eliot would not have questioned hardison's joy at securing the capture of the men that put him in that damn coffin; they hold space for him to be fully himself with all his ugly parts and his petty parts and the parts that do bring hardison shame if he thinks about it for too long. they know he's not perfect, and that? that feels like safety and love and forever to hardison.

[dodgerkedavra]

December 16

“You’re resting. That’s not doing nothing.”

“Well, not nothing isn’t brave. I should be doing something brave, probably.”

“Such as?” Draco closes the book, and Harry’s heart ticktickticks like he’s standing on the back of a bloody dragon, riding it like a living skateboard.

“Such as…I dunno. There are lots of things I’m not…that I’d be nervous about.”

“Like dragon-riding?”

That’s not what Harry would call it. All he can think to say is are you making a sex joke? The next option that comes to mind is do you want me to ride your dragon?

Harry can’t say either of those things, so he just sits there in silence, his mouth partway open, Draco’s body incredibly fit and incredibly hot next to Harry’s. They’re so close. And Harry’s getting hard. Harder with every second that passes.

He squirms a bit, trying to be subtle about it, but Draco’s arm tightens around him.

“Just to be clear,” Harry says, too loudly. “It wasn’t the story.”

“Oh? You don’t like stories about dragons?”

“It was good.” Harry thinks he might pass out. “I just, er. Prefer. Real people. One person. I would rather—if I was going to…branch out into—”

“Bravery?” Draco asks, then snaps his fingers.

The Lumos in the mason jar goes out.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry breathes. His cock twitches, and he knows Draco can feel it. “I didn’t know you could do wandless magic.”

Read Chapter Sixteen of Clear, Warm Light here

Start at the beginning here

[unhinged-summer-fun]

For common grounds can i ask how many chapters are you planning for act2? Was looking at the masterlist and getting nervous 🙈 this story is brilliant and I am obsessed!!!

Oh shit I should probably update that…

Act I/“The Stranger” is chapters 1-15 (78k words)

Act II/“The Lover” is chapters 16-33* (currently around 66k but I’m literally halfway thru my plot outline)

Act III/[REDACTED] currently has 7 chapters in it and I’m fairly certain that won’t change - if it seems uneven with Act I, the word count of III will probably be similar in length to I.

There’s a lot of road to run down between now and the end of act II, a lot of twists, turns, triumphs, and tragedies. Don’t worry about what the master list says - I did get in a bit of a rut with keeping it abreast of my ‘chapters written/unposted’ tradition so thank you for reminding me of that. At one point I was 5-6 chapters ahead of my posting schedule and I’d love to get back on that tbh.

*For Act II’s ending chapter, I can see the number going down but not up - I leave a lot of room in my chapter outlines for new ideas, and give them grace when they don’t hit my usual word count goal of 7,500 words per chapter.

Worried ramblings below

I really really hope I can pull this story off. It’s so fucking long and I’ve sunk so much time and effort into it and if I don’t land the plane I’ll be that asshole in the Acolyte fandom who abandoned a 150k WIP to avoid her problems

Maybe once all the dominos start to fall into place for the story I’ll feel more confident but as of right now I’m on the tickticktick upward roller coaster loader-hill waiting for the drop. Half this damn roller coaster is the setup atp and that’s wild as fuck to me

This is my most important work I’ve ever made. I need to stick the landing, it feels too important and it is ✨stressful✨

[brighteststar707]

pressure cooker

a quick warmup maybe based on real life events ✧

When Saeyoung enters the kitchen to see what his 606 is up to (and to see if he can sneak a taste of what it is she’s making this time), he finds her sitting at the table across from the cooker, eyeing a pot on the stove warily.

When she hears him entering, she beckons him to join her.

“Don’t go near that thing, Saeyoung.”

“The pot? What is it?” From where he’s standing, it looks quite harmless.

“A pressure cooker. It’s a mysterious beast, capable of great dishes, but great danger also,” she says, with the cadence someone narrating a nature documentary. “I don’t trust it.”

He laughs, but she doesn’t join in. She keeps eyeing the pot like she’s expecting it to pounce on her at any minute.

“Is it new? I’ve never seen it before.” It doesn’t look like any of the other pots they have.

“This kitchen is filled with gadgets and things you’ve never used before.”

“Touché.”

The pot suddenly starts hissing and they both jump.

“See what I mean?” She says, leaning even further back. “It’s a fickle thing.”

“Is this what’s supposed to happen?”

“I think so… I think I’m supposed to start timing it now.” She reaches for the kitchen timer (a cute kitty one they bought while first stocking the kitchen) and twists it.  

Saeyoung eyes the pot warily. “What happens if something goes wrong?”

“The pot explodes,” she replies, voice deadpan.

“So many good cooking methods, and you choose to use a bomb.”

She lightly socks his arm but doesn’t disagree – or take her eyes off the pot. It does feel a little like they’re waiting for a bomb to go off (as if they don’t have enough experience with that), with the steady tickticktick of the timer and the pot still hissing.

“It will be worth it.”

