ratsplendor

[ratsplendor]

also I'm very sorry to any friends missing me in chats rn. grief has turned me into a facsimile of myself and I haven't yet remembered how to speak to other people.

[ratsplendor]

getting "sleeping dogs" done is still my main priority but horrible things continue to happen in that bleak, anti-psych post-canon fic that i shouldn't have started writing

[ratsplendor]

if you think the shit I write is wild, rest assured it's got nothing on the three way yandere self ship yaoi that I create in my head to fall asleep at night

[ratsplendor]

for Brigid. December 2010-August 2025. love you always.

[ratsplendor]

[ratsplendor]

[jumpcut to me holding their CEO for ransom with Vine booms playing over the video]

are you fuckibg kidding me . they are playing baby games with me

[ratsplendor]

are you fuckibg kidding me . they are playing baby games with me

[ratsplendor]

bruh who is letting these companies post to Wellfound anymore 💀 tf

[ratsplendor]

so i'll never get around to writing that Wilson Lives fic (sorry @steebersss ) because it would be one of those fics that i feel obligated to live in, to put myself in, and i don't have it in me right now. but instead of writing it i did just think about it really hard, i pre-steeped in it a little bit, and it goes a little something like this.

cw: suicidal ideation

recommended listening:

sunspot

you are on the roof of a motel and your best friend is somewhere below you waiting to die (you know exactly where, it's a sunspot inside your body, impossible to shake, imprinted on your awareness, one that's been there since New Orleans and has never dimmed).

you've brought two lethal doses of morphine with you. you think he knows, but he would still be shocked and horrified to find out. the truth is you won't take yours until after, because there is another person waiting for you to usher them into death, but once that's done it will finally be your turn. (you have yours with you just to remind yourself that nothing is forever because you don't think you can do it otherwise.)

it's twilight, and he's angry with you because you keep putting it off. first it's another night in Pittsburgh because some band you've never given a shit about before is playing, then it's a reservation at some fucked-up fusion restaurant that neither of you will like, and now it's ice from the vending machine. (ice was hours ago. you know it's not fair. none of it is fucking fair.)

somewhere behind you, a door opens. probably some do-gooder called the cops or a therapist or something, and you think about fucking with them, but there is nothing funny about any of this. (if it's anyone who gets fucked with tonight it should be god, for letting this happen. putting him in your miserable path and letting you love each other and then letting it end.)

you test the words out on your tongue over and over, under your breath. (Wilson's gone. he's gone.)

and then you turn around and it's Lawrence fucking Kutner behind you because if you're not fucking with someone, you're getting fucked with. that's just how it goes, House's Law. you would've preferred Amber for her rack alone and you tell him so. (Amber wouldn't have looked at you like this, gently, she would've found some way to blame you and she would've been right.)

So what is this? you say. Some kind of subconscious revelation? You're here because I blame myself for your death? (selfish bastard, you don't say, you were so young, i was younger than i realized, i didn't have it in me then to do whatever would've saved you and i certainly don't now.)

Nahh, says Kutner, Take that shit back to Mayfield. I don't have a lot of time.

nothing predisposes you more to belief in god, actually, than the cruel irony of Wilson dying of cancer and you as his angel of death, your own death as well as sealed, both of you on each others' heels as much as you've always been. god is real and he's a miserable bastard like you, intent on imposing his sick sense of humor on the people around him until they'll believe in him just to have someone to curse out. (because how else could this happen? you fail to see this holding pattern as anything other than a divine comedy, you have to believe it's a cosmic act, because you are not immune to needing it to matter.)

Whatever this is, I'm not interested. you stare, with some fondness, at the ground below you. the sun creeps further down into its grave. Nothing you can say to me can possibly make this any worse than it already is.

Good. That's good, House, you'll need that. (at this point you still don't buy this whole mess, but why the fuck not. huh? why not. Wilson's dying and Kutner's ghost is flickering in the sunset, telling you the big guy owes him a favor for something, and you're going to kill yourself in the next two weeks anyway, so why not go a little insane in the meantime?)

Kutner says he and some other afterlife rabble-rouser have a betting pool going. that you won't tell Wilson that you love him. if you tell him, then he'll live. it's as simple as that. (what's not so simple is that if he lives you will have to live as well. what's not so simple is that if you tell him you love him and he dies, it will hurt in a way you think may follow you beyond the grave.)

all at once you see that this is the point. not that it's not all in your head. (right?) it's all in your head. your brain making one last dying gasp at convincing itself all hope is not lost. one more brilliant act of self-destruction. because right now, whether you choose to tell him or not, you will be betraying some facet of yourself.

