#i surprised even myself while writing this

[bettystonewell]

Yay - I knew this would be amazing! I’m so happy you ended up doing this ❤️

I’m still yet to watch much of The Boys and Big Sky - though I tried, and then realised I’m going to need to watch the whole of both and not just the seasons that feature Jensen 🙊 but I was still able to enjoy this and see each individual character❤️

I also haven’t seen Ten Inch Hero - what kind of person am I? I’m going to blame the fact that we always seem to get stuff here last in Australia, even though it’s close to 20 years old?…

Anywho - this is my favourite line from the whole thing (and not just because it’s Dean):

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler

I was imagining MEV reader again, and as I was writing this I kept getting myself confused because I’m relating her to Monica’s love of cooking. But Dean is a bit of a mother hen and fussy with the cleanliness of his room, so he’s definitely got some similarities with Monica there haha - role reversal when the ‘bossy’ one gets bossed - just go to bed Dean!

And unlike Dean, Chandler can admit he needs someone occasionally 🤣

I’m really surprised by Beau’s character. I’ve read a couple of fics where the big 3 were all present, granted they were crackish, but I was under the impression he was a little more grounded and sweeter? And I guess he probably is, I’ll give him a pass because he has the man flu, but I didn’t realise he was such a work-a-holic. Then again, he’s a sheriff, makes sense. And at least he listens eventually, even if there were a few, I’ll say instructions. Man runs a right ship. “And can you get me…”

I liked the below line from Ben, but I’m not going to lie, just dropping the f-bomb is what grabbed my attention (and again, there’s something wrong with me lol)

“Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?"

He’s just a dick, a grumbly one, but also a softie and wants some love deep down right? You won’t win it with yachts, mate, although I guess it’s worked for him before?

I’m going to see if I can watch Ten Inch Hero 🤞 - but now I really want to know if I was to read one of your Ben fics (being a super hero interests me the most), is there one I could read where I wouldn’t have to watch the show first? 👉👈 spoilers don’t bother me, I read supernatural fics set in the bunker before I’d even gotten there 😅 but I want to check one out and Break Me Down is looking very appealing ❤️

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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[meanbossart]

I'm not sure if it's been asked before but first of all your writing skills are just incredible🤌 After reading "A Novel Experience" it was like scratching an itch that I couldn't quite reach after years of reading burnout. In summary I was genuinely interested in how have you improved and developed your writing skills? Like honestly your writing is so addictive and captivating that (respectfully) there just has to be some kind of exposure to expression through literature, or perhaps you are just simply into reading. (That's a lot of yap and sorry if it's personal in a way or another. Also thank you for inspiring me and other people alike, you are a phenomenal artist 🙏)

Oh, thank you! I am beyond flattered and I truly appreciate that you enjoy my writing so much. To be honest I am actually very dissatisfied with my work for about half of A Novel Experience - when I started it, I had no audience, I just wrote and posted the first chapter as an epilogue for the game since the canonical ending felt pretty abrupt (we didn't have the official epilogue with the extended dialogue or Wither's party back then).

Then, I just felt like I had more to say, so I kept writing and by chapter 4-5 I had this huge story plotted out. I wrote a lot of those early chapters very quickly, and often while a little drunk, and considered them rough outlines rather than a finished work. When the story and my art began picking up traction I started to put more effort into my style and presentation, which is why chapters take a LOT longer to write nowadays - but I can confidently say that I am very proud of everything that came after The Compound.

I'm not really a reader, I'd be surprised if I read more than 30 books in my entire 28 years of life, and frankly I only started to enjoy fantasy very recently through admiring many of the fromsoft games from afar, and of course by finally playing Baldur's Gate 3.

One thing I will say is that the fictional books I've read that really stuck with me - and that I would consider to have influenced the way I write - have all had very unorthodox styles. Blindness by Jose Saramago is page after page of overwhelming walls of texts that read like a slowing-down clock or an agonizingly tight turning of screws; Blood Meridian is a nearly incoherent babble written by a man who outgrew the need or patience for commas or proper sentence separation, who knowingly disregarded grammar for the sake of feel. The Consumer is a collection of borderline pornographic and horrible, horrible stories where every character is abstracted into a wider social phenomenon, point of view is irrelevant and there is no line between narrative, dissertation, or poem.

Unlike the aforementioned works and their authors, I'm not talented (or crazy) enough as a writer to COMPLETELY forego construction and grammar, but I do feel perfectly confident in prioritizing feeling and flow over what is "correct" and experimenting with text in the same way I would on a drawing. I don't think any of this makes me good at it, but hopefully it makes it interesting or unique enough to stand out. It also means that, despite disliking those first few chapters, I don't really mind having them out there, since my purpose with them was to just have fun and try to capture "a vibe" rather than show myself off as some sort of wordsmith.

Well then, I've definitely outyapped you so we're even now. Hopefully this was interesting in the slightest!

[junelovesaz]

Shadows and Whispers. Part 2

Note: Hello loves! I’m back… I think. Honestly, I promised I’d be more active, but I didn’t make it. I finished my first year of university and got a summer job. Still, I take full responsibility—you can crucify me, I’ll accept it 😌😌 I had the second part of Shadows and Whispers in my drafts, but I hadn’t published it yet because I wanted to edit it a bit. I’m sorry if this is a mess—I’m pretty rusty, and English isn’t my first language and it´s late. If there are any mistakes, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’ve been inactive for so long that I’m not even sure if I should take the liberty of using the tag list. But still, if you’re reading this, thank you so much for your time—I love you 💙💙💙

I’ll leave the song I was listening to while writing this. Take care.

P.S. Someone asked me a while ago if there would be more of Shadows and Whispers, so this second part is for you. I’m sorry it took so long, but I hope you like it.

Warnings: None, only if you squint, something suggestive.

Summary: At the ball, Azriel and the reader pretend to be a couple to gather information about the Autumn Court. However, the situation becomes overwhelming for the reader, leaving her confused, and Azriel’s touches only make it harder for her to clear her mind.

Many times, I stayed awake at night, questioning what I was doing with my life until the early hours of the morning. However, I had never tormented myself as much as I did in this situation.

I had the feeling that I would remain awake for many more dawns, and I was sure that my poor heart would not survive.

In front of me stood the man I was in love with, looking ridiculously handsome. His two large wings surrounded me, while his arms remained wrapped around my waist, as if that were the place where they should have always stayed, where they should remain until I turned to dust and stars.

I was intoxicated by his touch. Az had been quite careful, though deep down, I knew he was worried about making me feel uncomfortable with his chest pressed against mine, his occasional touches on my lower back, and the way his hands left soft caresses on my arms, waist, and even my neck.

He was trying hard to make this ridiculous act believable. When had anyone ever seen the Shadowsinger being so openly affectionate in a room full of nobles?

Not in my wildest dreams—or in those of the vipers surrounding us.

"Are you okay?" Azriel’s deep voice murmured softly, catching my attention.

I turned to look at him and was met with his kind hazel eyes, mixed with a hint of caution.

I nodded, trying to control my pulse. "All good, Az."

I saw doubt cross his face, but I didn’t want him to dig any deeper, so I quickly changed the subject.

"Are you sure this is working?" I asked with a genuinely teasing smile.

Az raised an eyebrow.

"I don’t understand why you’re so surprised. I’m good at my job."

The music changed, and this time, the melody became faster, more intense. Exactly how I felt—restless, euphoric.

Az’s hands were gentle, soft but firm, moving me to the rhythm of the music with ease. He was a skilled dancer, and he was the one doing all the hard work. Unfortunately, I had not been born with the grace and delicacy of a great dancer. Cassian and I used to whisper about which of us would look more ridiculous when we had to dance with someone else.

