HELL, PURGATORY AND HEAVEN.

IT ALL ENDED IN HER EYES.

[stvampyr-a]

multimuse writing blog by noora (27, scandinavian archaeologist, she/her). note that this is a sideblog following back from @stlispenard. if you want to be mutuals, please do follow me on both. this blog is a sideblog for all the many characters that i want to write, but that don't get enough attention to have their own separate spaces. this also means that you'll find anything from vampires to pirates to australian newsreaders. the heart wants what it wants. i am very original character-friendly, and i encourage you to introduce yours to me. a character directory can be found below (more information will be added).

full list of characters / highlighted blogs have their own independent sideblog, the rest can be found on @stvampyr

ABBOT, JACK. the pitt. test muse. BERGGREN, TOM. ‘possesed’ historian, original character.  BRIDGERTON, ANTHONY. bridgerton. CHANDRAN, NILA. original character, vampire, vampire chronicles influences CHOPRA, EVA. original character, pirate, multi media influence COMBEFERRE, les misérables DE FONOLLOSA, ANDRES. / la casa de papel, canon divergent & pre-show. DE LENFENT, NICOLAS. @violinisten . the vampire chronicles. DE LIONCOURT, GABRIELLE. the vampire chronicles. book and show influences.  DE LIONCOURT, LESTAT. @stlestat . the vampire chronicles. book and show influences. DUNNE, GRAHAM. daisy jones & the six. DUPLENTICY, JUD. wake up dead man. FLINT, JAMES. @odyssed . black sails.  GRANTAIRE, BASTIEN. les misérables. HAMILTON, MIRANDA. black sails. IRIS. original character, vampire, vampire chronicles influences JENNINGS, DALE. the newsreader.  MOHAN, SAMIRA. the pitt. MUNSON, EDDIE. boycotting st season 5 so canon divergence tbd.  PEVENSIE, PETER. the chronicles of narnia. ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL. the pitt. ST FRANCIS, JUDE. a little life. WILLIAMSON, DORIS / talamasca WITTAKER, DENNIS. the pitt.

[stlispenard]

after three years here i'm moving and achieving this blog. hopefully a lot of you want to follow me to my new blog @stvampyr

[growpained]

a punch of clarity hits; a sudden collision, coming through the fog like an unseen freight train. empathy, maybe, flickers in the form of his own moments of unreason and the other talking him down. this is his roof, the precipice of something that requires a jump— only, robby's better at pushing himself off of it than jack has ever been. maybe that's cowardice, maybe it's his own sensibility, but he's seen it before. he sees it in the mirror, only his is plunge into darkness, while icarus before him willingly flies closer and closer into the sun.

" it's not the higher up you wanted to be. fuck— maybe you're not different, but i'm sure as hell you want'a be. " he ducks his head, curling it off to the side. where his eyes run, jack's are sure to follow— that's the only thing he can allow himself, now. his hands are still at his side, restraint is the game. otherwise, who knows who will be the one with a crumbled resolve? the desire to shatter robby isn't there, far from it, but this code between them, sharpened after years of friendship, was the only thing he could utter— wield the power of a name for a distant man to finally listen, is all. " still could be you. even if it's deep down; it isn't gone, brother. not by a longshot. "

jack's ears perk up, the sound of something strained having him stand on attention— his body firm, supportive, upright. but his eyes? " i know, " an hushed understanding— when things are too much, dispelling any rhyme or reason. pain simply is. he doesn't think, just propels his own body forward, arms spanning across a frame destined to crumble into an embrace meant to hold him together while it does so. " i know, brother. " his grip doesn't falter; it's firm, even pressure, handing out a lifeline that he hopes robby could take. jack knows well he can't fix anything, but easily could he see it through. with him. " i'm not letting you do this alone, mike. no chance in hell i'd do that. "

[stvampyr-a]

“it’s—” robby doesn’t manage to croak out something about how wrong and delusional he is before he’s caught up in jack’s arms. instinctively, he sinks, whole body slouching over to accept the strength of the hold. fuck it if it doesn’t feel good to have somebody care enough to cradle him like he’s not 6-foot-something, but a small child. if jack had asked he would have strongly refused and told him to dial back the concern, but he can’t do it now that it is already happening. 

