#i promise these are going up on ao3

[whumpfish]

So! June, which is usually my more productive month, has positively kicked my ass this year with multiple, multiply stressing stressors occurring right in a row. So my @eclipsingbingo card has suffered. But now I am banging out the prompts!

Tonight, for your consideration: Fever Dream + Fate Worse Than Death

Fandom: Invisible

Whump tags: fever dream, trauma nightmare, strangulation, hypothermia, (dreamed) character death, referenced canon death

Spoilers: minimal, mostly dealing with pre-canon events; villain's true ID redacted

Summary: Shimura has hated watching people die in front of him since that night, but losing a friend? He'd rather it be him instead. But you don't get the option of trading your life for theirs when you're trapped in your own head...

---

A long tone broke through the conversation in the café they always went to, on off days where they could see each other outside the context of death. No badges, no guns, no cameras, no microphones. Just the three of them--well, four now. Shimura winced and covered one ear.

"Taka-chan?" Toko asked from across the table. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah, just... ugh. Awful ring."

"All clear now?" her brother asked. Anno Shingo, still Anno even now.

Their familiarity had reached the point of given names, but they still didn't use them. That remained Toko's unique privilege, though she was younger than both of them.

"I'm fine."

Toko looked around. "Where's Ki-chan?"

"She's coming," Shimura said. He glanced at his watch, though he couldn't remember exactly when they'd agreed to meet.

"Changing clothes?" Anno guessed. "For the ah... third time today? I guess if you're going to be Invisible, you might as well look good doing it."

"Just eat your cookie," Shimura said, picking up a fortune cookie from the plate in the center of the table and placing it in front of his partner.

Not that it was entirely unearned... Kiriko was the biggest clothes horse he'd ever met, never finishing a day in the same outfit she'd started it in.

"You eat your cookie." Anno slid one over to him.

When he unwrapped it, the cookie splintered in his hands, leaving small, slow-bleeding nicks like shattered glass. Hissing, he picked through the shards to retrieve the paper. It was blank.

"Looks like I drew the white this time," he said, smiling.

"Taka-chan, the back." Toko's usually confident, upbeat voice was hushed as she stared wide-eyed at the paper in his hands. She'd gone perfectly still, shrunk down in her chair like a rabbit hearing a gunshot.

He turned it over. SHE DIES. He looked around. They were the only ones left in the café now, it was just an empty expanse of vacant furniture.

"Did you see who brought those over?" he asked Anno.

His partner shrugged.

Toko cautiously opened her cookie, then dropped it like a snake when she unfolded the paper. "She dies!"

"Okay, not funny!" Shimura stood up, scanning the ceiling for cameras. "Toko-chan, get down," he told her in a quieter voice. He hoped this was just a bad prank, but in case it was some leftover Black Friday wacko, he didn't want her in the open if she was the target.

Toko ducked down under the table, and Shimura experimentally unwrapped another cookie and cracked it open. SHE DIES. Another. SHE DIES.

They started coming up through the table in wild, bubbling fits like a burst water main, wrapping melting away, breaking open whenever he touched them. SHE DIES. SHE DIES.

This was too unhinged to be just a prank. He and his partner exchanged glances. Not only the staff but the rest of the furniture was gone, only their table and chairs remaining.

"We should get her somewhere safe before we deal with whatever this is," said Anno.

Shimura nodded. "Yeah. Come on."

He ducked down under the table. Toko was crouched at the entrance of the staircase leading down into the floor, waiting.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"We don't know yet," Shimura said as Anno pulled her to her feet. "We've got to get you out of here first. Let's go."

He led them down the stairs and down a narrow hallway at a brisk walk. The lighting was poor, and shadows stretched in all directions across the brick walls and dingy metal doors that lined it. He tried every door they passed, until finally one opened. Shimura looked inside, finding the room small, spare, with a privacy lock on the inside.

Perfect.

"Stay here," he told Toko, hurrying her inside. "Lock the door, and don't open it for anyone but us or Ki-chan. Okay?"

She nodded, and pulled the door shut.

When he turned back around, Anno was no longer standing behind him. Increasingly on guard--and hyper aware of his lack of a weapon--he cautiously began to work his way back toward the café. As he got closer to the staircase, a single fortune cookie rolled down the hall and came to rest at his feet. He didn't waste time checking it.

"Anno?"

No answer.

He kept going. A cookie crunched under his foot, then another, and another. He felt sick, and he wasn't sure why. There was a smell that came up every time a new one was broken that he couldn't identify, but felt was wrong.

"Anno? What happened, where are you?"

His stomach sank, and a chill shot through him at the raw terror in his partner's voice. He broke into a run. The smell was getting stronger, and now he could identify it, was stumbling through it, shoes sliding in it every third step, making him grab for the bricks to catch himself.

"Shimura--!"

Blood. Dark red and slick and way too much of it to be survivable.

His head banged against the underside of the table as he reached the café again. Snarling, he shoved it to one side, scattering fortune cookies across the floor, and stood up, looking around for Anno with his heart in his throat.

"Anno!" He stumbled up the steps. Slow. He was moving too slow! Why couldn't he see him yet, why couldn't he get there in time

"There's the face I love!" crowed a sickly familiar voice.

Reaper

"Where's Anno?!" he snapped, turning toward the voice.

"Too late for him," the Reaper's voice taunted. "Too late, too late... but, oh! Look what I've got!"

A streetlamp came on across the street, and the Reaper stood under it in his black suit and shiny shoes, ever professional, holding Kiriko by her shoulders, her arms bound behind her.

"Kiriko!" Shimura went to charge out after them, but the door was gone.