He believes that, at least. Since she moved in, she has been cooking the three of them meals more and more often. Home cooked meals are still a novelty to him, especially after living off of fast food and snacks for the past few years.

When the timer finally goes off (and makes her jump again), she grabs a kitchen cloth off the back of the chair and stands up.  

“Now’s the moment of truth, agent Seven. You ready?”

He nods dutifully, “Ready, agent Six. I’ll follow your lead.”

Slowly, they approach the pot, Saeyoung keeping himself well behind her. Despite her hesitancy, he trusts her instincts more than his in this situation. After turning off the heat, with her arm outstretched to keep her face as far away from the pot as possible, she flicks open the vent and watches as a stream of steam escapes the pot. Saeyoung watches her over her shoulder.

Finally, she lets herself relax.  

“I think we did it.”

He cheers and wraps his arms around her, sweeping her off her feet. She halfheartedly swats him with the cloth but he can hear her laughing now, partially from relief and partially because his excitement is contagious.

He puts her down, but keeps his arms around her.

“So, agent 606, what’s the next step? Flambéing with the robo-dog? Chopping with double-sided knives? I’m ready for more adventure!”

[asteroidtroglodyte]

[what am i]

Mutant

It is 2004. Is the Geiger Counter heavy because it’s Old Tech, or because it’s a Geiger Counter? I do not ask the question aloud. My father is talking. I rotate it in my hands, examining it. He is talking about his father. The Geiger counter is a relic of my grandfather’s military service. It is older than me. It is older than my school. It is older than my father. I turn it on. A red light glows. The dial fidgets. “Are we safe?” I ask aloud, as it softly, slowly ticks. “Are we ever?” My father answers. My look of horror is met with laughter.

It is 1999. There is a photo of a mushroom cloud rising out of a deep blue ocean. It sits inconspicuously in a wooden frame near my grandfathers chair. I stare at it. I have recently learned about atomic weapons in an abstract sort of way in school. My grandmother speaks. “Your grandfather took that picture.”

It is 2002. “These are some of my favorite books.” My father believes I am old enough for his old novels. The entire John Carter of Mars. Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke. Foundation & Empire. Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tarzan.

It is 1971. My father hunts wild pigs. Dogs he has raised from puppies explicitly for this purpose rustle through the jungle ahead of him. He is like the pigs, the descendants of Europeans on tour, left behind by boats bearing death. He is armed only with a large knife and his dogs. He survives.

It is 1955. My father plays with the Geiger counter that I will hold in my hands one day. It is humid and hot inside the Quonset hut. My father points it at my grandfather. The dial dances; the machine goes tickticktick. My grandmother is sleeping, or trying to; migraines take her out for days at a time, sharp pain and vivid halos exacerbated by the tropical sun. The noise wakes her, and my grandfather takes the Geiger counter away.

It is 2009. “Weird.” Not the sort of thing you want your doctor to say. “Has your heart always done that?” I ask him to explain what he means. “Oh, it’s just, it’s… beating… funny?” He indicates some squiggles on a monitor, as if I could see the patterns as he did. “Do you mind if we run some tests?” I would be a fool to decline.

It is 1977. My father watches the stars. The sea is still. He has turned off the lights on his boat, and the nearest artificial light is over the horizon. He eats fish he caught during the day. He comes to land to get the supplies he cannot catch; tools made of metal; rope, line, medicine. He spends seven years on that boat, going from island to island. He survives.

It is 2019. My father puts dilute hydrogen peroxide in his water bottle. We dress and depart. He hike through the craggy desert highlands, rich browns and ambers of the desert varnish broken by the occasional brilliance of a tarantula hawk. The local wildlife is smart enough to seek shelter at this time of day, but we are Sons of Empire and ignore the sun, like Adam turning his back on God. We traipse over broken boulders, fighting gravity for a scenic view. He tells me about the past between breaths; this mountain was sacred, once. Those who sanctified it are dead now. The way he talks, you would think that he killed them himself. The breeze is hot and dry on the ridge top. Looking down on the valley below, he drinks deeply from the bottle. He offers me some. “Extra oxygen” he says, with the air of someone sharing valuable advice. Tentatively, I take a sip: It is slippery, and burns slightly. My 70 year old father climbs back down from the mountains with me. We pretend the desert sun does not exist.

It is 1946. The War is Over. The Good Guys have won; or so the story goes. My grandmother is newly married, and loves her husband very much. Once, she had been a daydreaming farm girl, a fan of the Wizard of Oz books; She feels like Dorothy, transported, when her husband’s work whisks them away from rural California to The Pacific. They’re working on something big, he says, but loose lips sink ships and he says nothing else.

It is 1949. The migraines are paralyzing. The doctor tells her she is pregnant, and her mind fades to static. This is the 5th time she has been told this in her life, but she has yet to give birth to a single living child. The Geiger counter ticktickticks whenever her husband is near.

It is 1950. My father is born.

