Fan fiction author, trans, business owner, and nerd. Sales Master, Graphic designer, and social media Guru. Gender role fluid, Demi-Sexual. Soft Stud. Practicing ENM, polyamory. Ask me anything! Aralas has a discord now: https://discord.gg/8BhH58PgF2
Hot take but telling every bisexual afab person to decenter men when you don't even know them is centering men with the assumption like??? Also as a bisexual thats also biracial the half the month bs is funny when it's from the community but otherwise it just feels like punching down. Anyway happy pride bc why are we infighting in times such as this when all of our rights are in danger. Love everybody and love every body. No one has to prove their queerness here and no one should have to prove it anywhere else either.
"And now," he said finally, voice scraped down to almost nothing. "Now Eden's still standing. Still breathing. And you're still here. And I'm still here. And you didn't get to finish the transaction."
"No."
"Does it feel like anything? That you're still alive? Or is it just leftover — like you're running on inertia."
A very long pause.
"Some days," Alex said carefully, "it feels like both."
Dolph absorbed that. It sat in him alongside the other things he was carrying — the cracked rib and the bleeding hip and the six years of unconditional love for a man who had pre-emptively grieved him as a mercy and called it clean.
"I loved you," he said. "Love. Present tense, if I'm honest, which I hate." He stared at the ceiling. "I would have thrown everything away for you. The mission, the unit, the cause — all of it. Not because you asked. Not because I thought it was right. Just because it was you and I didn't know how to put conditions on it." He paused. "You knew that. You knew exactly what I would have done, and instead of trusting me with your plan — instead of letting me make that choice — you burned me first."
"Yeah," Alex said again.
"You loved me with conditions I didn't know existed," Dolph said. "A list of things that mattered more. And at the top of the list was a future you were never planning to live in." He laughed, short and broken. "You burned me for a world you weren't even going to stay for."
I think for my book covers I'm going to try to KEEP a THEME (Which means the Fallen Angel Saga Will get new covers too), so this will keep the series in sort of a THEME, so it's no question these are MY BOOKS.
All photos, Fonts, and Graphics are licensed from their Creators. All Placement, Typesetting, and formatting is by me.
GROUNDS FOR:
SuperNatural Council:
My amazon shop should UPDATE the HONEST grounds covers VERY soon. I just put the update in along with manuscript fixes for SC Mummy/Demon.
HERE WE GO!
I am working on the continuation of collapsed and Thranduil and Legolas needed a moment. I think I’ve given them that.
From: Threshold:
"Tell me of mother," Legolas said quietly.
Thranduil went still.
It had been a long time since Legolas had asked. A few hundred years, perhaps — since they had been close enough to this particular quality of open, the walls down, the fire low, the night holding them both, for the asking to feel possible. He had stopped asking not because he had stopped wanting to know but because grief had made his father a place where certain questions did not go, and Legolas had loved him enough to respect that.
Tonight was different.
Thranduil let himself think of her. Let himself — which was not always something he permitted — the specific face of her, the quality of her laugh, the way she had looked at him in the early years when the world had been new and full and unmarked by everything that came after.
"Your mother," he said, "was a force to be reckoned with." A soft sound escaped him — something between a breath and a laugh, surprised out of him by the warmth of the memory arriving without its usual edge of pain. "She challenged my mind and my heart both. She did not let me be comfortable when comfortable was the wrong thing to be." He paused. "She was fiercely protective of you. From the very beginning. You were everything to her." He looked at the fire. "When I lost her I thought there was simply no room for anything else. That whatever space existed in me for that kind of — for that — had been filled and spent and was gone. That whatever love remained in me was yours alone." He was quiet for a moment. "That is a lonely way to live."
Legolas said nothing. Just held his arm and listened.
"And Thorin," Thranduil said — and something in his voice when he said the name was unguarded in a way very little about him ever was. "Is fierce. But he is practical — deeply, almost stubbornly practical — and he is kind in ways he does not always show easily." He considered for a moment, finding the honest shape of it rather than simply the articulate one. "He is very different from your mother. He answers needs I did not know existed in me. Needs I had not thought to look for." A pause. "One person can never be everything to another. We try. We try to be sufficient, to fill every space, answer every question. But people are complex, and sometimes those complexities require not just contrast but continuation. A different kind of understanding entirely." He stopped. Started again, and his voice was firmer: "My love for her is not diminished by this. It does not work that way. I need you to know that."
