#liza fics

[qulizalfos]

byler week fic submission --- day 4, gray. using prompt medieval knights!!!!!!! ordinarily i would post something this short exclusively on tumblr but who am i if not keeping myself on my own toes so i’ll post to ao3 Eventually. huge enormous thanks to @bylerweek2025 for the prompts and event in general. you guys are awesome thanks so much for making this happen, it’s really fun<33

(minor content warning for blood and description of injury in section 3. it’s not extremely graphic or worse than the show, i don’t think, but i wanted to mention it anyway. read with care!!)

hope you enjoy!!! title from vessels by julien baker yayayayy

for so much i think, little i know

“Really? You’re serious?”

“Swear on my life.”

“Hold on,” Will says, skirting around a precariously-stacked shelf, sturdy mahogany slats bearing up to the ceiling and books and tomes of all sizes and gaudy bindings jutting out. His voice carries, slicing through the silence with ease and tailing Mike through the Byzantine maze of bookshelves. “And you’re telling me— this whole time?”

A grin spreads across Mike’s face. “What, you don’t believe me?”

Half-relishing Will’s indignant huff under his breath, he dips into the opposite aisle, adjusting his cloak.

“Not what I meant. All those times I dragged you to the meadow? Mike.”

“We’re looking for ‘E’.” Mike dutifully cranes his neck to the higher shelves, tugging inordinate volumes from where they’re wedged between similar ones without an author emblazoned across the spine. The gaps of the shelf offer glances of Will peering through to him with wide eyes as if to emphasize a point. “I’m distracting you, and Dustin’s already gonna kill us for taking this long. Save yourself. Look for E.”

“I am looking for—” Will’s finger slides across a row, a dim thudthudthudthud as it lands on the next book, like a strange percussion instrument, just that side of out of tune. He fishes out one, scanning the cover and glancing back in ostensible triumph. “This is ridiculous. I’m at ‘ES’, actually. I just think, you know. You could have told me.”

His tone softens just then, as though unconsciously. Mike catalogs the movement, a subtle thing, as Will guides a lock of hair from his eye, and the library’s hush crawls further towards them. Quiet is steeped in strange desperation, but in all honesty, the moments when it dredges him and Will under its grip are his favorites. Will’s the only one he knows who can spin soundlessness into a refuge, a warm sort of safe. Mike’s aiming a private smile into his shoulder before he can feign indifference. Respite of that caliber is rare, is all. Will eases a book back into place.

“About an allergy?” Mike should cross over there. 

He remains rooted to the spot, regarding Will with hyperbolic wariness. Will’s mouth drops in retort before shutting abruptly, rolling his eyes, and he coasts some free books out of the way before resuming, this time in full view.

“Hey. Stop saying it like that, I like knowing things about you.” 

Mike’s gaze stutters. They ought to keep their voices down a bit, but the grandeur of the library is just for them today, attributed to the sun gushing through thick panes and the tang of summer on the breeze. He inches closer, shuffling up until his feet touch the base of the shelves and the silence filters over them once more. Will’s face is open, unguarded, happily flushed. Glancing just downwards, Mike swallows down the fact that there’s a lot he’s never planning on getting around to telling him.

“Now you know,” he says, simply, as Will traces meandering whorls in the dust. His palm settles, and the motes on the beam they’re speaking above rise in chorus, dancing in the air. A shot of dark red plummets from Will’s nose, and the dust cloud hangs unperturbed. Mike’s stare follows it, entranced.

“Now I know,” Will echoes, and the spell is broken, dust gliding back down and settling where it had been before. His handprint splays out in the gray. Mike’s beaming before Will has a chance to swipe away the blood.

————

Mike Wheeler was raised on quality food, high alert and the prospect of glory in battle.

The three are inextricably bound in his mind, staples of childhood knotted together and wreathed in sword-hilt familiarity. Great bouquet tables stacked high and vibrant, stench of mead or sometimes finer wines crouched in the gaps between one body and another, intermittent rousing cheers above hearty chatter, like the spike in a very slow, somewhat dissonant heartbeat. Night watch at the battlements, too, breath visible where it’s suspended in puffs and coils. Will, Dustin, Lucas— known to fill the chilled air with jokes that Max pretends not to laugh at. Their presence is an excellent accompaniment for training his eyes over a point on the horizon, a murky treeline dipping darker, scanning for movement that is not there, a study in unease. They help him remember to breathe. Steadying. He is yet to find the latter, but he catches glimpses when he shucks off chainmail with leaden limbs and someone claps his shoulder.