The Reaper forced her to her knees, fisting a hand in her hair and pulling her head back just enough to expose her throat.

"Did you think she was safe?" Grinning, he drew his empty, ruined knife hand across her throat in a slashing motion that made both of them flinch. He slowly reached up and pulled his tie off with it, the grin broadening to an unnatural degree. "But since when do I need a knife to kill?"

As Shimura raced along the glass, looking for a way out, the Reaper wound one end of his tie around each hand. He looped the middle over her head and knotted it suddenly, savagely behind her.

Fortune cookies were spilling off the table in an avalanche behind him. Breaking open into the same two words, until he could hear them whispered in the multiplying scraps of paper. SHE DIES. SHE DIES. SHE DIES.

"Kiriko!!" Shimura beat a fist against the glass in frustration, still finding no opening.

She pushed herself up further on her knees, trying to get air to answer, but whatever she'd meant to say was cut off in a pained whine as the Reaper stepped slowly, deliberately on the back of her bent legs.

Frantic now, Shimura abandoned the idea of a door altogether. He picked up one of the chairs, slamming it into the glass between them. Shouting to her to hold on, to fight, that he was coming to get her. But the harder he yelled, the more hoarse and rasping his voice became, until his was screaming in frustration at how long it was taking to crack the damned glass, and it was only coming out a labored hiss.

He could see her consciousness, the light in her eyes fade in and out as she struggled against the Reaper. As he toyed with her, dragging her death out, leering at him.

Finally the chair swung through the pane of glass, and icy water poured in from the other side. As he fought through the current, the sidewalk they stood on seemed to drift further away. He hurled himself forward, chest deep, half-swimming to close the distance between them.

He was within arm's length when Kiriko’s shoulders spasmed and went still. Her head lolled to one side, eyes falling closed. The Reaper unwound the tie from around her neck and let her drop like a marionette suddenly unstrung. He locked eyes with Shimura in a moment of sadistic triumph.

Shimura lunged for them, and the Reaper stepped back out of range. Laughing, he pushed her into the frigid water with one foot, then walked away.

"Thanks for protecting me," he mocked in her voice, the first time she'd said it, the first time her tone had shifted from teasing to genuine.

Shimura tried to stop her descent, feeling around in the murky water for a hand, an arm, clothing, anything. There was something squeezing at his chest, and he tried to ignore it, just took a breath and went under, reaching deeper. If he could find her, he could save her. Pull her out of the water and bring her back. And then they could go after that son of a bitch together.

He couldn't do it without her.

His fingers brushed her hair, and he followed it down, got his hands under her arms, and pulled her to the surface. He pushed her up onto the sidewalk ahead of him, then climbed out after her.

With her on her side, he tugged at her bindings. He was freezing, soaked, and moving was far too difficult with the weight of a waterlogged suit on top of the cold. He jerked awkwardly out of his jacket, clumsy with panic because it felt like he already knew, already knew she wouldn't wake up again. But that couldn't happen, shouldn't happen, he wouldn't let it happen. Not this time.

(This time? How many times...?)

Once he'd freed her arms, he started CPR as soon as he got her on her back, shivering but determined.

"Hey... hey, you," he said between breaths. "What did I say... when we started? I told you... I hate this shit. And you... you p-promised me."

He kept waiting for a cough, a sound, for his efforts to push some of the water out of her at least. But nothing he did made any difference. She stayed cold and still, lips and fingertips slowly turning blue.

"You c-can't," he told her again, forehead pressed to hers, as his shivering made every breath he tried to give her a little weaker. "Y-You c-can't... you s-said you w-wouldn't... p-please..."

He kept trying. Checking. Every time he couldn't hear her heartbeat, he tried her carotid. When he couldn't find it there, he put his fingers to the tattoo on her wrist and pressed down until it hurt.

Then he was shaking too hard to do proper compressions, breathing too erratically to keep up the rhythm as the cold slowly took over.

"K--Kh--"

Fuck, now he couldn't even talk to her to say he was sorry. He collapsed next to her, hand moving up from the tattoo to close around hers in a silent apology.

He closed his eyes and prayed that he would just die of exposure here at her side. That if it had to happen this way, if she had to go, he could at least go with her. He wouldn't make it through another funeral. He couldn't.

---

"Are you in?" Kiriko’s voice on the phone was anxious.

"Yeah," Mantaro answered. The locks had been changed since the last time he'd broken into Shimura’s apartment, but the super had used the same model lock, so picking it had been just as easy as the first time.

"And?"

"One sec." He looked around. The apartment was even more spartan without the at-home murder board tracking every movement of the Reaper. "Well, for one thing, it smells super chemical-y. Like something plastic caught fire, or too much bug spray." He coughed. "It's strong... Detective? You in here?"

There was a light on in the bathroom.

"Det--oh. Shit." He coughed again, and pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth. "Well, you could definitely say he came down with something... like, all the way down. On the floor. With about half a bottle of ibuprofen and a thermometer, shaking like there's a blizzard in here." He bent down and picked it up. "Oof. 103 is... that's ambulance bad, right?"

[sidesteppostinghours]

ok. question.

ortega ended up hallucinating sidestep after they "died", but sidestep doesnt know about that. they know it got bad, but never the full extent of how their death affected them. so if your sidestep Did learn, if they found out ortega looked for them in every little piece they could, would that change anything for your sidesteps? would their relationship with ortega be any different?

[septimusmoonlight]

You doing ok?

hi

[carlyraejepsans]

Halfway to the sofa, they stopped, making a small sound like a grumble of annoyance. For a second, the red glow in their eye grew faint. "Sleep," they rasped out in a low, halting whisper, "I saved you an ache in the neck." It took him a second to register that the kid wasn't talking to him. Mostly 'cause Frisk didn't speak. To him. Or ever.