Mutant

Survivor

Son of Empire

Human

[magicaltickles]

Em <3 it’s amazing how we’ve known each other for literally two days and yet i have so many ideas about where you’d be ticklish! let’s start with the basics!

ur tummy would be so cute to tickle i think <3 i love tummy tickles in general- but i would love to see what range of giggles i can get you to! i wonder what would happen if i ran one finger up and down ur tummy, ooo! what about ur belly button! that should basically be a giggle button i think.. you press down on it and boom! instant giggles! so cute <3

ur thighs like i said would also be another place to start. light swipes of my fingers on ur inner thighs to start with, and then digging in on occasion to make sure i get some squeals outta ya!

let’s talk about your under arms, hmm? i wonder how long you’d last if i asked you to hold ur arms up, how long you’d last with me tracing tiny ticklish circles under there! all the while giving you tiny raspberries on ur neck! oh- and in case you wanna put ur arms down, i can just use one hand to grab ur wrist and tickle away with the other hand!! ur not safe >:3

feet are a given when it comes to tickling <3 the tops of ur feet can be ticklish too yknow? i wonder what would happen if i sat on ur legs and just tickled the top of ur feet for a bit, and then the bottoms of ur feet for a bit.. trying to compare which one gives the better reaction. oh not to mention! ur toes!! silly me- how could i forget! if i peeled back those cute little toes and scratched in between, how sensitive would you be?

not to mention i’d be verbally teasing you the whole time.

“Let’s see how long you can go without laughing!” as i dig into ur ticklish spots <3

“The tickle monster is hungry!” as I give you little raspberries <3

“Tickletickletickle!” in a more of a ‘tickticktick’ noise, whilst i just poke around as i please <3

ig this could be my headcanon as to where ur ticklish LOL have fun~

-ler red 🍅

I- You- This-

THIS IS BOTH THE BEST ABD MEANEST THING IVE EVER BEEN SENT???? WTF???? RED???

And the set up from dms too holy shit bro

If anyone wants to be decimated go see red while they're in a ler mood bc wow

[wishitweresummer]

Yo, the trope of accidental tickles when the lee says "Ok, that's starting to tickle" which only sparks a fire in the ler 🥺

Okaaaaay but Karlnap for this? 🥹🥹

Imagine Sapnap showing Karl something on Valorant, like his stats. He’s scrolling through and pointing at things while Karl stands behind his gaming chair with his hands on his shoulders.

Sapnap tries and keeps focus, but Karl’s skinny little fingers just keep pinching at that muscle where his shoulders meet his neck over and over again and he’s losing his mind. Shivers shoot through him. His leg bounces. He misclicks. His breath hitches.

Shrugging off the loving hands would be basically slapping the physical-affection-loving Karl in the face. He can’t do it.

He murmurs…”Okay…that’s starting to tickle…”, as he shrugs.

The hands still, but don’t leave his shoulders.

Karl is dead silent.

‘Shit…did I hurt his feelings?’

The hands slide down quickly and start rubbing tickly circles into his pecs and teasing close to his armpits, Sapnap squeals embarassingly loud and he sinks down.

“Karl!!!”, he cries and pushes away the hands. They go back digging into the spot between his neck and shoulders, squeezing with enough purpose and detail to draw a squeaky laugh from Sapnap.

Karl responds only with noises.

“Ticky ticky ticky!!! Ohhhh it tickle tickle tickles?? Tickticktick!!!” and the fingers explore everywhere they can. Sapnap is a flustered mess, not used to this specific kind of teasing.

“Kaaarl!!”, he wails, trapped between the desk and the chair.

THANK YOU SLEEPY-ANON <33333

[necronatural]

do you think dante talks to the sinners by projecting words or just like immediate meanings? i think it would be really funny if it meant that dante could accidentally broadcast their feelings and affect the other sinners like <im happy im happy im happy> tickticktick and gregor just goes what the fuck. what the fuck is happening. what are you doing to me

It's stated their ticking is reflexive as speech and they can choose who hears it if they try so this is unlikely but its also unbearaby endearing

[grislyintentions]

"Make no mistake I'm not here out of the kindness of my heart. There's work to be done." Vespa to Dante //He's a jerk sorry

They hadn't expected anything out of his visit in the first place but to be issued a disclaimer upon meeting is a little...odd to say the least.

But Dante isn't feeling up to tempting death a third time today so the executive manager elected for the only response they can give.

A vigorous...thumbs up.

"TICKTICKtIck"

《ELABORATE?》

@soulsbetrayed

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Blades in Hand zine! I wanted some post canon fluff, at least as much as Felix and Byleth allow themselves fluff. XD Last time I had written them in the endings where they go around wandering, so I wanted a more domestic route this time. And all based off the one line in their ending where they end up having duels every time they go home.

…

…

…

…

Byleth wasn’t home. It was late at night, Byleth’s carriage should have arrived hours ago, and she still wasn’t home. Felix stood in front of his big bay windows, scowling at the slowly rising moon as though it had personally insulted him. No one would call him a patient man—Ingrid had bemoaned how little it took to set him off—but there was little else to do in the face of delays but wait.