"Pretending to be madly in love?" A pang hit my chest, but I ignored it and simply raised an eyebrow. "Or gathering information?"

Even so, my heart was pounding wildly, and I could feel my pulse in my head, but I would blame the dance. That would be my great excuse. I knew Az could hear it too, but he was probably too polite to mention it.

"I’d say both," he replied smugly.

I rolled my eyes.

"Of course you would."

He smiled, and his expression was enough to soften me. We stood in silence for a moment until his shadows brushed against my shoulders, and I smiled fondly at them.

"Maybe you should teach him some humility," I told them, referring to their master.

They caressed me again, and their cold touch didn’t seem strange to me at all. On the contrary, it was even… comforting.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize one of my dress straps had slipped from my shoulder until I felt one of Az’s hands gently brushing my skin to put it back in place.

The gesture was so… tender, and his touch was so full of devotion that my head started spinning, and my thoughts became a blur.

It was just a mission, I reminded myself.

Then why did this—whatever it was—not feel that way?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was about to make a comment, but the words caught in my throat because, at that moment, Az and I overheard an interesting conversation between two nobles, and our attention shifted to them.

"…Beron is still High Lord."

We exchanged a brief glance before subtly moving closer to listen. Their voices were little more than whispers, but with a Shadowsinger as my partner… anything was possible.

"That doesn’t mean one of his sons won’t become High Lord at some point."

I frowned.

Eris wanted the throne, of course. His brothers also craved power, but what would this damned court do? Bet on which one of them would stay alive to take the role?

“Eris could become High Lord,” one of them remarked.

“Or… not,” the other took a moment to reply.

Az’s back stiffened, and I assumed my reaction was a reflection of his. We exchanged another glance, and I leaned my body against his chest, syncing with the melody’s shift to a softer tune.

“What do you mean?” one of the voices sounded again.

The other fell silent for a moment, and I held my breath.

“You know what I mean.”

So Eris’s brothers were beginning to form alliances? Were they planning to kill each other?

Not a single part of me was surprised. At least not enough to show a look of disgust.

Az wrapped his arms around me again and lifted my hands to his neck, tangling them there and forcing me onto my tiptoes. It was the signal that he was going to whisper something to me, so I tilted my head to make it seem, from an outsider’s perspective, as though he was kissing my neck.

“They’re planning to kill him,” he murmured so softly that I barely heard him.

“I got that too,” I replied, shifting my position again, moving my head in a way that made it look like I was seeking refuge in his neck.

Probably not my best move, as the scent of cedar filled my nostrils, invading my senses and thoughts.

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

Still, we spent the next hour like this—dancing between whispers, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to piece together the alliances and the cursed situation surrounding the Autumn heir.

Some nobles had already left, while Az and I remained in a corner, pretending to sip wine. In reality, I had placed a shield around us to prevent anyone from overhearing our conversation.

“We have to tell Rhys. Now,” I emphasized when he didn’t move.

“Not yet,” Az denied. “We convinced some of them,” he gestured toward the last few people lingering at the ball, “but not all. Beron will likely send someone to follow us once we leave this cursed place.”

I sighed.

“So what do we do?” I asked, my patience wearing thin. This night had been long—filled with half-touches, lies and not-lies that had left my mind more confused than ever.

“We continue the act,” he answered simply. And when he didn’t say anything for a few seconds, I lowered the shield, fairly certain he already had a plan in mind.

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

And so, half an hour later, Az and I found ourselves outside the Autumn Court’s castle, surrounded by a breathtaking forest of orange, green, and brown hues.

On another occasion, I might have found it a marvelous sight. Right now, I just wanted to leave, curl up under layers of blankets, and forget this night had ever happened.

Az’s arm rested over my shoulders as we walked, shielding me from the cold but also ensuring that those following us—because he had been right about that—could see us.

They were close, but not close enough to hear what we were saying.

"You don’t need to do that, Az," I said, referring to his wing wrapping around me.

Truthfully, I did want him to stay close, but I had already messed up before—back in Velaris when I had accidentally ended up touching his wing.

"It’s cold," he replied calmly, taking my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Az’s body was like a furnace, providing enough warmth to keep me from freezing. But if I wanted to make it through this night, I needed to put some distance between us.

"Az," I swallowed. "Listen, I need to..." I turned slightly toward him before continuing. His deep gaze met mine, and I swallowed hard.

By the Cauldron, what was I supposed to say? Please stop touching me because you’re confusing my heart? Of course not.

Still, I opened my mouth to speak just as he lowered his head, pressing his lips to mine in a slow, sensual kiss. I didn’t hold back the surprised sound that escaped me—but I also didn’t pull away. Az backed us up, touching me with such intensity that it stole my breath. We didn’t stop kissing as he placed both hands behind my head, making sure I wouldn’t hit the bark of the tree we had landed against. That was how it worked with him—my resolve disappeared as if it had never existed. That was why, in the first place, I hadn’t wanted to come here with Az.

I shivered as his arms lifted me, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist, aligning me exactly where I needed him.

What the hell was happening?

"Az..." I whispered between kisses, trying to clear my thoughts.

The shadowsinger didn’t respond. He lifted his head for just a second, and what I saw made my knees weak. Desire and intensity. I recognized it because I had seen that look countless times—on myself, whenever I was with him.

It was fleeting, because the next moment, he trailed kisses down my jaw, tilting my head back to expose my neck to him.

Surprisingly, he found a spot that made my toes curl, and one of the hands gripping his shoulders tugged gently at his hair, while the other, unconsciously, slid to the edge of his right wing—the one that had never stopped wrapping around me.

I knew Illyrians were sensitive to that kind of touch, but I also knew it was an intimacy I wasn’t sure Az wanted from me.

And yet, drunk on him, I didn’t even think about it—about the consequences of my actions—as I traced my fingertips along the membrane.

The guttural sound that escaped him set my insides on fire, and I knew—I wouldn’t survive the night when he trembled, pressing his face against my neck as his weight sank into me.

Around us, the forest had fallen into absolute silence. Not even the wind rustled through the trees, and that snapped me back to reality.

We were doing this because someone had likely come too close. But now? Now, there was no one else but us.

Regaining a bit of clarity, I noticed how his shadows shifted restlessly—some curling around my calves, others weaving over his shoulders. His silence unsettled me, so I slowly pulled both hands away from his body, feeling somewhat out of my own.

"Az…" I called after a moment, my voice unsteady, unsure where to even begin apologizing.

"Just a moment… I just need a moment, sweetheart," he responded heavily against my neck.

My brain might as well have short-circuited. Without thinking, I placed my hand back in his hair, gently stroking whatever I could reach.

Exactly one minute later, Az let me go, setting me down with his hands on my waist.

I cleared my throat and avoided his gaze. "Are they gone?" I asked stupidly, not sure what else to say.

Az took my chin between his fingers and guided my attention back to him.

"They’re gone," he confirmed.

I nodded and bit the inside of my cheek. This meant nothing.

A mission, I reminded myself.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly.

Of course not. I was a mess of nerves, words clogging my throat. I needed to let go—let go of what I felt for him, or this love would continue pouring out of me.

"I think we need to talk."

Az nodded, wrapping me in his warmth once more.

"At home, sweetheart."

He squeezed my hand gently, and I felt his shadows swirl around us, whisking us directly to Velaris—home.

It took me a second to recognize the path to the River House, and I braced myself for the conversation we were about to have.

Az didn’t let go of me, and we walked in silence until we reached the door.

I took a deep breath and turned to face him.

I had known from the very beginning that this entire plan was going to fall apart.