Sans wakes up late into the night and sees something he shouldn't have.

[jafsisomni]

Because I just had to.

Something something,

"George quietly made his way over to his driver's room, trying not to lose control of his breathing because he already almost fainted during the debrief, almost had another panic attack and made yet again a fool of himself, almost cried about disappointing toto, Lewis, the team and everyone else in the paddock. Closing the door by himself and leaning back against it, he stared blankly ahead of himself, distracted by the floor seemingly swaying and feeling dizzy with the weight of everything that has happened all over the day, all over Qatar, all over the week, all over the whole fucking year.

was it not enough that he tried his best all the time? Was it not enough that he spent longer than anyone else on the paddock, every single day, night in and morning out? Is it not enough yet that he has barely gotten any sleep in the past few months, but nobody seems to care and yet he tries to hold himself within and not let it all spill and say something he'll just end up regretting and because he doesn't wanna hurt or harm anyone else like that? Is it not enough that he tries his best to talk to all the drivers and the people working behind the scenes, get their opinions and not make them uncomfortable or undermined? Is he perhaps too overbearing when he asks about how their days were, Is it a lot to constantly say hello whenever he gets the chance, is it rude to try to talk to each of them privately and respectfully, trying to be as inclusive and understanding as he could manage to be whenever it's required he gets their opinions on something? Is it too faced if he's calm about things when explaining them in the meetings, is it disrespectful if he doesn't raise his voice enough to be properly heard while talking to one mechanic or engineer instead of the whole room all at once during debriefs? Is it unsettling if he pronounces too slowly, maybe he should try to speak more quickly? He remembers as a media new intern girl once shyly asked him to slow down because her english wasn't that good either, during his first week this year, he hopes she's not upset because she's doing such an amazing job?

He wonders if its too faced to want to keep each and every driver's opinion and confidently opinionated talk he'd been trusted with, within the confines of their shared space, a mental space between two people where everyone involved feels comfortable-- wonders if lando is still upset he called the move a little bit reckless in the media pen god knows how many months ago, wonders if he still feels upset about feeling like he's not enough until George held him all through the night, never once taking a moment to breathe through his own dnf. If Alex is still upset with him because he doesn't talk to him as much anymore, hasn't since last summer break, but george promises he's always trying, taking more time out of his own sleep to text the other driver and check up on him, wonders if charles still hates him for the change that wasn't even his to decide, still blames him (by accident, is what he tells himself) for being closer to everyone than they all realise, wonders if franco is still as scared and overwhelmed by it all, up until he cried in his arms during that talk, wonders if logan hasn't called him yet because he wants nothing to do with george after he kept their friendship private and didn't showcase it to the public, and decided he didn't want someone like george around anymore in his life, wonders if Oscar still feels hesitant voicing opinions out as much as he does with either lando or himself.

He sincerely hopes max still isn't mad at him. He hopes max doesn't want to yell anymore about a stupid worthless penalty anymore either. He prays the other man doesn't hate him as much as he told the media he did now, tries not to cry as he remembers everyone going quiet the moment max snapped at him mid meeting and told him to just shut up because he isn't doing anything, would never be anywhere like seb,and that he hated him. Tries not to throw up as he remembers the email, as he remembers almost losing it in front of ola when he asked if george was alright, despite having won, tries not to throw up as the pounding in his head suddenly grows far too strong to be withstood and george finds himself stumbling away from the door in his haste to get away, get out, do something, anything- Just to stop it all and have a single moment of quiet, but he doesn't get the chance to as the door slams open and the force of the sound makes him see dark spots before he notices a figure he could barely make out until someone's talking to him and he suddenly realises it's toto and panics because he's just so,so sorry he'd spoken too much, gone too far and said too much to the media earlier, spilled open far too much and the next thing he knows amidst the fog his name is being called as another figure, he thinks, makes his way in in a rush as more white spirals into his vision and it all goes black and dull and quiet."

something something ;).

@tyremanagementsupremacy

@autumn816

@russelliv (bec i adore u)

@russilton (bec i also adore u and admire u lots)

@dellovestorant (not sure if u even like rpf but I like ur blog sooo)

@georgegraphys (same thing)

@grbambi63 (once again, the same thing ahaha)

[all-pacas]

not sure where this came from but did you want a story from the fifteenth annual oncology benefit? of course you did!

featuring chase md in his element (lying to strangers), park/adams, and violence!

-

The benefit has a vague eighties theme, and Chase watches with interest as Dr. Thurmel, the new head of Oncology, makes a joke about it in his welcome speech. He listens as long as he figures is minimally polite and then slides towards the bar to beat the post-speech line: “Vodka tonic,” he says to the man at the nurse’s station-turned-bar, and then, joking to Park, who is lingering with her elbows on the counter already: “Planning on getting wasted?”

“Isn’t it disrespectful?” she asks. Chase has no idea what she means: Park has the bad habit of starting conversations mid-sentence, but she nods towards Thrumel.

Chase wracks his brain and comes up with nothing. “I wouldn’t say the comb-over is a good look, but not sure how it's disrespectful.”

“This is the first oncology benefit since Dr. Wilson… you know,” Park says. “Why is it eighties themed?”

“We’re here to earn money for the hospital, not memorialize,” Chase points out: he very much doubts Wilson would have minded the purple streamers and Duran Duran soundtrack. He takes his drink from the bartender and takes a sip: watery, not much actual alcohol. Foreman had sent him an e-mail reminder this morning: As a department head, you are expected to attend the benefit; annoying, because Chase actually had been planning on it without the reminder, thanks.