he buries his face somewhere between jack’s neck and shoulder. the last thing he notes, before his body succumbs to convulsions, is that jack smells different than he usually does when he has just been cooped up in the pitt all day - he smells like sweat, in a way that can only come from physical exertion, smoke and faintly like blood. it makes robby remember how he has failed to ask him what actually happened today. it’s an old habit of his, assuming that jack is fine because jack mostly acts like he is.

it’s like he stops holding his breath and everything comes violently back to life in his body. he presses his face too hard into jack’s skin, feeling everything become wet and sticky on account of his crying. it’s embarrassing as hell, but he doesn’t let go. “you..” he begins, “you can’t.” stringing together enough words to create a full sentence is difficult. he doesn’t feel coherent enough to tell jack that he can’t follow him this time. i need you to stay on this ship, he thinks, but says nothing more. 

[growpained]

in a place that shows the best and worst of humanity, he could only understand the depth of a one-off comment, one that magnifies his own flaws instead of the years of penance he's already paid. it does not absolve michael robinavitch of all at hand, but the tear at his heart—one that robby could stick his finger in and tear and jack would, ultimately, unravel—stings more than usual. " you're a good man, mike. a pain in my ass and everyone else's, sure, but... christ. you didn't become a fuckin' attending to tear people down. " he huffs, head shaking and, for once, tearing his own gaze away from eyes that finally flickered towards his own.

i'll let you go when i'm dead. the soreness is back at the margins of his leg, weakening his own resolve. jack slumps against the door, looking up at the physician through hooded eyes. a memory flashes in, the view of a face unweathered by reality, crinkled with nothing short of excitement, " i remember how excited you were the day you got it, you know? the promotion— 's like you won the jackpot. " he's been so tense, enough for his exhalation to feel like a parachute, something to ease him down from his prior hotheadedness.

" talkin' real final for someone who's saying it's just a sabbatical, mike. " he wonders if robby could feel it now; his heartbeat, racing on adrenol, the height of his own emotional disposition thrumming against the taller man's palms. jack swallows thickly, pursed lips to the side, stewing on the buzz. " what's really going on, michael? seriously, brother, you've got me worried. "

[stvampyr-a]

mike, he calls him again, making robby wonder if that is how he means to wear him down. mike him back to his senses. rely on its electrocution-effect until robby is weak, defenseless and pliable. robby nearly laughs at the thought, but jack’s expression is still bleak enough that he bites it back and swallows the sound. fuck this shit. “don’t go all wise on me, doctor abbot. higher ups usually thrive of taking people down a notch. maybe i was just hit with the realization that i’m not different.” again, meaningless words. they both know he cares too much. he rolls his eyes. “it’s just been a rough day, brother.”

jack calms down as he reminisces, the rhythm of his heart changing right there under robby’s fingers. a good sign for now (as if jack is the cause for concern). robby spreads his fingers, letting his hand lay flat against jack’s chest. he adjusts the pressure like he is trying to tell him that he is still right there. call it hypocritical. “hard to believe i was such an optimist,” he offers, cooly. there is no way thinking about the past is going to make this easier. the thought of it almost makes him feel like he’s going to vomit. it wouldn’t just be the promotion - it’d be jack, a blur of old patients, residents and colleagues. it’d mean thinking about adamson. a real slippery slope. 

then there’s another shift. more panic. at this point it is getting difficult to say when his heartbeat ends and jack’s begins. all he hears is the intense drum of it. robby shuts his eyes, hearing himself make a raw and ugly sound. a sob.  “yeah, well maybe it is… fuck, don’t call me that… shit. i don’t know. i just know that i need to get out of here. stop asking what that means. i don’t know.” 