[waynes-multiverse]

They are crazy addicting lol! And I've seen so many start doing them like this after you, and it's cool to read everyone's different takes (and how much we all agree for some 😂). Comparing Jackles characters also reminds me of college and writing papers lmao

Oooh this is so true for Dean. He's only had like, what, two real relationships in his life? With Lisa, I feel like we got a sense that they were loving partners, but the show didn't dive all that deep into what their relationship actually looked like romantically. (One of my biggest gripes honestly. Outing myself here: I shipped Dean x Lisa hard back in the day and was heartbroken when they broke her and Dean up and wrote her and Ben out of the show the way they did. 😭)

Right lol?? I feel like he wouldn't know that all these sweet little things he does just because he's generally a kind, caring, good human are actually swoon-worthy 😍

And I loved Lisa and Dean, too! I just felt her entry and exit were both a bit surprising lol. I do think they had a loving relationship, but Dean mentioned he wasn't really there mentally because of Sam. But I hated how they wrote her out and portrayed it all. Makes me cringe during rewatches when I see them interact because I know how it'll all end 😂🙈

What a lovely turn in the ending though!! He decked out the Dean Cave, I love it!! 😍 That's a big gesture he could 100% pull off. 💕

One of the things all my fics have in common is that Dean always decks out the Cave for date night. But I think that's just totally something he'd do 🥰 (That, and taking you for a drive in the Impala, either to an outdoor movie theater or some viewpoint where teens make out lmao)

LOL "old school" is an understatement with this guy for sure, but it very much tracks that he'd go all out for V-Day. He's got money to burn, and I feel like he'd enjoy trying to impress his girl with all the fanfare of a beautiful night out. (I explored that idea in Lost on You for sure.)

Yup, exactly! It's like a staged event for him, he goes all out and uses every opportunity to brag lol (And I so can imagine SB in the 80s was 100% that guy. Just look at that fucking cocky smirk 😂)

💀💀 omfg you nailed him there. 💯 😂

I mean, the king can't eat with the peasants 😂😂 (Ben is just generally so fun to write because I usually go with the most extreme thing I can think of and it'll fit 🤣)

omfggg Ben. So accurate, and somehow it's still sexy 😅 (there might be something wrong with me. It's fine.)

Lmao girl, there's something wrong with all of us. I can't even spell the word feminism when I'm writing or reading him 😂💚

I also like the contrast between Dean's card and SB's card at the end -- Ben's not asking questions. He's more straightforward and demanding that you're his. 👌🏽🫠

Aww, glad you agree! I could definitely see Dean be more his insecure self in that regard, while Ben marks his territory with his dick 😂🤷‍♀️

It's the "Are you sure you want to date me?" vs. "How could you not date me?!" lmao

LMAO I loved this entire section for so many reasons -- Beau's southern charm and chivalry, the good dose of realism coming from the reader, plus that one at the end making me cackle. 🤣

For some reason, I figured Beau would totally overdo it, and my God, the pressure the poor reader is under 😂😂

But she did find a way that went beyond blow jobs luckily 😂 And I would absolutely love a cabin getaway with Beau. I did give them a lake cabin in Polaris. Couldn't even imagine him living somewhere else (except maybe a ranch lol).

Very on-brand indeed that he's the one you can't quite pin down (at first). 😅 His job really would make things difficult to make a relationship work, even with the reader soldiering through and trying to be unaffected that she thinks he won't be around for Valentine's Day.

Russ was actually based on a personal story when my husband (then 4 months boyfriend) was still in the military abroad and surprised me with a visit 🥰 But yeah, I had only gotten a quick text and then sulked all day till that moment 😂

I loved ALL of these HCs, Wayne, but I'm torn between Dean and Beau on this one. So very sweet for this hopeless romantic!~ 💞

So happy your hopeless romantic heart enjoyed them, Alex! And thank you for starting an awesome new tradition here! 🥰🫶

Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

(Dean Winchester // Soldier Boy // Beau Arlen // Russell Shaw – Edition)

Prompt: How would your favorite men surprise you for Valentine's Day?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader // Soldier Boy x reader // Beau Arlen x reader // Russell Shaw x reader

Warnings: +18 for some language and spice, tons of fluff, a smidge of angst

A/N: Something sweet to sweep you off your feet for the most romantic day of the year 😉 Happy early Valentine's from me, my loves 💖 (And big thanks to the lovely, amazing @zepskies 💜 for starting this trend in the first place. It's addicting 😂🫶)

Dean:

Dean isn’t big on Valentine’s Day and romance. Not because he thinks it’s an unnecessary holiday invented by greeting card companies, but because he genuinely doesn’t know how to be romantic.

You’re aware of this and don’t care if he surprises you with a big gesture. Because truth is, Dean’s romantic when it comes to the little things.

You don’t care if he brings you flowers because he brings you your favorite take-out order when you so much as mention that you’re hungry.

You don’t care if he gets you a card because he gets up in the middle of the night and saunters all the way to kitchen to bring you a glass of water when you tell him you’re thirsty.

You don’t care if he gets you chocolate because he creates personal mixtapes for you with songs you said you liked during random drives.

He listens to you. He holds open doors for you. He protects you. He keeps you calm. He takes care of you when you’re injured. And he loves you with every fiber of his being.

So, really, you don’t care if he makes a big deal out of one random calendar day a year or not. It doesn’t prove his love for you – the little things do.

However, you’re still sweetly surprised (and moved to tears) when you find the Dean Cave dipped in the warm glow of fairy lights and candles.

He’s picked out your favorite chick-flick and your favorite snacks.

He opens his arms with a big, cheeky grin and invites you into his snuggly embrace on the couch.

There’s a box of chocolates on the coffee table, a few of them half eaten, and a note that reads: I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is. Be mine?

You smile and kiss his scruffy cheek. “Always.”

Flustered, he smiles, cheeks tinged pink, and kisses your crown. “Happy unattached-drifter-Christmas, sweetheart.”

Soldier Boy:

To say Ben’s old-school when it comes to romance would be an understatement. While the rest of the year his bedside manners leave much to desire, he strangely shines on Valentine’s.

Mostly, because he knows sex is a given on this holiest of holy days. No sickness or period can stop him.

If you accidentally died, you’re even sure he’d pull a full Weekend at Bernie’s and have a night out with your corpse.

First, he surprises you with a delicately wrapped gift on your bed: a tight-fitting, beautiful emerald evening gown and the matching lacy lingerie set.

Of course he got you underwear, even though he won’t mind if you don’t wear anything at all under that dress.

He then takes you out to the fanciest restaurant in the city, where he reserved a private room away from all the other commoners.

His attention is only on you.

He praises you all night long and gives compliments as if he's never done anything else his entire (long) life.

He orders the most expensive bottle of wine and the best steak and makes sure you know that it is.

He encourages you to play footsie under the table with him before he slips the heel off your foot, and your toes massage the growing bulge in his slacks.

He holds your hand in public and protectively guides you goddamn everywhere with a palm on the small of your back, showing you off like arm candy – the trophy wife.

Sure, you could protest and critique his… traditional views.

You’re not a fucking award he’s won for bad acting!

But your cheeks flush furiously every single time he brags boisterously about you to anyone who will listen. And those who don’t listen are forced to listen.

But you can’t deny it feels good to be so wanted, so desired.

When you come home at the end of the night (with a fucking horse-drawn carriage no less), Ben can barely keep his large hands from roaming your curves. You know he expects his reward now for being the best possible lover ever.

On the kitchen island, you also find a huge bouquet of red roses waiting for you. You can barely appreciate its beauty before the zipper in the back of your dress slides open. Well… rips open.

Between the thorny stems, there’s a card attached, too. It doesn’t read “Be Mine,” however.

Nope, it says, “You are mine.”

And you know he fucking means it.