He paced his dimly lit manor, the candles casting just enough light to see. Somewhere, a clock chimed, the hour late. Their children had already been tucked into bed, disappointed and sulking when their mother hadn’t returned. Felix hadn’t the words to comfort them; they had even less patience than he did. It was a Fraldarius thing, this desire to move, this need to get things done immediately and without delay. Byleth had always been good at the waiting game, whether it was teaching in their youth or handling important affairs as she cleaned up a war that she hadn’t started.

Aside from his soft footfalls echoing through the vaulted ceiling and the quiet tickticktick of the clock, the house was silent. The servants had long since finished their duties for the day. Only the stableboy stood outside, waiting to tend to Byleth’s horse. Felix watched the moon rise even higher, its silver rays lighting up the path to their front door. His sword dangled uselessly at his waist.

The clock chimed once, twice—at the eleventh gong, Felix stood stock-still. A familiar figure trotted down the path, her cloak pulled back. In the moonlight, her green hair glowed. Something in him uncoiled at the sight.

There were very few that could touch her, especially now that the war was over. Somehow, that fact never stopped the knots that grew in him whenever she returned late.

He was getting soft. A minor affliction he had feared as an ignorant child, and one that he now embraced as a father.

Her horse stopped at the front door. He listened to the soft murmurs as she talked to the stable boy, as she slipped off her steed and walked to the door. Felix stood in front of the staircase, expression impassive, as she walked in through the doors.

Byleth’s eyes lit up as she spotted him, her lips curving into a rare, soft smile. “I’m back.”

“Late,” he replied evenly, noting the slight limp as she closed the door. Her green cloak looked frayed and torn, and the dark splatters could only be blood.

“There was trouble.” Byleth unfastened her clasp and turned when he approached. “The children?”

“Asleep.” Felix gently pulled off her cloak. Their conversations were always quick, pointed things, like the strikes in fencing. Only the bare bones were needed, only the bullet point summaries had to be uttered. “The blood?”

Looking over her shoulder, Byleth smirked. “Not mine.”

Felix chuckled. He shouldn’t have asked. Stripped down of her travelling gear, he could see that she was perfectly fine. His gaze flickered to her right leg. Almost perfectly fine. Felix touched her hip lightly.  Her skin was warm beneath her stockings. “Should we do this tomorrow?”

Byleth rested a cold hand on his, squeezing it lightly. Her other hand cupped his cheek, guiding him down into a firm kiss. He could taste her long, dusty journey on her lips. As she pulled back, she shook her head. “Today. I have not felt your sword in a month.”

Felix didn’t fight his smile. With every year that passed, he realized how lucky he had been to find her. There was no need for words between them, they only got in the way. There was no desire for pleasantries or any of the trappings of society, the social norms that only served to restrain and hinder them.

No, the only thing they needed was the swords attached to their belts and an open space to fight. Sparring was their religion, their weapons their gods, and there was no need for any tradition in their household aside from their clashes. Felix had long learned how to read Byleth’s body, with the reverence that Mercedes put into her prayers, and any questions he had would be answered as they fought.

Felix deposited her cloak in a corner. They could put it away later. The candlebras were fully lit, leaving two bright pools of light on the ground. Felix stepped into one, drawing his one-handed arming sword. The servants had cleared the room of any fragile items. No one had mopped. The area was clear for their fight. “With the clock?”

Byleth rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck as she entered the second pool of light. She drew her sword, a solid two-handed longsword. It didn’t have the same reach as her Sword of the Creator, but in her hands it didn’t need to. “Okay.”

The second hand ticked. He kept his grip relaxed. Her strength versus his speed. They fought so many times, they’d stopped keeping track of the score and focused instead on who was winning. Felix breathed in. Byleth breathed out.

The minute hand moved, a soft tick, and they both sprang forward. He struck first, as always: a sharp thrust to her chest. Byleth parried, a strong stroke that sharply cleaved through the air. Without a pause, she kicked him with her good leg, sending him flying back.

He didn’t miss her wince as she did so. Her leg hurt more than she had admitted. Her stoicism matched his, and it was hypocritical of him to say otherwise. Sliding to a stop on their marbled floor, he ducked at her follow up attack and elbowed her in the chest. Byleth grunted and hit his shoulder with her hilt.

Felix clenched his jaw and jumped back. Her eyes narrowed and he knew that she’d recognized his reaction for what it was: his old shoulder injury acting up again. It liked to do that, some spring nights, when winter’s chill still lingered long after the snow had melted.

Every movement revealed more and more of their time apart: the exhaustion in her arms from her long ride, the boredom of his paperwork dulling his blade, her nose ruddy from the drizzle she’d travelled through. It was better than any letter, more explicit than any conversation. What the memory forgot, the body remembered.

The dance continued: thrust, parry, duck, jab. Muddy footprints recorded their midnight duel. Moonlight streamed through the windows, and Felix was reminded of another starlit dance on a marbled floor, years ago when she had been a mysterious teacher and he hadn’t cared for her beyond her blade. Somehow, Sylvain had convinced her to dance with the entire class.

Felix had spent the entire song stiff, his hands wooden on her shoulder and waist as he impatiently waited for the night to be over. And when they had bumped into each other later, in front of the tower, he had mocked the entire affair.