There is a point he intended to arrive at, surmising that which is seldom muttered in Hawkins, the citadel of sharp lines for as long as Mike’s known it. This is out of lack of necessity or ignorance or the way people tend to simply disregard whatever’s most blatant, depending on whom you ask. You learn to collect the warmer things in your cupped palms, regardless of cuts or calluses they might carry. Like now.

Mike’s got a trill of adrenaline singing lowly in his veins, dirt caking his boots and a death wish, apparently. “One more time?”

Will huffs, propped up by his elbows on the dusty ground, but it’s a futile effort to conceal his smile, contagious as Mike knows it to be. His eyes blaze in the industrious sunlight, hazel and sincere. Mike still hasn’t caught his breath from the last fight, or something, which is strange. Their old footprints stamp the ground, a mess of memory Mike adds to as he crosses to help Will clamber to his feet. He lets their hands stay clasped a beat too long just to relish the press, the way Will’s thumb glides across the heel of Mike’s palm as he readjusts. Lately Mike’s been reaching out first and thinking second, when it comes to slipping a hand into Will’s. A part of him has probably always been like that— part of him calls it protective and not clingy, though in truth it’s a bit of both. And it’s just easy, with Will. Not insignificantly, he doesn’t brush Mike off.

At first glance, he’s injury-free: Will’s tunic hangs loose and unremarkable, and his bangs brush the sweat on his forehead, and he refastens the pin at his shirt collar, Mike asks, “Sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” Will assures him, rubbing at his elbow. The sun paints him in brilliance, and as radiant as he usually becomes outside, it seems to triple. The light could be spun gold where it rakes through his dark hair. “How’d you put it again? The full sparring experience?”

“Unfortunately.”

Hazy chatter engulfs them easily. And then Will squares his shoulders, which Mike takes as his cue. 

They resume.

Sparring would be better described as an experience than a series of actions. The ebb and flow seeps into his skin and his fingers dig into the bluntly-whittled sword’s handle. The exhilaration breathes in perfect tandem. It’s a feeling that settles in a regular rhythm, quieter than anything. It wears him. The wasp hum of concentration, of everything else dissolving. Will readies his stance. His heart pounds. Maybe it’s how Will feels, wielding magic— maybe a shortsword is the closest Mike’ll get to that.

Will lunges a strike, and Mike’s arm flies up to block it before his brain registers the movement. Dull metal scrapes in a banshee shriek. His arm burns readily with the impact. A split second face-to-face. It’s the least tender thing he’s ever described as tender.

Will dodges back, and he leaves himself half-open. Mike inhales shortly, not taking a chance he hasn’t earned, at least not this early. His boot crunches further into the uneven ground, seeking traction in the grit. Both their clothes are dusted in chalky earth. Will’s posture is a little too stiff, like someone’s watching, but they’re alone. A distant thrush warbles a single note and it resounds through the grounds. Will catches his grip a little higher, closer to the cross-guard. He’s been creeping closer, and Mike’s been taking stock of the look in his eyes, the sword held a little too aloft. He’s never been as defensive of himself as he ought to be.

An arc of silver, and his sword splices a neat, whistling path through the air. Mike parries. 

His retaliation finds him in a flurry of strikes, each blocked by Will. darting around with deliberate agility. The clangs ring in his ears, and the routine of it breaks a grin into his face like a chisel to alabaster. 

“Yes,” Mike finds himself blurting, breathless encouragement, and Will laughs warmly.

He shuffles back, gratified, and Mike takes the opportunity to readjust his position. A beam wanders into his eyes, cutting off focus enough for Will to slash cleanly in the lull.

Mike’s spring away is characterised by a sting to the back of his hand. He flushes. A lamentable thing; Mike hates to lose, but Will’s face breaks at once into equal parts concern and triumph, and his eyes snag on Mike’s again. 

“See?” Mike says, sheathing his own sword at his waist. “I told you you would.”

Blood wells at the shallow cut, just a dribble he mops as discreetly as possible on the inner hem of his tunic. Will’s shaking his head, raising the point of the blade sluggishly towards Mike’s chin, bridging the gap, considering something, a teasing motion. Mike tilts back in question. Will squints against the midday sun, and Mike loses his breath again. 

“No, best of three. You win.”