"I know," Legolas said. No hesitation.
"And my love for you," Thranduil continued, and something almost anxious entered his voice — not the anxiety of a man who feared judgment but of a father who had been quiet too long and was no longer certain that the quiet had been understood as love rather than distance. "Is unchanged. Whatever else is true, that is true."
Legolas lifted his head from his father's shoulder and looked at him.
The firelight between them. His son's face — his mother's eyes in it, the jaw his own, the whole of it entirely and irreducibly its own person — watching him with an expression that was very steady and held nothing in it that resembled doubt.
"Are you happy?" Legolas asked softly.
Simple. Direct. Not ‘is this wise?’ and not ‘is this safe?’ and not ‘what will people say?’. Just the plain thing. The only thing that mattered.
Thranduil met his son's gaze.
"I am," he said honestly. And it was a balm — saying it aloud, to another person, in the real air of a real night. He had not understood how much he needed to say it until he had.
"Good." Legolas looked at him for one more moment. Long enough to make sure. Long enough to find the truth of it in his father's face and be satisfied by what he found. "Then be happy, Ada."
He gave his father's arm a firm, brief squeeze — not tentative, not careful, but certain, the confidence of it carrying exactly what it was meant to carry, which was not approval exactly and not permission exactly but something that lived between them, something that said I see you, I have you, you do not need to justify this to me — and rose.
I really have other things to work on but this really happened quickly:
The station had gone quiet in the way it only did past the second watch — a low thrum of systems, the distant rhythm of the Promenade winding down. Julian’s quarters felt smaller for it. More deliberate.
Garak sat, relaxed, across his side of the sofa, a warm cup of gelat balanced against his knee. The 3D chess set occupied the low table between them, three levels catching the amber light Julian kept lower than regulation. He’d never commented on that.
“Make your move, Doctor.”
Julian looked up from the board, tracing angles. The middle level was a disaster. The top was anyone’s.
“I’m deciding.”
“How to lose?” Garak’s smile arrived before the words did.
Julian picked up his knight. His hand hovered — not uncertainty, something else — and released the white rook to its new square with a soft click.
Garak sat forward. He moved without pause, lifting his own knight and sweeping Julian’s rook cleanly off the board. Set it aside like it had never belonged there.
“Check.”
He settled back. Crossed one leg over the other. The picture of a man with nowhere else to be.
Julian’s expression did something complicated. He reached for his bishop and took the knight — a fair trade on paper, a loss in the longer geometry.
“You’re trying to bait me.”
Garak lifted a pawn on the lower level. It climbed.
“Is it working?”
The ambient hum of the station filled the pause. Somewhere aft, a conduit cycled. Julian moved again — mechanical now, working through it rather than past it.
“Why do you try so hard?”
“I like a challenge.” Another piece. Garak’s eyes didn’t leave the board, but they weren’t reading it either. “You are challenging.” A small nod, as if confirming something to himself.
Julian looked up. The pretense of the game fell away from his face like a mask set down carefully, not dropped.
“I have never given in.”
“I don’t expect you shall.” Garak’s voice carried something that wasn’t quite amusement. “I’m hunting something.” A pause — measured, not accidental. “You’re running from something.”
“We’re both running from things, Garak.”
The Cardassian’s voice dropped. Not softer. Lower. The kind of quiet that fills a room rather than retreating from it.
“Not this.”
Outside, a transport announced its departure on some distant speaker. Neither of them moved.
Julian reached for his remaining rook. Moved it. An aggressive play, cornered into honesty.
“What are you implying? Suggesting?”
Garak moved his own queen down a level. The board tilted further toward inevitable.
“I’m not implying anything.” His fingers left the piece. “Suggesting anything.”
The silence held its shape.
“Then what do you want?”
Garak looked at him then. Not at the board. A moment of something like openness — costly, brief, a door opened just long enough to confirm the room exists.
“I can’t promise forever. Or a future. Or knowing me — not entirely.” His voice remained even, careful, the way a man is careful when he’s telling the truth and knows the weight of it. “I can give tonight. Perhaps others. But it couldn’t be—”
“We couldn’t be.”
“No.” Garak held his gaze. “That’s too dangerous. All around.”