Beau Arlen:

Your favorite cowboy sheriff will pull out all the stops as soon as the calendar on his desk reads February.

He doesn’t wait for D-Day either. Every day for thirteen days straight, there’s a little surprise waiting for you when you get home.

Your favorite flowers, your favorite meal, your favorite movie, a framed picture of you and him from your first vacation together, a necklace you saw in an antique store you mentioned in passing…

Some might say he’s a little overcompensating.

But Beau has made mistakes in his past, especially on the relationship front, and will be damned if he hasn’t learned from them.

So, he will make sure you feel wanted and loved till the day he dies, even though you keep repeatedly telling him he doesn’t need to make a fuss about Valentine’s Day.

Really, you’re good with picked flowers from the garden.

But Beau’s stubborn and won’t be discouraged. The southern gentlemanliness is rooted deep within his heart and soul.

This day is all about his endless love for you.

Honestly, the sheer amount of everything makes you even slightly uncomfortable. It might sound dumb, but how could you ever compete with that level of commitment?

There ain’t enough blow jobs in this world to make up for his devotion to you.

But on the big day itself, you are actually the one who surprises him with a romantic weekend trip to a cabin in the mountains and excellent fishing spots close by.

You know the biggest gift you could give him is some peace and quiet, time for himself, and a listening ear because he will surely talk the entire time about God and the world while you’re stuck on a boat with him.

But on the night itself, when you give him your gift, he’s actually speechless. Tears brim in his green eyes because you thought of him.

He’s moved, and it moves you.

Because, after all, to you, there’s no bigger gift in this world than his smile.

Russell Shaw:

You don’t expect much when Valentine’s Day looms in the distance. In fact, you don’t expect anything at all.

You’ve only been dating Russell for a couple of months now, and you barely ever see him. Your time together mostly consists of text messages, late night phone calls, and the occasional video chats.

You know his job is complicated. You know he can’t be around as much, even though you direly wish he could.

On the morning of the dreaded day, you receive a simple text message:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart! I’ll call you later!”

You hate to admit it, but you feel a little disappointed – disenchanted even. You don’t want to make a big deal out of it because it’s a stupid, unimportant almost-holiday.

All day long, you curse the greeting card companies and the poisonous claws of consumerism for making you care in the first place.

You’re a strong, independent woman. You shouldn’t need a man to give you flowers, gifts, or attention to feel appreciated.

Still…

As you park in the driveway after a long day at work where you watched your colleagues fawn over the bouquets they received from their partners, you feel disheartened when you still haven’t even gotten your promised phone call.

Russell always leaves you wanting more… That can both be a good thing and a very bad one.

But as you close the car door, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You all too keenly pull it out and pick up, almost dropping it because your hands are jittering with excitement at this point and your heart is pounding furiously.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Russell greets you on the other end, the deep timbres of his voice sending immediate shivers down your spine. “You home yet?”

All your worries and sorrows are instantly forgotten when you hear the big smile on his freckled face that he’s surely carrying.

He’s worth it, you remind yourself, even when it’s not easy. Life is not always rainbows and butterflies.

“Uh, almost. Unlocking the front door as we speak,” you tell him.

“Sorry I couldn’t call you sooner. Was stuck on a plane. Long flight,” he says mysteriously. You don’t even ask at this point. You know he can’t tell you.

“No worries. I was busy, anyways,” you lie and hope he buys your nonchalance. “Anywhere interesting you are now?”

“You could say that, yeah…”

“Well, if you hold on a second, I’ll slip out of those clothes and make your evening even more interesting with some pictures,” you tease flirtatiously and push the door open to your dark apartment.

The light switches on by itself, though. You blink in surprise before the phone falls out of your hand when Russell beams broadly at you.

“As much as I love getting your dirty little photos, I think I prefer the real thing tonight,” he says slyly.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” You surge forward into his strong arms so forcefully you almost tackle him to the ground, your hands slinging around his neck. If you could keep him caged there forever, you’d be fine with it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” Russell says with a warm chuckle and claims your lips in a searingly passionate kiss that shows you just how much he’s certainly missed you too. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Hope you enjoyed these little snippets, friends! Do you agree with these? 😉

I legit stole Dean's half-eaten box of chocolate and the Forrest Gump note from another fic of mine. I couldn't resist. I can totally see him doing something silly and cute like that 😂

Happy Valentine's 💕

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[deesseshesca]

PAC: What would your broken heart feel about your nuptial union ? (18+)

PILE 3 

SONG : Georgia on My mind - Ray Charles

2 wands, World, 3 cups (reverse), Emperor (reverse) 

Y’all ate your 12 red grapes under the table this year. 

The reading is you take down your wedding day hairstyle while your husband is setting up the room (whatever that means …) and you look at the mirror, there's a flash of your older self. 

(You are caressing your wedding ring.) 

I was pissed when they brought him back into my life again. When I ate the 12 red grapes we had just broken up … I know I am the one who decided to end things because I could not handle the purity of his love. Yes I know it was probably a very bitchy move to eat the grape under the table but I thought that maybe with someone else I would be able to open my heart more easily. I was so scared to break him. I’ve been broken so many times before. I did not want to be the reason that turn him into an helpless in love like the loser that I am. Maybe it is the red string theory or maybe it is the karma because I try to play in the Universe face but here I am proudly married to my first and last love. Is all thanks to him. He came back into my life, while I was starting to date around (tears of disappointment are making their way on your cheeks. You are so disappointed that you almost fall into an old cycle because you could not handle the goodness of his love) again. Can’t believe  I told him to wait his turn. Can't believe I told him that he was not  the only one. Can't believe I told him that it will pass. People always love me before I become too much and other times I destroy it  myself before it can destroy me. In all seriousness, I think I first ran away because I was scared of the pain that was going to come when it would all fell apart, like it usually does. How fucked of me to think so lowly of our union at first ? My sweet boy used to text me when drunk just to tell me how much loved me. How much he loved my brown skin, my curly hair and my curves and if he could he would ditch his boys and come hug me or just stare at me but he knows I need space and space is essential in a relationship. My sweet boy would ask anybody walking our way to take a picture of both of us so that if anything happens to him, he will not just remember to love me, but seeing both of us will show us how deeply he cared for me. My sweet boy has a parent with dementia which scar him, so he can't seem to go a day without writing me a letter, taking a picture or telling me ‘’I love u’’ . His words : ‘’ I will never forget to love you. You hear me ( your name), I will  forget how to breathe before I forget you’’. My sensitive baby is always so emotional. Never afraid of letting the tears flow. Always expressing to anyone who wants to hear him how much he loves me even when  the conversation has nothing to do with me ( ME: lol). It was so hard to make my way back into his family and friend group which I understood when I saw him again. He lost weight, he had such huge under eye bags and yet he called my name with much sweetness. I heard from  the grapevine, he drank so much more trying to make it hurt less and his friend would hide his phone because he would try to text me and call me. Which would end up with him sobbing (not u trying to keep it in… Is ok baby …). One day, I allowed him back. He asks for a hug, pleads for it,  promising that after that he would forever leave me alone. If that's what I wanted. I hugged him, cried, he cried, holding on strongly to me while comforting me and I promise myself to never ever let go again. 

(HIM: BABE … BABE … you can come out … I have a surprise for you. You can't answer because you are still crying and you don't want him to worry. HIM : (he knocks) Babe are u ok ? Can I enter ? Talk to me … baby ..; You open the door mascara running) 

Couple days before you let him see you again, you're going to make out with another boy. Claiming you are ready for something new. When the boy will try to make a move on your inner thigh, you will panic. I even think that you will kiss him, a loud voice in your mind will remind you how wrong it is. Also you are an amazing kisser but babe this is a very poor performance … I feel bad for the dude making out with you. Too much lips (is that even possible) and too much tongue. 