Looking around, he’s not entirely sure why. Coworkers in fancy dress, rich donors from the university or schlepped down from Manhattan, lackluster decor, watery drinks. He’s struck by an embarrassing impulse for nostalgia: to tell Park about the time House dragged them all from the party to chase some white whale.

Chase drains his glass too quickly, wincing at the burn. “I didn’t think parties were your thing,” he teases lightly; Park is still, well, parked where she is, elbows on the counter.

“It’s important to have good relationships with your colleagues,” Park says, and something about the way she says it, pointed, makes him frown —

“You avoiding neurology?” Chase guesses, scanning the crowd for her former colleagues. He catches a glimpse of Adams, dressed nicely, complete with pearl earrings, talking to some rich looking older men, then finds Park’s old boss schmoozing it up with Foreman.

“No need,” Park says glumly. “I haven’t existed to them for twenty months.”

“Huh.” A relief, honestly. Chase isn’t sure enough of his new-ish job as department head to know if he’s supposed to defend his employee’s honor — or something — in the case of conflict. House probably would have declared all-out war, but. “We could do something about that,” he offers gamely, but he’s relieved when Park’s mouth thins and she shakes her head no.

He orders another drink.

“What about you?” Park asks. “I thought parties were your thing.”

“This isn’t a party,” he smirks: in truth he’s been going to hospital benefits as long as he can remember, paraded around in support of his father; this sort of thing is boring but it’s an environment in which Chase knows he thrives.

“There’s girls,” Park says pointedly, probably trying to tease him: she waves her hand, accidentally gesturing at Adams as she laughs coyly at a donor’s joke. Chase wonders: rich girl, were her parents the rich donor type? He doesn’t know. He probably won’t bother to ask.

“You’re a girl,” he says.

“Sorry, but I no longer have any sexual interest in you,” Park says, very seriously.

He blinks, puffs himself up with mock outrage. “What? But, Park, after all this time, I…“ Chase laughs at her expression, unable to keep up the act any longer. Park scrunches up her face in annoyance, her gaze darting away —

A-hah. “Dr. Adams looks good, doesn’t she?” he muses. She is, there’s no doubting that, and her dress is tight-fitting and he very much enjoys looking at her in it.

“From our boss, that’s inappropriate,” Park reminds him.

“True,” he says, remembering dimly Cameron, years and years and years ago, fuming that House had compared her to lobby art. He tries not to smile. “It’s fine from you, though.”

Park glowers. Chase pretends to be busy with his drink and watches her glower, take a loud breath through her nose… and glance back over at Adams.

“You should ask her out,” he says, partially in the spirit of friendship and partially because it would be very funny to watch.

“Didn’t you once tell me it was inappropriate to go out with a colleague?”

“And as you so prudently reminded me, I also once was married to a colleague, so who’d take my advice?”

“She’ll say no,” Park says, annoyed. “And if she doesn’t say no, it’ll be a pity date, or a friend date, or a bad date. Or it will be a good date, and we’ll break up because we are very different people who want different things in life, and then you, as our boss, will have to deal with the repercussions of our bitter falling out. Every day.”

“Well, your contracts only last another six months,” Chase jokes, although actually he hadn’t considered that at all and feels a shudder of horror at the idea of Park and Adams, both very obnoxious when in a bad mood, heartbroken and punchy about it.

“I’ve never gone out with a girl before,” Park adds, deflating.

“It’s not that difficult,” Chase tells her, although part of him is still worrying if he’s made a bad call and should stop this train before it goes any further. “You talk to them like you’d talk to anyone else.”

“I think, since I am actually a girl, and you’re not, that I probably know more about talking to girls than you do,” Park snaps, clearly flustered.

“But I’ve dated way more of them,” he points out wryly, and Park glares up at him: from her expression — more petulant than angry — he doesn’t think he’s in immediate threat of being punched.

She glances over at Adams again, realizes what she’s doing, and crosses her arms in a huff, turning her back to Adams and the bar counter entirely. “My bisexual crisis is not the same as you sleeping with half the nursing staff.”

He tries not to pull a face. “It’s not a crisis. You like her. She’s into you —“ Park glances up: Aha, he thinks again—

“How do you know?” Park asks, suspicious of Chase lying.

He is lying, actually, so he shrugs. “From how she acts, I suppose.” When he thinks about it, Chase decides it could be true. Adams complains about Park frequently, but goes out of her way to keep talking to her: they enjoy bickering way more than Chase ever could. “I asked her a while ago,” he admits, a little reluctant. “After the Russo case. If you two weren’t… getting along, yeah?” It had been intensely uncomfortable: Chase was, is, determined to be a more hands-on boss than House was, to actually try to manage his employees, but actually having a talk about interpersonal affairs? He’d put it off for months, but Park and Adams had a shouting match in Russo’s room and Foreman had more or less ordered him to sort them out. Chase had said something like if you have a problem with Park, and Adams had blinked up at him: I don’t, she’d said, honestly surprised. “She said she liked you,” he says, which isn’t true, but was his general impression all the same.

“You’re lying,” Park says.

“I am not,” Chase lies.

“You’re a shitty liar,” Park says.

“Want me to ask her out for you?” Chase grins. “I will. It would be very funny.”

Park whacks his arm. Lightly, for her, so it still stings. “No!”

“I think I’m going to,” Chase decides, draining his glass —

“No!” She hisses, slapping at him again. “Chase!”