[matthewrhys]

The Pitt— "8:00 P.M." (1.14)

[growpained]

" if you'd look at anyone else, " those who are looking at you— not as a physician, not as dr. robby, as yourself— " you'd see we're all surprised. " he saw it, felt it even, that shift in dana and mckay as he'd walked in, a solemn smile of their own, much unlike the usual spiritedness of their greetings. nothing outside of these four walls mattered in this moment. a selfish form of tunnelvision, one that zeroed in on michael robinavitch, blurring everything else in his periphery. it's happened before, the familiar taste of blood-stained urgency; only, this time, the floor beneath him was tile, rather than the rubble of a previous life, even if both had him dizzied with adrenaline.

he laughed, croaking out the semblance of levity he knew was deflection, on robby's part, but still felt admirable for his flecks of humor shining through the relentless hits he's both dealt and taken today. " brother, you think i give a shit what anyone's thinkin' right now? " you're my priority; you're my focus; i only care about what you think right now. even then, amongst the gravity, the wrinkles in his features deepen, cheeks pushed up and eyes narrowed in a certain look reserved for the ridiculousness that was dr. robinavitch. " fuck you for that, actually. makin' me laugh. "

if anything, his move drives it in, fully blocking the door now with his own frame, even with a pressed hip against its handle. his exit would be his demise. sure, anyone could expect this of dr. abbot, the mischievous streak that comes with the privilege of leadership— but dr. robinavitch? oh, the scandal that would be. " fuck whoever sees— they couldn't give two shits about what you're doin' if you've pissed them off to hell and back, " neck canting, and a jutted jaw, " all that self reflection you think you're doing's gonna be way harder with a guilty conscience. "

[stvampyr-a]

it’s hard. hard shutting out the rest of them and avoiding their opinions piling on the existing noise in his head. i can take it. i can take it. i can take it. except can should really be must and he isn’t sure he is managing taking it all that well. there are more and more cracks in the surface for people to see and, robby assumes, what used to look like composure now seems like something else entirely. something to worry about. “yeah, well. i am only human. can’t be that fucking surprising,” he grumbles.

jack’s laugh makes the air feel a little less heavy around them. he raises his head and catches the tail-end of it. morbidly, he wishes he could make it the last sound he hears before heading it, regardless of bruised it sounds. it still has all jack’s warmth in it. he smiles, weakly, battling the urge to tell him that he refuses to ever feel bad about ever making him laugh, never mind situation. if he wasn’t already on thin ice, maybe he would have. “that’s good. tell me how you feel.” 

eyes squint again as jack moves to block the exit. instinctively, he steps forward, getting into the other’s space like he’s childish enough to make a run for it. “guess i just didn’t picture that as the final memory of me in this place,” he speaks through a painful smile that stays plastered on, keeping the humor in his voice just so that he doesn’t crack open and mention how little he plans on reflecting at all. “don’t talk to me about conscience - please. today is not ranking very high on the list of things that are weighing on my conscience, brother.” robby pauses, fingers losing their grip on jack’s shirt to settle on his chest instead. he gives two careful pats, “having a bad attending won’t break them. if it does, they will have you to pick them back up. let it go.” 

[santners]

This place, this life that we've been living here, it doesn't feel like living anymore. I can't be alone in feeling this way. Some part of you must feel it too.

BLACK SAILS | 1.04

[stvampyr-a]

old man selfies to say that james in the pitt would be attending in general surgery and he's his grumpy old self every day

[stvampyr-a]

it's scary being both a mohan and robby lover girl

[da-pitt]

[growpained]

while his resolve remains steadfast, that doesn't necessarily cancel out the potential for otherwise. even now, analyzing the ways in which the crease between robby's brow seemed more prominent than usual, there are flickers, glimpses into the cracks within his own relative foundation. he's known loss too well, but that didn't make it any easier— physical or spiritual, whatever form it took, even grieving past versions of someone while their body still walked their earth. jack believed he could go at least another decade without another threat, another loss... was he just foolish to think otherwise?

his mouth still shut, lips pressed into a tight line, settling into the silence that clearly had the other stirring, clamoring for an exit that jack had blocked. " you're not like this, mike, " he starts, only after the feeling of robby's thumb digging into the meat of his bicep, " you clean up your messes. " lashing out wasn't an anomaly within a high-stakes environment like the e.r., especially not between superiors and everyone else. but at the end of the day, apologies would be made, hands would be shaken, loose ends would be tied— de-escalation was not just policy, but etiquette. no one would start a fire and leave it to burn. the michael robinavitch he knew wouldn't.