Your future husband loves kissing your whole body as a form of foreplay. Love caressing you, always checking up on you while sharing the intimate moment with you. Even when his inside you and your eyes are close, he makes sure that you feel good. He always checks your mannerism to make sure he isn't hurting you. Y’all dirty talking is more like love making affirmation. Is it not dirty or degrading, still very sexy but is more emotional than vulgar. 

Y’all were raised in different ways. You both have similar financial background but different parenthood. When I channel him, everything around him is orange and yellow. I can clearly see his friend and I can feel the love of his parents. There's a warmth that radiates from him. Also he grew up seeing his parents very much in love. The fact that their love survives the illness of one of them is like an ultimate confirmation that he wants the same for himself. He always wanted marriage, the house, kids and dogs, let's not forget the close group of friends. It will not surprise me if in one of his graduation speeches he commented, only really caring  about finding a wife. On your side is a light cold blue. Maybe your childhood bedroom was painted blue. The house is cold, so you may enjoy staying by yourself. Side note : U is very pretty. I know you may be tired of hearing that but babe your beauty is too strong for me to just move on. Actually for anyone to move on. Anyways back on track, your parents were never home busy with their career. Like you grew up on your own, no noise, lonely silence. Still very financially stable. Is not like they're working to keep a roof over your head. I think they told you multiple times in some way shape or form  that their career is more important than you. 

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[recycledraccoon]

I have evolved into Scuttlespring anon, just say anything about them. I love them so much

THE ANON PANTHEON GROWS

Ok so. Gorgug likes Mary Ann because she absolutely infuriates him but also, and perhaps more importantly, because she has a type of confidence I think a younger Gorgug would have deeply envied. She's so weird, but entirely sure of herself. She likes what she likes and anyone who would have a problem with that is absolutely beneath her notice. She has friends not despite her oddities, but because she refuses to bend about them and that confidence is incredibly attractive in a person. Mary Ann Skuttle see's something she wants and she just...goes and gets it, easy peasy. Tiny little kobald strides, but when she puts her foot down with force, Gorgug thinks she could crush a mountain under with nothing so much as a blink or falter of her stride. She's certainly physically strong enough for it, and while Gorgug is undisputedly the better fighter, Mary Ann has a physical strength hidden under soft pastel pink hoodies and can, has, and will knock Gorgug on his ass. Gorgug got THRASHED at those Bloodrush field tryouts, and I'm certain he probably got his ass handed to him more than once during the year while at practice but before he quit the team. She made him so damn mad, everything that year was, and endlessly kind Gorgug got real mean to her over it. She was better than him, more casually confident, and didn't blink ONCE at his outburst. And later? When she was resurrected and freed from possession? He talks to her, acknowledges that it was just a game but he had been actually mad to be so easily knocked aside. He never really had to work at Bloodrush to be good at it, he just was, until suddenly she proved herself better.

And yet, without flinching, Mary Ann, famous for not giving a shit but listening to Gorgug say how much he had, just....asks if he has a girlfriend. Unparalleled confidence, shooting a shot he was unprepared for. Planets aligned even as his own orbit was knocked off course. And then, when he admits he doesn't even know where to get a quokki pet, something its been explicitly known to be something she really cares about? She writes down her number, letting him see that folded paper. She initiated this, and he got swept up in it, but instead of just handing over the number and allowing him to be swept up- Mary Ann Skuttle puts the number away and tells him shes gonna put it where you get quokki pets, and if he wants her number he's going to have to go get it. He's not allowed to just be swept up in the force of her, she wants him to put in effort, prove to her and himself that this isn't just a moment but a starting point. He cant be swept up by the tide, he's gotta swim. Gorgug liked Zelda, but their relationship started because they thought she was in danger and Gorgug had the best in. He stumbled into that relationship unsure and off balance, he never would have had the confidence to pursue Zelda without his friends hands on his back and their advice in his ears. Later on he gets more serious, he did love her and he put in the work to maintain that relationship, but it didn't work out and that's ok. Ever confident Mary Ann tho? She doesn't want unsure stumbling steps into this relationship. If Gorgug doesn't make the active decision to chase her, to WANT to be with her and putting deliberate effort to get there, then she doesn't want him at all. Gorgug, confused, asking where you even GET a quokki pet? And she smirks, calls him a loser, and walks away leaving him reeling and dumbfounded. Mary Ann Skuttle wants Gorgug to work for this. And who is Gorgug Thistlespring, but someone who puts in the work for things he wants? He did the seemingly impossible by creating his own subclass of Barbaficer, even if he had to take four years of schooling all at once. He puts in the work and makes the impossible possible, the greatest wizard of this age. So yeah. Yeah. Gorgug Thistlespring likes Mary Ann Skuttle because she makes him work for it.

[crabs-with-sticks]

Adding to this, while I in no way think Brandon Sanderson is perfect, and don't have much respect at all for the mormon church, I do respect how he has worked to change his views. Has he said homophobic stuff in the past, yes, but he has since then rescinded those statements.

Taken from this post on his blog regarding the relationship between Renarin and Rlain (they gay), and helps to show why I think it is important to acknowledge the progress:

So, with an eye toward my more conservative readership, let’s talk about why I think it’s important to put gay people in my books.      When I was a teenager, first discovering fantasy, I enjoyed the Dragonlance books. I still remember—to this day—the powerful effect it had on me to read, in the author’s bios, that Tracy Hickman was a member of my same church. I lived in Nebraska, in a region without a lot of members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—I believe I was the only one in my entire grade at a rather large school. Discovering Tracy was a member of the Church meant something relevant to me. It made the job of being a novelist more real to me. Rationally, I didn’t need such validation—anyone can be a novelist and write whatever they want—but to a young man who often felt an outsider, this was a powerful statement of possibility. I will be forever grateful to Tracy for adding that little off-handed tidbit in his bio at the end of the books, mentioning that he liked to play organ at his local LDS congregation. One of the next book series I read was Rose of the Prophet, also by Tracy and his writing partner Margaret Weis. I ended up liking this series even more than Dragonlance, and while it’s a been a long time, (and I can’t honestly say how well the approach to an Arabian-inspired fantasy holds up in a world with much more attention on such things), I maintain a deep and abiding fondness for it. In that series, one of the main protagonists is gay—and though such things weren’t talked about as overtly in Rose of the Prophet as they might be today (it was the 80s), the text made very clear his orientation, and included a same-sex romantic plotline. As a youth reading this, I was at first confused. Wasn't the gay character a representation of the “them” in the “us vs them” of the world? Why, then was he written with such positivity? When we are young, our perspectives tend to be binary in this way; I should like to think that as we age, we are able to add more nuance to this thought process and conversation.

But before I dig further into this, let me tell you about reading A Study in Scarlet around the same time—one of the original Sherlock Holmes novels by Arthur Conan Doyle. I was a big fan of the series, and read through the entire collected works, starting with the short fiction and ending with the longer works. To my surprise, I found in A Study in Scarlet a rather bad and inaccurate portrayal of my religion, and the history around it. It was a shockingly weak section in an otherwise excellent story. (And, if you think this is going too far, do know that Mr. Doyle later apologized—in person, in Salt Lake City—for the portrayal, which was made without the proper research.) I realized something that day: authors write for a lot of reasons, and I’m not one to pick which reasons are better or worse. But in my case, I wanted to do as Tracy had done, and try my best to portray people different from myself with care, attention, and respect.

Hey so uh I just saw someone put Brandon Sanderson in the same list as JKR and Neil Gaiman talking about “problematic authors” and I feel that some people have completely lost the plot for what constitutes as problematic.