Chase shrugs her off — Park is violent but small — and strides with purpose in Adams’s directly, walking slow enough that Park can overtake him or rush ahead if she chooses. Disappointingly, she does neither, and he reluctantly lets her call his bluff: he does still have to work with them both another six months, after all.

He finds himself in the middle of the party, surrounded by small groups of threes and fours, the DJ now playing John Mellencamp. Alone, undistracted, Chase feels the stirrings of nostalgia — fourteen, fifteen, sneaking into the bedroom of his first girlfriend and her stacks of Madonna and Kylie Minogue tapes… sneaking out of the oncology benefit with Cameron one year, when things were good between them… avoiding her and at the same time desperately wanting to find her another year, which looking back on it seemed like premonition…

He regrets his conversation with Park. Dimly, distantly. He should have stayed near the bar, but he can’t go back now; that would be giving up in some way. That would be admitting he feels…

“Dr. Chase,” Adams suddenly calls, as he’s standing around like an idiot: he blinks and she’s waving him over to her, twenty feet away, still with her donor couple. “This is my boss. The head of Diagnostics,” she says, warm and formal and very fake:

“Fantastic to meet you,” Chase says brightly, approaching and shaking hands with her donors, who introduce themselves as Mr and Mrs. Morse.

“Head of Diagnostics? Are your age?” Mrs. Morse clucks.

Chase accounts for her husband and age as he grins over at her. “I’m good at what I do,” he jokes, correctly: they both laugh.

“I was just telling them about the sort of work we do,” Adams says primly, her expression letting him know she doesn’t find him all that charming.

“Diagnostics sounds simply fascinating. Like you’re medical detectives or something!” Mr. Morse enthuses. “And you hardly see any patients?”

“We do a lot of consulting for other departments, but our patient load is necessarily low,” Chase explains smoothly: his smile feels plastered on, and Adams chimes in to elaborate on his point. Her parents were definitely rich donor types, he decides: she’s good at this.

So is he. He answers the couple’s questions, wondering how much of this Adams has already told them, that Mr and Mrs Morse simply needed reiterated by a man, joking and smiling indulgently whenever Adams talks — she’s mad, getting madder, great, she’s going to tell him off later, probably, but in the meanwhile Chase just keeps talking. He tells the couple about the time House treated the Black Death — it’s always popular with these types — and hopes Adams doesn’t stomp on his feet anytime soon, because she’s wearing at least three inch heels: “On it like, well, fleas on a dog,” he’s saying, and then sucks in a breath as his prediction comes true.

“Oops,” she says, pretending to have been jostled by some invisible passerby.

Chase thinks about it for half a second, and decides what the hell. “No problem. Hey, would you mind getting me a drink?” Her eyebrows go into her hairline, and oh, he’s so dead, but he can’t help but smirk at her outrage. “Thanks,” he adds, turning back to the Morses: “The mad thing is, the black death isn’t even the oddest disease we’re run into over the years.”

Adams turns and goes, radiating outrage from her pores: he’s so dead, but it really was very funny. Mrs. Morse asks Chase if he’s ever worried about catching one of these deadly illnesses, a question so common he has a standard answer prepared: he assures her of the low risks, the safety precautions they adhere to, his spine twinging with remembered pain. As he talks, Chase keeps an eye on Adams’s walk to the bar, the way she drapes herself angrily over the counter, turning to Park to complain and commiserate.

Park looks unsubtly in Chase’s direction, glaring. “It’s really a fantastic job,” Chase says insincerely, his best smile plastered on as he gives Park a subtle thumb’s up. Worth it. “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

[midnightwind]

Clipped Wings

Clipped Wings is my slow burn Rookanis fic that is going to take me some time to properly finish and release in order, but I like sharing little snippets. I figured it might be good to have a post collecting each section as I release them. I'll be adding and updating the order as things get put out there~

Chapters: 1. The Botched Job 2. Dear Runaway Heart 3. You Weren't Enough 4. Demon in the Depths (Lucanis POV) Read on AO3 Excerpts/WIP: 1. Ossuary Rescue (Lucanis POV) 2. House de Riva Summons 3. The Almost Kiss Aftermath 4. Telling the Talons She's Gone (Lucanis POV) Bonus 1: Drunken Story Time with the Boys Bonus 2: I Ramble about Spite and Lucanis Bonus 3: They Put Lucanis On Ice

[compacflt]

well… That’s all she wrote, folks.

i won’t be deleting this blog or anything—still have a few things to post down the line (updated playlist, political masterpoast, sending out final print versions, etc.). But i think, after nearly 400,000 words all told, my time of content production for this fandom has come to an end.

this week, in addition to finishing all the writing for my top gun AU, i also received a research grant for my senior thesis and found out where in the world i will be studying abroad next semester. This seems like the perfect time for me to shift gears.

I’m signing off on my version of ice & mav and it was my privilege to see them off to happiness :)

Writing for this fandom has been such an incredibly gratifying experience & I will cherish the year-odd I spent with these characters for the rest of my life. And to everyone who interacted with me in any way—read my writing, commented, helped me out with research, kudos’d, sent in an ask or a DM, et cetera—i hope you know how much it has meant to me & how much it always will. i love you, i love you, i love you. And i wish the best of luck to you all in the future ❤️ and thank you again for everything.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

you know what's fucking insane though???

it's only been 3 days in the mafia front fic. THREE DAYS= ~34k. (so far, we're still on day three rn)

wow i'm truly insane. three days... mein gott

(potential spoilers for this fic in tags???)

[cecropiacrown]

Chapter 8 Update!

Hey, y'all! Thank you so much for waiting for this chapter!