“Still a good hit.” Mike extends a hand, two fingers to the cleric’s wrist to coax the aim of the sword away, and Will taps Mike’s shoulder with it twice amicably. 

Then it’s just them, facing one another, and heat swells where their skin touches, crackling anticipation like a fire in a hearth or paper being crumpled. Mike can’t name it. He almost doesn’t want to. If this moment was to break him apart, it would do so ambivalently. It would do so right down the middle, ceding easily to whatever becomes of anyone whose sheer want surpasses what their articulation can illustrate. Will stays very still. Mike can’t name it. 

Well. It’s always been an irrational verity, something to wordlessly accept though he’s not sure how far its roots plunge in his mind. Truth of life. Maybe it’s because it was forged in mud and brambles and resilience, and nature doesn’t fuck with anyone. Maybe time weaved that conclusion into them, into Mike— the longsuffering spool of thread moving ever forward, dipping rhythmic in and out of where he can see versus can’t, forming a seam in his heart as he and Will grew and trusted one another in even measure. Could be an overapproximation on his behalf, but he scraps the thought before it deigns to fully develop. Maybe it’s spare divinity, percolating into their blood, but Mike’s not sure even that could replicate this feeling. He knows God, and it’s not like He has a laugh for Mike to memorize.

Mike and Will have never been a thing of gossamer and faintly treated ground. He should have realized that sooner.

It’s not too late to do something about it, he thinks. It precedes: are you going to wait until it is?

“We should go in,” he tells Mike, unwittingly guiding him away from excitement in deviations from routine and wondering what it all means. “And I want to fix up your hand.” His sword slides into its guard.

Off-center, automatic. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will anyway. Come on.”

Mike jogs to catch up, slinging his arm through Will’s to break residual momentum. Will stumbles too, and lets out a low yelp. “What are—”

He looks up, and disbelief holds his attention there. The moon is suspended in the daytime sky, faint and full, and it’s strange how nobody else seems to care all that much. It seems like adequate cause for comment, but it slips behind a towering array of clouds and Mike pulls himself back down to earth. 

“Thanks.”

“For your hand? It’s nothing. I want to.”

Mike lets himself stare, and stare, and stare. How could he possibly not know?

“Yeah.” He shakes his head, fond and reverent. “For my hand.”

————

Battlegrounds are hell incarnate, but he’s always hated aftermaths more. 

Smoke plumes from the ground, from nowhere, flee to the cover of encroaching night. Ink shoots out through the sky, dark a welcome mercy if only for its hailing the end. 

Mike pants. Scanning the field shows nothing but an identical ruthless scene, laid bare under that ancient oak tree like a mosaic of second-hand hate. Hawkins twinkles magma-hued on the pine trees of the skyline. He staggers on, his limp sluggish.

Sound blurs into the dusk blurs just past his lethargic perception of time. The wound on his leg flares up with pestering insistence, a gnawing dismay setting on his skin like a sheen. A mix of pain and panic burrows down through his body, and each labored breath ushers in a new wince. He gasps, and doubles over, propped up by his father’s old broadsword. The dark reaches him now in earnest, blossoming all over the rough fabric he checks where the veil of silver-gray armor plating gives way to the back of his knee. 

He braces the deep red around the arrow shaft with one shaky hand, also branded with a slash below the fingers, swaying under the weight of an aching swirl of nausea and exhaustion. His blood must be lead. His eyes screw closed.

Then: A voice like heaven, like ice on hot lazing afternoons, a cadence like a salve. Panic-laced and pitching upwards and beautifully familiar. “Mike!”

A bleary thought skimming across his brain, a flat stone on glassy water. An answer. Will. 

When Mike’s balance wavers and his body gives out, he loves him all the way down. 

————

“Just tell me if it’s too tight or something.”

“Never is.” Gauze winds around his knuckles, and he flexes out his fingers comfortably to prove the point. If anything, Will hones in further on untwisting the strip for a redo. His eyes flit across it, assessing, and candlelight swathes flash across paper thin, bone-white walls. 

Will’s movements are closely calculated, leaning over his hands. They perch on a plush couch huddled closer than strictly required and Will frowns, chewing on his lower lip before stretching it taut around the back of his hand again, loops and crosses and double-backs. Mike’s eyes trail after with renewed ardent concentration, relishing the serene cradle of Will’s grip, the same repetitive motion of the band looping around his skin.