a softening of his features once a familiar shade of brown came into his per-view, even if his vocal tone remained steadfast in its rigidness. " mohan, langdon, santos— you're just gonna let 'em go? just say goodbye after treating 'em like that, with nothing else? you want 'em to think they've lost a teacher and a mentor for the next three months you're gone? " he huffs, shrugging out of the other's hold. " al-hashimi's supposed to be temporary, remember? no one's gonna be throwin' you a welcome back party, if you leave like this. "

[stvampyr-a]

getting called by your first name - or something closer to it - shouldn’t instigate shivers running along his spine in the way that it does. even though jack repeats it, it continues to have an effect the second time around. robby is keenly aware that it is an attempt to get under his skin, break through his barrier and still he lets it effect him. the sensation makes uncomfortably that his body is on the brink of betraying him and that whatever hold of himself he has is fickle at best. “fuck this..”he mumbles to himself, one hand leaving jack’s arm to press the point between his brows, “fuck.”

that jack is good and sensible, that jack knows him this well, is infuriating to him. it would have been easier if jack had stuck to the plan and not come in before his shift. the handover would have minimized emotion and kept their goodbye strictly professional. “aren’t i?” he asks, incredulously, shaking his head again before leaning it back against the shelves behind him, “who is to say i’m not exactly like this? no one else seems remotely surprised.” concerned, yes, but surprised? he isn’t sure at this point. just leave me to my mess, brother. 

eye contact is broken and robby looks to the ceiling to blink away the stinging in his eyes. telling himself to keep it together has worked thus far and he just needs it to work a little while longer. “that’s exactly what i am going to do. al-hashimi needs all the help she can get getting in their good graces anyway. call it a parting gift.” his voice is thick with irony and he knows his defenses are not cutting it with jack, but there’s an effort in trying, “jack, this is ridiculous. lets get out of here before someone sees. what won’t they think?”

[stvampyr-a]

not all heros wear capes, sometimes they have a fringe

[stvampyr-a]

mckay is like my superhero

[growpained]

a step forward, and its reason twofold— one, primarily, finding steadiness with a hand atop the cool metal of his adjacent locker, the dull soreness in a leg already well-weathered today causing distraction from the conversation at hand. two, if he wanted to leave, he'd have to go through jack to make it happen. " 'n you're still not listening to any of 'em. " the luxury of two night attendings; bless the man that is john shen, opting to step in for an earlier start the moment abbot had rung his phone, vaguely stating the 'business he had to handle'. no questions asked, only solidarity; a vague understanding of the stakes, given the unwavering tone easily conveyed through a phone speaker.

subtext wasn't lost on jack. nonchalance aside, he notices everything— from the way a certain grit attributes itself to robby's mentioning of others, baran as his current target, the same tone at which he'd referred to others in days past. only, he didn't know what it meant; bitterness, maybe, the strain of robby's rashness he's settled into with age. he ducks, inching closer and crowding into the physician's airspace, his own eyes searching for a met gaze that may never come. " so, what, this is it? your form of a goodbye? i've gotta say— shittiest 'see you later' i've ever gotten, brother. " advance, advance, advance. it's now or never.

" i'm not playing anymore, man. " it comes out a bit louder than intended. dr. jack abbot wasn't known for outbursts— neither to himself nor others, but options were wearing thin. reckless was it to wield the taller man, using his own strength to nearly shove him into the supply room, force he hadn't used since they were scrappy thirty-something residents, ushering each other's dead weight out of dive bars and shitty clubs. " mike, seriously, you gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you? " hushed tones and a gruffness that can only signal the gravity. " you're lashing out at people, you're spacing out— hell, you're barely even talking to me now. " his own eyes are pleading; look at me, michael.

[stvampyr-a]

robby almost flinches when jack steps into his space and forces the proximity that he has been avoiding. not only does it make it that much harder not to face him, it leaves him fighting his instinct to reach out for him. seeking out some semblance of comfort in jack that he doesn’t deserve. pathetic, really. robby laughs silently, bleakly, at the state of himself and only rejoins jack in the present once he starts shoving him. robby doesn’t help, but nor does he fight it. a large, ridiculous-looking dummy. 