Kutner gives you a shit-eating grin. god, you miss that kid. viciously, in a way you can only miss someone you never got the chance to really know, but should have. Now you're getting it. And if you don't say it, and he dies, then you will always wonder.

"Always" is about two weeks long. Kind of undermines your argument, me. And for what it's worth, we're not winning any diversity points by making our conscience look like a minority. he laughs at you, then. brilliant and untethered in a way you don't think you ever heard him laugh, a way you don't think any part of you has the strength to fabricate. it's the laugh that does it. goddammit.

Tell him, or don't. No strings attached but your own. and he looks at you with a tenderness that, again, you've never had for yourself. god, unless you're already dead, this would constitute "losing it" on a scale that's currently unfathomable. oh, god DAMN it. god is real and he's a motherfucking shitlord.

fuck you, god. you go back downstairs to where Wilson is staring off into space, poorly masking the pain you know he's in, and before he can ask, restart this fight, you say, One more night. Please.

he doesn't understand. you don't understand. there is nothing to understand because this is all just a big fucking stupid cosmic joke.

Wilson, I love you. Please.

his face crumples, and it's fucking stupid but you only now remember him begging you to say it and the way that you couldn't. you had forgotten, somehow, your heart pounding already, as overloaded as it could be on the whole Kutner debacle. Goddammit, House, that's--that's not fucking fair.

None of this is fucking fair. for the first time since this all happened, you cry. (god fucking dammit.) you both cry, and you climb into his hotel bed and you don't even feel the stupid scratchy comforter under you, you just hold him like he's the only one who's crying and wait for him to fall asleep and you hope. recklessly, stupidly. you hope. it's all that you can do.

(in the early hours of the morning, Wilson rises, zombie-like, and staggers down the hall to the vending machine and buys himself six pop-tarts and a bag of Ruffles and eats them all just standing out there in the hallway. it's the first time he's eaten a full meal's worth of calories in one go in weeks. you half-wake in the pitch dark to him flopping face-down back onto the mattress, falling halfway on top of you, and you are asleep enough that you forget he is supposed to be dying. you go back to sleep.)

(and you tell yourself you still could be imagining it. but you wake and there's just a little color back in his cheeks, and he sleeps half the day but when he wakes up he asks for Wendy's of all things, and oh, god, this is it. this could be it. what in the goddamn hell are you supposed to do with that? if he doesn't die?)

(fuck it. if Wilson lives, you can do anything, anything.)

(the morphine burns in your pocket but the sunspot that is James Wilson burns brighter.)

[ratsplendor]

horrible things are afoot

post-canon bill-centric gravity falls fic except the authors thinly veiled antipsych agenda and intense passion for realistic xenobiology de-woobify the theraprism so hard it's intolerable to read

[ratsplendor]

yo who the fuck is working in publishing houses these days. a fucking stray backslash. god

[ratsplendor]

I'm adding this one to the sex ideas miro board and you can't stop me

@sporklobotomy just told me "but I'm running out of pictures of the muppets :( the supply is technically finite"

this guy doesn't even know about Janice Onlyfans smh

[ratsplendor]

there's ppl on here fighting battles you can't even imagine ...

i wake up in a cold sweat. i am outside. Where am I? in my hand, a cd rom of muppets take gotham

please, I just wanna go home mr. kermit. i am not the one you want

[ratsplendor]

@sporklobotomy just told me "but I'm running out of pictures of the muppets :( the supply is technically finite"

this guy doesn't even know about Janice Onlyfans smh

[ratsplendor]

[ratsplendor]

prev: Dream Operator by my friend @loveshacks ? YES THE HELLL I HAVE. and all of you should too. yeah i linked the full work motherFUCkers. dont even speak to me !! /positive /lighthearted

post-canon bill-centric gravity falls fic except the authors thinly veiled antipsych agenda and intense passion for realistic xenobiology de-woobify the theraprism so hard it's intolerable to read

[ratsplendor]

Bill with serotonin syndrome. end post

post-canon bill-centric gravity falls fic except the authors thinly veiled antipsych agenda and intense passion for realistic xenobiology de-woobify the theraprism so hard it's intolerable to read