A frown is etching itself into Will’s furrowed brows.

“You know,” Mike croaks, reaching for the pitcher with his unoccupied hand and tipping another drop of water into his glass, gesturing to his freshly-wrapped knee, “I’ll need to change these soon anyway. It’s fine.”

“How’re you feeling now?”

Mike doesn’t reply to that, sipping on the water. Will doesn’t press it, coiling the gauze between his index and middle fingers to cover the scabbing. He runs out of bandage quickly after, and pauses, pensive, Mike keeping his cotton-clad hand right there. Birdsong filters inside, melodic and very far away. Mike can’t tear his focus from where Will’s thumb travels over the gauze, the tilt of his head. He finds Mike’s palm lines, crossing down to the heel of his palm and resting there.

“What do they say?” Mike asks idly, the candlewick offering its same, persistently flashing gold glow like a promise, or a tiny sun enveloping them both.

Will laughs. “No idea. Thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

“Palm readings, or fate?”

“Both.” 

The upholstery is scuffed, faded vermilion, and he pretends it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Heat sidles up his face, and a smile wins out. “Guess not.” He leans into Will’s hand as if disconnection grows more distant with each second he lets the silence steal farther into the room. “I think— I don’t know.” Thoughts swim abstract in his head, and he strings a few together. “I think if you really want something, I don’t know. You’ll just find your way back to it eventually.”

Will glances up, pleasant surprise written in his expression. Mike blinks, twice, but it does nothing to dispel the twinge in his heart. 

“I really like that,” he decides, offering a short squeeze of Mike’s hand. Mike hums, the moment effervescent in his veins, the room just dark enough to almost forget there’s more to it than just the two of them, angled toward each other. “What are you finding your way back to?”

And somehow, Mike doesn’t even have to speculate. He looks to Will again as if it’s his resting state today, at the slope of his jaw and the soft impression of a smile and the mole on his upper lip. It floods through him in rushes packed like a blow to the solar plexus. They’re no delicate thing, and neither is the single all-encompassing word brimming at all corners of Mike’s mind. 

Oh. 

————————

NOTES<3:

as i said this was so super fun to write so thank you for reading i appreciate it tremendously 🫶

i meann hopefully it’s not egregiously out of character or badly written or incoherent or whatever. i Tried

crossed out medieval due to the blatant liberties taken re: timeline. so just knights. in an ambiguous time. lol

little short but i will be posting to ao3 tomorrow. however i am exhausted + in dire need of a nap sooooooooo. see u all then i guess🫡

comments/reblogs/etc are all very much appreciated if you’d like 💛💛💛 :] you guys are so lovely fr

critiques also welcome!! even if u just wanna go on anon and point something out to me rather than commenting here i love hearing about how i could improve bc i do want to get better at writing. my only real catch is that i would prefer if you were polite and if u didn’t insult me personally rather than an aspect of my writing and such LMAOO. thank youuuu mwah mwah mwah!!!!!!!

[kissbyoon]

( 🐚 ) . ݁₊ “CLINGY”

╰┈ clingy boyfriend mingyu headcannons!

₍ 𝑓𝘵. ₎ 𓈒 민규 ˶ fluff, est. relationship * skinship, kissing, (lmk if more) ⎯⎯ ^^꒱ ✦ bf!mingyu x f!reader

♪ A/N : I think we all know how shy and down bad gyu would be for his s/o~ | @wonkierideul ^^

Clingybf!mingyu who claims to be 'the kissing monster' so he could shower you with kisses and no complaints.

Shybf!mingyu who, whenever finds you laying down in bed, would snuggle close to you and take your hand to rest it on his head, silently asking for head pats.

Clingybf!mingyu who swears there is a monster in your shared bedroom's closet when you both have an argument and you tell him to sleep on the couch, so he insists on sleeping next to you so he could 'protect' (cuddle) you.

Clingybf!mingyu who would follow you to the bathroom in the mornings when you dare to take your warmth away from him; the only thing stopping him from doing so—you.

Clingybf!mingyu whose love language, no doubt, is physical touch—but another one, only reserved for you, is gift-giving.

Clingybf!mingyu who cannot go a day on tour without facetiming you, or atleast, hearing your voice. “It's you that keeps me happy all day, but now that you're not here, your voice does!”

Clingybf!mingyu who would sulk all day if you couldn't reply or call him, only to facetime you with a pout and unshed tears in his eyes. (he misses you)

Clingybf!mingyu who, as much as he loves your personal space, would never go overboard if you don't want him to.