An author being part of a religion you don’t like or understand is NOT AT ALL THE SAME as actually sexually assaulting multiple women. To put Gaiman and Sando on the same list is just a bafflingly bad take. BookTok is a weird place.

[snipersfucker]

request from @infintyfandoms: Thought! Mirage is always so reckless, well what if one time he went too far and hurt his friend or s/o (either)?? I feel like he’d blame himself so bad - even if he was blind sighted by a distracted driver. Never drive crazy again or not drive around again or what??

angsty mirage x fem!reader times. thought of making it a headcanon thingy but nah. this one might need a warning that there are descriptions of serious injuries. and im also writing this on 0 hours of sleep thank you very much

A silver Porsche parked in front of the vinyl store you just walked out of was catching the attention of every passerby. Both men and women's eyes were stopping on the vehicle for a bit longer than they would on any regular car, their heads turning slightly to allow them to do that.

Mirage loved that. He loved transforming in different models everyday, the next one even more prestigious than the one before. Just to get that attention every single time.

You noticed a couple of teenage girls staring at your boyfriend, and even though you were fully aware they were doing so only because he was a good-looking car, you still rolled your eyes at it.

Your feet led you to the Porsche and you hopped in. Before getting the chance to point out the shameless staring of the group of teens, Mirage spoke up, "Whatcha got there?"

Your gaze had shifted to the vinyl case before you placed it down on the passenger's seat without much thought.

"Music," you responded casually in a light tone, putting your hands on the steering wheel, even though you knew Mirage would be doing the driving. "You got fans," you murmured under your breath but Mirage could obviously hear it. Your eyes landed on the girls again, and although you weren't particularly jealous, you still didn't appreciate it too much.

"Hell yeah, I do, baby," he said proudly, the grin in his voice palpable, even though you couldn't see it at the moment. And then, he added, a little bit more quietly as if he was saying this to the man who literally stopped in front of the car to admire him, "You wish you looked like that, huh?"

You let out an amused snort, and patted the gear stick with your palm to give him a sign to drive out of the parking lot. "C'mon."

"Let me honk at him," he'd asked for your permission seconds before doing it anyway without you allowing him to, causing the man to jump in his spot and then walk away. You just smacked the passenger's seat in disapproval, not even going on a rant about his behaviour because it was a daily occurrence for Mirage to do whatever he wanted.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, offended by your sudden reaction, as if he wasn't used to it, "I'm all for violence unless it's directed towards me," he muttered, sounding like an annoyed child. Then, without any warning, he revved the engine and drove out of the parking lot onto the main road. You only rolled your eyes without a word but then, you noticed how fast he was passing all the other cars in his lane, which he would usually cuss out for being slow, as if their owners weren't driving under the speed limit for safety reasons.

"Mirage…" you warned him, using his full name instead of a nickname, which he did not appreciate but decided not to speak on it and just change the topic.

"Jus' tell me it's not George Michael," he said with a short sigh, as if it was very important to him that it, in fact, was not George Michael.

"Mirage..." you warned him once again, ignoring his words, gripping the steering wheel with much more force now to hopefully get him to slow down.

"Nope," he said simply, understanding what you meant without you even having to say it. If he was in his humanoid form, he'd probably cross his arms on his chest and shake his head with that signature smirk indicating that he knew he was in control of the situation. "That's what you get for hitting your poor boy," he added, sounding very content with himself, revving the engine once more just to show you that he, in fact, was not planning on slowing down.

You scoffed. "You deserved it."

"For what?" he began talking in that specific, overly innocent tone, and you just knew he was going to say something sarcastic that would only annoy you even more, "For being so cute and funny?" He asked rhetorically, as if he wasn't aware that he really needn't have honked at that man, and then drive as recklessly as he normally would when you weren't inside him.

But he was very much aware. It was just that his pride didn't allow him to apologise.

"For being a little shit." You decided not to banter with him as per usual, but just to get straight to the point. Even though you were possibly risking starting an argument between you two, you just needed to reprimend him at the moment, especially now that you noticed how nonchalant he was about it.

"Ouch," he pretended to be hurt by what you just said. And although he wasn't actually offended, he still wasn't really in the mood to let you win.

So he sped up even more.

Noticing the opportunity presented right in front of him, the almost empty road ahead of you two, he floored the gas pedal, making you let out a short, quiet noise at the impact in which you got pushed back into the seat.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you asked him with anger in your voice, not raising it just yet, and not actually expecting a response. But you got one anyway:

"Takin' you on a ride date, baby," he answered sarcastically, his overly sweet tone making him sound even more annoying than before.

"Mirage, I—"

If he wasn't as sure in his abilities as he was, he'd never drive over three times faster than the speed limit allowed, never wanting to actually risk you getting hurt in any way.

And it wasn't even his fault, when a sport's car drove right into his left side, before you could even finish your sentence.

It wasn't his fault that the car ran a red light, that it was supposed to stop and wait for him to just drive away without getting thrown to the right by the impact.

It wasn't his fault that he was now rolling over for the fifth time, his roof and sides hitting the hard asphalt every single time.

You weren't even making any noises anymore so that he would know that you were with him, conscious, alive. He ignored the sound of his glass shattering, his metal body getting scratched, bent and painfully ruined, just to be able to hear your breath.

The other car was in a much worse condition, but he didn't care. The only thing occupying his mind was you, your heartbeat he would do anything to hear again. He needed to make sure you were still there.

He felt it all. He felt the pain that came with getting drove into by another car, with flipping over with unimaginable speed and force. But he needed to make sure you were alright.

And he couldn't even do anything to stop his worst nightmare from beginning to play right in front of his very optics.

Then, after a few moments that felt like hours to him, everything finally came to an end. The hiss coming out of him was still hearable, the hot steam, the liquid pouring out of his fual lines threatened to mix with the flames growing with every passing second. But it was finally quiet; no noise of metal hitting the asphalt distracted him from listening to your body.

His spark nearly exploded with relief when he heard the faint sound of your heartbeat. He wanted to transform, to be able to hold you, to get you out of him so that his bent roof wouldn't be pressing against your wounded head.

When people began to gather up around him, he realised he had a decision to make: to transform and risk getting hunted down just like it happened to Bumblebee, or to stay there and pray to Primus, pray to the people now surrounding him that they'd help you and make sure you were okay.

He wanted to scream at them to hurry up, to get you out, to make that heartbeat of yours sound more promising. To let him know that you weren't going to—

The idea of losing you forever crossed his mind for a split second before he could even stop it.

And it was his fault that he was going a lot over the speed limit, too distracted by the need to tease you, to win the argument, and show you that you had nothing to say in the way he was behaving.

It was his fault that there was crimson running down your forehead, the drops rolling past the hairs of your eyebrows, all the way down to your jaw, then staining your shirt with your own blood.

It was his fault that your body felt lifeless against his ruined upholstery, the only motion it was making was an almost undetectable rise of your chest every couple of seconds.

His train of thoughts got interrupted by the distant sound of sirens getting closer and closer to him. The people were talking, someone was yelling, it all making an irritating mixture of human noises he didn't need to hear at the moment.

Mirage felt his left door being opened or rather being torn out of him in a couple painful motions. He didn't care.

He just wanted them to take you away from him.

When he no longer felt your weight on his driver's seat, he almost let a sound of relief through his radio, but just now noticed that it's been ruined, making it impossible for him to do so. He hadn't paid attention to it earlier, too stunned to be able to say anything to you, even though your name and endless questions if you were okay wanted to escape him.

Cold liquid hit his hot metal body, the lower temperature of it somewhat helping him get in a clearer state of mind. Even though he felt deserving of being on fire, he appreciated the slight relief it gave him.