Settle for being a lover, he had said. If you want passion, look elsewhere.

He had been a fool then. There was no better partner than Byleth, no better dance than that of their blades. There was no settling with Byleth, only rising to each other’s challenges.

And passion could be found everywhere, from their swords to their beds.

They clashed, steel meeting steel, speed opposing strength. Byleth’s eyes were alive in a way he rarely saw otherwise, burning with a fire as she instantly decided her next move. Felix was certain he had the same wild look, his hair flying out of its tie, his lips drawn into a smile that was all teeth and grit.

Since he was a child, he had known there was no place for him in peace. Even with his duties, his friends, his children, it was a feeling that stayed bone deep.

Yet.

Yet.

Here, in the middle of a fight with his wife, her sword nicking his cheek, his blade grazing her arm, he knew had found the one place he’d belonged. They were two extinct animals, but they were together, and perhaps that was all he had needed: a companion.

Byleth slashed at him.  He dodged, but her hilt hit his wrist and he gasped. Before his sword could fall out of his hand, he grabbed it with his other. Sensing weakness, Byleth lunged forward. Felix ducked her thrust and kicked her leg. Her eyes widened and she groaned softly as she fell backward. Before she could hit the ground, he wrapped an arm around her waist, his blade pointed at her neck. “Yield?”

Byleth’s gazed flickered from her sword to his blade to his face. Sighing, she nodded, her weapon falling out of her hands with a sharp clatter. “You win.”

He smirked, pulling her up before he sheathed his own weapon. He kept his hand on her waist, feeling her shudder with every heavy breath. “We’re tied again.”

“No, I’m still one ahead—” Byleth let out a sharp breath and grimaced as she stepped with her hurt foot.

Felix didn’t hesitate before sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. His wrist ached at the added weight. When she shot him a disgruntled look, he pressed a gentle finger on her leg. “A sprain?”

Byleth stared at him for a moment before sighing. “A bruise that hasn’t healed.”

She relaxed, leaning into his chest. Her hair tickled his chin as he tightened his grip and headed up the stairs. Byleth wasn’t one for indulgence, neither was he, but he couldn’t deny the desire sometimes. It had been a month since he’d last held her.

“I missed this,” he murmured. I missed you.

Byleth smiled, hearing the unspoken words. “Me too.”

Their bedroom was considerably brighter than the foyer, the candles scattered on the desks, drawers, and other flat surfaces until the room had a warm, almost cozy feel. It would be annoying to put them out later. Despite that, they were oddly appealing in this late hour.

Years ago, he had told her that he wasn’t a romantic. It was funny how things changed.

Slowly, Felix deposited his wife on their bed, her bright green hair splaying on the dark blue comforter.  She rolled over slightly, eyes closed and smiling contentedly as she buried her nose in the fabric. “They still smell of pine. I didn’t think we’d still need them.”

Felix chuckled, immediately guessing what her real question was. “It’ll be another month before we should remove them.”

Byleth was tough, but not Faerghus winter tough. Felix had long suspected the main reason she kept hosting Dimitri’s peace talks at the monastery was not because of its central location, as she claimed, but rather to escape the deep chill of winter. He leaned down, brushing the hair out of her face. Her eyes were emerald bright in the gloom. “The cold will leave soon enough.”

She leaned into his touch. Her cheek was as rough as her hands. “You said that before I left.”

“It is warmer now,” he rebutted, brushing her skin with a thumb. Part him wanted to linger here, to just stay like this. After spending years running, these days Felix found he wanted to stand still. He was getting soft. It had to be old age.

There was a first aid kit in their drawers. Early on in their marriage, they’d discovered it was an essential bedroom item. Between his lies and her deflections, it was a miracle they hadn’t lost a limb from delaying healing. Felix knelt next to the bed, setting the cloth bandages, a water-filled basin, and a washcloth around him.

Byleth moved up to her elbows, regarding him as he gently pried off her mud-encrusted boots. Her tights fared little better, flecked with the dirt. “Rough ride?”

“There was rain.” She exhaled sharply as he slid her tights off her right ankle.

His fingers skimmed her thighs and he fought the urge to investigate higher. Bruised skin greeted him as he examined her bare ankles, small black and purple flowers that ran up her leg. Carefully, Felix held her leg, his lithe fingers gingerly pressing as he assessed the damage. “A bruise?”

“Many bruises,” she admitted reluctantly. When he looked up, brow furrowed and lips a straight line, she sighed. “It looks worse than it feels.”

He pressed on a bruise and she hissed between clenched teeth. Clicking his tongue, Felix dipped the washcloth in the cold water. “How did you ride with this?”

Byleth shivered as the cold water hit her skin. Lightly, he removed the dirt and grime of her journey, the cloth only just touching her leg. “I wanted to see you.”

His hand froze at the comment. “It could have waited.”

“It couldn’t,” she disagreed, bending forward to run a hand through his hair. When he looked up, she cupped his cheek. “It really couldn’t.”

That tiny action, those small words left him as breathless as their fight had. He turned slightly, pressing a kiss with the corner of his mouth before returning to her leg. “What happened?”