Clingybf!mingyu who doesn't believe actions speak louder than words. Because for him, both of them speak loud if it's genuine and full of love.

Clingybf!mingyu who never misses a chance to flirt or compliment you, with a kiss on your hand or cheek.

Clingybf!mingyu who has so much love to give, and he is beyond grateful to be loved back the same way he loves, by you.

@kissbyoon ⌕ ۫ all rights reserved/copying strictly prohibited. @kstrucknet!

[plusultraetc]

I'm so sorry but ever since that teen Hawks page was translated on twitter I can't stop thinking about it. like. Mera treated him like a person. he was assigned to Hawks when he was already a teenager. did no one treat him like a person before then? was it such an uncommon occurrence that it seemed special when someone did? I mean, they didn't even let him have a person's name. they gave him a hero name, and to the HPSC, that was the name of a tool. of a product. they basically bought a child and treated him so coldly that Mera stood out to him because he treated him like a person. the bars of my enclosure.

[maxybabyy]

as i lean towards madness - for @thattropeyouhate fest 🧡 max/daniel | 7k | mature

The flower pushes into his mouth stem first, rough and clumsy, like a baby in breech. It sits awkwardly on his tongue. The petals feel odd in his mouth, waxy and stiff, the stem poking against his teeth. Daniel is slow to spit it out, eases it with a finger to make sure it doesn’t break. It looks smaller in his palm, hidden almost by the curl of his fist. He thinks he knew, maybe, that it was going to be a tulip. He knows that Max doesn’t have opinions on flowers. Daniel doesn’t either, but at least like this, it feels real. Feels like – like Max.

[ladespeinada]

Si te quiere de verdad Y te da felicidad Te deseo lo más bueno pa' los dos

//

If they really love you And bring you happiness Then I wish you both the very best “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” · Freddy Fender

[smiledog15578]

I've never been a good writer but I finally said fuck it and now I'm posting these little angst snippets from months ago sorry if it sucks

Btw the "maybe" was me trying to think up fic scenarios with my friends and I LOL

[treasuredplanet]

having a great idea for an au literally no one but you knows about

[wayward-sherlock]

hey everyone. this is a moodboard of me exiting the google doc tonight after 2.1k words of angst. enjoy!

[101flavoursofweird]

Preview:

“I was twelve when she died,” Ernest muttered. “Did the Dragons tell you that—?”

“Yes! And they told me they’ve been looking for you for years—“

“Well, they didn’t look hard enough, did they?” (Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be found, but Kat didn’t need to know that.)

His last words seemed to strike a cord with Kat. She stared at him.

Surely she, of all people, should understand?

“I have money, resources and power now, Miss…” Ernest reached for her hand. “I’ll help you find your father—“

Their fingers brushed for a millisecond. Kat pulled away as if he had given her an electric shock. (As if he would ever dream of hurting her…)

“You… you could have helped me anyway!” she snapped.

-From a Bad End(?) LMJ AU, where Ernest’s plans to ruin the Dragons succeeded

[qulizalfos]

cosmic on ao3 - chapter 1/2

“You—” Will starts, head automatically shooting up to where Mike’s head peers around the door, headphones slung over one ear, hair cut short the way Will was used to before a week of flurry and unspoken panic and reckless driving and air stale with dread and Nevada sun bright like drying paint on his hunched shoulders, dancing in his eyes, but I— I don’t believe it. Will, spilling his guts in a mess of half truths swallowed by the desert rolling steadily past the windows. Barren, ochre-yellow nothing by the mile, perforated here and there with skeletal shrubs. “Sorry, I thought you were Jonathan.” “That’s a new one.” “What, are you keeping track?” Mike huffs out a sharp laugh, eyebrows raising. He’s pretty. God, he’s really pretty. “Obviously.” - or: a bipartite examination of the preservation of heartbreak (and love)

. i have nothing to say for myself

[kissbyoon]

⠀𖼥ৎ⠀“wedding ring” ₍ svt ₎

───── ABOUT how svt would react to you removing and leaving your wedding ring before heading to shower.