It's literally nearly 16K words long and I really hope you enjoy it. Please mind these chapter-specific content warnings: hurt/no comfort; heavy angst; grief; talk of terminal illness/hospital stays; allusions to minor character death but no graphic descriptions Happy Reading! <3

[candyriku]

I unfortunately find myself unable to work on my current Soriku fic today due to my mental state, but I was able to make a bit of a teaser for the next big Soriku fanfiction that will be coming sometime after JTSYS is finished.

You can read it under the cut, but TW for blood, death, and uh, general misery. This has been cathartic for me to write but the whole idea of this fic is that things are impossibly doomed, so be warned - this is not the happy fun zone.

Blood. There was so much blood.

He had smelled it before even seeing it, the metallic scent thick in his nose before he had even rounded the corner. He had tried to convince himself that it was his own bleeding wound that he smelled, or maybe the blood of something else, someone else, but in his heart, he knew the truth. He picked up his pace, sprinting at top speed now, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles on the wet pavement. 

When his eyes finally came to rest on the crumpled form at the end of the alley, the breath was knocked out of his chest as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his sternum. He knew, of course he knew, but he had hoped-

No. It didn’t matter what he hoped for. Hopes and wishes weren’t for people that walked his path. He had been denied the right to hope for anything ages ago. When he had signed that contract, signed away his soul, he forfeited all the cushy pleasures of a normal life. He had given up his chance of knowing peace.

But it had been worth it. If it was for Sora, anything was worth it.

Standing over Sora’s blood-soaked body, Riku tried to remind himself of that truth, the one thing that he had tethered his heart to all this time. It was worth it. Even if the chance of Sora making it out alive were next to none, there was still a chance. He could still fight.

One of these loops, Riku would get it right. He would figure out how to keep Sora safe, how to protect him from this accursed dimension where everything was designed to end his life. They would break out and live a normal life together, just the way they had always planned. 

There was a happy future waiting somewhere for the two of them. There had to be. Riku had gambled everything on it.

He crouched down, his shaking fingers gently brushing Sora’s tear-stained cheek. He could hardly stand to look at his face, but the sight of his broken, bleeding body was no better. The wounds were precise and lethal, and Riku was far too late.

No matter how many dozens of times he had watched Sora die, it never got easier. It never stopped feeling like his chest was a black hole caving in on itself, his heart squeezed until it was nothing more than dust. 

He couldn’t look. He couldn't look away.

Riku kneeled and placed both of Sora’s hands over his heart. He was about to speak and begin the incantation that would throw them both back to the starting point again, but Sora suddenly stirred, weakly reaching one hand up towards Riku’s face.

“Riku…” his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“I’m here,” Riku said, the words catching in his throat. “Don’t speak. You can rest now. It’s okay.”

He hated to say it. He wanted to plead with Sora, wanted to beg him to stay. But if Riku had learned anything throughout the loops, it was that nothing came of begging. There was no one to answer his prayers; benevolent forces did not dwell here. At best, all it would accomplish would be making Sora sad in his final moments. At worst, future loops would be impacted by Riku’s words to Sora, twisting the knife further. He had seen it enough to know what to avoid now.

“I don’t want…” There was a weighted pause. “...Don’t want to leave you.” The pool of blood continued to grow. Riku knew - though he wished that he didn’t - that Sora wouldn’t be able to maintain consciousness for much longer at this rate. He could hardly believe Sora was awake even now. 

“We’ll meet again.” he assured Sora softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t worry. It'll be okay.” 

“You…” This pause was longer, much longer, and Riku was all but sure that Sora would not speak again. Finally, with a wet cough, Sora continued. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Riku lied. He leaned forward and kissed Sora’s forehead, his lips lingering there for several long moments as he took steadying breaths. 

“Mm… ‘kay.” Sora managed. “Love you… so much.” 

“I love you too.” Riku said, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He wanted to scream. After taking a moment to compose himself, he sat up and offered his best imitation of a smile to Sora. Better for him to see that than to see how broken Riku really was. 

The all-too-familiar faraway look settled on Sora’s face as the last of his breath left his body. Riku collapsed over him, the tears finally coming, the weight hitting him all at once with the force of a tidal wave. Even knowing that he would see Sora alive and well again in mere moments did nothing to comfort him. 

It didn't matter how many times Riku had seen it. It never got any easier to watch Sora die.

[misslisamiray]

Yay, finally, here's the next chapter of Down With the Rickness!

In this chapter, we're going to check in with Space Beth & SumSum, AND we get to hear Rick's thoughts on Jerry's plan. Took me long enough, but Chapter 9 is here and below the cut!

Also, I've decided to start posting screencaps with the new chapters on here & with the links on my other socials, and thought this would be a good one to start with, considering where the previous chapter left off. 😁

Meanwhile, Space Beth was saying to Gearhead, “500 flurbos for these? Please tell me that’s a joke and you don’t realize how much you suck at comedy.” She glared distastefully at the set of cybernetic screwdrivers on the counter in front of her.

“Mean! And 500 is more than a fair price for these, lady.” Gearhead argued. “Take it or leave it.”

“It would be a fair price for the newest model, sure. Not these. Granted, they’re a step up from what Dad has now, but this set is not worth 500 flurbos. Yes, he’s paying me back, and no, I don’t particularly care about you trying to rip him off. But I have zero patience for your sleazy sales tactics. So either bring out the better ones, or knock half the price off these.” SB said, picking up the index and middle finger screwdrivers to inspect them more closely. Unimpressed, she tossed them back on the counter.

“Got it. No sale. Try haggling somewhere else, and…” Gearhead said crossly, grabbing the screwdrivers and starting to put them away. Then, something occurred to him.

“Wait, did you say these are for your dad?” Space Beth nodded.