“it isn’t a goodbye, jack, jeeez—“ he puts a hand on each of jack’s shoulders like he is the one needing to be kept upright and steady. nevermind, that jack is stronger than he will ever be and that it wouldn’t take much from him to resist being kept at an arm’s length. robby frantically looks around, over his shoulder, acting like he’s checking if someone is responding to jack’s outburst, in spite of there being no way of telling from where he is standing and with abbot in his way. mike. mike, he calls him, and it feels like being wrung out. a protest, a wounded grunt lodges from his somewhere in his throat. he shakes his head again. low blow, brother. “i wasn’t aware that we were playing games.”

he does eventually yield, eyes reluctantly finding his fellow attending’s. “nothing is going on. today was fucking long and i want to get going before the next thing happens, alright?” he bores his fingers into the sleeves of jack’s t-shirt, giving him a slight shake. “c’mon, don’t be like this. i'm fine, jack. i just need to get the hell out of here.”

[stvampyr-a]

save me from politics and let me escape into the pitt hyper fixation

[growpained]

retreat remained a known tool in love and war and all in-between. picking your fights— seeing past the battle and forward into its ultimate state. only, jack abbot was not known to take the easy way. call it borderline suicide, or perhaps a self-imposed martyr complex as a result of his own ego or lack thereof, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. not with anyone, and not with robby. a culmination of frustration and love, all melded into one, harsh outburst, marked by equally furrowed brows and his own pinched gaze as a response in itself.

he settles into the bend of his right hip, hands migrating from where, once, leisurely rested in the pocket lining of his scrubs. now, folded across his chest, chin tilted upwards to search for the gaze of a man lost, even if the shell of michael robinavitch remained before him now. " not right now, man. 'specially not. " he means to say: unlike the rest of them, i don't have to follow orders from you. i am not beneath you, i am your peer. i am your friend.

brother comes like a sting— once wrapped in warmth, now delivered in spite, as if something shared between them had to die in vain for robby's own sake. scorched earth, for all he cared. dramatic, maybe, playing dirty so the other would truly hear him. " people don't usually fuck up before a vacation. no one's sendin' you a greeting card if they all hate you at the end of your shift. " this was a candor only afforded by years of friendship in return. there were days where, maybe, he'd hold his tongue; a joke offered in place of what truly brewed beneath. only, a sense of finality loomed behind, something dreadful, resting in the same pit of his stomach where grief once leisured. " what's going on with you? seriously—"

[stvampyr-a]

“that is the idea,” said before he can think twice about the implication. robby is acutely aware that what he is leaving behind, in more ways than one, is a department in shambles. he waves his hand dismissively, “i don’t need that speech from you, man. there’s been more than enough reminders today.” curtesy of jack’s new best friend, dr. al-hashimi. after this conversation, he imagines, they will get along even better and everything works out like a charm. “trust me, i’ll be out of everyone’s hair before you know it.” robby lets out a strained sound, a sound like choked up laughter. today has been relentless, dragging on and on and on. the last thing he needs is really jack’s scrutiny. he wants out.

“if you are planning on staying, i am sure dr. al-hashimi would like to shadow you for a bit before she goes home for the day. seems like her thing.” returning to business as normal,he lets jack’s question hang in the air as he pushes past him, just briefly letting their shoulders meet before going to the lockers behind them. he swallows hard in an effort to push down his emotions, operating mechanically when he types the digits to unlock his space. he is well-aware that that their conversation probably isn’t done. jack more than likely has something more to say, but robby won’t wait around for it to hit him. 

if jack expects a grand plan, he is wrong - there is a concerning lack of one. he's too much of a cowardly bastard to think it through. whatever happens happen. “i’m going to let whitaker stay at my place while i’m gone. i'd check in with him before using the spare key, but you still have it, right?”