⋆ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: fluff, humour, married au, headcannons ⋆ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: husband!svt x gn!reader ⋆ 𝒄𝒘: mentions of skinship, kissing, petnames ⋆ 𝒘𝒄: 0.6k in total

A/N: all thanks to @wonkierideul for helping me out♡ ily oomfie

 ⑅ Jeonghan, Woozi, Minghao, Vernon, Wonwoo

I feel like for these five, it really won't be a big deal. Because as far as they can remember, he didn't do something that would upset you. They are also aware of the fact that—no matter how mad you are, you would never take your ring off. But if you ever did, their heart will stop beating and it's not even a joke. They would often tell you how the ring is a symbol of your marriage that is filled with love and happiness, and it means alot to them. So there's no way you would never do that to their poor heart.

But one plus point for Jeonghan—this man would definitely be like “Phew, I thought you were mad at me for eating the last piece of the cake…” then get on his knees to beg for forgiveness when you actually get mad.

 ⑅ Joshua, Junhui, Dokyeom, Chan

These four wouldn't be a big problem, but they would definitely be a bit worried. I feel like they would ask you “Why did you take your ring off? Did I do something wrong?” As soon as you step out of the bathroom. Especially Chan and Dokyeom—this man would be worried. He is thinking of all the things he did the whole day and is ready to fall to his knees as soon as you step out of the shower. But once you reassure them with the real reason why you left it there, they would be relieved and happy again. (OUGHHH CHANNIE MY BABYYY)

 ⑅ Seungcheol, Hoshi, Mingyu, Seungkwan

Now I present to you… the most dramatic group of men. You definitely weren't thinking of it much when you left the ring there, but now, you better be prepared to face the most pouty hubby ever. And it's only fair I give you an idea of how the four of them would be dramatic in their own special ways.

Especially Seungkwan—he is throwing a tantrum. “This is torture to our 5 years of marriage… it's heartbreaking, I'm heartbroken!” Better shower him kisses because he is just waiting for that before throwing a kick in the air with happiness.

And we have Mingyu—the six feet man with all the buffiness becomes a puddle of sadness when you walk out of the shower and see him curled up on the bed, staring at the ring in front of him with a frown. No matter how much you reassure him, he is clinging to you and mumbling apologies for nothing. (STOP OMG I HAD TO COVER MY FACE WITH A GIGGLE IN THE MIDDLE OF WRITING THIS)

Well, now. Hoshi. Oh my god this horanghae guy is a menace. He looks at you with the most adorable sad puppy eyes ever when you walk out of the shower. And when I say the most adorable, I mean the most adorable sad puppy eyes. “Just say you hate me,” he would pout his heart out. But when you tell him, “Okay, my big baby, put the ring back in my finger yourself,” he would JUMP back up with the biggest grin ever that made his eyes close and kick the air with his feet at the petname. You shall call him ‘my baby’ everyday now. He accepts it more than ‘horangi’!

Sighs. Now, the worst of all—Seungcheol. This man’s hotness and buffiness is all wasted in front of you. He doesn't give a damn if he's looking like the biggest loser right now, but he would whine and pout about this the whole day. He would try to refuse physical touch throughout the day, but would eventually give up and come running to you himself. “Please hug me,” he would say while suffocating you in a hug.

KISSBYOON 2025. all rights reserved. @kstrucknet

[plusultraetc]

another tiny wip wednesday that sends me every time I read it

[liza-writes-jemily]

soft and sweet: Emily Prentiss is not soft and sweet. She's a hard shell, rough around the edges. She has never known soft and sweet. or: Emily doesn't know how to love. JJ teaches her.

[pinkmarbella2050]

Its You I Welcome Death With: Chapter 3

Apologies that this is a day late, guys - I was flat out exhausted yesterday - but even more good news!

The third and final chapter of Its You I Welcome Death With is finally out!

This fic was so much fun to write and I have so many other AUs that I wanna explore for Season 2 and other seasons. Thank you all so much for reading and sticking around, and I hope you'll check out some of my other works.

Your Author, Marbella. <3

Tag List:

@cc-tinslebee, @rockonfishboy and @kokorofiles.

[adainesfroggieboggy]

the thing about music is i can listen to the same song for hours and hours. after a certain point, as all music does, it’s background noise that drowns out other, worse background noise. then, after a long time, it’s music again, and i remember that this song is good and i like it and listen to it for another few minutes. rinse and repeat.

i listened to the same song for like 4 hours yesterday and a different one for like 3 today.

[treasuredplanet]

plans to see sleeping at last tonight and based on where we’re at emotionally I’m going to start openly sobbing during the first 0.5 seconds of saturn