Byleth leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “We had found some remnants of the Agarthans. They were stronger than we’d expected.”

It had been years, and they still hadn’t fully wiped out those conniving bastards. Part of Felix thought they never would. “You beat them?”

Byleth snorted derisively. “Of course.” 

It was an insulting question. There was no other way she’d answer, after all. Felix changed the topic. “How were the boar’s peace talks?”

Byleth huffed. “The remaining nobles are stubborn—they’ve mostly agreed, but they just want to save face by delaying matters.”

“Old fools.” Felix clicked his tongue; the world was filled with morons. He let go of her leg. Aside from cleaning it, there was little he could do. “Anywhere else?”

Byleth gingerly kicked her leg. Satisfied, she shook her head. “No, that was it.”

“Good.”  Felix gently kissed her ankle. He had never considered himself a tender romantic but then again, he had never considered himself a passionate lover either. With Byleth, he found that both suited him. He pressed his next kiss slightly higher up.

Byleth’s breath hitched, and he smirked against her slowly warming skin. It wouldn’t be long before he wiped the journey from her body. Before he could go any further than her knee, a calloused hand cupped his chin, forcing him to look up. Byleth leaned down, kissing him softly, her thumb brushing his cut. It stung. He could taste iron from her bloody lip. She pulled back and patted the space next to her. “Your turn.”

Felix nosed her shoulder, lips skimming her collar. “It’s fine.”

Byleth growled and forced him to stand. “It’s not.”

As though they were still fighting in the foyer, Byleth yanked him down, all but tackling him onto the bed. Now he was the one lying flat on his back, staring at their canopy. She leaned over him, her green hair falling over him like a waterfall. “It’s not,” she repeated firmly, her gaze never leaving his.

“It’s not,” he agreed, reaching up and burying his good hand in her soft hair. Her breath ghosted his lips as he pulled her down.

“Don’t think I’ll fall for this,” she murmured, pulling away before he closed the gap.

Felix glowered at the ceiling before forcing himself to sit up on the bed. She plucked the kit from the floor and plopped it between them. Her knees bumped into his as she adjusted for a more comfortable position. Byleth held out her hand and reluctantly, he placed his injured wrist on her palm.

Now that he was paying attention to it, it throbbed, sending dull jolts of pain up his arm.

“Didn’t think I hit you that hard,” Byleth murmured, her fingers lightly tracing the sprain.

“You got lucky,” he muttered, unable to look away as she tenderly rubbed a cold, white ointment on his skin. Despite her firm grip, her touch was tender and he could barely feel it.

This wasn’t the first time she’d tended to him. It wouldn’t be the last either. Yet, he still couldn’t get used to the sensation, to the feeling of another taking care of him. It was different to Ingrid’s aid, or even Mercedes and Annette’s healing.

Byleth’s fingers sent jolts of electricity down his spine. As she leaned forward, her hair brushed his skin. Cradling his hand as though it were made of glass, she started to wrap it with a cloth tape.  

“Any changes here?” she asked, paying no attention to his stare.

Felix shrugged. “Nothing. Just the usual.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever say that.” Byleth chuckled, and he could feel the reverberations where they touched. “I thought you hated routines.”

Felix stiffened, remembering his stupid, foolish declarations in the academy. “I do. But this one…isn’t all terrible.”

She tucked in the end of the wrap, clipping it into place. She didn’t let go of his hand, staring at his palm as though she could read the future there. Maybe she could. Felix wouldn’t be surprised.

After a few moments, she brushed back her hair and kissed his palm. “No, it isn’t.”

His breath hitched as she looked up, her eyes dark and hungry.

There were traditions, rituals they kept whenever they parted, whenever they reunited. The duel. The patching. And now, another dance, a more intimate one without the blades and armour in their way.

Felix wasn’t a patient man. He had waited a month for his wife’s return.

Yet, as his wife pushed him down, her eager fingers already unbuttoning his shirt, he realized that his wife had even less patience than he did.

[luminashdawnwing]

DWC July 2023 Mini-Mode Time

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Luminash held a bronze-inlaid pocketwatch in his hand, its face blank but for a single hand, ticking rhythmically along. The magister counted each tick carefully, every second accounted for. That was good enough.

While others at Eon's Fringe worked with the Timewalkers to repair what damage was left behind by the rifts, Luminash, with Andantenormu's watchful eye, had come to the reservoir to observe their formation.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock had been his own idea. While the bronze dragons and their mortal helpers focused on temporal resonance - useful, and especially creative when paired with music, Luminash mused - his own observations led him here.

------------

"The way I conceive of it," Luminash had asserted to his mentor, the dragon in tauren visage nodding a shaggy and bespectacled head, "Time and space are inextricably linked." The magister clasped his hands together, fingers laced, "If one plucks the first set of strings, the other resonantes as well. You see?" The magister leaned forward at the able the pair shared at the Everywhen Inn while they discussed their work, and gently, slowly, slid his goblet towards the edge of the table. A tap, and it tumbled off, hurtling towards the stone floor.