“But, I only have 3 clients who buy these things, and the only one with a kid is…”

“That’s right.”

“That means that you’re?...”

“Sure am.”

“And you’re not the you that mostly just stays on Earth, taking care of donkeys, are you?”

“Horses, actually. And no, I’m not.”

Gearhead gulped audibly, realizing he’d definitely picked the wrong customer to try and swindle. Space Beth’s grin was unsettling him more by the second. She pulled a large, futuristic looking gun from its holster and raised it slightly.

“H-hold on a second! Let’s talk this over! I didn’t do anything that bad! You’re not really gonna kill me just for trying to get a few extra flurbos from you, right?!” Gearhead stammered, shaking in his boots. Beth kept her gun aimed at him for a few more seconds, then placed it on the counter, laughing.

“Nah. Mostly because this thing could use a few replacement parts, too. And I understand you’re the best person for the job. So, let’s make a deal. For 500 flurbos, and me not reporting you to your planet’s Better Business Bureau equivalent, how about you give me the parts I need, plus the better screwdrivers for Dad?”

“Deal! I’ll even do the upgrade on your gun right now!” Gearhead agreed quickly, pulling out supplies for the repair job, as well as a better set of cybernetic screwdrivers.

“That’s what I thought.” With a smug smile, Space Beth handed over the money.

“Tell Rick I said hello. Haven’t heard from him in a while again. Not since that whole ‘intervention turned birthday party turned kidnapping’ thing with the weird little dude. And, ummm, you’re not going to mention that I tried to, uhhh…” Gearhead said nervously as he started to tinker with the weapon in front of him.

“Don’t care enough about either of you for that.”

“I see. Ya know, you say that, but you’re obviously here as a favor to Rick. And you wanted to make sure he got both his money’s worth, and the best parts in my shop.” Gearhead prodded. That hit a nerve, and Space Beth was clearly flustered.

“You do realize I have a fuckton of weapons besides the one you’re fixing, right? I won’t shoot you because I need you to do that, but I can and will make you work at gunpoint if you don’t back off. Understood?” she threatened, quickly hiding her reaction to Gearhead’s words.

“Okay, okay! Message received! I’ll be done fixing this in about 20 minutes.” Gearhead agreed.

“Good. And I guess when I bring these to Dad, it won’t hurt to tell him you said hello.” Space Beth conceded. Gearhead didn’t say anything else to her, and she chose to ignore that what she heard him mutter was almost certainly, “Like father, like daughter. But I think the daughter’s even worse!”

Summer was not faring as well at the Martian cell phone store.

“Look, even if I believed these charges were mistakes on our end and not the results of a drunk dialing spree, which I don’t, it’s been almost a year since Mr. Sanchez’s service plan with us was terminated. The dispute window is 90 days Martian time, or roughly 126 Earth days. No exceptions.” a very annoyed, bright pink alien said, staring distastefully at the old, tattered bill in his hand.

“But…”

“But nothing! ‘No exceptions’ means No. Exceptions.”

“Excuse me, but do you have any idea who my grandfather is?” Summer asked cockily, hands on hips. Instead of being impressed or frightened, the alien just looked more annoyed and bored, which hadn’t seemed possible a moment before.

Rolling all five of his eyes, he answered, “Unfortunately for me, yes. I just said his name, didn’t I? And unfortunately for you, this store is one of the few places in this galaxy where that name doesn’t carry any weight.”

“But what if?...”

“NO. Look, the only reason we’re not pursuing legal action against Rick, or even trying to collect what he owes, is that everyone here, myself included, just doesn’t want to deal with his shit anymore. It’s easier to cut our losses and be done with him. Do I make myself clear?” the annoyed creature stated.

“Okay, but… Ugh. Alright. Fair enough. Grandpa won’t like it, but y’know what? That’s his problem.” Summer reluctantly agreed. Considering she was every bit as annoyed with the situation as the alien man in front of her, she couldn’t really see arguing with him further.

Back on Earth, Morty was carrying a pile of blankets roughly half his height. Some pillows and two more boxes of tissues were perched on top. He was struggling to look at something on his phone and keep from dropping the pile, which he couldn’t see over.

“I’m back, Rick. I figured this was enough to start with, plus I didn’t trust you alone any longer. You are still here, right?” he said as he walked back into the living room.

“*Cough!* Yes, Morty. You won, remember? I’m not going to try any more experiments to get rid of this stupid cold – uh, I mean alien virus that I definitely caught far away from Earth.”

“Huh? Why are you back to your dumb lie about that?” Morty was understandably confused. After dropping the new supplies onto the couch, he was able to see again, and immediately noticed Jerry was there.

“Oh. Hi, Dad. Yeah, now that makes sense.” he said wearily. Jerry ignored him, staring intently at Rick.

“Well? I explained my entire plan to you, and you haven’t said a word. What do you think, Rick?”

“You explained your ‘brilliant’ idea to Rick? The one where you’re going to magically know how to cure his mysterious alien virus after you watch an episode of Sailor Moon a few times? Oh, this is gonna be good. Yeah, Rick. What do you think about that?” Morty said with a chuckle, fully expecting Rick to start mocking Jerry relentlessly. At first, all he got for an answer was Rick gesturing for him to give him more of the blankets.

As Morty wrapped two more around him, Rick cleared his throat and finally said, “There’s definitely some flaws in your logic, Jer. A few things I’d do differently. But overall, your plan’s solid. I *COUGH!* I get what you’re trying to do.”

“Go on.” Jerry said, while the only word completely dumbfounded Morty could manage was “WHAT?”