Somebody placed you on a stretcher, put you carefully in another vehicle, and then closed the door. He couldn't see you anymore but was sure the humans would take good care of you. Better care than he was able to offer.

The loud sirens hit his audio receptors before he registered the ambulance leaving the crash site.

And the sound was still bouncing against the interior walls of his helm every single day since the accident. The imagine of your limp body, his steering wheel covered in your blood, your head pressed uncomfortably against the remains of his left window...

Two whole weeks passed and he couldn't think of anything else but you. You in that horrible state he put you in himself.

The guilt was eating him alive, and even though he'd make Noah visit you everyday in the hospital to make sure your condiction was stable, he still couldn't help but beat himself up and be worried sick.

"Concussion, five broken ribs, broken arm and nose, and she was fucking bleeding from her liver, man," your mutual friend told him after leaving the hospital for the first time, after the doctors allowed anybody to visit you, even though you weren't conscious yet.

It affected Noah nearly as much as it did the robot. The only difference was that the human had no reason to blame himself for it, because it wasn't his recklessness that nearly killed you.

Mirage fell silent.

He got quiet, very quiet, unusually for him. Every Autobot he used to hang out with knew what happened, how much you meant to him, and how affected he was by the accident. They noticed the sudden shift in his behaviour, the once bubbly personality disappearing just so he could dwell in guilt in peace.

The thing that bothered him a lot among others was that he couldn't see you. He couldn't walk into the hospital you were being taken care of in. He couldn't sit next to you and tell you how painfully sorry he was for doing it to you, for putting you in danger, for hurting you so much your pain radiated off you body and made him feel it, too.

Noah insisted on repairing him, and he agreed purely because then he'd be able to park in front of the hospital to be as near you as possible.

But he was a wreck, both physically and emotionally.

And it still didn't change when you finally got discharged. He was not the one to pick you up from the hospital, it was Noah and Bee. He couldn't face you.

You asked about him when you woke up from the coma, your friend sitting next to you on the uncomfortable hospital chair only shrugging in response, telling you he didn't know anything about Mirage, where he was or how he was.

It was a lie. The robot was spending his time either in the garage, getting fixed by his only human friend, or out on the road, hoping that maybe, just maybe someone would crash into him again, making him feel that pain again. That pain he thought he deserved for harming you.

And when you insisted on Noah taking you to the garage to see him, after getting the information about his location out of the poor human, Mirage couldn't help but feel even worse than before.

You were alive, of course you were alive, but he also did notice the way you winced with every step, how dull the colour of your skin was compared to the times before the accident, how fragile you looked, standing there in front of him with Noah not leaving your side in case you'd collapse onto the floor.

You were alive, but also in so much pain he couldn't even look at you without feeling a strong sting in his spark.

His optics shifted to Noah in an instant, as if he was trying to bash him for taking you here, which he responded to out loud with his hands raised in a defensive gesture, "She threatened me."

You didn't even know what you were feeling at that moment. A mixture of sadness, annoyance, impatience, and hurt made you unable to say anything, forcing you to just stand there in silence. Suddenly, a short wave of pain washed over your right side, making you grimace and put your only free palm on the area surrounding your liver.

As soon as Mirage noticed your movement, he made an involuntary step towards you, his servos extended in your direction, as if he was trying to both comfort you and catch you if you were to fall.

Noah immediately asked, "You okay?" His eyes shifting between your hand on your side and your pained face. You just nodded.

Uncomfortable silence fell between the three of you, and the other human was close to replacing it with whistling just so that he wouldn't have to stand there awkwardly without a word.

"Imma just leave you two, yeah?" He scratched the back of his neck, his feet already leading him in the direction of the exit. "Jus'... scream if you die or somethin'..." he added, the awkwardness making him joke about things he normally wouldn't joke about.

And then, he left. He left poor Mirage with even poorer you. Alone.

You let out a grunt, making your way to the nearest chair to sit down. He was ready to help you with everything, but he didn't know if you even wanted him to, so he just stayed in his spot.

"You look bad," you commented, lazily motioning to his beaten-up body with your hand. The raspiness, the weakness in your voice almost made him drop to his knees.

He responded unsurely after a pause, a forced, unamused smirk on his face plate, "...You should see the other guy."

It was awkward. Awkward as never before, you two having always found it pretty easy to communicate with each other. But now... Now he couldn't help but feel that unpleasant feeling in his tank when you spoke up and made him say something back to you.

And it was his fault.

Your reaction to his little joke wasn't something you could control. A short, quiet chuckle left your mouth, causing you to grab your right side even more tightly and a wince of pain on your face to deepen.

She can't even laugh.

He felt so excruciatingly bad he had to fight himself not to transform into a car and just drive away.

You wanted to tell him that you've been told the other driver didn't make it. But you knew the war it would start in his mind if you shared that information with him, so you stayed silent.

"You look terrible," he muttered after a few moments of observing your body, as if to himself to comment on the damage he'd done.

You snorted, shaking your head in amusement. "That's exactly what every woman likes to hear," you responded, deciding that a little banter would be better than sitting without any words being exchanged.

Mirage's eyes widened slightly as he took a step towards you, his servos up in the air again in a specific gesture that indicated that he didn't actually mean it like that.

He had this tendency to make things worse with his words, and normally it wouldn't bother him at all, but this time it was you. He didn't want to make thing worse with you.

"No, no, you're pretty. Gorgeous, in my humble opinion. Walking perfection even," he wanted to correct himself, spurting word after word just to show you that he didn't want you to be mad at him. "Geez, I'm sorry," he added, bringing his servos to his face plate to cover it in... embarrassment.

Something new for him.

You shook your head, looking up at him with a small smile. "I do look kinda ter—"

Before you could finish your sentence, he said with much more confidence now, "...For everything."

He rarely apologised.

But you deserved to hear it. Even if you weren't ready to forgive him just yet, even if you were to never forgive him, he just needed you to know that he regretted it.

You frowned, opening your mouth to say something, but he interrupted you again, "Maybe I shouldn't have be the fastest car in Brooklyn that day. Maybe I should've listened to you and not be a little shit," he recalled the way you called him these few weeks ago, just minutes before the accident. With determination in his tone, he continued, "You can hate me, I can take it." But then, he changed his mind as soon as he realised he would prefer if you didn't hate him, "Actually. Hate me for the next three days at max. Please. If you don't want me to rip my vents out."

You snorted weakly once more, the movement of your body making you wince in pain again.

He finally found enough courage within himself to get closer to you. With a couple of steps, he kneeled down in front of you and extended one of his servos in your direction, as if non-verbally telling you to stop laughing and not cause yourself even more pain.

"'m sorry," he whispered his apology again, the sincere look in his optics showing you just how much he cared for you.

"It wasn't y—"

"It was," he interrupted you in a much more serious tone, but it was still filled with softness, "I was stupid..."

"Nothing new," you managed to blurt out before closing your eyes shut and grunting, a grimace on your face as you felt another sting of pain, which you were kind of used to now.

You opened your eyes and looked up at his worried optics observing your every move, his servos desperately wanting to touch and help you but he knew it'd only make things worse due to his size.

You let out a short chuckle at your own joke as soon as your body allowed you to.

"Not funny," he reprimanded you with a serious face, not finding your apparent discomfort amusing at all, even though he agreed with your words.

"You were just making jokes ab—"

"So?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Child," you insulted him, fully aware how much he hated being called out on his childishness.

"I'm older than your cute little Earth, please," he scoffed.

"No, you're not," you deadpanned.

"...So?"

"I hate you," you said, although a small smile on your lips betrayed you.

"That's the spirit," he sighed but the corners of his lips curled up as well. A beat of silence passed and his gaze went back to your face, "I meant that."

You frowned slightly.