[favoriteache]

the more he speaks, the redder dale turns. it is, unsurprisingly, making things terribly worse for gerry, for whom the color only brings more questions: could he get him to turn red all over, were he to use his mouth for something other than talking? could he make him flush with just his hands, just his mouth? what would it take? how long would it last? could he keep him blushing throughout the whole night?

it takes everything in him to ask him to get out of the car. but when dale-- amazing, perfect dale, does what he is being asked, well, gerry has the audacity to be disappointed. he knows dale doesn't really want him, knows he wants helen, which is to say the shape of a safe love in a safe body. knowing he might have lost her, dale now chases whatever is available, despite how hazardous it might be-- namingly, gerry. he knows.

still, gerry manages to be upset at the sight of dale walking up the runway to the house's door. he didn't know what he expected-- only to amend that thought, because this is exactly what he expected. he just has the very nasty habit of delusion, which carla used to find charming, only for it to become one of their main issues: that, despite everything, gerry can't seem to settle. to be content with what he has, what has been given to him. he just wants more. he wants what he can't have, what isn't his to want. gerry, who wanted more than a small show, who wanted more than ireland, more than carla, more than a safe, happy life. it served him well at work, and it served him well when he charmed his wife; someone who, typically, would have looked the other way.

watching dale walk away, he should be thankful that their comfortable friendship might survive another night… and yet. the shadow of what could have happened haunts him, and will certainly continue to do so. he wants, and wants, and wonders how does one stop such an hemorrhage, only to find that he has never been able to, that he does not want to, that a treacherous part of him longs for the sting of it.

it takes him a long time to get out of the car. in part because dale's hand and breathy demand got him worked up, and the other because he has this weird, alarming desire to start screaming, and he isn't sure where it is coming from but it is certainly not something he usually does, so it takes him a long minute to swallow back all these unwanted feelings.

after a while, he feels… not better, but sturdier. he can handle this, he tells himself. put dale to bed and be done with it. he keeps repeating it to himself while he shuts the car, then walks to the entry door, watching his own two feet, repeating, again and again, he can handle this, he can handle this, he can…. only to end up with a second pair of shoes in his periphery, because gerry is an idiot who forgot that his friend couldn't just barge in the house without the fucking keys. looking up, he finds himself face to face with dale, not close enough for discomfort… were it anyone else. it takes only a second for his eyes to dip from dale's to his lips. a second too long to do the trip the other way.

"the door", he says, jiggling the keys without looking away, "sorry, i'll open it." which he would do, certainly, if he was moving and not staring at dale. after a long moment, he does move: forward, to the door, that he opens with the familiarity of someone who has done it a thousand times. once it's open, he takes a step back, so dale can go first.

"make yourself at home", he tells him. "i'll get you a glass of water. are you hungry?"

[stvampyr-a]

navigating desire is not something he has ever been good at. dale spent his twenties learning how to disconnect his brain from any sensation of heat in his body, rarely chasing after it. every sexual encounter, even those with women, gave him reason to chastise himself. being labelled perverted in for your formative years will do exactly that. and dale knows he is repressed; knows that under all his cologne he reeks with desperation that is easily detectable. bitterly, he thinks that is what attracts gerry to him. he’s like a shiny new toy that he knows he shouldn’t play with. dale isn’t sure why part of his brain really, really wants him too.

dale spins on his heels when he realizes that the door won’t magically open. he swallows his breath and chews on the insides of his cheeks as gerry comes crashing into him (well, what feels like gerry crushing into him anyway, even if there’s no actual physical contact). he reminds himself, that unlike dale, gerry isn’t a novice when it comes to inviting people over - he probably does this all the time and has the routine down to a point. the proximity is a trick and dale is just another body that he gets to usher over the threshold and into his home. he’s getting what he assumes to be the full experience because gerry wants to take pity on him. he’ll just have to relax and let whatever happens happen. 

it is different entering his home without helen around. it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the place and he feels even less at ease than his first time around. he tries to look around the place to keep himself from continuing to follow gerry with his eyes. “water sounds good. maybe coffee, if you have it?” can gerry even make a cup of coffee or does he have people to do it for him? dale wonders and almost asks, but realizes he probably shouldn’t make gerry feel like he gives off that type of energy. he’s a good guy, after all, just really rich, “if you show me your kitchen i can make myself useful. i don’t want to burden you more than i have.” 

coffee is a probably terrible idea if he means to sleep, but he would much rather have it to sober up. he is feeling far too many things to sleep anyway. he gives gerry a friendly pat on the back and almost laughs when it reminds him of rob of all people. he’s seen the man give his comrades a pat on the back everyday for years. he’s never really been the type to do it himself. “you really don’t have to take care of me, alright?”