“There’s just one thing I can’t get past, Jerry. Sure, Sailor Venus tries her best to help the other girls, and she means well and crap, but isn’t the premise of the entire episode her being terrible at it? Correct me if I’m *Sniff!* wrong, since this is literally the one thing in the universe you might know more about than me. But it is, right? Doesn’t the 90’s dub call this episode “No Thanks, Nurse Venus!” specifically for that reason? Because the others don’t want her taking care of them because she sucks at it?” Rick continued, eagerly grabbing one of the tissue boxes.

“Well, yes, but…” Jerry said hesitantly. He had a feeling he knew where Rick was going with this and he didn’t like it.

“So, if you’re trying to learn how to deal with this sickness from watching her, won’t everything you’ll learn be well, wrong?” Rick pointed out.

“I, I hadn’t thought about that.” Jerry admitted, the realization slowly washing over him.

“That’s the biggest flaw you see in this plan, Rick?! Really? And Dad, you said yourself that she was bad at taking care of the other girls – why are you acting like this is news to you?!” Morty asked, disappointed by Rick’s reaction.

Rick sshshhed him, while Jerry said, “I did know that, but I guess I hadn’t really thought about how it would affect the outcome of my plan. Everyone does get better in the end, but that’s just because they defeat the monster, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sounds like it. *Cough!* *Cough!* There’s also the fact that, while the illness was caused by some sort of magic spell, for most of the episode, don’t they all think they’re dealing with an ordinary flu? I mean, how’s that at all *ACHOO!* relevant to us?” Rick replied.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” exasperated Morty sighed. His father and grandfather both ignored him.

“I guess it’s not. Not even a little.” Jerry said sadly, looking more and more defeated. He held onto the tape tightly but let the rest of his supplies fall to the floor.

“Okay, Rick. I’m not going to be able to help you beat this weird sci-fi sickness you have, but I can still make your day a little better. Go ahead and make fun of me. Another stupid, useless idea from stupid, useless Jerry. Let me have it.” he sighed.

“I could, but you meant well, Jer. You’re way outta your league with this thing, but you tried to help me out anyway. Even if this was never going to work – and it wasn’t - , I *COUGH!* appreciate the effort. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* Ow.” Rick answered, his voice growing hoarser.

“That’s awfully nice of you. Too nice. Either you’re making fun of me in a much more subtle way than usual, or you must really feel terrible, Rick.” Jerry commented, watching his father-in-law closely. It was hard to be sure with all the blankets wrapped around him, but he seemed to still be shivering in spite of them. His nose was red and irritated, and he looked considerably more unwell than just a short time ago.

“Dad’s actually got a point. Are you getting worse?” Morty worried, feeling Rick’s forehead again. Still a little too warm, but not alarmingly so. And there was no noticeable change from earlier.

“Morty, stop that. If you insist on fussing over me, there’s better ways to do it. For starters, I’m still cold.” Rick complained, pulling away from Morty’s hand.

“Better?” Morty asked, wrapping another two blankets around him. Rick nodded.

Then, forcing a laugh, he said, “To answer your question, Jerry, eh, maybe a little of both. Mostly the second one, though. I’ll be okay, and let me repeat again, this thing isn’t dangerous. But I *SNIFF!* guess it’s pretty obvious I’m having a bad time right now, huh?”

“Well, yeah. If this is what it just mimicking an ordinary cold does to you, I’d hate to see what happens when it moves onto something worse. Does Mimicking Disease also act as a Magnifying Disease? Like, the version of whatever it’s copying is magnified to be x amount of times worse than the real thing?” Jerry replied. Rick glared at him, at first angry over the implication, then miserable over the fact he could easily see where Jerry got that idea from.

“No, it doesn’t. And I’m done talking about this now.” Rick groaned, flopping down on the couch in his blanket cocoon.

“Right. You should get some rest, Rick. Especially since I’m certainly not going to be curing your illness today.” Jerry sighed, getting up to leave. He gathered up the notebook and writing utensils he’d dropped.

“Dad, wait. Yes, you should let Rick sleep, but now that you’ve finally realized your dumb plan is dumb, I could still use your help with some stuff.” Morty said, following Jerry as he started to leave the room.“*SIGH!* Not now, Morty. I have a lot to go think about. How could I have been so sure about something, and been so wrong?” Jerry mumbled, heading back towards his man cave. Morty followed him a few more steps, then gave up and went back to Rick.

[myloveforhergoeson]

writing a little tasw short story about the boys new town high appearance and i got so fucking distracted in doing research about the universal studios (aka colossal studios) lot and i forgot what i was originally doing. did you know it takes 3 days for them to fill their fake lake. 10 hours if you only fill the pit. 4 days to drain and it will never, ever be clear water. they have 47 soundstages. a gym. 2 banks. a coffee bean and tea leaf. the bates motel is there if you even care!

[zukkaoru]

🥃 look what we became 🥃

Chuuya freezes. He looks over his shoulder, and Dazai chooses to not know what emotion is shining in his eyes. “You think I care enough to spare you that pain?” “No,” Dazai answers honestly. “In fact, I think you love me enough that you don’t have a choice but to hurt me.”

two months after dazai leaves the mafia, chuuya finds him in bar lupin

🥃 1.8k words || soukoku 🥃 (slightly) edited version of this fic based on an ask game prompt from brooke

[autisticbsdfan]

welp heres the preview i mentioned yesterday. the full thing is gonna go up on ao3 once i get my invitation. i still am not fully sure where its going to go, but its gonna be a slow slow slow burn. very slow.

oop heres a tag for the only person who wants to see this @mothjinxed

[not-from-mars]

so noncon then. you mean noncon. that’s called noncon.