"I am sorry. For being the..." he was about to say something that would hurt his pride and ego, but decided it was worth it, "...the dumbest machine there is. Even a hairdryer is smarter than me," he insulted himself, hoping the sacrifice would make you like him again.

"You're right." You nodded, fighting back a chuckle.

He raised his arms in a playfully offended, confused gesture. "You could at least disagree, damn."

You shook your head in amusement.

After another beat of silence, he said seriously, "You're never coming inside me again."

"Wow."

"Should've worded it better, yeah..." he trailed off, "Primus, woman, give me a break." He let out a small laugh when he noticed your amused reaction to his sentence. "No, seriously... I... You're my girl, yeah? Don't want you to... You know, be in pain."

Why did he have to be so awkward about his feelings? Now that he finally had the chance to show you how much he loved you and never wanted to see you hurt again.

"I still have your..." he wanted to say that he still had your blood on some of his parts that didn't want to come off, but then decided it wasn't the best time to tell you that, "I almost lost my mind when I couldn't hear you," he confessed, his tone regaining its sincerity, the look in his optics describing his guilt to you without words.

He was referring to the moment he was so desperately trying to silence everything around him just to be able to find your heartbeat.

"I'm okay..." Your tone was soft, quiet, as if you were trying not to scare a lost, disoriented puppy.

"You're not okay," he disagreed with a slightly clenched jaw, angry at himself, not even for a second at you, "You..." He lowered himself so that he'd be able to whisper to you, as if saying these words more loudly would make them come true someday, "You almost died... I almost killed you..."

His face panel was close enough to your body for you to put your hand against his warm, metal cheek. Mirage immediately melted at the touch, his optics closing slowly just to allow him to savour the softness of your palm as much as he could.

"It wasn't your fault..." you started your monologue, this time the robot allowing you to continue, "I didn't die. I might have a broken bone or two..." He opened his eyes at this sentence, giving you a sad look. "...But I'll be alright. I didn't die," you repeated, which gained you an unsure nod from your boyfriend, who was now avoiding making eye contact with you.

You didn't force him to look up at you.

"I promise..." he trailed off, not wanting to show you how weak he felt, "I promise I'll never do that again..." His gaze went back to meet yours as you smiled softly, your eyes filled with love you had for him. "I'll never be dumber than a hairdryer, you have my unreliable word. And I'll never argue with you. I'll just say that I'm sorry, and that my woman is always right, and I'll shut up for as long as you want me to. And I... I'll never drive over twenty-five. Yeah, it hurts. But guess what hurts more. Seeing you with a broken bone or two."

Joking might've been the only way he would be able to overcome the sorrow he felt within himself. But it worked both for you and him. You really wouldn't have it any other way.

"Tell me," you whispered with a slight head tilt, slowly closing the gap between your faces.

He frowned, not understanding what you meant by that, but then the small smirk on your lips explained it to him.

He rolled his optics, the remains of guilt still evident in them, although with every passing second and every joke, they seemed to disappear bit by bit.

"'m sorry. My woman is always right," he repeated himself, pretending to find it very boring, as if he didn't really want to admit that. But he did. He did want you to know that he meant every single thing that rolled off his glossa.

Your smile widened immediately, your eyes closing as you minimized the gap between your and Mirage's lips completely.

And then, after long weeks of not being able to forgive himself for hurting the only woman he loved, he was finally able to feel relief.

[carnivalls]

.

See the thing is. I know I'm good at writing. Like I have my weak areas or things I need to improve in, but it's not a skill I otherwise spend a lot of time feeling insecure about because a) if I don't believe in my writing literally who will b) if I want to publish my writing I ought to at least feel a resting level of good about it because editors and agents likely will not be cradling my face like a prize cat and telling me how talented I am while asking for their edits c) I've always had an audience for my writing even at its worst– I started sharing my original works online when I was around 16 & that really helped sell to me the idea of 'there will always be someone out there who likes what you do' d) untalented men never think this hard about the quality of their works and they always end up published anyway and e) I don't have many other thoroughly developed skills so why not have one I feel good about. Having said this. Awkward feeling to realize you're one of the authorial weak links in your postgraduate creative writing degree's social circle

[arkhamsbrat]

sorry to all my lovelies requesting anything abt dick grayson i cannot write for him because i am Literally Him!

dont look at the tags im not writing for him look away

[heffrondriving]

oh so NOW y'all rushers wanna talk about James Diamond/Jett Stetson and Jo Taylor/Lucy Stone?!??!?!!! NOW y'all wanna go and totally get behind that like it's the next big revelation?!!??? WHERE WERE Y'ALL WHEN I WAS OUT THERE FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE ALONE IN THE FRONTLINES COVERED IN BLOOD AND RELENTLESSLY HERALDING THESE DAMN RAREPAIRS WITH EVERY INCH OF MY BATTERED CONVICTION AND YET NO ONE FUCKIN LISTENED?!?!!!! ISTG I'M GODDAMN CASSANDRA RN FINALLY WATCHING FORETOLD PROPHECIES GET FULFILLED AND YET. THE VINDICATION FEELS ALL TOO LATE AS THE LEGACY I HAVE BUILT IS ALL BUT FORGOTTEN NOW

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Does anyone else automatically size themselves up with people their age and look for ways that you’re inferior to them? Just me? Ok….

[libertykinney]

the fact that there are WEEKS we don't see in the qaf timeline between justin breaking up with ethan and deciding to get brian back drives me insane

[a-shadowedvales]

when jane's powers return in season four (and because they were regained by her confronting and accepting her past, rather than being retraumatised with it!) they're stronger than they ever were. when she starts getting a handle back on them, she very quickly comes to realise not only have they affected her, but her mother, too. one of the biggest losses that came about with her losing them was the fact that she could no longer visit terry in the void; while there was no real communication there, it did allow jane to sit with her, and gain a little more connection than she could in the real world. when she first visits the void after their return, it takes her three hours to find terry, something that is both unexpected and incredibly worrying. but when she does, it's something of a miracle. jane's increased strength and control over the void actually wakes terry up from her catatonic state, but only in the void. there's no way to help her mother physically, but she does do so (unbeknownst to her) mentally. terry is reborn in jane's newfound control over the vale of shadows; she becomes the woman she once was, and while her body remains frozen in a "good dream", her mind connected to jane's own allows her some freedom. jane is able to speak to her mother in the void, is able to be held by her, and while it's still unfair and jane cannot stay in there forever, it's something. this only lasts for about eight months, as each visit slowly begins deteriorating terry's physical and mental state, and jane's health begins declining after spending hours upon hours in the void each and every day.

when jane finds out these visits are actually killing her mother on the outside, she deems to stop, but terry expresses the importance of them being able to speak, that she'd prefer to die on the outside, if it meant she could have just a few months with her daughter like this. terry and jane's connection was always so strong, which ultimately led to terry "waking up" in the void, but even jane's newfound strength cannot save her from the harsh realities. each visit nearing the end of those eight months, terry fades more and more, becomes weaker in the void, and her real body eventually gives up. jane's in the void when her mother eventually passes on, and physically feels their connection weaken, like some part of her suddenly becomes lost in the shadows, a part she'll never find again. jane falls into a depressive state for weeks after her mother's death, given she's technically lost her a second time, but soon comes to realise she was lucky to have even shared those eight months together. it was better than nothing at all. there is a proper burial and funeral, (and when jane dies, she's buried next to her mother) which allows jane some sense of closure. she never fully recovers from losing terry, nor from the fact that she never had a proper relationship with her, but she does eventually find some peace with it all.

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

i'm overwhelmed by the amount of positive comments i got on my latest fic! my heart goes out to all the survivors of sexual abuse, and i'm glad my fic has helped many of you process your own trauma. <3