Halfway through its fall, sure to shatter and draw the attention of other patrons, and with a twitch of Luminash's fingers, it slowed, the splash of wine lapping against the side and up over the lip a wave in slow motion.

"What did I do to the glass, Dante?" Luminash asked, as if he were instructing an apprentice.

"A slow fall spell, isn't it?" Dante rumbled in reply. The dragon appeared curious as to where this instruction was going, peering over his glasses at the elf, responding in the manner of a parent indulging a child.

Luminash shook his head, "Something of the sort. But what does such a spell do?"

"It slows a fall, magister, by altering the space around an object or person. Transmutation, I believe is the term you mortals prefer for its school, correct?"

The magister shook his head again, motioning to the slowly falling glass. Its base was about to strike the stone, "Look more closely. Feel the magic there, do not simply think about it."

The dragon canted his horned head to the side just as the goblet stopped entirely, its base so close to the floor it was a wonder it had not struck. As he replied, it rose back up just as slowly, spilling wine drawn back in as it neared the table from where it had fallen, "You slowed its timeline, not its travel through space."

Luminash beamed, nodding vigorously, "But what, in the end, was the difference? At any point in time, an object must be somewhere in space, and vice versa. If one alters one, they must alter the other. Time and space must be considered together."

Andantenormu rumbled thoughtfully, finally nodding, "You will need to bring this to the more theoretically minded of our flight. I think they would be glad to hear from you." A slight smirk spread across his tauren visage, "I get the feeling they will be, actually."

------------

Tick. Tick. Ticktick.

The mechanism within the watch was growing faster. Luminash's breath caught for a moment as he concentrated on the flow of time. Yes, it was growing erratic, certainly, like wading in still pond and feeling the sudden tug of an undertow, and its pull tugged at the delicate clockwork, dragging it faster through space, later in the object's own timeline.

Tickticktick. Tick. Tick... Tick...

"Dante!" Luminash called to the dragon whose shadow had just passed over in his patrol of the reservoir, "Alert Soridormi! A tear is imminent, I am certain of it!" He held up the watch, its ticking continuing to swing from slow to fast and back.

The dragon's shadow sweeping across the ground suddenly grew still. The wind that had been tossing about escaped strands of the magister's hair ceased. The air grew heavy, grass frozen in ripples where once it waved. This was not how the tears normally began.

Some - only a circle - of grass stirred, bronze-cast sands swirling up in a whorl, a figure materializing within. An elf, by his bearing and silhouette, but shrouded too deeply in sand to make out any features of face or clothing.

Why do you labor here, magister, for these tyrants?

The voice echoed from the swirling sand, its hiss muffling the words. Luminash's blood ran cold. It was his own voice.

Luminash opened his mouth to speak, but no sound fell forth. His tongue was rooted. His throat caught.

Have you seen them? The other worlds? The figure raised a hand, a vortex of bronze sand swirling about, opening into a window through space and time, half-obscured images flashing by on the other side.

Worlds of "perfection," where the Titan usurpers never relinquished their hold. Worlds of death, where our people, and all others, were reduced to Scourge thralls. Every point that has led us to this moment could have gone differently. Why do we cling to the evils we have endured? Why do you?

Shaking himself from his shock, Luminash shook his head, "You cannot be here. This is not your place. The timelines cannot-"

They cannot? To what end? To preserve the Titans' lies, to hold the people of Azeroth accountable to some distant plan whose architects do not even turn their gaze on what they've done?

"To preserve what is! Surely we understand that you cannot just..." Luminash waved a hand, both a flippant gesture and a motion to dispel the window his shadow had opened, "You cannot simply change a moment and expect all else to remain the same."

Would Theras not be happier with his mother?

Luminash's stomach twisted into a knot. He had scarcely expected such a violent dagger in the back from himself.

"Every action cascades. You are not a foolish man. I am quite aware of this myself, am I not?" Luminash offered his shadow, "Look at my life, my home. Suramar, Jaskian. If Seladra were alive, where would all of this be? You cannot just change a moment to suit a whim!" A pause, laden with grief, a cold stone in the magister's stomach, "Even if it would be for our son."

Not all are so fortunate, are they? Luminash's other voice posited. Whatever had happened to this one, the words were heavy with pain. You have thought of this, though. All of us have, I am certain. But you chose the tyranny of Order.

Luminash straightened his back and stared into the featureless face of his other self, "I chose understanding what is rather than dreaming about what could be."

And what a disappointment it is. We are all dreamers, magister. Why else do we search for answers? We have seen the very source of Death, infused ourselves with Order! Is that not dreaming of what could be?

"There is a difference between wondering what if, and actively pursuing it," the magister replied, carefully approaching, then circling, the whorl of sand, "To the detriment, I might add, of those who may be affected by your daydreams."

Before the other Luminash could speak, the here and now Luminash continued, "You ask me why I chose my path. Why did you choose yours?" No presumption, no judgment in his voice. Whatever could be was not, and could do him no harm.

Choice is meaningless. Those greater than even the Titans or the Eternal Ones saw to it long, long ago. I do what I must, because there were no other options.