Julian was quiet for a moment. The station hummed its indifferent hum.
“Tonight?”
Garak was unhurried. “If that is your desire.”
“Is it yours?”
Garak watched him. Said nothing. Which was its own kind of answer — the one he wouldn’t let himself speak aloud, wouldn’t hand over, because some things said plainly become things that can be taken away.
Julian reached out and toppled his own king. The piece rolled once and settled on its side, three levels up, catching the amber light.
“That would be your checkmate.” A decision. A choice.
Garak looked at the fallen piece for a moment. Then he leaned forward and set his cup of gelat down on the table, quiet and deliberate, beside the board.
“Julian—” He held out a hand.
Julian stood. He crossed the small distance and took it.
“Tonight.”
“Yes.” Garak said softly. Julian sat beside him on the sofa. The chess set remained where it was, forgotten, the king on his side. The amber light held them both.
New on Amazon my Supernatural Council Series books 1 & 2
Book 1 Mummy is Free until April 5th! Currently Ranked #30 on amazon in Free LGBTQIA fantasy!
Grab your copy for free here: SUPERNATURAL COUNCIL: MUMMY
A snippet:
I’m at the counter spreading jam on toast, fig, from a jar we picked up in Sicily last summer, when he comes up behind me. His arms wrap around my waist, his chest pressing against my back, his face nuzzling into the curve of my neck.
He’s cool against my still-sun-warm skin. I can feel his breath, unnecessary, but there, ghosting across my throat.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks against my skin.
“Tomorrow’s agenda,” I lie. “The vote. Whether Lucia will actually side with Marcus or if she’ll surprise us.
“Liar.” His hands tighten on my hips. “You’re thinking about this.”
He turns me around in one smooth motion, vampire strength, vampire speed, and lifts me onto the counter. The granite is cold through my thin sleep pants, a shock against my skin. I’m suddenly at eye level with him, his body between my knees, his hands gripping my thighs.
His eyes have changed. The gray-blue is nearly gone, swallowed by the pupil, and thin red veins are tracing through the whites. Not hunger for blood. Hunger for me.
“Anton—”
His mouth finds mine, cutting off whatever I was going to say. His kiss is desperate, possessive, his cool tongue sliding against mine, his fangs just slightly extended, sharp enough that I have to be careful, but I’ve had seventy years of practice.
I pull him closer, wrap my legs around his waist, fist my hands in his hair, and hold on. He makes a sound low in his throat, not a growl, vampires don’t growl, but something close. Something hungry and wanting and mine.
His hands slide under my shirt, cool palms against my ribs, my back, mapping territory he’s explored a thousand times. My skin is still warm from the sunrise, and I can feel the contrast. My heat, his cold, the way we balance each other.
I gasp, can’t help it, never could when he touches me like this, and the gasp turns into words, into prayers I don’t even know I’m saying—ancient Egyptian, the language of my first life, spilling from my lips.
My god, beautiful, my beloved.
He understands. He always understands, even though he doesn’t speak the language. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, my throat, that sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me arch into him.
(Download Supernatural Council on Amazon!) TO read more! FREE until April 5th 2026!
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READ HONEST GROUNDS: CLICK HERE
A snippet:
Aaron Dane awoke to the shrill protest of his alarm, the sound cutting through the fog of sleep like a knife. He groaned, rolling toward the nightstand where his phone buzzed insistently against the scarred wood. 4:45 AM glowed accusingly from the screen. He'd managed barely four hours of sleep.
Rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, Aaron sat up slowly, his body protesting the early hour and the previous night's activities. The sheets beside him were rumpled but empty, still holding the faint warmth and lingering scent of expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine that made his stomach flutter with memory.
Lee.
The name rolled through his mind as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor of his small bedroom. The whole evening felt surreal now in the gray pre-dawn light filtering through his curtains. He wasn't the type to bring strangers home, hell, he wasn't the type to go out on a Tuesday night at all. But Tommy had been relentless, practically dragging him to Murphy's Pub after another one of Aaron's complaints about his nonexistent love life.
"You're twenty-eight and acting like you're forty-eight," Tommy had said, not entirely wrong. "One drink. What's the worst that could happen?"
Apparently, the worst that could happen was the best sex of Aaron's life with a man he’d met at the bar, whose last name he didn't even know.
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