"As do I, then, to put it in terms we can understand," Luminash replied, "Keep your secrets, if you must. But you must know you cannot stay."

I am afraid you do not understand why I am here. Why we are here. I have seen you, in flashes and dreams. I know you have seen me.

He was right, of course. Memories both his own and not his own sat in Luminash's mind, of meetings not with Andantenormu, but another dragon, another mentor. And then, searing pain, blackened skin. Shadowflame. He shuddered.

Our timelines are so very, very close, but yours... While you played Timewalker, servant of dragons, Caeridormi showed me the timeways, all those little moments that could have changed my life. And kept seeing you, so close to me, yet so far.

"I know that name, Caeridormi. Another bronze, from what my glimpses have shown me. Who is she?"

A dragon who sees things for the way they should be, not how they are. Who showed me that our accident at Eon's Fringe need not chain me to the vision of the Bronze or the Timewalkers.

Luminash drew his lips into a thin line, "She is Infinite. And you believe her." Once more, no judgment in the magister's voice, only dull realization.

She also showed me the truth. Our truth. The disruptions in time are causing our timelines to converge. Consider this appearance a... Let us call it a warning of what is to come.

"And what is to come?" Luminash crossed his arms, head canting to the side. His counterpart tilted his head the other way and barked out a laugh.

We shall find out together, magister. But know this: I will not be erased.

The whorl of sand began to settle as the time echo of the other Luminash faded from view. First, a rustle of grass, then the beating of draconic wings overhead, all the sound returned in a rush.

Time returned with it, and from the magister's hand, the quiet sound: Tick. Tick. Tick.

( Better late than never! @daily-writing-challenge; and @kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian mention! )

[romanticfools]

bride by ali hazelwood: four-star review

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ / ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

synopsis:

Misery Lark, the only daughter of the most powerful Vampyre councilman of the Southwest, is an outcast—again. Her days of living in anonymity among the Humans are over: she has been called upon to uphold a historic peacekeeping alliance between the Vampyres and their mortal enemies, the Weres, and she sees little choice but to surrender herself in the exchange—again…

Weres are ruthless and unpredictable, and their Alpha, Lowe Moreland, is no exception. He rules his pack with absolute authority, but not without justice. And, unlike the Vampyre Council, not without feeling. It’s clear from the way he tracks Misery’s every movement that he doesn’t trust her. If only he knew how right he was….

Because Misery has her own reasons to agree to this marriage of convenience, reasons that have nothing to do with politics or alliances, and everything to do with the only thing she's ever cared about. And she is willing to do whatever it takes to get back what’s hers, even if it means a life alone in Were territory…alone with the wolf.

if ali hazelwood has no fans, consider me deceased because i am an ali hazelwood enthusiast first and human second. quote me.

so when i heard ali was coming out with a new book and it wasn't STEM or academia centred? honestly, i was SO excited. when i heard it was a paranormal (tick!) marriage of convenience (double tick!) between an alpha and a vampyre (tickticktick!!!!!!) i knew, going into this book, i'd like it. what can i say, i'm a simple gal and i'm satisfied with the way ali writes her characters. aka, snarky - ish independent female is used to doing everything on her own, meets a six foot nine HUGE man who has been pining over her from the beginning. oops, this was supposed to be no spoiler territory. oh well.

okay, quick list of reasons and tropes of the book if you want the tl;dr

marriage of convenience

forbidden romance (their species are enemies! AH!)

he falls first AND falls harder

first person (thank you, ali) and fem perspective

paranormal (werewolf x vampyre)

touch her and you die

grumpy x mild sunshine

spice: 🌶️ (mild)

okay, continuing with my yapping, here's a more in depth review of what i loved and what i didn't love as much.

i loved misery and lowe and their interactions. i thought they were SO sweet together, except ali totally did them dirty with the names. really??? MISERY and LOWE????????????? the book was mostly in misery's perspective but we got snippets of lowe; my fav quotes were all from him. okay, quick rundown of good things:

as per usual, the sex is sexing and it is hot

the grovelling from lowe??? the PINING??? the PAIN???? UGH, ALI

misery is a smart, independent cookie whose backstory is so delicate and painful. i love her so much as a character

minor plot twists! i thought these were delightful

fast pacing. i gobbled this in one sitting

funny in that signature ali hazelwood way

things i think could have been better:

the book didn't focus much on lowe as much as i would've liked it to

the premise of their conflict was kinda........ just a little stupid. it wasn't really believable and i found myself frustrated with the characters

overall, LOVED it but couldn't bring myself to give it 5 stars. in my opinion, love, theoretically was a MILLION times better than this. i may be biased, because that's my favourite thing ali has ever written.

loved bride just as much as i did? try love, theoretically by ali hazelwood

need more paranormal romances! try a hunger like no other by kresley cole

[actualbampot]

Wouldn’t that kind of make neo a….certain word I don’t want to say. Since she’s deceiving someone in to physical contact?

...a thief? She's got that down already. Blackmail? Yup. A war criminal? An asset to mass murder? Yep those too. Crimes against humanity? Tickticktick